Dark Viking (2 page)

“But why me?”

The commander shrugged. “We want the best of the best. Men and women who are patriotic ...”

I do get teary when the National Anthem plays.

“. . . extreme athletes,”

You got me on that one.

“. . . controlled risk takers,”

Stunts R Us.

“. . . skilled competitors who enjoy challenges and games,”

Does he see “Sucker” tattooed on my forehead?

“. . . people who love to travel.”

Yeah, like downtown Kabul is my idea of a Club Med vacation.

“Only one in a hundred applicants make it through Hell Week, you know.”

And you think I want to put myself through that?
“You‟ve gotta be kidding.”

Both men shook their heads.

“Each WEALS trainee has a mentor to get her through the process,” Commander MacLean added, as if that made everything more palatable.

“And my mentor would be?”

The sexy lieutenant gave her a little wave.

Okay, I’m officially tempted.

But not enough.
She‟d read about Hell Week. She‟d watched Demi Moore get creamed in
G.I. Jane
.
Who needs that? No. Way.
She started to rise from her seat. “I‟m flattered that you would consider me, but—”

“Plus there‟s a sizeable sign-up bonus,” Lieutenant Mendozo added.

Rita plopped back down into her chair. “Tell me more.”

And she could swear she heard the cute lieutenant murmur, “Hoo-yah!”

I’m in the mood for . . .

Steven of Norstead, proud son of a Viking prince, handsome as a god, far-famed in the bedsport, well-tested in battle, was bored. Actually, more than bored. In truth, he was in a black, nigh unbearable mood and had been for some time.

“Who ever heard of a depressed Viking?” Oslac, his friend and comrade-in-arms, inquired, followed by a loud belch.

He belched, too, just to be friendly. They were both deep in the alehead following a full day and night of debauchery . . . or at least multiple partners in his bed furs, if he recalled correctly. Not all at once, praise the gods.

Not this time anyway. But that other time! By the runes! Father Christopher had suffered a foaming fit when he caught him in the bathing longhouse with . . . well, never mind.

Vikings often practiced both the Christian and Norse religions, but it was no great loss when Father Christopher left them for an extended monastic retreat, leaving behind Father Peter, who was less inclined to foaming fits, leaning more toward foaming ale.

But that was neither here nor there.

“I am not depressed, precisely. More like I carry a huge weight on my shoulders. All the time.”

“Well, ‟tis no small feat managing two vast estates. Norstead and Amberstead.” Amberstead was a large, self-sustaining estate that included a castle keep, outbuildings, and farmsteads, but Norstead was four times its size, and it also included a military garrison and armory, more skilled workmen and craftsmen, such as a blacksmith, weavers, cobblers, cattle herders, shepherds, stable hands, and a much larger timber castle. There was no way Steven could handle both estates without help. “And a fine job you do for me at Amberstead.”

It was difficult running the two estates that were adjacent but separated by rocky, mountainous terrain. If only Oslac would take over the much smaller Amberstead on a permanent basis, but he had property in Norsemandy that would be his on his father‟s death.

Still, for now, ‟twas good to have a friend at one‟s back. “Nay, ‟tis more than that. I am only twenty and nine, and yet I have lost my zest for life. I can scarce get up in the morn, with naught to look forward to.”

“And your people are aware of it, too,” Oslac pronounced, squeezing his forearm in warning.

A serving maid, Asabor, stepped forward to refill their horns from a pottery jug in her hand.

He could guess from the flushed expression on her round cheeks what was about to come.

“Did ya hear ‟bout the woman who buried her husband twelve feet under?”

“Nay, Asabor, I did not.”
Spare me, Lord.

“It was ‟cause deep down he was a good person.”

That was not even funny.
“Ha-ha-ha! Very good, Asabor.”

When she left, he rolled his eyes at Oslac. His people had taken of late to telling lackwit jokes in hopes of garnering a smile from him.

First of all, to say that the people of Norstead and Amberstead were “his” people struck an odd chord with him. He still thought of his home as Norsemandy, where he grew up. When he and Thorfinn had come to Hordaland, it was Finn as the older brother who had ruled. He did not want nor need that role. Alas and alack! He was stuck being a jarl in a country that was not even his own.

Second, it was beyond distasteful that the common folks were not only remarking on his moods but attempting to do something about them.

“I do not seek pity from anyone, Oslac.”

“‟Tis not pity, my friend. Everyone shares in your grief. They speak in general of a gloom that pervades this valley.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “now I know what you refer to. It is those damn witches, Kraka and Grima, who continue to spread their prophecies of a great light coming to brighten all the world.”

“Not all the world. Just Norstead.” Oslac‟s lips twitched with amusement. “Have you e‟er met these two sisters, Oslac? Living in some mountain hut as they do, they are enough to scare the braies off a priest with their wild white hair and incessant cackling. I swear, they are older than time. I know they were here when my grandsire ruled Norstead, and that was some fifty years ago.”

“Mayhap you need to wed. Mayhap that will be the light they speak of. Get yourself a wife and start breeding sons. King Olaf still claims you were betrothed at birth to his third daughter, Isrid.”

He shot a glower at Oslac.

“What? She is not so bad.”

“Oh, she is comely enough, but she talks constantly. About nothing. Blather, blather, blather. I would have to put a plug in her mouth afore tupping.”

Oslac suggested something about the plug, which Steven should have expected. He had stepped into that one like a boyling unused to male jests.

“Whether Isrid or someone else, you must wed at some point. Heirs are needed for Norstead and Amberstead.”

He shrugged. “Isrid or some other, it matters not to me at the present. Time enough later.”

“It‟s your brother then,” Oslac guessed.

He nodded. “Yea, ever since Thorfinn disappeared two years past—”

“Disappeared?” Oslac scoffed.

“Ever since Finn died, then.” He cast a scowl at Oslac for the reminder. “We were in Baghdad. One moment he was laughing and telling me to meet him at the ship, warning me not to purchase any harem houris, whilst he conducted a final meeting with the horse breeder. The next he failed to appear, and all we found was a pool of blood and his short sword lying beside the road. Mayhap he is still—”

Oslac put up a halting hand. “Nay, Steven. You searched for sennights. Two years have passed. He would have let you know.”

“But there was no body,” he insisted.

“The miscreants who took his life no doubt dumped his body elsewhere. Accept that he is gone and move on with your life. I know how close you were, but he is in Asgard now, my friend.”

Steven sighed and drew another long slurp of ale from his carved horn cup.

“I must say, though, that Finn was always the serious one, especially after his wife left him, taking their infant son. And you were the lighthearted one, always up for a good time.”

“Are you saying I have lost my sense of humor?” he inquired, not at all offended, though Viking men did prize their ability to laugh at themselves and all of life‟s foibles.

“Hah! You have lost more than that. Remember the time you and I fought off a black bear with our bare hands? Remember the time you tripped Balki the Bold when he was being particularly arrogant, and he fell into Mathilde Wart-Nose‟s big bosoms? Remember the time you brought that ivory phallus back from the Arab lands and talked Maerta into inserting it whilst we watched? Remember the time we drank so much mead we decided we could jump off the roof of the keep into a hay wagon? Remember the time you tupped six women in a row and could still rise to the occasion?”

He just sighed deeply again.

“Mayhap you should go a-Viking.”

“I did that last month. Brought two shiploads of plunder back from the Saxon lands.”

“Boar hunting.” “Boring.”

“Amber harvesting.”

“I have too much amber already. That reminds me. We must needs send several chests to Birka for trading afore the winter freeze over the fjords.”

“Visit King Olaf‟s royal court.”

“I will be going there for the Yule season. A man can stand only so much of Olaf‟s bad breath.”

“What we need is a good battle. Why is everyone so bloody peaceable of late?”

“I know. My broadsword will get rusty from lack of use. Many thanks for reminding me. I will have the armor boy oil it and my brynja on the morrow.” In fact, now that he thought on it, it was time for the yearly cleaning of all the metal armor, putting the pieces in a barrel of sand and vinegar that was rolled around to shake and remove the rust. Later, they could be polished with bran.

Oslac poured them both more ale. “There are those pirates who are getting more daring of late.”

“Or desperate.”

“That, too.”

“Especially Brodir the Bold. What have he and his outlaw band against you? He targets your ships more than any other.”

Steven shrugged. “Some grievance he has against my family. I have met him in person only a handful of times, and never in recent years.”

“You should post extra sentries lest they strike afore winter.”

Steven nodded. “‟Twas a time when they only attacked longships that were poorly armed and usually those farther south. Now they even stalk the inland fjords.”

“Brodir has set an example for other outlaw Vikings, giving pirating a good name. If a Norseman of noble birth can pirate, why not them, too? Truly, they are becoming a menace as their numbers increase.”

“Yea, ‟tis a waste, too. Brodir was once a fine warrior, and respected even when he went rogue, but then he and his men raped those novices at a Sudeby abbey and put a blood eagle on the mother superior, for sport. Now he is a
nithing
, using his fighting skills to organize the pirates and train them to attack in fleets.”

“Ah, look. Here comes Lady Thora, Rolfgar‟s widow. Mayhap she can lift your spirits . . . or leastways your staff.”

“She already lifted my staff. Three times last night she let me swive her. Or rather, she swived me, to be more accurate.”

“Are you sure? I swived her three times last night.”

He and Oslac exchanged looks of incredulity, then burst out laughing.

“Dost think she would consider joining us in ...” Oslac then suggested something so outrageous that Steven, who thought he had tried everything that involved his cock, solitary or otherwise, was shocked.

But only for a moment.

Suddenly, Steven‟s enthusiasm gurgled back to life. Not his mood. But then, when had a good mood been required for a zesty bout of bedsport? A man‟s enthusiasm for sex play was a constant, especially the perverted kind.

“Oh, Thooor-aaaaa?” Oslac drawled out.

But in the end, Steven went to his bed alone. Turns out, he was not in the mood, after all. 

The only easy day was yesterday . . . or was that yesteryear? . . .

Rita was hot, sweaty, tired, and smelly, and having the time of her life.

She was one of fifty WEALS candidates still surviving the yearlong training program out of the original seventy-five, many of whom had “rung out” going DOR, dropped on request, which meant they‟d volunteered out of WEALS. Or they could have “rolled back,” giving them the opportunity to try again for the next session, having sustained some injury or personal crisis that prevented their going on.

While her teammates groaned and moaned about the difficulties, Rita was finding many of the exercises easy, and those that weren‟t posed welcome challenges.

Their day started with an 0500 muster, followed by a dip in the pool, fully clothed, including boots, then a jog to the chow hall for breakfast. After more running, at least twenty miles per day, they headed to the O-course, or obstacle course, that was often referred to by others as the Oh-My-God course. To Rita, it was the Oh-Boy course. It was located on the Grinder, an asphalt square surrounded by buildings on four sides, much like a penitentiary exercise yard.

The Slide for Life.
Whee!
Log rolling.
Just call me Twinkle Toes.
The monkey bars.
Anyone
got a banana?
The Tire Sequence.
Dance, baby, dance!
The tower!
King Kong couldn’t climb
any better.
The Cargo Net.
Hey, I did scarier things when doubling for Julia Roberts in her
last film.

Of course, they hadn‟t started Hell Week yet. That would come in just a few days. Then they would get their gaudy Heineken pins, a mocking copy of the Navy SEAL trident pin, better known as the Budweiser. But that didn‟t mean their training would be over, oh no. SEALs and WEALS continued to train for years after graduation to keep in shape and up to date on new technology.

Rita had been an only child, so it was hard to understand why she had such a competitive nature. Her inclination toward physical activities was more understandable. Genes, pure and simple. Although he had divorced her mother when Rita was a toddler, her six-foot-three father had been . . . aside from a blatant womanizer . . . a twice silver-medaled Olympic runner and later a professional golfer of some note before his early demise in a car accident. Her diminutive mother had been an Olympic gymnast. Rita had been a gymnast, too, until by age twelve she was already growing too tall and big to excel in that sport . . . eventually reaching five nine and a curvy, muscle-toned hundred and thirty. Picture backflips on the parallel bars with that body. Ouch!

Later she had tried figure skating, and while she‟d become proficient, she hadn‟t excelled to the national level. Then, of course, there had been her marathon running, sky diving, mountain climbing, kayaking, cliff diving, NAS-CAR racing (okay, only one week of that before being booted off the track for recklessness), skeet shooting, and alpine skiing. All that was before discovering stunt work, which combined many of those skills. And now rigorous military training, of course.