Page 14 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Six

L ong notes rang through the fjord. All heads on the boat angled to a cliff. A flaxen-haired boy stopped blowing a lur. He dropped the wooden horn that was as long as he was tall and darted past a scrubby Rowan tree.

Bjorn shaded his eyes. “An alarm?”

“Yes.” A somber Ilsa stared at the settlement coming into view.

Dogs yapped, longhouse doors cracked open, and one by one, Vellefold’s folk crept past their lintels. Charred ruins dotted the village. Garden fences were in shambles. Pit houses for visiting merchants and craftsmen were jumbled heaps of wood where the market once thrived.

How many survived?

Women and children trickled onto the main road.

Silver-haired women followed with aged men shuffling along with walking sticks.

In twos and threes, they came. All eerily silent save the light patter of footsteps.

People filed down to Vellefold’s famed crescent-shaped dock.

The deep, uncertain harbor demanded a dock which hugged the steep drop where land and water met—so deep no man or woman had touched the bottom.

Bjorn counted ruined boats. Three skeide ships, built for thirty pairs of oars, listed sideways. Water tapped their splintered planks. Four smaller, half-sunk byrding boats drifted by rocks at

the mouth of the Eiken River. Seagulls landed on the dead ships, cleaning their wings and leaving droppings.

Large poles stuck out of the water near the byrding vessels. He pointed at them.

“Are those ship masts?”

“Two of them,” she said, resigned. “The last of the jarl’s mighty warships.”

Ilsa’s hardy dragon creaked underfoot. He swung his gaze to her, curious. “Yet, your ship survived.”

She stared ahead. “Because it was…elsewhere.”

Her hesitation trapped him as if deeper truth or stark lies lurked there. Perhaps both. He felt his mouth pull a grim line.

“That—” he jutted his chin at the ruins “—is much worse than I expected.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t know that there is such a thing as good raids or bad raids.”

A tremor laced her sarcasm. Anger and fright must’ve hounded her.

It still did when he looked in her eyes.

All her life was lived in the luxury of no raids until a killing season fell on the settlement.

He couldn’t fault her. Ilsa was emotions and strength held together by sturdy threads, while he felt… nothing.

More Vikings crowded the harbor, their breaths puffing ghostly clouds in chilly air.

Babes toddled alongside older children. Lean and curious, the hardy stock waited.

No smiles. No tears. Blank-eyed and hollow-cheeked, all of them.

Their frail courage was noteworthy. He scanned those faces, the barest knot twisting in his chest.

Jarl Egil was nowhere in sight.

“This second raid,” he said. “Is that when Jarl Egil was wounded?”

She sucked in a slow breath, nodding. “Everyone thought he’d die. Men he’d paid to defend us left. The numbers thinned and…” Her words trailed off.

“They wouldn’t follow a weak man.” Standing tall, he stared at what remained of the once-proud Vellefold.

The smell of frost nipped him. Winter was coming—a killing time for a people with no food stores.

“The fever wiped out more of our number, taking women and children,” she said softly. “It claimed lives in Aseral and that is why they didn’t attack again.”

“You think that’s why they didn’t come back, but you don’t know for certain.” He frowned at her. “Your first lesson of war. When it comes to your enemy, assume nothing.”

Her eyes were chips of green glass. “Very well. I assumed something I shouldn’t have. I had a choice—send Ardith and Kell to buy provisions in Lund or send them to spy on Aseral. I chose to feed my people.”

Chin high, Ilsa was fierce. A breeze stirred white-blond wisps over cheeks crafted by the gods. Sun-tanned and dirt-smeared, she was a spirited beauty.

“I don’t fault your choice,” he said.

Her hackles eased only a fraction.

Erik stalked forward. “Where are the warriors?”

A babe wailed, the noise piercing sunless skies. Grey-haired Vikings stooped with age stood shoulder-to-shoulder with pale-faced mothers and their children.

“Most are gone.” Ilsa nodded at the people. “This is all that’s left of Vellefold.”

Bjorn scanned the crowd. “There are barely a hundred.”

“I haven’t counted but that sounds right.” She raised a cloth-wrapped hand and waved.

A hobbling man on a crutch flanked by two women hailed her. The four-fingered wave of Lord Odell struck the air. He’d lost part of his hand hunting ivory. Trailing behind him were six thick-jawed warriors. A sluggish, limping lot—the only trained warriors he could see.

Ardith shouted to draw in the oars. The ship glided into the dock. Rope was thrown to an older boy, and another slapped the water. A girl fished it out.

Erik’s profile was hard. “These people are sheep. They don’t need warriors. They need a shepherd.”

Ilsa snapped back. “You see a people who have been beaten, but not defeated.”

Unmoved, Erik helped settle the boarding planks. The clap of wood dropped loudly. Gunnar, Kell, and Erik stacked the oars. Audr and Valgerd hauled food stores out of the hold. Beside him, Ilsa was oddly pensive.

“My mother and father will see you and your men settled,” she said.

“Not you?”

“No. We’ll meet later.”

“Your things, lady.” Audr was at Ilsa’s side, handing over a small leather bag. The older woman patted Ilsa’s back, her voice a tender whisper, “We’re home.”

A skirling breeze made more noise than the beaten down Vikings watching the ship.

Erik shot a speaking glance at him before jumping onto the dock.

Gunnar followed and helped secure the boat.

Vellefold was much worse than what Ilsa reported in Rouen.

Or he hadn’t truly listened. With all those gaunt hungry faces, he was listening now.

Vellefold was dying. If another raid didn’t kill them, winter would.

Tired travelers scrambled across the planks. A young woman cried out to Valgerd, pushing through the herd of people. The old woman sung a cheery reply. The two women fell into each other’s arms, laughing, sobbing, wiping tears from their eyes. The open affection broke the beleaguered crowd.

“Warriors have come!” a voice shouted.

“We are saved!” a woman cried out, a tremor in her voice.

With a bashful grin, Bjorn waved a greeting. Eyes shined with welcome. Some reached for him with words of gratitude. He touched hands and nodded his thanks. He wouldn’t pluck seeds of gladness from his heart. The people planted them there—he’d feel the same in any Viking port.

Or so he told himself.

A grimy boy clapped dirty hands as the Sons hauled their belongings out of the hold.

Older children lined up to take buckets of food that Erik and Ardith passed to them.

Words of appreciation rose, louder and louder.

Pride spun inside Bjorn when his hard-as-iron brothers answered with modest grins.

The Sons could’ve arrogantly stormed the docks, but they’d tasted bitterness as downtrodden boys.

Viking to the bone, they would help these Norse.

Bjorn hefted his war hammer over his shoulder when calloused fingers touched his elbow. Ilsa. Her green eyes brewed with trouble.

“There’s something you need to know.” Her chin tipped higher. “It’s about Halfdan.”

Her dead husband.

“What about him?”

When Ilsa leaned in, his attention dropped to her mouth. Soft. Plush. Her parting lips would tempt a monk. Her green eyes met his.

“I killed him.”