Page 11 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Five

T hree gold coins skipped across the water’s iron face.

The obliging sea swallowed them under Valgerd’s mumbled prayer.

Her work-thick fingers splayed over rolling currents.

She was an aged enchantress in humble clothes, a Viking who bent the ear of gods and men alike.

The prayer was barely done when the dragon prow split a wave and spray misted her tanned cheeks.

Wiping her face, she cackled. “Aegir sends his blessing.”

Bjorn jutted his chin at open water. “Was that an offering to the sea giant for giving us fair winds?”

“No. It was a token of thanks for not smashing our ship and stealing our treasure.”

Treasure?

He glanced at Erik whittling ivory and Ilsa tending her abused hands. Two ravens nested in wicker baskets. A bucket of apples sat beside a dozing Kell. Ardith yawned, her booted foot planted on cloth-covered limestone while she steered the rudder.

“There’s nothing in this vessel but tired people,” he said.

Valgerd’s smile showed a missing tooth at the center of her mouth. Wind twisted wiry, grey strands about wizened features. Hers was a face that could make a man confess hidden thoughts when he’d rather be silent, or strike him mute when he should speak.

“If you are too blind to see the wealth, son of Vellefold, then I am too old to tell you what it is.”

Son of Vellefold . He gripped the sodden rail and kept his mouth shut.

Valgerd deserved respect. She rowed with the heart of a warrior, and she was Odell’s sister, but on this journey, she took orders from Ilsa.

Known as a rope maker, she stripped Linden trees and turned the bark into strong Viking ropes.

Seafaring men came from far and wide to purchase them.

Crafty and headstrong, the Valgerd he remembered revered gods and giants and ruled her brood with a firm but loving hand.

“Here.” She slid a Saxon coin into the space between his palm and the rail. “Give a peace offering to Aegir.”

“Why? I have not angered him.”

“You have not listened to him either. Like a rebellious child, you stayed away too long. After all these years, you’ve obeyed the call to come home.”

“Home? I’ve wandered too long for the word to have meaning.” Molars clamped, he flung the Woden-head coin into the deep.

If Valgerd wanted to throw away her wealth, who was he to argue?

She was a creature of Vellefold, a people who made sacrifices to the sea giant Aegir, his wife Ran, and their nine daughters who stirred the waves.

In Vellefold, the All-Father Odin was of lesser importance, a thing he never understood.

Better to honor gods of war and strength than the giant and his cranky wife who ruled the sea.

Valgerd waggled a finger at him. “I see doubt in your eyes. But you will see, I speak the truth. I have long prayed for your return.”

“Squandered prayers,” he said. “I’m on this ship because the jarl I serve ordered me to follow a woman I hardly remember and fight an enemy I’ve never seen.”

“’ Hardly remember’ Ilsa?” Mirth danced in her voice.

Ravens squawked in their cage, as if they too called him on the lie.

He turned to the sea. “The sooner I get my silver ingots and win your battles, the sooner my men and I can leave.”

“Resisting is useless. The call home is undeniable. I see it in your eyes when you look north.” The older woman walked away, a gust carrying her parting words. “Stop fighting your destiny, son of Vellefold.”

Sea spray trickled through his beard. Valgerd was half-right.

He was staring north. Endless ells of blue-grey water revived him.

Vast. Eternal. More beautiful than he remembered.

Air tasted familiar, a clean brine, the tang heavier than what he’d sampled on southern shores.

Riding Ilsa’s wooden dragon invigorated him.

Creaks and sways underfoot were natural. He balanced easily and never got sick.

All the openness filled him, yet part of him was empty.

He shouldn’t be surprised at the contradiction.

Aegir was known to eat a man’s fortitude and spit out his bones, but the sea giant played an especially cruel game today.

Waves carried Jarl Egil’s booming laugh.

Sun rays on water reflected his father’s pride-filled eyes.

Bjorn touched his chest. A wrestling match was tearing him apart, a battle between Hel-born misery and happier times.

How was it he detested the jarl, yet yearned for him at the same time?

“We’re not far from Vellefold. If that’s what you’re searching for.” Ilsa. Her voice was an invitation.

He turned around. “I’m not searching for anything.”

Tolerance flared in light-colored eyes. “Then why do you keep vigil? The sea has not changed.”

Goose bumps scaled his arms. A woman reading his moods was foreign territory. Valgerd’s needling challenge was one thing; Ilsa’s confident draw was another. Her calm presence soaked into him. She was an unfinished story that left him wanting the rest of her tale.

“There is that fog ahead,” he reasoned.

“I’ve had my eye on it.”

A wall of mist rose in the distance. Beyond it was Vellefold. He knew this by the cooler air and the number of their days at sea.

Eighteen years . That was the last time he’d set foot in the place he’d called home, yet his senses stirred with awareness.

Did his father watch for him on the other side?

Ilsa sat under her father’s symbol, a black snake head sewn into red wool. Sharp winds snapped a timeworn, sun-bleached sail. Its vicious emblem was once a sign of strength, but this viper wouldn’t strike fear in the smallest child. Ripped threads and a hole left the serpent one-eyed and fangless.

“Your Jormungand is toothless,” he said, crossing the deck.

Head bent, Ilsa wrapped fresh wool around her hand. “The stitching frayed. No one repaired it.”

Conversations with her had been limited.

They’d rowed together the first day but no more.

She spoke the same to him as she did to the others: about changing shifts at the oars, to ask if he was hungry, and what fish he’d sighted off his side of the ship.

Ilsa was firm, steady leadership with full knowledge of her byrding vessel and a solid understanding of the sea.

He dropped onto the bench facing her. “The Odell I knew would never neglect his sails.”

“The sail is not his. It’s mine.”

“Yours?” He hooted. “No wonder.”

Bright green eyes pinned him. “What does that mean?”

“Well, a woman…” He grinned.

She rested both fists on her knees, a breeze twirling untied cloth. “Go on. This should be interesting.”

“You defy tradition.” He motioned to the dragon’s head.

Viking customs were clear. Dragonhead prows were a sign of jarls, kings, and chieftains. Ilsa’s cracked, weathered beast was far from high born and royal. The ship could easily be overlooked, yet she flew her father’s sail.

Her hardened features softened. “I purchased the ship from Jarl Egil.” A small shrug and, “As to my father’s sail, it is a cast-off. I never cared to fix it.”

What a motley mix. Old ones manning the oars, ruined sails, apple-sized holes on the deck. Ilsa was the exception. She shined in late day sun.

Brown leather hugged her thighs. A finger’s width of skin showed through a slit seam where ox sinew bound her trousers with wide X stitching hip to boot. On her legs, tiny blond hairs gleamed golden in daylight. He lost seconds staring at the firm flesh from which they sprung.

“Why don’t your trousers fit? Are they a cast-off?” A blunt question, but he didn’t regret the asking.

Her smile was taciturn and mysterious.

“They were sewn for me last fall when I was thinner.”

Thinner? She was already on the verge of being underfed, but a smart man never asked why a woman’s thighs expanded.

She eyed him, biting the wool strip in hand with pretty white teeth.

“Do you really want to discuss my clothes?”

Pleasant goose bumps scattered paths over his body. Her effect was sweetly annoying. Next, he’d wonder if she nibbled a man or bit hard when she found her pleasure…not that he cared.

The knot done, Ilsa’s smile was confident and easy.

Gone was the fine lady he’d sparred with in Longsword’s map room.

The woman before him was a creature of fast ships and fathomless waters.

Stained leather covered her body, seal oil slicked her chin, and dirt smeared her cheeks.

Slender braids webbed both sides of her head, leaving unplaited hair blowing in the wind.

Ilsa was a sea huntress and he, the prey she was taking home.

Drawn to her, he rested an elbow on the rail, curious about the woman he once called friend. “I’d rather discuss your vessel.” He cocked his head. “I didn’t take you for an ivory hunter.”

“Why not?”

“Because you never showed a taste for it.”

Only the heartiest chased ivory. The willing met harsh conditions and long periods away from home, often returning empty-handed— if they found their way home.

The best hunting grounds were the distant reaches of the North Sea.

Remote rocky islands, ice-floes cracking on open water, all places good at splintering vessels and men’s bones.

“You’re right. I don’t hunt ivory. I use the ship for other reasons. Such as finding long-lost friends.”

She was gentle, shifting on her seat. His pulse leaped when her knee grazed his.

Mature in her dealings, Ilsa rarely asked for help but was quick to serve others.

Trust ran deep with Ardith, the two sharing a powerful bond.

The servant woman drove the ship, yet Ilsa gave the orders.

She’d told Ardith to take the open seas.

A risky plan. Vikings hugged coastlines, a sound practice to save them from blowing off course, especially when sailing smaller byrding ships.

Ilsa wasn’t one for much talk, and that was a peculiar loss. He’d come to crave her voice with its low smoky quality.

“I heard you talking to Valgerd,” she said. “I am disappointed that you’ll not stay.”