The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  A heart-weapon; he turned it over and over in his mind, wondering at it. It was a fitting armament for a man who was both warrior and peace-weaver. How could Godfrey have known what she said to him? Someone to match your strength . . . someone to free it. A man who tames she-wolves with his bare hands can surely handle fat old jarls the same way. One life for many. A sacrifice. The price to pay for peace. He heard Aaren’s voice again in his mind and heart, speaking those words and more, joining with Godfrey’s voice. . . .

  The spirit-storm in him began to pass. He had to fight . . . bare-handed . . . and trust for the victory. Fight . . . with all the love he possessed. The turbulent waters of his soul began to calm. A strength, a sense of purpose slowly permeated his tension-wracked body. It was a warm tide of surety, a certainty he could not explain.

  With stunning clarity, he suddenly understood what he had to do. He closed his eyes and relaxed his fists and his rigidly held shoulders. With a great breath, he accepted it wholly, embraced it, letting its warmth curl through him. A moment later, he seized Godfrey’s shoulders with a bittersweet smile.

  “A heart-weapon. Yea . . . I have that, my friend. And now I know how it must be used. Now . . . go to my closet and get my cloak and warm tunic off the pegs, and bring them to the stable. Hurry!”

  Godfrey’s eyes glistened as he clasped Jorund’s big arms and gave him a beaming smile. Then he turned and ran as fast as his thick little legs would carry him toward the hall.

  JORUND STRODE BACK into the village to find that the charred ruins of the granary roof beams had been removed and the process of digging through the rubble to salvage the unburned grain was well under way. He went from there to the stables, where he spotted Aaren among the warriors packing and preparing their mounts. The sight of her in her warrior’s garb, her hair braided, her wrists banded with leather, and her body encased in leather armor, caused his stride to falter.

  She was a warrior, he told himself. But he still had to fight a consuming urge to seize her and haul her back to the hall and tie her up to keep her from riding into battle. He smiled bitterly at the realization that she would probably be insulted and outraged by his protective impulses toward her. If she had set her head on fighting—he had learned too well—there was little he could do to stop her.

  Aaren turned into his gaze as he approached and his eyes fell on the sword strapped against her left shoulder. He halted not far from her, his attention fixed on her blade, his fists curling as his face became a shield around his thoughts.

  But Aaren knew what turmoil lay behind his flinty mask . . . the conflict within his deepest soul, the dread of battle and of seeing his people slain, the sorrow for a broken vow and a dying dream. She pulled her sword from its cradle and carried it to him . . . offering him her love and pride with her eyes, as she offered him the hilt of her precious blade.

  He stood searching her face and made no move to take it from her.

  “Jorund, take it,” she said, her throat tightening as she thrust the hilt closer to him.

  Around them several warriors paused, watching the odd exchange. They frowned and glanced at one another.

  “It is your weapon, Aaren,” he said, staring at the silver pommel, the graceful, blue-streaked blade. “You will need it.”

  Aaren felt a small trickle of panic and turned to Young Svein, snatching his blade from its cradle and offering it to Jorund instead. “Svein will find another,” she insisted, and when she gave him a scowl, Young Svein jerked a nod and hurried off to take a blade from one of the unmounted men who would stay behind.

  When Jorund took the blade from her, her knees almost buckled with relief.

  Jorund led his mount to the commons where the rest of the men were already assembling. He separated out those with weapons but no horses, and set a captain over them, charging them with defending the village. He spent a few moments checking provisions and laying orders with Helga, then donned the fur-lined tunic Aaren had made for him in the mountains.

  His heart was pounding as he mounted his horse so that he could be seen and speak to his band of more than twoscore mounted warriors.

  “We will ride fast and hard . . . to catch up with Gunnar’s force before they reach his village. Our best chance to get Miri and Marta back is to catch them while they are still in the open.” He took a deep breath and gave the final order: “Say your farewells . . . and mount up.”

  As the last of the warriors disappeared down the path leading along the frozen shore of the lake, Borger burst from the doors of the hall, bellowing like a gored ox. Clad only in a tunic and breeches, and barefooted, he lurched along by leaning on a wooden staff with one arm . . . alternately fending off Helga and holding his injured side with the other.

  “Why didn’t you say something, Woman?” he roared, battling Helga for possession of his own arm. “My firstborn leads his first raid . . . and you hold word of it from me?”

  “I feared you would fly into a fury and do yourself damage,” Helga argued. “And now just look at you. Turn back to the hall, you old fool . . . or at least put on your boots.” She brandished the footgear she held in her hands, but he batted it aside with a growl.

  “I have to see him leading them!” he insisted, craning his neck as he hobbled after them, searching through the trees for a glimpse of Jorund. “I swore I’d see him fight!”

  “Godfrey!” Helga called and beckoned to the priest across the commons. “Come help me get him back to his pallet before he pulls something loose and bleeds again!”

  “By Odin’s Aching Arse—I’ve missed him!” Borger bashed a fist against the air and winced as the movement sent pain shooting through his shoulder and back. Then he fixed his sight on Godfrey hurrying toward them.

  When Godfrey started to take Borger’s arm to help, the old jarl grabbed him by the front of the cassock and hauled him nose-to-nose with a red-eyed request.

  “You—Holy-worm—I’ve a good deed for you to do.”

  Godfrey’s eyes widened by the same measure as Borger’s narrowed.

  “I’m going to the fight,” the old bear growled. “And you’re going to take me!”

  FOR ALMOST TWO days they had ridden hard; eating on the move, taking snow for water, stopping only when the horses were spent, then remounting before either men or beasts had quite recovered. The tracks of the mounted force they followed had grown steadily sharper and clearer as they gradually closed the distance between them and the raiding party. Garth argued everytime they stopped, insisting they were wasting precious time, despite the fact that their horses showed dangerous signs of fatigue. Jorund grew short-tempered with Garth’s surly harangue and finally sent him and Erik ahead as foreriders, to search out how far ahead the raiding party was. With the irritant of Garth’s impatience gone, the men were better able to endure.

  It was all so familiar: the tension he wore like a second skin, the long silences where the creak of saddle leather and the thud of hooves provided counterpart to the beating of his own heart, the quick speaking looks between men, the constant and exhausting search of the terrain for signs of movement. It was as if he had experienced it all just yesterday.

  Then he caught a glimpse of Aaren riding beside him, her cheeks wind-blushed and her body taut with readiness, and he was reminded of all the ways this was not like the old raids. The warriors looked to him as leader, now. It was his orders, his experience they counted on to see them through. And his wife rode beside him . . . on a mission to reclaim that which had been stolen, not to plunder or steal from others.

  When they encountered increasingly frequent farmsteads, a clear indication that they were closing in on Gunnar’s stronghold, Jorund passed word to his warriors to be prepared to attack or to defend themselves at any time. Aaren and the others gritted their teeth against the cold and fatigue, donned their helmets, and shifted their blades to their front shoulders instead of their backs. Only Jorund left his head uncovered . . . and his light hair, shining and waving as he rode at their head,
became their banner.

  All rode in readiness, but it was still something of a shock when Garth and Erik came charging down the path toward them, shouting that they’d spotted the raiding party—not far ahead. Their relentless riding had bought them precious time. Now they had to catch the party in the open, before they reached Gunnar’s fortified village, or all their frantic effort was in vain.

  Blades rang as they cleared sheaths, and the horses danced nervously as men jerked their feet from the stirrups to prepare for a quick dismount, and tightened their knee-grip to compensate. Jorund left his borrowed blade in its sheath, but untied his great ironclad shield and slid it onto his arm, glancing at Aaren. It would be her first taste of battle, he thought. There was time only for a quick, speaking look of reassurance as she adjusted her borrowed helmet and rolled her tense shoulders. She flashed back a small, determined smile and he grinned. Giving his mount the spur, he jolted into motion with a cry of: “She-wolf!”

  “Serricksdotters!” the men echoed as they bolted down the path after him.

  Cold wind whipped the horses’ manes, snow and mud flew from the churning hooves, and blood roared in the warriors’ heads as they raced forward to do battle. Patches of light and dark blurred by trees, overhanging limbs, snow, and windswept bare ground careened wildly through their senses. The frantic race toward battle fired their blood, and from deep in a nameless warrior’s belly, a savage cry was born. It was picked up by the others—until they roared, and rode, and thought as one. Aaren was suddenly one with them, her fierce anger blending with theirs . . . their savage cry becoming hers, torn from her soul, filled with her pain.

  Suddenly they glimpsed open ground ahead—grain fields—and knew they were close to the village. Just before they broke from the trees, a hailstorm of arrows rained down on them from the barren treetops, sending them ducking and scrambling for their shields—and two of their number toppling from their mounts. But there was no attack from the side or front, and Jorund called out for them to ride and spurred his horse to lead them on.

  The surprise attack had cost them precious moments. Old Gunnar’s lead was widening as they broke from the trees, and far ahead they glimpsed the regular lines of rooftops and the smoke-plumes of hearths. Both the raiding party and the village were in full view now. The raiders were fewer in number, but riding fast and with safety in sight. There was no time to scan the raiders for Miri and Marta; there were suddenly tumbled stone walls and boulders hidden beneath the snow to dodge. Ahead, they recognized the mounded earthen fortifications at the edge of the village . . . the protective barrier Jorund had warned they must not let their enemy reach.

  As they bore down fiercely on the raiders, the majority of Gunnar’s force suddenly broke off and reversed direction, charging straight for them with weapons drawn and battle cries borning. At some common and instinctive moment, Jorund, Aaren, and the others began reining up and bounding to the ground, abandoning their mounts even as their enemies did—to charge into battle on foot. Cries of “Odin!” and “Valhalla!” mingled with “She-wolf!” and “Serricksdotters!” . . . ringing across the frozen fields. And abruptly, the battle was joined.

  There was no time to think or prepare. Aaren bore straight in on Gunnar’s men, using her shield to deflect blows as she banged and slashed with her weapon. Again and again she wielded her blade, feeling its savage vibrations up her arm, jarring her nerves, her vision, testing her concentration. All around her there were shouts and noise and confusion. The ring of clashing blades, the thudding smack of steel on wood, and the fierce cries of battle-spirit and of pain filled her head. Again and again she heard male screams and caught glimpses of wrenching, recoiling motion and falling . . . not knowing if it was her kinsmen or her enemies who fell. Her opponents kept slashing and snarling, bearing doggedly down on her . . . their faces filled with battle-fire and hate. And slowly, mercifully, her perceptions narrowed.

  Eyes disappeared into the recesses of iron and leather helms, and whole men were reduced to composites of line and density and force. Stark blade angles, arcs, raw vectors of shoulder motion were all that remained . . . twisting, hacking, thrusting were her only responses . . . until her blade finally bit bone. Her opponent fell with a cry and it took a moment for her to see clearly . . . blood . . . a shoulder. . . . Another form, another blade loomed up and she took a savage hit on her shield and wheeled to fight again.

  Jorund had landed on his feet with only his great shield in his hands. As his first attacker charged, he used the shield with his massive shoulder behind it as a ram, jarring his opponent back. Then he lifted his shield and swung it so that the iron-banded edge became a weapon of itself. Again and again he swung and bashed, dodging blades and then charging and swinging with all his considerable might . . . surprising his opponents with his odd way of fighting and sending them sprawling.

  A cry for retreat rang out and Gunnar’s warriors responded instantly, drawing back, then wheeling and racing for the earthen wall around the village with all the speed they could muster. It ended as abruptly as it had begun.

  Garth screamed for them to give chase, waving the others on after him. But the few who followed turned back when it was clear Gunnar’s men would make the wall and safety. A few shocked breaths later, a roar went up from the others . . . a venting of the battle-steam left boiling through their blood and of their frustration at not preventing Gunnar’s raiders from reaching home. When their shouting died around them . . . Jorund’s ragged voice came through the surflike rush of blood in their ears.

  “Find your fellows—” It was an order to count casualties. When the answer came—several wounded, none slain—Jorund’s head dropped back and his eyes closed briefly. He took charge once again. “Catch your mounts and carry the wounded into those trees.” He pointed to a stand of woods that lay across the snow-packed grain fields from the village. “We’ll make camp there!”

  While Jorund saw to the posting of guards, the setting up of camp, and the erection of sailcloth shelters for the night, Aaren saw to the wounded, packing dried moss and herbs into some wounds and binding others with strips of linen. Jorund’s warriors knew well the routine of foraging for fuel and making camp in hostile territory: Each man was responsible for contributing wood to the fires, for raising some shelter against the cold, and for preparing food. They set about the tasks Jorund assigned without delay.

  Above them, Night stole the Sky-Traveler’s colored blanket, hiding it in her soft, dark cloak. And soon the smoky campfires provided the only light in the forest, flickering strangely around the white-barked birches and barren beeches. As the work of making camp was finished, the men collected around the fires, their voices subdued, their bodies heavy with fatigue. Their eyes drifted to Aaren as she did her best to comfort a wounded warrior, then turned back to the fire and stood holding her hands out to warm them.

  “Serricksdotter.” The Freeholder’s voice startled her and she looked up to find he had risen from his seat and was stepping closer . . . his right hand outstretched. She looked at it, then at the nods and half smiles on the other faces turned her way. She extended her hand and clasped his wrist even as he took hers . . . in the manner of one warrior welcoming another. “From this day on, I will be honored to fight at your back, Fair Warrior,” he said. He glanced at the others, speaking for them, as well. “All of us will.”

  Jorund watched her nod tersely and manage a small, pained smile of gratitude. She turned to find her horse and retrieve her sleeping fleece, wrapping herself in it. But instead of rejoining the men at one of the fires, she strode to the edge of the trees and stood in the night-shadows, gazing toward the village.

  There her sisters would pass the night. The raiders had taken no time along the way to either abuse or enjoy their captives. Now that they were in the village, she prayed that they would purge the battle-fire from their blood with other women this night. She dragged her mind from the terrible images of what might be happening to her sisters and let her eyes focu
s on the five or so crumpled forms left lying on the snowy ground.

  It was her first experience of real battle . . . and it left a hard, metallic taste in her mouth, a smell of blood in her head, and a low ringing in her ears. There was no way to tell how many of Gunnar’s men they had wounded . . . but by morning those left on that icy field would never rise again. And for what? Why had they been so eager to redden spears and gash shields . . . in the service of a jarl’s pride? In battle, there had been a fleeting rush of excitement, a feeling of power, but there was also the sickening aftermath—the blood, the screams of the wounded, the hollow feeling inside.

  Jorund came up behind her in the darkness and slipped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest and bending to her ear. “Are you all right?”

  “You were right about the glory,” she said softly, her eyes glistening as she pulled his arms tighter around her. “It is in living, not dying. In loving, not fighting.” She was swept with a longing for him and turned in his arms to embrace him. Moments later, her gaze was drawn back to those dark, twisted forms, which seemed to be sinking into the earth as the cold and shadows deepened around them. Would she lie on that frozen field tomorrow, waiting for her raven-haired mother to finally claim her?

  “Why has no one come to carry them into the village?” When he remained silent, she looked up into his shadowed features. “We cannot leave them there.” She handed Jorund her fleece and turned back to the men warming themselves around a green-wood fire. “Come with me . . . we’ve wounded to fetch.” When they saw her snatch up a blanket and start for the middle of the field, they called out to her that they had long since rescued all their wounded. “I’ll not allow men to die needlessly,” she declared.

  “Those aren’t men,” Young Svein shouted after her in earnest horror, “they’re enemies!”

  “They may be valuable to us alive . . . to ransom or trade,” she shouted back, giving them a reason to show compassion. “Dead, they are valuable only to kites and eagles. Ask the jarl.”