Passion's Fury (Viking's Fury Book 3)

by Violetta Rand

  She struggled feebly with the explosion of emotions inside. Should she take the time to make a sacrifice or rush to the temple and seek help? No one had ever told her the proper protocol for such an occasion. Where innocent life was at stake, she was willing to risk trusting her own instincts.

  As she approached the trailhead, one of the guards looked at her. “Where did you come from, Girl?”

  Should she lie to protect herself? No, only the truth would do now. She’d deceived so many people for so long she was starting to believe her own lies. “My name is Lady Runa, sister of Jarl Roald from the Trondelag. I am in dire need of help. I narrowly escaped an attack by Jarl Skrymir in the forest. He followed Prince Axel and my personal guard across the northlands, bent on murder. I’m afraid he has killed many. There was nowhere else for me to go.”

  The guard immediately stood, his interest increased tenfold. “Prince Axel?”

  “Aye.” She trembled all over then. “I fear he’s dead, Sir.”

  The guard regarded her for a long moment. “Come with me.”

  Runa followed him up the steep pathway, lit torches attached to a wood handrail provided ample light. By the time they reached the top of the hill, she was out of breath.

  “Purify yourself before entering Odin’s temple,” the guard commanded.

  The wooden eaves which seemed to run the length of the longhouse were ornately carved, the faces of the gods she held so dear stared back at her. Dragonheads and other mythical creatures were also honored in the carvings, the oak double doors inscribed with runic symbols. Some she could decipher; others were as foreign to her as Latin.

  “How?” The very idea of standing in the doorway to the temple raised gooseflesh all over her tired body.

  He gaped at her in surprise. “By whispering words of praise—or seeking forgiveness if that’s what it takes.”

  Closing her eyes tight, she mumbled a half-hearted prayer. She’d make it up to the gods another time. Speaking to someone to rally enough guards to go rescue Thorolf and whatever men were left alive was more pressing. After what seemed an acceptable amount of time, she opened her eyes.

  “I am done.”

  The sentry nodded, then opened the doors leading inside the great structure.

  She walked across the threshold of the circular room in awe. Thick, dark wood beams crisscrossed overhead. Nine hearths warmed the room, each tended by a maiden wearing silk robes with their long hair cascading over their shoulders. These were the temple maidens, the faceless sisters she’d fantasized about joining. At the center of the chamber stood a dais shaded by an ancient oak tree whose branches reached the rafters above.

  Tapestries depicting runic symbols decorated the curved walls and covered the stone floor. Did she deserve to be here? Would Allfather strike her dead for daring to enter his sanctuary with a black heart? Men had died because of her untruths. Quite possibly, the man she secretly loved. And the honorable Prince Axel.

  “Keep moving, Girl,” the guard urged. “The priest will welcome you.”

  She gazed at the guard, licking her dry lips. “W-where do I go?”

  “Approach the altar.” He pointed toward the dais. “Hidden by Thor’s holy oak.”

  Slowly and reverent of where she walked, Runa made her way to the tree.

  “Closer, Girl,” a voice directed her.

  A tall, bald man wearing a purple tunic and carrying a carved staff appeared from beneath the lowest branches. The left side of his face was tattooed with runic symbols, like the ones on the tapestries.

  “I saw your tears in a dream, tasted your despair,” he said. “The day of reckoning has come for you, Lady Runa. You must choose your fate wisely—will you serve the gods or love a man?”

  Stunned by the priest’s revelation, she froze, unable to form words in her mind.

  “There’s nothing to fear here,” he informed her. “Odin speaks to men in different ways. You are no different than many of the girls who seek shelter here.”

  “B-but…”

  “Guilt is the first step toward healing,” he said. “I will sacrifice a dove on your behalf. Blood will satisfy Allfather, for now.”

  Runa hit her knees in supplication. What else could she do in the presence of such a holy man? In the shadow of the great altar? “In the name of Jarl Roald, son of Brandr, lord in the Trondelag, I beg for sanctuary and assistance with bringing Jarl Skrymir to justice for his deception and murder of innocent men.”

  The priest leaned on his staff and stepped forward. “Murder?”

  “He poisoned Prince Axel and his men and Captain Thorolf and my personal guards.”

  “Did you see him do it?”

  “Aye,” she said. “He confessed to Prince Axel as he was dying.”

  “What motive did Jarl Skrymir have?’

  Runa stared at the floor, ashamed to look him in the eyes. “Me,” she choked out.

  “You?”

  “Aye.”

  “And why would a man as powerful as Jarl Skrymir seek out a lowlander like you?”

  This time before she spoke, she raised her chin. “To forge an alliance with my brother through marriage.”

  “Why kill your men if he wanted to marry you?”

  “I rejected the jarl’s suit. I was journeying with Prince Axel to his home for an extended visit.”

  “To marry him?”

  “No,” she said.

  The priest’s eyebrows jutted up in confusion.

  “I didn’t wish to marry anyone.”

  “I see,” he said gently. “Odin speaks to your heart?”

  “Every night.”

  “Will you take vows?”

  “No,” she said. “Please—let us not wait any longer.” Heart pounding, Runa managed to bow even lower to the floor. “I beg for your mercy.”

  “Gjest,” the priest said. “If this girl speaks truth, a great wrong has been committed. Gather fifteen guards and the necessary horses and ride with her to the place where this supposed crime happened. If you find no evidence supporting her claim, execute her immediately. But if she speaks honestly, do what you must to aid her people.”

  She stood then. “Thank you.”

  “Do not be so quick to thank me. Payment will be collected, either in blood or gold.” He closed the distance between them and reached for her forehead, tracing a shape on her skin. “Allfather preserve you on your journey back.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The scent of wet earth welcomed Thorolf when he opened his eyes. Face down in the mud, he groaned as he rolled onto his back, heavy rain hitting his face. Pain radiated from his head to his legs. The last thing he remembered was Skrymir standing over him and then kicking him in the ribs. The world had gone dark after that. As he touched the back of his head and felt an egg-sized knot, he knew why.

  “Son of a whore…” he cursed, eyeing the blood on his fingers. He’d likely need stiches.

  A rolling thunder of hatred inside gave him the strength he needed to sit up. Judging by the position of the sun, it was still early morning. Skrymir was long gone. Filthy coward. With some difficulty, Thorolf staggered to his feet, feeling off-balance but capable of taking a few steps. Bodies were strewn everywhere. But Thorolf was only interested in finding one person—Runa.

  He searched the camp, even her tent. Not a trace of the lady or her maid. But he did find the three guards he’d handpicked, all dead. Axel’s men were all accounted for, too. However, the prince’s body was missing. Had Runa and Axel fled together? Possibly made it to safety under the cover of night? Thorolf prayed for it to be so.

  Whether he wanted to or not, he must do the right thing by these men. Leaving them to rot would be wrong. He raked his fingers through his wet hair, lifted his chin, and let the heavy rain cleanse his face. There was only one way to make up for his mistake last night. Only one way to earn his honor back after allowing jealousy to cloud his judgment. Kill Skrymir.

  Nothing would keep him from it.

  Wha
tever had come over him while he watched Runa entertaining her two suitors last night had made him sick. He sought comfort in a wineskin, drinking three times the amount he ever had, hoping to wash away any trace of love he had for the girl. It didn’t work. The drunker he got, the more intense his feelings became. All he could see and hear was Runa. That mischievous smile. Her green eyes. That perfect body.

  Roald’s words came to mind. Odin save the man who ever truly loves her. Little did his jarl know, that blessing was meant for him. For Thorolf loved her—deeply. Obsessively so. Enough to kill for her. Enough to die to avenge her.

  But first…

  Ignoring the pain in his head, he started to gather the bodies. Too wet to start a funeral fire, he’d cover the corpses with tent material to keep the rain off. He’d come back later to honor each man in the right way. Maybe with help. And if not, he’d meet them in Valhalla or Hel.

  It took over an hour to complete his first task. Then he stripped his ruined clothes off and bathed in the nearby creek, eyeing the bruises on his torso as he scrubbed the dry blood away. Nothing seemed broken. But bruised ribs were more painful than most sword wounds. Once he finished, he went to his tent and dressed in a fresh tunic and braies, then put his weapon belt on. The horses were scattered, but his mount was well trained and knew to come when whistled for.

  Ready to go, he eyed the encampment a last time, guilt weighing heavy in his gut. If he’d thought with his head instead of his heart this would have never happened. Runa would be safe and with him still.

  A chill crept down his spine then. Where should he check first? There was a village a few miles from here. Or should he ride to the temple? Hundreds of armed men provided security for the priests. Surely they’d help him. And if Runa was alive, she’d seek sanctuary there. He climbed into the saddle and nudged his horse eastward, to the complex where the gods were rumored to live.

  *

  Thorolf met with some resistance at the double doors that opened into the temple. Four guards armed with pikes, crossed their weapons to bar his way inside.

  “Let me pass,” he commanded, the expressionless, possibly mindless men only stared ahead. “I am Captain Thorolf from the Trondelag. I have business with the priests.”

  The doors opened finally and a man greeted him from behind the weapons. “Good morn, sir,” he said. “We are unable to admit anyone into the sanctuary without good cause.”

  Thorolf didn’t blame the scribe for following orders, but by law, the place should be accessible to everyone at all times of the day and night. “What reason do you have to keep me outside?”

  “A breach in security.”

  “Someone threatened the priests?”

  In the old days, when Thorolf still lived among his people in Borg, it was considered an honor to be chosen for the temple guard. A responsibility shared by the northern chieftains. Any threat to the holy men felt very personal to Thorolf.

  “Indirectly,” the scribe said.

  “I must know if a young woman came here last night.”

  This captured his attention. “Who is she?”

  “Lady Runa—I am her servant.”

  The scribe waved the guards off and they lowered their weapons. “Join me, Sir. Your mistress has indeed been here.”

  Thorolf followed him through the sanctuary and another door which opened into the high priest’s solar. He bowed to his lord.

  “This man has requested a meeting with you, Master Hugin. He knows Lady Runa.”

  The priest looked up from his table, considered Thorolf for a moment, then addressed the scribe. “Leave us.”

  The servant bowed again, then left the room.

  “Captain Thorolf?” Master Hugin poured a glass of wine and shoved the cup across the table. “I can see by your chains of office that you are the man Lady Runa was so worried about.”

  Thorolf picked up the cup and sniffed it before he dared to take a drink.

  “I assure you there’s no poison.”

  “Easily said if you’ve never been the target of such a thing.” Thirsty, Thorolf gulped it down. “Where is Runa?” Under normal circumstances, he’d respect the formality expected in the temple. But there was no time to spare; he needed to find Runa.

  “The lady is safe. She requested an armed escort back to the woods where she thought you might be. And the others…”

  Thorolf made a sour face. “Sixteen men died at the hands of Jarl Skrymir. I narrowly escaped. I’m not even sure why he let me live.”

  Hugin’s eyes widened. “The lady was telling the truth?”

  Thorolf braced himself on the tabletop, spreading his hands wide, and leaned close to the priest. “You doubted her?”

  The priest waved his fingers over the open flame of a candle burning in a holder nearby. “Do you know how many girls show up here every year begging for sanctuary? Weaving tales? Trying to avoid unwanted marriages?”

  “Do they normally lie about a slaughter?”

  Hugin sighed. “Never.”

  “Did she give you a reason to doubt her story?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you send the guards with her? Wouldn’t it have been easier to hold her here until you received word about what to do? She’s the sister of one of the most powerful jarls in the Trondelag. Would it have not been more prudent to send word to him? To confirm her identity and purpose for being this far north without her family?”

  The priest met his gaze. “I am well acquainted with all the chieftains in this part of our country. There are so few. We rely on the generosity of Prince Axel and Jarl Skrymir. The word of a lone girl against a man of Skrymir’s reputation, though hostile as he’s known to be, must be held in suspicion.”

  Thorolf muttered under his breath, then grabbed a fistful of the priest’s tunic and hoisted him up. “Tis a matter of life and death. And that girl braved the dark and wilderness alone to get here, to find help for me and Prince Axel. And the loyal guards who perished for nothing.” He shoved Hugin away. “Skrymir wanted the girl for himself. There’s no other reason for what he did.”

  “Norway has seen its share of mad kings.”

  “Not murdering swine.”

  “Aye,” the priest capitulated. “Tell me what I can do to help, Captain Thorolf.”

  “Send word to Jarl Roald.”

  “I will write the missive myself.”

  “Give me enough men to hunt Skrymir.”

  The priest rubbed his chin and stared at Thorolf long and hard. “Where are you from, Captain?”

  “Does my accent give me away?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Borg,” he said.

  “Yes. You are vaguely familiar to me…”

  “No,” Thorolf cut him off. “I’ve been gone for many years. I have no family left.” Thorolf was determined to get what he wanted and snatched the flagon of wine off the table. He uncorked it and drank directly from the bottle, forgetting his manners. When he finished, he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Enough small talk. Give me what I ask for.”

  “Gladly.” Hugin smiled. “Just as soon as you pay for the first escort I sent out on your behalf.”

  “Where in Odin’s ass did they find you?” Thorolf complained as he reached inside his tunic and pulled out a leather bag full of coins. “There’s not a good man left in this country, is there?” He opened the purse and selected several gold pieces, then slammed them down on the table. “This will more than cover the loss of your guards.”

  The priest eyed the coins. “Yes, I believe it will.” He stood and walked around the table, then opened the door. “Lonel, alert Captain Birger that he is needed at once.” He closed the door and returned to his seat. “I will give you full command of twenty-five soldiers. In fact, you may keep them if you wish. With this much gold I can buy the loyalty of twice as many.”

  “I will report your unwavering dedication to Jarl Roald once I return home,” Thorolf said coolly.

  “Thank you, Captain. Fe
el free to use the temple as a staging point for your activities. There are several outbuildings reserved for guests who have business in the northlands. Captain Birger will show you.”

  Thorolf left the solar knowing this was no more a holy place than the pits in the ground outside where men squatted to shit. And though it disappointed him greatly, he didn’t have time to care. In the future, though, he’d be sure to tell the high priest how wrong he thought he was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grant me patience. Give me strength to endure this undeserved humiliation. I must remain obedient. Olvir wanted to do the right thing. He’d spent years bending to his father’s will, suffering to please him, to prove himself worthy as a son. But tonight, for a moment, he considered doing the impossible, standing up to his sire in front of his guards and guests.

  The jarl was arguing with his captains about who had the steadiest hand with a bow after drinking six flagons of wine. A pile of silver coins had already accumulated on the table, the prize for whatever man proved himself the winner.

  “What say you, my son?”

  Olvir cleared his throat. “I have been gone too long to pick one from among these capable warriors.”

  “Spoken like a weakling,” his father said. “I command you to choose. Will it be Knut? Rolf? Tristan?”

  “None.” Olvir stayed true to his word.

  “Very well,” the jarl said. “If you will not select a warrior, then you will become an important part of the contest.”

  He couldn’t guess what his father wanted him to do. A target stuffed with straw had already been hung on the far wall. Instead of questioning it, he simply watched as the five participants lined up in the middle of the great hall, thirty paces from the target. The first round of the competition required each man to shoot his specially marked arrows in rapid succession. The arrows closest to the center ring would receive the most points.