by Fabio
Sternly, Viktor rejoined, "Whether the man is an outlaw or not, you know what they say ... 'If Mohammed won't go to the mountain ...' "
"Who has so said?" inquired a perplexed Svein.
"Never mind."
The party ascended the gangplank to the ship. Svein and Viktor fell grimly silent as the oarsmen maneuvered the long-ship out into the fjord, while two warriors hoisted the large sail.
Standing at the railing, watching seals frolic in the turbulent waters ahead, Viktor fingered the copper bracelet, that he still wore on his wrist—the trinket he had wrenched from Reyna the Ravisher's ankle last night. What a study in contrasts this woman was—part gentle female, part brutal savage. Remembering how he had covertly observed her just yesterday on the moors, playing with her fox and later praying with the monk, he wondered how any woman who considered herself a Christian, who loved animals as she did, could slaughter other human beings without hesitation or remorse.
Yet Reyna the Ravisher seemed the least of his worries as he considered the coming confrontation with his enemy. Would he survive the afternoon or be slaughtered by Wolfgard's warriors the minute he arrived in the enemy camp? Perhaps he was being reckless and foolhardy, but after the senseless deaths of Sigurd and Magnus, he was also at his wit's end, and desperate measures seemed called for.
Svein joined Viktor at the rail. He pointed to the opposite shoreline, where a crude wharf was met by a path that carved between low cliffs of black basalt. "That is the path to Wolfgard's village. You must follow it for about one hundred ells."
Viktor frowned. "What is an ell?"
Svein held his hands wide.
"Ah, a yard."
Svein scowled in equal perplexity, but made no direct comment. "Remember, jarl, that we shall await you on the opposite bank. Signal to us when you are ready to leave—or if you need help."
From the meaningful lift of Svein's brow, Viktor judged that his blood brother considered the latter possibility far more likely. He removed the wide leather belt holding his sword and scabbard and handed the entire apparatus to Svein.
"Guard this for me until I return."
Svein's mouth fell open. "You are braving the lion's den unarmed?"
"Should I try to lift my sword against dozens of armed fighters?" Viktor stared grimly at the narrow path that might well take him straight to Hel. "Arriving in Wolfgard's village minus my sword may well be my only defense."
Svein's gaze beseeched the heavens. "May Odin help us all, and may Loki keep his distance today."
"Amen," Viktor concurred with a wry grin.
The helmsman maneuvered the ship up to Wolfgard's wharf. Although several small craft were moored there, Viktor noted that Wolfgard's drakar was missing, and he figured some of the village men might have taken the ship out to fish on the ocean.
Viktor disembarked and waved to his crew, watching them push off into the deep, rushing river to await him on the opposite bank. He eyed the steep path with a feeling of impending doom. For a moment he considered turning back, then vetoed the impulse. He was a man of reason, not violence; surely if he gathered all his wits and courage, logic could somehow prevail today.
Viktor started up the crude trail, and was surprised when he met with no resistance—no posted sentries, and only a circling red-tailed hawk in the clear skies above to note his passage. He wondered why Wolfgard's security was so lax. Perhaps his enemy had been the aggressor for so many years that be had grown complacent and careless, no longer expecting an assault from the rival tribe. And since most Viking raids occurred under cover of darkness, perhaps Wolfgard did not think daytime sentries were needed. Viktor mused that he could easily have led a sneak attack today—but such was not his way. During such an invasion, he knew he would be unable to stop his men from succumbing to their Viking instincts and brutally slaughtering the other tribe. This in all conscience he could never allow.
As he crested a rise marked by two stunted birches, he at last spotted the village sprawled in a stark valley below him. A ramshackle collection of shacks surrounded a larger long-house he assumed was Wolfgard's abode. Even at this distance, Viktor saw the foul haze from the 'Vikings fires and smelled the acrid smoke rising from so many roof vents.
He took a deep breath and began descending the trail. As he approached the outskirts of the hamlet, he was still not accosted, though he did attract curious glances from several thralls who were out tilling the fields with oxen-drawn plows. Soon he proceeded down the filthy main street, sidestepping slops and garbage, wending his way past scurrying chickens, pigs, and dogs and scampering, dirt-smeared children. Along with the ever-present smoke, the odors of rotting food and human excrement assailed his nostrils. He caught the wary looks of several women who sat in their open doorways, obviously having escaped the smoky interiors to sew, grind corn, or nurse babies in the afternoon air.
Toward the center of town, not far from the longhouse that he assumed belonged to his enemy, Viktor at last attracted real notice. Three men leading horses spotted him striding past the central well. Viktor knew his game was up when he saw expressions of angry recognition spread across their bearded, ugly faces.
He summoned all his bravery in facing his enemies. "Good day, men. I would speak with your jarl."
He might as well have been trying to reason with Loki. Within a split second, the three charged him, roaring with rage.
"Seize him! "T'is Viktor the Valiant!" cried one.
"We are under attack!" shouted the second.
"Kill the evil hound of Hel!" bellowed the third.
As the men moved in to grab him, Viktor knew better man to resist. Although at first his attackers seemed puzzled by his lack of aggression, his stoicism in no way diminished the fury they unleashed on his person. Two of the men restrained him while the third slammed Viktor's jaw with doubled-up fists. The burst of agony was so intense that Viktor would have collapsed had the others not held him. Soon four other savages converged on the square to join in the melee, punching Viktor viciously. He found himself being battered from all sides as the warriors shouted angry deprecations.
"Cursed whoreson! How dare you sully our village!"
"We shall roast you in your own juices, evil son of Loki!"
"Die, prophet of Hel!"
The brutal pounding continued, and Viktor could do nothing to stave off the stunning blows. Pain exploded on his face, in his head, on his back, on his chest and arms everywhere. He realized—too late—the foolhardiness of his expedition, and wondered how Long he would live beneath the savage beating. Reality was swimming in and out when he was surprised to hear the sound of a familiar, emphatic feminine voice.
"Halt, my stepfather's warriors!"
The hammering continued.
"I say halt, sons of Nidhogg!"
At last, grudgingly, the warriors backed off, save for the two who still restrained Viktor. Viktor blinked away the blood trickling into his eyes and spotted Reyna standing beyond him wearing an expression of haughty triumph. Next to her stood the white-haired, bearded giant Viktor recognized as Wolfgard.
"Why do you bid us halt, Reyna?" one of the men demanded belligerently.
Sneering at Viktor, she advanced a step. "Mayhap it amuses me to kill this mongrel myself. Surely such a filthy dog is not worthy enough to sully a great warrior's blade, Evil."
The one named Egil grinned, his ego obviously soothed by Reyna's apt remark. He nodded to the others. "Yea, we are content to allow a woman to kill this craven."
The men howled with laughter One of the warriors restraining Viktor held up his captive's wrist. "Look, the evil coward wears your bracelet. Shall we remove it for you?"
"Yea, by slicing off the whoreson's hand!" added another.
Amid roars of bloodlust, Reyna shook her head and smiled contemptuously at Viktor. "Nay, do not trouble yourselves. The ornament of a woman suits this mongrel well, methinks. And verily, I do not wish the trinket returned after his vile skin has sullied it."
T
he warriors succumbed to new torrents of mirth.
"Kill him now, Reyna!" one urged.
"Yea—make it slow and painful, and let the entire village watch!" heckled another.
"Show us your contempt for him!"
"My contempt?" Reyna repeated with a vicious smile. "Yea, I shall demonstrate that now."
The others watched avidly as Reyna stalked toward Viktor.
He ground his aching jaw and regarded her with smoldering fury, but the little vixen was undaunted. Taking in her purposeful stride and scornful visage, he wondered how many seconds it would take her to kill him. But instead of drawing out her dagger and slitting his throat as he would have expected, she paused before him, looked him over insultingly, then spit full in his face.
The other warriors bellowed laughter, while Viktor trembled in anger and affronted dignity and glared at the sadistic shrew. He might not be a violent man, but the triumphant smirk on Reyna's face filled him with black rage. How could he ever have thought of this hellion with affection? How could he have felt the slightest affinity with her? For the first time, he found himself feeling just as a Viking warrior must feel when his honor was besmirched. He vowed that this devil's daughter would live to regret her contempt.
Meanwhile, Reyna was strutting around the circle of men and gloating over her victory.
"Kill him now, Reyna!' a voice yelled.
"Yea, cut out the bastard's intestines and burn them before his evil eyes!" taunted another.
Reyna turned to address the man. 'That I choose not to do, for this cur is beneath killing. Mayhap we should make him a thrall and yoke him as we do our oxen to plow the field."
This suggestion was met with loud hurrahs and comments of approval until a deep, commanding voice yelled, "Silencer
As Wolfgard came forward through the ranks, the entire group, including Reyna, fell ominously quiet. Wolfgard's pitiless gray eyes fixed on Viktor. "Bring the prisoner to my longhouse," he ordered gruffly. "I shall speak with this dimwit. His bravery intrigues me." He paused to smile cruelly. "Or mayhap 'tis his stupidity."
"Enemy, I present my stepdaughter, Reyna, and my son, Ragar. I would have you meet my clan before you meet your death."
In Wolfgard's longhouse, Viktor managed to nod to the sensitive-looking young man named Ragar, who sat to his right. To Reyna, across the room, he murmured cynically, "I do believe I have already had the pleasure."
Wolfgard laughed, and Reyna sniffed with contempt.
Sipping the ale his host had just given him, Viktor took a moment to thank the gods he had survived the past few moments. The small group had gathered somewhere near the center of the jarl's crude dwelling. This home lacked the accoutrements of Viktor's abode; Viktor, Wolfgard, Reyna, and Ragar all sat on a barren floor of packed dirt, their bodies encircling a central fire pit dug directly into the earth. Thick smoke scorched Viktor's eyes. In the background near the door loomed two fierce warriors who stood guard, their fingers resting on the hilts of their broadswords.
Reyna seemed disinterested in the proceedings as she sat with long legs crossed and sipped her ale. By contrast, Ragar, who had just nodded to Viktor with surprising courtesy, sat waiting for his father to speak, an expression of respect sculpting his finely sculpted features.
Viktor could see a familial resemblance between Ragar and Reyna in their strong chins, high cheekbones, brown eyes, and blond hair—although Reyna's mane was long and straight, while Ragar's locks were short and curly. Recalling Reyna's cruel behavior outside, when she had spit in his face, Viktor wondered how Wolfgard could have ended up with two such different offspring. But then, if memory served him, the two siblings shared only the same mother; Reyna was not Wolfgard's blood kin—and Odin only knew from where she got her savage, sadistic streak.
As for Wolfgard himself ... Viktor carefully studied his adversary. Wolfgard was a massive man who appeared to be in his late forties. Nevertheless, he was hard-muscled and tanned; even in the cool weather, he was dressed Spartan-style, in a sleeveless leather jerkin and tight brown leggings. He wore a gold ring carved with the face of a snarling wolf, a bracelet of ivory, and a necklace of crude, rectangular amber beads strewn with bronze-and-gold charms depicting the Norse gods and Thor's hammer.
Wolfgard's face was craggy and battle-scarred; the blunt nose jutted at a crooked slant, and Viktor suspected it had been broken more than once. Staring into the man's remorseless eyes, Viktor fully realized that he was alive now only because his presence amused his enemy; when he no longer proved diverting, he would likely be summarily executed.
As Viktor had expected, his host spoke directly to the issue. "What brings you to my village, Viktor the Valiant? Are you a hero—or merely a fool?"
Viktor replied firmly, "I come to seek the peace with you."
The room erupted into raucous laughter—only Ragar did not join in.
"You come on a fool's mission, then," Wolfgard scoffed. "I had heard you lost your memory when you returned from Valhalla. Now it seems you have misplaced your wits as well."
With the guards guffawing in the background, Viktor said stoutly, "I disagree. Seeking an end to the hostilities through reason, rather than brute force, is the height of intelligence, in my opinion.
Wolfgard waved him off with a sneer. "Do not seek to trick me with your claims of logic. This feud is too long-standing to end at your whim, Viktor the Valiant. There are blood bounties involved."
"Can you tell me what started the dispute in the first place?" Viktor asked.
Wolfgard pondered the question with a grimace.
One of the guards called out, "Jarl, did not the feud begin when Viktor's men stole the polar bear pelts we had stored away to sell at Hedeby?"
"Nay, nay," argued the other guard. "The feud started when Viktor's men set afire one of our halfships."
"I think you are both wrong," remarked Ragar. "I remember my kinsman telling me the conflict ensued when King Viktor refused permission for a woman of his clan to marry one of my father's warriors."
"Well, which is it?" Viktor asked Wolfgard.
He shrugged. "It seems no one can recollect."
Viktor flung his hands wide. "So we are all to fight a life-and-death struggle over a slight no one can remember?"
"It means naught how the feud started," Wolfgard snapped. "For 'tis a matter of honor now. By Odin, the only way for peace to come to Vanaheim is for you and all of your clan to leave."
"But why must it be this way?" Viktor reasoned. "My tribe settled this island first, did they not?"
Wolfgard snorted in contempt. "Yea, but you sought to expel my clan soon after we arrived. Clearly, there is not room for both our peoples on this island."
Viktor shook his head in mystification. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. You talk as if you stepped right out of some bad B Western. Are you saying that one of us must get out of Dodge by sundown?"
"What is this 'Dodge'?" Wolfgard asked in puzzlement.
Before Viktor could attempt a reply, Ragar intervened. "Father, perhaps our guest has spoken with some prudence. Would it not be wise to end the slaughter? Can our peoples not find some way to live together in harmony?"
"Bah!" Wolfgard glowered fiercely at the boy. "You have the soul of a woman, my son. I should have abandoned you at your birth, you were so feeble. But I listened to your mother's pathetic wails, and I took pity on you, because I had waited so long for an issue of my loins. Do not disgrace me again by speaking up in cowardice to our enemy!"
Ragar, appearing much chastened, lowered his gaze. "Yea, Father."
Viktor glanced at Reyna, who in turn was glaring at Wolfgard. He noted that her fingers were clutched tightly on the hilt of the dagger at her waist, and her brown eyes burned with anger. Had Wolfgard's diatribe to Ragar roused her wrath? Did she feel protective of her half brother?
Wolfgard turned his attention back to Viktor and chuckled. Ah, children—what a bother they are. This one"—he paused to jerk his head toward Reyna—"has th
e heart of a lioness, but no respect for her jarl This one"—he nodded toward Ragar—"is weak and puny, just like his mother.'
All at once Reyna, who had been so explosively silent, bolted up with dagger drawn and faced her stepfather in a rage. "Slight my brother or my mother again, old man, and I will gut you like a fish and string your entrails from the mast of your dragon ship!"
Wolfgard's visage clenched with fury at this affront. "Sit down, stepdaughter, and save your spite for our enemy, or I shall cut out your vile tongue!"
With obvious reluctance, Reyna complied, while still staring murder at him.
Shaking his head, Wolfgard spoke to Viktor. "As I said, no respect for her jarl, that one. I would have slit her throat long ago, but there is no honor in killing a woman. Moreover, she does fight well for her jarl." Wolfgard winked at his guest. "Mayhap she will dispatch you for me soon, Viktor the Valiant."
Viktor wisely offered no reply. "You still haven't explained why we cannot settle this feud peaceably. I know there are remedies in our society—such as the Thing that meets in Haymaking month. Can we not air our grievances? If you persist in feeling slighted by our clan, perhaps some recompense can be arranged for you—"
But Wolfgard only laughed. "You misunderstand me, enemy- I want no blood money."
"Why not?"
Wolfgard's gray eyes glittered with vengeful pleasure. "Mayhap because I savor this feud too much to give it up."
For a moment Viktor was too frustrated to reply. Damn these Vikings and their bellicose ways! He knew there were warriors among his own tribe—particularly Canute, Rollo, and Orm—who would wholeheartedly endorse Wolfgard's bloodthirsty attitudes.
"Do you not agree, Viking?" Wolfgard pursued with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes.
"Speak for yourself," came Viktor's terse reply. "I prefer us to live in accord, without violence."
“Tell me, Viktor the Valiant, have you come here today for any purpose other than to babble about peace like a woman?"