Page 24 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twelve

S he wandered into the shieling, dew-soaked grass bending underfoot.

Fog skimmed her ankles, and air was cool on her tongue.

She threaded past boys and girls, twelve years and older, all practicing with wooden axes under Bodolf’s instruction.

The crack of wood and ping of iron lifted to the skies. It was battle’s song.

The gods ought to be pleased with the musical offering.

Maidens pushed and strived, the toes of their boots digging in the earth. Their braids sung forward with each weapon strike. Ilsa breathed their strength.

“May their stories be bold,” she whispered.

The Forgotten Sons certainly were. They’d taken a defeated life in Birka and sought fame.

Skalds claimed Rurik gave order; Bjorn was the man to see them done.

This morning Vellefold’s exiled bastard took up a hersir’s mantle.

A leader of warriors. Crossing the meadow, she witnessed eyes once haunted, burning with purpose.

Young and old showed up just as the overbearing man had ordered.

Her smile was begrudging. Bjorn had made his point.

She passed Erik addressing two lines of fighters equipped with iron axes and battered shields. Lungs billowing, faces sharp, ten fatherless youths on the cusp of manhood hung on his words. The warrior barked instructions, smacked axe to shield, and the two lines melted into one.

Everyone hungered for a fight, and Bjorn fed them. Revenge on Aseral was their feast. That was what her people craved.

The blond brute surveyed mock battles from atop the shieling’s eastern rise. Bjorn was arms folded, legs in a wide stance when she approached.

“You’re late,” he snapped.

“I was hunting.”

The shield banged her knee. She grimaced, her steps slowing as she adjusted her grip on the unwieldy tool.

So much for an imposing entrance.

It didn’t matter. By not being first on the field, she’d made her point. She was a hird , a position of authority she never wanted but was heaped on her. Shoulders squaring, she’d not swallow Bjorn’s jibes.

“Let us agree that I will respect your battle orders, and you will respect my freedom to come and go as I see fit.” She stopped at the base of the knoll. “We are equals.”

He stared down at her from on high, a smile ghosting his lips.

“That’s what you keep telling me.”

Frustration chafed her. Asserting herself was difficult with her neck craned and her shield unruly.

Bjorn strolled downhill, his chest impossibly wide in black leather.

His booted feet left large footprints in wet grass.

Confident. In control. He’d earned his bread by the might of his hands.

He didn’t need her, but she needed him. All of Vellefold did.

One glance at the meadow told the tale. In one morning, the bastard son brought new purpose to the settlement. It was more than she could do in one year.

Sighing, she’d not give up. “Do not question my morning hunts,” she said as he approached.

Ice-floe eyes rounded behind his iron eye rings. “What a worthy huntress you must be, hunting with an axe.”

“I don’t hunt with my axe.”

She adjusted the shield, hating her unease.

The ground seemed to waver as though she was on her ship, crossing choppy seas.

Last night, she’d tossed on her bed furs, reliving his stinging rebuke at the jarl’s table.

Yet, when Bjorn met her stare, his manner was tempered, as if edgy women were commonplace.

In truth, she was uncomfortable with the day’s purpose.

At best, she’d slayed deer and rabbits; today, she would learn to slay men.

Bjorn’s attention drifted over the meadow. “Relax, Ilsa. We’re both here for Vellefold.”

“But for very different reasons.”

With his focus on the practice field, she could be an ornament. It was an odd relief to watch him take assessment. She’d carried the burden of What to do? all summer. Bjorn’s broad shoulders could bear the load.

But where was his hate for the settlement that spit him out as a boy?

The man beside her seemed coldly practical.

She flexed her arm, and the shield slipped lower.

Her back ached from days of hard rowing and the blisters on her hands were barely healed.

Why did he have to be so, so…self-assured?

She longed for a tenth of Bjorn’s surety though she dared not admit that aloud…

most of all to him. A small connection, something to unite them, wouldn’t hurt.

She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, surveying the field.

“If you must know, I use my bow and arrow.”

“For what?”

“My morning hunt for rabbits.”

“Rabbits? As in more than one?” He was eyes on the field.

“Six today. Iduna is cleaning them. Don’t worry,” she said to head off a scolding. “She’ll join us later to take part in…this.”

Her tongue landed on this as though learning to fight was comparable to cleaning a pig pen.

“Good to see some things haven’t changed. At least, your distaste for violence,” he said, taking great interest in two young fighters who showed talent. “But six rabbits before sunrise?” He whistled softly. “You must be very good with your bow and arrow.”

“My aim is true. There’s no one but me to see my household fed.”

“That much meat?”

Eyes ringed in metal sized her up. Hairs on her nape bristled a warning. Bjorn’s tone was casual; his intent stare was not. She’d said too much to a predator good at snatching morsels of information from the unguarded.

“Does it matter how much rabbit stew I eat?”

Bjorn gave her a bold once-over, stalling where her leather tunic cut above her hips.

His gaze lingered there—not her hardly noticeable breasts—before skimming black trousers and scruffy wolf-skin boots.

She squirmed and the shield she tried valiantly to hold knocked her shin.

Bjorn’s study was more merchant-checking-the-goods than smoldering appreciation.

“You don’t look like you eat much,” he mused.

The gods had blessed Frida with curves, and she’d gotten the brains, for all the good they’d served her.

“What can I say? Ardith and Iduna are part of my household. They’re hearty eaters.”

“I’ve been told your old fostra serves you. It will be good to see her again.”

His scrutiny turned to Gunnar leading a row of archers at the meadow’s southern end. Ardith was among them. Bjorn’s mouth curled as though he was carefully choosing his questions before lobbing them like well-aimed spears.

“Your servant, Ardith, comes and goes as she pleases…just like the lady she serves. I wonder, where does she go?”

“You will have a busy day of wondering because I never ask.”

Saying that lightened her spirits, like pushing back at a village brute.

Bjorn’s lips twitched. “As you can see, my day is busy enough.”

Thorfinn was leading her father’s men in slamming posts into the ground. Rough logs with vicious points angled eastward. The X fence. Unwitting warriors storming Vellefold would crest the meadow’s rise and impale themselves.

Bjorn tipped his chin at the X fence. “Your second lesson of war: know the lay of the land.”

“The best lesson you’ve taught me is ‘Ask them if they want to live.’” Humored, she’d give him that.

After Bjorn’s departure last eve, she went from longhouse to longhouse, imparting his message. Widows and children had nodded eagerly, young and old alike.

Bjorn’s smile cracked wide and warmth flowed over her chest. His easy smile made him years younger and heightened his rugged appeal.

Standing like this was akin to basking in the summer sun.

If she wasn’t careful, it’d muddle her brain.

Bjorn was a fever spreading everywhere…her father’s excitement was palpable across the field as he worked with Gunnar and the archers.

It was visible in her mother’s tender care of babes in swaddling clothes, a task her mother took on so young mothers could take turns practicing with bow and arrow.

Frida spent her energies on hauling buckets of water to thirsty fighters throwing spears into trees where the X fence had yet to reach.

Stoop-shouldered women were gathering rocks with little ones and putting the rocks in buckets.

A trio of elderly folk were twining spindly branches into large balls and stuffing them with dried leaves.

She’d ask the purpose of that task later.

Vellefold was a hive of busyness and purpose.

“All this since sunrise,” she murmured.

Her shield slipped off and hit the ground. She flexed her bandaged hand, unable to bear the weight anymore. The same was true of Vellefold’s people. She’d organized food for her people, set the lur horn watch, negotiated trade, healed the sick, and soothed ailing hearts. But this? She couldn’t do.

Bjorn toed her fallen shield. “Too heavy?”

“It was Halfdan’s. I’ll get used to it.”

“Don’t force what shouldn’t be, Ilsa. It’s not the right fit.” He kicked the disc and it skidded across the grass. The shield’s faded black serpent had a chunk missing where Bjorn’s boot had kicked it.

“Now I don’t have a shield.”

“That one didn’t meet your needs. You’re better off without it.” He walked to a pile of shields. Wood slapped wood while Bjorn rummaged through the heap. “Don’t force yourself to adapt,” he said over the clatter. “An ill-fitting weapon does more harm than good.”

He pulled out a red and white swirled disc. Held it up for inspection, and by his grunting nod, must’ve found it acceptable. Bjorn was in his element, striding back to her.

“Never settle for less than what is best for you.”

Though his mouth softened, his gaze penetrated.

He handed over the shield and she was keenly aware the warrior sent a deeper message.

The tool in hand, she was tongue-tied. Chipped in two places and smaller by four or five fingers’ width, she wouldn’t have picked it.

Yet, sliding her arm through the leather straps, she felt the rightness.

The weight, the size…it was perfect for her.

She curled her fingers over the handhold, marveling.

How did he know?

Bjorn knew what fit her body. She felt a smile growing. How attentive of him. Understanding was a gift, lighter than air yet life-giving, and Bjorn offered it freely.

Fumbling with the straps, she couldn’t look him in the eyes.

“This is loose,” she murmured.

“Let me see.” His eyes were gentle, asking permission.

She spread her arm wide, and Bjorn stepped into the fold of her body and the shield.

Head bent, he inspected the leather. She breathed his presence, the iron, the autumn air clinging to him, and a hint of apples.

Twinges erupted under her breastbone, the cascade of a flush.

It was her flesh awakening from a long sleep.

Because of Bjorn.

Small things called to her. The line of his nose. Sun-blonde hair showing from his helmet. Morning dew darkening the snarling wolf on his chest. Bits of bark had caught on the carved leather. She wanted to pluck them off his vest, one at a time.

Bjorn’s thumb stroked her hand where her palm and fingers met.

She stilled, his touch setting her on fire.

“It’s an easy fix. I’ll tend it later.” His comforting rumble was thicker than usual.

Lashes dropped, the warrior made a point of stepping away and setting the shield between them. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say Bjorn needed the barrier more than she did.

“Does this mean you are my friend again?” she asked.

“That never ended.”

His gaze was warmer than the sun. She stood taller, the ground light under her feet. Bjorn was steadfast and true. Qualities she hadn’t given him.

“But...I failed you.”

“When?”

“Eighteen Mabon seasons ago.”

Dawning flickered on his features. A memory shared—the day he’d climbed into his father’s dragon ship one last time. Ravens landed in a copse of pine trees above them. Their caws ripped shrill and harsh. If they judged her, it’d be no worse than the torment she’d put herself through.

She swallowed hard. “Each year during Mabon , I set a wreath in the waters for you.”

His brows rose. “An offering to the gods?”

Mabon , the feast of unfinished business. Her reckoning was here.

“A reminder of a difficult lesson.” Her voice scraped low, pained notes. “I too easily let go of what I hold dear and hold on too long to what is wrong.”

The gods, Iduna, Ardith, and Valgerd all knew of her wrecked judgment. She was a ship blown off course, still in the long arduous process of finding her way back home.

A slow gust came out of Bjorn. “You didn’t fail me.”

“But I did nothing to help you.”

“What could you have done?” he reasoned. “A girl of twelve stopping a tough jarl?”

“A young woman, even a girl, can do many things. I believed a lie that I couldn’t. Not anymore.” Her voice shook with certainty. “I should’ve hidden you in my grove.”

His sad smile nearly broke her.

Bjorn shook his head. “Egil would’ve found me.”

“We could’ve found a way. A true friend never gives up. I—I didn’t try hard enough to help you.”

“Ilsa…” he chided her with more kindness than she deserved. “What happened was not your fault.”

When she opened her mouth to refute him, Bjorn touched her lips with a silencing finger. Shock rippled through her.

Pain lit eyes rimmed by well-traveled iron. “You are the sole treasure from my childhood. Don’t befoul it with undeserved blame.”

His manner washed over her like a summer breeze in a world on the verge of frost and snow.

A storm of wood and metal clashed around them.

Within her chest, her heart fought just as hard.

By Bjorn’s lop-sided smile, the connection overwhelmed him too.

She stood before him, blinking through unshed tears threatening to spill over years lost. All because of one woman’s greed for power.

If only he’d stayed, how different life would be.