Page 38 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

W aking nose deep in Ilsa’s hair drove him mad. His erection wedged against her back, rigid as a pole. He inched away, needing to answer nature’s call. The lady curled into a ball, her white-blond hair spilling over black fur.

With careful hands, he slid his mantle free of the tangle that was their bed. As he pinned it, he breathed Ilsa’s frankincense and pine scent. She’d marked him. Never had he lain with a woman, sharing only a kiss and warmth.

No other woman was like Ilsa.

This sojourn in Vellefold had changed him. Would she say the same of her time with him? Would his father?

Jarl Egil’s torque rested in the dirt.

Finger-combing his hair, he whispered to Odin’s statue, “You can have it.”

One-eyed Odin stared back, his mouth open, a long beard crudely cut on the ash wood pole. It was the work of poorly skilled carver. The god of wisdom, war, death, poetry, and magic was silent.

The consequence of Ilsa’s actions would be decided today.

“What will you do about that?” he asked under his breath. Lips curling against his teeth, he squeezed the idol’s neck with one hand. Frustration was bitter in his mouth. “She will go free. See it done.”

It was foolish to threaten the gods. Since the day he’d stood alone on Birka’s shore, he’d seen them in a different light. They served warriors who served themselves.

How would the gods judge Ilsa?

Huntress, outlaw, and hird . Wife and daughter. She was many things. In their wisdom, the gods had sewn up her womb. A cruel decision, none could say the gods were fair. They searched the world for courage and cunning. Right or wrong, Ilsa was bold in all that she did.

If he argued for her, he’d add warrior to Ilsa’s last unanswered test. There was no doubt she’d meet the challenge with her whole heart.

On stealthy feet, he exited the room and took care of needs amongst trees behind the outbuilding.

Vellefold at sunrise was clean with fresh snow.

Barren trees and weathered longhouses wore the wet paint of snow and frost. Ruined longhouses stood alongside those newly restored.

Signs of the raids. It would take years to erase the damage.

Was Vellefold atoning for its wrongs?

A fair question.

Longsword kept women in his service. If they lay with a man, it was of their own free will—never forced—but each jarl ruled as he saw fit.

Walking through the snow, he rubbed his nape and checked his environs.

Someone was watching him.

Fog hid the harbor and hung on every cliff like a maiden’s veil. Night torches burned at the crossroads. Not a soul stirred.

“Had a good night?” A graveled voice spoke from the ruins of a longhouse.

Erik . He was a raven on his perch—black hair, black whiskers, black mantle. The dark Viking blended into charred wood where he kept watch atop what was left of a longhouse.

“I slept well,” Bjorn said.

Erik jumped from a fallen beam slanted against a sturdy wall. The Viking sauntered forward, pulling mint from a pouch tied to his belt. He offered two leaves to Bjorn.

“Mint?”

Bjorn took them and said nothing. Erik, however, had a point to make.

“What you do with widows in the middle of the night is your business.” Erik popped the green leaves into his mouth, tension pinching the corners of his eyes.

The mint fresh in his mouth, Bjorn chewed and swallowed the leaves. “But…”

“The Sons’ safety is my business. And yours.”

“That has never changed,” he said evenly.

A fat squirrel darted across the road. Cloudy skies brightened from sunrise poking light through them.

The effect was blinding, pearled whiteness.

The faintest breeze stirred low-lying fog around Odell’s half-built ship near the harbor.

Erik was restless, arms crossed, boots kicking drifts of snow, a terser-than-usual scowl on his face.

“I’ve seen the way you look at Lady Ilsa. Spending time with her, toughening her for battle. You hover like a mother hen whenever she needs help.”

“I don’t hover,” he scoffed.

“But you do help her. A lot.”

“As I would any friend.”

Erik snorted. “A friend.”

“I have a few.”

“None who look like Lady Ilsa.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is there a point to this.”

“I’m getting to it. The night watch gives a man plenty of time to think.

” Erik scratched his beard and looked south where mist clung like a spider’s web on trees.

“Ilsa’s farmstead is a big swath of land.

No one else knows where she hides eighteen women.

” Dark eyes that had seen much of the world scrutinized him.

“But a childhood friend who played in that forest might.”

He stiffened. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Erik had two swords strapped to his back, an axe tied to his thigh, and a blade in his boot. He didn’t even have his knife—a mistake worthy of the greenest warrior.

“I don’t care about Vellefold’s laws,” Erik groused. “Just don’t forget ours.”

“I know our laws.”

The Forgotten Sons had lived by three simple codes from their earliest days in Birka.

Sons serve each other.

A life saved receives an equal reward.

And, No women.

The last law had to weigh on Erik. With Rurik wed to Safira, their lives were changing.

Brooding Erik, the most vicious of them, was thin-skinned when it came to change.

The surly Viking was the last to embrace him, when they were boys in Birka.

Erik’s loyalty was a hard-won gift. He’d not abuse it.

“I won’t take the jarl’s seat if that’s what cluttered your mind during the night watch. Nor will I marry.”

A knot twisted inside him. Not marry? For the first time, his self-imposed decree felt…lonely.

Erik’s laugh was rough. “Say it with conviction and I’ll believe you.”

He averted his eyes. Erik had a talent for picking out true motives. Mouth clamped shut, he’d say no more. Ilsa had a certain magic about her, and Erik saw it.

Fun as a girl, the woman she’d become fascinated him. It was the draw of her smooth angles and tender edges, her smoky purr and flaxen hair. Talking with her was never dull. Whether they butted heads or laughed in agreement, he preferred her companionship over tiresome young maids.

Hooking a thumb in his belt, he toed a clump of snow. “I like our freedom. I can’t picture going home night after night to the same longhouse, the same firepit, the same wife, or the same bed.”

“Sure…” Erik grunted. “Sounds like torture.”

Neither man believed it. A breeze tapped Bjorn’s ears. He’d swear the wind whispered, To breathe one woman’s scent...

He shook it off. Fog was getting to him. A good sweat on the practice field, that was what he needed. Crossing axes with Thorvald, and he’d be fine.

The dark Viking was walking backward, his footprints crunching powdery snow. “One more look around before my watch is done. And Bjorn, fair warning…”

“Yes?”

“Lady Iduna awaits you in the longhouse,” Erik said. “Told me she wants to bend your ear.”

To make a plea on Ilsa’s behalf?

Erik grinned, his voice ringing louder. “Consider that another reason not to marry. Women always want a man’s ear.”

He was about to say the fostra wasn’t a high-born lady, but Erik was jogging off to finish his duty.

Entering the hall, he stomped snow off his boots.

The men were rising. Helge dipped a wooden spoon in a pot suspended over the fire pit.

Brede bent beside her, whispering in her ear.

Both servants straightened upon his approach.

At the far end of the hall, Iduna rose from her seat on the steps of the raised floor.

“Lord Bjorn.” Helge bobbed respectfully before him.

“I’m Bjorn, Helge. No Lord to my name.”

The crony’s face crumpled into more wrinkles. “My lord, I fear?—”

“I will tell him.” Iduna’s voice rang with authority. “Brede, bring watered ale and bread.” To Bjorn, “Come. I need to speak with you.”

Iduna spun on her heel, a flurry of brown skirts. She disappeared into the jarl’s inner chambers with the air of a queen.

Thorvald chuckled. “You’ve been summoned.”

He nodded greetings to the men and joined Iduna.

She was pacing the room, lost in thought.

He left the door open and took a seat at the smaller round table.

Iduna considered the sand map, her long fingers worrying a necklace of red glass beads.

Her profile was refined, a woman bred to rule, yet she served.

Her tale was a secret, and he was sure it was a good one.

Brede shuffled in and set a wide tray arrayed with steamy rye bread and a crock of butter on the table. Bjorn poured ale for himself and Iduna.

Gulping it refreshed him. He was barely done when Iduna blurted, “You must set Ilsa free.”

“Why?”

“She is Vellefold’s last hope.”

He sat back in the chair. “How do you know this?”

“The god’s decreed it at her birth.”

“And you happen to have the gods’ ears.”

Faint lines clouded her brow. “I did. Once. But not anymore.” Iduna ambled to a chair at the far said of the table and stood behind it. “I won’t bore you with that story. It is enough for you to know I cast the runes when Ilsa was born. She is the one to save Vellefold. Not you.”

Laughing, he refilled his cup. “Forgive me, Iduna, but Ilsa is far from capable to lead in battle.”

“There is more to being a leader than fighting,” she said in a sage voice.

“There is.” He’d give her that. “How exactly will Ilsa save Vellefold?”

He couldn’t help the doubt creeping into his voice any more than Iduna could stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“I don’t know.” The older woman was impatient. “It’s not as if they tell me everything.”

They being the gods. Bjorn chewed on this.

Greater forces were at play in the world, but he often doubted the man or woman who claimed to know …

simply because the gods had told them. Claims like this were bids for power, nothing more.

Usually, the messenger of the gods sought power or wealth or both.