Page 23 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

“They are just as capable in a fight as anyone at this table.” Gunnar wiped his knife clean on his arm brace. “Maybe fiercer. Half the slaves I’ve met lust for freedom. They want it the same as you expect to keep yours.”

Frida paled.

Erik’s mouth split in a crooked grin. “I’ve met former slaves who excel at the poisonous arts.” He raised his horn to Frida. “Be careful what you drink.”

Frida cast furtive glances at the two thralls serving their food. Odell speared his meat with the bluster of a man used to his place in the world.

“Those who disappeared had served us for years,” Odell grumbled. “We would know if they conspired against us.”

“Thralls doing such things…” Lady Gerda visibly shivered, her jet beads swinging emphatically. “I cannot imagine it. But I do know much work falls on my daughter and me. Sometimes more than we can bear.”

“The men who serve us spend their days building new ships,” Odell said.

The great chair creaked. “Who serves our food is the least of our worries.”

The chieftain winced as if pained by the effort of talking. Jarl Egil barely ate, his breath was labored, and his cheeks, ashen. Ilsa touched his sleeve.

“If you need to rest, jarl, do not worry about your guests. They will be well-fed. I will see to it.”

His big paw patted her cloth-wrapped hand. “You have bigger things than seeing these bellies filled. The defense of Vellefold. See to that first.”

Bjorn chewed meat he couldn’t taste. The jarl coughed, a harsh, wet rattle, before slumping exhausted in his chair.

Father and son were seated together, everyone sharing words save the two of them.

Neither made eye contact. The air was stiff.

Miserable emotions simmered. Ilsa nibbled food and kept her silence.

She’d strived to unite a hard jarl with his equally hard warrior son—and the effort failed.

Odell, Gunnar, and Erik discussed the shieling behind the village. Bjorn had walked the meadow, viewing it by torchlight when checking Vellefold’s defenses. A knoll broke the wide, flat land, an ideal line of defense and a perfect training ground.

Not one of the Sons spoke of attacking Aseral, and he was glad. Getting the lay of the land was their first step. Putting fear in the enemy was the next. Typical wisdom. It wouldn’t work here, but that was a battle to come between him and the men. His present trouble was already spoken for.

His brothers-in-arms had saved him years ago.

He owed them his life. Now would be a good time he did something about it.

The men wanted fame, fortune, and land in Rouen.

Vellefold was not their future. Nor was it his.

The settlement was rife with trouble born of lies. He could feel their shadows everywhere.

He pushed up from the table, and words lulled in the hall. He stared down at Ilsa.

“Tomorrow morning, I expect everyone at the lower shieling. Tell them to bring swords and shields, axes, knives, spears, bows and arrows, and all the empty buckets they can spare.”

“ Everyone ? Surely you don’t mean children and our elders,” she said.

All eyes were on him. Stepping around the bench, he was calm. “Ask them if they want to live. If they have breath in their lungs to answer you, I expect to see them tomorrow morning.”

“Only a fool would say no,” she scoffed.

“Then you have your answer. Do not question me again.” His voice was solid. Every eye rounded when he added, “You’d better be first on the field.”

Ilsa gasped. “I am one of Jarl Egil’s hirds. I brought you here. It is I who commands you!”

He smiled, a wolfish baring of his teeth.

“I’d like to see you try, lady .”

He steeled himself for what would come next. In truth, he relished it. She’d dragged him across the North Sea with her lofty idea to lead while he was in the fight. The time had come for Ilsa to learn a lesson, and he’d be the one to teach it.

“War is dirty,” he said. “Young, old, master or servant, death doesn’t care. All blood runs red.”

Ilsa started to rise, but the jarl set a staying hand on the table near her.

A subtle nod from the seasoned warrior, and she sat down.

Mouth pinched white, her stillness roared at Bjorn.

She wanted to protect Vellefold. A worthy desire.

If she obeyed his orders, he’d see it done—by his way and his alone.

Every eye followed him as he gathered his mantle, axe, and helmet off a bench bed.

He took steps of authority, but it’d be hours before his head touched a pillow.

Leadership wasn’t about giving commands; leadership was sacrifice for the good of others.

A true hersir did first what he asked of his men to do second.

His brothers noted the war hammer he left behind. Tonight was for moving fast.

“Where are you going?” Thorvald’s voice boomed.

He shouldered open the hall door. “I’ve got first watch.” He grinned. “You, Thorvald, get second watch.”

The smash-faced giant laughed heartily and lifted his drinking horn in salute. Heads tipped around the table, people gawking at one another, others picking at their food. The Sons dug in with relish.

Helmet on, Bjorn passed through the lintel aware of a furious woman’s glare on his back. Ilsa.

He snatched a torch from the ground and the door swung shut behind him.

Alone, he stalked into darkness. Not even a dog barked.

Passing through the settlement, he met familiar places: a path he took as a boy, a barn he used to play in, a tree he used to climb.

Vellefold was a cagey woman, reacquainting herself with him little by little.

She’d soon open her mantle for him. A certain Viking woman with sea-green eyes was less forthcoming. Ilsa hid something. He sensed it.

He would flush out the truth.

Her rise to prominence.

Her dead husband.

The whereabouts of her byrding ship on the last raid.

All of it.

Breath puffing cold clouds, he jogged a long distance through the lower field and beyond, axe in one hand, torch in the other. Fire and iron balanced him until he came to a seam of land where meadow and mountain met—the place where Aseral’s warriors had disappeared like changelings in mist.