by Betina Krahn
“Here, Firstborn! Finish him!” Borger threw his own dagger onto the snow, so that it slid and came to rest by Leif’s head. “There will be no doubt you won . . . and you’ll prove to all you’re not a woman-heart! Kill him, Firstborn . . . it is your right!”
“Nej!” Aaren’s fury uncoiled. She exploded at Borger, plowing him into the ring of warriors, then slamming him to the ground. When she dragged herself from his groaning form and ran back, Jorund had released Leif’s throat and seized the knife, gripping it fiercely in his trembling hands. Hands clutched at her—whether her own men or Leif’s, she could not say. She stopped and knelt where she was, watching through a blur of tears and knowing she could not intervene anymore. The choice was Jorund’s.
Voices on both sides clamored for him to release Leif—though a number on Borger’s side screamed for him to finish his enemy. For the first time Aaren closed her eyes and prayed to the White Christ, wherever he was, to save Jorund.
There was cold iron in his hand . . . a smooth horn grip . . . his enemy beneath him, exposed and weakened. It is your right . . . kill him. The old ethic. The old curse. Through the blood pounding in his head Jorund had felt Aaren’s presence and some small part of his consciousness had fastened on it. Her voice, her words . . . he pulled them in like a lifeline. Think of peace. Love your enemy—let him live!
As Leif dragged in breaths and roused toward consciousness, Jorund felt the beast, sorely wounded, rising up in him again, raging. Now that he was safe, was the beast to be denied its reward? Think of the White Christ. His eyes slid from Leif to the icy white snow by his head. Guided by raw faith and the images Godfrey had planted in him, Jorund groped by unfathomable instinct toward the white and the sound of Aaren’s voice . . . felt them calling him, drawing him toward safety.
He closed his eyes and shuddered as a pervasive white invaded him and drove the red fog from his head. Once wounded, then triumphant, the beast now stilled and was subdued. Its time was past. It crept back into the recesses of his soul.
When Jorund opened his eyes again, he saw Leif staring up at the blade poised above his face. The steeled dread in his eyes filled Jorund’s senses and for a brief moment, he felt it, too . . . the way he had felt as he lay beneath Leif and the darkness closed in. It was the despair of losing all that was and all that might have been. It was the same pain he himself had felt. . . .
In that moment Jorund truly knew what it was to love an enemy.
“You may have your life, Son of Gunnar, for a price,” Jorund declared hoarsely, trembling with emotion. “And the price is this: that you call me Brother.” He paused, panting for breath. “Say it! Tell them . . . all of them”—he thrust the knife in his hand toward Leif’s people—“that from this day on, I am your brother . . . the same as if we had the same sire and mother! Say it!” After a long moment, Leif’s voice issued forth, raspy but understandable.
“He . . . is my brother.”
“Louder,” Jorund roared, “so both your miserable old father and my miserable old sire can hear!”
“Jorund is my brother . . . from this day on,” Leif declared in a ragged voice.
“Now swear that you will give me a brother’s loyalty and friendship—that you will never lead your people in battle against mine again!” When Leif paused and swallowed hard, Jorund insisted, “Swear it. Then I will swear the same!”
“I swear.”
Jorund fastened his aching eyes on Leif’s and said loud enough for all those assembled to hear: “I also vow never to raise my hand to you again, or to lead my people against yours as long as I live. I will be as your brother . . . and from this day on, I will call you Friend.”
Jorund moved shakily on his knees and raised his own forearm, drawing the blade across it. Then he seized Leif’s arm and cut it in the same fashion. “Thus is the old blood-feud ended!” he declared. Before that great warring force, he joined their arms and sealed their vow with the mingling of blood . . . in the way of warriors.
A breathless, almost reverent silence fell over the warriors on both sides of the circle as Jorund shoved to his feet and staggered as he reached a hand down to help Leif rise. When they were both on their feet, Jorund swayed and grasped Leif’s shoulders . . . bracing to stay upright. They stood staring at each other, warriors of unequalled strength and courage, bonded now in brotherhood.
Leif searched Jorund’s glowing eyes, grappling for some understanding of what had just occurred between them.
Then abruptly Jorund threw his arms around Leif and embraced him. And after a moment of shock, Leif understood and clamped his arms bearishly around Jorund.
In that moment, mercy and peace took on new meaning for each warrior and villager present. Both had once been deigned the province of weakness. Now both had been demonstrated as an ultimate expression of strength.
Aaren raced to Jorund, pulling him from Leif, wrapping the shallow wound along his ribs with his tunic. She slipped her arms around his waist to support him and turned wet, shining eyes and warm, receptive lips to him.
It was a second life . . . a resurrection of love and spirit and hope within her, after each had been buried beneath the dread weight of final thoughts. Moments before, she had been filled with an awareness of death . . . now her body, her heart, her spirit were vibrant with life. Their kiss was a celebration of life and joy and love, compressed into the deep, passionate blending of mouths.
Marta reached Leif a moment later and threw her arms around his waist, laughing, tears running down her face. “Oh, Leif—it’s done! And you’re both alive!” She hugged him fiercely enough for him to groan. When she looked up, the dried blood on his face and chest made her frantic. She began gently wiping his face with his tunic. “Are you all right? Is anything broken?” Leif grabbed her hands and stilled them, pulling her back into his arms.
“I am fine, Little Wife.” He grinned tiredly. “I have never been better.”
Suddenly the whole ring of warriors contracted in on them, shouting and jostling. Godfrey burrowed in to hug Aaren and Marta and Jorund, and to offer a smile and a hand to Leif. Then Garth and Erik and Hakon and Thorkel crowded in to clasp Jorund’s hand and clap his shoulder. Many of Leif’s warriors did the same, and in the tight quarters there was shoving, scowling, and snarling as their scabbards and shoulders and tender warrior-pride collided with that of Jorund’s men.
Jorund and Leif had to pause in their personal celebration to halt the shoving and pushing between their men. And when the few troublemakers were separated, Jorund managed to turn to Leif.
“I can see we’ll have more peace-making ahead.”
Leif nodded with an exhausted smile. “You are welcome in my hall, Jorund Borgerson. We must drink long and well to seal such a pact. And my mother will see to your wound. What say you, Brother? Will you stay this night under my roof?”
“I will be pleased to drink with you in your hall.”
Leif and Jorund hung their arms on each other’s shoulders and stumbled toward the long hall, pulling Aaren and Marta along with them. But the instant their backs were turned, the quarrelling began again; somebody in Leif’s band shoved Young Svein, and Hakon tripped the offender.
Aaren stopped dead in her tracks and anger blazed in her tawny eyes as she whirled and strode back, shoving and sorting and battering her way to the center of the disturbance.
“Hear me, you quarrelsome spawn of badgers!” she bellowed, freezing them all in their tracks. Her own warriors glimpsed the fire in her eyes and backed up a step or two.
Leif’s men—seeing the others’ reaction and taking in her appearance—put a few prudent paces between them, as well. She raked a glowering look around their widening circle, then with a single smooth movement snatched Garth’s sword from its scabbard and held it poised in one hand.
“There will be no more fighting this night—no more blades drawn—” she declared, raking them with her eyes. “Any who violate the peace will answer to me! And so you will not forget . . .
take out your blades and drop them here, at my feet. Now!”
A defiant mutter rumbled through them, and she stalked from Erik to Garth to Hakon, staring hard into their eyes, scorching them with her gaze. “There will be ale for every unarmed man. And your blades will be here when you leave.” When stern Hakon scowled and complied, the others soon followed. Then she turned her fierce style of persuasion on Leif’s startled warriors. “Now you.”
“You’d better do as she says,” Hakon advised his surly counterparts. “She’s a Valkyr’s daughter . . . and she fights like a mother wolf!”
Soon, two piles of blade-weapons were growing at her feet and Leif turned to Jorund with an awed grin.
“No wonder you fight so fiercely, Borgerson. With her in your furs, you must have to wrestle for your life every night.”
Jorund threw back his head and laughed. The release purged the last of the tension that had kept him going during the fight and after. When Aaren’s peace was well-nigh established, she hurried to slip her arm around Jorund’s waist and help him up the steep embankment. He sank to his knees halfway up the slope, and in a blink was lying prone . . . claimed by exhaustion.
Aaren and Leif fell to their knees to see to him and realized he was merely sleeping. Leif ordered him carried to the hall to recover, and when Leif shoved to his feet, he felt a strange clanging in his head and darkness closing in on him. He staggered and reached for Marta . . . and was suddenly weighing her down, bearing her to the ground with him.
The two young jarls were lifted and carried to Leif’s hall for tending, under Aaren’s and Marta’s watchful eyes. The ale-feast would be delayed . . . it was announced . . . until the guests of honor regained consciousness.
As the last of the warriors trailed the others up the earthen wall, headed for the center of the village, Borger spotted his longtime rival hobbling along between a staff and a young warrior. He hurried Godfrey, who was steadying him, and caught up with Gunnar at the base of the mound. The two crusty old bears stood eyeing each other critically.
“You look like meat for old Hel’s dogs,” Borger finally declared, scrutinizing Gunnar’s whitening hair and hunched shoulders with a smirk.
“And you look like an old bear with the mange,” Gunnar responded through eyes narrowed to slits on Borger’s brushy beard.
“Gone lame, I see,” Borger snapped. “No wonder you wouldn’t get off your horse at the ransom exchange.”
“Took a wound, I see,” Gunnar snarled, watching with taunting pleasure the way Borger clutched his side. “And reduced to using a Christian for a crutch!”
Borger’s face reddened; that stung. “Sneer all you want, you dried-up old crack of arse-thunder . . . but it’s my son drinking victory-ale in your hall this night!”
TWENTY-THREE
GUNNAR’S LONG hall was just as Leif had told Marta . . . smaller than Borger’s, but handsome in the extreme. Each post and rafter was beautifully carved and polished, and the main floor was laid stone, covered with clean, sweet-smelling rushes. Colorful weavings and banners hung from the rafters and the hearth glowed warmly.
Jorund and Leif were carried to sleeping closets where Leif’s mother, Ida, tended them and pronounced they had been felled by exhaustion, nothing worse. Gunnar repeated Leif’s orders for an ale-feast to his wife and she set thralls scurrying to erect the planking tables, bring in additional benches, and fetch ale barrels from the storehouse. Jorund’s men were grudgingly permitted to enter the hall, since they bore no weapons. But Gunnar’s generosity stopped short of allowing Borger inside and, that being the case, a number of Jorund’s men refused to enter, as well. They deposited themselves outside the main doors to wait for their jarl and their host to awaken.
Aaren asked to see her other young sister and Leif’s mother sent for her. Miri came running with her arms open wide. Aaren hugged her tightly, not speaking for a time, then thrust Miri back an arm’s length to look at her.
“You’re all right? Not hurt in any way?” she demanded, stroking Miri’s face and flaxen hair.
“I am well. . . . I was so frightened, Aaren.” Tears glistened in her eyes.
“All is well now. Jorund and Leif have made peace and you are free. And . . .” She scanned her warriors on the far end of the hall, finding Garth absent. “There is another here who has made our lives miserable on your account,” she said with a grin. “Wait here, I’ll fetch him.”
Garth was one of those who waited outside the hall with Borger, intent on preserving his quarrelsome old father’s pride. But when Aaren appeared with news that Miri waited inside and was eager to see him, Garth gave Borger a wordless wince of apology and bolted into the hall like a randy young stag. He scooped her up and whirled her around and around, then set her feet on the floor and kissed her breathless.
“Wed me, Miri . . . now . . . this night!” he insisted, struggling for breath, too. “For I swear, I’ll not release you until you agree.” She met his demand with an upraised chin and a fiery glint in her eyes.
“I am not sure,” she declared stubbornly, letting her crystal-rimmed eyes work their persuasive magic on him.
His eyes widened and he looked a bit indignant. “You’re not still angry with me for what happened in the hall that day?”
“You did not speak up for me, Garth Borgerson,” she said with a perfect blend of sweetness and petulance. “Jorund asked you plainly which you would rather take to your breast . . . a blade or me. And you didn’t choose me.”
“Well, I—I didn’t choose a blade, either,” Garth sputtered in his own defense. When she suddenly wrestled to break free, he pulled her against him. “I want you, Miri. You’re the light of my heart. You know that.”
“You say so now. But I think you would rather sleep with your blade than with me,” Miri said, lowering her chin so that she peered up at him through her lashes. “And I think I would not like a husband who would rather fight than make pleasure.”
“Well, you’re wrong, Miri.” When she squirmed again in his embrace, he declared hotly: “Silly wench—of course I would much rather make pleasure with you than blade-fight!” His words boomed out over sudden quiet in the hall, and after a shocked moment, peals of laughter rang out, from walls to roof beams. Garth whipped around, crimson-faced, to find both his comrades and his former enemies enjoying keenly his frantic attempts to appease his reluctant bride.
“Wed me, Miri!” He clasped her against him with a determined scowl.
Miri blushed prettily and smiled, having gotten the declaration she wanted to soothe her feminine pride. “I’ll wed you, Garth Borgerson . . . as soon as Jarl Jorund will allow!”
JORUND AND LEIF slept for several hours, time enough for the wounded from Jorund and Aaren’s camp to be moved into the village and for food to be prepared . . . and for Leif’s men to become more accustomed to sharing their hall with Jorund’s. Ida, Leif’s mother, wisely held back the ale, to prevent the usual conflicts that came with hard drinking in a hall. And to ensure order, Aaren made herself . . . and the blade she had borrowed from Garth . . . quite visible to all.
When commotion near the hall doors drew their attention, Aaren went flying with Leif’s mother and Garth to quell it. Outside, she found the two Hrolfs—Elder and Younger—in the hard grip of some of Leif’s men. And Leif’s men were being confronted mightily by Borger and those of Jorund’s men who had remained outside. Aaren inserted herself into the fray with her blade ready and shouted for all to halt and shut their mouths.
“Hrolf! And Hrolf!” she exclaimed, turning on them. “Where have you been?”
Hrolf the Elder stared at her, then at his comrades lolling about in front of their erstwhile enemy’s hall, and could scarcely speak. “W-we . . . sent a message. And waited and waited. Then found that the farmer’s son had forgot the words of the message we made him learn . . . and was hiding out in the trees.” He reddened deeply. “So . . . we decided to ride straight in and bring the jarl’s message ourselves.” He stopped and
stared at her. “What’s going on here, Serricksdotter?”
Aaren smiled, then laughed at goodly Hrolf’s confusion.
“Peace, Hrolf! It’s peace!”
THE ALE-FEAST was in all respects a celebration of the promise of peace between Leif and Jorund. Leif took the high seat, installing Marta in the slightly smaller chair beside his, and assigned Jorund and Aaren seats of honor on his right hand. Over Gunnar’s sullen objections, Leif permitted Borger in the hall for the celebration . . . though he declined to offer the old jarl a seat of honor. The two former jarls sat across the hall from each other, exchanging sullen, hateful looks. But most of the men ignored them, and soon the merriment engulfed their animosity.
The first ale was poured and the victory toasts and declarations of peace were made. Leif saluted Jorund’s courage and strength; Jorund honored Leif’s strength and courage. But it was Aaren’s toast that quieted the hall and conveyed the true meaning of what had just taken place.
“There were two victors this night,” she proposed, raising her horn high and scanning the ale-reddened faces around them. “It was Jorund and Leif who fought . . . but the true victors were Peace and Mercy. I drink to them.” After a stunned moment, everyone else in the hall drank, too. And when the ale was finished, another cheer went up.
As food was brought around, Jorund’s eyes settled on Marta, who nestled so happily at Leif’s side, then on Leif, whose arm seldom left Marta’s waist. Aaren saw him staring at them in confusion, and she leaned close to whisper, “Marta says they took Christian vows this evening . . . before the fight.” When she backed up her words with an emphatic nod, Jorund’s surprise slid into a wondering smile.
“So that is why you were so eager to come to Gunnar’s village . . . to speak of peace,” he called to Marta, flicking a meaningful glance at Leif. Marta blushed prettily and her eyes danced.