Valhalla Hott

VIKING WARRIORS

BOOK 1:

VALHALLA HOTT

by

Constantine De Bohon

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright  2011 by
Constantine De Bohon

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work

is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without

monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years

in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are

products of the author‟s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of

the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

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retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

publisher.

ISBN 978-1-61160-138-1

Credits

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Eva Jones

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For Sean

Prologue

The charred remains of his home stunk like death. With one

powerful hand, he threw the obstruction leaning against the door

off to the side and staggered into the wood and sod hut. Hott

swallowed hard against the burning tears building in his throat. He

moved slowly to the body lying on the dirt floor. His hand rubbed

at his face as he dropped to his knees. He lovingly fingered the

silken strands of his wife‟s hair, while he cradled her head against

his bare, filthy chest.

He rocked his body while he held her. The bastards who had

done this had sealed her and their child in, and set the home to

flames. Because of the rain, the hut hadn‟t burnt to the ground,

and his wife and child were unmarred. Thank the Gods she hadn‟t

been burnt, but the smoke had proven to be too much. In death

her features were as beautiful as ever. In her arms she held the

body of their six-week-old son, Biorn. The babe‟s eyes were closed

as if he slumbered. The rabbit skin he was swaddled in still had

remnants of heat.

The hearth simmered near where Hott knelt. The remains of

supper in their black cauldron smoldered over the smoke. Cries of

the survivors could be heard all around their village.

The men had been away hunting reindeer. The attack against

the village had been unprovoked and carried no meaning. They had

taken the livestock and killed the few dogs they had. The three

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older Vikings left behind to protect the village had been

slaughtered.

Why had the raiders not just stolen the women and children?

What was the sense to this brutal murder? Why would anyone

wage war on defenseless females and their young?

Most assuredly Odin would retaliate in fury. It made no

sense. How could it make sense when his Drifa lay so cold in his

arms? She could never have hurt anyone. She was sweet and

kind…or she had been. And his newborn son, Biorn could have

wreaked no havoc. No, whoever had done this was evil to the

core, and they would pay.

Hott hung his head. He wished he could go with them, his

wife and babe, to protect them on their journey into the afterlife.

But if he took his life he would be unable to travel to Valhalla. He

would be branded a coward by the Gods. Gently he picked up his

wife and son, cradling them against his chest. He stood then

remained motionless for a long time, simply holding them. He

couldn‟t bear to part with his family.

“Come, Hott,” said a voice from the doorway.

Hott lowered his head and breathed in the fragrance of his

wife one last time. Only now her sweet smell of beauty was

marred by smoke and death. Hott felt his heart break within his

chest. There was no purpose to his life. How could Odin have

allowed this? Hadn‟t he been a brave and faithful warrior his entire

life?

“Please, brother. There is nothing that can be done for them.

We must give them and the others a proper and respectful burial.”

Hott turned slowly. He didn‟t bother to wipe the tears from

his desolate eyes. There was no shame in mourning. His brother

stood near him. Ulfr placed his hand on his shoulder. He reached

to take the babe, but Hott took an unsteady step back, refusing to

part with his small son, his only child. How desperately he had

wanted this boy. A child named after his father. Hott had seen his

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father in the boy already; he knew he had come back. The boy

would have made a fine warrior, and Hott would have been

honored to teach him. He would have taught him as well as he

himself had been taught.

“Biorn was like my own,” his brother reminded him.

It was true; Ulfr had been convinced the boy was also their

father. Nodding reluctantly, Hott relinquished his hold on the

babe. Together the brothers walked from the charred hut. They

joined a procession of men carrying their deceased wives and

children, making their way to the burial site.

* * * *

“We must retaliate,” Ulfr demanded. His powerful fist

slammed into his open palm.

“We will, but first we must grieve,” stated another man.

“But their trail is all ready growing cold,” Ulfr argued.

“Look upon your brother, does he look ready for battle or for

death?” snapped the man. “If he goes into battle like this, he will be

the first to fall and do so happily. Are you so ready to lose the only

family you have left to death?”

Ulfr looked at his brother with guilty remorse. “I am only

anxious to avenge our people,” he mumbled.

“What of you, Hott? Are you ready to battle like a warrior?”

the man asked.

Hott looked at the older man. He was a dear friend of his late

father‟s—a man who had lost his wife years ago and now recently

his only daughter. He was a man ready and eager for his last battle

and the reward of Valhalla.

“I am ready for battle, Alfarin.” But in truth, Hott felt dead.

He wanted to battle, but he couldn‟t battle with these men at his

side. He had no thirst for blood or revenge, just death. He was too

honorable to not give his best to his people.

Hott looked around the thatched hut. There were perhaps six

handfuls of men. Only four women had survived by fleeing into the

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forest. Of those women, one had turned twelve in the spring only

a few months ago. She was a beauty and buxom, but shy and

skittish, like a young filly. The poor thing had watched her mother

fall from a distance during the brutal raid. Already her father had

been approached by half the men wanting to wed with her. Even

the older woman, Bera, with the graying hair, had been sought

after. The other two women were guarded closely by their

husbands. No children remained. It was a sad day for his people.

“It is harder to live than to die, my friend,” Alfarin said kindly.

He placed a hand onto Hott‟s shoulder.

“I will not dishonor my family,” Hott replied in a choked

voice.

The group began to disperse. Hott rose and wandered slowly

into the night. The dark sky, alight with beautiful stars, fell on

blind eyes as Hott raised his face to the Heavens. All around him

was the lingering scent of smoke and burned flesh. There were

men, his friends, with wet eyes. He was not the only one to have

lost everything. But he had also lost his faith in Odin. Again he

wondered how his God could have forsaken him. Hott turned

when he felt a strong hand on his arm. Alfarin was beside him.

“How could Odin allow this?” Hott asked. His open hands

fisted in his frustration.

“I do not think he allowed this at all. I think he rages in the

Heavens. Go, my friend, seek your answers. You will not find

them in battle. And you will be of no use to us if you are already

dead inside.”

Hott nodded. He looked towards the dense woods and then

began walking. The answer was out there. It had to be out there.

* * * *

Hott wandered throughout the long lonely night. He

envisioned his large hands gently cradling his small son to his chest.

He could still taste the sweetness of Drifa‟s lips against his own.

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Her touch had always been so tentative, but she had been young,

much younger than himself.

He had captured her from a distant land. The ocean voyages

held such mystery, yet Hott was ready to settle down and begin a

family. Hott had never seen such a stunning dark-haired, dark-eyed

beauty. She had been terrified of him at first. He couldn‟t blame

her. He was a powerful Viking, a warrior. His chest was broader

than a horse, she had laughingly told him once, and he appeared

taller than a tree. He had patiently taught her their language and

chosen a new name for her—a decent Viking name. She had been

offended at first, but in time she accepted her fate, she accepted

him into her bed, and then into her heart. Especially once Biorn

was born.

Theirs had been a sweet love. Because he had stolen her from

her family and homeland, Drifa had been as angry with him as she

had been frightened of him. Understanding of the village ways was

hard on her. Everything was so different from her previous way of

life. She had felt so alone and lost. Eventually she had had no

choice but to turn to him. He protected her. He took care of her.

Hott had hoped in time their love would grow deeper. Now he

would never know.

Hott wondered if he would ever have been gifted with the

overwhelming love his parents had for one another. His parents

could show love in a touch, a glance. Hott had hoped it would be

the same between him and his wife. Now she was gone. There was

no chance for their love to alight and become more.

As morning approached, the mist rose from the land to swirl

around him. The massive trees reached the Heavens and once more

Hott thought about his betrayal by his Gods. By stealing Drifa away

so many thoughts of „what if‟ tumbled in his thoughts. With the

arrival of his son there could have been so much more to his

family. With each step, with each passing moment he felt cheated.

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His hands fisted and he let his anger fuel the raging emotions. It

wasn‟t long before his sword found its way into his hand.

“What am I to fight?” he shouted. “What have I not done for

you? What wrong did I commit?”

Hott was a man of strength, and yet he couldn‟t fight this