by Betina Krahn
The hall slowly filled with villagers made nervous by the rising howl of the night wind and seeking both news of the jarl and reassurance. The uncertainty that the warriors and clan had lived with for the last three years had become a dreaded reality: Their jarl was seriously wounded, perhaps dying, and there was no designated heir. Hard on all their minds were thoughts of who would succeed him. Again and again their eyes sought Jorund and were comforted to see him moving about the hall, checking on the injured and speaking with the warriors about what had occurred.
“It was a well-planned treachery.” Garth recounted the events, at Jorund’s request, calling on first one warrior, then another to assist with their recollections. “We were to have twelve men, as they were . . . and at first twelve was all we saw. Then as they hauled the trunk of silver up the slope and we released Leif, a score more warriors broke out of the trees. We had set Harald out as a watcher—they must have found him and killed him first. Then they came in fast . . . circling the cliffs and attacking our flanks . . .”
“When they charged, Leif himself snatched up a sword from one of his men and took after Borger, cuttin’ an’ slashin’. None of us would have escaped alive if the jarl hadn’t known the pass through the crag in the cliffs,” Erik vowed in a choked voice. “He blocked the mouth of the crag himself to give us time.”
“When we went back later to get him,” Hrolf declared tightly, “he was half dead.”
“That he is . . . half dead,” Helga said, standing beside the wooden step of the high seat. The men shoved to their feet at the sight of her. She answered the unspoken question in their eyes. “The end is far from certain . . . it may be days before we will know if he lives. But if he lives, he will never fight again. He will not be the jarl you knew.”
Dark muttering swept the hall. For a warrior-jarl like Borger, not fighting would be worse than death itself. A muffled wail went up from some of the older women, and a rumble of discontent raced through the seasoned warriors. The young warriors—stirred by Garth’s reckless talk—began to demand they mount a raid on Jarl Gunnar’s village in retaliation.
Aaren stood up from the bench near the hearth and caught Jorund’s gaze in hers. The conflict of a thousand tortured hours, the anguish of inner strife, the questions a man must answer in his deepest soul . . . the time for those was past. Jorund’s people—her people now, too—needed a leader. Jorund no longer had to blade-fight for the high seat; he had only to mount one step . . . and take it.
She moved slowly toward him through the confusion, searching the tumult in his face, knowing the depth of his honor and of his desire to lead his people. Then she stood before him, calling forth his strength with the belief in him that shone in her eyes.
“It is yours, Jorund,” she said in a whisper, turning her gaze to the high seat, which loomed eerily empty beside them. “You were fated for this. Your people need you.”
She slipped her hand into his, joining her strength to his, and he smiled, feeling her warmth, her certainty all through him. It was true. A new sense of his own power, a new belief in his destiny surged through him. He clasped her hand tighter and moved toward the wooden step and the great carved chair upon it. A deepening hush fell over the hall as he mounted the platform and pulled Aaren onto it beside him. Together they faced the sober countenances of the warriors and his kinsmen.
“Hear me!” he called out. “By right of birth . . . by right of might, and by right of years . . . I claim this seat and all powers attendant.” The clamor of voices and shuffling feet rose as the warriors and folk crowded closer to the high seat, staring at Jorund’s imposing form and the way it was enlarged by Aaren’s tall, powerful frame beside it. The pair stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces strong, their eyes glowing, and the common folk grew wide-eyed with wonder.
“You?” Garth pushed through the stand of warriors, his countenance dark as a thunderhead. “The jarl has not yet named you to the high seat. He would not name you until you fought him—”
“The old jarl is gravely injured—next to death—and can no longer state his wishes,” Jorund declared. “There is no time for talk of what might have been, or even of what was. There is only now. And now there are wounded in this hall and dead to mourn . . . and perhaps a village to defend.” He looked out over the faces of the villagers among whom he had grown to manhood. In some he saw doubt, in some anger . . . but in others he saw trust and hope.
“Defend? Do you intend that we just sit here, licking our wounds? We must strike back . . . mount a raid while Gunnar believes we are injured and in retreat!” Garth said hotly, pushing forward. “We must draw blood for blood—”
“When you draw blood for blood, you must also shed blood for blood!” Jorund thundered, his features suddenly fierce with a depth of passion none had seen in him in years. “How many more widows would you make, Garth, to salve your stinging pride?”
“I say we arm ourselves and ride on Gunnar’s village at daybreak!” Garth shouted back, gathering nods and cries of support from the young warriors gathered around him. But Jorund saw the indecision in the faces of the more experienced warriors and knew he had to give them a compelling reason to delay—believing that time would dull their anger and blunt their desire for vengeance.
“Then you say wrong!” Jorund’s voice rang out. “A raid launched now would flounder . . . in snow. Did you not see the sky—feel the wind heavy on your face as we rode back to the village? By midday tomorrow we will have snow to our knees. And when the land groans under a burden of snow, the North Wind will hear and will ride down out of his lair to exact cruel tribute. There will be no forage, no fuel, no warmth to be found. Those caught out in the fields will freeze.”
Confirmation of his prediction came from an unexpected source. Old Sith shoved forward. “Jorund speaks well. All Autumn Month I have seen the signs of early storms. And tonight the evening clouds swirled wild and low . . . like the dust raised by the Wild Hunt.” The fire in her eyes called forth old images, old tales, old beliefs.
“Listen! The wild steeds approach, even now!” Her gnarled finger thrust skyward and in the settling hush, all heard the moan of the night wind across the smoke hole. Eyes widened and faces grew blank with alarm. Odin was believed to lead the other gods of Asgard in a great and terrible hunt each autumn . . . riding his eight-hoofed steed over the countryside, stirring storms and discord, trampling all in his path.
For once Jorund was grateful for his people’s lingering belief in Odin’s fierce and capricious ways. “It is foolhardy to feed warriors and horses to the Land Waster,” he declared. “We will bide here . . . allow the wounded to heal and the snow to melt. By the spring thaw we will be ready for whatever befalls.”
“The spring thaw?” Garth snorted. “That is months away, Jorund! Perhaps it is not the snow and cold you fear . . . but the battle!”
It was finally said . . . that which hovered below the surface of their thoughts. In recent years, Jorund had made no secret of his loathing for bloodletting and his people could not help but wonder how he would lead them when they needed to make war.
He had to reassure them . . . while concealing the disquiet in his own soul as to his future course. He felt Aaren’s hand tighten on his. He glanced down at her other hand on his flexed arm, then at her speaking look. Trust your courage and your strength, Jorund, those amber eyes said, for I trust them. Her faith in him renewed his determination, and he turned back to Garth.
“I fear no battle, Garth Borgerson,” Jorund said, raising his hands and curling them into fists. “It is true, I loathe fighting and killing. But I challenge you”—he addressed the whole assembly—“there is not one among you who truly wishes to lose forever the companionship of a friend, a wife, a husband, or a child. Not one.” When there was not one voice raised to refute him, he turned back to Garth. “For all your talk of Valhalla and the glory of battle, which would you rather take to your breast . . . a shaft of cold iron”—he thrust a finger toward Miri, who stoo
d at the side of the platform—“or yon maid’s warm and willing flesh?”
The question bit deep into Garth’s pride and the distress in Miri’s luminous eyes made his face flame. He scowled and looked to the other young warriors who shared his anger and confusion.
“Yea, I loathe fighting. But I have fought when need be,” Jorund continued. “I have truly fought.” He opened and lifted his scarred hands and all but those who had ridden on that ill-fated ransom mission knew the significance of that gesture. Eyes began to glow, heads to nod.
“And I say now is not the time to fight,” Jorund declared. “We will heal and mend and prepare. And when the time is right, I will decide how to best settle our grievance against Gunnar Haraldson.”
Palpable relief went through the hall on a wave of muttering, and Garth drew back a step, studying Jorund’s powerful presence and the agreement he had just wrung from his clansmen. Under the prodding stares of his comrades, he jerked a bitter nod and strode out.
The villagers drifted back to their houses and huts, feeling vastly relieved that Jorund was in charge, and that the battle-maiden stood at his side. Miri and Marta flew to hug Aaren, and Brother Godfrey, his fleshy face beaming, came to clasp Jorund’s hands. As Jorund returned the round priest’s handclasp and bearish hug, he muttered, “If you know a prayer for snow, my friend, say it. And if you don’t . . . you’d better make one up . . . quickly.”
WHETHER IT WAS the prayers or not, Jorund could not say. But by the following midday, the already frozen ground was covered with a mantle of white, and great, wet feathers of snow continued drifting down at an astonishing rate. Jorund’s bold prediction had come true and most of the people took it as a sign of his wisdom and an affirmation of his leadership. With the snow-blanket, peace fell over the village, as well. The folk rested and went about their daily chores and at night kept watch in the hall for their old jarl, who was reported to be passing through the worst crisis.
On the morning of the third day, Helga emerged from Borger’s closet with tears streaming down her care-worn face. “He calls for you,” she said with a sob, seizing Jorund’s arm and pulling him into a run through the hall. Jorund found his father weak, but awake and lucid.
“You . . . you must take the high seat,” Borger said in a tortured rasp, groping for Jorund’s hand. Jorund felt a squeezing in this throat and a peculiar hollowness in his chest as he stared down at the pale face and burning eyes.
“I have already claimed it,” he answered truthfully, not knowing whether it would anger or reassure the old man to hear it. “The high seat is mine.”
“Then you got your way, Firstborn. Took it without a fight.” A smile, which on a healthier man would have seemed crafty, curled Borger’s parched lips. He raised his grip along Jorund’s iron-thewed arm. “Well enough. But you will have to fight to keep it. And I will be there, Firstborn . . . to see you fight.”
“Hush, you old fool,” Helga chided, dabbing at her eyes with the rim of her kirtle and inserting herself between them to tuck Borger’s hands back beneath the furs. “You with your talk of fighting. You might have been killed—and already you’re eager to see blood shed again.”
Borger winced and cast a pleading look at Jorund. “If you have any mercy in you, find me another to tend my wounds. She’ll make me into a puling babe . . . or a mouth-foaming madman.”
Jorund laughed at the old bear’s predicament. “If that be true, old man, then I believe I’ll leave you closeted with Helga’s kindnesses a while longer. For either would be something of an improvement.” And he ducked out the curtain.
It was not long before the hall was filled with villagers and warriors and with the news that Borger had affirmed Jorund’s succession to the high seat. The warriors of Borger’s hird seemed reassured that the old jarl had given his blessing to the new and they settled back, assuming their winter tasks, to await the thaw.
THAT VERY NIGHT, as the North Wind ravaged the countryside, mead-foaming horns were being raised in old Gunnar’s long hall to celebrate the rule of a new jarl . . . Leif Gunnarson. For three days after his rescue, Leif had eaten well and slept soundly in furs he had never expected to use again . . . letting time and nourishment restore his strength. Then he sat with his father and his father’s chief warriors, detailing his experiences in Borger’s hall and relating what he had observed of Borger’s village and standing force of warriors and armament.
“They are well manned and stoutly armed,” Gunnar had said, shaking his head. “And they will be watching for a raid.” He pushed up from his great, carved chair and beckoned his wife to help him stand . . . something he had not allowed publicly before now. “Such is a task for a young jarl . . . for a man of sinew and might. I am no longer that man. From this day on,” he said hoarsely, meeting the eyes of his loyal warriors and captains one after another, “you will follow my son and heir, Leif, into battle.”
With that, he stepped down from the high seat and waved Leif to his feet. He stretched out his hands, clasping Leif’s wrists in a strength-blessing. Stunned silence reigned; never before in the history of their clan had a living jarl vacated the high seat for his son. But as their old jarl walked painfully back to his sleeping closet, all sensed a poignant rightness to it. When a jarl could no longer fight, it was said, he could no longer lead. Then a round of shouts went up from Gunnar’s warriors and, one by one, starting with the chief among them, they made their way forward to pledge fealty to their new jarl.
Now, well into the night and into the ale-feast of celebration, Leif sat upon the high seat, surveying his hall and the gaiety of his people. The high seat was what he had set his heart upon, what he had prepared for his entire life. He would now lead his people . . . and one of his first acts would be to lead them into battle. That thought weighed heavy on his heart and it took only a small turn of his thoughts to know the reason why . . . to see her face in his mind and feel her phantom softness against him.
One of the captains posed the question on all their minds. “Well, Leif, what will be your first stroke as jarl?”
All knew that the first act of a new jarl from the high seat carried much significance and bore a portent for the coming years of his rule. All expected that a raid on Borger’s village would be uppermost in his mind. Thus, they puzzled at the slow smile spreading over his face and were thoroughly surprised by his words.
“My first stroke from the high seat?” He rubbed his chin as if savoring his thoughts. “I believe . . . I will take me a bride.”
FOR THE NEXT several days, all went well in Jorund’s village. Jorund was accepted as jarl, the wounded began to mend, the snow stopped just short of the knees, and the Sky-Traveler reappeared to push the clouds back to the snarling North Wind’s lair. But at night, in the rare privacy of their sleeping closet, in the warmth of their shared furs, Aaren knew all was not right with Jorund. His loving bore the stamp of his inner turmoil, by turns tender to the point of hesitation, then volatile to the brink of sensual rage. And when the pleasure was done, he lay awake for long periods, holding her and staring into the darkness. She finally understood what it was he searched the darkness for: the path of the future.
“Do not torture yourself with it, Jorund.” She finally spoke in that quiet, comforting darkness. “When the time comes, you will make the right choice. You will do what must be done.” There came a long silence. But she knew he had heard her and she waited.
“If you see so well into the future, then tell me also what I will do,” he said thickly. “For I swear to you, I am not yet sure myself.”
“What is it you want, Jorund?” she demanded, searching his features in the dimness. “Serrick taught me to make and hold an image in my mind . . . of armor, of victory, of something I wanted. Think of what it is you would have. You cannot reach for something until you know what it is you wish to grasp.” He turned his head to look at her.
“Peace with the other clans. An end to the feuds and fighting and killing, so that we may build
and trade and prosper.”
“Peace. You cannot grasp that by yourself, Jorund. Peace takes two. As with us . . . there could be no peace between us until both of us wanted it.” She paused and scowled, unsure where that thought should lead. But Jorund seized and carried it further, suddenly seeing in their intimate battle elements similar to those present in the larger conflict between clans.
“And how did I make you want peace with me, Aaren? What changed your heart?” he demanded, pushing up onto his elbow to face her. He could see the flash of her teeth in the darkness as she grinned.
“Your words. You spin wondrous silken webs with your words.” She lifted her fingers to his lips. “And your touches. No one had ever touched me as you did . . . or wanted me as you did. And finally your strength. I did not see it at first, for I was taught to see strength in men as force of might and skill with arms. But I believe now that there are other ways to be strong. You are strong, Jorund Borgerson, on the inside as well as on the outside . . . your great body, your wide-reaching mind, and your deep-seeking spirit. I had to find your strength to respect you . . . and to respect you before I could find peace with you.”
“Words . . .” he said, pondering all she had said, thinking of how it might fit the larger conflict, as well. “It began with talk, then.” He grinned and pressed a kiss in the palm of her hand. His spirits were on the rise again. “There is time before the thaw. Time to talk. Time to let words begin to work an understanding.” He pulled her against him and pressed his lips to her temple. “It is a place to start . . . something to reach for . . . a meeting . . . to talk.”
As his spirits rose, his passions soared with them, and in a single, deft move, he rolled onto his back and pulled her atop his chest. “Ah, She-wolf . . . you are a wise and wily one. Truly, I am honored to be a prisoner in your lair.”