Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (116 page)

The moment they entered the hall, Elienor’s eyes focused upon his chamber door, behind the dais. Every step brought her closer, and with every step her heart felt as though it would fail.

What could she have done?

She could think of naught.

From somewhere within the hall came a pup’s wail. Elienor’s eyes scanned the proximity at once, searching for the whimpering animal. She found it caught by the hind legs like a rabbit after the hunt, hanging from a strong pair of arms. Her gaze flew from the man’s arms to the man’s face, and to her dismay she recognized him straightway—Flame Hair. Her breath quickened painfully, her heart twisting with terror. Sweet Jesu, how could she have managed to forget him?

His coarse red hair was a fright, one side of it standing upright while the other laid reluctantly flat. His tunic was stained with foodstuffs and his breeches rode up one leg, caught near to the knee by untidy cross leggings. The other pant leg was laced neatly down in perfect order. He’d merely been sporting with the mongrel previously, but he smiled cruelly when Elienor met his gaze and crushed the small pup’s legs within his fist. Elienor cringed, for his meaning was clear. He would have preferred those legs to have been hers!

Suddenly the hand upon her shoulder tightened. She’d not even realized it was there, but she looked up and was startled to see the fury that danced in Alarik’s eyes as he gazed down at her.

“Red-Hrolf!” Alarik snarled, his gaze returning to the flame-haired man. The hall fell immediately silent. Drinking horns settled onto the tables. Some arrested in midair.

Alarik had not missed the warning meant for Elienor, and intended to put an end to this situation once and for all. “Come forward!” he commanded.

After a long awkward moment, Red-Hrolf sauntered toward them, staggering every few feet. He stopped at one of the lower tables, seizing a man’s drinking horn, gulping from it deeply before slamming it down. That done, he again made his way toward them, leering at Elienor.

“You dare defy me yet again?”

There was no response from Red-Hrolf save to turn his head disrespectfully and spit the ale he’d retained within his cheeks upon the floor at Alarik’s feet. Beads of ale caught in his beard and dripped slowly through the coarse strands, alighting in tiny droplets upon the tip of one boot. His eyes narrowed wrathfully as they returned to meet Alarik’s. “I’ve been awaiting this moment,” he admitted finally, slapping a fist to his chest. “Aye, I dare!”

Alarik’s eyes narrowed, furious that Red-Hrolf would dare force his tolerance beyond the threshold, cursing the fact that he would now lose a good warrior because of it. Red-Hrolf knew very well that he could not deliver such challenge without requital. It was a point of pride to a North man to be led only by the strong. As jarl, he could not afford to lose the respect of his men. He’d not planned to match with Red-Hrolf, but Red-Hrolf had set the method of his punishment with his open challenge and Alarik was determined to carry it out.

He nodded, and from his war belt he released Dragvendil. The metallic hiss as it cleared his scabbard sounded like a death knell in the silence of the hall. He stretched the shimmering tip of the fine Frankish blade close to the rising knob in Red-Hrolf’s throat as he whispered in low tones, “Because I fear the drink may have addled your brain, I grant you one last occasion to ask my pardon.”

Red-Hrolf raised a mocking brow, emboldened by the pardon Alarik offered. “Ho, now!” he taunted. “Does my mighty jarl quiver like the feeble maid at his side over the thought of matching blades with Red-Hrolf?”

Alarik glanced briefly at Elienor, who though not cowering, was indeed wide-eyed with fear, and then turned to lower the tip of his longsword from Red-Hrolf’s throat to his distended chest, forcing it to penetrate the fine wool tunic until it pricked blood.

His eyes smoldering with fury, he turned once more to Elienor. “Get you to my chamber,” he said slowly, softly, his eyes gleaming with warning. “Now!” he asserted, when she did not move quickly enough to suit him. And then he turned abruptly to Red-Hrolf and declared, “By your words, then, so be it, Red-Hrolf! You would do well to prepare yourself for Valholl!”

From the corner of his eye, Alarik watched Elienor back away from them, slowly at first, her expression one of horror and disgust; then she turned, and he was keenly aware of her feet racing across the
skali
.

His chamber door opened and shut, the unspoken flag for the battle to be joined.

He gave not a whit that she thought him barbaric!

She simply did not understand the precarious hold a jarl had upon his people. There were many who were fiercely loyal to him, but there were always a few who would test the boundaries, who craved the high seat. Alarik had striven too long and hard to gain it—never would he yield it!

Hrolf’s gaze returned to Alarik’s and he backed away cautiously. As he retreated, he drew his weapon of choice, his trusty axe, and swung it menacingly, snickering.

“If you were sober,” Alarik vowed. “I would cut the heart from your treasonous body, here and now.”

Red-Hrolf’s eyes glazed with drunken malice, “Ya? Well, I’m sober enough—let us all see you try!”

He swung his axe at Alarik.

Alarik dodged it too easily, and that fact enraged him all the more. His face contorted with disgust. “I thought to only punish you lightly,” he said angrily, parrying with his sword. “But...” He stalked Red-Hrolf, letting his threat hang menacingly in the air between them a long moment, aware that all eyes were fixed upon them by now.

Suddenly Red-Hrolf lunged at him, clutching his axe with both hands as it sliced through the air. Instead of dodging it, Alarik snarled and with a war cry leapt at him, striking the side of the axe blade so violently and unexpectedly with his left arm that the axe flew out of Hrolf’s grasp, the battle ended before it had begun.

At once, Hrolf bent to retrieve his axe from the ground, but Alarik’s enraged bellow halted him. “Leave it! You’re no longer worthy.” He shook his head in revulsion. “You cannot even meet me in combat like a man of honor. Drop it!” he snarled, when Red-Hrolf’s fingers closed about its handle.

The axe clanged noisily as it dropped to the floor. Red-Hrolf straightened, his eyes blazing with animosity.

His jaw twitching in anger, Alarik thrust his blade in the locale of Red-Hrolf’s heart, holding it just shy of his tunic as he spoke. “You shame me, Hrolf Kaetilson. Can you no longer even fight long enough to break a sweat?” His eyes darkened wrathfully. Slicing his blade across Red-Hrolf’s tunic suddenly, he rent it, though he scarcely penetrated the surface of his flesh. “Go with this!” he charged. “My reminder to you! My warning to those you would serve! Get out of my sight!”

Red-Hrolf’s look was that of outrage, yet he’d barely flinched when he’d received the gash that now marred his chest.

“If ever I see your treacherous face again,” Alarik snarled, “I would take great pleasure in carving the blood-eagle from your useless body!”

Instinctively, Red-Hrolf placed a hand to his half-bared chest. “’Tis not yet done betwixt us, Alarik! Bastard son of Trygvi’s French whore!" He turned to go, making certain to meet Alarik’s angry eyes one last time before turning and stalking from the
skali
.

Alarik went at once to the symbolic high seat, but he did not seat himself. He stood behind it, his legs spread apart in challenge, his sword still in hand. “First Nissa,” he said, “then Hrolf—does anyone else have a mind to challenge me this day?”

A few shook their heads in negation. More sat arrested, gawking at their drinking horns in contemplative silence. The
skali
remained deathly silent as Alarik anticipated who else might dare betray him.

No one dared move.

No one met his gaze.

Si
gurd burst into the hall and paused, disconcerted at the uncanny silence he encountered upon his entrance.

Having no notion why Alarik scowled so darkly, he nevertheless perceived the gravity of the situation and said naught; instead he stood waiting anxiously until Alarik turned to acknowledge him with a nod. “Riders approach by way of the fjord!”

Impatient to speak with Elienor, Alarik’s irritation multiplied tenfold. “How many?”

“Too many to count, my lord! It appears to be Olav,” Sigurd said. “Though we cannot be certain. What would you have us do?”

Alarik sheathed his sword, muttering silent curses. Just what he needed this moment—Olav, the very man at the heart of everyone’s discontent. As though he didn’t have enough discord already. Regardless, Olav was his brother and he would make him welcome. “Let them come,” he declared with a sigh, and stepping down from the dais, he followed Sigurd from the hall to await his half-brother’s arrival.

Outside, snow fell as dry and light as whispers.

Against the stark white landscape, the shapes and colors of the approaching forces grew in clarity. After a long moment, Alarik was able to identify his brother’s sorrel from the immense party that accompanied him.

The animal, with its pure white mane and tail, had a regal prance all of its own, and Alarik would know it anywhere. He’d long admired the beast. With Olav’s consent, he’d bred the horse with one of his own two years past. As of yet, there was only another puny mare for the effort—exquisite in form, yet much too diminutive to be of much service to Alarik. Like as not, he’d fall flat on his back if he so much as attempted to mount the beast.

Contemplating the animal, he was unable to prevent his thoughts from straying to Elienor. Proportionately, she was just right for the mare. He found himself envisioning her upon the sorrel—her long chestnut hair fluttering in the breeze, the sun in her face... perhaps in the spring he would present the animal to her as a gift. Aye, that’s what he would do... when came the spring... perhaps by then she would have grown accustomed to his home.

To him.

A shuddering coursed through him at the thought.

He was completely unaware of the long minutes that elapsed until Olav and his men had entered the compound and dismounted before him, bringing him out of his reverie.

Olav’s arms flew out at once to embrace Alarik. “Mine bror!” he bellowed cheerfully.

Alarik grunted, returning the embrace.

Olav punctuated the greeting with a number of whacks upon Alarik’s back.

Not to be outdone, Alarik whacked him back, none too gently, then embraced him more heartily, conceding with a grumble that he was glad to see his brother—even if Olav’s timing was ever poor.

“Come, old man, let us go in ere we die of exposure,” he suggested.

“Old man?” Olav exclaimed. “You’ve more years on that body of yours than I can claim.”

As they walked together, Alarik awarded Olav a disgruntled glance. “Only tell me, Olav, how is it you always seem to know when I’m newly arrived? And why is it,” he wondered aloud, giving vent to his frustration, “that you always show up in time to usurp mine bed?”

Olav placed a hand upon Alarik’s shoulder, grinning. “I couldn’t wait to see you, of course,” he exclaimed with a hearty chuckle.

Alarik offered him a dubious glance, his eyes sharp and assessing. “That so?”

Olav chuckled and ceded, “The truth is that while I never miss the opportunity to see mine faithful bror, I was, indeed, looking for your ships to arrive.” He cleared his throat. “I rather hoped you would join me in a small voyage. Tyri wishes—”

Alarik snorted. “And how is your lovely wife?” His eyes glinted with sarcasm.

Olav scowled at him for the quip and then conceded. “I’m afraid time finds her more bitter than ever,” he grumbled. He heaved a hearty sigh. “She would have her lands in the Dane’s mark returned to her and has pressed me to retrieve them. I should say... she’s immensely displeased not to have holdings in the Northland as befits a queen of her station, and I find myself wondering if, mayhap, she might be right.” He lifted his brows in question, and Alarik knew full well he sought agreement.

Alarik refused to give it.

His own brows knit in disbelief. “As your wife, Olav, Tyri wants for naught and still she whines for more.” He shook his head and cautioned, “You know where I stand where she’s concerned—let us not find reason to quarrel this night. I take it,” he said, shifting the topic, “that this voyage you wish me to consider is significant enough to you that I should consider leaving the comfort of mine steading mere days after arriving?”

Olav sighed. “It is,” he assured, looking weary.

Alarik shook his head, thinking that Tyri once again led his brother on a merry chase. Yet better Olav than him. He shuddered to think how close he’d come to binding himself to the harridan himself. “Then I shall consider it,” he yielded. “However... until I decide, I’ll not be giving up mine bed to you!” In truth, he’d been able to think of naught other than the sweet torture he’d experienced the night before. Why he should seek to subject himself to it again, he couldn’t fathom, yet in time, he determined, she would learn to accept him...

Aye, he’d sworn not to force her—and he’d keep that vow. Still... there were ways...