“There’s more to life—”
“Judging by the pained expression on your face,” Agni interrupted. “The king must be responsible for whatever task you’ve been assigned.”
“Aye,” Aaron said. “And for him, you’ll bathe, dress, and meet me outside within the hour.”
Agni sighed and raked his fingers through his long hair. “I’ll accept because I look forward to seeing you humbled. Unless the king has put you in charge of his harem—I suppose my life of leisure is over.”
“Do you really prefer the comfort of Olaf’s court over the glory of the field?”
“I prefer
his women
.”
Aaron couldn’t fault him for that—the perfumed ladies in Oslo were much prettier and decidedly softer than country lasses. Although, Agni pursued anything in skirts. “One hour,” he reminded his friend before departing.
As his second captain, Aaron chose Varinn Jorgensen, a man he served with in Nidaros. The warrior was unusually soft spoken for a Norseman, but underneath his mild façade loomed a brother Berserker. Varinn also seemed to know the future, a talent Aaron intended to take advantage of. He found him in the great hall.
“I’ve need of your military expertise.” Aaron joined him at his table.
Varinn drank the remainder of his wine, then wiped his knuckles across his mouth before answering. “To organize a new regiment for the king?”
“Goddamnit Varinn, give a man a chance to finish speaking his mind.”
His complaint drew a smile. “Why? I’ve been expecting you for days.”
“I don’t know what forces of evil you cavort with in the middle of the night when no one is watching, but I’ll be damned if you aren’t the greatest prophet I’ve ever met.”
Varinn threw his head back and laughed so raucously, thralls ceased working and stared at them. “Perhaps that is the greatest reason to include me in this venture.”
“Maybe.” He wasn’t about to admit anything. He poured himself a cup of wine, then saluted his friend. “I am truly grateful you are here.”
“Aye.” Varinn slammed his fists on the tabletop.
By late morning, Aaron’s riding party, which included six thralls and two fully loaded horse-drawn carts, were ready to depart. Little sunlight filtered through the thick clouds as he led his group out of the city. He raised the fur collar on his cloak. Spring in the Norselands was bitter, with frigid gales whipping off the fjords. He twisted in his saddle and stared back at the water. A longship would have been a better manner of transport, but they’d miss potential recruits if they sailed. Olaf provided gold and letters of authorization for Aaron to draft men as he chose. The coastal town of Floro would be their first stop. Fishermen raised sons who hauled heavy nets fourteen hours a day—potential soldiers.
After many hours of riding, they stopped to eat. Two female servants prepared, then served, bowls of lamb stew and bread. Halfway through his meal, Agni openly admired the backside of the youngest slave. “I’m glad you chose an attractive split tail to serve us on the road.” He gestured at Aaron. “I dare say I can read her thoughts, too.”
“And what would they be?” Varinn indulged him.
“She wants to fornicate with me.”
Aaron rolled his eyes. “No woman can resist your pretty face . . .”
Agni grinned, revealing white teeth, then rubbed his chin while eyeing the girl with a predatory stare.
“So why choose to be a soldier if your natural charms could provide a life of comfort?” Aaron asked.
“Perhaps our friend missed his true calling,” Varinn added. “Maybe we should abandon the horses and sail for
Miklagard
where we can auction him off to the wealthy women of the empire.”
“How long do you think you’d last in the emperor’s court?” Aaron teased.
“If given proper care, I’m sure I’d die a happy man at any age.” Agni’s gaze didn’t leave the thrall’s arse.
“Keep your
brok
fastened,” Aaron cautioned. He wanted no conflicts between his soldiers and thralls. “We’ll frequent villages where you can have your pick of women.”
He wasn’t the sort of leader to begrudge his men bedsport. But he always heeded the advice of his father—
never shite where you sleep.
Most female slaves willingly shared their beds. That’s what concerned him. V
eneriske sykdommer,
harrowing diseases that
could rot a man’s prick off, had killed his childhood friend. He would never forget the bloodcurdling screams he heard while a
spaewife
shoved a hot iron rod inside the man to sear the infection. Now, Aaron only bedded less experienced women and encouraged his inferiors to do the same.
He sighed. Every man has his own needs.
Finished eating, the women extinguished the fire and reloaded the cart. Aaron refused to make camp until nightfall. At least five hours of daylight remained, enough time to put more distance between them and Oslo.
Chapter 2
Discovery
Kara Dalgaard spit blood on the ground. Her latest mistake, dropping her shield too soon. Marteinn clipped her in the chin with his fist, causing her to bite her tongue. She growled fiercely and attacked, slamming her sword into his wooden shield, then pushed with all her strength. Marteinn laughed as he stumbled backward.
“Follow through, Kara,” her brother urged from the side. “One push isn’t enough, use the edge of your shield. Clap him over the head and kick him in the balls, now.”
“Leave my future children alone,” Marteinn countered as he covered his ballocks with his left hand.
She took advantage of her opponent’s fear, kicking him savagely in the shin.
The six and a half foot warrior dropped his weapon and hopped on one foot. “You little cretin. That hurt.”
“It’s supposed to.” She raised the visor on her helmet, then stared at her target. “Do you yield?”
Before Marteinn replied, Geilir inserted himself between them. “I think you’ve practiced enough today. For the love of Odin, sister, I’ve never seen a woman love swordplay so much.”
“Perhaps the proper parts would heat in my bed.” Marteinn grinned ear to ear.
“Your fantasies are unattainable,” Kara said, thumping the back of his head. She rejected him nearly every day, but her adopted brother only heard what he wanted to hear. She would know the right man when she saw him. She’d believed that all her life. Whether she’d accept him, depended on what her heart told her. Although she dreamed of love, giving up her freedom scared her more than anything.
She steered her thoughts back to Marteinn. Raised in her father’s household, he enjoyed the same privileges as her own brothers and teased her as ruthlessly as they did. He baited her constantly, a favorite pastime of all the men in her family. Only now, she was no longer a weak, grubby child. Father wanted her to learn how to fight to protect herself and had appointed Marteinn and Geilir to teach her.
Kara removed her helmet and leather gloves, then dropped them on the ground. A basket of food waited under a nearby tree where the horses were tethered. All three headed in that direction. She arrived first and reached inside the basket—fruit, cheese, bread, and several skins of mead. Her stomach growled as she shoved a hunk of bread in her mouth.
“Give me the bread.” Her brother grabbed the loaf.
“Animal,” she called.
“Ill-mannered wench.”
Laughing, she sat cross-legged on the mossy ground and emptied a skin of mead in minutes.
“Where does it all go?” Marteinn gazed at her in wonderment. “Do you have a hollow leg?”
“No.” She smiled. “But you have a hollow head.”
Truly, it wasn’t. Her father appointed Marteinn as captain of the guard three years ago because he was a talented strategist. Since then, their home had survived four attacks. Christian rebels often targeted the pagan lords in Lagenheim. But with fearless men like Marteinn to defend them, none had succeeded.
She admired her foster brother’s face. Chestnut curls framed his magnificent features. High cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes revealed his birthplace. His mother came from an Icelandic province.
Marteinn loved her. She struggled with it, cringed at the idea of regarding him as more than a kinsman. How could she? The boy who used to hold her arms down and force feed her dirt and bugs. It seemed unnatural. The way he stared at her while she ate, reminded her of the way she’d often caught him ogling her backside whenever she walked by. She’d grown shapelier over the last two years. Breasts too big for her small frame and a curvy arse drew unwanted attention from men in her household every day, further justifying her father’s desire to train her to fight.
Men, including ones as honorable as Marteinn, are soulless creatures in the presence of beauty.
Her sire’s philosophy, not hers. She wholly disagreed. Whenever Kara looked in the mirror, she didn’t see comely features, only someone who refused to embrace womanhood. At nineteen, all her personal interests revolved around charting the stars, riding horses, and learning the healing arts. She hated her body, especially once she realized why her father’s men treated her differently. Some avoided her altogether now. Why? She couldn’t stop the hand of the goddess Frigg, who eventually beckoned all women to the marriage altar.
Over time, Marteinn had grown more aggressive about spending time alone. He asked to go on long walks and expressed the joy he felt sitting with her in the moonlight while she star-gazed. Mapping the heavens meant everything to her. Although she wasn’t opposed to Marteinn’s company, whenever his hand slipped over hers or he scooted too close, she always found an excuse to leave. She refused to give the household slaves reason to gossip about her. What her favorite childhood companion needed was a wife. Perhaps she’d help find him one.
Aaron had yet to find a farm or village containing boys worthy of recruitment in the three days he’d been on the road. They were either too scrawny or too young. The further north they traveled, however, the greater their chances of success. Northlanders were bloodthirsty.
As his party approached a clearing in the forest, he spied a group of men at swordplay. Hope spiraled inside him. Soldiers training in the forest suggested a steading nearby. A jarl with sons and possibly guards to spare. He halted to watch, concealed by trees. A boy attacked a much larger opponent. The man retreated, cunningly drawing the boy into an obvious trap. The youth attempted another careless strike and was promptly rewarded with a stout kick to his stomach. He tumbled to the ground. They laughed.
Aaron couldn’t resist smiling. What the lad lacked in stature, he made up for with fearlessness. With time and proper training, the boy would become a valuable fighter, maybe even Aaron’s first recruit. He preferred working with fourteen and fifteen year olds. It was much easier to shape their young minds. In hope of demonstrating Olaf’s tolerance, Aaron planned on appointing pagans to leadership positions in his new regiment. Norseman were severely loyal, regardless of what faith they claimed.
Suddenly, a band of masked riders emerged from the woods and swarmed the clearing. Bandits preyed on unsuspecting travelers in the wilderness all the time. But not so close to an established household, unless a blood feud existed between families.
Aaron quickly assessed the situation. Four men and a child against a dozen horsemen . . . even if he didn’t want to get involved, he felt obligated to protect them. He signaled for Agni and Varinn to follow, then heeled his horse beyond the trees. The lad and his tutor still defended themselves. They were backed against the trees, with two of the attackers on the ground nearby. Aaron circled and caught the attention of two riders. They charged him—full gallop. He gripped his sword in his left hand and his battle axe in the right, controlling his stallion with his thighs.
He cut between them, hitting each with his weapons, knocking them from their mounts. Jumping from his saddle, Aaron landed on his feet. Before his opponents recovered from their fall, Aaron delivered two deathblows, one to his first opponent’s chest, the second to the other man’s neck. Breathing hard, Aaron raced to the other side of the clearing where Agni had joined the fight. The marauders retreated, disappearing into the forest. Aaron wiped his bloody blade off on the tunic of one of the dead raiders, then sheathed his weapons. He twisted and looked at the man who’d been training the boy. He wasn’t full Norse.
“We’re indebted to you. My name is Marteinn Hagebak.” The stranger introduced himself. “These lands belong to Erik the Bald. On behalf of my master, I welcome you to Lagenheim.”
The strange emblem on Marteinn’s helm attracted Aaron’s attention—Thor’s hammer. Erik the Bald was pagan. It surprised Aaron that a heathen lord
would live so far south. A lucky twist of fate—he desperately needed recruits. And if his instincts proved correct, there should be others living nearby.
“Those men never meant to kill anyone,” Aaron observed. “They were after something, maybe
someone
.”
“Aye,” the stranger agreed.
Aaron’s gaze swept the clearing. Nothing remarkable to note. A river, trees, and he guessed plenty of wild game. What caused those bastards to attack? “Does your master have a quarrel with someone?”
“No.”
The warrior spoke little, but Aaron decided to seek answers later. At the moment, he was concerned about the injured men on the ground. “We should look after your brethren.”
The stranger nodded, then followed him to where Varinn was tending the wounded. Another reason Aaron had chosen him for this expedition was his skill at stitching and setting broken bones. One of the soldiers had died in battle; the other two were seriously injured.
Marteinn inclined his head reverently, then introduced one of his companions. “This is Geilir, my master’s eldest son. I don’t know your name.”
“Jarl Aaron McNally.”
Geilir made a severe sound, almost reminiscent of a laugh. “A Scottish jarl?” He scowled. “What business do you have here?”
Heat rose in Aaron’s cheeks. “I’m an emissary for King Olaf.” He’d save further explanation for the lad’s father. But one thing bothered him as he let his gaze search the field. The lad was nowhere to be found. Only horses and weapons remained by the trees. “Where’s the boy?”