by Betina Krahn
She had possessed him, he understood; her with her long, dangerous legs and defiant chin . . . and her soft lips and vulnerable eyes. Never in his life had a woman gotten under his skin as she had. He couldn’t stand having her tell him to keep his hands to himself; couldn’t bear stopping once he’d tasted her. He glanced down at the ring of red teeth marks on the back of his hand. He’d been damned close to giving her the full-out blade-fight she was asking for. That realization sent him into complete turmoil: imagine taking a blade to a woman!
In both his experience and his pragmatic ethic, blades were the implements of pain and destruction, and women were the means of healing and creation. The two were utterly and irrevocably opposed. And despite the hard evidence of his own senses—he flexed his bitten hand—he could not reconcile them.
Trust his contentious old father to somehow find and pair him with a beautiful, blade-fighting female . . . an unthinkable combination of danger and desire. He’d known from that first night what Borger intended, and he was adamant that the old boar wouldn’t have his way. He was through with blade-fighting . . . that was the end of it.
He started back along the path, grumbling to himself. There was a woman in Aaren Serricksdotter, somewhere. He’d tasted her and felt her. He wanted her. And he intended to find her again . . . no matter how long it took.
When he emerged from the trees sometime later, he felt a swirling blast of cold, moisture-laden wind and halted. The trees at the edge of the woods were swaying and the sky was half filled with a blanket of dense clouds. It took a moment to register, then he lurched into a run, headed straight for the fields.
The harvest!
NINE
THE OLD dairywoman’s cow tails had been wrong. Late that very morning, the weather turned and the North Wind came riding down out of his mountain lair to darken the sky with his great cloud-cloak and chill the land with his breath. All the folk of Borger’s village saw him come and they read in his fierce bluster the portent of crop-stripping gales and driving rain. Those villagers not already in the fields emptied their hands of tools and kettles and half-washed clothes and went running to help bring in the grain.
Aaren arrived at a run, alongside a number of others who dispersed into the fields to quicken the pace of cutting and bundling. She paused on the cart path, chest heaving, and scoured the patchwork of fields, looking for a place to start. Several workers were just standing at the edge of a nearby rye field, staring balefully at the sky and at one another.
“Here—you! Give me that and take one of the women’s sickles!” She wrested a scythe from an old thrall man’s hands, then turned to the women and young boys. “The rest of you with sickles start on the other side . . . cut and bundle as you go. Those without blades fall in behind me to gather and bundle.” Then, without a wasted moment, she laid to and began to cut.
Jorund found his way to the fields blocked by a muddle of carts, panicky horses, and a number of villagers staring at the sky and bemoaning the calamity about to befall them. He seized reins and calmed several of the sturdy fjord mares, sending them on their way. Then he turned to the trouble in his people’s faces and seized their situation just as firmly as he had the horses.
“The North Wind is a coward,” he declared, lifting his face into the wind and pointing skyward toward the last bit of blue. “And he has not even fully defeated the Sky. It will be some time before he can turn his full fury on us . . . and by the time he does, we will have already taken our grain from the fields!” He shook a fist skyward.
The anxious villagers looked at Jorund’s great fist, raised against their common enemy, and their faces thawed and their shoulders set with determination. They turned back to join the others in the fields, shouting encouragement to one another. Then, seeing them heading back to work, Jorund looked for a place to work himself.
He strode into a rye field and wrested a sickle from the hands of a harried young woman with a small babe tied on her back, sending her to the edge of the field. Pouncing to his knees at the head of the row, he began to swing the curved blade with determination. Halfway through the row, he felt a tapping on his back and turned to find Helga’s boy holding out a long-handled scythe.
“My mother says you’ll cut faster with this,” he said, panting.
“Your mother is a wise woman, Little Brother.” Jorund grinned, shoving to his feet, and traded blades with the boy. He arched his back and raised his elbows, swinging each arm in a circle to work the stiffness out of his shoulders . . . and found himself looking straight into Aaren Serricksdotter’s steady gaze. She was cutting in the field across the way and had paused when she caught sight of him. When he searched her expression, she looked away and went back to cutting. He studied her wide shoulders and thick, swaying braid and his mouth turned up in a wry curl at the thought that she was just as sore and miserable as he was.
They worked at a frantic but steady pace. From field to field the villagers moved, like swarming bees, changing tools and places, spelling each other and stepping in to take up whatever task was required. Now and then, one would pause and lift a defiant fist to the old North Wind.
Aaren lost track of where her sisters were, of who gleaned and bundled behind her, even of which field she worked in. She was lost once again in a haze of numbed pain and determination . . . until someone clasped her by the shoulder and forced her around. She found herself facing a yellow-haired fellow whose features were a cleaner, more handsome version of old Borger’s.
“Hold, Serricksdotter!” Garth Borgerson jerked his hand from her when he saw the glare on her face. “Leave something for the rest of us to cut,” he said with a nervous laugh. When she blinked and looked at him in confusion, he grinned and began to peel her cramped fingers from the scythe handle. “Even a Valkyr’s daughter must rest sometime.”
Aaren staggered aside, then trudged to the edge of the field with the vision of his smile hanging in her mind. It was the first time anyone in Borger’s village or his band of warriors had looked at her with anything other than mistrust or resentment. She collapsed in the dried weeds and closed her eyes, trying not to listen to her body’s groanings, but a movement in the grass nearby made her pop her eyes open.
Looming above her was a thick-framed warrior with carrot-red hair and features coarser than old Borger’s. Another of the old goat’s offspring, she realized. But before she could scuttle back, the fellow thrust a bucket at her and declared in a gravelly voice, “You can’t work if you don’t drink, Serricksdotter.” When she looked dumbly at the bucket, trying to decipher his meaning, his raspy voice rumbled forth again. “Go on . . . you earned it.”
His broad mouth twisted into what looked like a wry smile. Rattled by the unexpected offer, she took the dipper and drank deeply of the foaming ale. The drink’s warmth seeped quickly through her middle and spread along her limbs to deaden the ache. She watched the fellow stride back to his own work, with a sense of bewilderment. Two acknowledgements of her existence in the same day . . . she must be out of her head with fatigue and seeing things!
THE RAINS STARTED just at dark: wind-driven sheets of huge, cold drops that flattened stalks and battered both humans and animals. But the harvest frenzy had already snatched most of the grain from the jaws of the storm, and the horses and carts lurched into motion and quickly trundled the last of their precious cargo toward the barns. The workers, cold, fatigued, and now soaked to the bone, were left to slog their way back to shelter. Once in the village, they scattered to their huts and houses, to warm and dry themselves and line their bellies with cold fare and sour ale.
Jorund dragged himself into the hall and headed for his sleeping closet, to change his sodden clothes and crawl into his furs for some rest. Borger entered the hall behind Jorund, heading toward his own sleeping quarters, and he caught sight of his son’s destination.
“Firstborn!” the old boar called out. Jorund paused, then turned, his shoulders sagging with fatigue and irritation. Borger swaggered even with J
orund and stopped, wiping water from his ruddy face and rain-slicked beard.
“I see you slept in your own furs last night, boy.” He smirked. “Have the wenches in the thrall house lost their savor?”
Jorund met the crafty gleam in his father’s eye and felt his blood heating precipitously. The old badger knew what had driven him back to his solitary pallet, curse his eyes! He had always had an extra sense for detecting smoldering lusts. And from the unholy pleasure in his face, Jorund guessed he’d already heard about the encounter with Aaren Serricksdotter in the women’s house that morning.
“You sample the wenches often enough . . . you tell me,” Jorund ground out, turning away to push aside the heavy curtain.
“Jorund!”
He halted, but turned only his head, looking over his shoulder at his sire. As always, tension rose between them. After a moment, Borger relaxed his braced stance and his cagey eyes took on a lewd glint.
“They said you had her naked.” Borger narrowed one eye and licked his lower lip. “Are her breasts as full and toothsome as they seem, behind that armor?” Jorund was stung by the ill-concealed lust in the old man’s face. The thought of the ranting old cur slavering over Aaren Serricksdotter brought Jorund’s blood up. He made fists of his aching hands and leveled a vengeful look at Borger. Let the old hound stew in his own imaginings.
“More so.”
“I knew it! Curse me if I don’t know a prime bit of fur-sport when I see it!” Borger crowed, slapping his sodden thigh, then sobering as Jorund turned away to his closet. “Hold, boy! I’ve not finished with you.”
“What now, old man?” Jorund demanded, staring straight ahead. He could feel his father’s eyes measuring him in the long silence, and knew he was being compared once more to the old man’s cursed standard of the warrior.
“You did well this day in the fields.” Borger’s voice came low and earnest, surprising Jorund. Fine praise and thank-words were not Borger’s way; he was always one to bully more than persuade. “The folk saw the Harvest Stealer riding down on them and lost heart . . . until you came. You and the Valkyr’s daughter. They saw you look straight into the jaws of the Cold Reaper and take up harvest blades to do battle. And they did the same.”
Jorund felt a familiar heat swelling his veins and setting fire to his belly. He made fists of his hands and clamped his jaw tight. It was true. But even the truth could seem tainted and misshapen when bent to Borger’s purpose.
“You could lead them, Firstborn.” Borger stepped closer and the hushed urgency in his tone overwhelmed Jorund’s resolve not to look at his father. Borger’s face was grave and his eyes glowed with a fierce, compelling light.
“Yea, I could lead them,” Jorund declared, his voice like the knell of iron striking stone. “But never into battle.” He turned away.
“Jorund!” Borger’s voice stopped him halfway through the curtain. The jarl stalked forward, his body tensed, his tone fraught with both command and dark persuasion. “Take a blade to the battle-wench, boy, and break her curse.” He edged closer. “Then with her at your side, take up your arms and lead your clan . . . claim the respect and loyalty of my warriors, and seize the high seat for your own, once and for all. My seat carries much power, Firstborn. . . .”
The words hissed and slithered along Jorund’s nerves, seductively joining his two deepest desires: his longing to lead his people and his desire to conquer the battle-maiden and take her for his own. Borger was tempting him to take up the sword . . . to conform to the violent code of the warrior once more. Conflict rose in him like a sea squall, dark and tumid, heavy with unslaked desires and unvented angers. His body quivered, his throat tightened with need, and his eyes burned.
To have all he wanted, all he had to do was pick up a blade. And draw blood. Starting with Aaren Serricksdotter.
“Go to Hel, old man,” he gritted out. Then he stalked into his private closet and jerked the curtain shut behind him.
Borger stood for a moment, staring furiously at that heavy fabric. His cramped frame eased and his expression grew crafty once more as he recalled Jorund’s trembling silence and realized that the whelp had actually been lured by his words.
“I may indeed go to Hel’s cold, dark realm instead of the glorious Valhalla,” he said with a grin. “But not before I see you fight once more, Firstborn.”
IF THE VILLAGE had been attacked that night by any of Borger’s several enemies, it would have been taken without so much as a murmur of resistance . . . the exhaustion of the warriors and village folk was so great. They fell on their pallets and crawled into their furs and slept until the next afternoon, and even then were loathe to venture out into the cold, lashing rain and raw North Wind. By nightfall, most were recovered enough to resume their chores and duties. But it took word from the long hall that Borger would burn a sacred ash log and open his ale barrels in honor of their harvest victory, to revive them completely.
They crowded into the hall carrying their wooden bowls and drinking horns, talking and laughing and jostling. The great trunk of an ash tree burned brightly in the hearth, spreading warmth and cheer, and several barrels of ale and the juicy meat of two roasted boars filled them with more tangible goodwill. Extra benches had been set on the hearth side of the tables, but many villagers still had to eat standing up, and didn’t seem to mind at all.
Aaren wound her way among the revelers, drawing many eyes. She was garbed in her breastplate and best tunic, made of fine woolen dyed blue with woad and trimmed in red cording. She had abandoned her headband, but her hair was tautly braided from the crown of her head to her buttocks . . . as if, in clothing herself for the celebration, she had also prepared for battle.
And indeed, she had. For she intended to take up her challenge of Jorund again at the first opportunity, and to provoke him all the way to a blade-fight. In the time since their miserable confrontation in the women’s house, she’d found her thoughts alarmingly divided between blade-meetings and mouth-meetings with him—wanting both . . . dreading both. And she feared that such a division in her desires could spread confusion through the rest of her. The only way to forestall such a wretched development was to get him to pick up a blade as soon as possible . . . tonight, while he was still furious with her.
The warriors sat at their tables and milled about the great hearth with drinking horns in their hands and their voices booming. As she passed, many stared at her, some in speculation, some in dull resentment, most in visible hunger. She stopped near the high seat and surveyed the tables, looking for Jorund and for a place to sit. Finding neither, she tried the other side and found it just as crowded. Then she spotted the young warrior who had spelled her in the field the day before, sitting on a hearth-side bench, staring at her with a grin. When he was sure he had caught her eye, he nodded, then slid to one side and smacked the seat beside him.
It was clearly an invitation. She glanced warily about, finding no one directly behind her. It must have been meant for her. She took a steadying breath, then accepted, easing onto the bench in taut silence. Two stringy, leather-faced warriors across the planking gave her surly looks and carried their food and drink elsewhere. Her brash young host snorted a laugh.
“Pay them no mind, Serricksdotter. They’re pride-sore that you left them so little grain to cut yesterday. They each lost a wager with a wench, which cost them a long-awaited wrestle in the furs.” Aaren felt her face heating with unwarriorlike embarrassment. She was relieved to have Miri arrive just then with a bowl of roast pork and cabbage and a horn of new ale; she buried her nose in the foaming drink . . . missing the flirtatious exchange of glances between her sister and her new comrade at arms.
“What are you called, Borgerson?” she asked minutes later, having come to the bottom of her bowl.
“I am called Garth,” he answered. “And this great, ugly toad is Erik, my half brother.” He slapped the fellow next to him on the shoulder and Aaren recognized the flame-haired fellow who had given her ale during the h
arvest. Garth leaned closer to divulge: “His mother was attacked by a carrot before he was born, and it marked him.” He laughed at her startled look and Erik groaned good-naturedly at what was apparently an old joke. “And that is Hrolf the Elder”—he pointed to fellows farther down the table—“and that handsome devil is Brun Cinder-hand, our smith.” Sooty, thick-fisted Brun was anything but handsome, but he managed a red-faced nod. “And that is Hakon, called the Freeholder, and of course you’ve already met . . . Thorkel the Ever-ready.”
Amidst raucous laughter, Hakon and Thorkel and two others glared at Garth and picked up their drinking horns, shoving up from the planking and shouldering their way through the crowd. Garth laughed again, elbowed Aaren’s ribs, and called at Thorkel’s back: “Perhaps he should have a new name . . . Thorkel Sore Loser!”
Aaren had begun to relax, returning Garth’s grin, when the warriors around her fell silent and she looked up to find Jorund Borgerson taking one of the seats Hakon and Thorkel had just vacated at the far end of the table. Those seated on the bench between her and Jorund leaned back, one by one, to give them a clear line of sight to each other. The level of heat in the hall seemed to rise precipitously as they confronted each other.
She was unprepared for his impact on her senses. He wore a blue-black tunic that hugged his broad shoulders and fell casually open at the tie placket to reveal a wedge of his bronzed chest. His chin was freshly shaved and his shoulder-length hair was neatly combed. But it was his intense blue eyes that captured and held her gaze for longer than was prudent . . . long enough to interfere with her heartbeat.
She lifted her chin and tore her gaze away in what she hoped was a convincing show of disdain. But underneath she was struggling to subdue the drumming of her heart. There was nothing to be alarmed about, she told herself. She was in a hall full of people and thus in no danger from his silken word-snares and treacherous pleasure-skill . . . or her unthinkable weakness for them.