Sword of Vengeance: A Medieval Viking Historical Romance (Warrior's Claim Book 2)

by Avery Maitland

  Being the sister of the Jarl meant that she could have such things—a small independence. But that thought chilled her suddenly as she realized she had not considered that such things would have to be sacrificed if she went through with her marriage to Jarl Sigurd.

  He did not seem like the type of husband who would allow such freedoms to his women.

  She stopped at the edge of the fire, removed her cloak, and pressed her palm to her hot cheek. Iri’s footsteps echoed on the floorboards and she sighed heavily. “What do you want, Iri? I told you I am not going back, so you can go back to Hallvard empty handed.”

  “I—”

  “What!”

  Heldi’s face appeared in the doorway, but Torunn waved her away. She wanted a cup of mead, but she wanted Iri gone first.

  “You were right to leave,” he said finally. “Hallvard barely acknowledged your absence.”

  Torunn dropped her cloak on a chair that had been pulled near the fire and crossed her arms over her chest. Of course her brother had not cared that she was not present. She was the lynchpin of the alliance between Skaro and Bitra. Would Jarl Sigurd even consider Hallvard’s offer of unity if there was nothing to be gained?

  A wife was a powerful bargaining tool, and Hallvard knew that as well as Sigurd did.

  She was valuable, but Hallvard clearly hoped that she would not realize it for herself.

  “You must agree to this marriage,” he continued.

  Torunn was stunned to hear those words. “You expect me to bend to Hallvard’s demands?”

  “It is for the good of Skaro,” Iri insisted. “If you do not… There is no telling what Jarl Sigurd will do in retaliation. His warriors are younger and stronger—better armed. They would overwhelm Skaro’s men without breaking a sweat.”

  “You are very loyal, are you not,” Torunn mocked him. “Your head would leave this house independently of your body if my brother heard you speak such things.”

  “I am loyal to Skaro,” Iri said vehemently. He would ignore her threat, just as he always did. “The alliance is a dangerous one. Jarl Sigurd has coveted Skaro’s wealth and position for many years. Your father knew this and did his best to protect the people from his grip. But now—”

  “Hallvard has given him exactly what he wants,” Torunn murmured. But the weapons in the great hall… Iri had seen them. “But it does not make any sense. What is my brother planning?”

  “He is not planning a wedding,” Iri said. “No preparations have been made. No sacrifices.”

  Torunn’s eyes widened. She had not asked her brother about his plans, as it had seemed impossible that his plans would even come to pass. The ice had broken early, perhaps he had been caught off guard… But that was impossible too, the weapons that had been secreted in the great hall spoke to his ability to prepare for what lay ahead.

  “Then why have you demanded that I agree to something that will not occur?” she snapped.

  “To give me time—”

  “Time to what?”

  “Torunn you must trust me!”

  “I do not trust you, Iri. You have begged for my forgiveness but I cannot give it.”

  Iri’s shoulders dropped slightly. “What might I do to gain it?”

  She had not given any thought to such a thing, but all at once, the answer came to her. Something that had been weighing on her mind since the flames had consumed her father’s funeral barge.

  “Take me to the healer,” she demanded.

  Iri stepped back in surprise and then regained his composure. “Iarund? But why? You can speak to him anytime.”

  Torunn glared at him. He knew exactly what she meant, but he was going to make her say it. “You know that I cannot do that, and you know that is not what I am asking. I need to speak to the healer who tended his wounds during the raid.”

  Iri’s eyes widened.

  “Find him for me. I need to speak to him. Alone.” She tapped her fingers on her arm impatiently. This was what she wanted. The healer would give her the truth she sought. Iarund would not be able to tell her what she needed to know.

  “I cannot do this—”

  “Do it,” Torunn snapped. “I need the truth. Everyone seems to know something I do not, and I cannot allow it to continue.”

  Iri held her gaze steadily and then nodded. “I will do as you ask. But there is a risk—”

  “There is always a risk. I know that Hallvard is watching the healers. Iarund has been acting strangely, and there are guards outside his doors.” She uncrossed her arms and flexed her fingers. She had thought that she would feel better—the prospect of knowing what had happened to her father should have cheered her, but the emptiness in her heart only seemed to grow larger.

  The truth was hard, and did not know any allegiance. Once it had been discovered, she would not be able to wipe it away from her mind. Was she willing to take that risk? Hallvard could do as he wished, she did not care what her punishment might be if she were caught.

  “I will do this for you,” Iri said. “But I cannot guarantee your safety. Your brother—”

  “Get out,” she said. “Heldi! Mead!”

  The servant appeared in the doorway again and she glared at Iri. The servants all knew that Iri was not welcome in her house, and nothing had really changed. If he did as she had asked—as he had promised—perhaps she would soften toward him. But until then, nothing had changed.

  “I need time.”

  “You have two days,” Torunn snapped. She did not know how long her brother had planned to entertain Jarl Sigurd and his men, but in her mind, he had already outworn his welcome.

  Heldi emerged from the kitchens with a tray that held her favorite horn cup and a copper jug full of the honeyed mead she preferred. Torunn did not watch Iri leave, but she smiled briefly as the door closed, she took the cup and filled it deftly as Heldi set the empty tray down on a table near the fire.

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  Torunn shook her head and waved away her servant’s concern. She hated it when Heldi tried to mother her. She did not need it.

  “Some bread if it is fresh… but mead will do.”

  Heldi frowned slightly but said nothing before she left Torunn at the fire with her cup.

  Damn Iri. Getting her in front of the healer was the least he could do to win back her trust, and even then she was not certain of how she would feel.

  Torunn paced the floor and tapped her fingers against the side of her cup as she walked. There were too many emotions swirling through her mind for her to think straight. She needed to be calm, and decide what she was going to ask the healer. How had her father been injured, what was the nature of his wounds—he should not have died.

  She could not be angry at the man, but Iarund would have saved him if he were there. That would help nothing. Anger would get her nowhere… if the guards at the healer’s house were any indication, the man might already be on edge. It also made her more suspicious. Why would the healers need guards? Were they under threat? Or did Hallvard feel threatened by them?

  That thought made her pause.

  What could her brothers be afraid of? If there was nothing to hide, Iarund would have been able to speak to her freely and she would not have had to go behind Hallvard’s back to get the answers she so desperately needed.

  The two days she had given Iri to complete his task dragged by, and Torunn grew angrier and more anxious with each passing hour. She avoided her brothers as best she could, but it was impossible to be absent from her duties. They expected her to be present at feasts and the exchange of tokens of alliance.

  She sneered at the pretense and ceremony of it all. She was the final token of alliance… and that knowledge sat in her stomach like a stone.

  “My bride does not seem pleased by the gifts I have brought,” Jarl Sigurd laughed. He filled her cup with mead and pushed it into her hand as Torunn forced herself to smile.

  Seated next to him at the long wooden table, surrounded by his suppo
rters and watched closely by her brothers, there was no escape for her.

  “They are very generous,” she replied, keenly aware that her responses were being judged. The gifts were generous, and meant to show how wealthy the Jarl and his people were. Jewels, gold, and silver, finely worked cloak pins, weapons and finery taken from raiding. Furs to adorn the bed of the Jarl, and cloaks woven of the highest grade of wool she had ever felt. Beautiful things. But they were not gifts meant for a warrior. They were gifts for a possession—an ornament who would wear pretty dresses and drape herself in necklaces and bracelets and sit by the fire to tend her children.

  More importantly, they were not gifts for her.

  They were a sign of what was to come.

  Every mouthful of mead tasted bitter on her tongue, and every smile was forced. She hated every moment of this game, and hated her brothers for so gleefully inflicting such a fate upon her.

  “Put on the necklace, sister,” Asgaut urged. Torunn glared at him, but he only grinned in response. She looked down at the collection of jewelry that had been laid on in front of her. She did not wear necklaces, they were a nuisance when she was fighting. Something that could get tangled in her hair or could be used to choke her. Her father had never pushed her to wear such things, or asked why she would not. Her mother would not have forced her to wear them, either.

  “I am not dressed appropriately,” she said. “It would not do it justice.”

  “Ah, but your beauty will do such a small thing the greatest honor, sister,” Hallvard said loudly and Torunn’s cheeks warmed as she felt the eyes of the other men in the hall turn to her. “Do not be so modest!”

  She pressed her lips together and tapped her fingers on the table. She could not start an argument over a necklace. She chose a thick silver band that had been carved with great skill and fastened it around her neck. It fell heavily against her collarbones and she flinched slightly at the weight of it and the chill of the metal against her skin.

  “You see,” Hallvard declared. “Beauty only amplifies beauty. You should wear such things more often, sister.”

  Torunn could not look at him; if she did, there was a chance that everyone at the table would see how much she hated him. She smiled briefly and reached up to pull the necklace away from her throat, but as her fingers touched the carved metal a shout echoed from the back of the hall.

  Asgaut laughed sharply, but the sound did not match the other noise in the great hall as more cries of surprise and anger echoed through the space. Torunn turned to see what was happening, and saw a ripple in the crowd as men rose from their seats and knocked their stools to the floor.

  “Bastard! May Odin send you to the depths of the serpent’s gullet!”

  “You dare speak to me of serpents,” another man cried. “When you are not fit to walk among men such as us. Crawl along the ground with your brethren!”

  “What is the meaning of this?” Hallvard’s voice was meant to be commanding, but her brother was well on his way to drunk, and the noise in the hall drowned out his words. The men were not listening to him, they were focused on the fight.

  Torunn’s eyes scanned the crowd of warriors as it rippled and moved toward the fight. Men and women clamored for a better view, cheering on their favorite. Iri shifted nervously on his feet near her brother’s chair, and she could not see Bersi anywhere. He had escorted her to the great hall earlier in the evening, but had disappeared soon after. At the time she had not cared, but now—

  Damn him.

  “It is a fortunate thing that weapons are not permitted in the hall,” Hallvard said dryly and Jarl Sigurd laughed in response. Torunn gritted her teeth. That man was always laughing at something. She did not trust it. She did not trust any of them. The Jarl was always watching—and she could not understand why her brothers were not suspicious of him, too.

  “It is a natural thing,” the Jarl said as he held out his cup for more mead. “When warriors come together under one roof there are bound to be disagreements! Let them fight it out. They will be shaking hands and laughing about the women they have bedded soon enough!”

  But Torunn was not so sure.

  The shouts were growing angrier and louder, and the warriors cheering them on had begun to jostle amongst themselves. She remembered suddenly that there were weapons hidden all over the hall.

  Behind the banners.

  Beneath the straw under their feet.

  She rose slowly, all intentions of removing the necklace forgotten.

  “Torunn, sit down! The Jarl was speaking to you,” Hallvard complained, but Torunn ignored him.

  The men who were fighting were red-faced and angry and they circled each other like wolves, coiled and ready to strike.

  “You should send someone to break up the fight,” she said without taking her eyes off them.

  “You heard Jarl Sigurd,” Hallvard said in a bored tone. “The men must work out their own differences. It is natural for such things to happen when alliances are made. Come. Sit. Drink. Tell the Jarl about—”

  “No!”

  Torunn’s shout came too late as the men lunged at each other. The taller man, one of Jarl Sugurd’s men, struck the first blow. His fist crashed into his opponent’s jaw and sent him staggering back as the gathered warriors cheered and drank. Tyr. She recognized him; another man who had been loyal to her father and served on many raids. He was a vicious warrior who used his axes to deadly effect upon the battlefield.

  His nose was bloodied, but his eyes burned with murderous hatred.

  A wide scar marred the face of Jarl Sigurd’s man and dragged his features strangely to the side as he smiled at Tyr. A demon from Jotunheim if she had ever seen one.

  Tyr recovered his feet and lunged forward. His movement caught the taller man off guard and Tyr was able to smash his own fist against the man’s scarred cheekbone. He stumbled back and Tyr pressed his advantage.

  Jarl Sigurd belched and took a bite of the lamb leg he held in his large hand. “My man will have this well in hand, Jarl Hallvard,” he said between mouthfuls. “He has never been defeated in brawls like this. Let it go.”

  Torunn looked desperately at her brother, but he had already raised his cup to the Jarl, content to ignore what was happening.

  She spun around to watch the fight once more, and cried out as she saw the glint of metal in Tyr’s hand.

  “No! Tyr!”

  Her shout came too late. Tyr’s fist smashed into the other man’s throat and he bent double gasping for breath. Before he could recover, Tyr’s other hand flashed in like lightning and there was a strangled shout as he reeled back.

  The hall was silent for just a moment and Asgaut’s laughter punctuated the stillness as the warriors in the hall held their breath.

  Jarl Sigurd’s chair scraped back over the uneven floorboards as he tossed the joint of meat to the floor and stood.

  Her eyes widened as she stared at the men. “What have you done,” she whispered.

  Chapter 8 ~ Torunn

  Tyr staggered back against the men who had gathered, but his eyes were on his opponent who straightened slowly. His scarred face was drawn in lines of confusion as he reached for his throat, and then the blood came. Dark gouts of it that stained his tunic and spattered the straw at his feet.

  “No!” Torunn pushed through the crowd, desperate to escape the hall, but warriors blocked her path and pushed back against her as the hall erupted in shouts and roars of anger.

  A hand closed over her elbow and Torunn struck out blindly. She heard a grunt as her blow connected with something hard, but the grip on her arm did not relax. “Let go!”

  “You must leave here,” a voice growled in her ear. “It is not—”

  Varin.

  She turned to see the old warrior’s familiar face. His eyes were hard and cold, and his face was an angry mask. “Leave this place,” he growled again. “You are not safe here.”

  The men and women around her jostled and shouted and she heard mor
e fights breaking out even as the two Jarls shouted for their warriors to stop.

  Varin pushed her toward the exit as Iri darted toward her.

  “I will take her,” he said.

  Varin did not look convinced that Iri could keep her safe, but Torunn did not care. Was this what her brothers had been planning? This chaos? Surely not. Asgaut’s eyes were wide with fear, but Hallvard’s expression was almost eager as he shouted for his guards.

  “Go!” Varin urged.

  Iri took hold of Torunn’s arm and pulled her through the crowd. She ducked an elbow just before it struck her, but she stumbled and fell to her knees. Iri’s grip on her arm broke as she fell and a boot crashed into her ribs, driving the air from her lungs. She gasped for breath as she struggled to regain her feet, but she was knocked off balance once more as a knee slammed against her shoulder.

  Sprawled in the hay, Torunn reached desperately for something to hold on to. Her lungs burned, her knees throbbed, and she could taste blood in her mouth.

  A hard hand gripped her wrist and hauled her to her feet even as she struggled and she felt herself pulled through the crowd. The hall was a blur of unarmed combat, and she was dimly aware of the weapons that were hidden only a few feet away… if it had been what Hallvard had been planning. But it could not be—

  The night air, chilled and fresh hit Torunn’s face and she almost cried out with relief. She tripped over the threshold and crashed against something solid. Familiar.

  Bersi.

  “Take her, I will meet you there.”

  She heard Iri’s voice dimly in the dark and a murmured reply.

  Torunn tried to focus, but her body screamed with pain and throbbed with adrenaline. She wanted to go back and fight, damn the danger, damn them all. “No! I have to—”

  Iri’s face was hard as he glared at her. “Now!”

  Bersi’s hand tightened on her wrist and he pulled her away from the hall and into Skaro’s quiet streets.