Viking Born (Vikings Saga Volume 2) Page 2

  "A dog's balls in your face, bloke. We cannot afford to frolic with the mermaids. Have you so soon forgotten our last encounter with the bloody wenches?”

  "Beautiful morning, is it not?" a husky alto interrupted calmly.

  Sven straightened abruptly, fists clenched at his sides. "M'lady," he greeted his jarl's wife-to-be.

  Branwyn stepped purposefully between the men and waved an impatient hand. "Pish posh on your surliness. 'Tis a gorgeous day with enough bite in the wind to make a person feel more alive. You can practically hear all the green growing things slithering back into the earth to escape the clutches of winter. It is my favorite time of the year."

  Despite the gravity of their situation, he couldn’t resist teasing her. "Aye, every witch is fond of the month in which Samhain falls.”

  He allowed himself a moment to drink in her rare beauty. The only woman aboard their longship, her fiery auburn curls were fast pulling free of their gold snood. The damp coastal winds were also doing a rather thorough job of plastering the skirts of her olive gown against her boyishly slender frame.

  Normally, Eirik sailed their longship in deeper waters, but this trip was different. The frightful mer attack had forced them to hug the shoreline as a precaution against a followup attack.

  "Like so many other superstitious Norsemen, you are not fond of Samhain," she pointed out gayly. "What troubles you, my friend?"

  By the gods! Wondering at the absence of his usual snaking of lust at the sight of her, he yanked his gaze higher to meet her concerned green one.

  "Mermaids," Eirik interjected sharply.

  "Where?" She whirled to peer over the longship's railing. "I thought I warded this ship against any further mischief from those pesky sirens."

  "Her name is Willow, and she came to apologize," Sven supplied with a gusty sigh into the wind. The memory of Willow's curves pressed against the length of the prow were permanently etched in his brain. The longing for them to be etched on other parts of him was so strong, it took him a few moments to continue his story. “Claims her entire city was compelled to attack us the dark mermaid who led them.”

  “Mista.” Derision dripped from her voice.

  “Aye. As a precaution, the mer queen forbade her subjects any further contact with us. Ever."

  "Well, the queen's command did not stop this Willow creature from clambering aboard our dragon’s prow. On the very day we hoped to venture into the open seas, no less,“ Eirik snarled. "I do not like it. We did you tell the crew we are in no danger?"

  "My gut says we are not." He knew it sounded crazy. "Willow did not once attempt to sing her siren's song to me and not for lack of opportunity. What is more, she reminded me how the waters flowed pink from the blood of mer creatures and sailors alike. One of the mer perished."

  "Or so she claimed to arouse your sympathies," his brother noted, concern deepening to suspicion in his striking blue gaze. “A mermaid will say or do anything to get what she wants. Blast it all, Sven! What does she want?"

  "Me," he said simply.

  2

  The Following

  "Why aren't the men on full alert?" Eirik demanded, eyeing the oarsmen who continued to row steadily through the mists.

  "Because we are not in any danger,” Sven insisted, reaching into the leather pouch strapped to his waistband. "Maybe this will convince you." He retrieved Willow’s white conch shell pendent and waved it at his brother before tossing it to Branwyn. "This belongs to her. Perhaps you can use it to determine what she is up to."

  “I do not know whether to call you sly or foolish.” She turned the pendent over in her hands, examining it closely. “Once the mermaid realizes it is missing, she may come looking for it.”

  He shrugged. “I was careful. I knew you would need it for a locater spell.”

  She spared him a faint smile. “I see you've not forgotten what I've taught you about magic." Squinting across the deck, she called, "Alf, I'll be needing a few of your lads to build me a cooking fire."

  She strode to the end of the deck to poke at the cool, damp sand that filled their firebox. Built of stone, it rested atop the weathered planks. "These pesky winds will work against us, but if we can get a strong enough fire going, it will not take much to perform a locater spell. Best to find out if we've an army of mer coming after us before we venture into the open waters."

  The mists showed no sign of lifting, though it was well into the morning hours. The sun remained hidden behind its cottony thickness, emitting no more than a dull greyish glow that turned the oarsmen into shadowy specters. They sat atop trunks filled with their possessions, a clever space-saving measure that allowed their baggage to double as their seats.

  Ever since Willow's visit, the crewmen had paused singing their shanty. A pair of lads maintained the rhythm of their rowing by intermittent counting and clapping. Despite Sven’s assurance they were safe, the rowers kept their heads cocked, listening intently for the first notes of a siren's song. Each of them wore a heavy cloth wound like a turban around their heads, which could quickly be pulled over their ears to muffle the sound of approaching mermaids.

  Two thralls set the firebox blazing. Several more sailors stepped to their aid and shielded the coals with their bodies until the flames were strong enough to hold their own in the intermittent gusts of wind.

  Branwyn suspended a black cauldron over the flames and added a pinch of herbs, constantly stirring, until Sven reached for the handle of her ladle. Allowing him to take over the stirring, she examined the conch shell again, running her finger over its pale purple swirls. A woven seaweed cord with severed ends dangled from a tiny hole bored into one end.

  "Willow's essence resides strongly within the shell," she mused. "It must be something she loves and cherishes. How did you ever part her from it?"

  Eirik smirked. "Sven can charm the feathers off a peacock."

  He guffawed. "'Twas my dagger that charmed this treasure from its owner.”

  Branwyn's eyes rounded in alarm. "Pray assure me you did not threaten the creature. The mer have long memories and tend to hold grudges."

  Sven paused his stirring long enough for her to toss the conch shell into the murky brew. "Now that you mention it, she did accuse me of failing to act the part of a perfect gentleman."

  Branwyn clucked beneath her breath but did not smile at his jest. "The concoction is ready." She pulled her wand from the wide pocket of her overskirt. Passing it through the steam swirling above the pot, she closed her eyes and began to speak in low, clear tones.

  "Power of fire, earth, wind, and rain. Search mountains, valleys, seas, and plain. Find the one who wears this shell. Show her intent, and show it well. So mote it be." She struck the surface of the brewing liquid with her wand. Black bubbles rose, turned to blue, and faded into transparency.

  "Merciful mother," she breathed. "Your mermaid is close, Sven. Too close. She must be following the ship. Oh, Eirik!"

  He was already striding to the side of the longship, a looking glass pressed to his eye. "Report," he called to the sailor in the crow's nest. Most longships did not possess a crow's nest, but he had insisted on installing a small one after witnessing their marvelous practicality on English and Spanish ships.

  “Naught but water as far as the eye can see, Jarl,” the seaman shouted back.

  "Keep looking, my love," Branwyn insisted. "The spell tells me she is near. Wait! What is happening?" She stared in amazement as the clear bubbles began to cluster and float. "They are supposed to drift in her direction."

  Instead they floated across the belly of the ship and hovered over the bow, popping. "Something isn't right, unless—”

  Sven raced to the bow. She jogged after him, gripping the railing while he peered below the neck of the dragon’s prow.

  "I only closed my eyes for a second," he muttered. "Perhaps she did not swim away as I originally presumed."

  "What? You did not witness her departure?" Branwyn uttered a horrified moan. "I know you are
enamored with her, but Sven! Her kind is dangerous."

  "I was about to kiss her, so my eyes were closed," he admitted sheepishly. "I swear to you, she was there one moment and gone the next. 'Twas exceedingly peculiar considering how I had her clasped against the prow."

  The sound of tortured weeping rose to their ears.

  "Willow?" He tore off his cloak and tossed it aside, leaping atop the railing with one hand on the prow for balance.

  “No, Sven!” Branwyn cried. “If she starts to sing—”

  “She cannot sing if she’s injured.” He crouched forward, preparing to lower himself.

  “Please don’t.”

  But he was already climbing beneath the railing. “Willow!” he called again.

  "Sven," she answered weakly. "Help me. I can no longer feel my—“ Her words were lost in a sobbing gurgle.

  "I am coming." The sound of her grief shook him to troubling depths. The fact it moved him at all was puzzling. He was a bastard who had born no small amount of ridicule and shame since birth. He’d certainly pummeled his way through his share of fights over it. He was also a warrior who had known battle and conquest, storms and hunger, duty and sacrifice. The result was a heavy armor encasing his heart that few things could dent. Yet here he was, willing to give anything—right down to his last breath—to ease the sounds of suffering filling his ears.

  He swung an arm over the railing to signal the rowers. "Bear up!" he bellowed in his most booming voice. Immediately the long wooden craft began to slow its pace.

  Eirik materialized at his side and grasped his arm in a vise. “Whatever you are doing, Sven, halt! As your captain, I command you to re-board the ship at once.”

  “I do what I must.”

  “Nay. Ye’ll not go after the mermaid. I cannot afford to lose both a brother and a bo’sun, and that is final."

  He clenched his teeth. "Willow is hurt." A distant sob punctuated his words.

  “Or…the creature has somehow managed to bewitch you without the aid of her song. The feeling will past. You must trust me on this, brother."

  "I do trust you, my jarl, unto death itself.”

  Anger flashed across Eirik’s face at the use of his title.

  “All I ask is that you trust me in return. I am under no compulsion but my own will. I detained Willow beneath a dagger and a dozen crossbows and stole something precious from her. She has injured herself in the process of seeking its return, which makes her my responsibility. Pray let me go in peace. Do not force me to break your command."

  Paling at the underlying threat, Eirik gave a jerky nod. With a glare that forbade any further defiance, he snaked a length of cord about his brother's middle and anchored it in place with a heavy knot.

  “Undo this rope, and I will come after you myself," he warned. At his signal, several crewmen took their places along the rope. More men clustered along the rails with weapons at the ready. Daggers, crossbows, and swords.

  Sven arched an eyebrow. "A little overkill, don't you think?"

  “You are my only brother.”

  Rolling his eyes, he lowered himself once more beneath the rail. The leather sole of his boot pressed into something soft.

  Willow keened in terror. He squinted down into the mists.

  “I cannot hold on much longer." Her voice grew weaker with each word.

  Horrified, he removed his foot from what turned out to be her shoulder and rappelled himself down beside her. She clung to a weathered shroud that dangled from the bow. Seaweed and tears streaked her face, creating muddy rivulets down pale cheeks. Her colorless lips trembled at the sight of him.

  "Sven." Her teeth chattered around his name. "I knew...you would...come." Her eyelids closed, and her fingers slipped from the shroud.

  If he had not slammed his body over hers in that very moment, she would have pitched into the ocean.

  "Thank the gods," he muttered into her damp hair. It smelled of brine and no longer shone with tiny lights. Though she was unconscious, or nearly unconscious, her teeth chattered against his neck. Strange to discover her in such a bedraggled, miserable state when earlier she had seemed unaffected by the cold.

  With one arm banded tightly around his burden, he called to the men waiting above. "Heave ho." They pulled him swiftly to the deck.

  “Her!” Alf cried, recognizing Willow from the recent mer attack. "Careful when she wakes, bo’sun. Remember how hard this one fought us?" He picked up the rope Sven tossed to the deck and reached for her, as if to restrain her with it. A blue spark erupted the moment he touched her hands

  He jumped back. "By Thor! The maid burned me!"

  Three sailors raised their crossbows and trained them on Willow.

  "Hold your fire," Sven growled. "Any man who harms this woman will rue the day he was born." Two of the sailors immediately lowered their crossbows, knowing their bo’sun was a man of his word.

  "Stir up the coals," Eirik ordered the thralls. "We need a bigger fire and blankets." He scowled at Sven. "Do not punish the men for showing caution on your behalf. Most of them are still sporting scabs from last week’s mer attack.”

  He slung a handful of damp hair over his shoulder. "I cannot explain what just happened to Alf, but I would swear on my mother's grave if I could that Willow is not our enemy." He raised his voice to address the sailors once more. "This woman claims her sisters were compelled by the dark mermaid to fight us, that the entire battle was waged by black magic. She came today to apologize. Pray recall she neither sang her siren's song while we spoke, nor fought me when I held a dagger to her neck." His voice turned menacing. "So put down your bloody weapons, else I will flog the lot of you when I am through tending our patient."

  A begrudging nod from Eirik forced the men to disarm. However, most of them maintained a suspicious eye on Willow.

  "Our patient is chilled to the bone." Frowning in concentration, Branwyn rested the back of her hand against Willow's forehead as Sven set her gently on the blankets laid out by the thralls. "She is as cold as a block of ice, which is strange for a mermaid. They live beneath the sea. They should be accustomed to..." Her voice dwindled, and she paused in draping the top layer of blankets. "Sven! Her tail. It is…missing."

  He gazed down at the mermaid, perplexed. Indeed, her glistening emerald and violet scales were gone. In their place were two very pale legs, as slender and fragile looking as the rest of her.

  The breath seeped slowly from his chest as Branwyn finished placing the blankets, bundling them up to Willow’s neck. Together, they lifted and nudged her closer to the fire until her teeth stopped chattering.

  "What sort of mischief do you figure is at work here, m'lady?"

  “Nothing but my own magic. I am sure of it.“ With a mystified expression, she stroked Willow's hand. "I cannot fathom what we did wrong. 'Twas a simple locator spell, Sven. I've performed it dozens of times and never once altered the composition of a person."

  "You did your best, love." Eirik crouched beside her. “See? Her color is returning. Perhaps when she awakens, she will give us the answers we seek."

  The bubbles continued to rise from the brew. They floated one by one to Willow and popped over her chest. A shower of faint lights appeared in the wake of the bursts. They sank through the blankets and appeared to absorb into her chest. She stirred and moaned but did not awaken.

  The grey morning faded into a slightly less greyer afternoon. The sun refused to come out from its cloudy lair, but it did burn off some of the mists. One of the crewman announced it was high noon.

  "She is looking better," Branwyn said in wonder.

  The three of them regarded Willow. Petal pink color infused her lips once more and a faint flush of life pumped beneath the pale skin of her cheeks.

  Branwyn picked a piece of seaweed from her tangled white-blonde tresses. "She's a real beauty, Sven."

  As if he hadn't noticed! He was having difficulty leaving her side, even for the shortest periods of time with the way his men continued to ca
st accusing looks in her direction. He paced the deck between the rowers, giving commands and admonishments where needed but his mind was far from their journey.

  The winds died down enough for the crew to raise the sail once more. They quickly picked up speed with the help of the billowing canvas. After a hasty vote of their Viking council, Eirik gave the order to set out for deeper waters as soon as the coming the storm passed.

  Dusk fell, bringing a new blanket of fog over the water. 'Twas like sailing blind. Several men muttered prayers to the gods. But Sven, who possessed the gift of dead reckoning, assured them they were not lost. Alf took his place at nightfall, allowing him to return to Willow's side at last.

  He gathered the unconscious woman against his chest, marveling at how lovely she looked in the firelight despite her near drowning earlier in the day. Restless longing infused both his body and soul. He'd had his share of women from saucy tavern wenches to highborn widows. For every female who’d wrinkled her nose in distaste at his scars, dozens more had vied for the opportunity to spend a night with the “rogue and his imperfect features,” as they’d called him. Oddly, what he felt for Willow was different than all those shades of lust.

  Sven would not lie to himself. He wanted to feel Willow's lips on his and her warm curves moving beneath him. But even moreso, he wanted to gaze into the endless pools of violet all the way to her soul. He wanted to converse and jest, challenge and threaten her once more, and he wanted her to tease and rail back at him. By all that was holy, he wanted more than a tumble with her! For now, however, he would give the sun and moon for the blasted woman to simply wake up and assure him she was well.

  "Sven." Her musical voice drifted over him in the darkness, nudging him from sleepy reflection to anxious wakefulness.

  "Willow. Thank the gods you live. We have been worried." He flicked a finger against her cheek, marveling at the heat kissing his forefinger on contact. During their first encounter, her skin had been remarkably cool.