by Betina Krahn
“Don’t do this to me, Aaren!”
“I wouldn’t—if there were any other way,” she shouted brokenly. “Don’t you see? I cannot live without you anymore, Jorund. But neither can I live without honor.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Nej—I cannot fight you!” He stumbled closer, stopping just short of the blade at his feet, recoiling from it. “You know what happens to me when I fight. By the Merciful God”—he choked—“if we fight, I’ll kill you!”
“Nej—you will not! I have the victory-luck from Odin himself. You will not harm me!”
“Dammit, Aaren—there is no such thing as victory-luck—and no Odin to grant it to you! Don’t you see—Asgard and hammers and rainbows, it’s all tales and twisted nonsense told to make men eager to kill and to die in some fat jarl’s service.”
How could she make him understand if he did not even believe— She seized a wisp of memory, something Brother Godfrey had said. Jorund believed in the White Christ and in that young god’s curious weapon. She clasped the handle of her blade to her breast, her eyes shining. And she prayed she would get it right.
“Then if you do not believe in your people’s gods, believe in your own. You will not harm me, Jorund. For your god’s heart-weapon will steady your arm . . . and stay it, when need be.”
He stared at her, his eyes burning, torment etched into every line of his face and frame. “What do you mean? What ‘heart-weapon’?” And the pained longing he glimpsed in her glowing amber eyes cut him to the very quick.
“Love,” she answered, her voice thick with feeling. “You do love me, Jorund . . . don’t you?”
He felt as if someone had taken a war-hammer to his heart. His entire body contracted, straining against the swell of anguish in his chest. He could scarcely get his breath. She was standing there with tears streaming down her face, putting her life in his hands . . . trusting that his love for her would counter the madness that invaded his blood. After a long moment, he managed to thaw his frozen throat.
“I do,” he said. “God knows, I do love you.”
A radiant smile burst on her face, lighting her whole countenance. She wiped away the last of her tears . . . and raised her blade.
“Then fight me, Jorund.” She took two steps back. “Pick up your blade . . . and let your White Christ shield your heart and mine with his Love.”
He made a low, agonized groan and turned away. He stood with his broad back to her, trembling and choked with fear . . . hating her for forcing him to this . . . loving her for her courage and her boundless faith in him . . . in his love. He was roused beyond bearing: angry at fate, at his conniving old father, at himself . . .
He wheeled and knelt, stretching his big hand out . . . seizing the horn grip of his tarnished silver-handled blade. The metal sang as he drew it from its cradle. Then he pushed to his feet and kissed its cold, killing steel, lifting it skyward.
“I call on you, Merciful Christ,” he ground out from the bottom of his soul, “to guide my arm. And if you spare her life . . . I swear, you will have mine in its place.”
He turned to the love shining in her eyes, swung his wolf-blade in a great arc above his head—then brought it crashing down on her.
She met his blow with an upward cut of her blade and steel rang on blood-tempered steel. The shock radiated through her arms and jarred her heart to a raw, familiar cadence, spurring senses to battle alert. She wheeled her blade and returned the blow, watching his face, intent on the nuance of his paling eyes. Again the iron sang, each tone ringing free and clear before it thinned and faded on the cold mountain air. She leaped to the offensive and suddenly the meadow was filled with the strident clang of blade-battle . . . the radiant sun and cold, naked trees the only witnesses to the song of triumph or of tragedy unfolding.
She braced and lunged, swinging, and caught his blade tip as he jolted aside. With another lunge and swing, she caught the back side of his blade and knocked it upward . . . a bit too easily. Her mind raced as she pressed the attack and watched him falling back into the meadow, parrying her blows only in defense . . . returning none of them. He was holding back; she could see the strain of containment in his face and almost felt the power trapped and bulging in his massive arms. She recognized his strategy: wear her down and move in late, to take her with as little force as necessary. Her first impulse was anger that he would demean her blade-skill so. But reason soon tempered pride; it was his way of protecting them both. She was torn between accepting his restraint and coaxing him to give himself fully to the fight—to face his inner beast and conquer it, even as he conquered her.
“Do not be afraid to strike me, Jorund!” she called out, planting her feet and swinging from the waist, ripping her blade forcefully up the edge of his, producing a grating sound. “I am a warrior—I can defend myself!” Again, she lunged, swinging broadly and rolling the edge of the arc back upon itself—reversing to immediately engage his blade again. And again he met and deflected her well-aimed cut without launching his own attack.
The old motions, the feel of the blade in his grip, the sound of blades meeting . . . it was all so chillingly familiar, so cursedly easy to slide back into. Jorund felt the old heat trickling into his blood and fastened his eyes on Aaren’s face, willing himself to see her, to never let her eyes leave his sight. Aaren, his own voice chanted in his head, this is Aaren . . . my Aaren.
She could feel the battle-heat rising closer to his surface; there was an extra tremor of force in his blade as he met her blows. The familiar battle-burn was beginning in her lungs and spreading into her blood, as well. Digging her heels into the dried grasses, she coiled and released her shoulders and sliced a singing arc through the air, landing a blow near his sword hilt, visibly jarring his arms.
“Do not fear it, Jorund. You give it power over you,” she called, charging in again and again. “Look at me!” She grasped for something to make his mind reach past the present battle. “Think of the future . . . of the wine you promised me . . . I will drink that wine, Jorund. And think of the soft furs . . . and long nights by the fire . . . of the pleasures you have promised me . . . of children we will make . . .”
“Aaren,” he gritted out, desperate to hold on to her words, which were slowly being drowned out by the roar of his own blood in his head. He felt his control slipping and returned her swing, down-cutting savagely so that he grounded their blades for a moment.
They stood with sword points crossed, panting, hot-eyed. Sweat glistened on his bronzed shoulders and trickled down his corded neck, his light hair glowed golden in the sunlight, and his body heat reached for her the way his weapon would not. Anguish rose into his eyes—and she knew he was on the verge of retreating from both the fight and her. Her arms trembled, her legs suffered a surge of weakness as raw, searing need for him slammed through her frame. She couldn’t let him stop—she would lose him!
“If you want me, Borgerson, I am yours. Come and take me,” she declared with all the smoldering sexual heat she could summon. Then she ripped her blade aloft and brought it crashing down on him.
He reacted instinctively, jerking his blade up to meet her blow. The shock of the hit and the blast of heat from her unshielded desires seared his senses. His perception fragmented and he suddenly saw her as parts instead of a whole—smooth, powerful arms lashing . . . legs coiled, then exploding like white-hot embers . . . shoulders and body flexing, supple as a mountain cat’s . . . long hair whipping about her like living flame. And her face . . . exotic, heat-polished, filled with a startling blend of battle-lust and female heat. Passion roared through him, pushing his response to the very limits of his control.
He battled on two fronts: against her blade and against his own violently erupting passions. The conflict raging inside him slowed his reflexes for one fraction of an instant . . . long enough for the tip of her blade to dart in. He wrenched his shoulders back, but it caught the edge of his upper arm, laying a gash across it.
Stinging pain las
hed through him, narrowing his consciousness further, and the red running toward his elbow suddenly exploded in his vision, consuming his whole awareness. The battle-beast straining inside him broke free and with a great, pained roar he raised his blade and charged her full-out.
Aaren had no time to register the horror of her act or concern for the wound she had dealt him. His massive blade came crashing down on hers a heartbeat later, dragging her braced arms and sword down with it. She scarcely had time to pull away before he aimed a sidelong slash at her, narrowly missing her thigh. Her whole consciousness sprang to reflexive action and quickened battle-timing . . . propelling her to the very edge of that stark boundary between life and death. Her senses now raced, anticipating as much as perceiving, and her lithe, powerful frame braced to receive blows, then again to deal them out. Soon her arms ached and her back muscles burned from the pounding, unrelenting force and the constant whirling, jarring motions needed to withstand it.
For the first time in her experience, Aaren faced an opponent her equal. His size lent massive force to his blows, and again and again she felt her sword rattle in her grip as his mighty blade connected with its edge and all but ripped it from her hands. But for all his size and strength, he still moved like a great hunting cat: legs crouching, then erupting; shoulders flexing gracefully; arms striking like a seasoned whip. He was both beautiful and terrifying . . . and he was bent on sinking his blade into her flesh. It took every bit of agility she possessed to escape his savage cuts and all her strength to deal him countering blows.
She gritted her teeth as he battered her back into the trees. Gradually, defensively, her senses pared away all excess stimulation and constricted around the stark essentials of him. She began to see only the movement of his eyes, the angles of his body, and the whirling arcs of his blade.
They fought on into the early afternoon, going on raw nerve, senses dulled to all but the other’s presence and the struggle being waged between them. She sensed more than saw his tiring, as the pounding force of his blows slackened and the pace of his assault slowed. But his reserves of energy were greater than hers, and as she struggled to mount one last offensive—trying again to wrench his blade from his grip—her strength began to fail. Her responses slowed dangerously as he drove her back through the forest.
Her lungs were raw, her heart felt as if it would burst from her chest, and an ominous leaden feeling was creeping down her limbs. She tried to rally, feeling for the first time the brush of death’s cold breath upon her face. But even mortal danger could not pull strength from limbs long spent. Her agile feet began to falter, leaving her more and more vulnerable. With her power ebbing and her reserves gone, she sensed the end was near and in her deepest heart she called to the White Christ . . . begging that presence . . . entreating without words.
Dodging a wide slash of his blade, she stumbled back and her heel caught on an exposed root. She caught her balance but dropped her blade tip, missing her defensive mark. His sword surged in as she twisted to recover—and it sliced into her. She fell with a cry and came to rest, motionless, on the soft blanket of leaves.
Jorund stood quaking in the silence, hardly seeing, barely able to feel his own limbs. His chest was heaving, the battle-roar in his head was deafening . . . but the sense that she was gone penetrated his pain-filled consciousness. Aaren . . . gone. All through the fight he had felt her vital presence with him; now she was gone. Slowly his perceptions began to right and broaden. And as the blood pounding in his head drained and he looked for her, his eyes fell on her crumpled form. He froze.
The seeping red on her tunic burst like a lightning bolt through his mind. Blood—she was wounded! Merciful Christ—he had wounded her—or killed her! “Nej!” Anguish boiled up from deep in his soul and escaped on a chilling, feral cry—a wounded sound that echoed through the forest.
“Curse you, Odin!” he shouted hoarsely, his face twisted in agony. “It’s you that killed her—you and all the bloody gods of Asgard!” And he lifted the sword in his hand and whirled in a spiral of fury, flinging it with all his might into the trees, where it bit deep into a sapling.
He stumbled to Aaren and fell on his knees beside her, trembling, touching her face, her arm . . . peeling her stiff fingers from the grip of her sword. With the last of his strength, he gathered her up into his arms and lifted her, pressing his cheek against hers. He staggered back toward the lodge, seeing nothing but her drained face, feeling burned and hollow.
By the time he reached the meadow, he had reclaimed enough of his reason to examine her and realize that she was still breathing and appeared to be wounded in the shoulder or chest. As he crossed the clearing he began to run with her, thinking frantically ahead, recalling what he had to do.
Banging through the door with his shoulder, he carried her straight to his furs. He tore the tunic away from her chest and relief poured over him as he dabbed the blood away. She bore a cut along the top of her shoulder, from her throat to the top of her arm. It was not deep, he discovered, but, like his wolf-wounds, it was alarmingly bloody.
His fingers were cramped and swollen, clumsy as he worked the laces of her breastplate. Still, he managed to remove her armor gently and lifted her sodden tunic from her. He bathed the wound carefully and bound it, sickened at the sight of the fierce red gash in her fair skin . . . by the realization that he’d caused it. A fraction more, a slight stumble or a twist on her part, and his blade would have sliced straight into her heart. He lowered himself onto the shelf beside her, cradling her protectively against his chest, recalling the way she spoke of Love shielding their hearts. And with his last bit of strength, he whispered to his new master.
“My heart aches to thank you, White Christ, for shielding and sparing her life. I owe you more than one unworthy soul. So I swear to you, on my beloved’s heart, that I will never raise a blade against another man . . . not as long as I draw breath.”
And in the quiet of the little summer lodge, he laid his cheek against her head and slept.
Sometime later, Aaren roused to find herself in Jorund’s shieling, in Jorund’s furs, and in Jorund’s arms. She turned her head toward the throbbing pain in her shoulder and glimpsed the makeshift binding and the traces of red on the ragged strips of linen. Lifting her hand, she traced the thick muscles of the arm that lay across her, following them upward to a linen binding. They were both alive, she thought wonderingly, and they would mend. An exhausted smile flickered over her features as her eyes closed and she joined him in rest.
SIXTEEN
IT WAS past nightfall of the next day when Aaren awoke fully, to firelight, a dull-throbbing shoulder, and a howling stomach. She lay quietly in the furs, reclaiming her senses and assessing her condition. Just what did it feel like . . . this “defeat”? Moving her feet, hands, and knees, she determined that her body seemed whole and still moved properly—albeit with some soreness. Her inner condition was a bit more difficult to assess. She could detect no great difference in herself. . . .
The smell of food that filled the lodge registered in her senses. She abandoned her musings to push back the furs, lever herself up on her good arm, and look around. Jorund was sitting by the hearth, staring into the dancing flames. Her movement caused him to look up and she smiled at him as she rolled stiffly from the sleeping shelf.
“Are you well enough?” he demanded, bolting up and hurrying to steady her.
“I am fine,” she said, wincing as she straightened and ran a hand down her neck with a grimace. “Except for my shoulder.” She stretched gently and felt a twinge of discomfort in her wound and an ache rolling down her spine. “And my back . . . and my arms . . . and my head . . . and my legs. Even my buttocks ache. By the gods, I feel awful.” The look she raised to him was so absurdly pitiful that it positively begged a smile. She got a small one.
“Then you must go straight back to the furs.” He gave her an authoritative nudge.
“Nej, I’ll never get rid of the aches if I don’t move abo
ut.” She wobbled around him and moved stiffly to the hearth to discover what was releasing such tantalizing smells. “And I’m half starved. What is all this?” She peered into the stone crock and breathed deeply of the rising vapors, closing her eyes to savor the aroma. “Apples. I think I was just dreaming of apples! Where did you get them?”
“Helga knows I like them. She packed a few at the bottom of the grain.”
She sniffed again. “And pork . . . wonderful, salty pork . . .” She turned on him with a bone-melting smile. “Feed me, Borgerson. It is the least one warrior can do for another who is wounded.”
He managed a stiff smile at her jest, then did just that . . . fed her. She attacked the bowl of salt-cured pork and cooked apples he handed her, and groaned appreciatively, complimenting his hearth-skill. When she finished, she sat back with a sigh and let the heat seep into her bones while she licked her fingers with sated leisure and sipped a horn of ale.
Quiet descended and after a few moments she glanced up and found him staring at her across the fire with an odd look. She was puzzled at first, then followed his gaze to her own ripped tunic, which hung entirely open from her wounded shoulder, revealing much of one bare breast. As quickly as the impulse to cover herself bloomed, it was countered by a shocking new thought: He had earned the right to look . . . and to touch, if he wanted. And so, she realized, had she.
She had been defeated—her enchantment was satisfied! There was nothing to stop their mating now. She sat in stunned silence, letting the idea wind through her thoughts, where it stirred the coals of old curiosities and ignited new ones. What would it be like to make love, as Jorund called it . . . freely and openly? The very thought sent a tingling through her skin and drew the tips of her breasts taut. Her eyes widened and her gaze slid straight to his.