Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  Einar towered over her with a foot on each side of her hips. Her eyes locked onto the sword tip that hung over her chest, his hands gripping the hilt, holding it high above his head, ready for the final plunge. Her heart pounded in her temples, time stood still, and she tore her gaze from the blade to his face: angry creases carved into his cheeks, lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace, blue eyes wide and wild. Suddenly, he drove it downward, and she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tip tearing through the fabric of her tunic, the cold blade sliding against the flesh of her shoulder, nicking her. There was a sudden burn.

  Her chest heaved, trying to pull in air as he stood over her. Her hand flew to her heart in disbelief. Feet shuffled past her head, and she heard Dagfinn’s mirth-filled voice.

  “So Einar, a little practice before tomorrow?”

  The hall erupted in laughter, and the dull thud of fists thumping chests in approval. Einar pulled his sword out of the floor, sheathing it before she could move. Reaching down, he threw her sword away, grabbing her arms above the elbows as he yanked her up. He shook her so hard that Seraphina thought her head was going to snap off.

  “Never, never raise a blade to me again, girl, or I will kill you. Do you understand?” he roared.

  She didn’t have a chance to respond because he abruptly sat down on the bench and pulled her across his lap, his hand falling heavily on her already-bruised backside.

  Fighting back, hitting his leg with her fist, she stifled a scream when strong fingers dug into her arm, and a voice barked above her head.

  “Gnógr! Let her go.”

  She was pulled to her feet again, this time facing an angry Jarl Fridtjof. Roald stood behind him, glaring down at Einar.

  “She is contested property; do not touch her again,” Roald stated flatly.

  Einar grit his teeth, nodded, stood, and headed for the door, his men following him.

  Roald turned to her, his granite look etched with irritation. “You are done for the night-stay with the women.” His tone brooked no disobedience.

  Pulling her arm away from Jarl Fridtjof’s grasp, she spoke to Roald, “I will do as you demand, but I would ask a question.”

  His eyebrows rose speculatively. “I am assuming it is the question you put to Einar.”

  She nodded, sucking her bottom lip in.

  He motioned her to follow him, and they weaved in between the supping crowd to the hall’s front door. Outside, twilight’s dim glow lit the evening, so different from her home in Seletun. The cries of birds settling for the night filled the air. Waves washed the shore in a quiet rhythm. Walking beside Roald, she was surprised at how comfortable she felt with him after a few short days.

  “Seraphina, you have had a long day of facing truths, have you not? Are you sure this is something you want to hear?”

  Her throat felt tight; her eyes had a sudden ache. “Yes.”

  Stopping on the path, he turned and stared at her, his keen eyes missing nothing. “We were asked to raid your village by your betrothed, Cecil Allard, while we traded in Eoforwic. Whatever you may think of us, know it is simply our way to hire out to anyone who needs a mercenary. He asked that we kill you and paid us half to do so. The other half was supposed to be paid with the silver and gold we would plunder at the church altar.”

  She felt every aching muscle tighten, her stomach lurch, and tears pooled in her eyes. Roald simply watched. Gasping, her lungs no longer frozen, she took a long, shuddering breath.

  “It is true then. He wanted me dead.”

  Roald nodded. “Já.”

  She couldn’t look away from his steely gaze that anchored her to the earth as emotions erupted within. Grief? Anger? Disbelief? Rejection? Betrayal? It was hard to put a finger on which one was roaring through her, if not all of them. Somewhere, her inner voice lectured, saying she was the daughter of a lord—she needed to be strong, and she would overcome. But her heart splintered, a physical pain spearing through her chest.

  Fighting for equilibrium, her mind began to reason. Her father would ransom her, and then she would see Cecil destroyed despite the pain that might give her golden-haired little stepsister. It was her right to oversee her father’s lands and its people, and no one would take that from her. Focusing her anger, it felt like each vertebra in her spine clicked into place as it stiffened. With her palms, she dashed the tears from her eyes and then smoothed her tunic. She leveled a glare at Roald.

  “You would have seen me dead as well, but Einar interfered. Tell me, great jarl, which group of conniving bastards do I trust? My father will ransom me—of that I have no doubt. That snake Allard,” she said, his name now a bitter taste on her tongue, “will be given his due. Despite tomorrow’s outcome, know that I despise you all.”

  13

  Honor Met

  “When men meet foes in fight, better is stout heart than sharp sword.”

  As the sun’s first rays broke over the horizon, the skald hailed Odin over the bleating of the sacrifice. Einar stripped down to simple drawstring pants, leather arm braces, and leather boots. On opposite sides of the hólmganga square, Gunnar did the same.

  Anger flamed through him like a breath of the wind over hot coals. There was no pity now—Einar just wanted to hack at Gunnar until he saw the defeat in his eyes. Impatiently, he watched Hadley paint a bindrune on Gunnar’s chest. It appeared to be a request for strength. Mara had already painted Einar’s chosen bindrune by the predawn light. He believed runes and the words they represented carried the magic of their meaning. Einar honored his family name through the word “justice” and hoped its magic would give him the strength to hold his honor strong in the fight.

  The skald’s gruff voice scraped Einar’s nerves as he again repeated the rules, his wispy, white hair floating with the breeze. Standing across from him, Gunnar’s gaze was steady, disdain showing in the slightly raised eyebrow. His lips twisted in the smirk Einar knew so well. It was strange, he thought, how you could grow up with someone yet not know them at all..

  Stepping into the small square, Einar waited for the skald’s signal. Gunnar’s lips moved stiffly as he spoke. “I look forward to splitting your skull and watching your brains splatter.”

  A cold calm filled Einar; he flexed his wrist, feeling the familiar, solid hilt of Skull Cleaver in his grip. The ring of steel was his answer, and Gunnar lost his first shield. Gunnar swung his axe, and Einar’s shield splintered, the blow pushing him back.

  “You fífl! I have seen maids who swung an axe with more force!” Einar grunted.

  Gunnar smiled. “I am not the fool here. I have let no woman take my manhood from me. I look forward to making you my mare.”

  Rage at the insult coursed through Einar. Unaware of the crowd, his entire focus was the man in front of him. Watching every move, he countered, blood pounding. He needed to see him bleed and to win at any cost. No longer was he a brother, but an enemy. Einar’s mind blanked to nothing but the raw need for survival. He slashed, his blade bouncing off the shield rim.

  Einar stepped back and crouched. Gunnar slammed his axe’s sharp head into Einar’s shield. The tip of the axe blade smashed through the wood, catching on the crossbar. The shield boss stopped the full split of the shield but not the bite of the tip of the axe. It scored Einar’s upper arm, blood welling in the wound. Yanking the axe back, Gunnar moved to a defensive stance behind his shield.

  Burning pain raced down his arm. Einar saw the smirk on Gunnar’s face, white teeth framed in a crescent of a smile.

  “Bleed, little veslingr. Come closer and I will end it quickly—just for you—my brother!”

  “When I come close, it will be to cut off your foul head to stick it on a pole where it can no longer plot,” Einar snapped.

  Four men from the community of Breiðoy had been chosen as unbiased spotters. One stood at each side of the square, looking for injury or blood. A heavyset man, on the east side, now held up his hand and hollered, “First blood score to Gunnar.”

&nbs
p; Dagfinn handed Einar his last shield. “Could you take it easy on this one?—the paint is barely dry.”

  Einar could only give a quick smirk. Catching his breath, he watched Gunnar heft his axe, flexing his arm, waiting for him, with cold malice in his eyes. “Just roll over and die like the pig you are!” Gunnar called out.

  Charging, Einar threw his shield forward, pushing into Gunnar’s, and he heard a grunt as he braced. Einar swung his sword under the lip of the shield. He felt a slight resistance against the tip of the blade as it gashed across Gunnar’s leg.

  Quickly reciprocating, Gunnar swung his axe over the upper edge of Einar’s shield, missing Einar’s head as he instinctively ducked. Both of them pushed off and stepped back, the next strike being Einar’s.

  Their harsh breathing was magnified in the silence as the crowd watched. Gunnar’s thin lips turned up into a sneer. “You still bleed, níðingr,” he gasped.

  Not bothering to answer, Einar brought up Skull Cleaver in an overhanded swing, and Gunnar’s shield cracked under the blow of his blade. Stepping back with one foot on the edge of the hide, Gunnar’s partner passed a new shield to him. On Gunnar’s left thigh, Einar saw a dark, shiny bloodstain slowly seeping through the woolen pants.

  One of the spotters hollered, “Blood score to Einar.”

  Einar noted that Gunnar didn’t even glance down, hefting the crossbar of the shield over his arm, putting the strap in place. His eyes held a calculating look, but Einar had seen this before and knew what followed. He crouched, waiting.

  Swinging the axe in an arc, building power, Gunnar brought it down full force on Einar’s shield. At the last moment, Einar deflected the blow, the shield shattering. Pain shot up his arm as he stepped back, sticking out his arm to Dagfinn, who silently slid off the splintered remains of the last shield. Einar smiled grimly, capturing the sax that hung from a leather thong around his wrist. Though shieldless, this was the way he liked fighting. Free to move about while Gunnar would have to defend with a bulky shield in the way.

  Fury fed another adrenaline surge. Einar charged, his sword held high and the sax down by his hip. Gunnar parried, blocking the sword blow with his shield edge while catching Einar’s blade with the head of his axe. Einar pressed in, noting Gunnar braced so he wouldn’t be pushed to the edge of the square. Einar’s injured arm burned and trembled with the effort. Grunting, he stared into Gunnar’s eyes, noticing the sweat dripping from his stepbrother’s furrowed brow. Einar gritted his teeth and heaved again. He could see the cording in Gunnar’s neck and felt the shiver of a tremor as he held against Einar’s strength. One foot slipped as Gunnar tried digging in, the wound in his thigh finally taking a toll. It seemed that eternity stretched between them, Einar’s rage giving strength to the deadlock. He wanted to grind his stepbrother’s face into the ground and watch his blood flow.

  “Gnógr!” four voices shouted simultaneously. Einar didn’t give, and neither did Gunnar.

  “Gnógr—it is over.” Jarl Roald’s voice cut through the cheering of the crowd.

  Einar suddenly released, straightening, moving back. He refused to look down at the hide to see whose blood had stopped the fight and determined the outcome. Gunnar’s expression answered it for him. Bright red blood ran from the gash on Gunnar’s leg forming a dark pool around his foot. He looked dazed, as if just realizing he had been cut.

  Einar felt empty. There was no pride at the winning, for he knew he had lost more than he had won.

  Thoughts swirled all night, giving Seraphina no rest. The cut from Einar’s sword burned, and her heart ached. She had thought she would not watch the hólmganga, hating the vikingrs for their willingness to kill for silver. Then, as the dawn had spread its pastel ripples against the dark of night, she realized that if Einar had been less honorable than her betrothed, she would not have viewed this new day.

  Though conflicted, she still chewed two nails down to nubs during the fight, hoping for Einar’s survival. Now she felt she could breathe, watching as Dagfinn grabbed Einar’s hand, pulling him against his chest, thumping him on the back. Others crowded around, shoving or punching him in jubilant victory. Gunnar limped off the square; his shoulders drooped, his face slack in exhaustion. His shield hand threw a woolen cloak over his shoulders. Seraphina saw Hadley slip to his side, her arm going around his waist to support him.

  Jarl Roald’s voice rose above the noise. “The final judgment will be held at the hall.”

  Seraphina wasn’t sure who she was with at that moment, the crowd moving around her, heading to the longhouse. Jarl Roald startled her when he came up behind her and spoke quietly into her ear, “Come with me.”

  Seraphina was amazed when she entered the longhouse. Voices eagerly shared the high points of the fight. Laughter and food flowed freely. It was very different from the previous night’s subdued atmosphere because when a hólmganga didn’t end in death, there was celebrating.

  Jarl Roald ordered her and Hadley back to the head table once again. Hadley sat beside Gunnar at the other end of the trestle table, her attention centered on his every need, ignoring Seraphina. Slouching, he tossed back a cup of ale and called loudly for another refill. Peeking around Roald, Seraphina could see Einar on the other side of him, sitting at ease. His eyes watched the sax he twirled on the table. A full trencher of food and a cup of ale sat untouched in front of him.

  Against the smoky haze of the center fire pit, the skald stood up, and Seraphina admired the burgundy tunic he wore. It had edges worked in a fine needlework pattern of interlocking circles. Several impressively large, silver arm rings encircled his thin arms, and an amulet hung from his neck with the hammer of Thor. He called for attention in a voice that was warm, deep, and pleasant.

  “And now for the final judgment of the hólmganga. Gunnar Hynnsson, you requested your honor be served, and Einar Herjolfsson has answered the challenge and proven there is no weight in the accusation. Step forward, and pay three marks of silver,” the skald said.

  Gunnar stood with a slight sway. Taking three circlets of silver off his large biceps, he walked unsteadily to Einar, throwing them down in front of him.

  “Challenge was met and served,” Gunnar announced.

  Einar frowned.

  The skald spoke up. “Has your honor been met, Einar the Just?”

  Einar stood and stared at his stepbrother. Seraphina noticed that Gunnar wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Já,” Einar said flatly.

  “This is the end of the matter. May your travels be filled with wealth and success,” the skald finished.

  A roar went up. Fists thumped chests, and cups pounded the table in approval. Jarl Roald stood, and the cheering died down. “Gunnar Hynnsson, I give payment for your services to me with this woman and this man.”

  Seraphina saw Hadley stand, and Iohannes was brought forward. Gunnar nodded stiffly. Hadley held her head high, a smile of pride lifting her pink lips. She followed Gunnar as he joined his men.

  Jarl Roald went on. “Einar Herjolfsson, your payment for service to me is this woman, but I claim half of the ransom. If no ransom is paid, you may do with her as you wish, but I still demand half of the unpaid ransom.” Einar nodded, and Roald held out his hand to Seraphina. Her pulse quickened as he led her to Einar’s side. Without looking at her, Einar stood, grasped her arm, and headed toward his men sitting on the side benches.

  Pushing her toward Dagfinn, he commanded, “She is in your keeping.”

  Seraphina stood, staring at him as he turned and left the hall.

  14

  North Sea Crossing

  “You will reach your destination, even though you travel slowly.”

  The waves lapping at the side of the ship had become her world. Dagfinn had told her they would be making the dangerous North Sea crossing to the Norp weg homeland. Through day and night, they had sailed from the harbor of Breiðoy until it seemed to Seraphina that time had stopped. Jarl Roald’s ship, the Hrafnvængr, led, and the Vindálfr flan
ked on one side, and Gunnar’s Ormrvindr was on the other.

  The first day, a brisk wind had sped them along, and all the crew could talk about was the fight for honor and its outcome. Einar stood quietly at the bow, staring off at the horizon.

  Seraphina said, “Dagfinn, does Einar blame me for the hólmganga?”

  His look became pensive, studying Einar’s broad back. “Ekki, but to him, family and loyalty are everything. It does not settle well that Gunnar questioned the jarl’s decision. Or that he would willingly fight Einar. Trust is a fragile thing.”

  “Well do I know that,” Seraphina whispered to herself.

  After the sun had set, the nighttime darkness was overwhelming. She felt so small and insignificant in the vastness of the North Sea. When younger, she had gone into a cave so deep she couldn’t see her hand. This was similar except strewn across the black expanse above were twinkling pinpoints of light. The other ships were just silhouettes cut into the night. She could only tell where the water met the sky by the absence of the stars.

  Einar’s form was just another shadow in the bow. She moved closer, seeing his hands resting on the gunwale; his face lifted to the heavens.

  “How do you find your way?” she asked softly.

  His shoulders dropped, and he took in a deep breath before turning to face her. He stared for a few moments and then pointed over her head.

  “There are certain patterns that never change. Certain stars we can always depend on to guide us.”

  “But what if there is a storm or clouds?”

  “We have a stone we suspend in a bowl of water. It always points to Jötunheimr, land of the Frost Giants. We know how far off from this lies our home.”

  “Tell me more about your gods.”

  An eyebrow moved, breaking the expressionless mask he had worn all day. “Why? I have heard you only believe in one god. The one that died.”