The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  “Serrick taught me well,” she said with a hint of amusement.

  He grunted skeptically and turned to his men, but she knew she had just held her own against the wily old chieftain. And she knew in that moment that she would hold her own against his men, as well. Beneath the preparatory pounding of blood in her veins, that assurance spawned a slide of tension in her.

  Confident now, she laid her scabbard at her feet and spread her legs so that her toes touched both the hilt and blade point of her sword. Bending from the waist, she laid her palms on her blade to stretch the muscles in her legs as Serrick had instructed her. She could feel eyes hot upon her as she executed a series of slow lunges, then straightened and raised each arm straight above her, forcing her muscles taut until she felt the beginning of a pleasurable burn. Slow, drumming excitement invaded her limbs and intensified to a throb of expectation.

  With half an ear, she listened to Borger’s men contending for the right to face her. With a smile she made fists and flexed her arms, working the muscles against one another, feeling the blood rushing into them. Then she paused and collected her hip-length hair and began to weave it into a loose braid. It was the last part of her ritual . . . a putting away of the womanliness in her.

  Her bold, provocative movements, the lithe power of her neatly tapered frame, and the confidence of her warrior’s stance had galvanized Borger’s men. Their eyes shone like polished stones as they clamored for the right to win her. Borger drew his blade in warning as he grappled with the decision.

  There was a commotion at one edge of the circle and Borger craned his neck to see past the crush of warriors. A crafty grin spread over his broad face and Aaren, senses honed and wary, followed his gaze. At the far edge of the torchlight, the men were being jostled and parted by a muscular young giant with flaxen hair and a just-wakened look about him. He paused at the sight of her and stared with eyes that, even from a distance, were startlingly blue.

  Aaren found herself looking at the largest man she’d ever seen. From the way he towered above the men around him, he was even taller than she, and from the breadth of his shoulders and the girth of his thighs, he was massively strong. Her eyes slid up his front-parted tunic, which bared a generous slice of sun-burnished chest, to his face. It was a clean, finely sculptured vision of a face, framed by wide cheekbones, a high forehead, and a sinewy, beardless jaw. Everything about him was eye-stealing . . . eye-pleasuring. The impact of him flooded through her senses until their gazes met in a glancing blow, and an odd, sobering chill raced through her. Of all the men in Borger’s hall, she sensed this one alone posed her a threat. With a jerk of her head, she forced her concentration back to the coming fight.

  Borger had watched the play of eyes between the battle-maiden and his eldest son with unabashed interest. But he knew better than to look to Jorund to challenge her, and so turned to his younger sons and warriors. He leveled his blade at young Svein Torkelson. A howl of outrage went up at the selection, but the young warrior bounded from the pack and unsheathed his blade, waving it in expectation of triumph over the warrior-maiden with the long, magnificent legs.

  Aaren studied young Svein’s form and movements as he came forward. He stood a half-span shorter than she, and was lean, energetic, and untempered; a green stripling of a warrior. The small, lingering knot in her gut uncoiled; she could easily take him. She grasped her smooth-edged blade with both hands, widened her stance, and curled into a familiar stalking posture. When a smile spread over her face, young Svein took it as a sign of encouragement and charged in with his blade swinging.

  The battle was joined . . . almost. Aaren handily sidestepped the lad’s overpowered swing, wheeled, and waited for him to recover. Svein swung heavily again, and again she swayed easily out of reach. The anticipation in his face turned to glowering determination as he felt his blade whirling off, unchecked, into nothingness and whirled back to find her waiting for him.

  “She’s afraid of a taste of steel!” he shouted, red-faced. As he came at her again, there were hisses and caws of derision from the warriors.

  “Fight . . . unless you have the heart of a woman, as well as the shape!” “She’s no warrior, she’s a coward!” and “Use your blade, Valkyr’s daughter, or be prepared to spread yourself for ours!” they taunted. When she feinted and escaped the lad’s third swing without countering his steel, the comments turned uglier still.

  Aaren was too focused on her opponent to hear much of their jeering. When Svein grew bolder and lunged to hack straight down at her, she deflected his blade and the force of the impact sent tremors up the young warrior’s braced arms. Spurred by that jarring clash, he lunged and hacked again and again, and she met each blow with uncanny precision. She could read the direction of each coming blow in his eyes and in the shifts of his unseasoned frame, and turned them on him, sending him back a pace for every blow he struck. Within moments, he was panting and crimson-faced, while she breathed evenly and her face was alight with what could only have been called pleasure.

  It was like the blade-meetings she’d had with Serrick in the early days of her training. She had been pure energy, unfocused and easily dissipated. Serrick had reined his skill with her, as she did with this lad . . . waiting for her to wear herself down. But as she glanced past her opponent and felt the volatile heat and anger roiling around her, she remembered she was not the young warrior’s master. She had a point to prove here and a battle to win.

  She deliberately slipped the bonds of restraint, freeing her power at last. For the first time she swung her blade in attack, and the swiftness of its arc set it singing on the air before it struck . . . dead on target. Around her she heard shocked murmurs, which faded quickly in the rush of blood in her ears and the pounding of her heart. Feinting with her blade tip, she reversed her swing, catching him completely off guard. He hastily parried and stumbled back, and she swung again, scoring his leather jerkin with the tip of her blade.

  Frantically, he lunged and hacked, only to have his blows shunted aside, then returned with relentless precision. Again and again her wrists flexed and her body snapped taut, darted, or swayed as her blade struck home. Then she began to use her feet as Serrick had taught her, twisting, throwing rounding kicks, forcing him to contend with her on two fronts. The strain showed in his face as he grimaced, jerked, and lurched off balance again and again. In desperation, he planted his feet to bolster the power of his blows. As he heaved and reared for a massive strike, she swung a foot forward, sweeping his knee just as her blade connected with his in opposing motion. He stumbled, flailed, then toppled, flinging his arms wide and sending his sword clattering as he crashed onto the hard-packed dirt.

  In the space of a single heartbeat she pounced, slamming her foot down on his chest and pressing her blade tip to his throat. Her chest heaved and body trembled with unvented force as she raised her face to the jarl, demanding he acknowledge her victory and grant her the respect due a warrior. But amidst the grumbling of his men, he remained silent, studying her with undisguised calculation.

  “Which of your warriors do you send to defeat next, Jarl?” She lifted her blade and removed her foot from Svein the Unready’s chest. She turned a scornful eye on the surly, ale-bitten crew around them. “Are any still clearheaded enough to swing a blade?”

  A clamor broke out as Borger’s men assailed him, shaking fists and jabbing fingers, each hotly demanding the chance to teach the wench some respect.

  “Not now—Hel take you!” Borger bashed them aside with a snarl, while keeping his gaze fixed upon her. She could feel his scrutiny like a brawny hand traveling up her legs, measuring her waist, sliding over her breastplate.

  “The fighting is over this night!” he bellowed. “Go back to your ale horns, your furs, and your women.” When they protested, he raised the back of his fist threateningly, daring them to challenge his authority.

  Only Aaren spoke up. “I am ready to fight again, Jarl,” she declared. “Give me an opponent.” He gave her
a lidded look that was some part pleasure, some part warning.

  “I said”—he roared at her as he had at his warriors—“there will be no more meeting of blades this night. Go to your rest, Serricksdotter. Spare your strength for tomorrow.” He turned to the others, who watched hawkishly. “Go—all of you!”

  Borger’s men argued among themselves as they turned away. Aaren watched them go with a steamy, unreasoning disappointment. She had prepared for a real test of her prowess and had been given only one green stripling to fight. Now her blood still coursed hard in her veins, her skin was aflame with battle-spawned heat, and her muscles and nerves fairly vibrated with the need for physical release.

  She wheeled to retrieve her scabbard and found herself suddenly eye-to-eye with the great, flaxen-haired giant she had seen earlier. He lowered his gaze and studied her with thorough, assessing strokes that seemed to penetrate her garments and seek entrance through her skin. A provocative curl appeared at one corner of his mouth and Aaren felt the pounding in her blood escalate. He recognized the turmoil inside her, the need to spend the power and heat released in her by battle. And the way his smile broadened made it seem that he saw more . . . much more.

  The chilled night breeze swirled over her hot, damp skin and she shivered, wishing she could pull her gaze from him and sensing that to do so would be to retreat. The very thought was abhorrent to her warrior’s heart and she stiffened, narrowing her eyes at him. After a pride-saving pause, she turned on her heel and found herself facing the jarl, who stood several feet away in the light of the single remaining torch, watching her reaction to the big warrior.

  She whirled and started for the door of the women’s house, but halted at the sound of her name being called and turned to the open window.

  “Aaren? Are you all right?” Miri and Marta were crowded into the opening with a number of other women. Their faces glowed with relief as she drew herself up straight and nodded. Embarrassed by her unsettled response to the big warrior and quaking with unspent tension, she stalked to the window and thrust her scabbard and blade into Marta’s hands.

  “Safe-keep my blade, Marta. I will return soon,” she declared.

  “Wait—where are you going?” Miri called out to her retreating back.

  “To run with the night wind.” Without looking back, she sprang into long, fluid strides that carried her to the moonlit path toward the great lake Vänern.

  JORUND BORGERSON TORE his eyes from the path where the battle-maid had disappeared and dropped his gaze to his own hands, which were clenched and aching. His chest was heaving and he could feel a thickening in his blood. Never in his life, never in all his travels, had he seen such a woman. Astonishingly tall, lithe, and graceful . . . with curves that moved like a full-flowing stream and a face stolen from his most exotic night visions. The sight of her fighting was scored into his mind—her strong, fluid movements, her perfect control of the blade, her sensual pleasure as she pressed the attack. He was tantalized by the potent aura of both “woman” and “warrior” about her.

  By the time she ran off in the moonlight, he stood staring after her, his heart beating faster, his skin warming, his loins stirring at the sight of her long, muscular legs stretching to cover distance. He would have bolted after her, but a grating chuckle nearby brought him back to his senses . . . back to the sight of Borger standing a few paces away with a pleased look on his face. Jorund frowned. Anything that gave Borger pleasure was usually a pox on the rest of mankind.

  “Liked what you saw, eh, whelp?” Borger demanded.

  Jorund gave his cagy old father a dark look. “I’ve a powerful thirst, old man,” he declared flatly, striding off to join the other men in the hall.

  Soon Jorund was sprawled comfortably across a bench and against a planking table near the high seat, slaking his thirst and ignoring the boasting around him. His head filled with long, muscular legs, nicely rounded buttocks, and well-tapered arms on broad shoulders. His memory snagged on that stunning breastplate . . . artfully molded to accommodate womanly breasts.

  “Who is she, this fighting maid?” he asked, nudging hoary Old Oleg Forkbeard, who was seated by him on the bench. Oleg turned blearily to him, but when he opened his mouth it was the jarl’s voice that boomed forth.

  “She is the daughter of a warrior who sailed with me in the early days . . . and of a Valkyr,” Borger declared, drawing Jorund’s attention to the high seat. He obviously had been watching Jorund. “She is called Aaren Serricksdotter. She fights under an enchantment cast by the goddess Freya. She must be defeated in a blade-meeting by one lone man before she or her sisters can be mounted and bred . . . or married.”

  “Let me take a blade to ’er, Jarl,” Old Forkbeard said as he reeled to his feet. “I’ll show her how a mead-horn gets filled!”

  “She’ll have your blood s-spilt, old man,” came a slurred voice from the back, “long ’ere you’ll have a chance to s-spill your nectar in her!” There were hoots of laughter all around.

  “Since I claim one of the sisters,” Garth insisted, “it’s only fair that I should be the one to defeat the warrior-maid!” His presumption wrenched a howl of anger from the rest of the men, and in the midst of the chaos, Borger turned to his eldest son and spoke in a loud voice.

  “And what of you, Firstborn?” He leaned over the arm of his great chair to regard Jorund with a calculating expression. “Do you also claim the right to fight the battle-maiden . . . for the chance to wrestle with her in your furs?”

  Every eye still capable of focusing turned on the eldest son of the jarl. Jorund Borgerson was the largest, strongest man in Borger’s village—perhaps in all of Värmland. He could cut timber from sunrise to sunset without stopping, work a ship’s oar for whole days and nights without rest, or carry a fallen comrade on his shoulders for a five-day march . . . indeed, had done all of those things. Of all the men in Borger’s realm, he was the one best suited by size, skill, and power to defeat the battle-maiden. But for all his strength, he was the man least likely to raise a blade to her.

  “I?” Jorund frowned and turned toward his father, detecting the glint in the old man’s eye and sensing the purpose in his question. He knew Borger would love nothing more than to see him take up a blade and wreak mayhem with it. “I’ll not fight a woman,” he said, leaning back, pushing his long, muscular legs out before him and clasping his hands behind his head with a provocative air of pride. “I have better things to do with women.”

  The wicked tilt of his grin was the unmistakable heritage of his lusty, quarrelsome father. All laughed: some with true good-humor, some with cloaked derision. Jorund’s repute in matters of the flesh was well-known. He had woman-luck that Odin himself must have envied. The women of Borger’s hall and village saw to it that he received the finest foods and the clearest ale, saved for him the choicest wool from their looms, and stitched his garments with special care. They laughed at his cleverness and his teasing . . . and at night they welcomed him to their furs with an eagerness that stirred resentment in the rest of Borger’s men.

  “A warrior and a maiden.” Jorund turned the unthinkable combination over in his mind.

  “Under Odin’s enchantment,” Garth supplied, glaring at his older brother’s look of amusement. “The Allfather himself ordered it cast upon her.”

  “Odin’s enchantment, my arse!” Jorund laughed as he sat upright and looked at the drink-bloated faces of his clansmen. “I don’t believe in enchantments. There’s no such thing.” The way Borger began to puff up like a sweated toad pleased him. “Come to think of it, I don’t believe in Odin, either.”

  “Son of the Troubler!” Borger howled, sending yet another ale horn clattering to the floor before his seat. “You defame the immortals—mock the gods? Better that I had never taken you onto my knee when you were born. Better that I had set you out in the forest as a wolf-offering—”

  “I do not mock God, old man,” Jorund declared loudly, “only those cruel and useless images you call
gods. There is indeed an Allfather.” His usually genial eyes narrowed with determination. “But his name is not Odin.”

  For the second time that night, Borger shoved to his feet, sputtering. It was a moment before he wrung the ale from both his soggy wits and his tongue. “It’s that wretched priest what’s done this to you—that Brother Godfrey. By the Red Thor’s Wrath—I knew I should have tossed him overboard when that storm came upon us. I may yet drown him with my own two hands!” Borger stalked back and forth, then stopped and braced himself. “Him and his talk of his White Christ and charity and turning the other cheek,” he declared, slinging a battle-toughened finger toward the doors. “That foul, deceiving son of Loki . . . that adder with the shape of a man . . . it’s him what’s poisoned you against honest fighting and the gods of Asgard!”

  “Nej, old man.” Jorund smacked his palms on the planking and pushed up slowly. “It was not Godfrey who gave me a loathing for the reddening of spears.” The scathing heat of his gaze as he scanned Borger’s combative frame laid the blame for his battle-loathing at another’s feet.

  “If you would have the high seat, Firstborn—”

  The sparks those words struck in Jorund’s eyes halted Borger, and for a long moment they faced each other, testing the boundaries of the old bitterness between them. Then Jorund turned and strode out into the frosty night.

  Borger sank back into his high seat and into his ale as he stared after his strapping, woman-pleasing son and wondered at the way the boy had gone wrong. His heir was strong as a bear, quick as a fox, sharp as a blade . . . and appallingly peaceable and good-natured.

  “What did I do to deserve such a fate?” he lamented to the half-conscious skald, Snorri, who leaned from a nearby bench to give him an ear. “I never asked the gods for much. A bit of victory here or there . . . a bit of fame when I’m ashes and gone . . . a son and heir with a proper Viking battle-lust in his blood.”

  He scratched his belly and made a sour face.