Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Craning her neck, Zora felt as if she faced a giant. She had seen these massive Norsemen before in Tmutorokan’s marketplaces, and her father himself was a tall man, descended from fierce Swedish warriors who had settled in Rus two centuries ago. But now she was alone with the large Varangian, with only a knife to protect her.

  “Stand back,” she warned shakily. “I am Zora, princess of the Tmutorokan Rus and taken captive against my will—”

  “And I’m the king of Denmark,” he mocked her, drawing closer. “Sheathe your talons, pretty bird, and come back to the camp with Halfdan Snakeeye.” His arm, strangely tattooed with serpents devouring each other, suddenly shot out as he lunged for her.

  “No!” she screamed, swiping at him with the knife. As the blade sliced into his flesh, his harsh laughter filled the woods. He easily knocked the knife from her hand, and catching a fistful of tangled hair, he yanked her hard against his massive chest. Crying out from the stinging pain, Zora thought her scalp would be ripped from her skull.

  “I said come to Halfdan. I want to find your master and strike a deal.”

  Zora fought him with all her strength as he lifted her in his arms, but he only laughed harder, enjoying her struggles. Nor did it seem to make any difference to him that blood trickled from his wound. When they stepped from the trees, a curious crowd began to gather and Halfdan smiled broadly, enjoying the attention.

  “Look what I found while I was pissing in the woods! A golden bird, a daughter of Freyja, goddess of desire and beauty! From whose nest has she escaped? I wish to speak with that man!”

  Zora twisted wildly in his grasp, but the giant’s muscled arms were like bands of steel and thick as small tree trunks. Torn by cold fear and outrage, she demanded, “Let go of me, you vile, disgusting—” A beefy hand clapped over her mouth abruptly silenced her, and she was jerked even harder against his chest, pinned so tightly she couldn’t move. Her stomach roiled from the Varangian’s acrid stench of sweat and filth.

  “Who owns this woman?” Halfdan bellowed, now almost to the center of camp.

  “I do! Release her at once!” came an indignant reply. Gleb rushed forward with his stout guard. “She is not for sale!”

  “Not for sale?” the Varangian trader echoed incredulously.

  “I’m saving her for a better market…Constantinople,” added Gleb, his gravelly voice raised in anger. He halted right in front of the Norseman, who loomed over him, then he shot a dark glance at his wide-eyed companion. “My man here was watching her, but she managed to escape. Release her, I tell you—”

  “My silver grivna are as good as any Greek’s!” With one swift movement Halfdan yanked a gleaming broadaxe from his belt and lifted Gleb’s pointed chin with the well-honed blade. “Will you stop me from sampling her now, little man? Maybe she will displease me and then you can have her back! If not, I will buy her. Those are the rules of the trade!”

  Answered by stunned silence, Halfdan snorted in triumph and shoved the ashen-faced Gleb aside, then strode to a nearby tent. As he stormed inside the stuffy lamplit interior, Zora was assailed at once by the overpowering smell of sex, cloying and primal. She gaped in horror at the sight before her.

  Everywhere she looked naked slave women were being bedded by potential buyers, upon the floor, on crude benches, against the tent walls, a wild, sweaty tangle of rutting bodies. But she heard no cries of protest, some women laughing throatily, some moaning in pleasure, others mutely bearing what must be a slave’s lot…dear God, and this barbarian thought she was a slave!

  Suddenly realizing the Varangian’s lustful intentions, Zora sank her teeth into his callused palm and his hand fell from her mouth. “No! You can’t do this!” she shouted hoarsely, her throat constricted with fear.

  “Silence, woman!” Halfdan threw her down upon the nearest vacant bench and held her there, despite her wild flailing, with one massive hand pressed between her breasts. Wrenching at his breeches, he released his huge, swollen member and Zora froze, her eyes widening in terrified disbelief. “Frey the Fruitful has blessed me well with the means to please you,” he said, coarsely fondling himself. “Now spread your plumage and enjoy the god’s bounty.” With a harsh laugh, he ripped her tunic from collar to hem, exposing her trembling body to his gaze.

  “Stop…no, oh, no!” Zora cried as he straddled the bench and lowered his bulk down upon her. In wild desperation she brought her knee up sharply, catching him in the groin. As the Varangian doubled over, sucking in his breath and cursing, she wrenched herself from beneath him and fell hard to the dirt floor. An instant later she was scrambling on hands and knees toward the entrance. As she clambered to her feet and dashed outside, Halfdan’s bellows of rage resounded from the tent.

  “Help me!” she screamed, seized by hysteria. She took refuge behind several traders only to have them dart away in fear as the Norseman burst through the tent flaps, brandishing his broadaxe. Spying Gleb, she ran to him but he, too, backed away, the sight of three hundred pounds of enraged Varangian stifling any protest he might have offered.

  Clutching her torn tunic against her body, Zora spun in terror. Halfdan looked like a vengeful behemoth as he slowed his mad dash to a relentless stalking, his pale eyes gleaming almost silver in the torchlight illuminating the camp.

  “You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have you…here, now, in the dirt in front of everyone. And when I make you scream with pleasure, you will wish you had surrendered sooner to Halfdan Snakeeye.”

  “Mother of Christ, protect me!” she begged in a daze, shock enveloping her like cold, creeping fingers. Stumbling backward, she turned and fled toward another tent, her eyes nearly blinded by tears. She didn’t see the tall, broad-shouldered man stepping outside until it was too late and she ran headlong into him, jolting the breath from her body. She would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her, his grip strong and sure.

  “Help me! Please help me!” she pleaded almost incoherently, swiping her hair from her eyes. “A reward…I promise you a reward! You must help…” Her entreaty died in her throat as she stared up into the bearded face of another Varangian trader, a gaze of intense blue meeting hers. “Oh, God…no!”

  Pushing away from him in horror, she staggered back the other way, everything around her becoming a swirling blur. As Halfdan bore down upon her, his triumphant laughter ringing in her ears, she heard her own voice as if from inside a deep well, crying, “You can’t do this to me! I am—”

  “Silence, bitch!” Halfdan’s sudden openhanded blow to her cheek sent her reeling into a pile of stacked goods, jagged flashes of light bursting before her eyes. Without a whimper, she crumpled amid overturned casks and crates, escaping into sweet blackness.

  Chapter 3

  “So what will it be, man? Do you want the wench or not? I’ve two other traders waiting to try her if you’re not in the mind to buy.”

  Rurik did not waste a glance upon the fat Bulgarian merchant or the nude slave being thrust toward him, a voluptuous, almond-eyed beauty who had eagerly opened her legs for his pleasure moments before the commotion that had drawn him outside the tent. His gaze was riveted upon the young woman lying on the ground like a limp cloth doll only twenty feet away, and the Varangian trader who stood above her.

  “Didn’t you hear me, friend? Time is money and you’re wasting mine. Now what’s your answer?”

  Again ignoring the merchant, Rurik tensed as the huge Norseman bent down and grabbed one of the woman’s delicate ankles, clearly intent upon dragging his quarry from the debris scattered around her.

  He had witnessed many abuses at trading camps, but never anything that had so turned his stomach as seeing that fur-clad oaf striking down a woman who appeared almost a child to his massive bulk. A woman with the most incredible blue-green eyes Rurik had ever seen, and a face and form rivaling Freyja herself. A woman who had begged for his help, mumbling frantically of a reward, only to recoil from him in terror. A woman whose refined accent marked her as no common, il
literate slave. Yet he knew the wisest thing for his guise and secretive mission was not to become involved, however strong the temptation, and by Odin, he already had enough women at home.

  “Well?”

  Rurik turned at the insistent tug on his arm and fixed a dark glare upon the presumptuous merchant. The man withdrew his pudgy hand as if stung and stepped backward in surprise, his eyes round with fear.

  “You risk much to impose yourself so upon a stranger,” Rurik said in a low warning. “Take your slave and be gone.”

  “V-very well.” The affronted merchant grabbed his crestfallen chattel’s forearm and pushed her back into the tent. “Just the same, you’re passing up quite a bargain,” he added as the flap fell behind them.

  A female slave was the last thing he needed on this journey, Rurik told himself again, watching grimly as the Varangian dragged the fine-boned woman back to the center of camp, her torn tunic trailing behind her and her exquisite body bared to the gathered crowd’s gaze.

  He and his three men had stopped to trade furs for supplies for their trip downriver to Chernigov, nothing more. Sampling slave women was part of their ruse as merchants, a pleasurable one to be sure, but indulged in only to satisfy lust, not with any intention to buy. So there was no logical purpose in challenging the Varangian for his golden-limbed captive.

  “Rouse yourself, woman! Feigning a swoon won’t save you!”

  Rurik felt disgust tighten his throat as the Norseman roughly shook the young woman’s prone body. The dullard hadn’t even noticed that his vicious blow had rendered her senseless.

  When he received no response, the trader spread her legs wide with his foot and went down on his knees between them, dropping his broadaxe near her head. He stroked her upturned breasts with huge, thick-fingered hands, then, grinning, cupped the golden mound at the apex of her thighs and squeezed.

  “I said I’d take you in the dirt, pretty bird, and I meant it. When you feel Halfdan’s Frey-wand deep inside you, you’ll wake soon enough and cry out for more.”

  “By Thor’s hammer, enough! What kind of dog are you to rut on the ground with a woman who lies as if dead?”

  All eyes turned to Rurik in astonishment. A charged hush filled the air. The Varangian trader did not rise, but his grin tightened perceptibly as he appraised Rurik.

  “You addressed me, stranger?”

  Rurik nodded, his hand moving to the bright silver hilt of his sword. Although acting upon impulse was foreign to him, he felt strangely glad.

  “Get up. You heard the wench before you struck her down. She doesn’t want your attentions.”

  “This slave’s wishes are none of my concern, nor are they yours, if you value your neck—”

  “But they are mine!” A well-dressed Slav merchant pushed his way to the front of the silent onlookers, though he and the stout fellow who stood at his elbow remained a good distance from the kneeling Varangian. “That woman belongs to me and she is not for sale until we reach the markets of Constantinople.” He eyed Rurik shrewdly, then his gaze shifted back to Halfdan. “I offer ten gold grivna…no, twenty, to any man who will wrest her from this barbarian, Halfdan Snakeeye. He refuses to release her to me of his free will.”

  As the Varangian trader cursed and rose to his feet, speculative conversation surged among the crowd but no other man stepped forward. Surprised that a merchant would pay gold for a slave’s behalf, even one as fine as this lithe, tawny-haired beauty, Rurik’s curiosity flared hotter. The man would hardly recoup such a sum once they reached Byzantium’s capital; the most sought-after slaves sold for much less, and usually in silver. This one woman was obviously valuable to him. Strange.

  “My lord Rurik, surely you do not plan to fight this trader!” whispered the urgent voice of one of his men.

  Leif Einarson’s ruddy face was flushed an even brighter shade of red, his light blue eyes wary. “The woman is beautiful but just look at her captor, my lord! Almost a head taller even than you and as big as an ox, no doubt with the strength to match.”

  “The wits of an ox as well, Leif. The man is ruled by lust instead of brains.”

  “True, but big, dumb, and well armed could prove a dangerous combination, and we have much at stake—”

  “Is it two of you who conspire against me now?” Halfdan blustered. He swung his broadaxe menacingly in front of him. “Come on, you dung-sniffers, and let’s have done with it. When I’ve cut out your beating hearts” —he glanced fiercely at Gleb— “next there’ll be a merchant’s blood staining my blade.”

  “Go back to the ship, Leif.” Rurik’s voice was grim as he kept his gaze trained on the Varangian. “If I don’t return shortly, you, Arne, and Kjell sail without me.”

  No protest came. Rurik hadn’t expected one, for as their sworn lord, the right of command belonged to him. Yet he could sense that the seasoned warrior wished to remain by his side, ready to fight to the death for him if necessary.

  “As you say, my lord.” Scowling at the huge trader, Leif stalked away.

  “I accept your offer of twenty grivna,” Rurik announced, noticing the merchant’s look of relief. His instincts told him that the man had something more important at stake than simply regaining possession of a female slave, and he intended to find out what it was, if Odin the all-powerful deemed him the victor. Let the wily slaver think Rurik was fighting for gold. In truth, he wanted to know more about the woman, yet that was impossible until this belligerent Varangian was brought down.

  “So your copper-haired friend is afraid to fight Halfdan,” the Norseman jeered, his extreme height enabling him to see above the crowd. “Look how he hastens toward the river with his tail dragging between his legs.”

  “Hardly afraid.” Rurik stepped forward as he pulled his sword from the leather scabbard hanging from his belt. His lips curved into a taunting smile. “Why use two men where only one is required?”

  His insult was met with a violent oath from his opponent, who suddenly rushed at him, moving amazingly swift for one so large. Halfdan wielded his heavy, long-handled broadaxe with both hands. Possessing no defensive shield, Rurik barely had time to raise his sword before Halfdan’s flaring blade, a full twelve inches across, came crashing down toward his chest.

  Steel sang out against steel, Rurik’s sword deflecting the death blow as he dodged to the left and whirled, aiming a low, swinging stroke at the Varangian’s legs in hopes of severing a limb. But Halfdan must have anticipated the tactic for he leapt aside, the tapered end of Rurik’s blade barely scraping his knee.

  As they circled each other, the clamoring crowd began to press closer, sputtering torches held high to illuminate the deadly contest. Fearing that the woman might be trampled, Rurik shot a glance in her direction to see that the merchant and his stocky companion were dragging her from harm’s way. Halfdan must have noticed, too, for he shouted, “You cannot hide her from me, you stinking Slav! The moment I find her will bring your death!”

  Rurik took advantage of the Varangian trader’s fleeting inattention. With a bloodcurdling cry, he grasped his sword with both hands and swung the gleaming blade in a heavy blow across his opponent’s stomach. To his surprise, a loud thwack met his assault and not the sensation of polished steel slicing into flesh. Cursing, Rurik leapt backward just in time to elude a retaliatory strike, now aware that the Norseman wore a padded jerkin beneath his fur clothing.

  “Reindeer hide and bone plaques,” Halfdan rasped through clenched teeth, the ferocity of Rurik’s blow nevertheless having doubled him over. “As good as any rich man’s mail-coat.” Glaring at Rurik, he drew himself to his full height. “It appears you and I are well matched, stranger. I would swear a hardened warrior hides beneath that merchant’s garb. Pity you are soon to be a corpse.”

  The Varangian had hit perilously close to the mark, but Rurik had no time for concern over possible spies in the crowd. Halfdan charged at him, roaring in rage and swinging his broadaxe.

  Ducking a blow aimed at his head t
hat could have split his skull like an eggshell, Rurik twisted to get clear, but the Varangian’s raised knee caught him under the chin. Smashed backward, his sword knocked from his hand, Rurik sprawled in the dirt, stunned. In the next instant Halfdan landed on top of him and pinned him, his broadaxe hovering directly over Rurik’s heart.

  “Pray to Christ or Odin, stranger, but pray quickly for now you die—”

  The Varangian’s words were cut off by the zinging flash of a sword, his blond head severed from his body and sent flying into the crowd. As warm blood rained down upon Rurik, the broadaxe falling harmlessly from a lifeless hand to the ground, Halfdan’s twitching body was kicked unceremoniously to one side and Rurik hauled to his feet. Still slightly dazed, he stared into Arne Flat-Nose’s grinning face. Rurik was never more glad in his life to see the grizzled bear of a warrior.

  “Must I forever rescue you from scraps, my lord? It’s a good thing your father granted me the right to disobey your orders if necessary, and aye, this occasion was surely one of them.”

  “Forever rescuing me?” Rurik wiped the blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve. “A fine exaggeration. In all the years I’ve known you, Arne, I could count on two fingers—”

  “Three now, my lord, and well timed, wouldn’t you say?”

  At the glint of seriousness in Arne’s eyes, Rurik could only nod, all semblance of joking put aside.

  “You have my thanks, friend.”

  “That is all well and good” —Arne glanced pointedly at the curious onlookers and lowered his voice— “but the best thanks would be to walk with me to our boat and forsake any idea of rescuing some slave wench in distress. I’d say we’ve drawn more than ample attention to ourselves for one day. It’s time we sailed.”

  “Not yet.” Rurik’s senses were now back in sharp focus. Ignoring Arne’s look of disapproval, he picked up his sword and then scanned the surrounding faces for the Slav merchant, but the man had vanished. The cunning bastard! Doubtless he had no intention to pay the sum promised, not that Rurik cared for the gold. The merchant had probably used the fight as a screen to spirit away the woman.