Viking Born (Vikings Saga Volume 2) Read online

  4

  Storm Front

  Sven awoke in a tumble of slender limbs and cascading white-blonde ringlets. For a moment, uncertainty clouded his brain, but the ribbon binding his hand to Willow's proved his sultry dream was more than just a dream.

  By the gods! It was real. They had pledged themselves as man and wife in an ancient hand fasting and consummated the union. There was no going back. Their joining of hands was official in the eyes of the gods, men, and the eleven female specters who’d briefly revealed themselves to him last night.

  Eirik would be livid when he found out, thinking his brother had entirely lost track of his wits. It was a confrontation he was not looking forward to.

  He judged it to be in the wee hours of the morning, though the entrance to the cavern remained black. Someone had stoked the coals and added more wood to the fire. Though a few stirred in darkened corners of the cavern and a handful pulled patrol at its entrance, most of the men still slept.

  Willow—his Willow, his wife—was so beautiful in the shadows of slumber that it made his heart ache. The tiny lights were back, twinkling along the strands of her hair, lending an intimate glow to their secluded alcove in the rear of the cave.

  A man would never tire of gazing at such a treasure. Let the whole world call him crazy. He was utterly bewitched by his mermaid-turned-woman, his fairy wife, and planned to enjoy every moment of their union. However long or short it might be.

  Exultation clutched his chest. He might very well be the first man alive to accomplish such a thing. Every other mortal he knew who’d succumbed to the siren pull of the mer was rotting away in some watery tomb beneath the ocean waves.

  He was both anxious and fearful to discover what his new bride remembered about her childhood. Whatever dangers plagued her—whatever it was that had forced her to spend her childhood secreted in the City of Mer—he fully intended to whisk her to the safety of New Dorset, away from all the evil in the world, and live out his days in her embrace.

  All his life, he’d been taught the fae people were a dying breed, another species of magical creatures who’d been attacked and vanquished by the ever-gathering darkness. Their magic had simply not been strong enough to fight it.

  Willow would require closure on the plight of her people, and he would see to it she received all the closure she needed. If she was the last of her kind, they would create a whole new family of magical creatures together to guard the forests. Whatever type of offspring it was possible to create between a demigod and a fae queen. He very much looked forward to the prospect.

  * * *

  The moment Sven unwrapped the hand fasting ribbon and departed Willow's arms, the cold launched itself upon him with a force that threatened to knock the wind out of his chest. It wasn't the kind of cold that made a body shiver, rather the kind that threatened to dampen and smother every vestige of light and hope from his soul. He shrugged into his tunic, but it did nothing to ward off the foreboding that traveled up his spine and settled with a dull ache at the base of his skull.

  When the whispers began, he did not so much as glance around the cavern to locate their source. The angry ghost would show himself when he was ready to make his demands. With a huff of resignation, he tugged on his deerskin trousers and laced his boots. Shoving the hand fasting ribbon in his pocket, he willed the disgruntled spirit to present whatever unfinished business it needed him to handle with haste. He had no more than a few hours to spare, since he had a ship to set sail for New Dorset before nightfall.

  Spurned forward by stark cold premonition, he crept silently toward the mouth of the cave, anxious to survey the changes in the world wrought by the storm. Anxious to determine how much closer they were to the winter of all winters.

  The first streaks of dawn shot across the sky as he exited the cave, but the air was still so thick with mist and clouds that only a few greenish gold shafts of light flickered through to the ground. It was enough to illuminate the complete desecration of what had once been a thick line of spruce and fir between the cavern and strand of beach.

  Not a single tree was left standing. Some were lying on their sides. Long, uneven cracks scored the ground where their thick roots had been ripped from the earth. Others were snapped at varying levels along their trunks, the jagged edges of their wounds jutting out like the slivers of broken bones. Boulders were smashed and strewn about the base of the cliff.

  Beyond the snarl of devastated forest was the beach, or what remained of it. Enormous craters were gouged into the sand by some unseen force, and debris littered the waterfront. Severed tree limbs, knobby stones, and thick rolls of seaweed mixed with sludge. It was if the sea had vomited its guts onto the shore.

  A lone figure picked her way over piles and stumbled toward the cavern. Sven recognized the olive gown and too-thin frame and wondered why she was unaccompanied by their jarl.

  "Such needless devastation and 'tis only the beginning" Branwyn brushed tears from the edges of her eyes as she tromped toward him through the brokenness. "Another storm is on its way. Can you feel it?"

  "Aye." Her question told him exactly what he wanted to know. Though not Viking born like the rest of their crew, Branwyn with her extensive magical abilities was experiencing the same warnings that pricked the edges of their minds round the clock these days. It meant the coming storm seethed with sorcery and black magic.

  He could no longer deny the truth of what they faced. What he feared the most. “Ragnarok is nearly upon us.” He planted his boots in the sand, surveying the landscape bleakly.

  "Who?" Her hair whipped across her face in the morning breezes, which were whistling their protests over the wounded beachfront.

  "What. Not who." Eirik rounded a man-sized boulder and joined them. "Ragnarok is the final battle between the gods and every evil creature who threatens their rein.”

  Sven had never seen his adopted brother look so grave. Or so resolute. "The end of the world. Or at least the end of the world as we know it, m'lady.”

  His thoughts drifted as Eirik explained what was coming in more detail to his lady love. The signs and omens had been prophesied for centuries. From his mother’s knees, he’d been taught the world would be plagued with a surge in battles and wars, like the random mer attack on their longship. Storms such as the one they'd just experienced would wreak havoc across land and sea. Brothers would fight brothers, and sisters would fight sisters.

  He shuddered anew at how close he and Eirik had come to blows over Branwyn before she'd chosen his adopted brother as her mate. Misha had tried to divide them with a curse that forced a false attraction between them, but Branwyn had proven strong enough to undo the curse with a spell of her own.

  Lastly, the seers had foretold of a winter more grueling than any other in history. It would wrap the world in its fury for three unbroken years. Afterwards, every demon of darkness would break loose from its chains to fight the gods for dominion over the earth.

  “My heart says there has to be a reason we were brought together thus," Branwyn mused at the conclusion of the retelling of the sordid prophesy. She turned to Sven. “You and Eirik. Eirik and me. And now Willow."

  "Perhaps. Alas, our coming together has done nothing to slow the spreading of the cold," he noted soberly.

  "Aye, well, you and Eirik have thick enough northern hides to protect you from the cold," she scoffed. "'Tis the rest of us I am worried about."

  He tried to smile at her attempted jest and failed. "In the meantime, Mista has done everything in her power to prevent us from returning to New Dorset. With a premature winter nipping at our heels, we're fast running out of time. The waters will soon become too icy for sailing."

  "Do not talk so.” She slapped at her skirts in defiance of the rising winds. "We will make it to New Dorset by wintertide, and that is that. You promised the crew you would return them home, and you will keep your word. If necessary, I will use my magic to part the icy corridors between the islands and peninsulas of the New World.
That is," she added with a sly glance beneath her long lashes at her affianced, "if we are indeed sailing where you claim, Eirik, oh liege of my heart."

  "Aye, we sail for New Dorset," he assured, pulling her against his leather vest. He bent her back over his arm, his long blonde hair shielding her face from view like a curtain.

  Their kiss lasted so long that Sven resumed his brooding, scanning the expanse of beach leading to the sea. Should they venture out to sea as their Council had voted or await the next storm?

  When Eirik raised his head, Branwyn's fair, heart-shaped features were flushed and her breathing uneven. "I can well imagine every argument running through your mind, my friend, as I have learned to rely on your sound judgment in the short time we’ve known each other. However, you've no need to convince me how unwise it is to set sail today. I agree 'tis foolish."

  "Yet we will sail.” Eirik’s voice brooked no arguments.

  Sven clenched his jaw at the distant rumble of thunder. "Why take such risks?" It was unlike his jarl to purposefully place their crew in danger.

  "Father summoned me in a dream last night. He awaits us at New Dorset."

  “Ah.” That couldn’t be a good thing.

  Erik's father was Thor, though the boys had not realized his true identity until they were fully grown. He had simply been the larger-than-life Jarl of Rockmoor, the one they called Da. His thoughts swept to their childhood days, to the massive stone keep where'd they been raised. Halfway up a mountain in the Yorkshire Moors overlooking the North Sea, the keep boasted more than two hundred rooms. He recalled the endless acres of tiered farmland dotted with the hamlets of the thralls and karls who tended it for their jarl and lady.

  Once upon a time, he had lived in one of those earthen hamlets with a thatched roof. When his natural born mother had disappeared, the lady of the keep had insisted on raising him as her own in the big house. He missed the golden-haired Lady Sif greatly and would never forget her kindness for taking him in. Though her short-tempered husband with his fiery locks and beard was no small man, she stood a head taller because she was part Jotun, a giantess. All who knew her claimed she possessed a heart to match her size.

  "Father has summoned both of us." Eirik dropped his arm from Branwyn and began to pace, kicking fallen limbs and brambles from his path. "While he attended a council of the gods, Gerrod the Jotun, led an army against the keep. Rockmoor has fallen, but our mother was able to escape with a handful of her most loyal friends and servants. They sailed all the way to New Dorset and seek sanctuary there, along with a great number of other pilgrims, it seems, who are camped outside our city’s gates."

  "Why does Lady Sif remain outside the city?" Sven demanded. "As our mother—”

  "She is a giantess, Sven. With Jotun armies springing up right and left, our city watchmen are fearful of granting her entrance."

  “In the meantime, her marriage to Thor makes her a target with those same armies.” Because they assumed her sympathies lay with the gods rather than the Jotuns. Sven slammed a fist into his hand in frustration. "Say no more. Lady Sif is worth any risk necessary to get ourselves home. How long before the longship repairs are complete?"

  Eirik shrugged. "A matter of hours. Our carpenters swear she will be fit to set in the waters by nightfall."

  The three of them stiffened at the second rumble of thunder. It sounded closer this time. Eirik paused his pacing to clap a hand against his brother's shoulder, his expression grim. "Thank the gods for your excellent navigation skills and Branwyn's magic. I've no doubt we shall require them in the coming days."

  "My skills are ever at your service," he assured his brother. "In truth, I am more concerned about Mista and her black sorcery than I am about the weather. Part of me wants to believe she is gone for good. The other part of me is braced for her return from whatever hell you sent her to, m'lady."

  "A pity my magic was not powerful enough to finish her off for good," Branwyn sighed. "Fact is, I never aspired to be strong enough to wage war with my craft, only to heal with it. I've spent my life in the study of herbs and spices, medicines and potions. Ever since the mer attack, though, I've been practicing my, er...other skills. I grow stronger and will be more prepared for the next strike."

  None of them doubted there would be a next time.

  For several long moments, they fell into a silence broken only by the low whistle of winds and the occasional shout of a sailor. The day brightened and men poured to and from the cave, swarming the longship and offering their assistance as the carpenters plied their tools to mend the storm damage. Loose planks were hammered into place and caulked. Others gathered driftwood and gratefully accepted Branwyn's offer to warm their garments with a drying spell. Another brief incantation set the fires to roaring so that the men could prepare a breakfast gruel.

  The absence of direct sun gave the waters a greyish-green cast, while the winds kept them choppy. Distant thunder rolled intermittently. It was far from ideal weather for sailing.

  Branwyn returned to Eirik and Sven once the fires on the beach were set. "I cannot get Mista from my mind," she grumbled. Both men studied her expectantly. "She has repeatedly demanded the key to your city, though you claim it will not give her the access to Valhalla she seeks."

  Eirik smiled coldly. "Aye, she lapped up the rumors Sven and I spread. Like a cat sitting before a bowl of cream. No such key exists, my love. The gates to New Dorset are secured by an enchantment, not by key. We figured it was best for her to hound and chase us, instead of tormenting the entire city with her black magic."

  "I am glad she decided to hound you with the curse of lovesickness." Brawyn's voice turned dreamy. “’Tis what brought us together. I thoroughly enjoyed reversing her curse and turning the tables on her by falling in love with you for real."

  Before the two lovers could became immersed in one other again, Sven quickly interjected. "Only by dying a warrior's death can anyone enter Valhalla. Mista's insistence in seeking another way in is foolhardy. There are no side routes, no hidden gateways.”

  "That you know of.” She idly tweaked her long skirts.

  "Explain yourself," he demanded sharply.

  "Before I destroyed Mista's body and sent her demon spirit back to the Underworld, she grabbed my shoulders, if you recall. It allowed me to briefly overhear her thoughts."

  "You can read minds, too?” He shoved back a handful of his long, dark hair the winds persisted in blowing into his face.

  "Only if I am touching the person."

  "Bloody hell." He took a step back and clasped his hands behind his back.

  "Got something to hide here, bo’sun?" Eirik jeered.

  He refused to meet his brothers eyes, recalling a few daydreams about Branwyn when they’d first met. Daydreams best kept to himself, especially now that he was a married man. He kept his gaze trained on their resident healer and magician. "What did you learn? Anything concerning her search for the phantom key?"

  "Nay. Nothing of that sort." Her tone was mystified. “Most of her thoughts were occupied by the oddest thing. The face of a child, no less. A lad with dark brown hair pulled back by a leather ribbon. Ten, maybe eleven years old, if I had to guess.”

  His hand flew to one of his scarred cheeks. "Can you recall what the lad was wearing?"

  "Nay. A dark tunic and leggings, perhaps? The only thing that stood out was the crest sewn onto the left sleeve of his tunic. It bore a—“

  "Golden griffin.” He yanked the sides of his cloak more firmly against his body. "'Tis the crest of the house of the dead god, Baldr. My mother insisted on sewing it into all my garments when I was young. Ye've no idea how many fights that blasted crest got me into with the stable lads and groomsmen in my younger days. Or with the hooded monsters who bound me in the dungeons of Eirik's castle and marked my face thus. Afterwards, I shed the crest for good, to my mother’s distress. May the good woman forever rest in peace.”

  His brother kicked another fallen limb and sent it spinning away. "Sor
ry am I to this day my family was unable to protect you from such torture within the walls of our own keep. I am not sorry, however, that your scars along with your mother's disappearance moved my mother and father to raise you as one of their own. It is my belief we were fated to be brothers.”

  "Aye, 'tis a wonderful thing," Branwyn cried. "But what interest could Mista possibly have in the younger version of Sven? The one she failed to find since you were grown by the time she came along.”

  He shrugged. "The hooded creatures did not speak of Mista or keys. The only wanted to know why I sought to elevate my bastard status by gadding about beneath the crest of an immortal." They had done other unspeakable things to him with the hot pokers. He bore the scars on his both his chest and back. To this day, he was unsure why they had let him go instead of killing him.

  "I'm forming a theory.” She tapped her toe in agitation against the damp sand. "I just need to know one more thing. What can you recall, if anything, about your mother's disappearance, Sven?"

  He and Eirik exchanged troubled glances. "She left us on Baldr's Day."

  "Is that significant?"

  "'Tis a celebration to honor the dead god, Baldr. It happened shortly after the hooded creatures released me from the dungeons. Mum had been acting strangely for days. Weeping over my wounds and talking to herself. Mostly blaming herself. Then she up and walked into one of the large bonfires in the castle courtyard during the festivities and vanished in a flash of light. The thralls hurried to douse the fire, but there was no burned corpse to recover. Mum was simply gone. Witnesses called it suicide, but I’ve always wondered.”

  She nodded soberly. "Your mind told you it was something more. Something not entirely natural.”

  "Do you think she might still be alive?" He’d tried to squash the hope many times, but it persisted. "'Twas so many years ago."

  "In a manner of speaking, yes," she answered carefully. "Here is my theory. What if a key to Valhalla does exist, Sven? Not the rumors you and Eirik spread about an iron key to a nonexistent gateway. What if the key was not a key at all, but a man? You."