Authors: Sandra Hill
Viking Heat (9 page)
Next time she awakened, it wasn’t of her own volition. Someone was shaking her. A rough-looking man who reeked of bad breath and BO. “Get up, wench. No more dawdling. Everyone is waiting.”
She grumbled as she sat up, fuzzy from sleep and the knock on her head.
“Make haste! Hurry, hurry! Here,” he said, handing her a filthy thing that might have been a comb. It appeared to be made of bone and had several teeth missing. “Run this through yer hair and take off that gunna.”
“Gun? I don’t have a gun.”
His eyes about bugged out. “Gunna, wench. I said
gunna
.
Gunna
is a robe.”
gunna
.
Gunna
is a robe.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so? But, no! Not the undressing business again.” She backed away from him, hitting the stick wall. “Nudity is overrated, y’know? It would be better to keep them guessing. Yep, that’s my philosophy. So, what do you say?”
“Thor’s teeth! Ye really are demented, jist like Gird said. Well, keep yer teeth shut when ye get outside. And make haste.”
“Why? What’s the rush?”
“It be yer turn now.”
“Turn for what?”
He glowered before pulling a whip from his belt.
“Now, now, no need for violence.”
Only then did he answer. “Yer auction.”
Chapter 5
Erland and Arnis were strolling away from the plank wharf at Hedeby, which was located at the junction of several major trade routes. A horn blew, announcing the arrival of yet another seafaring vessel.
They entered the town through one of the three gateway tunnels of the fortified ramparts that were higher than six tall men atop each other. Behind them, fifty or so longships of various sizes were anchored, not counting the new arrival, which carried the flag of a far-famed Rus merchant.
Hedeby was an exciting town they had visited on numerous occasions in the past. But there was always something new to see. Animals of any size or shape, not to mention their skins. Even the prized seal and walrus rope noted for its strength and durability; it was made by cutting the skin in a single spiral strip from shoulder to tail. The tusks were also an important trading item. Many of the market stalls featured jewelry . . . silver, gold, amber, ivory, and crystallite. Samite from Byzantium, fine wool from Northumbria, sable-lined cloaks. Craftsmen could be seen blowing glass, hammering precious metals, carving wood and tusks, firing clay pots, making candles.
“Brandr is going to tan our hides for taking so long,” Erland said to his older brother.
“Well, we had good reason for our delay. The spices he wanted from the eastern lands did not arrive ’til yestereve. And there were those repairs needed for
Wind Biter
’s hull. And those women we captured in the Saxon lands were not so willing to travel with us to the Norselands. Twice they escaped us here in the market town. Good thing I am an expert tracker.” Arnis grinned at him.
Wind Biter
’s hull. And those women we captured in the Saxon lands were not so willing to travel with us to the Norselands. Twice they escaped us here in the market town. Good thing I am an expert tracker.” Arnis grinned at him.
Erland grinned back. “Truly, the men at Bear’s Lair will be gladdened at our foresight in providing for their pleasure. Despite the delay.”
“Yea, there is that,” Arnis agreed. “And leastways, both of our dragonships are nigh groaning with all the goods we have purchased, most importantly the grains, but also the Frisian wine on top of barrels of mead and ale. That litter of pups will surely prove helpful for hunting when full grown.”
“I but wish there was something we could get especially for Brandr to lighten his heart,” Arnis remarked. “He has become so dour of late.”
“With good cause,” Erland pointed out. “But I wonder . . . dost think that once a berserker it can ever leave a man?”
“Only the gods know.” Arnis sighed. “What kind of life must it be to have that rage inside all the time?”
They were both grim as they pondered that unpalatable prospect. Walking along the plank walkways that traversed the mud of the busy market town in an orderly fashion, they bypassed the area where permanent residents lived in neat wattle-and-daub homes with front-fenced courtyards. Instead they made for the merchant and craft section where tents and stalls had been set up facing the wooden sidewalks. They stopped here and there to examine the wares, even as they conversed.
“Look there. That would make a fine gift for Liv,” Arnis said.
They both went silent then, recalling how Liv had looked when they’d left Bear’s Lair more than eight sennights ago. Eyes sad and vacant, body thin as a pole, except for her huge belly. The baby must have been born by now. Had Brandr put the infant out on the cliff to die, or let it live, unwanted by one and all, including its mother? He could not imagine Liv ever softening toward the child. How could she want a reminder of her captivity and brutal rape? Sad it was, because Liv, now almost fifteen, had been long promised to and found favor with Einar Egillsson from Iceland, but that was before her being so despoiled. Would Einar still want her? Probably not.
Arnis purchased the polished brass mirror nonetheless. Mayhap Liv would be more her old self by now. And Erland, like-thinking, bought her an amber pendant on a thin gold chain. They bought themselves new silver-etched arm rings. Bone combs for the household. Shoulder brooches for some of the men to fasten their cloaks. A box of matched spoons with carved wood handles to be used at the high table on special occasions.
“Let us go back to the harbor,” Arnis said then. “Make certain all is ready for our departure at first light tomorrow.”
Erland agreed.
They were approaching the slave auction mart where they had taken their Saxon captives to be sold just two days past and purchased some others as well, including a much-needed blacksmith. They were about to pass by when something caught their eyes.
It was a woman, but she was unlike any either of them had seen before. And it wasn’t just her wild, flame red hair. Or that she was nigh naked, except for scraps of white cloth over her breasts and nether parts. No, her uniqueness lay in the odd, jerky movements she made around the auction platform. Raising a leg high. Kicking out sharply at the men who tried to subdue her. Hitting some of them, painfully, it would seem by their yelps. And she was making chopping motions toward them with the raised heels of her hands, as if they were weapons. The whole time she was making guttural noises that sounded like “Kee-yup!” or “Hie!” when she was not spouting coarse Saxon curses.
And then, no longer distracted by the thin garments she wore, they homed in on her breasts. And a well-rounded rump that would scarce fit in a big man’s hands.
Erland’s mouth was gaping open.
Arnis was momentarily speechless.
Then they both looked at each other and grinned. “Brandr,” Erland said.
And Arnis nodded.
Both of them chuckled.
They had found the perfect gift for Brandr.
Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to the Black Sea we go . . .“Okay, joke’s over. Ha, ha, ha! Untie these freakin’ ropes.”
Ever since a man had shouted, “Cast off!” immediately followed by “Out oars!” and they’d begun this ludicrous voyage, Joy had experienced one amazing debacle after another. In fact, her life had become one bleeping debacle.
Joy was sick of complaining to her “captors,” if that’s what these bozos were. And they were sick of hearing her complaints, more than one of them had said.
They weren’t Arab terrorists, that was for sure. Mostly tall and blond, the men more resembled ancient Vikings. That idea was reinforced by the dragonship they were riding across icy Black Sea waters.
“This is no jest, wench,” one of them, obviously a captain or something, said.
“Call me wench one more time, and you’ll have black and blue balls when I’m free.”
“Milady then, though I know few ladies who would discuss manparts in public.” The jerk grinned at her. “Brandr is going to enjoy taming you.”
“Who is Brandy?”
“Brandr,” he corrected her. “Our brother. That is my brother Erland.” He pointed to another blond-haired male on the other ship, which rode low in the water beside them. Erland was supervising the sixty-plus rowers sitting on sea chests that lined both sides of an immense longship, just like theirs. Their creaking oars hit the water with wet, rhythmic slaps, for hours on end.
She had to admit the vessels were impressive with their carved prows and red and black checked sails and flags showing white bears rampant against black backgrounds edged in red. Colorful shields were arranged over the sides. “Are you with that model village at Hedeby? Is this some kind of half-baked reenactment? If so, you better release me right away, or you are going to be in big trouble with Uncle Sam.”
“Huh? Uncle who?”
“Read my lips, bozo. Un—”
“My name is Arnis, not Bozo.”
“Aaarrgh!” she said and would have pulled at her own hair if her arms weren’t tied behind her back and around a mast pole. “Read my lips,
Arnis
. Untie. Me.
Now!
”
Arnis
. Untie. Me.
Now!
”
Arnis just smiled. “Read
my
lips. Nay!”
my
lips. Nay!”
“Tell me again why you’ve captured me.”
“We did not capture you. We purchased you at the thrall auction to take back to Bear’s Lair.”
“Oh, that’s just great. You’re taking me to a bear’s cave.”
“What? Oh. You missay me. Bear’s Lair is the name of our family estates in the Norselands.”
“Well, that’s explains everything. Not!”
“You were purchased and will be a bond slave to Brandr. Those thralls over there,” he pointed to a group of young women huddled together, “now they are captives. We captured them, and some others that we already sold, on a raid of Saxon lands. Once free, they will now be thralls.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you capt . . . purchase me?”
“For Brandr. I already told you that.”
“Why?”
“Why, why, why! Brandr has been sour of mood since he turned berserker. He needs a love slave to sweeten him up.”
“You can’t possibly think I’m going to have sex with some berserk Viking stranger.”
“Yea, I can. Willing or not, you will be sharing my brother’s bed furs within a sennight, or I will toss you in the fjord myself.”
“Violence accomplishes nothing. I’m a psychologist, you know. And anger management is one of my specialties. I could help you learn more diplomatic methods of handling your problems.”
Arnis blinked at her. “My grandsire always said diplomacy is like saying ‘Nice doggy’ until you can find a spear.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“By the by, are you perchance a virgin?”
She gave him a look that told him exactly what she thought of that question. “Are you?”
“Nay, but I am a man.”
“And that matters . . . how?”
“Men are not prized for their virginity. Women are.”
“What a bunch of sexist crap!”
“From the beginning of time, Norsemen have been bred to go a-Viking and drink good ale, whilst Norsewomen have been bred to spread their thighs for their heroes when they come home.”
“Are you kidding? What is that? The mission statement for Male Chauvinist Vikings?”
“You talk a lot. What country are you from?”
“America.”
“Is that near Iceland?”
This guy is a flaming idiot.
“Let’s start over. My name is Joy Nelson.”
“Let’s start over. My name is Joy Nelson.”
“A fine Viking name is Nelsson.”
“Stop interrupting. My name is Joy Nelson. I am an ensign in the U.S. Navy. I am training for the WEALS.”
“You are training to be a wheel? Mayhap I should train to be a flagpole. Are you sure you are not barmy?”
“WEALS is a female SEAL program,” she informed him through gritted teeth. “We are an elite female special forces unit. Soldiers.”
“Warriors?” he asked incredulously. “A band of female warriors?”
“Yes. Exactly.” Finally, he was beginning to understand.
“That is some story! You almost caught me with your jest.” He slapped a knee with appreciation. “Methinks you should be a skald for us on the long winter nights.”
“Skald?”
“Poet. You could tell us sagas about your country and your, ha, ha, ha, fierce fighting women. Our old skald Alviss is a terrible storyteller. Anyone could do better.”
“Elvis? You have a storyteller named Elvis? That is too cute. Does he like peanut butter and banana sandwiches?”
Arnis stared at her for a long moment, then snapped his gaping mouth shut. “Yea, you will be our new skald. When you are not tupping with Brandr, that is.”
“Forget this sex with Brandr business. It is not going to happen. And I’m not going to be your damn poet laureate either.”
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