Viking For Hire (Vikings Saga Volume 1) (7 page)

Branwyn took a step back and then another towards the fire as Mista waltzed closer, hips swaying within the sleek confines of the gossamer fabric. Only when Branwyn felt the crunch of salt beneath her shoes did she let out the breath she’d been holding. ’Twas time to begin the incantation. She turned her body sideways so that Mista could not see her remove the mistletoe from her pocket. A fine, nearly transparent blue mist rose from the simmering cauldron when she tossed the herb into the mix.

She turned back to Mista to find her standing a mere few inches away, her face cold with rage. “Since both you and Sven have refused to take me home as mate, I’ll make this simple.” She paused and raked a set of long, silver-tipped nails down Branwyn’s chest.

“I tire of your games, witch.” Branwyn snapped. “State your business, and be gone from me.”

“Very well.” Furious, Mista dug her nails deeper into Eirik’s tunic. They felt like five tiny knives puncturing her skin. Branwyn sucked in a pained breath and waited for the sorceress to continue.

“Tell me, jarl. Where do you hide the key to New Dorset? Tell me at once, and I will restore all of your foolish men to you — none of which proved helpful in my search. Oh, and I might let your precious little healer live. It appears you’ve grown fond of the child. Where is she anyway?”

“Why do you want the key to my city?” Branwyn raised her arms over her head and stretched as if to dispel a cramp. ’Twas her signal to Eirik to start his fire. It had the unfortunate side effect of drawing the sorceress’s nails deeper into her chest.

“’Tis a godly matter and none of your concern.” Mista’s eyes flickered with interest to the smoke rising from the tree line. She withdrew her hand from Eirik’s chest and rested it on her hip. “It appears your pesky healer is trying to stir up some more magic of her own, eh?”

“Do not think to change the subject,” Branwyn stormed, “Everyone and everything in New Dorset is my bloody business. How dare you claim this matter is not my concern?”

Mista stamped a foot. “Do not raise your voice at me, you brainless oaf. Your city of demigods lies just before the gates of Valhalla. Why else do you think I want in?”

At Branwyn’s shocked expression, Mista gave another ringing laugh. “Indeed, I keep forgetting you and your half-brothers have no idea who your real father is.” She snorted in derision. “As if William the Conquerer would have ever earned such a title without a wee bit of assistance from higher up. Or you, for that matter. Do you really think you would have discovered New Dorset on your own? Ah, the pride of mortals.” She shook her head and glanced again at the tree line. “Enough chatter. I’d best go stop that tiresome witch of yours before she attempts to meddle in my affairs again.”

Demigods?
Branwyn smothered a hysterical laugh at the incredible revelation. That would certainly explain why Eirik and Sven were a good head taller than the average Englishmen and handsomer than the devil himself. “Wait,” she called. “Mayhap I will reconsider your offer after all.”

Eirik’s fiery distraction was more for his benefit than hers. She neither wished him to come running, sword drawn, to her rescue nor for Mista to discover the ruse and take her anger out on him.

Mista froze and turned. “Do not tell me you’ve actually fallen for that pitiful mortal?” Her gaze narrowed on Branwyn’s. “By the gods, you have.” Her lip curled. “Well, do not expect any mercy from me. She has caused enough trouble for one day. Pray forget my offer. ’Tis already expired.”

“Has it?” Branwyn asked softly as she removed the flask of holy water from her pocket.

“Aye,” Mista snarled. “I’ve a new plan. I shall drag the witch here by her hair and torture her in your presence until you reveal the location of the key. No more deals, you feeble-minded Viking. Your indomitable pride shall be your downfall.”

“You speak of mortal pride as if ’tis something to be pitied,” Branwyn said coolly, as she uncapped the flask, “but ’tis not nearly so pathetic and foolish as the pride of demons.” She flung the contents of the flask directly into Mista’s eyes, and not a moment too soon for Eirik’s clothes were already growing looser on her frame.

The sorceress’s face contorted in pain as she stumbled back, screaming and clawing at her face. “Who are you, and what have you done with Eirik?” she choked. She scrambled around on the ground on all fours and lunged blindly for Branwyn’s ankles. When her fingers encountered the salt, she sprang back in disbelief. “No-o-o-o!” Her anguished cry rent the air, for demons cannot cross into a consecrated circle.

Branwyn raised her wand over the contents of the cauldron and began the incantation. “Power of fire and wind and sea. I call upon your mighty three. Take back the curse upon my liege. From all his men; set each one free. May the blackness return for eternity, to she who sent it heartlessly. So mote it be. So mote it be.” Fire shot from the elder wood wand and consumed Mista’s violet gown, high-heeled slippers, and gems. Her image faded and shifted into a myriad of shapes — first a beautiful young Viking maid, then a mermaid, followed by a blackbird and wolf. With a final violent twitch, she flopped to her side on the ground in the form of a peasant girl. Then her outline shivered and faded altogether. She was gone.

The wolves stopped their pacing and transformed into Vikings crawling around on their hands and knees. The blackbirds fluttered down from the tree and landed on their feet as men.

Branwyn pocketed her wand and ran to Sven who stood just outside the circle of salt, mouth agape. “We did it,” she said exultantly. Grabbing his hands, she spun him in a jig. “The spell worked.”

He stopped her dance of victory and held her at arm’s length. “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully. “The last time you grabbed me...” His face reddened.

She rolled her eyes, stepped away to demonstrate her freedom from the curse, then stumbled over Eirik’s excessively long trousers and pitched forward into Sven’s arms. “I could not have done it without your help,” she babbled. “Not without the salt and mistletoe or the hair samples and personal effects from each of the men. ’Twas the only way to ensure Mista’s curses would be removed in their entirety from us all.”

Sven patted her shoulder awkwardly, then stiffened.

“Not bad for a mongrel, I suppose.” Eirik’s voice was icy. He stood before them in her green gown whose seams were splitting now that he was restored to his normal size. “Now turn over the blasted witch to me so I may punish her for all the foolish risks she took.” Without waiting for her to respond, he stalked nearer. “You lied to me, Branwyn. Cuckolded me into thinking I was part of your scheme by wearing this blasted gown. All the while, you had me hunkering down in the safety of the forests whilst you took the greatest of the dangers upon yourself. When I get my hands on you, I swear I—”

Branwyn started to disengage herself from Sven, but he held her fast. “Ye’ll not touch one hair on her head, my lord, and that’s a fact. She saved us all.” The color drained from his face as he spoke. To Branwyn’s knowledge, he’d never disobeyed his jarl before.

She sighed long and loud at the bristling men. Pointing her wand in the air, she removed the last traces of the glamour. She swapped and mended their clothes while she was at it. “Do with me as you wish, Eirik. I’ll not be taking one thing back that I did today. A few minutes ago, you and your men were too cursed to do ought but interfere with my plans to save you. I would do what I did a thousand times over, because I love you.” She raised her chin and met his glare with one of her own.

The air bristled between them with a fury of raw emotion. Several of the crewmen eyed them with concern.

“By Thor,” Eirik choked at last. “Unhand my future wife at once, Sven, so I may kiss her.”

Stunned, Sven dropped his hands to his side. “Your w-wife?” he stammered.

“Your wife,” Branwyn echoed uncertainly. “You missed all of Mista’s revelations about New Dorset and its citizens. The truth is I am but a poor healer from Exeter, whilst you are—”

“The bastard son of a god and mortal?” He raised a questioning brow and held out a hand. “I much prefer the other thing you called me, Branwyn — the man you love.”

When she hesitated, he closed the distance between them and swept her up in his arms. “Give me a little credit, lass. I’ve known the truth about New Dorset since the key to the city was first handed to me by my father. What is more, I had a powerful desire to take you there as my bride the moment we met.”

“Oh...” Her breath slid out on a wistful sigh. “You did? Initially, I thought you only wanted me for my powers.”

“Aye, that is precisely why I sought out your acquaintance at the tavern. When I enclosed your hand in mine and gazed into your eyes for the first time, however, everything changed.” Eirik’s arms tightened. “Look at me, lass,” he begged when she buried her burning face in his chest. “Aye,” he muttered in appreciation when she raised her head. “This is just like the first time you laid eyes on me. The world itself shook beneath my feet.” He bent to press his lips reverently to hers. “I am Viking. I’ve sailed the world and sought out its most coveted treasures. What I recognized in you was instantaneous and real and priceless. You are my mate, Branwyn. The moment our hands touched, I knew ’twas so and vowed to myself I would win your love or die trying.”

“Eirik,” she moaned, overcome at his words. She was quite certain every inch of her body was blushing to hear him bare his heart in such a manner before his men.

“Tell me what you felt when you first looked at me, Branwyn,” he persisted, apparently oblivious to their audience. “What you feel now.”

The memory shook her with its intensity. “I saw light. I felt fire. I knew joy. Now I am bursting with love. Take me home, Eirik.” She pressed trembling lips to his.

He turned with her to face his men. “Behold, I give you the princess and healer of New Dorset.”

The men cheered wildly, waving shields and spears and crossbows.

Sven shot her a half grin. “At least you chose one of us,” he said wistfully. At Eirik’s signal, he raised his voice. “All aboard. Set sail for home.”

The Viking oarsmen ran for the beachfront in a thunderous stampede.

Branwyn wound her arms around her perfect mate as he ran closely behind them with her in his arms. Sven and their Viking guardsmen brought up the rear of the joyous exodus. Eirik boarded the longship and set her down at last, pulling her against his side as the oarsmen pushed away from the coast.

Together, they watched the shores of Wales fade into the horizon. The prospect of sailing to New Dorset at long last made Branwyn’s breath catch in wonder. Never in her wildest dreams could she have conjured up all the dangers in hiring a Viking, nor all the joys.
No regrets
, she thought as she drank in the sight of her gorgeous husband-to-be. Nay, she was more than satisfied with her end of the bargain.

~THE END~

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O
CTOBER was much colder than it should have been — a bad omen. Icy winds battered the longship with a fury that could freeze the blood in a man’s veins. At least most men’s veins. The cold no longer phased Sven. The thick sable cloak draping his shoulders was more for show than necessity. He allowed the wind to whip freely through his long brown hair while he squinted at the heavens, only mildly relieved not to glimpse any seething, swirling clouds. Nevertheless, a storm
was
coming.

Sven sensed the disruption in the atmosphere deep in his bones. He closed his eyes and allowed the picture to form in his mind. He’d seen it often enough lately in his dreams. The last traces of autumn heat slamming into the indomitable wall of bitter coldness. The splintering protest of lightning, the answering boom of thunder, the unforgiving sheets of rain mixed with hail, and the cries of the dying. The storm in his dreams always left a trail of death in its wake. It might be minutes away, hours, or even days but it was coming.

He abruptly opened his eyes. A signal of his arm sent a dozen men on deck dashing to their places to draw down the wide rectangular sail. The canvas billowed downward to flutter against the semicircle oak step that anchored the ship’s mast.
Kerling,
they called the thick timber structure in the belly of the ship, for she was as steady and reliable as a wise, old woman.

Scanning the churning sea waters, Sven felt the lurch of the longship underneath his feet as the Viking rowers returned to their posts and dug in their oars. Their urgency was visible in every movement. Thick muscles bunched beneath their tunics as they drug their vessel through the waters along a northeasterly route. Home to the mystical land of New Dorset. Best to get as far as possible up the coastline of England before they would be forced to pull ashore to weather the coming storm.

As bo’sun of his Jarl Eirik’s rig, Sven strode between the two ranks of rowers lining the sides of the ship, pausing to tighten down one of the round, iron shields mounted to the outer rails. They planned to venture away from England today into the open sea with a course set to skirt the southerly coast of Iceland and Greenland on their way to the upper islands and peninsulas of the New World. New Dorset lay cradled in its craggy ridges, a haven for the few allowed to enter her glorious golden gates.

Gripping the high dragon’s neck of the prow, Sven squinted through the morning mists beginning to lift. Puffs flitted here and there, damp specters who hovered until the morning sun burnt them away. On quiet mornings, their whispers haunted him. Most times they were distant murmurs. He could rarely make out their words, which was fine with him. The aimless babbling of ghosts drifting into oblivion was far preferable to the occasional vengeful one who sought out Sven to wrangle favors.

“A good morning to you, sailor.” The low musical voice tightened his gut with its haunting, ethereal quality. A sound so soft and fragile should not so easily have cut through the muted wail of the winds and singsong shanty of the sailors rowing behind him.

The woman wavered in and out of transparency as she emerged from the mists, her face framed by a silvery-white waterfall of hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her tresses twinkled and glowed as if powered by tiny lights, partially hiding her pale, fine-boned features. Without warning, she leaped from the water to cling to the lower, wider base of the prow. Her lovely face tipped upward, no more than a foot from his. Her bosom pressed against the carved length of the prow, two perfect orbs barely concealed by a narrow weave of seaweed and shells. A delicate ribcage tapered to a tiny waist, and a long, slender tail with gossamer green and purple scales flipped and swished against the surface of the waters.