Page 41 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

N ine tall torches lit twilight skies. Flames snapped in skirling wind. Housekarls had poured extra seal oil on each pole to ensure the fire didn’t go out. Two men staked the last one, its blaze climbing high above their heads. Rouen’s people sought the gods.

Bear witness to this battle .

Farmers and fighters gathered. Matrons and older children filled in the gaps.

Christians and Vikings had streamed like hundreds of ants to the north clearing, elevated land near a drop the height of a man to the river below where frothy water crashed into the bank.

Scrubbed faces showed from hoods everywhere.

Longsword’s chain torque gleamed at his neck, the silver as shiny as the penannular pin on his shoulder. Abbot Ebbo found a place beside Ademar. Gudrun, the towering red-haired seeress with strange, piercing grey eyes, stood on the other side of the bastard brother.

Bjorn handed Rurik his shield. “Look at that. Rouen’s seeress and the Christian’s high holy man have come.”

Thorvald whistled under his breath. “Christians and pagans watching a fight together. What’ll they talk about? Gardens?”

“Ademar takes no chances. He is wilier than his brother.” Rurik slid his left arm into the shield’s leather braces. “It was probably his idea to have Vlad fight on behalf of the monks.”

“A disgusting choice,” Thorvald spat.

Gunnar spun slowly, surveying restless throngs. Housekarls ringed the field armed to the teeth. “Does the jarl fear an uprising?”

“No. He wants to entertain the masses,” Erik said this, handing Fenrir to Rurik.

He took it and raised his sword to moody skies. The weapon felt good in his hand. Fire reflected off freshly sharpened iron. The faces of the Forgotten Sons reflected there too.

“I cannot speak for the Christians, but the Vikings want to see who is worthy to defend them.” He tapped the sharp edge with his thumb, and a thread of blood marked his skin. “Fenrir has a fine bite.”

Erik’s eyes gleamed with pride. He’d spent the day tending the blade. “It will cut silk.”

“I only need it to stop one man.” Rurik crouched low, and balancing his sword on his thighs, he rubbed the field’s dirt between both hands.

On the east side of the clearing, Vlad stood wide-legged and ready, his men milling around him. Sigurd stroked his beard, smirking at the Forgotten Sons.

Safira squeezed past Bjorn and Thorvald. Tongue-tied for much of the day, she cast an eye to Vlad’s men.

“They are all with him. The eighth man returned,” she said.

Rurik studied her, glad she was speaking again, though not to him. Her upset was a riddle, and the possible answers for it, many—The holmgang? Lady Brynhild’s presence? His sharp rebuke when she spoke of Vlad?

Problems for later.

He stood up when all heads turned to the jarl striding onto the field. Bright red wool whipped around him. His finest cape. Arms spread wide, he spoke, his voice commanding attention.

“People of Rouen. Our kingdom is growing. The gods have blessed us, and that, my friends, scares our neighbors.”

Matrons and children nodded. Thick-chested farmers unafraid to take up weapons and fight gave grim-faced agreement.

“We are buffeted by the unwashed.” The jarl’s voice rose above the wind. “Skittish Franks on one hand, a hateful Breton queen on another. But we have not heard what Wessex thinks of us.” He paused, grinning. “Perhaps they are too frightened to speak?”

Laughter rolled through the onlookers. Wind blustered, toying with the jarl’s braid. One fist struck high and Will Longsword spun a slow circle, taking in his people.

“We are Viking. We claim this land. WE. WILL. EXPAND IT!”

A roar went up. Goosebumps spread over Rurik. Housekarls thumped axes on shields. The Sons raised their fists too, bellowing their approval. The appeal of land was growing on his men. Viking to the bone, Rurik stood taller.

These were his people. This would be his home.

Longsword’s open hands bid for quiet. “A kingdom is only as strong as the men who hold it. We are here to see who the gods deem worthy...to bear witness to the holmgang fight between two worthy warriors.” He scanned the wide ring of faces.

“Tonight, one will bend his knee and give var , his vow to fight for us. The reward of land will make him a chieftain serving me, serving us.”

Rurik stood wide-legged, his heart full.

The Sons faced him, their eyes bright with respect.

Years of friendship and loyalty weren’t wiped out by his one misstep of deception.

At his side was Safira, his raven-haired warrior of wit and will.

Her soft presence had nurtured a seed inside him and tenderness had grown.

She’d shown wisdom and cunning in dire circumstances, never faltering, even defending him before the jarl and Rouen’s Christian holy men.

His morning doubts at forcing her to stay washed away in the fervor surrounding him.

Frankish by birth. A Viking maid by choice. His choice. Safira would come to accept it.

“The matter of the land and this fight will be different. It will not be ’til first blood falls on this field.

Instead, these men will have one pass of the hourglass—” the jarl’s open hand gestured to Soren holding an hourglass “—that is the time two warriors will have to show us who is worthy. But this is not a fight to the death because Rouen needs warriors.”

Nods of assent rippled through the vast circle of Vikings and Christians.

They were united in the need to stamp out the Breton Queen.

To bless the fight, Gudrun began a slow walk into the clearing, dark green skirts molding to her long legs.

She carried a bronze and copper distaff in one hand, a thick string of white wool in the other.

Safira touched his arm. “Who is she?”

“Gudrun. A seeress.” Rurik spoke quietly. “And a volva .”

At Safira’s confused glance, Bjorn whispered, “A witch.”

Owlish amber eyes sought Rurik. “You do not have to fight your father. It is not too late.”

Gudrun stopped, her otherworldly stare taking in Safira and Rurik. Safira trembled against him. A squall knocked back the seeress’s hood. Long red hair streaked with grey knotted at the crown of her head, the rest falling long as a horse tail down her back.

Unfeeling, ageless eyes locked on him.

Cool sweat trickled down his spine. Was there a message in her eyes? The volva faced the skies and stretched her left hand high above her head. Keening winds howled. She sliced her palm with the metal tip of her wand. Red blood seeped into the white wool she held.

Even the heartiest men present shivered.

The jarl beckoned. “Rurik. Vlad. Come.”

Mud squished under Rurik’s boots. Icy air snapped his bare arms. Vlad strode to the center, his eyes boring holes in Rurik.

Impassive. Hard. Eyes that willed the son to see the father as he once was—not as he was now.

Scarred. Limbs heavier from too much feasting.

A long-sleeved tunic covering him from the summer storm.

Gudrun fisted the string sopping up her blood. Her voice rose with familiar words for all to hear. “‘Wealth will pass. Men will pass. One thing alone will never pass: The fame of one who has earned it.’”

Another lesson from the ancients. Rurik let the wind take the witch’s words.

This was a battle, father against son. A battle for supremacy.

The crowd ringing the field dimmed. Light rain sprinkled Rurik’s cheeks as he stared at his father. Winters past blurred...his mother weeping in the night...the harsh, hungry seasons before they recovered from Vlad’s desertion.

He adjusted his grip on his sword. Battle’s copper taste flavored his tongue.

Anticipation was the want to kill.

The same was in his father’s face.

Vlad’s lips curled against his teeth. Nostrils flaring, he spread both arms wide. “Come get me.”

Longsword stepped between them, his voice low. “This is not a battle to the death. Your pride? Hack it to pieces, if you want. But I need you both.” His gaze swiveled between them. “Tell me you understand?”

Vlad grunted, steely-eyed.

Rurik gave a single nod.

“May the gods be with you.” Longsword pivoted to the volva. “Bless the field and let’s get this over with.”

Gudrun’s fist unfurled as the jarl exited the circle. Eyes closed, she murmured ancient words, lifting her red-streaked hand to the heavens. The storm stirred the blood-soaked string. She let go and it fell to her feet.

Slashed palm raised high, she moved her mouth, uttering no words until the witch said a low-voiced, “A man will die here today. The gods have spoken.”

Rurik locked eyes with Vlad.

Hair on his arms stood on end. Every sinew raged for revenge. Forget the gods rang in his head. They wouldn’t determine this fight.

He would.