Page 29 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Sixteen

L aughter was the new music in Jarl Egil’s hall.

Young children sat at tables, their legs swinging while they gorged on venison stew.

Women gossiped around the fire pit, poking turnips roasting on embers and testing pan-fried bread.

Men with horns of ale huddled around the jarl and Bodolf at one table.

The rafters gathered all the voices of Vellefold. Talk of attacking Aseral was chief among their words. The eyes of young and old, men and women alike lit with fervor. Revenge was their song.

“Look at them,” Erik said. “They are ready.”

“They are.” Thorfinn’s meaty arms folded over his chest. “A friendly but bloodthirsty lot.”

“They hunger to raid.” Thorvald scanned his brothers, a grin forming. “I hunger for it.”

Wolfish smiles spread from one man to the next.

The Sons surrounded the sand map, which had been moved to Jarl Egil’s inner chamber.

Tonight, the people of Vellefold feasted as one.

They celebrated defenses built, hard training, and worthy weapons made.

A new watch of older boys had been set on two cliffs, and a row of quivers lined the inner chamber wall, all of them bursting with new arrows that Gunnar would hand out tonight.

“I say we start here in the northeast—Aseral’s passage.” Erik drew an X in the sand where large stones clustered. “Gunnar and I found it today on our way back from patrolling the eastern shielings.”

Thorvald blew a light whistle. “That’s right on Vellefold’s arse.”

Erik wedged a small line between the clustered rocks. “It’s a narrow break in a rock mountain, but men can pass through if they walk sideways.”

Gunnar eyed Bjorn. “Tight but passable.”

“How did you find it?”

“We heard a high-pitched noise. Like an odd whistle. Erik and I followed the sound, and it was wind blowing through the passage.”

Bjorn’s vision narrowed on the map. “There was no passage there when I was a boy.”

“It’s there now.” Gunnar tapped the spot, confident. “Erik and I explored it, went part way through the passage. It was dark, but you can see through to the other side.”

“We found fragments of cloth, a broken spear, dried blood smeared on stone.” Erik picked up the largest rock. “Bodolf told me a story of the ground trembling at last Mabon feast. He said the feast hall shook. Tables and cups rattled.”

Thorfinn grimaced. “Fenrir’s howl, my brothers.”

When the mythical wolf raged against his fetters, mountains quaked, stones tumbled, and fractures in the earth appeared. They’d felt the great wolf’s anger in the southern kingdoms, but it was a rare occurrence in the north.

Bjorn braced both hands on the table’s edge. “What of this place?” His voice was low when he pointed at Ilsa’s southern lands. “Because I know you ignored the order to stay away from Ilsa’s farmstead.”

Erik’s mouth twitched. “The Whelp and I may have wandered onto her lands once or twice.”

“What did you find?”

“Footprints yesterday. Some hers. Some belonging to others.”

He pinned Erik with a firm stare. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” He pushed off the table. “You risk vexing Jarl Egil’s hird over footprints that probably belong to Iduna and Ardith.”

Erik was equally testy. “A hird ? Or a woman whose skirts you chase?”

He answered with quiet menace. “If you have something to say, brother, then say it.”

Erik was the smartest of their lot and the most difficult. He could easily sway the Whelp to search lands they were forbidden to enter—lands Bjorn knew in his heart he should’ve told the men to search despite Ilsa’s order.

“We should’ve told you yesterday,” Gunnar said with appeasement. “Bjorn, I counted many footsteps. At least ten or more people coming and going along a stream.”

“You’re sure?” He was terse as much for learning this now as for his lax leadership where Ilsa was concerned.

“They were deep in the mud. Frozen in the ground.” Erik was grim, keeping his voice low. “It’s the only place I saw footprints. The toes of their boots led into the stream as if they walked into the water and kept going.”

“Leaving no trace,” Gunnar said.

Bjorn glanced past Thorvald at Ilsa. She was seated on the bear pelts with Iduna.

Children were stretched out on their bellies, their chins resting in both hands.

They listened wide-eyed to the fostra telling stories.

Little Turid nestled in Ilsa’s lap. His chest twinged oddly at the sight.

She was stroking the girl’s hair and holding her close.

Motherly and kind, Ilsa had no children.

He’d learned no fruit came of her marriage, yet she often snatched joyful moments with children.

Her eyes had been tender for the little girl who’d suffered much. Subtle hardness clouded her face when her gaze struck his. They were the eyes of an undefeated woman.

What is she doing?

One stream snaked through Ilsa’s farmstead.

It flowed past her longhouse, running through her forest until it dropped off the Black Cliffs into the sea.

Years ago, he’d traced the stream’s path with her when they were children.

That trail meant people were heading out to sea.

To jump below? Impossible. They’d not survive.

Only foolish, desperate warriors would try to climb up those cliffs. Few would survive.

White-hot fear bolted through him. It could be done if someone on the cliff above tossed down a very long rope.

Is Ilsa helping Aseral?

He kept that thought to himself.

“Wading through a stream in this cold season?” Thorvald winced. “Whoever they are, they don’t want to be found.”

“We make a choice. Search more of the farmstead…” Erik eyed his brothers. “Or do we act on this knowledge of Aseral’s pathway?”

Bjorn studied the Vikings in the hall, a people restored. Their faces were no longer gaunt. He counted eight fatherless children among them, and two orphans taken in by Audr and Ingolf. Since arriving in Vellefold, he’d learned of its people.

Of fatherless Turid and her heartbroken mother.

Of Valgerd and Kell, once parents to a brood of eight. Now they raised two orphaned grandsons, Jorund and Steinar after the boys’ parents died in the second raid.

Of gruff Bodolf taking in a fledgling youth with no family. That red-haired boy, all gangly arms and legs, sat on a pelt-covered step, listening to Iduna.

Hollow cheeks were plump again. Mothers talked of spring planting.

Odell’s beleaguered men showed up on the practice field at sunrise with renewed vigor.

They joined the Sons, working on the new ship, clearing rubble, rebuilding what had been destroyed.

Everyone worked hard, trained hard, and loved fiercely.

They poured words of gratitude on him wherever he went.

Dragging his finger through the sand map, the grains were soft on calloused skin. The light in their eyes was hope. Salvation from trouble. Vellefold’s people believed in him, a burden which sat squarely on his shoulders. Loyalty to the Sons sat there, too, a virtue he’d never shirked.

Was it possible to serve both?

“Bjorn,” Erik snapped. “What are we going to do?”

He picked two twigs off the side of the table. “Tomorrow, you and Gunnar will take two men to chop down trees—” he set the twigs in the wedge Erik had made between the rocks “—enough trees to block this passage.”

“That’s the best place to launch an attack on Aseral. We use their secret passage against them.” Erik’s voice rose in challenge. “And you want to cut it off?”

He dusted sand off his hands. “We aren’t going to attack.”

“Ever?” Thorvald asked.

Gunnar jabbed his finger at the hall. “Look at them, Bjorn. Vellefold’s people want to attack Aseral. They want revenge. It’s all they talk about.”

“Revenge will only bring more death upon them,” he said.

“Waiting like prey does the same,” Erik growled.

“It’s what they’ve trained for.” Thorfinn added his voice to the chorus. “And what about us? Jul will come soon. If we attack tomorrow, we’ll be free to leave.”

“ If we win.” His stare was stony.

Understanding flickered in Gunnar and Thorfinn’s eyes. No matter how prepared they were, an attack meant greater losses.

Erik and Thorvald glared, both men hungry for battle.

His brothers must regret the decision to have him lead.

Molars grinding, he didn’t like it any more than they did.

This mission was different. Each day, shy children needing a guiding hand approached him.

He met widows ready to rebuild their homes, and he met the few men left who wanted to restore the settlement’s pride.

Years he’d roamed far and wide with the Sons, wreaking havoc on foreign lands.

Never had it struck him that there were people left alone and broken in the wake of war.

Not until Vellefold.

Arms crossed, he scanned his brothers. His family .

Rough-humored Thorvald with his thrice broken nose.

Gunnar, square-jawed with burgeoning ambition.

Erik full of brooding, intelligence, and kindness a mile wide though he kept it hidden.

Thorfinn, pinching his silver beard band, gentle with man and beast alike.

They trusted him.

So did Vellefold’s people. Especially the innocent children, like those scattered on the pelts around Ilsa.

She was the crux here. Answers hinged on her.

Ilsa peered at him from her place in the hall as if she felt the weight of his thoughts.

Fire’s mellow light touched her face. She was at the heart of Vellefold’s mysteries, yet her every encounter sowed healing and goodwill among the people.

Aside from Erik and Gunnar’s report, he could find no fault in her.

“Bjorn…” Erik prodded him. “We need a plan.”

“My plan—our plan—is to wait,” he said, eyeing Ilsa through a haze of smoke. “Let the enemy come to us. Then, we kill them.”

“That leaves us like sheep for the slaughter,” Erik argued.

He smiled coldly at the dark Viking. “Except we’ll be ready.”