by Ree Thornton
The wolf rubbed his short beard, drawing her attention to the puckered scar that cut across the right side of his face, which looked more like the clean deliberate slice of a dagger rather than the haphazard slice of a battle wound. He looked entirely too relaxed about waiting for her to speak again. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch it. He did not deserve her sympathy.
"You have naught to say?" She stood with her hands on her hips and gave him her deadliest glare.
He raised one bushy eyebrow. "What would you have me say?"
Rúna grit her teeth. If he offered no apology, she would give no mercy. "Why are you here?"
"You know why."
"Tell me," she demanded.
He shrugged. "I am here to win your hand."
And there he was! That all too familiar shrug of faked indifference. Finally, she recognized something about the stranger in front of her.
"I was not worthy before. I would just weigh you down, remember?"
"You have changed much," he said, as his gaze skimmed down over the curves of her body.
Heat pooled between her legs as her body betrayed her will.
"I would fall on my sword before I wed you. Get on your ship and leave."
She waited for his anger to flare. He'd always had a quick temper and she knew how to fan that fire until it blazed.
"I'm not going anywhere, firefly."
Her hands curled into fists at the calm determination in his declaration. Hearing him call her firefly again hit her in the gut like the call of the war horn signalling battle. Why wasn't he angry? It was clear that he would not back down, and his anger was no longer a weakness she could exploit.
"Don't call me that."
He tilted his head to the side and studied her. "What? Firefly?" He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "You will always be my firefly."
"I am not your anything, Wolf." She pursed her lips and ignored the broad expanse of his chest. She would never be the firefly that he had claimed lit up his world—never again. He had made sure of that.
His eyes narrowed but his gaze remained unguarded, revealing both his hurt and longing.
She paused a moment, stumbling to recover from the unexpected display of emotion before firming her resolve and continuing her assault. "I'll never wed you."
His eyes darkened in an instant, pinning her in place. "We shall see."
"Even if you win, I'll not speak the words. I'd rather marry the smelly old swine farmer, Bekan." She walked off, pausing briefly to toss the final deathblow over her shoulder.
"You are still dead to me."
Chapter Five
Jorvan
Later that afternoon, Jorvan strode across the fallow field to the north of the village, clutching his sword. It had been a long day of competition to eliminate the other suitors until just he and Rúna remained in this first challenge. Now, he was eager to finish this final game and claim the win that would put him in the lead.
"The axe throw was an easy victory after Leif Gustafsson threw his into that oak tree," Valen said from beside him.
"Já, but then Rúna won the archery." He glanced at where she stood talking with the Isaksson warriors, remembering how she'd glared at him after each of her arrows hit the center of the target.
"She is good with the bow," Valen said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Já. I taught her to shoot." An image flashed in his mind of the many days they'd spent in the meadow practicing with the bow, satisfying his need to feel her body pressed against his own.
"She has a gift for it and is a fierce opponent," Valen said with obvious admiration.
"It was a good win, but she cannot match me in this final challenge." Jorvan knew he could outlast any man at swordplay. This would not be a fair fight at all.
"I should hope not, little brother. For cert, it will be easier to best her at swordplay than win her favor."
Valen spoke true. Now that he had seen her, he knew that winning Rúna back would be much harder than he'd expected. "Her anger is warranted, but I have a plan. I shall convince her that I still love her."
Valen shook his head doubtfully. "She'll not believe you. You claimed to love her before and then you left."
"I did love her."
"I know, brother. But she will not see it like that."
"Then I shall convince her I am no longer the man that hurt her. I must show her that I have changed."
Valen shook his head and sighed. "She would forgive you faster if you tell her what happened with her father that day."
"Nei. I'll not come between her and her father."
"Then good fortune to you, Brother. You will need it," Valen said, then slapped him on the shoulder and walked off.
He watched as Rúna walked to where he waited, his gaze sweeping over her appreciatively. Every flex of her lean thighs was visible through the breeches she wore, and her sleeveless tunic did little to hide neither her womanly curves nor her well-honed muscular arms. Even all these years later, the mere sight of her stole the breath from his lungs. He almost groaned. With her hair braided back off her face, she looked every bit the courageous shield-maiden prepared for battle, and he wanted her with a fierceness that stunned him.
"Rúna," he said, nodding at her in greeting.
She turned her back on him.
He ignored her contempt. He deserved her anger, so she could goad him all she liked—he would not bite. He focused on trying to make sense of her actions. Her strong healthy body left no doubt that she trained with her clansmen, but no warrior ever exposed their back to an opponent. Did she still trust him enough to know he would not harm her? Or was she truly an untried warrior, a mere figurehead that led the Isaksson clan into battle for her father? He glanced at the sword she held in her right hand. It was smaller than his was, though just as long and sharp, but it offered no answer to her skill.
Jarl Isaksson stood beside his much smaller wife, with his arms folded across his chest. He glared at Jorvan, clearly rankled at his mere presence. "First blood wins," he declared, and nodded for the match to begin.
Rúna lifted her sword and turned.
Jorvan watched her warily, noting her bent knees and her weight centered in a fighting stance. He kept the tip of his sword to the ground. He needed to convince her of the foolishness of this game.
"We needn't do this, Rúna."
Her furious glare crushed his offer of a wise resolution. "Fight me, you coward," she said, her harsh tone brooking no argument.
He glared at the men standing at the edge of the field snickering at her insult and lifted his sword. He didn't want to do this—embarrassing her in front of her clan would just push her further away—but he couldn't see a way to avoid it.
"Get on with it," ordered her father.
Rúna leapt forward, thrusting her blade left and then right. Her eyes followed his every move as he deflected her thrusts with easy flicks of the wrist.
He bent his knees, firming his stance, and held back the urge to smile. Her moves were solid, yet lacked force—she was testing him out and looking for weaknesses. His firefly was a wily opponent. He would play along for a while, so that she could save face before he bested her, but he would have to make it look like a real fight.
"I thought you were a shield-maiden? I've seen whelps fight harder than you."
She scowled and thrust hard for his left shoulder.
He smoothly sidestepped and whacked her blade away.
She advanced, attacking mercilessly in a dangerous dance of thrust and defence.
The cloud of dust and barley chaff kicked up by their shuffling footwork invaded his nostrils as he narrowly avoided a cunning downward thrust between his legs.
She was quick and agile, an advantage that no doubt had caught many a seasoned warrior unaware on the battlefield, but her swordplay lacked strength.
They fought until sweat ran down his chest and her breathing labored. It was time to end this, before she hurt herself in he
r frenzied desire to win. He lunged forward, his blade meeting hers in a series of thrusts so forceful that their blades sang as steel met steel.
Her eyes widened as she stumbled backward and fell to the dirt.
Jorvan stood above her, sword at his side, as he looked down into eyes as lush and green as a spring meadow. "Are you hurt?" When she did not answer he continued, "Do you cede?"
She flexed the fingers of her right hand as she picked up her blade with the other.
He knew the cramping pain she was feeling well. Her sword hand would ache for days. After a long battle, it was oft weeks before he could grip a weapon without flinching.
"Do you cede?" he repeated.
Her eyes darkened to the same dangerous emerald hue as the sea that swallowed ships whole, and then her left hand darted out with more speed than he'd seen her use the entire fight.
A sharp prick hit just below his knee. He blinked, and looked down at the drops of blood flowing down his leg and over the soft leather of his boot. He reeled as the dark fog descended and the bloodlust took over. He swung wildly as the witch appeared his mind, her hand covered in the blood of his men.
Kill her. Kill her.
As though through a fog, he watched Rúna scamper backward in the grass and then rise to her feet. She stood tall, her chin thrust out and her green eyes blazing with defiance. Her breathing was calm and her movements sure, as she put a hand on her hip.
Her features blurred, his beloved fading from the shield-maiden into the sneering vicious seer that had stolen his comrades and peace of mind.
"The win is mine," she said.
He barely heard her over the heavy thump of his blood pounding in his ears. She would not win. He would kill her over and over, until she haunted him no more.
Kill her. Kill her.
He roared a battle cry and attacked using all of his strength. He would send her into the icy mists of Hel where she belonged for the wrongs she had committed against her own kind.
"Cede," she commanded as she deflected the blow.
"Never," he bellowed. He'd rather die than yield to this witch again.
Her boot slammed into his loins.
"Oomph." The air rushed from his lungs. He fell to his knees in the grass, clutching his hand protectively over the pained area as the haze cleared.
Rúna stood in front of him, panting, holding her sword at the ready with a mixture of shock and concern on her sweaty face. Her hand shook as she spoke, her sword wobbling back and forth in front of his face. "You are a sore loser, Wolf."
"Rúna?" He shook his head as the bloodlust seeped away, only to be replaced with horror.
What had he done?
She had drawn blood and he had lost all reason at the bitter reminder of his captivity. He'd attacked her, thinking she was the witch.
His heart sank. "I could have killed you."
"Not likely," she quipped, and sheathed her blade.
She could fight. Only a warrior could have matched him in the throes of bloodlust.
"You wield with both hands?" He shook his head at the extent of her trickery. Her breathlessness and clumsy moves of earlier had been a ruse. She had lulled him into overconfidence and bested him. His cock throbbed, causing him to wince once more. By Óðinn, she was beautiful, strong, and clever.
"You didn't truly believe that I couldn't fight, did you?" she mocked him.
He was a fool. She could fight as well as any of her warriors, mayhap even better, considering she could wield a sword in both hands.
Rúna smirked at his befuddled state, and then turned on her heel and strutted away.
His heart sank. He'd underestimated the change in her and the depths of her contempt toward him. He'd let his feelings for the Rúna from his past cloud him from seeing the woman she was now, a fearsome warrior, a woman that would fight to her dying breath rather than surrender. Admiration filled him at this new side of her. She would be a strong Jarl and a fierce mother who would raise strong sons. It only made him want her more.
Rúna flicked her braids over her shoulder as she turned to look back at him. Her eyes were as dark as a midwinter night, and just as cold.
"I'll never cede to a man again."
The hidden meaning of her words hit him hard in the center of his chest. She'd given him her heart and he'd broken it. She'd never forgive him, ever.
Under the dim light of the crescent moon, Jorvan held the flaming torch high and walked the boundary of Luleavst. It was a relief to escape the confines of the barn and the snoring of his men, though it did little to quell the edgy tension that possessed him. Not even a tortured slumber would come again this eve. The dream that had woken him in a shivering cold sweat was worse than usual, his mind replaying the long painful death of his childhood friend, Elov, which he'd not even witnessed. As usual, thoughts of Elov left behind a hollow ache in his chest. He longed to feel his friend's back against his as they cut down their enemies. Would the pain ever ease?
Go back and mend it. He could still hear Elov's weakened voice echo across the cell they'd shared deep in the dark maze of caves.
You were always the strongest. You need to survive for all of us, Jorvan.
Curse the cruel gods—the blood of so many good men stained his hands. Men who screamed for mercy as the seiðkonur blade had cut their flesh night after night, until she ended their torment and offered them as a blót sacrifice. Men whose thick red blood had flowed across the stone altar in a ritual that called on the darkest of magic.
It is my fault that we are enslaved and so many have perished.
One by one, he had watched his men waste away and die from their festering wounds and fevers, until he and Elov were the only ones left. Each loss had stolen another piece of his heart, letting the darkness seep further inside him. At the end, Elov had fevered for weeks, and though neither spoke the words, they both had known he was not much longer for this world.
Coming here was a mistake, but it was not yours alone. You must return and tell our families of our fate.
They will never let me go.
Elov was adamant. You must escape. They will take me out first this eve. I will give you the distraction you need.
Nei. He could not allow Elov to sacrifice himself so he could flee like a coward.
But Elov had ignored his protest. Find my father. He needs to know what happened, as do all the families.
I'll not leave you. We can escape together.
Nei. I am too weakened. You stayed when you could have escaped. You were honorable until the end. Promise me that you will return to Rúna and live a good life together.
Later that night, Jorvan had stood over the freshly dug grave with his face upturned to the full moon overhead. Even in his weakened state, Elov had fought bravely, dispatching three of their captors before he was carried to mighty halls of Valhalla to feast. He had buried his comrade with a boat, sword, and all the gold he could find in the small village. As he stood over the grave, still covered in the blood of the witch and the men who had defended her, his final words to Elov echoed in the deafening silence: I swear it, Elov. I will keep my vow. Then he had marched, as though propelled by the force of his friend's will, toward the noisy crescendo of waves crashing on the nearby coast.
Home. He'd heard Elov's whisper on the wind. Go home.
Jorvan held the flaming torch aloft, enjoying the cool brush of the night air against his skin. All was quiet in Luleavst, even the dogs that barked at the soft patter of the cats hunting in the dark. He stilled as soft footsteps approached.
"Brother." Valen emerged from the darkness, striding toward him with the easy confidence of a man whose ascension to Jarl was assured.
"Valen." Jorvan nodded at his brother and continued walking.
Valen fell into step beside him, his long stride easily keeping the quick pace.
Jorvan scanned the shadows, his silence showing his displeasure at the interruption. His oldest sibling watched him closely these days. No doubt tasked by
their mother with ensuring he was not alone after a nightmare.
As though sensing his desire for quiet, Valen remained silent. In the years of his absence, Valen had become adept at tactful negotiation and noticing subtle signals, both skills that would serve him well when he took over from their father as Jarl of Gottland.
Jorvan could feel his jaw clenching, tighter and tighter, until a muscle near his chin ticked.
"You don't need to watch me."
He hated that his family knew the truth of his plight, but there had been no hiding it when he'd woken screaming and had to be subdued by his brothers until he came back to his senses.
"You were gone so long…" The heaviness of his brother's unspoken words hung in the air between them. Valen had missed him, worried for him. "Now that you have returned I am glad for these night walks."
They passed by the barn and rounded the bend that led toward the fields.
"The dreams are no better?" Valen asked.
Jorvan shrugged. "They are no worse. I'd give much to sleep like that." He motioned at three warriors asleep in the dirt where they'd fallen after downing too much ale in celebration of Rúna's win. One was without pants, his bare ass glowing like a waxing moon, and even from a distance the snores of another echoed through the night.
Valen shook his head. "They sleep like the dead."
The guard warming his hands by the fire as he kept watch over the half-harvested fields shifted, casting dancing light and shadows across the earth.
Jorvan scanned left, then right. The watch fire was positioned too far back from the fields to provide the vista needed to secure the area. Should he warn Jarl Isaksson? Nei. The man would never listen. He was too stubborn to see beyond his loathing.
"You would sleep too if you drank as much," Valen mused.