Page 12 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Her Norse curled around his ears, artful and sultry. He checked the waters, shaking off his captivation.

“You’ll find a capable jarl.”

“Why not you?”

Ilsa was a tender weapon, pricking his heart.

Justice was a shifty woman today, handing him a double-edged sword.

On one side, he wanted his father to suffer for rejecting him.

To slash, cut, and destroy. On the other side, his choice came with a hard consequence—disappointing Ilsa, a woman he’d come to respect.

“You know the law,” he mumbled. “I’m hrisungr . Norway’s jarls would never accept me.”

“Let Jarl Egil worry about that.” Her head canted sideways. “Or is your refusal an act of revenge?”

“I prefer to call it justice.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “Yet, when I look in your eyes, I fear they are the same.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “At least there will be plenty of time to change your mind.”

He squinted at the sun, a blazing disk low in the sky. “I’ll not stay. A better life awaits me in Rouen.”

She scooted closer, her stare scorching his profile. “You’d rather do Longsword’s bidding even though Jarl Egil offers you his riches and his chieftain’s seat?”

“And my pick of Vellefold’s women.” He turned to her full of sarcasm. “Don’t forget that.”

She flinched, a fleeting response. He almost didn’t believe he’d seen it, so quick was she to cover herself with cool intelligence. Chin high, she was proud. His nape bristled. Ilsa was weighing him again.

Bjorn on one side of a scale. Who or what was on the other side?

“Turning down the chance for power,” she purred. “You are rare among men.”

Her mouth quirked with doubt. Wise of her. A jarl’s seat did tempt him as it would any man, but they spoke of Vellefold, the last place he wanted to set foot in, much less rule.

As long as I keep moving, the past stays in my dust.

Except he was sailing headlong into past troubles.

Sleep was hard to find. Thoughts, both turbulent and deep, tormented him. Vellefold was the faithless woman calling him, whispering of her nearness, and he the hapless man unable to resist. He wanted to see her tall peaks and fertile cleft of land open to him, begging to be claimed.

Then, he’d walk away.

The sail riffled overhead, puffing north. His skin was heated despite chill winds blowing. Ilsa regarded him with a knowing turn of her lips. She didn’t fill the silence. She let it breathe, and this was dangerous. A man could find himself leaking his innermost thoughts to such a woman.

Restless, he leaned forward. “I can see you doubt me, but years I’ve watched kings and jarls. Ruling has two sides…” He held out both hands palms up like two sides of a scale. “On one hand, there is power and wealth. On the other, responsibility to care for people. Their ills become yours.”

“Like a father with a child.”

“Something like that.”

Her tanned face tilted a slight degree. “You don’t want any responsibility. Why not?”

He basked in the sun, its warmth and light blasting his face. Ilsa could take her pick of answers. Endless power struggles. The weak paying for a powerful man’s poor decision. The squabbles. The troubles.

“I’m not interested.” His voice was distant to his own ears.

A hush of leather on wood tempted him. Ilsa was scooting closer, her face filling his side vision.

“What you really mean is you prefer your band of men above all others.”

That too. She put the matter in place as an insightful woman would.

“Loyalty or wealth. An easy choice for me.”

She touched his knee, asking softly, “Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”

Her fingertips were a gentle inquiry. He curled his hands to fists, forcing himself not to touch them in return.

Touch was a woman’s weapon. But, Ilsa was the cool stillness of deep, deep waters.

Persuasive. Tranquil. He locked on her sun-kissed fingers, torn between reaching for them or knocking them away.

The vessel bounced hard on a rising current, jerking him upright. Apples rolled across the deck. Ravens shrieked, their basket upended. Valgerd and Erik scurried to collect fruit.

“It is time, Kell,” Ardith called from the rudder. “Set one free.”

The older man crouched low, his knees cracking. He fiddled with twine on the willow cage and reached in to grasp an upset bird. The cawing raven ascended. Kell, Ardith, Erik, and Valgerd shaded their eyes, following the bird’s wide circle around the mast. Everyone on the ship held their breath.

This was the ancient Viking test: if the bird returned, land was far way. If it didn’t, land was near.

Another circle around the mast, and the raven sped toward clouds thick as wool over the water.

“Lady. The raven,” Ardith said.

“I see it.” Ilsa reached under the bench and snapped open blue wool. She stood and wrapped a mantle around her body, its plush snow-white fur cresting her shoulders. “We are close to Vellefold. Prepare yourself.”

His stomach dropped. The soaring wall of mist hid the place he once called home.

“Lady,” Ardith’s voice lifted in mild warning. “I need you in the front.”

Ilsa’s face tipped his. She hesitated, her lips parting, but no words came. Duty called. A curt nod and she walked to the forward dragon head, blue wool fluttering.

“Erik,” she shouted. “Wake the others. We need them at the oars.”

Erik yanked the hold’s door open and bellowed, “Wake up! Fog ahead.” He slapped the deck twice. “Time to man the oars.”

Scrambling sounded below deck. News of fog chilled the heart. Vikings heard tales of ships wandering for days in mist so thick a man couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face.

The vessel skimmed the seas, going fast—too fast—into a wall of vapor ahead.

Bjorn charged forward. “Your servant woman will crash us into a cliff. No one can see in that.”

“Ardith knows every fold of land and sea here.” Ilsa’s smile slid sideways. “Do you really think I’d bring you all this way just to lose you at sea?”

Unease hit his belly. He’d climbed aboard a small ship to cross deep waters with a woman he hadn’t seen in years. Not once did he ask about the raids.

Was this blind obedience to Longsword?

Or unquestioning trust in a childhood friend?

Ilsa had been orderly about the running of her byrding vessel, but he had charge of the fight ahead. His brothers relied on him to lead, and he had yet to do it.

The Forgotten Sons poured onto the deck with Ingolf and his wife.

Everyone wiped sleep from perplexed eyes.

Mantles were donned and conversations hushed.

They weren’t at the wall of fog yet, but the air was distinctly icier.

The sun was slipping low, touching the line where sea and sky met.

Daylight would extinguish, and water would become pitch-black.

Valgerd and Audr hunched together on a bench, their faces set to the haze ahead.

“Bjorn.” Gunnar held out a black mantle and iron penannular pin.

Bjorn covered his shoulders in wool and secured it with the pin. Footsteps cluttered the deck. Thorfinn joined them, stretching out a long-boned arm at the wall of mist.

“We’re heading into that?” he asked, incredulous.

“Yes. We’ll be safe,” Ilsa assured. “Seawater runs in Ardith’s veins. She navigates the fjords better than anyone in Vellefold.”

“No one can see a fjord from a cliff in that fog.” Thorfinn muttered a curse and swung around to find his seat.

The vessel sliced through currents. Ilsa’s profile was stalwart, a woman unmoved. With rich fur on her shoulders, she could be a legendary Viking in her element: relaxed, patient, ready to breach her favorite hunting grounds.

Ardith’s voice rang out, “Kell. Thorvald. Take down the sail.”

The men jumped at her word. Wool snapped, ropes slithered, and the sail wilted over the mast. The vessel lurched to a near stop, water fanning high on both sides.

Sea spray slapped the rails and people ducked as it splattered the deck.

Gunnar gripped an oar, ready and unafraid.

Erik was dauntless, an edge of anger building.

Bjorn’s wide stance steadied him. His brothers trusted him. He wouldn’t let them down.

Her red sail tethered, the dragon crept into the fog. Damp tendrils of air slipped past their faces. Ardith steered the rudder with a deft hand, and Bjorn stood with Ilsa by the dragon’s head. Everyone else took a bench, tense and ready.

“Oars over the water,” Ardith’s voice broke the eerie stillness.

Wood clunked. Sure hands rammed oars in throles on the ship. Oak-made oars stuck out like spears on both sides of the vessel—to push them off rocks and cliffs. Or break first.

Sweat beaded Bjorn’s hairline. The servant woman knew what she was doing. Better to have the oars break than the ship.

Still, they were sailing headlong into a swirling, vaporous wall.

Hand on the rail, he was unnerved. The misty wall swallowed the dragon’s head.

Mysterious and white, the fog ate him and the vessel.

The sun was gone, the silence uncanny. Clouds dropped around them.

Droplets clung to his cheeks, his cloak.

They slid over the rail, tiny invaders. Vapors danced and curled.

Brave men gulped a time or two behind him.

Ilsa, bold of heart, studied the water’s inky surface.

Only an arm’s length of the sea’s surface was visible ahead.

He leaned over the rail with her. “Are we looking for rocks?”

“Rocks?” She glanced at him, gently humored. “You’ve been away from our fjords too long.” She was at ease as if sailing through dense fog was as natural as breathing. “I’m looking for driftwood, moss, signs of land, changes in the current.”