Niska had expected Rianna to be treated like a slave. To be used and abused by her half-brother, then passed down to his men to be taken by all and sundry. Yet Ragnor had become smitten just like Tarn and all the rest. She had seen the way Ragnor looked at Rianna, his tongue almost hanging out with desire for her. Things would have to change; she couldn’t possibly allow Rianna to remain in the privileged position that Ragnor’s affections afforded her.
She stared at her magnificent half-brother as he strode forwards and mounted his horse. The cold air was reviving his followers and they gathered behind him for the short journey down to the side of the lake.
Niska climbed into the second sleigh, having no wish to be forced to endure the smug expression on Rianna’s face. The procession began to move and the sleigh, pulled by two shaggy-coated ponies, slid smoothly forwards on the snow-covered ground.
The wooden walkways that led down to the lakeside were covered in a pristine layer of white, but the jetty and its surroundings had been swept clean. A cold wind came off the water, rippling its grey, glassy surface, making the large boat move up and down on the gentle waves. It was a magnificent drekar, dragon ship, with a dark wood hull and a high-raised prow at each end. Both were carved in the shape of curved snakes. Hjor’s body was already on the vessel, laid upon a silk-draped bier. Exposed to the cold winds his flesh had shrivelled and turned black. Beside him lay the butchered remains of two horses, three cows and his favourite dogs.
Niska saw Rianna’s sleigh stop close to the drekar. Rianna’s face turned ashen as she saw what the longship contained, and Niska found her horror amusing, because it was likely to irritate Ragnor. Northmen despised mawkish sentimentality and weakness in women.
The blonde thrall was led forwards, dressed now in a loose white linen garment. Her feet were bare and she shivered with cold. The icy breeze caressed her flesh as she walked beneath a wooden bar held atop two high posts: the symbolic doorway between this world and the next.
Fascinated by the thought of what was to come, Niska stepped forwards, her boots cracking the thin layer of ice on the wooden slats as she went to stand beside Jorvik.
‘He called me; take me to him,’ the thrall said in a shaky voice.
Niska saw the girl’s expression change and her eyes widen with fear, as the enormity of what she was about to face pierced her alcohol-fuddled brain. The thrall was a fool to agree to this – no man was worth dying for. Ragnor was a magnanimous ruler, he would never have forced a slave to sacrifice herself. The girl had done this of her own free will and now it was too late to turn back.
Niska had not been given such a choice at the age of fourteen, when Thorolof had died. She’d been expected to sacrifice herself on his funeral pyre. Instead she had killed the two women left in charge of her and fled for her life.
A wizened old woman, dressed all in black, hobbled forwards, her arthritic joints creaking in the cold, and handed the girl a cup of sweet wine, called nabida.
‘The angel of death,’ Jorvik whispered in Niska’s ear as if the woman truly was what she pretended to be.
The thrall gulped down the nabida, and her hand shook so much she dropped the empty goblet. Whereupon she was seized by a couple of warriors and led on to the drekar accompanied by four other warriors. She began to struggle as she was laid at the side of the blackened corpse. Two men held her feet, and another two men held her hands as the angel of death looped a thin cord around her neck. Everyone was silent, holding their breath in anticipation, as the old woman handed the crossed ends of the cord to the other two warriors.
Niska moved closer to Jorvik. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her back against his hard body as the men surrounding them beat their shields with staves to drown out the thrall’s fearful cries. The ancient rhythm pounded through Niska, adding to her arousal as Jorvik splayed his hand across her belly and forced her back against him until she could feel the hardness of his erection digging in the crack of her buttock cheeks.
As the old woman lifted a broad-bladed dagger and plunged it between the girl’s ribs, the warriors jerked the cords until they cut deep into the victim’s neck. Jorvik rubbed his cock sensuously against Niska’s behind and pressed his fingers into her pussy, through the thick velvet of her skirts, as she watched, enthralled and excited by the sight of the thrall’s limbs twitching as death claimed her. Freya was the goddess of sexuality as well as death and the two were inexorably intertwined here on the edge of this lake in her brutal homeland.
Ragnor had already shed his clothes. He stepped forwards, his naked, muscular body looking pale against the grey waters of the lake as the warriors and the old woman left the vessel. Holding a blazing torch, he stepped on to the drekar and set the kindling, placed close to the prows at each end, alight. The wind whipped the flames sending them cracking and leaping along the hull. Ragnor stepped back on to the jetty and stood watching until the entire hull was set alight, then he loosened the ropes and the blazing vessel drifted majestically towards the centre of the lake.
Primeval emotions filled the onlookers, and more than a few couples moved away to find a quiet spot. Niska saw Ragnor, still naked, his cock fully erect, grab hold of Rianna and lead her into a small hut near the edge of the jetty. The lust that had grown in Niska when she had watched the slave being pleasured in the hall, and then sacrificed for her master, grew even stronger. She loathed Rianna even more now, knowing that at this moment Ragnor was fucking her in that tiny hut.
‘Come,’ Jorvik said, pulling Niska towards a pile of barrels. He edged between them until they were partially out of sight, and pushed Niska roughly over a barrel as he flipped up her skirts. The icy air hit her arse as Jorvik parted her thighs and buried his cock into the moist warmth of her cunt. Niska gasped and clutched at the rough metal banding the barrel as Jorvik’s rock hard prick rammed into her, taking her brutally, his balls slapping wildly against her legs in time to his powerful thrusts. She was able to sneak down between her legs, however, and rub herself lewdly. She came quickly, at the selfsame moment as Jorvik spent his load inside her.
Her hands were shaking as she pulled down her skirts, and wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself. ‘My brother seems far too taken with his new thrall,’ she said, glancing towards the hut where Ragnor was still servicing Rianna.
‘No doubt that pleases you,’ Jorvik commented, readjusting his clothing. ‘She was your gift to him. Did you not want him to enjoy the slave?’
‘Enjoy, yes,’ she cautiously agreed, conscious of the overpowering ache in her pussy that the quick fuck with Jorvik had not cured. It had only left her wanting more, but not from Jorvik – from Ragnor. Or even Chang, she thought, as she glanced round the jetty. She had expected to see Chang at the ceremony but he was nowhere to be seen. ‘But I do not feel it seemly for Ragnor to honour her as he does. He treats her more like a treasured courtesan than a slave.’
‘I’ve never seen him so enamoured of a woman,’ Jorvik said thoughtfully. ‘She is of royal blood and he needs a wife . . .’
‘A wife?’ Niska exclaimed in horror. It was not unusual in Vestfold for a thrall to be gifted her freedom by her master. However, Niska had never believed Ragnor would come to feel this way about Rianna, especially in such a short space of time. ‘My brother may well need a bride, but not Rianna. She contributed to Lord Sarin’s downfall. If I’d not taken her captive she would have eventually destroyed Prince Tarn as well. I have no wish for Ragnor to allow her to influence him, and suffer a similar fate!’
Tarn and Sarin crouched behind a boulder on a cliff that overlooked the valley. Far in the distance they could see the flames of the burning longship as it glided majestically across the grey waters of the lake.
‘The defences are impressive,’ Tarn said, surveying the high-banked ramparts topped by a sturdy palisade. There were higher walls constructed out of whole tree-trunks protecting the village, and more internal walls to protect the inner stronghold where Ragnor’s two huge longhous
es were situated.
‘It would not be easy to storm, even with an entire army,’ Sarin added. ‘Would that we’d caught up with them before they took refuge here.’
‘Perhaps it would be better for just a few of us to enter in disguise?’ Tarn suggested. ‘If we were dressed as mercenaries they would not be able to tell us from Niska’s men.’
‘That may be a possibility,’ Sarin agreed, frowning. ‘But even if we do get inside, I doubt we would be able to just walk into Ragnor’s longhouse unchallenged. He will be guarded by his own personal troop, and they may well be Berserkers.’ Wolf Skins or Berserkers as these wild northern warriors were often known, believed that they were descended from the shapeshifters of ancient myth. Clad only in animal skins, they were feared by all soldiers as they fought more like mad beasts than men.
‘No matter what I have to rescue, Rianna,’ Tarn insisted, as he turned his piercing blue eyes on Sarin. ‘You’ve come this far to wreak your revenge on Niska. Are you prepared to give up when your goal is in sight?’
‘I do not allow emotion to over-rule logic as you do, Tarn,’ Sarin said coolly. ‘I’ll weigh up the odds before I decide to do anything. Taking my revenge on Niska is important but it is not worth losing my life for.’ He glanced back at the valley. A thin line of mounted men were leaving through the main gate. ‘A patrol. We had better move.’
They turned and walked back through the thick snow to their horses. If the patrol passed close by they’d see their tracks and know that someone was spying on the settlement, but they had no time to cut down a fir branch and sweep the snow clean of their presence.
Tarn and Sarin mounted their horses and rode back up the mountainside, just as a light dusting of snow began to fall again. Soon the breeze became stronger and the snowfall thicker. The thick white flakes wiped out all sign of the tracks of their descent, making it difficult to remember exactly which way they had come.
They reached a narrow valley cut into the slope of the mountain that had a small river meandering along its length. Tarn was relieved, recognising the valley, it was the same frozen river they’d crossed earlier that day. The thick ice had easily supported the weight of both men and their horses. Tarn dismounted and Sarin followed suit. Holding his mount’s reins, Tarn stepped cautiously on to the ice, which was now covered by a thin layer of snow. Frozen flakes stung his eyes, forcing him to squint as he led his horse safely across to the flat bank on the other side.
As he turned to check on Sarin, a low chilling rumble filled the air, followed by a short, sharp cracking sound. To his horror he saw the ice open up in zigzags beneath Sarin’s feet. The black stallion gave a shrill whinny and leaped forwards, just making it to the snowy bank. As the horse’s reins were torn from Sarin’s grasp, he stumbled and lost his footing, falling into the icy water.
The ominous splashing sound still filled Tarn’s ears as he fell to his knees and lay flat on the remains of the ice. He edged forwards across the cold surface praying it would hold his weight. Dipping his gauntleted hand in the icy water, he made a grab for Sarin’s flailing hand, knowing Sarin would die within minutes if he didn’t get him out.
Tarn managed to grab hold of Sarin’s wrist, then shuffled backwards, pulling the near impossibly sodden weight with him. Once Sarin was half out of the water, Tarn managed to grasp his other hand as well and heave him to the safety of the bank. Panting with exertion, Tarn scrambled to his feet, knowing he had to try and find shelter. Drenched through in such cold conditions, Sarin would never make it back to their own camp alive.
Sarin’s face was ashen, his exposed skin beginning to turn an unhealthy blue. His teeth were chattering so hard he could not speak and he was shivering uncontrollably. Tarn lifted him on to his horse, laying Sarin across the saddle, as he was too weak to sit up. Then he led both mounts up the snowy slope, aiming for a splodge of black in the whiteness, which he hoped might be the entrance to a cave. Fortunately his presumptions were correct, and as they got closer the size of the gaping black hole increased. The cave looked deep enough to shelter in but the strong smell of wild animals made the horses reluctant to venture inside.
Tarn looped their reins over a boulder, then drew his sword and crept into the cave. It stunk of bear and wolf, but neither was in residence and, judging by the remains of a fire, humans had used it at some time in the past. They had even left a pile of twigs and brushwood in a corner that would keep a fire burning for a good few hours.
Stepping back outside, Tarn found that the snow was falling even more heavily. He led his horses under the overhang of the cliff at the entrance to the cave, where they would be protected from the force of the blizzard, then he lifted Sarin from his horse. Sarin’s sopping garments increased his considerable weight as Tarn carried his semi-conscious burden inside the cave. He laid Sarin down, then gathered the twigs and brushwood together, got out his tinderbox and lit a fire. As it flared into life, Tarn began to methodically strip Sarin, placing his sodden clothing by the fire to dry. He laid the barely alive man on a blanket and looked uneasily around. They only had one other blanket, which would not be enough to keep Sarin warm. There was no other choice but to use his own body heat – it was that or let Sarin die.
Trying to forget all the enmities of the past, Tarn stripped off his clothes. He lay down, pulled Sarin’s ice-cold form into his arms and heaped his clothes, cloak, and blanket atop them. The fire was banked high, and would burn for at least a couple of hours, he decided, as he felt the cold clammy flesh draw heat from his own skin.
Tarn could hear the wailing sounds of the blizzard and the crackling of the fire as the flames cast eerie shadows on the dark walls of the caves, which were covered with strange red hieroglyphics. Gradually Sarin’s unconscious shivers ceased, and his body relaxed as it slowly grew warmer. Tarn closed his eyes and tried not to think of the man who lay naked in his embrace.
The fire was still burning when Tarn awoke, but judging by the warmth of Sarin’s skin and his steady breathing at least an hour or more had passed. Tarn’s arms were becoming a little stiff from holding Sarin so close. As he went to move, Sarin surprised him by speaking. ‘Don’t leave me yet, please,’ he begged in a low husky voice.
‘I have to tend the fire,’ Tarn replied.
‘A few minutes more,’ Sarin pleaded. ‘There’s something I need to say. I have to tell you that I owe you my life, Tarn.’
‘I would have done the same for anyone,’ Tarn said gruffly. After all this time it was strange to feel Sarin’s naked body pressed against his again. Tarn was reminded of his days in Aguilar as Sarin’s slave. Forced by circumstance, he had reluctantly shared Sarin’s bed on many occasions. They were times he didn’t like to think of, even now. Yet they flooded back like they were only yesterday: the sensation of total submission and the pleasure Sarin had given him despite all his struggles to resist. He had found a sexual satisfaction in Sarin’s embrace that he couldn’t understand, couldn’t explain. The complexities of it would most likely puzzle him for as long as he lived.
‘Would you truly have done this for anyone else?’ Sarin rolled over, leaning his head against Tarn’s inner arm as he stared into his eyes. Their faces were so close that Tarn could feel Sarin’s cinnamon scented breath on his cheek.
‘I don’t know.’ He shivered as Sarin touched his chest, teasingly circling his nipples with the tips of his fingers.
‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ Sarin said hoarsely.
‘Feel what?’ Tarn’s voice shook, his muscles tensing. He wanted to pull away, but something held him motionless as Sarin edged closer. Tarn felt a rigid cock touch his thigh, and he knew that Sarin desired him even now. Strangely enough the thought didn’t make him sick to the stomach as he’d expected. It aroused a strange primeval excitement in the pit of his belly, forcing thoughts and feelings he’d struggled so long to suppress to come to the surface again.
‘The needs, the desires.’ By accident or design Sarin’s fingers brushed Tarn’s belly.<
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‘No needs, no desires,’ Tarn said harshly, fighting the wild emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He was certain he was going insane, his mind was addled by the cold, there was no way he could want Sarin.
‘Is that so?’ Sarin’s fingers teasingly touched Tarn’s cock and it twitched excitedly, blood pumping into the organ, making it grow hard and rigid. ‘Why lie?’ he whispered as his hand took hold of the aching shaft. Tarn wanted to protest but it felt so good, and he no longer had the strength or will to pull away.
Sarin began to stroke Tarn’s cock in a smooth seductive rhythm that aroused his senses. Lust flooded Tarn’s veins and for a brief moment he was able to stand back and view what was happening as though he was not involved. He saw two men, fuelled by a primeval passion, cocooned in a white, frozen wilderness far from signs of civilisation, and he knew that he was trapped in this world of magic and mystery, where light and dark intertwined. ‘This place must be cursed,’ Tarn gasped, helplessly enduring the delicious pleasure of Sarin wanking his cock.
‘Or perhaps blessed,’ Sarin said, still keeping up the compelling movements of his hand. ‘So many times in the past I took my pleasure with you whether you were willing or not. I forced you into slavery, tortured you into submission. Now I want you to use me as you will, Tarn. Take your pleasure, slake your lust. I’m yours to command.’
‘No,’ Tarn protested, pushing Sarin’s questing hand away, trying vainly to fight his rising excitement. The struggle seemed hopeless as the blood pounded in his ears, and the need to fuck grew stronger.
‘You must.’ Sarin slid under the heaped covers and pressed his face close to Tarn’s belly. Sarin’s hot breath brushed Tarn’s stomach. Then his lips fastened around Tarn’s cock, drawing it deep into the warm wetness of his mouth. He forced an anguished groan from Tarn’s lips as he sucked and licked the organ, anointing it with his saliva until the shaft grew iron hard, the taut skin moist and slippery.
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