Authors: Sandra Hill

Viking Heat (6 page)

BOOK: Viking Heat

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Weary beyond imagination, he yearned to sleep the winter through. But there was too much to do.

After a fine meal of fire-roasted boar, ale and mead were being inhaled like air as the men made merry, bragging of their brave feats. ’Twas the way of warriors after battle.

“The captives,” Tork reminded him as he drew him toward the tent where four dozen men and women huddled, their hands tied behind their backs. Already tied about their necks with leather thongs were thrall amulets with the runic symbols pronouncing, “I belong to Brandr,” never to be removed without permission on pain of death. Toddlers and very young children sat at the thralls’ feet, tears staining their mud-streaked faces.

Brandr noted that six of the women sat off to the side, apart from the others, who had been fettered with their hands behind their backs and linked by a thin rope to each other, like beads on a necklace. Two of the six held babes in their arms. He assumed these were ones handpicked by some of his men as prizes of war. Whether they took them home as concubines or thralls, they would not be treated too badly, if they behaved.

He and Tork stepped before each of the captives, one at a time, and decided whether they would go to the slave marts in Hedeby and Birka or be kept as thralls back at Bear’s Lair. None would go free.

To one of the young men who could be no more than eleven, he asked, “Your name?”

“Leif.”

“Could you swear fealty to me and all the Igorssons at Bear’s Lair?”

The boy did not hesitate. “Yea, I could. Sigurd forced me to fight for him, lest he kill me mother.”

“And your mother?”

He nodded toward the woman beside him. She could be no more than thirty, but she looked sixty, so harsh were the lines that worried her face.

“These two, back to Bear’s Lair,” he said.

Soon he was at the end of the line, where a young girl stood, her blonde hair lank, her face gaunt to the point of starvation. A brief glance at him before she swept her lashes downward showed eyes glazed with a dimwittedness that could have come at birth or through vile treatment. One eye was blackened; no doubt she did not follow orders well. What could he do with such a starvling? No one would buy such in the slave markets, and what good would she do them at Bear’s Lair, except another mouth to feed?

But then he noticed something. Two things, actually. The girl was heavy with child. For Thor’s sake! Another Sigurdsson snake being bred.

Of a sudden, she stared at him, steady, and his knees nigh buckled.

“Brandr? What is amiss?” Tork inquired from his side.

“Oh, my gods!” Erland said at his back, immediately followed by Arnis’s choked out, “Is it . . . ?”

Brandr could not speak over the lump in his throat and his pounding heart.

It was his sister Liv.

She was scarce fourteen now, and she was hugely pregnant.

And she did not recognize him.

Still, with tears misting his eyes, Brandr took her up in a tight hug that surprised both of them.

“Shhh,” he kept murmuring. “Everything will be all right now.”

But would it be?

You want me to become a
sex what
. . . ?

“You’re going operational at oh six hundred on Thursday . . . to northern Germany,” Commander MacLean said.

Joy stood at attention before his desk in the SEALs command center at Coronado, blinking with surprise. She’d come this morning, knowing she might be given an active assignment, thanks to Slick’s hints, but she’d never thought it would be so soon or so extensive. “Yes, Commander, sir.”

“You’ll be part of a team of six SEALs. A black op. Very covert.”

“Permission to speak, Commander, sir?”

“Granted. Stand easy.”

“Will I be the only woman?”

He nodded.

“Why me?”

“We had someone else. WEALS Ensign Linda Collins, but she discovered she’s pregnant and plans to ring out.”

Joy knew Linda and that she was going to ring out, but she hadn’t known why. “I repeat, why me?”

He gave her a full-body look, head to toe and back up again.

She was wearing Navy requisition shorts, T-shirt, and boots. Her hair was pulled off her face into a tight French braid. She wore no makeup, nothing to attract attention. “You’re best suited for this particular mission.”

She frowned with confusion. “I’m not nearly as skilled with weapons as some of the others, and there are full-fledged WEALS available.”

“You’ll be infiltrating a white slave ring.”

“Huh?”
Well, that didn’t sound very professional. I might as well as have said, “Duh.”
“Prostitution isn’t the usual SEAL field of interest.”

“Not prostitution. White slavery. In fact, it’s being run by some fringe Arab terrorist group.”

“Arab terrorists in Germany?”

“Pfff! They’re everywhere now. Anyhow, in this particular mission, they’re providing sex for bombs.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. Apparently some of these nutcase extremists are offering sex slaves to their loyal followers.” He tapped a pencil on the desk, then elaborated. “You’re mission essential, Nelson. We need
you
to infiltrate. And we need to engage the enemy in the act.”

“Ah,” she said, beginning to understand why he’d said she would be well-suited. He must be referring to her boobs. They weren’t large, but they appeared so because of her thin frame. “There are sexier women than me.”

“Sexy isn’t the best qualification. That would be too obvious. You’re unusual, and it’s not just your . . . uh, attributes. Your red hair, for example. You would attract interest right off the bat.”

“I beg your pardon. Unusual? Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“You’re tall, for another thing. Some men, especially in foreign countries, like big women.”

“
Big?
Now I
am
insulted.” She was just waiting for him to say that some men were turned on by big butts. That would be the last straw.

“These aren’t regular sex slaves that they’re offering. They’re . . . um, exotic.”

She raised her eyebrows at that.
Me? Exotic?

“This is a duty billet, like any other,” he emphasized, letting her know she had no choice.

Tell me another one!
“You can’t be serious. When was the last time you were sold as a sex slave?” Immediately, she regretted her question, knowing full well it was breaking every military rule in the book to address a superior officer in that way.

His ruddy face flushed with a combination of embarrassment and outrage at her blatant breach of conduct.

She was saved by the bell . . . or rather, by a tap on the door.

“Enter,” the commander barked.

In sauntered six of the SEALs she would be working with. She’d met them all previously.

One after another, they greeted her, “Red.” “Hey, Red.” “How ya doin’, Red.” “What’s up, Red.” “Lookin’ good, t’day, Red.”

Joy hated the nickname they’d given her, but when she protested, they used it all the more.

Omar Jones was half-Arab, half-American, and he would be giving her instructions on the culture she would be entering. The Cajun SEAL, Cage, winked at her. She lifted her chin haughtily, never having forgiven him for paintballing her in the butt. He just laughed.

The Viking Torolf Magnusson, Max, was the only one married among the bunch. His wife Hilda was a real sweetie, even though some of the SEALs referred to her as Hilda the Hun.

F.U. leered at her, as usual. She flashed him her
Drop dead, dipstick!
look.

The mysterious and darkly brooding Italian, Kevin Fortunato, or K-4, could leer at her any time he wanted . . . which he didn’t, darn it. Apparently he was still in mourning, even after five years, over a wife who had died of cancer.

And the handsome, equally aloof Luke Avenil, or Slick, who had taken on the role of big brother to her, almost as if he was reluctantly replacing the brother he had failed to save for her. And no doubt about it, he considered her a penance at times. Slick was single and determined to remain that way forever, due to an ex-wife who was continually raking him through the courts for more divorce money, or maybe just to piss him off; that latter being Slick’s opinion after the most recent proceeding.

“Lieutenant Avenil will head this mission,” the commander told them, then stood. “I’ll leave you to it, Slick.”

After he left, Slick told them, “We have five days to put this together before deployment, and a lot of prep is needed before that. Are we in this together?”

“Hoo-yah!” they yelled, jacked up with enthusiasm. But then, they weren’t being sold as sex slaves. On the other hand, they would probably get a kick out of that.

She had an awful feeling that this was going to be another in a long line of “What was I thinking?” decisions. But she had six well-trained SEALs to watch her back.

What could go wrong?

He had a funny feeling . . .

Winter was fast approaching, the fjords would soon be frozen over, and still Erland and Arnis had not returned from their trading voyage. Eight sennights they had been gone, and Brandr was worried.

“I’ve sent men down the fjord toward the sea on the look-out for
Dragon Wing
and
Wind Biter
,” said Tork, who was now his chief hirdsman, having chosen to join him in giving up Jomsviking. They truly were brothers-in-arms, if not of blood. “If their longships are in distress, we will know shortly.”

“I daresay those two dolt heads dawdled in Hedeby too long, when we are in dire need of foodstuffs, cloth for garments, bed furs, healing herbs, whetstones, cows and goats for milk and butter, and spices, like cloves, mustard, and pepper. Everything.” Brandr’s jarldom was a huge and goodly estate, but little of it held arable land, except for a side garth where they had planted onions, cabbages, carrots, peas, horseradish, and turnips. Another side garth held fruit and nut trees. Fish and sea birds abounded. But there were no fields of grain, and it was essential that they have barley, wheat, oats, and rye for themselves and the animals to come.

Brandr’s family had grown prosperous and complacent, apparently, trading furs for goods. The bears, of course, but also pelts from sable, fox, squirrel, and beaver. Then, too, they traded dried fishes, live and salted seabirds, even feathers for stuffing pillows and mattresses. Occasionally they went far north to join whale hunts; then there would be whale oil, skin, and meat to consume and sell, as well as the precious ambergris used to make perfumes. Still others traveled to the Baltic, bringing back the precious amber, also for trade. Furthermore, the lands of Bear’s Lair had a generous outcropping of steatite, or soapstone, which was soft to cut and fireproof, thus good for pots, molds for metal items, and candleholders. It was much in demand in the market towns. All this was supplemented by plunder gained when they went a-Viking to Saxon lands.

It was a harsh land, which by necessity bred strong men. But it held a beauty of sorts for those so inclined toward snow-capped mountains, tumbling waterfalls, and sometimes great barren plateaus, even glaciers in the far north. Its coastline—which in some places dropped steeply to the sea and at others had sweet moors leading to the water—was broken by hundreds, mayhap thousands, of fjords. A unique land, if nothing else.

“Do not forget ale.” Tork grinned at him.

Presently, not a drop of ale or mead was to be found, except that taken from the Sigurdssons. An unheard-of condition for Vikings who loved their drink.

“Arnora is nigh driving me barmy with her constant complaints,” Brandr added. “I always knew Vidar’s mother was waspish, but she is beyond shrewish now. Acts like she is queen of a bloody castle, not just my household. Dost think there is a nunnery that would take her?”

“Kelda is just as bad. I swear, all I wanted was a crust of bread with a bit of honey when I went into the scullery, and she smacked me with her cooking ladle.”

“Her cooking cauldron carries naught but meat and unseasoned broth these days. Ne’er did I envision the day I would crave vegetables or some variety in a meal.” Brandr gritted his teeth with exasperation. “I will knock my brothers’ thick heads together ’til they crack like eggs if I discover they took their own good time on returning.”

“Um . . . I hate to tell you this, my friend, but I think I know why they run so late.”

Brandr turned to stare direct at Tork, who was squirming uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh?”

“Some of our men may have complained about the lack of bedmates.”

“Oh?”

“Erland and Arnis may have mentioned a side trip to go a-Viking to a Jutland village where pretty, blonde-haired maidens are said to abound.”

BOOK: Viking Heat

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