Page 8 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Their backs to Bjorn, Rurik and the jarl removed wooden lids and lifted ivory the size of a man’s arm. The barrels brimmed with walrus tusks. Some polished. Some raw. Fingertips pressing harder on the table, he faced a new fact: he’d been bought for two ivory barrels.

Longsword eyed Bjorn over a piece of ivory. “Worthy gifts from your Ilsa.

Bjorn gritted his teeth. “She is not my Ilsa.”

“She is until Jul. Unless you take the jarl’s seat. Then, she would serve you, and Vellefold would be your reward.” Facing Rurik, Longsword slapped the barrel twice as if the matter was done. “This is for the Forgotten Sons upon their return.”

Rurik’s eyes lit with interest. “That is generous.”

Bjorn’s fists squeezed tighter on the table. The world spun too fast. The jarl was a shrewd one, twisting an unseen vice by granting a barrel of ivory to the Sons. He didn’t have to bestow rich payment. Most chieftains wouldn’t. Never had the Sons been paid so well for a fleeting time of service.

How could he refuse this opportunity for his brothers?

“Now, what’s this I hear about a fruitful patrol?” Longsword asked.

The spies. He pushed off the table, his mind reeling between the trap set by a crafty jarl and what was best for the Sons.

Rurik watched him, a hard glint in his eyes.

The ivory enticed his friend. It would do the same to the men, once they learned of it.

He’d go to Vellefold for the men first, Longsword’s order second.

The jarl knew this and played to Bjorn’s weakness—his brothers.

For them, he’d walk into the Hel-black chasm. They’d do the same for him.

And his need for justice? She was a woman whispering words he couldn’t hear. Would her voice be louder once he set foot in Vellefold?

Saving—then rejecting—the settlement that had exiled him might be the answer.

Tonight, he had to finish Rouen’s business.

“The patrol.” Bjorn cleared his throat. “Erik and I found four men camped in a place not far from the Risle River.”

“Where are they now?”

“Dead. Their bodies left in the forest, a message for Queen Annick.” His voice was even while he relayed facts. “One of them told me his queen sent two women to spy on Rouen. One is low born and has been here for some time. The other comes and goes.”

“’Comes and goes?’ What is that? A riddle?”

“Perhaps he means a merchant’s wife or a wandering healer,” Rurik suggested.

“I only know these men weren’t well-equipped. Decent horses but ragged clothes,” he explained. “Not of high value to the queen. I was surprised he knew as much as he did.”

“And the warrior gave up this information out of a kind heart?” Longsword’s mouth twisted with doubt. “What does a man gain by helping an enemy with his final breath?”

“Revenge on a hated queen.” He walked to the jarl’s ox hide map which filled one wall.

“The warrior said she steals children from tribes here—” He drew a circle on contested land jutting toward Wessex “—the Cotentin region. Queen Annick promises payment of grain and silver but never delivers. He said his people are suffering but none are strong enough to rise up against her.”

The Cotentin region was a mix of small, pagan tribes. Outcast Vikings, Bretons, Gaels, Celts, Chamavi, Unelli, and Osismi. Mostly peaceful people, living off the sea’s bounty. Scattered and weak, none could stop the fearsome queen.

Light shined on Longsword’s silver torque, the chain links thick as a child’s finger. He stared at Cotentin lands, subdued by this news.

“Next time you run across the Queen’s men, bring one of them back alive. I want to ask the questions. For now, set your minds to Vellefold.”

Rurik nodded at the barrels. “As much as I value the chance to earn that ivory, this is a mistake. I feel it in my bones.”

“You may be right, but that is a risk we all take.” Tiredness sketched lines around the jarl’s eyes. He set his hnefatafl game piece on a scale plate. “I can order the Forgotten Sons to fight, but, Bjorn, I cannot order you to accept a jarldom.”

“I’m bound by my var to serve you.”

“I release you from it.” With a flick of two fingers, the jarl knocked the game piece off the scale. It rolled across the barrel’s lid as chains jangled.

“The Forgotten Sons have been together since we were boys. What you’re doing invites loss to our brotherhood,” Rurik said sharply. “It’s the same as cutting off a limb.”

Leif’s death. The seventh of their number ambushed last winter in Byzantium, his dead body thrown into a river.

The men strove to recover but his loss still haunted them.

Staying in Rouen was a blessing and a curse, a diversion from Leif’s absence and a change to how they lived.

This mission to Vellefold put them back into their old way of life, hired swords in a foreign land, not planning to stay long.

In their practice battles, they’d not quite adjusted to fighting with one less man.

For eighteen years, they were seven men moving as one.

“We will be five warriors in Vellefold,” Bjorn said.

The jarl righted the hnefatafl piece, a king. “A sixth warrior is ready to join you.”

“You’re trying to add to our number?” Rurik barked a harsh laugh. “No one gets a say in that. Not even you, Longsword.”

Bjorn glared at the jarl. “Just who do you think is worthy of us?”

“Ilsa.”

Her name hit him square in the chest. He was speechless. One conversation with her and the Viking widow raided his life better than his own worst enemy.