The Viking's Captive

by Lily Harlem

  Halvor worked as hard as he could, as did the men around him. They all had one goal in mind—to reach their homeland. They’d raided and conquered without sending a single soul to Valhalla. Halvor wanted to keep it that way.

  Night began to encroach. The already gray North Sea took on a deeper, more menacing shade, the curling white seahorse spray catching in the moonlight.

  “Bring in the sail,” the Jarl shouted.

  “What?” Gustav snapped. “The wind is easing, the sails are driving us forward now.”

  Halvor was also confused.

  What is the Jarl doing?

  The huge red and white sail was quickly secured to the mast. The captives huddled tighter, a few women were sobbing.

  Halvor felt bad for their current state—ripped from their families to work on farmsteads, they’d forever be the lowest class, thralls, as they were known. Bound to a life of duty to their new masters and subjected to harsh discipline if not obedient at all times. But equally, and what they didn’t know yet, was most slave owners were fair men, and the homeland was plentiful. They’d be well cared for if they worked hard and were loyal.

  “I’m going to take the one with the red hair,” Gustav said suddenly.

  “You are?” Halvor was surprised. Gustav already had two slaves working in his family’s longhouse; a male and a female who helped his elderly parents, his brother, and his wife and children.

  “Aye, she’s feisty.” He laughed, a gruff chuckle that jigged his shoulders. “And she called me a hairy heathen when I grabbed her.”

  “A hairy heathen.” Halvor pulled on his oar. “I think she’s clever rather than feisty.”

  “Close your mouth, before I smack you into yonder waves.”

  Halvor laughed. Though he didn’t feel joyous, he was weary, hungry too.

  “Forward bound.” The Jarl pointed at a strip of land ahead. “Heave. Heave.”

  “Fuck, we’re having another stop off,” Halvor said.

  Gustav spat over the side of the boat. “As if we can carry much more. We’re two bars down in the water as it is.”

  “Greed, that’s what it is. Fucking greed.” Halvor shook his head. He didn’t feel like rowing to the distant island, but he had no choice. As a Viking warrior, he was duty bound to follow orders.

  The sooner I’m back on my own land the better. Master of everything I survey once more, each and every day.

  On and on, Halvor rowed, along with the rest of the crew. As he’d toiled on the sea these last weeks, Halvor had decided to give up his warrior shield and sword and work his land. It was good fertile soil, and he had livestock, currently being cared for by a neighbor.

  By the time they’d navigated past several evil-looking rocks and drew up on a narrow strip of beach, the night sky had become a blanket of black velvet.

  The base of the boat dragged on the sand. Halvor leaped out, along with Gustav and several other men, the water splashing up to his groin, and pulled on the boat.

  “Hurry,” the Jarl said, still standing by the mast. “We may have been seen.”

  “I doubt it,” Gustav said over the sound of the crashing waves. “This place is as dead as Odin’s eyes.”

  “I saw a light, to the west,” one of the other men said, nodding at the tumble-down cliffs. “Might be a village.”

  “Pull!” the Jarl shouted.

  Halvor put more energy into heaving the boat up the sand. With the raided supplies on board, as well as the slaves, it took every ounce of effort from him and the other strong men.

  The Jarl jumped to the sand, holding up a flame. Shadows danced on his rugged, weatherworn face. His big nose was hooked, and his beard twisted into a thin roped plait that hung from his chin. “We will return home victors,” he said in Norse. Narrowing his eyes, he looked around the group of twelve Vikings. “And also wealthy men. We have taken from the peasants and heathens who labor on these shores. And it is rightfully ours, for we are the masters of the seas, we are the people who are brave enough to traverse the land and the water. The gods reward us for this by making us strong enough to take what we want.”

  Halvor stepped from the waves and placed his hands on his hips. He was breathing hard.

  “Now get your weapons, fill your hearts with courage, for we are going on one last raid.”

  “And where will we put it?” Gustav asked loudly.

  The Jarl stepped up to him, irritation flashing in his eyes. “We will put it on our boat, with our other gains.”

  “She’s low in the water,” Halvor said, standing shoulder to shoulder with Gustav. “We can’t take much more and be certain to make it home.”

  The Jarl spun on him. “Are you questioning me?”

  Halvor knew damn well he should apologize, step away. But the Jarl’s unquenchable desire to keep on pillaging was becoming exhausting. “Aye, I am.”

  “Halvor Stein of Gorstein, do you want to visit Valhalla on this night?” The Jarl placed his hand on the handle of his sword and squared his fur-draped shoulders.

  “I will visit Valhalla when the runestones have decided it’s my time.” Halvor tipped his chin, and mimicked the Jarl’s actions by gripping his own sword, which hung sheathed from his belt. “And I will go gladly.” Halvor’s temper was flaring. He could feel it; heat beneath his cold skin, a tightening in his chest, and a narrowing of his peripheral vision.

  Gustav shook his head at Halvor.

  “You!” the Jarl said, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Will obey me, your Viking captain, and seek out the worth in the village yonder and bring it to me.”

  “I have enough goods on the longboat to claim as mine when we land.” Halvor paused. Should he go on? Aye… “Grain, fur, hides, ale to name but a few.”

  “To claim them you will need to get through me. I am master of all that sits on that longboat.”

  Halvor knew this was true. He also knew the Jarl would continue to terrorize these lands long after he, Halvor, hung up his weapons and sought a quieter life. His fingers tightened on his sword, he pulled it, just a fraction, from its sheath.

  The Jarl did the same, an angry grimace spread on his face.

  I should kill him, now. Stop his marauding and pillaging.

  “Halvor, my friend.” Gustav spoke in Anglo-Saxon dialect, knowing the Jarl understood not a word. “This is not the time or place. We are nearly home, a few more days and you’ll have this behind you. Do not risk punishment or retribution.”

  Halvor swallowed. A bitter taste had filled his mouth. It was a mixture of anger and resentment. Being told what to do was not something he could continue with.

  “One more time,” Gustav said almost cajolingly.

  “What’s he saying?” the Jarl asked in Norse. “Tell me.”

  “I am telling him to respect you,” Gustav said, slamming on his silver helmet and his nose protector sliding over his face. “For you are a fine captain with a fine ship.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” The Jarl nodded.

  “We should go,” Gustav said, stepping away and reaching for another torch. “Before we lose the element of surprise.” With his gaze set firmly on Halvor he jerked his head toward the beach.

  Now Halvor was irritated by Gustav as well as being angry at the Jarl. But there was little he could do about it. Staying back and watching over the slaves on the boat wasn’t an option. That was a weak job and he was arguably the strongest, bravest, and most skilled fighter on the longship.

  “Yes, go, and be fruitful,” the Jarl said, pulling his sword but making no move to leave his ship.

  So he’s staying put.

  Halvor threw him a glare, knowing he could do nothing about it. Then grabbed his horned helmet, turned and ran over the sand with the other Vikings, toward what appeared to be a cut through in the cliffs.

  His legs were stiff; he’d have liked some food in his belly. But that would have to wait.

  Under the shelter of night, they made their way over the rocky terrain until it
turned into grazed land speckled with fruit bushes and ancient trees. A goat bleated as they ran past it, and an owl hooted from a nearby copse.

  Halvor was breathing heavily. His furs and leather tunic weighing him down as his body heated. Add in the heft of his iron sword and shield and he was feeling the weariness of his travels.

  But luckily they soon came across the village, which had given itself away to them with candlelight in the windows of small crofters’ homes.

  A man to his left threw his torch on the first thatch they came to. Instantly it caught, lighting the sky.

  Another Viking to Halvor’s right shoulder-barged a wooden door and drew screams from the occupants.

  Within minutes the scene was chaos. Halvor shielded himself from the blow of an axe and then knocked the peasant to the floor with a bang on his head. The man groaned and turned away.

  More cottages were alight. Women and children were fleeing like rats escaping a flood, toward the hills. Some made it, but not all. The Viking men he fought with were fast on their feet when it came to catching women.

  To his left Gustav was clashing his sword with a tall thin man. Each were grunting and working hard. The local had fire-red hair and a long angular face. Despite appearing delicate, he was putting up a good fight.

  Halvor turned to a cottage as yet unaffected by the terror in the village. He marched up to the small narrow door, lifted his leg, and kicked it in the center. It burst open and rattled against the wall.

  “Get out, get out, you brute!” A woman’s voice.

  But she wouldn’t be without company, he knew that. Females did not live alone in these parts.

  Stooping, he stepped in and paused, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. A fire flickered in the grate and a few stick-like pieces of furniture sat around the room. It was clear he’d not stumbled across a wealthy home.

  “How dare you.” A small, shadow of a man appeared before him, holding a pitchfork. “Leave my croft.” His narrowed eyes flashed and he pointed the sharp end of his weapon at Halvor.

  “Father, no!”

  Halvor reached for the fork, twisted it from the man’s hand with pitiful ease, and then tossed it across the room.

  The man grunted in fury and tried to throw a punch, which landed on Halvor’s shield. The elderly man then staggered backward until his hunched shoulders hit the stone wall. He clutched his wrist and his features twisted. “You’re not welcome here!”

  “Death doesn’t require a welcome.”

  Suddenly the old man moved, quick as a snake in the grass, and grabbed a poker from the fire. He let out a blood-curdling cry, like a battle scream, and lunged at Halvor.

  Halvor stepped to the side and watched the man lunge past him.

  His would-be attacker’s movements were chaotic and un-practiced. The poker caught the side of a table and rattled to the floor.

  Halvor then moved up close to him and drew his sword.

  “No! No! Please, don’t hurt my father. He’s an old man, of no danger to you.”

  Halvor was aware of tugging on his tunic. The woman was at his side, her small hands ineffective at getting him to change his stance, but she was annoying.

  He shifted, elbowing her out of the way.

  She tumbled to the right, landing against the table and bending over it, gasping for breath.

  He returned his attention to the old man.

  Fear danced in his eyes and his mouth was a thin, flat line. But still he held his chin tilted, defiant even in the face of an intruder twice his size. “Kill me, but don’t hurt the lass.”

  “I’ll do what I want with you both.”

  “Of that I’m certain.” The old man’s voice shook. “But allow me to ask for mercy, even if your race does not know of such a thing.”

  Mercy! He understood mercy. He wasn’t an animal.

  “You animal.” The girl was back, her fists thudding on his shoulder. “Leave us be.”

  He spun to her, his shoulders rounded and his lips pulled back, baring his teeth.

  Outside there were screams and shouts, the clatter of iron on iron, the crackle of fire reaching into the night sky. But all that dimmed. Before him stood the sweetest Celt he’d ever laid eyes on. His heart rate picked up, and a tug in his belly made him drag in a breath.

  Despite her hair being messy, it was a beautiful dark color, matching her eyes. Her skin was pale, almost translucent and her cheekbones high beneath it. And her lips, pouty and red and pulled into such a downturn of anger, he almost laughed.

  Almost.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” She stepped back, as though his attention on her had drained some of her bravado. “And don’t even think about raping me, I’ll gouge out your eyes, bite you, bite your cock off.” She made a gnashing action with her teeth, snapping them together.

  “We’ve only just met and you’re talking about my cock.” He took a step closer, enjoying the way it made her skitter backward. She quickly hit the opposite wall of the small room.

  “Leave,” she said, “take what you want and leave. Leave us be, with our lives.”

  “And why should I do that?” He set his palms on the stonework at either side of her head and looked down at her. “When you look like so much fun.”

  Chapter Three

  Duna thought she’d be sick with fear. Either that or her legs would give way and she’d go into one of those fainting episodes she’d seen other women in the village do.

  The brute standing before her was the most terrifying creature she’d ever seen. And yes, he was a creature. No man of this earth could be so big, or so brutal. His sort were destroying the village, just as she’d predicted.

  Predicted!

  Her dreams flashed into her memory as she stared up at his face. Some of it was hidden by the strip of metal that came down from the center of his horned helmet. But those eyes, they were summer-sky blue, his lashes dark blond, and the hair growing on his jawline was darker. She snatched in a breath as her attention went to the black strokes of what appeared to be ink curling around the outer aspect of his right eye and onto his cheek.

  But she had no intention of hanging about to study his strangeness, so she ducked beneath his arm, to the right, and made a dash for the door.

  She didn’t get far. He caught her on her first step out into the night. He gripped her waist and slung her into the air as though she weighed nothing.

  The next thing she knew her world had turned upside down. She was over his right shoulder, his hand flat on her ass.

  “Get off me!” She hammered at his lower back, cursing the thick leather tunic he wore. “Put me down.”

  “Bring back my daughter.” Her father’s voice, filled with panic, came from the cottage doorway.

  Her captor spun around. “I have shown mercy, you have kept your life, old man, but in return you must give me something.”

  “Anything, take me. But leave the lass here, where she belongs, unharmed.”

  “No, the lass is what you’re giving me. She is mine now.”

  She is mine now.

  Those words screamed through Duna’s brain. “No! Never!” She kicked and flailed, fought to be released, but it was no good. She was well and truly held by him.

  “No!” her father shouted. “Leave her be. She is my most treasured possession.”

  The Viking acted as though her father hadn’t spoken. He turned into the wind and marched away from her home.

  Duna grunted as her belly was pressed repeatedly against his shoulder. He was striding fast, through the village. Raising her head, she glanced around at the carnage.

  Her neighbor lay dead on the ground, his house torched.

  She spotted one of the Laird’s men, also dead, his face blood-covered.

  “Where are you taking me? Stop.” She continued to kick, trying to jab her knees into the chest of the man stealing her away.

  “Keep still.” Smack.

  “Ouch!” A resounding slap had landed on her buttocks
, right across both, his palm was so big. The heat spread. He’d put real male strength into it.

  Good, that meant she’d hurt him with her knee jabbing.

  She did it again, with more force.

  He grunted. “Fuck! Stop that, woman.”

  Smack.

  She yelped as pain bloomed over her ass. “Let me go!”

  Her struggling was to no avail, but she kept it up. She found the strength to raise her head again, from her upturned position. “Esca!”

  He was in battle with a huge monster of a man wielding a sword. Her friend—potential husband—was dwarfed by his bearded assailant, but was putting up a brave fight. He swung his axe to the right, then the left, narrowly missing the arm of the other man.

  She cried out, fear of what was about to happen gripping her. He couldn’t die, not sweet Esca. He didn’t deserve to, least of all at the hands of these brutes.

  “I will kill you for this,” she shouted, fury mixing with her fear. “All of you.”

  “Shut up. And stop your fucking wriggling.”

  Her heartbeat tripped and stuttered; Esca was on the ground. She didn’t see where he’d been struck, but he’d fallen like a rock tumbling down a cliff side. She wanted to go to him, defend him, hold him while he took his last breaths.

  Esca’s attacker appeared, satisfied Esca was no longer a threat, stepped over him, and approached two farmers wielding pitchforks.

  She heard her father’s voice again, shouting for her, crying out.

  Her heart felt as if it were being ripped in two. Esca was dead, she was sure of it. She’d never see her father again. Her life was over.

  Heat from the burning buildings faded as her Viking abductor strolled from the village. His accomplices were close behind.

  Much as she’d hated the crackle of flames destroying thatch, and the fearful cries of her friends and neighbors, the deep voices speaking in unfamiliar dialect were more terrifying. Where were they taking her? Were they all going to rape her, take it in turns to find their pleasure with the virgin they’d kidnapped, then murder her, brutally and slowly?