The Viking's Wedding

by Jessica Knight

  “We do not have enough men.”

  “We must find them, Grim. We have to find them. I won’t leave the kingdom’s land until the Jackal threat is taken care of. I shall not put Thyra in harm’s way again.”

  “Aye, brother. I understand.” His hand drops under the table, and Sassa gives him a small smile. His hand must be on her belly. My soul aches for that. All I can do is hope that Thyra is pregnant. In the meantime, we shall have to keep trying.

  I love to try.

  “Spread the word; we need warriors. Anyone who wants to be a Viking, after proving themselves worthy of trust, may become Viking.”

  I take a step forward, not agreeing with this at all. This is not what I meant when I said we needed to do something.

  “Grim, this is not a good idea. As your Warlord, I cannot recommend this. People from all over will come. How do we know they won’t be working with the Jackals? I beg of you to think this through. We cannot let enemies into our lands.”

  “The enemy is already here, brother. And as your Lord, I am asking you to do this.”

  “But the oath is…” I swallow the emotion and a little bitterness in my throat. No one else is supposed to do the blood oath. No one is ever supposed to have it. And to just give it out willingly? It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  Betrayal.

  “Aye, brother. I would never do the blood oath with anyone else. I’d dub them a Viking. I’ll never share my blood with anyone else again.”

  A loud exhale makes Grim chuckle. That’s when I realize the exhale came from me.

  “You’d be a fool to think I’d ever betray you like that, brother. The oath is sacred.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good, then go on. Go gather up some warriors and train them. And Einarr?”

  I lift my head with the question.

  He tosses me something small. I lift my hand in the air and catch it. When I bring it down and open my palm, I see an iron bead. The symbol in it means loyalty. I’ve got my second bead. My goddess.

  “You deserve it. I’m proud of you,” Grim nods.

  I grunt and turn away. I do not want him to see me get emotional. I clip the bead into the braid of my beard and stomp door to door, slamming them open with a solid kick. I almost run into Abram, and the biggest smile crosses his face. How can a boy at such a young age not be more affected about what happened to him? The scar on his throat has gotten better, but it will always be a reason people look at him. It will never change.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to ask Grim if I can start trying again.”

  I walk by him, my hands on the belt of my sword. “No.”

  “What? Why not, Einarr? I’m better now. I can’t lay around all the time. I’ve lost even more muscle. I have a lot of work to do. Leiva cleared me.”

  “I have not cleared you, as your Warlord.”

  “Come on, Einarr. You can’t do that. That’s not fair. I’m ready.”

  “You are not ready. You are still healing. There is no way I am allowing it.”

  “It isn’t up to you!”

  Ah, defiance. I know it well.

  I spin around on my heel and lean down to get face to face with him. “It is up to me. And I say no. You aren’t training, and that is the end of it. If it were up to me, you’d never be seen with a sword again.”

  “You can’t keep me from something based on your own fear. It will end up with me resenting you.”

  “Then resent me. I’m only doing it to protect you.”

  He stomps past me and slams against my shoulder. I scoff, leaving the boy alone to work out his feelings.

  “The only person you are protecting is yourself,” he screams at me. “I’m telling Thyra!”

  The brat. Why does he always have to bring my wife into it? “Go ahead, tell her. She’ll agree with me!” I yell after him.

  She will not agree with me, though. I’m going to be in for it tonight. I stretch my back. It already hurts from having to sleep on the floor tonight. The familiar pinch in my spine screams. I should have just agreed to train him. My life, in every aspect, would have been easier, and then my back wouldn’t already be hurting.

  I refuse to meet a few judging eyes that I feel burning into my back and concentrate on Wulf and Trident sparring. When I get closer, they hear my footsteps and swing their swords one more time before stopping. My eyes catch the glint reflecting off the metal, blinding me for a second. I lift my hand to block the harsh light.

  “You should let the boy train, Einarr. You aren’t protecting him. You’re hurting him.”

  “Wulf, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t have children.”

  “I do not need children to know that you are fucking up, Warlord,” he says my title with a little more attitude than I like.

  “Watch your tongue, warrior. Don’t forget who is in charge.”

  “Put your ego down, Einarr. We aren’t here as warriors. We are here as friends. And we are telling you, by keeping him away from this, you are hurting him more than you think,” Trident’s blade connects with mine, lowering it to the ground. I do not remember unsheathing it.

  “I need to protect him. He isn’t ready for this kind of training. The skin around his throat is still delicate. He needs time.”

  “Or is it you that needs time?” Wulf asks. He sits on a tree stump, taking his blade and cutting into an apple. He pops it into his mouth. If he isn’t careful, he will cut out his own tongue.

  “I do not know what you’re talking about.” I look away, a bit ashamed and too proud to admit that he is right. I do not want Abram anywhere near swords or any weapon of the sort. He needs to stay safe. In order to do that, he shall become a blacksmith. He will forge them for warriors, but he will not become one. I shall never allow it. Ever.

  “Sure. I bet you don’t.” Trident sticks his blade in the ground and leans against it, using it as a walking stick.

  “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

  Trident clicks his tongue, “It isn’t meant for you to appreciate.”

  “Einarr Felix Hohlt!”

  I cringe when I hear Thyra’s voice shrieking through the air. She is pissed. Just as I thought she would be.

  “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “Help me out here, fellows.” I am not a man that pleads, but any help to take on an angry wife, I’ll take.

  “Apologies, Warlord. You are on your own with this one. You asked for it, now lay in the bed you made,” Wulf cuts another slice of the apple, the juice dripping off the sword onto the lush grass.

  “Arsehole.”

  “Aye,” Wulf says with pride and shoves the slice of fruit in his mouth.

  Since my men are no help, I steel my spine and stand straight, crossing my arms over my chest. Thyra marches down the field with a wooden spoon in her hand, the other grasping the side of her dress. Even angrier than a hellion, she’s the most beautiful little demon I’ve ever seen.

  I chuckle at my own joke. Little demon, with the fiery red hair and angry expression, it fits.

  And what is even better is she has Abigale on the other side of her. The girl is marching right alongside Thyra, holding another wooden spoon. It’s adorable. I should not be so spellbound by it. My boots should be shaking from the angry expression on Thyra’s face, but it turns me on.

  Abram is behind them wearing, a smug look on his face.

  “Ha. Felix. Never would have thought that was your middle name. It doesn’t suit you,” Trident picks up an apple from the ground and tosses it in the air.

  I don’t have time to say anything before Thyra slaps my arm with the spoon. Hard.

  “Ow! What was that for?” I rub the stinging skin on the side of my arm.

  “That? That’s for upsetting Abram and keeping him away from what he loves.”

  “We’ve had this talk,” I lower my voice and step closer to her. Her sweet scent carries in the wind and invades my lungs. I really don’t like it when
she’s upset with me.

  She slaps my arm again, and I reach out to grab that damn spoon from her hold. “Damn it, woman. Give me the spoon.”

  “No!” Abigale shouts and slaps my shin with hers.

  “Shite, that hurt,” I rub the ache in my leg. The little devil. If she weren’t so stinking cute with her messy hair, trying to copy everything her mother does, I’d take the spoon from her.

  “You owe Abram an apology. And you will start training him.”

  “Thyra—”

  “I said you will start training him, or so help me Einarr, you shall sleep on the floor for the next month.” She waves the wooden spoon in the air again, and I give.

  “Fine. Fine, but I’m not starting him with a sword. He must get into shape first.”

  Wulf and Trident chuckle to the left of me because I always give in to what Thyra wants.

  Thyra lowers the spoon and nods. “Gentlemen.”

  “Lady Thyra,” Wulf and Trident say in unison, the humor in their voice unmistakable.

  “I’ll see you at home then.” Thyra leans forward and kisses my cheek.

  “Bye, daddy,” Abigale squeaks and hugs my leg.

  My heart soars every time she says it. She started calling me that a few days ago. It makes me feel like a new man every time.

  “Bye, sweetheart. I love you both.” Even if they are a little mad in the head. Carrying wooden spoons, the little shites. If I’m not careful, Abigale will turn out to be just as fierce as her mother.

  Then I’ll really be in for it.

  “Abram, you stay.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Thyra spins around, sashaying back to the cabin. My eyes lock onto her hips as I watch her walk away.

  “Stop looking at her like that. It’s weird,” Abram says, sitting down next to Wulf.

  “Just wait until you meet the lucky lady that makes you see her like that,” Trident nudges Abram’s shoulder.

  Abram blushes.

  “Oh, maybe he has already met her!” Wulf hoots.

  “Shut up. Have not,” Abram grumbles.

  “Since you tattled on me to Thyra, you will do two hundred push-ups.”

  “Two hundred? That will take me all day!” he stands on his feet, shouting at me.

  I make myself comfortable on a tree stump while he gets into position on the ground. I lift my feet and place them on his back, crossing my ankles. Aye, this is comfortable.

  “Big bad Warlord can handle whips, chains, stabs, and blades, but he crumbles to a wooden spoon.”

  “Ah, you forget the subject holding the spoon,” Wulf reminds Trident of what really scares me.

  And aye, it isn’t the damn spoon.

  “Funny. Real funny. You are just full of it today.” My legs lift slowly as Abram struggles with the third push-up.

  “You make it easy, Warlord,” Wulf sighs, “You make it much too easy.”

  Abram collapses on the ground with a hard thud and gasps for breath. I want to reach out and ask him if he is alright, but I know that will only upset him. “How many is that?” I ask.

  “Twenty,” he struggles to steady his breath.

  “One-eighty to go.” The poor boy has a long way to go before he can hold a sword. A day I will never be ready for, but I suppose, if he is making himself get ready, I shall have to do the same. It will be hard, having to let him put himself in danger. My heart breaks just thinking about it. He has already gained one scar because of me, am I supposed to let him add to the collection if I can help it?

  A whisper in the breeze makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Did you hear that?”

  “—Hear what?”

  “—No.”

  “---Just the sound of the kid’s heavy breathing.”

  “Probably just all in my head.” I laugh it off, but I swear, I heard something. I probably just need to sleep and eat. My stomach growls from the thought. Aye, I need food. Maybe a ripe turkey leg—there it is again—“You don’t hear that?”

  I remove my legs from Abram’s back and stand. I survey the field, scanning it for any form, but I don’t see anything.

  “What is it?” Wulf asks.

  “You seriously don’t hear that?”

  “I don’t hear a thing, Warlord.” Trident stands next to me, staring off into the field as I do.

  “What do you think—”

  I hold up my hand to stop Wulf from speaking and whisper, “Not another word. I hear something. I feel it. I’m going with my instincts.”

  Wulf and Trident flank my sides and pull their swords out, readying themselves for an attack. I’m not sure if it is an attack, but something or someone is out there. My instincts never lead me astray. It is how I got to this position. It’s how I am the best warrior Grim has, and that is why he promoted me to Warlord.

  “Something is out there.”

  The breeze blows the whispers I am hearing over again. I can’t tell what it is. I can’t hear much but low murmuring. The lavender fields are huge, vast, and tall. When the wind blows, the sound of the steams dancing together cause a swish in the air, becoming one with the whispers I thought I heard.

  Now I can’t fucking tell the difference. Maybe I am losing my damn mind. “I thought I felt something,” I say again, my eyes zeroing in on every inch of the fields.

  Nothing.

  “I believe you,” Abram whispers. “I feel it too.”

  Wulf and Trident take a few steps forward, crouching low, blades out, slowly walking toward the lavender to investigate.

  “Stop,” I order. “There’s no need to go in there.”

  “But you sense something is out there,” Wulf says in a near growl, as if he is itching to go to battle. Aside from the battle at the castle, things have calmed down for us since we have moved into the kingdom. The warriors have no idea what to do with themselves.

  “It will come to us when ready.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Trident’s jaw drops. He walks over to me, bringing his face closer to ear so only I can hear him. “You cannot wait for the enemy to attack.”

  “That’s the thing, Trident.” I browse the field again, hoping to see something. “I’m not sure if it is an enemy.” The unbelievable thoughts are just ridiculous. I shake my head with a low chuckle and place my hand on my hips. “It’s fine. Abram, get back to your push-ups.”

  The metal of their blades slide back in their sheaths, grinding together. The lavender still sways. The breeze still blows. The sun is still hot. Nothing has changed, but something is about to. That I do feel.

  Abram gets back into the push-up position, cranking out the push-ups again since he had a good break. Everyone goes back to sitting down. And I start to wonder if I’m losing my mind.

  “Help me.”

  Everyone gets to their feet again, swords in hand.

  “Now that, I heard,” Wulf says.

  “I knew I wasn’t losing my mind.” I hate that I ever questioned myself.

  I scan the field again, still not seeing anything. I grip the handle of my sword tighter, frustrated, and angry that I can’t see who the fuck is asking for help. “Who is there? Show yourself,” I shout, ready to swing my sword.

  “Help me.”

  “I can’t help you. Where are you?” I spin around. The voice swirls around in all directions of me. The lavender stems part in front of us. My men and I assume our stance. My blade is ready to dip itself into the blood of our enemies again.

  An older woman stumbles from the field. Barefoot. Dirty clothes, torn. Dirt smudges her skin. Dark circles are under her eyes. Dull, red-graying hair is a mess with twigs and leaves. “Help,” her voice cracks as she teeters on her weak legs. She turns her head, and we hiss.

  Jackal.

  “Your kind are not welcome here. I shall kill you if you take a step closer.”

  She reaches for me as she falls to her knees. “Please, water. I mean, no harm,” the stranger struggles to croak between swallows.

  “Taken.
Many years.” The woman falls to her side; arm stretched for me still.

  “Shite,” I run to her, hesitant to touch an enemy, but she looks like she needs assistance. It may be a ploy, to distract us, and then that is when they will attack. I’m tempted to throw her in the dungeon. I try to pull away, but her hand clutches my ankle, tight with desperation.

  “Please.”

  When I glance down, her eyes shed tears, cleaning streaks down her filthy face. I cock my head. Something is familiar about her. Have I seen her before? Have we met? Her green eyes remind me of someone. I check the scar on her neck. It isn’t fresh. The skin has healed and faded to white, but it’s a Jackal’s symbol. I’ve seen one too many of them.

  It dawns on me who this Jackal is. “My goddess, you’re Thyra’s mother.”

  The woman starts to sob so hard her body shakes. “My baby.”

  “She is here. Your daughter. She’s my wife,” I whisper, hoping it will calm her.

  “Thyra?” she whispers with a smile, and then the woman passes out, unconscious.

  “Shite! Go, run. Tell Grim. Tell everyone. Get to Leiva. Tell her to prepare a bed.”

  Abram runs, but turns around and yells, “What do I say?”

  I pick the woman up in my arms, holding her close to make sure no other harm comes to her. “Tell them a woman claiming to be Thyra’s mother is here. And she’s a Jackal.”

  I stare down at the aged face. I can see the similarities. I don’t want to tell Thyra this because the pain that will overcome her is something I cannot protect her from. Why? Why after all this time, is she here?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Thyra

  “Thyra.”

  Einarr’s voice brings a smile to my face. “How has your day—”

  My smile falls when I see the worry in his eyes.

  “What happened? Is it Abigale? Abram? Did something go wrong?”

  “No, no. They are fine. It is nothing like that. I have news to share with you, and I’m not sure how you are going to take it.”

  This all sounds ominous. “Right, then.” The laundry basin of dry clothes is in my hand. I sit down in the rocking chair, smoothing my hands down my dress before I take a shirt linen and start folding. “What’s wrong?”