by Bambi Lynn
Table of Contents
The Valiant Viking
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
About The Author
Red Sage Publishing
An eRedSage Publishing Publication
This book is a work of complete fiction. Any names, places, incidents, characters are products of the author’s imagination and creativity or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is fully coincidental.
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The Valiant Viking
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ISBN: 9781603108263; 1603108262 The Valiant Viking eBook version
Published by arrangement with the authors and copyright holders of the individual works as follows:
The Valiant Viking © 2013 by Bambi Lynn
Cover © 2013 by Fiona Jayde
Printed in the U.S.A.
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The Valiant Viking
***
By Bambi Lynn
TO MY READERS:
I’ve always loved the fantasy of finding a gorgeous man in need of medical attention on my property. After nursing him back to health, he would, of course, find me irresistibly desirable and fall madly in love with me. Combine that with my love of Vikings and Rolf Bloodhands comes deliciously to life. Kaylla’s good heart and natural desire to take care of everyone around her is a soothing balm to Rolf’s thirst for vengeance. I hope you enjoy Rolf and Kaylla’s red hot story.
READER ALERT!:
With only two days to prepare for an invasion sure to decimate her village, Kaylla is shocked by her attraction to the hunky Norseman she has enslaved. Who knew fear of imminent death could drive an innocent woman to explore the oldest sins known to man.
Chapter One
Rolf Bloodhands gripped rough hemp with one hand and his broad sword with the other. The rope, stiff and gnarled by age and weather, bit into his calloused palm, but the hilt of his sword caressed the rough skin like a balm. He wiped sea spray from his eyes with his sleeve, choking back bile at the stench of death. Keeping his stance wide for balance against the rolling sea, he stood ready to defend his ship from the blackhearts swarming over the side.
He grinned at the men around him. It had been two years since he’d enjoyed a good fight. This one promised to be better than most.
“Get ready for Hel,” he shouted.
The Swedes came in droves. At least five or six for every one of his men. Impossible odds. The frenzied fighting that erupted only lasted scant moments, but it seemed like hours. He cut down so many men, the planks beneath his feet could not absorb all the blood, making the deck a slick and treacherous place for battle.
Still, they kept coming.
Only two ships remained to defend King Ulfrik’s longboat, Dragon’s Breath: his Sea Slayer and the smaller, faster Wave Tamer off the king’s starboard side. One by one, the enemy had cleared Ulfrik’s ships of men, cut the cables and set them adrift.
Speed would be of no use to Wave Tamer this day. In addition to the Swede overpowering Rolf’s port bow, and the Danish king bearing down on Ulfrik’s stem, a Noregr ship, a bloody fucking traitor, had taken up position on the other side of Wave Tamer.
If only he had sailed on the king’s starboard side. He would have identified the treasonous bastard and sent him straight to Helheim. The man had no honor in life; he deserved none in death. He had broken the oath he made to Ulfrik. Where was the man’s loyalty? A straw death would be too good for such a half man. He vowed that he would not rest, in either this life or the next, until the faithless slug died at the end of his sword.
By Thor! If you let me live long enough to quarter the bastard, I will forgo my vow to become a tradesman. It had not been easy to give up a life of fighting. He had trained for it his whole life. And he was good at it.
Alas, disemboweling the traitor, if he could manage even that outnumbered as they were, would be the only victory they would see this day. The fucking son-of-a-whore had joined forces with King Ulfrik’s two greatest rivals, the Swede and the Dane. His intimate knowledge of Ulfrik and his strategic maneuvers would have more than made up for the traitor’s handful of ships. When joined with the king’s enemies, they outnumbered the Noregr fleet four ships to one.
The Swede and the traitor, positioned at each end of Noregr’s line, had methodically cut Ulfrik’s ships loose as fast as they cleared them of men. The king’s fleet was now left with only three.
Make that two.
When he was certain each of the men under his command was dead, gone overboard or had joined King Ulfrik’s crew aboard Dragon’s Breath, Rolf abandoned his ship. The Swedes had already cut the cables, and he felt his ship drifting. He leapt over the side, barely grabbing the rail of Dragon’s Breath. He dangled from the railing, holding on with one arm while still clutching his sword. Arrows from the enemy bowmen whistled through the air and lodged in the oak planks with a powerful thunk, barely missing him on more than one occasion. He pulled his legs up, trying to make himself a smaller target. But he knew it would be just moments before one would find its mark.
He was relieved to feel strong hands grasping him from overhead, more grateful than he could say when his countrymen hauled him aboard Dragon’s Breath. He fell onto the deck and looked up into the ugly face of his first mate.
With a near toothless grin, Norbert pulled him to his feet. “Ye win the honor o’ bein’ the last man aboard.” He nodded over his shoulder at Sea Slayer.
Berserk lust surged within him as he watched his ship glide away. Sea Slayer carried all the riches he had recently acquired. This trading voyage had yielded a bounty greater than any vikingr he had ever been on. The wealth that slipped further and further from his grasp would have allowed him to settle down, maybe start a clan of his own. Escape the violence and bloodshed that had become his life.
Oh, well. He had just made a vow to Thor. A vow to return to the life of warring he had been born for.
As he watched his dreams drift away, bloodlust fed his thirst for revenge. He turned to glare across Wave Tamer’s deck, further infuriated that he could not see the nithing’s face. He maneuvered his way to the stem where Ulfrik barked orders while hurling insults at the Danish king.
“You white-livered, eye-offending carcass! Why don’t you come aboard my Dragon’s Breath? I’ll have my men pound your ass…just how you like it!”
Rolf grinned at his king’s back. Despite their ensuing defeat, Ulfrik could castigate a man more severely than most could injure with battle axe. Although nearly a head short
er, Ulfrik’s massive frame gave the king an impressive presence. His admiration for this man far exceeded what he felt for his own father.
May he roast in Helheim.
“My king!”
Ulfrik whirled to face him. “Bloodhands! I knew you wouldn’t go down easily.”
“Not while you yet stand, my lord.” Rolf drew up beside his king and contemplated their enemy beneath the carved dragon’s head that adorned the prow. “We will not hold them at length much longer.”
“Aye. But we’ll not make it easy for them.” Ulfrik raised his voice, directing his taunts at the Danish king, visible on the stem of his ship. “My traitorous jarl is the only one to fear, because he’s Norwegian like us!”
Rolf turned his attention back to the traitor’s ship. Close enough now to make out the features of the crew, he ignored them all, seeking instead the identity of their leader. The one Norseman on whom he would exact revenge. Betrayal of such magnitude would not go unpunished, not as long as he still held a sword. But the coward hid in the stern of his ship, cocooned within a protective cover of shields his men had set up.
The Dane ignored the king’s taunt, returning a threat that made Rolf want to laugh. “I’m coming after you, Ulfrik. I’ll cut you down like a dog.”
“I’ll be rutting between your sister’s thighs this night while you make your bed at the bottom of the sea,” Ulfrik countered amidst a volley of arrows that sent the Dane scampering out of range.
By now, Wind Tamer had met the same fate as Sea Slayer. Every man who could carry arms had gathered for a final defense of the king’s ship. They deflected volley after volley of spears and arrows until their numbers had dwindled so much the traitor ordered his men to overtake Dragon’s Breath.
Oblivious to the numerous wounds he suffered, it was the decreasing volume of his rage-induced battle cry that fueled Rolf’s ire. He had yelled his fury so continuously, his throat now felt raw.
Forced into hand-to-hand fighting, Ulfrik’s forces soon fell, brave and stout though they were. A scant few leaped overboard where Swedes and Danes in smaller rowing boats waited to prevent their escape. The sea ran red with blood. None were left alive.
The handful of Ulfrik’s men who remained gathered and arrayed themselves for the king’s defense. No orders were needed to call the Norwegians to rally around their king. Rolf still could not discern the traitor’s identity but refused to move from the king’s side to investigate further.
Ulfrik’s voice boomed behind him. “The battle is lost.”
“Aye,” he called over his shoulder. “This night we will share a horn of mead in Valhalla.”
“I’ll not be overtaken by these cowards. There is more honor seeking death at the bottom of the sea.”
Rolf turned to glare at his king. “They will cut you down as soon as you hit the water. Where is the honor in that?”
Ulfrik ignored his question. He barked orders even as he climbed up on the railing of Dragon’s Breath. “Command the men. Do not let them take me.” With that, he slipped over the side and into the sea.
Instead of killing him as they had done everyone else, the enemy tried to grab him. Rolf had no time to think. The King of Noregr would make a fine trophy indeed. Without thought to his own fate, he dove beneath the waves and, grabbing Ulfrik’s legs, pulled him out of reach.
They broke the surface long enough to draw breath. Ulfrik grinned at him across the rolling waves. “I’ll hold a seat for you at my table, son.”
“You take with you the honor of all those who died this day.”
With a final insult at the Dane and the Swede, King Ulfrik held his shield over his head and sank beneath the surface of the water.
“My Lord!” There could be no glory in living, not while the one person who claimed your loyalty perished.
It was the motto he had always lived by, one recanted each time he had followed Ulfrik on one vikingr or another. He had never feared death. What better way for a Norseman to die than in battle, fighting for right, defending his king as he had sworn to do?
With a last glance at the remains of Ulfrik’s fleet, Rolf followed his leader into the deep.
Chapter Two
Kaylla crested the dune and gazed down at the beach stretched out before her. She could taste sea salt on the wintry breeze that caused her long russet hair to swirl around her. She loved when the wind took it up, sending it on a wild dance through which she could imagine a different world. She had never considered herself pretty, but looking through her tresses as they fluttered on a puff of air, she could imagine herself a wayward nymph, using her seductive powers to tantalize those around her, urging men to fall over themselves to do her bidding. Maybe even a few women, as well.
Raking her hand through her hair, she drew back to the real world. Too often she found herself lost in yarns of old, tales her modor had told her when she was a little girl. Dreaming of a family of her own, free from sadness and despair, hunger and fear. The added burden of caring for everyone around her. Now there was no time for daydreams. Too many hungry mouths to feed. She closed her eyes, savoring the smell of the sea and the cool spray on her cheeks, anticipating the fresh fish they would have for supper.
No one else would brave the dangers of the coast. Those who yet lived in her tiny village feared the Norsemen too much, even for the promise of fresh meat. She refused to let those devils keep her away. She chose not to think about them hiding amongst the dunes, grabbing her and dragging her off across the sea, making her slave to some foul, worshipper of pagan gods.
She shuddered and glanced around, then forced herself to relax. Tonight they would all dine on something besides shriveled apples and rotten cabbage. Fear would not chase her back to the ramshackle huts her friends and family still called a village. Scanning the horizon, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that there was no sign of the Viking longboats, the ships that brought the heathens said to be laying waste to the coastal villages.
She gathered up her net and crept down the dune, the trek made more perilous by her inability to focus on where she put her feet. She kept her gaze on her surroundings, her eyes darting from the dunes to the ocean’s surface, down the beach and back again, fear and trepidation overriding the need to descend with caution.
After the attack on the abbey, the marauders had continued to sack villages and towns along the coast, leaving a wake of death and destruction. Men were murdered, women and children slaughtered, or worse – stolen. They left slain cattle to rot among the carnage, leaving little for survivors to eat.
She stood still when she reached the base of the slope, cautious of darting out onto the narrow beach. Her heart raced. She felt as a doe must, contemplating a romp in the meadow on a bright spring morning. But the warm air of her favorite time of year was nowhere present on this brisk day. The trickle of sunlight that forced its way through the clouds had failed to chase the bite from the air.
She removed her shoes, knowing they would take longer to dry, and crept across the sand. Despite the cold, she savored the feel of it squishing up between her toes. It grew firmer the closer she got to the waves that surged in to meet the rocky waterline. Climbing onto a slick boulder, she prepared her net and cast it out.
The woven cords caught in her skirt and went nowhere. Serves me right for rushing. She tucked the hem of her smock into the rope tied at her waist and tried again. She wove her fingers through the tangled mass, methodically smoothing it out, and gathered it into one hand, a single arm-length at a time. When she reached the bottom, she tossed several of the stones she used to weigh it down over her shoulder, palming the largest one. With a few swings for momentum, she released the net, satisfied that it landed with a wide spread over the surface of the water. This time the net immediately began to sink.
As she waited for it to settle, she watched the waves lapping gently against the rock on which she stood. A flush of heat rushed to her face at the sudden memory of William’s tongue lapping at her quim in just such a way
. A bright sheen covered the rock as the wave pulled away. She imagined her thighs slick with such a gloss as the juice pooled in her channel and leaked out of her body.
She had made him stop before...she did not know before what, but she knew it was bad. And when he tried to get her to put her mouth on him, she had kicked him in his good shin, and told him to stay away from her.
At the time, she had been little more than disgusted that he would put his mouth there. But later, tucked into her pallet, hidden beneath the bed covers, she had recalled the feeling of his warm breath on her most private spot, the excitement of doing something so unmentionable inflamed her. The release of lust that came from her own fingers nearly blinded her. She had stared at the rafters of her hut, overwhelmed with guilt. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she had been afraid of waking her modor and Wulf.
It had not been William’s face in her mind that night. When she thought back on it, seemingly every day, she could not say exactly what she had been thinking about.
She looked over her shoulder and scanned the shrubbery clinging lifelessly to the hills of sand at her back. The sound of the waves lapping the shore seemed louder today. She would have to listen carefully for anyone trying to sneak up on her. The image of a brute of a man, red hair flaming like fire, his mouth suckling her with a roughness befitting her as his slave…
She sucked in a sharp breath and shook her head. Surely she would go to Hell for her sinful vagaries.
Driving the lustful thoughts from her mind, she pulled in her net. Only one measly fish flopped around, so small it eventually found its way out through the weaving and swam away to freedom.