Norse Hearts

by Robynn Gabel

  Seraphina’s gaze shot over to Ragnvald. “But you waited after receiving Bengtha’s rune stick. You did not flee. Why?”

  Now it was Ragnvald’s turn to shrug. “I thought I could still take them, rescue my sister and have it done.”

  Seraphina couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out. Ragnvald frowned. “You would insult me?”

  “Vikingr pride. You think nothing is too great to fight your way through. It was not I who spoiled your plans but your pride.” She glared at Basina. “And you think I am the simple one?”

  At that moment, a low moan from a horn sounded. Everyone rose but Gunnar and Ragnvald. Seraphina saw Basina glance over at him. “It is time to leave, Gunnar.”

  “I will follow, Móðir. You know there are a few things I must do here. Go ahead of me. The ships are waiting.”

  Seraphina stiffened, dread now a stone in her belly. They hurried out, taking the last few chests. As the noise of hooves and the creaking wagon faded away, Gunnar put his feet up on the table. Ragnvald stood behind him.

  “So, Seraphina, it is you and me now. Do you think to use that sword against me?”

  A cold splash of alarm hit her. How had he known?

  “Ragnvald, take the torches there beside the pit and start a nice fire for us,” Gunnar directed.

  A sneer twisted Ragnvald’s heavy jowls, giving his face the distinct look of a boar. Grabbing two torches, he lit the heads in the cooking fire and slipped through the hall door.

  Seraphina wiped her sweating hands on her tunic. “Gunnar, your sister is here.”

  Ljúfa crept out. “Brother.”

  He shook his head. “Though we share a mother, you were forever Einar’s little dog. Do not lick my boots now.”

  Dagfinn’s voice sounded harsh behind Seraphina, making her jump. “I think no one is going to lick boots tonight except you, ragr!”

  Gunnar pulled his feet off the table, leaping up. His hand grabbed his axe from his belt. “No one calls me a coward, you pig dung!”

  Seraphina moved back toward Dagfinn’s voice, keeping an eye on Gunnar in front of her.

  Gunnar stepped forward, his eyes slits, lips curled back from his teeth. Dagfinn continued taunting him. “I think those who just left are going to be a little surprised when they reach port, ragr. It seems King Hjörleif made a surprise visit tonight. At least one ship is burning as we speak, and it is not the king’s.”

  Seraphina smiled in delight at the animalistic fury twisting Gunnar’s face.

  Ragnvald came back in and heard Dagfinn’s news. He grunted, “Gunnar, what have you gotten us into? My sister is out there.”

  Gunnar raged back. “Run if you must, but I am going to slaughter a pig.” He leaped over the table, his battle-axe suddenly swinging, and Dagfinn roared, running to meet him.

  Seraphina saw Ragnvald head for the door as she pulled out the sword. To the right, through the tiny window, she saw flames spreading through the thatch that hung down as eaves. Smoke began curling through the roof overhead. She turned, seeing Ljúfa’s big eyes glazed in pain.

  “Get out of here, Ljúfa, now!” Seraphina shouted over the grunts and clash of steel.

  “I can not leave Dagfinn,” she wailed.

  Seraphina heard a sickeningly soft thud and Dagfinn’s hoarse grunt as she whirled in time to see Gunnar pull his axe out of Dagfinn’s right arm.

  Ljúfa screamed, and Gunnar faced Seraphina. She stepped back into position. Several times Elsjorn had said he thought her too kindhearted to be able to kill someone, but tonight, it wasn’t going to be a problem. Hatred boiled, and all she wanted to see was Gunnar’s face twist in agony. Her heart surged. Blood pounding, a powerful calm filled her. She was grateful now for all the hours of practice and hard farmwork that had hardened her feminine muscles, but she knew Gunnar’s strength was greater than hers. He raised the axe, a smile playing about his lips. He didn’t take her seriously—he wanted her body intact for what he had in mind. This was her edge and his weakness; she pushed her advantage.

  Seraphina cavorted in a macabre dance. Ducking, swinging, parrying, she never got close enough for him to let the axe break her blade. Suddenly, twirling, her blade caught his shirt-sleeve. Fury twisted his face, and he bared his teeth. He slipped the axe into his belt and drew out his short sword. Now blade bit at blade, but Seraphina watched every movement, countering instinctively. He swung his blade up over his head for a downward slash. She suddenly lunged forward into his space for the first time, stabbing straight at his shoulder. At the last second, he shifted, her blade only sliding across the flesh of his arm. Gunnar grunted, stepping back.

  “You witch of Niflheim! I am going to kill you!”

  Seraphina didn’t have time to answer before he started slashing and hacking. She countered each strike, knowing her strength wouldn’t hold much longer. Stumbling under a blow, she saw a flash of smugness in his eyes. Suddenly, the swing of his blade faltered; his arm fell against his side. He pitched forward, going to his knees, and then sprawled face-first onto the wooden floor, moaning. Seraphina saw a blade sticking out of his shoulder. Mara stood behind him with a hateful, wild-eyed look.

  “Mara!” Seraphina gasped. Stepping around Gunnar, who was struggling to his feet, she grabbed Mara by the arm and pulled her along. The front of the hall was totally engulfed, no passage available there any longer. Trying to suck in the smoke-laden air to feed her starving lungs, she led a dazed Mara toward the back of the longhouse. Overhead, the flames flickered off walls, and heavy smoke floated down, obscuring everything. A wall of heat rolled over them. Seraphina grabbed a couple of rags lying by the fire pit and quickly dunked them in a bucket of water that sat nearby. She tossed a wet rag to Mara, and they both covered their faces.

  Gunnar stumbled after them. “You worthless sow! I will cut your heart out while you scream.”

  Mara flinched, shrinking against Seraphina as they ran. “Do not look back; we must get out,” Seraphina panted. “Where is Ljúfa?”

  “Outside!” Mara huffed. “I helped her pull Dagfinn out.”

  “We need to get to the steam room!” Seraphina shouted over the vicious rumble of the fire. Weakened logs hissed and popped as the fire ate at them. A gust of the wind from the open front door fed its hunger, and a wall of flame started down through the platforms. Seraphina didn’t look back when Gunnar’s bellow of pain sounded right behind them. Tripping in the dark of the steam room, she struggled to lift the wood bar to open the door. Mara added her strength, and the door flew open, the fresh air not only reviving the women but feeding the flames behind them. Out in the cool night, both fell to their knees, coughing and sucking in great drafts of air.

  Seraphina felt a strong hand grab her shoulder, and she let out a gasp. Turning, she suddenly realized Mara was holding her while stomping on the glowing embers caught in the hem of her underdress. An inhuman scream rose above the roar of the fire, and she leaped to her feet. With Mara beside her, they ran toward the croft.

  Seraphina looked around quickly in the fire’s wavering light. Ljúfa leaned over a prostrate form by Odinørindi’s fence. The stallion was running back and forth, whinnying, his eyes wide in fear as the hall behind them became an inferno.

  Kneeling next to Ljúfa, she looked Dagfinn over. His face was corpse-white, even in the orange glow—eyes closed, teeth clenched. The arm was mangled between the elbow and wrist. She couldn’t tell, with all the blood, if it had gone all the way through the bone. Ljúfa had bound it tightly below the elbow, stopping the profuse bleeding; now she rocked gently, her arms wrapped around herself. Lifting tear-filled blue eyes to meet Seraphina’s, she stuttered out, “We need the healer from the village.”

  “Look.” Mara pointed.

  Another hellish-orange blush came from the town. A form loomed against the glow, a blacker shadow, and Mara screamed.

  “Woman, you will bring every draugr within a field length down on us with that wail,” Elsjorn’s voice clipped out.

&nbs
p; Kneeling beside Dagfinn, he asked, “Who did this?”

  Seraphina replied, “Gunnar.”

  “Where is he now?” Elsjorn barked out.

  She nodded over her shoulder toward the orange flames devouring the longhouse. “Mara saved me.”

  Elsjorn stared intently up at Mara. The stout woman crossed her arms, lifting her head proudly. “You have seen my scars. Gunnar beat me so hard the first night that Einar intervened and bought me from him. I was not letting him kill my friend.”

  Seraphina smiled tiredly at the defiant Mara. “No one has ever had a truer friend. Thank you.”

  Turning back to Elsjorn, she said, “What took you so long to come in from the field?”

  “I saw the ships coming in and recognized the Danish sail. Knew it was trouble. Went to the village to help. Figured it would be better than waiting until they got here. I am sorry, Ladye; I thought the only threat came from the harbor. I should have been here to defend you.”

  “Take no blame, Elsjorn; you did what was best. None knew of Basina and Gunnar’s plans.”

  Nodding Elsjorn said, “Let me get the hay wagon hitched up. Dagfinn needs help.”

  Seraphina reached out, grabbing his arm. “I must get to Einar. I have news they need.”

  Elsjorn shook his head. “They are fighting at the shoreline; the Frankish ship is anchored there. King Hjörleif engaged the Danish ship, and I do not know how it goes with him. It is too dangerous to go by boat. We must go by land. I know of a healer at a farm on the way. You are coming with us.”

  Earlier that day, King Hjörleif had lost a bet, and it still did not set well with him. Now he surveyed the dying embers of Einar’s longhouse. His men sifted through it cautiously. A golden glow was beginning to light the sky in the east. Over the rise, there was still a faint orange blush from the Frankish cargo ship that lay burning on shore, its crew setting it on fire when they saw the battle was lost. Several town buildings lay glowing in the fire’s aftereffects as well.

  His vest was blood spattered, and he had a nasty ache in one shoulder where a staff had caught him unaware. He mumbled, “By all that is Thor’s, what is going on here?”

  An older man, with a halo of red hair offset by the silvering at his temples, stood next to the king, his battle vest also bloodied from the fight. The king met his glare as Abbott spoke roughly, “I would like to know as well. Did you not tell me Seraphina would be here?”

  “Já, she was,” the king said. One grimy finger rubbed at his temple. Could Seraphina have been on the ship that had escaped him, unfurling its Danish sail in scorn? Then there was the burning ship. What were the Franks doing with a cargo ship full of warriors and battle weapons at this little bay owned by Einar?

  A crack and groan warned his men of the imminent collapse of the longhouse’s gabled front. Quickly, they scrambled out of the smoking ruins.

  “There were no bodies that we could find,” his man reported.

  The king’s gaze roamed over the fields. A small croft caught his eye. He noticed there were no horses in it. Where was the stallion Odinørindi?

  23

  Calm Before the Storm

  “Often a man who is not brave most other times becomes brave in dire straits.”

  Looking over the Stafangr inlet from atop the hill, Einar could see the fleet that they had amassed with their allies. Vindálfr floated gracefully; her sail furled neatly. No vikingr ship was the same since they were all made for specific purposes, but they were all similar in design and easily recognized. Some foreigners tried copying their design, but only a vikingr knew how to embody a spirit into the strakes and planks of a dragon ship.

  The Hrafnvængr, Gunnar’s ship, had run the night before, quietly slipping away from the fleet, and no one knew her whereabouts or his. Turning around to the large stone behind him, Einar waited. A bowl of blood sat at his feet; its thin surface had a black sheen. As a child, when the skalds would recite the stories of the gods, Thor had stood out as his favorite. Now, as an adult, Einar often honored him with simple offerings of thankfulness.

  The sun’s soft light finally touched the top of the boulder, and stating his praise out loud, he poured the blood over the stone. A few seconds later, a swish of wings alerted him to a bird’s approach. He stood back from the rock, and a raven landed. Eyeing him with one amber-colored eye, the bird dipped its beak in the blood, wiping from side to side. Staring at Einar, it took flight, and three black feathers floated back down. One landed in the dark blood on the boulder, one against the foot of the rock, and the last one, pushed by a slight breeze, fluttered and then landed on the woolen tunic covering his chest, sticking to the material right over his heart. Reverently, he gathered the feathers and slipped them into a pouch at his belt.

  Glancing out over the shoreline again, his eye focused on the red-gold flag of hair streaming out behind the girl who crouched atop a flaming-red horse in full gallop. Seraphina! His heart went into a flurry of extra heartbeats. What brought her to Stafangr? What happened that she was here alone, without Dagfinn or Elsjorn? Why had she not come by boat, instead of riding overland?

  He raced down the slope for the jarl’s hall, reaching the clearing just as Odinørindi came to a stop, sides heaving, his head dropping down in exhaustion. Seraphina raised her head slowly, catching sight of him.

  “Einar!” Her cry was ragged, and as he drew closer, he saw her tears starting their quick fall. She slid from the horse into his open arms. Sitting on the ground, he cradled her, wiping the hair from her face, wondering at the soot smeared across her fair skin.

  She sobbed on his chest, and for a moment, he was lost. A defiant, angry smár hyrr he knew how to handle. One that was crying unnerved him. He stroked her wind-ratted hair, marveling at how soft it still was.

  Taking a shuddering breath, she sat up, brushing quickly at her tear-soaked face. “I am sorry, Einar. I thought I would not make it in time. I got lost. I rode all night. The few farms I found— the people were reluctant to give directions to a stranger. I thought it would be a straight ride here, but then there was a lake; I did not know which way to go, and it was dark and. . . .” Tears started falling again.

  He lifted an eyebrow, pulling his face into a mask devoid of emotion, and said, “Smár hyrr, remind me never to let you navigate my ship—we would be forever lost on the sea.”

  The athletic frame sitting on his lap stiffened, and she glared at him through her tears. Her fist balled, and she struck him on the chest.

  “Oh! You are a useless piece of pig entrails! Why did I bother trying to save your worthless heathen hide?”

  Laughter spewed forth, his side hurting from the force of it.

  “There is my smár hyrr! It is the time we teach you how to curse instead of always swinging a blade.”

  He pushed her out of his lap as she swung again, getting to his feet. Holding out his hand, he watched her face grow serious again.

  “Einar, Gunnar has betrayed you and—he is dead.” Her words were spoken softly, but it made it no less painful.

  Steeling himself for the worst, he asked, “My sister?”

  “She is safe; Dagfinn may lose his arm, but he was still alive when I left. Elsjorn is mad at me. . . .”

  He raised both eyebrows this time and murmured, “I can only imagine what for.” Pulling her up, he headed toward the hall. “Come. Roald will need to hear what you have learned.”

  Seraphina sat behind the claw-legged table next to Einar. She had just finished telling the men all she had heard the night before. Jarl Roald began giving orders, and the hall immediately filled with streams of men and women scurrying to do his bidding.

  “Bring me the ferryman,” he demanded of Einar.

  The only thing that Seraphina recognized was the black hair, now braided in two rows on either side of his head, exposing the silvering at his temples. A gold clip captured the braids at the nape of his neck. His countenance was common and clean-shaven while two deep grooves appeared on either side o
f his mouth when he smiled. Seraphina had a hard time guessing his age. He walked forward with a strong stride, his battle tunic overlaid in circlets of metal, his gray cloak caught together on one shoulder with a circular pin in the shape a serpent. Gone was the shuffling man—a warrior now in his place. When he stopped in front of Roald, his kind gaze met hers briefly.

  Roald said, “I need a message delivered to the king, but the Danes will be waiting for anyone I send. You will need to disguise yourself once more. Same price?”

  “Yes, Jarl.”

  “My ship’s chief is waiting at the dock. Tell him what you need.” Roald handed him several rune sticks.

  He nodded; then he looked over at Seraphina. Meeting his eyes, she saw that they were hazel colored, and despite the axe at his belt and the sword over his back, they still had a gentle look to them. She hadn’t realized how tall and slim he was until he stepped up to the table.

  “As you can see, I am well paid, little one. I can not keep something so dear to you.”

  He pulled a brooch from a worn pouch. Leaning over the table, he picked up her hand. Laying it in her palm, he closed her fingers over it. Winking at her, he turned and left the hall.

  Seraphina gaped after him. Einar chuckled beside her. “He is one of our best assassins, disguising himself into anyone he needs to be.”

  She narrowed her eyes, pressing her lips together. “Did I tell you anything you did not already know?”

  “Yes, you did. We fight our battles on land, but we prefer to travel by ship, and we do not normally fight ship to ship. Roald knew we were vulnerable from the east, but we had the jarls’ pledges from that side. Gunnar was right. We did not think the Danes would attack by land since I oversee west of Stafangr and Dusavik Bay. We thought the focus would be the inlet itself like it was the last time they attacked. With the defection of the northwest jarls, we are vulnerable now from that direction. Knowing the number of ships we are up against gives us an edge. As well as knowing who we fight. Danes are fierce, but I am surprised the Franks would ally with them. We will make a stand here; it is the easiest to fortify and defend. But I will send a second ship back to protect the bay of Dusavik and my lands. They have insulted our king, and he will not stand by and lose Stafangr. He will aid us.