The Enchantment (51 page)

As they bore down fiercely on the raiders, the majority of Gunnar's force suddenly broke off and reversed direction, charging straight for them with weapons drawn and battle cries borning. At some common and instinctive moment, Jorund, Aaren, and the others began reining up and bounding to the ground, abandoning their mounts even as their enemies did—to charge into battle on foot. Cries of “Odin!” and “Valhalla!” mingled with “She-wolf!” and “Serricksdotters!” . . . ringing across the frozen fields. And abruptly, the battle was joined.

There was no time to think or prepare. Aaren bore straight in on Gunnar's men, using her shield to deflect blows as she banged and slashed with her weapon. Again and again she wielded her blade, feeling its savage vibrations up her arm, jarring her nerves, her vision, testing her concentration. All around her there were shouts and noise and confusion. The ring of clashing blades, the thudding smack of steel on wood, and the fierce cries of battle-spirit and of pain filled her head. Again and again she heard male screams and caught glimpses of wrenching, recoiling motion and falling . . . not knowing if it was her kinsmen or her enemies who fell. Her opponents kept slashing and snarling, bearing doggedly down on her . . . their faces filled with battle-fire and hate. And slowly, mercifully, her perceptions narrowed.

Eyes disappeared into the recesses of iron and leather helms, and whole men were reduced to composites of line and density and force. Stark blade angles, arcs, raw vectors of shoulder motion were all that remained . . . twisting, hacking, thrusting were her only responses . . . until her blade finally bit bone. Her opponent fell with a cry and it took a moment for her to see clearly . . . blood . . . a shoulder. . . . Another form, another blade loomed up and she took a savage hit on her shield and wheeled to fight again.

Jorund had landed on his feet with only his great shield in his hands. As his first attacker charged, he used the shield with his massive shoulder behind it as a ram, jarring his opponent back. Then he lifted his shield and swung it so that the iron-banded edge became a weapon of itself. Again and again he swung and bashed, dodging blades and then charging and swinging with all his considerable might . . . surprising his opponents with his odd way of fighting and sending them sprawling.

A cry for retreat rang out and Gunnar's warriors responded instantly, drawing back, then wheeling and racing for the earthen wall around the village with all the speed they could muster. It ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Garth screamed for them to give chase, waving the others on after him. But the few who followed turned back when it was clear Gunnar's men would make the wall and safety. A few shocked breaths later, a roar went up from the others . . . a venting of the battle-steam left boiling through their blood and of their frustration at not preventing Gunnar's raiders from reaching home. When their shouting died around them . . . Jorund's ragged voice came through the surflike rush of blood in their ears.

“Find your fellows—” It was an order to count casualties. When the answer came—several wounded, none slain—Jorund's head dropped back and his eyes closed briefly. He took charge once again. “Catch your mounts and carry the wounded into those trees.” He pointed to a stand of woods that lay across the snow-packed grain fields from the village. “We'll make camp there!”

While Jorund saw to the posting of guards, the setting up of camp, and the erection of sailcloth shelters for the night, Aaren saw to the wounded, packing dried moss and herbs into some wounds and binding others with strips of linen. Jorund's warriors knew well the routine of foraging for fuel and making camp in hostile territory: Each man was responsible for contributing wood to the fires, for raising some shelter against the cold, and for preparing food. They set about the tasks Jorund assigned without delay.

Above them, Night stole the Sky-Traveler's colored blanket, hiding it in her soft, dark cloak. And soon the smoky campfires provided the only light in the forest, flickering strangely around the white-barked birches and barren beeches. As the work of making camp was finished, the men collected around the fires, their voices subdued, their bodies heavy with fatigue. Their eyes drifted to Aaren as she did her best to comfort a wounded warrior, then turned back to the fire and stood holding her hands out to warm them.

“Serricksdotter.” The Freeholder's voice startled her and she looked up to find he had risen from his seat and was stepping closer . . . his right hand outstretched. She looked at it, then at the nods and half smiles on the other faces turned her way. She extended her hand and clasped his wrist even as he took hers . . . in the manner of one warrior welcoming another. “From this day on, I will be honored to fight at your back, Fair Warrior,” he said. He glanced at the others, speaking for them, as well. “All of us will.”

Jorund watched her nod tersely and manage a small, pained smile of gratitude. She turned to find her horse and retrieve her sleeping fleece, wrapping herself in it. But instead of rejoining the men at one of the fires, she strode to the edge of the trees and stood in the night-shadows, gazing toward the village.

There her sisters would pass the night. The raiders had taken no time along the way to either abuse or enjoy their captives. Now that they were in the village, she prayed that they would purge the battle-fire from their blood with other women this night. She dragged her mind from the terrible images of what might be happening to her sisters and let her eyes focus on the five or so crumpled forms left lying on the snowy ground.

It was her first experience of real battle . . . and it left a hard, metallic taste in her mouth, a smell of blood in her head, and a low ringing in her ears. There was no way to tell how many of Gunnar's men they had wounded . . . but by morning those left on that icy field would never rise again. And for what? Why had they been so eager to redden spears and gash shields . . . in the service of a jarl's pride? In battle, there had been a fleeting rush of excitement, a feeling of power, but there was also the sickening aftermath—the blood, the screams of the wounded, the hollow feeling inside.

Jorund came up behind her in the darkness and slipped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest and bending to her ear. “Are you all right?”

“You were right about the glory,” she said softly, her eyes glistening as she pulled his arms tighter around her. “It is in living, not dying. In loving, not fighting.” She was swept with a longing for him and turned in his arms to embrace him. Moments later, her gaze was drawn back to those dark, twisted forms, which seemed to be sinking into the earth as the cold and shadows deepened around them. Would she lie on that frozen field tomorrow, waiting for her raven-haired mother to finally claim her?

“Why has no one come to carry them into the village?” When he remained silent, she looked up into his shadowed features. “We cannot leave them there.” She handed Jorund her fleece and turned back to the men warming themselves around a green-wood fire. “Come with me . . . we've wounded to fetch.” When they saw her snatch up a blanket and start for the middle of the field, they called out to her that they had long since rescued all their wounded. “I'll not allow men to die needlessly,” she declared.

“Those aren't men,” Young Svein shouted after her in earnest horror, “they're enemies!”

“They may be valuable to us alive . . . to ransom or trade,” she shouted back, giving them a reason to show compassion. “Dead, they are valuable only to kites and eagles. Ask the jarl.”

Jorund nodded, confirming her order as he watched her striding out onto that cold plain. It was the woman-softness in her that would not let even an enemy die cold and alone. She was intent on redeeming some of the destruction she had wrought with her blade.

Four were yet alive and Aaren helped carry them back to camp and tend their wounds. One of the wounds seemed oddly familiar . . . a deep shoulder wound that had cleaved a bone . . . though she did not understand why. Mercifully, she had little recollection of the throes of battle until later that night, when she settled into a fleece to sleep and saw it all again in dreams.

W
HEN THE RAIDING
party had reached the village, Leif had carried Marta into his long hall and set her on her feet by the glowing central hearth . . . in the midst of a noisy, curious crowd.

“Here she is. My bride,” he announced in a booming voice, ripping the helm from his head and tossing it to a young lad to hold. Marta took a step back, closer to him, and stood straighter under their probing eyes, returning their scrutiny. A moment later Miri was carried in, wriggling and protesting, and Marta quickly embraced her distraught sister to reassure her.

“Two of 'em!” came a loud male voice. The crowd parted to admit a tall, gaunt and graying man leaning heavily on a wooden staff. As he came forward, staring hotly at Marta and Miri, a wolfish grin spread over his face. “By the gods, boy—you never were one to do things by halves!” He limped closer and inspected Marta boldly, surveying her cream-smooth skin, bright blue eyes, and curvy shape. He gave Miri a similar appraisal, which made her shrink and bury her head in Marta's shoulder. He laughed at the way Marta bristled and scowled at him, and he turned back to Leif. “Beauties, both. You mean to take both to wife?”

“Nej,”
Leif said with a chuckle at the spark that suggestion struck in Marta's eyes. “One will be enough, old man.” He put his hand on Marta's shoulder. “This is the one I went back for. Her name is Marta Serricksdotter . . . her sister is called Miri.” He glanced down at Marta's upturned face and explained: “This is my father, Gunnar Haraldson.”

“Jarl.” She looked back at Gunnar and nodded gravely.

“Nej.”
The old man sobered instantly. “I am no longer jarl. The one you will call ‘husband' is jarl here now.”

Marta looked up at Leif in surprise, and he smiled and put his arm around her. “And this is my mother, Ida Eriksdotter.” He directed her attention to a large, square-boned woman whose features were very like his own. Marta nodded respectfully and was relieved to see a softening in the woman's strong face as she gazed at her son's new wife. “She will help you meet the other women and learn the duties of the jarl's wife. She is also a fine midwife. . . .” He grinned at the blush that produced in her fair cheeks.

“Leif has spoken well of you,” Ida said, coming closer. “I must thank you, Little One, for your kindness to him. You saved his life in Borger's hall . . . and you will find many here grateful for that.”

“Enough of this—tell me of the raid!” Gunnar demanded, stalking closer. “How much damage did you do?”

“We burned the granary, took much of their store of weapons, and set their forge ablaze,” Leif answered with a notable lack of enthusiasm.

“Is that all? You didn't fire the old cur's hall or stable or the houses?” Gunnar exclaimed.

“You burned the granary?” Marta started and looked up at Leif in disbelief.

“Well, at least you got the food stores.” Gunnar comforted himself with the thought. “That means there will be plenty of hunger in Old Red Beard's village by spring.”

“Leif?” Marta said, searching him with wide, wounded eyes.

“It was necessary, Marta,” he declared tightly, “to halt Borger's greed and blood-lust. Hungry men make poor warriors. And Old Red Beard cannot lead his men against us if they are too weak to lift a blade.”

“But it is not Jarl Borger who leads our clan now, it is Jorund. And he is a man of peace,” Marta said, setting Miri from her and turning to Leif. “He would not lead his men against you. . . . He hates fighting.”

Leif stared at her, searching her eyes for truth and finding it in their clear depths. It supported both his care for her and his own perceptions. He had kept his mouth closed and his ears open during his captivity, watching and learning from what occurred in Borger's hall. He had heard Jorund's angry words on the night Aaren Serricksdotter engaged him in a
flyting
. . . and had listened to Borger's men both laughing and complaining about Jorund's peacable leanings.

“But Jorund or someone has led a force to our doors,” he said.

“My sister, perhaps . . . or Garth Borgerson, to whom Miri was promised. Jorund wants peace with your people, Leif. Why else would he send two men to seek a meeting with you and speak to you of peace? I said I would come, but he said it was a warrior's task and sent Hrolf the Elder and his son instead.”

“We received no such messenger,” Leif said, scowling and glancing at Gunnar, who reddened and looked disgusted with her words.

“Get your head out from under the wench's kirtle, Leif. How can you believe such a tale?” Gunnar chided. “Look to my fate for wisdom in dealing with Old Red Beard and his treacherous spawn.” He thumped his damaged leg. “She could have been intended by Borger to soften you up—”