The Enchantment (7 page)

The massive wooden doors of the hall stood open to the early autumn warmth and the hall was filled with dusky light admitted by the smoke hole above the great hearth. The planking tables and floor were littered with the remains of the pig feast as well as empty bowls and pitchers and fish bones discarded from the morning's meal. Borger's men were sprawled over the benches around the walls, wearing squints and scowls, their heads banging like empty ale barrels.

Aaren paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimmer interior of the hall. Her hands clenched at her sides as she surveyed the formidable gathering. A motion to her right caught her eye and she glanced at the man sprawled in the corner, shackled by neck and leg and secured to the wall. A pair of icy gray eyes glared at her through the gloom and a face appeared, strong-featured, muscular, and wearing several days' growth of beard and who-knew-how-many-days' layers of grime.

His plight washed over Aaren in that brief instant of contact. There was no fate dreaded more by a Norseman than being held captive in the hall of his enemy. Better to die in battle than to live in chains, Serrick had said. She would never allow herself to be held captive, she vowed as she strode through the hall and stood before the high seat.

“You sent for me, Jarl?”

“I did.” Borger's voice boomed out over the sudden quiet. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees and his arms bowed out. As he passed a hard gaze over her, his attention caught on the blade she wore strapped against her left shoulder. “What manner of weapon do you wield, Serricksdotter?”

“A blade of the Ulfberhts,” she declared, sliding the shoulder strap over her head and slipping the blade from its sheath. The polished blue-silver blade gleamed as she lifted it into the sunlight and turned it slowly, reflecting light into the grizzled faces around her. A murmur rippled through the men and a number of them shoved to their feet, their eyes fixed on her weapon.

A sword from the Rhineland, from the famous forge of the Ulfberhts, was indeed a treasure. Such blades were widely reputed to be harder, tougher, lighter, and to hold their edge against far weightier weapons.

“Such a blade should have a name,” Borger said with grudging admiration.

“She has a name.
Singer.
”

“Singer?” Borger snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “What manner of name is that for a blade?”

“A fitting name, for she sings sweetly on the air.” With a powerful swirl of her arm, she set the blade whirring above her head so that the air hummed with sound. Then she brought it slashing in a downward arc between her and Borger . . . from shoulder to opposite knee and back up the opposite direction . . . so close to the old jarl's arms that it brushed the hair on them as it passed. When she brought it to a halt, tip upraised, Borger jolted back a step, taken aback by her boldness.

“By the Great Hurler!” Borger bellowed, his face puffing so that his whiskers stood out like hedgehogs' quills. He turned and called out: “Thorkel Evardson!”

A tall, lanky warrior, seasoned by sea salt and blade-battle, rushed forward to accept his jarl's command. Borger looked from Aaren to the formidable warrior, who was exactly her equal in height, and broke into a cool smile. “Draw your blade, Thorkel Ever-ready. And break for us the Allfather's curse.”

Aaren gave her new opponent a long look, which he returned in kind, then she strode to a nearby table to set her scabbard aside and prepare. Her heart beat faster as she tightened her wristbands and braced a foot up on the edge of the table and leaned into it to stretch her legs. In the midst of stretching her other leg, she looked up—straight into the face of the handsome giant, the woman-judge.

He stood a few paces away, his chest heaving and his hair wind-tossed, as if he'd just run a long distance. For a few unsettled heartbeats, they stared at each other. She narrowed her eyes and her lips formed her silent claim:
warrior.

Behind her, a blood-chilling cry rose from her opponent. She just had time to clasp the grip of her sword and pivot to meet his rush. The suddenness of his attack had caught her off guard, half prepared; she'd had no time to warm and stretch or even put away her hair.

The first three hacks of his blade forced her back huge steps, then a sideways slash sent her dodging and feinting. Then something in the familiar ring of steel on steel penetrated her senses and began to resonate deep in her core, calling forth her strength and summoning her skill. She dug in her heels and met, then countered, his next blow.

Around them the men were on their feet, shouting, galvanized by the savage start of the fight and by the battle-maid's struggle to meet Thorkel's attack.

The lean, battle-toughened warrior wore a fierce grin, which dimmed as Aaren's resistance to his blows increased. She wore a smile also, but on the inside. For after the first shock of his lightning-quick strike, she had recovered and assessed his straightforward fighting style . . . down-hacking and free-swinging that made use of his powerful arms and chest. After two more crashing blows, she understood exactly how to counter him.

She began to divert his powerful blows like a roof did rain, shrugging them off, letting them slide down her blade again and again. Over and over she allowed him to strike, playing her game, giving him the edge and then snatching his goal from him at the last moment. Frustrated by her increasing resistance, he began hurling insults.

“Your father was but a thrall man . . . your mother, a blackened troll!” he snarled. “Your blade does not sing, troll's daughter—it whines for mercy.”

With each foam-flecked slur, her shoulders tightened and her grip on her blade grew more sure. Slowly, she pared away sensations—the shaking fists, the shouts of the warriors, the taunts of her opponent—until sight and sound became mere light and vibration. All she saw was her opponent's face, the contorting angles of his body, and the flashing arcs of his blade as it cut the air around her. In her racing mind, made fleet by battle-fever, his movements seemed to slow and lengthen, became exaggerated and predictable.

Jorund stood rooted to the hard-packed floor, watching the maid battle one of the most renowned bladesmen in his father's band of warriors. He silently cursed Old Borger for his pride and wretched thirst for the dew of wounds. It was sure slaughter, sending a young woman, even a battle-maiden, against a hardened veteran of twelve Viking seasons. But he could not tear his gaze from it, could not keep his shoulders from twitching defensively with every movement of hers.

Then, before their eyes, she roared to life as she had the previous night. Springing up with her blade braced, she gave Thorkel an upward rip that just missed opening him from groin to chin. As he lurched back, she pressed the attack, using both hands and wielding her blade with such quickness that all heard—or imagined hearing—it sing upon the air.

She moved with fierce, animal-like grace, in a swirl of hip-length hair that shone whenever they surged into the dusty shafts of sunlight pouring through the roof. She was both woman and warrior, a living flame bent on engulfing her opponent. Her features were carved by concentration into a taut mask that radiated sensual heat, and her eyes glowed like a tiger's—hungry in a way that stirred his loins and ignited his blood. He was riveted to the sight of her long, willowy form, swaying and almost yielding, then suddenly snapping taut and driving forcefully.

Again and again the sleek muscles of her legs braced, her buttocks tightened, and her shoulders whipped taut as she swung her blade. She was a raging storm, a nerve-searing bolt of fury trapped inside a sleek, steel-thewed frame. Every nerve in Jorund's body was quivering. He began to feel the shock of the blows she received in his own muscles, as if they'd been dealt to him. His arms flexed, his weight shifted, and his gut tightened . . .

Borger stood before his high seat watching not the fight but his eldest son's reaction to it. Jorund's eyes shimmered like liquid silver, molten with desire, and his face was bronzed and fierce with wanting. Borger read the clenched fists and involuntary movements of his son's body as signs of arousal, and the old jarl's countenance began to glow. Whether it was the battle or the woman that had inflamed Jorund so, he could not say. But it heartened him to see his son burning so fiercely over anything. For months now, he had been desperate to get his heir's blood up and instill some proper “Viking” ferocity in him.

He turned back to the fight to find Serrick's daughter advancing on Thorkel and knew she would soon have him worn down. Admiration bloomed in him as his eyes slid over her magnificent body and drank in the power and grace of her movements. Such thighs! Odin's Living Stones! A warrior could reach Valhalla itself while trapped between those thighs! What a creature she was, to inspire such a delicious combination of woman-lust and battle-lust in a man.

With fresh insight, he looked back at Jorund. Shades of the Troubler! The gods had delivered her into the old jarl's lap just when he was about to abandon all hope for his eldest son and heir. She wasn't here to torment
him
—the gods had sent her to confound and provoke Jorund!

His eyes fairly misted. The battle-wench was the fulfillment of a desperate father's prayers.

Aaren's blood roared in her head and sweat rolled down the back of her neck and between her breasts and shoulder blades. Her pace continued quick and steady, but she could feel Thorkel slowing, could see the strain in his sweat-slicked body and feel the desperation in his blows. It was only a matter of time. That knowledge fired both her courage and her caution; the final throes of battle were always the most desperate and therefore the most dangerous.

Drawing on her deepest reserves, she launched a final offensive, using her feet, connecting with his braced knees and jarring his arms, forcing him back. Then she leaped onto the benches along one wall and used the added height to advantage, raining downward blows on his blade. When she bolted down onto the earthen floor again, he bellowed, raised his sword in both hands, and charged her full-out.

She felt more than heard his battle cry and focused on the stark line of his blade . . . a demarcation between life and death. She saw the tilt, the beginning of the swing, and in an instant projected the circle it would inscribe. Instead of raising her blade to meet it, she whirled to counter with a savage sideways blow.

The hit spun his shoulders to the side, throwing him off balance. He slammed into the hearthstones and wobbled—just as she reversed and brought her blade crashing into the hilt of his. Before he could right his balance or weapon, she had struck the sword from his hands and sent him sprawling back onto the upraised hearth in a billow of cold ashes. In the blink of an eye she stood astride him, her steel pressed to his throat.

There was dead silence in the hall, except for the sound of Thorkel's choking on the flying ash. Every man in the hall suffered a violent shiver at the sight of her standing on the upraised hearth in the shaft of sunlight, wrapped in the fiery haze of hair, her long, powerful legs astride her opponent's prone body. In that moment, she was the very essence of a Valkyr, the fierce goddess who challenged each man to taste her passion, to drink of her and die a hero's death. Each warrior present burned to test both his sword arm and his flesh-blade against her hot, lathered body.

Aaren fought back crashing waves of dark and light in her senses . . . her lungs felt raw and her heart beat as though it would burst from her chest. Then through that inner chaos came the low, sweet trill of triumph. She had won! The discomfort of her body was swept away in a massive eruption of exultation. She turned to Borger and found him standing with his feet braced wide and his thumbs tucked in his belt.

“I claim victory, Jarl,” she panted. “And with it, I claim a seat in your hall, a place at your board . . . a warrior's honor in your service.”

A ripple of angry surprise went through Borger's men at her bold demand.

The jarl narrowed his eyes. “This day you have earned a place at my board, Serrick's daughter. But as to the rest . . . you cannot serve both my purposes and Odin's,” he declared with a crafty expression. “You will be
my
warrior when you are
his
no longer.”

A clamor broke out among the men as each demanded the right to snatch her from the Allfather's grasp. Aaren jumped down from the hearth with her blood still roaring in her head and her body still vibrating with battle-fury.

He refused to honor her victory? She stood, feeling charred and confused, as he stepped down from his seat and swaggered toward her, his gaze fastened greedily on the damp cling of her tunic beneath the leather breastplate. He stopped two paces away and wheeled to face his men.

“From this day forward,” he declared in ringing tones, “there is but one man who may challenge and fight Old Serrick's daughter.” Not a breath was taken or let in the hall as they waited to learn which warrior had found such favor with the jarl.
“Jorund Borgerson.”

A typhoon hitting the hall couldn't have unleashed more of a storm than that shocking decree. “Jorund?” came outraged shouts from Borger's younger sons and warriors.

“Have you lost your wits, old man?” Garth lurched forward, his fists raised and his face crimson. “He's no fighter!”

“You heard 'im—he's got no stomach for blade-battle!” A burly fellow with sooty hands jabbed a thick, black finger at Borger.

“He'll never defeat her,” Hakon the Freeholder snarled, shaking a fist. “He's too soft on women—he'd never raise his hand to one!”

Aaren stood in the center of that storm, buffeted by their anger and stunned by the jarl's vehement proclamation. One man? He was declaring that only one man could fight her? And the others were virulent in their opposition to his choice of this “Jorund” as her sole opponent. Something about the name brushed a cord of memory, but her head was too filled with disbelief to think why it seemed familiar.