Viking

by Fabio

  Where did Reyna the Ravisher fit into this picture? Again he recalled his dramatic—and frightening—encounter with the Valkyrie last night. It was so strange, he mused, how she so resembled his love back in the present, yet she had no awareness of him as someone she had known and loved.

  What of the real Monica in the twentieth century? Did she miss him? Did everyone there assume he had died in the burning-boat scene? Had he died? He wasn't sure. However, as much as he missed Monica, as much as he hated the thought of causing any confusion or pain to those he had left behind, he recognized that his life back there had become meaningless once he had lost Monica and the chance to have a family of his own. Here, by contrast, he found possibilities, particularly the primitive challenge of the warrior woman, Reyna, who intrigued him greatly.

  If only he could get to know her before she killed him!

  Viktor was thinking of exploring further when the man he recognized as Svein stepped out from between two buildings and strode eagerly toward him. "Good morrow, jarl. How fare ye this day?"

  "I'm starting to get my bearings," replied Viktor.

  Svein frowned and scratched his blond head. "You speak so strangely, jarl. Could it have to do with your ordeal?"

  "Look, can I level with you?" Viktor asked.

  "What is it you need to level, jarl?"

  Viktor laughed. "The truth is, I could use a friend right now."

  "Verily, we are friends," replied Svein indignantly. "Do you not recall the ceremony five winters past that made us blood brothers?"

  Viktor shook his head. "So we are indeed blood brothers, you and I?"

  "Yea. We mingled our blood in a most sacred ritual. Afterward, we feasted until dawn, shared the same women on our benches, and sacrificed a slave to Odin to honor the occasion."

  Viktor went pale at this last revelation.

  Svein gripped his arm. "Jarl, you are staggering and white as a spring lamb. Has some malaise possessed you?"

  Glancing around to ensure that no one else was within earshot, Viktor confided, "Svein, ever since I have returned from Valhalla, I remember nothing of my life here."

  Svein raised a thick brow. "Naught at all?"

  Viktor fabricated an explanation for Svein. "It is as if my memories of Vanaheim are on a slate that has been wiped clean."

  Svein nodded grimly. "The others and I already suspected as much. We spoke of this affliction after we left you last night. Yea, jarl, you seem as lost as Thor without his hammer."

  Viktor chuckled. "Well put."

  Svein thoughtfully stroked his jaw. "Your retainers and I have decided there must be a reason for your odd state of mind. Mayhap Odin wishes you to make a new start. Mayhap you must give up your memory and learn anew to better lead our peoples, just as Odin gave up his eye to gain greater wisdom."

  "You know, that could be true," remarked Viktor, struggling to hide a guilty grin. "At any rate, I need your friendship now more than ever."

  Svein bowed from the waist. "I am entirely at your service, jarl."

  Viktor gestured expansively. "You must explain everything to me—the workings of this farm, our society—and you must tell me in greater detail how we all came to live in Vanaheim in the first place."

  "As you wish, jarl. Come along, and we will begin your lessons."

  The two men started off, striding down a lane flanked by outbuildings. Viktor smiled as several young boys bounded across their path, prodding along half a dozen squealing piglets.

  "As you know, you are leader of our clan," Svein explained. "You settle all disputes and make all decisions affecting the entire tribe."

  "This I understand. And I take it all of the clan lives here in the village?"

  "Yea, most are here, save for the herdsmen who are gathering the lambs up in the meadows."

  Svein motioned for Viktor to follow him inside a small hut. The interior was sweltering, and at once Viktor recognized a blacksmith's forge. The walls were hung with everything from swords, spears, and axes to jewelry and helmets. In the center of the building stood a giant, muscled, sweaty man clad only in a sleeveless jerkin and filthy leggings. He held a bellows, and the hard muscles of his arms gleamed as he stoked a fire in a stone pit. Not noticing the newcomers, he set down the bellows, grabbed a set of tongs, removed a plank of red-hot iron from the fire, and carried the glowing metal over to an anvil. With a look of intense concentration gripping his bearded face, he began loudly hammering the iron.

  ."Eurich!" called Svein. "Our jarl has come to visit you."

  Eurich glanced up and grinned at the visitors. He put down his hammer and stepped forward, bowing. "Jarl, we are so gladdened to hear you have returned from the dead."

  "Thank you, Eurich." Viktor glanced around the building. "You have an impressive operation here."

  Eurich scowled. "Canute told me you lost your sword last night in the battle."

  "Ah, so I did." Viktor grinned at the memory.

  Eurich crossed the room and took an iron broadsword off a rack. He strode back to Viktor and solemnly presented the weapon. "For you, jarl. I have been working on this for you since Autumn month."

  Viktor could only gape at the beautiful implement. Long, broad, and heavy in his hands, the weapon was a masterpiece of pattern-welding, numerous layers of iron overlaid with steel to form a tapestry of coiled, spitting serpents along the blade. The hilt was plated with gold and jeweled with rubies and amber. Viktor had no idea that such magnificent workmanship was even available in the Viking age.

  He nodded solemnly to the man. "Thank you, Eurich. I am deeply touched and honored to accept your gift."

  The blacksmith beamed. 'The honor is all mine, jarl."

  "How do you get your materials?"

  "We dig bog iron in the hills, jarl." Eurich winked at Svein. "The gnomes help us. Then I make use of the gold, silver, and jewels the men bring back from their raiding voyages."

  "Very good." Viktor frowned. "By the way, do you know anything about constructing chimney flues?"

  His expression blank, Eurich shook his head.

  "We must have a long talk about this matter soon."

  "Yea, jarl."

  Svein and Viktor left the forge and headed toward a long, narrow structure whose double doors were open. Once he was inside, staring at a row of crude stalls scattered with hay and smelling of manure and oats, Viktor realized he was in a primitive stable.

  He raised a brow at Svein. "Why did you bring me here?"

  "Mayhap you will want to become reacquainted with your horse, jarl."

  "Ah, yes."

  Svein led him to the second stall, where a thin, dark-haired, saturnine-looking man was busy grooming a short, stout gold horse. He turned to eye the newcomers warily.

  Svein told Viktor, "Jarl, this is your stablehand, Nevin."

  Viktor nodded to the man, who had dark eyes, a sharp, prominent nose, and a receding chin. "I am pleased to meet you, Nevin. It appears you are doing a splendid job of caring for the animals."

  The man's features did not soften as he bowed and spoke with constraint. "We are pleased you have returned from the dead, jarl."

  "Nevin's twin brother is our village skald," Svein remarked. "Quigley recites verses at our feasts. Sometimes Nevin is enlisted to help serve ale when the war council meets, since no females are then allowed in the chamber."

  "I shall look forward to seeing you again, Nevin—and to meeting your twin," said Viktor.

  With a curt nod, the stablehand left the stall.

  "A rather sullen fellow," Viktor muttered.

  "Not all of our slaves take kindly to captivity," replied Svein.

  "I suppose not, especially considering that we took them captive. Am I not right?"

  "Yea, jarl."

  As the little horse neighed, Viktor laid his sword against the wall. He stepped up to the animal, which affectionately nudged his arm. The horse was smaller than those he was accustomed to in the present, but appeared very strong and stocky, with a shaggy m
ane and hooves, and striking light gold eyes.

  "A fine specimen," he said, petting the horse's thick mane. "What is she called?"

  Svein grinned. "He is named Sleipnir, after Odin's steed with eight legs."

  "And how did I get him?"

  "At a meeting of the Thing—"

  "The Thing?"

  "Each summer, an assembly of all of Vanaheim is held at Haymaking month. Three summers past, Sleipnir won the stallion fight, and his owner presented him to you in tribute."

  "Stallion fight?"

  "Yea, jarl."

  Viktor did not want to press for details.

  "You will take Sleipnir for a run soon?" Svein asked.

  Viktor rubbed the horse's muzzle. "Of course. As soon as we finish up our tour. I'd like to see the moors for myself."

  "Very good, jarl."

  Back outside, Svein gestured toward the small cottages and fields beyond them. "There are the homes of the karls—"

  "Karls?"

  "The farmers. Each owns a small plot of land, and most have thralls—slaves—to work the fields for them."

  "And the rest of the island?"

  "Very little is habitable. As you know, Wolfgard lives across the fjord, and we do not venture into his territory, except to raid. Beyond our moors and foothills are steam geysers and boiling mud, where Jotuns and trolls lurk to pull brave warriors down to Hel. And in the vast distance there is Suit, spitting forth vengeance at his mountaintop."

  "Surt?"

  "A volcano named for the fire demon."

  "Ah. Has the volcano ever erupted?"

  Svein shook his head. "Not since we have lived here. Surt sputters and fumes most every summer, but he keeps his peace as long as we maintain our distance—and sacrifice a slave girl to him at Sowing time."

  Viktor felt his heart lurch at this revelation. He certainly had his work cut out for him here with these pagan, barbaric people! "Where do we get all these slaves, anyway?"

  A proud grin lit Svein's face. "Why, when we go a-Viking, jarl. We capture males and females in Ireland, Wales, Scotland, the Shetlands, and France."

  "And you show them no greater respect than you would an animal slaughtered for food?" Viktor asked tensely.

  Svein's countenance darkened. "Slaves are property, jarl. They have no rights. They are frequently lazy, and must be beaten into obedience." Abruptly he chuckled. "The women we keep submissive in more pleasurable ways."

  Viktor was stunned. "You mean you take the women against their will?"

  Svein shrugged. "A slave is not allowed to deny the will of a freeman. Similarly, when a slave outlives his usefulness, he is destroyed by his master, or driven to the back country to die of exposure."

  Staggered by Svein's glib description of such sadistic practices, Viktor almost protested, then bit down an impulse to soundly denounce the abominable custom. He realized mat, to a Viking, such an attitude was normal, practical, and not cruel. Although he intended to see to it that there was no such wanton destruction of human life while he was jarl, Viktor knew that he could win the trust of these people and change their overall mind-set, only slowly. He also realized he was needed here—badly needed—by a people immersed in a feudal, savage way of life. Perhaps there had been a purpose, a divine design, in his journey through time after all.

  'Tell me more about how all of us came to live here. You say we came here from Iceland?" He frowned. "I seem to recall one of the others mentioning I was outlawed there."

  Svein nodded. "Yea. You were a member of the tribe of Eirik the Red. Eirik killed one of his neighbors without good cause, and when the neighbor's brother slew your brother, you killed five more of his kinsmen, and then refused to allow your family to pay blood money."

  "Good Lord—was I that bellicose?" asked Viktor.

  Svein's features twisted in perplexity before he answered noncommittally, "Mayhap. Afterward, the Icelandic Althing ruled that both you and Eirik should be declared fuller outlaws."

  "What does this mean—fuller outlaws?"

  "No man was allowed to shelter you, and any man was free to kill you without fear of retribution."

  Viktor whistled. "That's pretty extreme. Then what happened?"

  "Since there were warring factions within Eirik's own clan, you and he decided to split your kinsmen. Half the tribe fled north with him to Greenland, while the others followed you south to Vanaheim."

  "And what of Wolfgard? How did he come to join us here?"

  "He, too, was outlawed from Iceland—for stealing sheep, and for fornicating with the wife of a neighboring chieftain."

  "A nasty fellow, eh?"

  "Yea. And ever since Wolfgard took residence with his kinsmen across the fjord, our clans have battled."

  "How often do these attacks occur?"

  "Sometimes there is peace for months on end. At other times Wolfgard may attack twice in the same day, as he did last eve."

  "So we must be prepared," said Viktor grimly.

  "Yea, jarl. But do not fret. We have stationed sentries along the fjord in case the berserkers should return."

  "Good strategy."

  Sternly, Svein continued. "However, you must also be ready to lead us, jarl, even though you have lost both your memory and likely your battle skills, based on what the others and I observed last night. But no matter. We practice warfare most every afternoon, and we will gladly train you, and quickly so. For it may not be long before Wolfgard's forces attack again, and you must be prepared to lead the charge with all the courage and skill of Viktor the Valiant."

  Viktor half shuddered at the thought of the deadly abilities he would need to lead his warriors into bloodcurdling me'tees such as had occurred last night. Of course, if he were to remain here, he would have to learn to defend himself. Beyond that, could he somehow teach these warlike people to be more peaceable—not just his own clan, but Wolfgard's tribe as well? He considered the prospect and concluded again that first he must better gain his bearings, learn about Viking society, and earn the trust of his own clan.

  As the two men headed back toward the longhouse, a curious thought occurred to Viktor. 'Tell me, Svein, do I resemble my old self?'

  Svein eyed him thoughtfully. "Before, jarl, you had a long beard. Mayhap you lost your beard with your memory in Valhalla. Otherwise, yea, you appear to be just the man we knew."

  "How exactly did I die?"

  Svein snorted a laugh. "Even that you have forgotten?"

  Viktor nodded.

  "You died yesterday at eventide, after the first battle against Wolfgard's forces."

  "Ah, yes. So I would have."

  "You repelled the invaders, but were horribly bruised and punctured. Only moments after the berserkers fled, you expired. We launched you to Valhalla at nightfall."

  Just like in the movie! Viktor thought with awe and amazement. "Then when Wolfgard's forces returned, they did not know I had just returned from the dead?"

  "Nay. I think not then, as you still clung to life when the first battle ended."

  "But Reyna seemed to know," Viktor muttered, as if to himself.

  "The Ravisher knew of your resurrection?" Svein asked with a raised brow.

  "Perhaps," Viktor murmured, still lost in thought.

  "Whether or not she had knowledge, I predict word will spread quickly throughout the realm." Svein clenched his jaw. "Indeed, we have suspected for some time that there is a traitor in our midst, a knave who has been secretly giving information to Wolfgard."

  "You don't say?"

  Svein's blue eyes gleamed with vengeful triumph. "But this time, mayhap the traitor will aid our case."

  "In what way?"

  "By telling of your feat, jarl, and thereby putting fear in the hearts of our enemies. Never before has a warrior defied the Angel of Death and descended the Rainbow Bridge back to Midgard. I am certain you will inspire great awe and fear among Wolfgard's clansman."

  Viktor nodded. "Let us hope so. Otherwise we don't have a lot else to bank on
right now, do we?"

  Svein clapped a hand on Viktor's shoulder. "Do not worry. We will hone your skills. And soon we will have a great feast to celebrate your return from the dead. We will drink mead, sacrifice lambs, and ravish wenches until dawn."

  "Drinking mead, sacrificing animals, and ravishing women?" Viktor repeated with a wan smile. "My, I can hardly wait"

  Svein nudged Viktor with his elbow and chuckled. "If the mead is strong and Loki is about, we must pray we do not become confused and sacrifice the wenches and ravish the Iambs."

  Viktor was rendered ashen-faced and utterly speechless.

  Svein threw back his head and laughed. "I am jesting, jarl. Can you not see the humor of it?"

  For once, Viktor responded in a purely pagan vein. "Odin help me if I ever do."

  Up on the tundra well above Viktor's village, Reyna the Ravisher rode her black pony, galloping among the spring's first brave wildflowers. She enjoyed her reckless forays onto her enemy's side of the fjord—not only so she could spy on the rival clan, but also because the jaunts gave her a feeling of power and freedom. In all honesty, she had to admit that curiosity about Viktor the Valiant had in large part spurred her adventure today—as well as a determination to slay him.

  Reyna also savored being away from her hated stepfather's village, where she was endlessly goaded by his arrogant warriors, and where her only friends were her half brother, Ragar; his kinsman Harald; and her servant, Sibeal. On this side of the fjord, Reyna could actually feel safer, as well as more feminine and lighthearted. Here she lost herself in the natural setting; she played with her ice fox, Freya, and visited her good friend Pelagius, the Christian hermit monk who lived high in the hills. Here on these moors, she secretly indulged a different side of her nature, the part of her that was woman, not warrior, the essence of her that remained innocent and virginal, that missed her stolen childhood and the country of her birth.

  For soon enough, the glaciers would melt and the spring rains would render the fjord too swollen to cross. Then Reyna's sojourns would cease. But for now, she could still ford the river at its most narrow neck above Wolfgard's village. She could unleash her more fanciful side while toying with her enemies—and perhaps gaining new insight into the baffling Viktor the Valiant, the man who had arisen from Valhalla's flames last night. That knowledge would give her the power to destroy him, she vowed.