Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (59 page)

Vaningshus
– longhouse, the most common type of dwelling on Asgard

Velkommen
– welcome

Vokter
– the peacekeeper, appointed by the
eldrer
to enforce the laws and serve as guardian of the island’s security

Prequel: His Stolen Bride

Book 1: Forever His

Book 2: His Forbidden Touch

Book 3: His Captive Bride

USA Today bestselling author Shelly Thacker has won numerous national awards and earned lavish praise from Publishers Weekly, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Detroit Free Press and The Oakland Press, who have called her historical romance novels "innovative," "addictive," "erotic" and "powerful." Find out more at shellythacker.com

For more information:

Visit
www.shellythacker.com

Join Shelly on
Facebook

Follow Shelly on
Twitter

Subscribe to Shelly’s Newsletter

In the eleventh century, the country known today as Russia was called “Rus” by its inhabitants, and so they referred to themselves. The Rus called the Norsemen who came as mercenaries and traders to their land “Varangians,” meaning “pledge men,” for these fierce warriors obeyed an inviolable oath to defend their sworn leader to the death. The word “viking,” a name given to the Norsemen in later centuries, described a favorite activity of these bold and fearsome Varangians…“ adventuring in search of wealth.”

For now brother said to brother: “This is mine, and that is mine also,” and the princes began to say of little things, “Lo! this is a great matter,” and to forge discord among themselves.

“The Lay of the Host of Igor”

(S. Cross’s Translation)

Novgorod, Rus Land,

April, A.D. 1024

“No, you cannot go! You stay with Semirah!”

Rurik Sigurdson smiled lazily at the pouting, sable-haired woman straddling his hips, her wet warmth sheathing that part of him that only moments before had throbbed in thunderous climax.

Of his six concubines, he favored this tempestuous Khazarian slave with her long white limbs, lilac-stained nipples, and flashing agate eyes. But he would never allow her to know his mind, or permit his attraction for her to grow beyond lust. He had learned long ago to put no faith in women, seeking only the carnal pleasure they could provide him.

“You have no say in the matter,” he said huskily, caressing Semirah’s slender thighs. Her pale skin, a startling contrast to his deeply bronzed hue, was as soft as swan’s down beneath his large, callused hands. “I leave at dawn.”

The woman’s chin jutted, her expression growing determined in the glow of an oil lamp placed near the richly carved bed. She touched her fingers to her breast as she leaned over him, her silky hair enveloping them like a gossamer ebony cloud. She laid her hand over his heart. “I go with you.”

Chuckling at the absurdity of her statement, Rurik drew her against his chest and rolled with her to one side, her lithe, coltish body molded to his powerful frame.

“Greedy wench.” He nuzzled her throat, her spicy citrus scent of bergamot and cedar exciting his senses. “Isn’t it enough that I summoned you to share this last night with me rather than one of the others?”

“Those women are cows,” came her petulant reply. “How could you not choose Semirah?” Draping a smooth leg over his thigh, she softened her voice, almost purring. “Take me with you, Lord Rurik. I want to please you, yet how can I if you go so far away?”

“Enough,” Rurik said firmly, his patience ended. He raised his head to look into her face. As his newest concubine, this exotic desert woman with her thick, honeyed accent had apparently not yet discerned what his other women already knew and accepted. He treated his concubines equally, granting none special favors. “Fetch us more wine, Semirah, and plague me no more with your demands. You will remain here like the others and wait patiently for my return.”

Despite the disappointment shining in her eyes, the slave woman said no more. Extricating herself from his embrace, she rose with athletic ease from the bed and sauntered across the room, her body gleaming white as alabaster, her trim bottom swaying with provocative exaggeration as if she wanted to emphasize what he would soon be missing.

By Thor, she was impertinent
. Rurik smiled and felt his good humor return. Yet it was tempered by the memory of his meeting that morning with Grand Prince Yaroslav, his sworn lord, at the
kreml
, the citadel overlooking the city of Novgorod. Without the distraction of a warm, willing woman in his arms, his thoughts turned easily to the gravity of the times and the secretive mission to which he had been entrusted.

“Not only has my brother Mstislav laid claim to my throne and invaded my realm with his warriors,” Yaroslav had blustered, the short, barrel-chested ruler pacing restlessly in front of Rurik, “he has now conquered Chernigov, one of my most prosperous trading cities, and established there what he calls his temporary throne! His arrogance knows no bounds! Does he truly believe that he can defeat me, the grand prince of all Rus Land?”

“Perhaps so,” Rurik had commented dryly. “It is rumored that Mstislav boasts of victory before the winter brings ice again to the rivers.”

“Never! He was nothing but a boy and a weakling when our father Vladimir sent him as viceroy to Tmutorokan. I always thought that southern city founded upon stinking swampland a fitting place for him to rule!”

“A weakling no longer, my prince, but a bold and calculating warrior who lusts for more than a swamp. While you fought your brother Sviatopolk for the Rus throne after your father’s death, Mstislav made no move but harbored his forces during those four long years of battle.”

“Yes, the coward! And while Sviatopolk, may his putrid corpse writhe in hell, murdered three of our brothers, Mstislav hid behind his palace walls among his women–”

“Shrewdly waiting,” Rurik interrupted, knowing that in his position of friend and trusted adviser, Yaroslav would not take offense. “He planned his strategy during these last five years of peace since your victory to strike against you now.”

“And so he has.” Yaroslav faced Rurik, who towered almost a foot above him. “You must go to Chernigov under a merchant’s guise and discover the strength of Mstislav’s forces. I’ve already sent a message to my northern allies, your King Olaf of Norway and to my wife’s father, the king of Sweden, asking them to send more Varangian mercenaries to bolster my army. When they arrive, we shall make our move, but until then I must know how many enemy warriors we face to better plan our attack. And if you can find out Mstislav’s battle plans without jeopardizing your guise, do so.”

“I will leave at first light tomorrow,” Rurik assured him, eager to serve again the Rus prince to whom he had sworn a sacred oath of allegiance eight years ago.

“Excellent. My steward will see that you have everything you need.” The energetic man resumed his agitated pacing. “What goods will you sell, Rurik?”

“Furs,” he replied. “The perfect ruse. Easy to transport both by river and on land. Anything else would only hinder my pace. I want to inspect the entire region and return to Novgorod by June.”

“Such a journey will take at least that long.” The grand prince stopped to stare at Rurik thoughtfully. “I chose you because you know a merchant’s life well. I am only grateful you returned in time from your latest trading ventures to fight for my cause.”

As if this reminded him of his brother’s foul ambitions, Yaroslav cursed vehemently. “Go now, Rurik Sigurdson, and make your preparations. And take a few of your men with you as fellow merchants. I will sleep better knowing you travel with friends to guard your back. I do not want to lose the most famed warrior in my senior
druzhina
to those vermin dung-eaters. May Christ protect you!”

“And Odin,” Rurik said grimly to himself, his baptism into the new faith shortly before he entered Yaroslav’s service unable to wash away pagan beliefs engrained in him from birth…

“Are you thinking of Semirah, my lord?”

As Rurik focused upon the beautiful woman who stood beside the bed holding two silver goblets, her lilac nipples hardened temptingly from the early spring chill pervading the room, his reverie faded into sharp reality. The days ahead would bring many dangers, but for now he wanted only to enjoy this night.

“Now I am,” he said thickly, paying no heed to the wine sloshing upon him and the soft furs as he grabbed her and sat her astride him, Semirah squealing with delight. Taking both goblets, he slowly poured what wine remained down the front of her body. His desire flared like molten heat as the scarlet liquid slicked her small pert breasts, her belly, then caught and glistened in the lush sable pelt between her legs.

“Rurik Beast-Slayer, will you drink now?” she taunted, using the name he had earned during a hunt by saving the grand prince from a charging bear.

“Lie back, woman, and let me slake my thirst.”

The wine was sweet upon his tongue as he first suckled at her breasts, Semirah’s throaty moans fanning his lust like the hottest wind. Then pushing her down upon the furs, he cupped her taut bottom and lifted her to taste the intoxicating nectar he craved.

No one should trust the words of a girl or what a married woman says. Their hearts have been shaped on a turning wheel, and inconstancy dwells in their breasts.

Poetic Edda, Havamal

The Sayings of Odin, the High One

May, A.D. 1024

Zora swept from her tent and brushed past the tall, pallid-faced chief eunuch, wrinkling her nose in distaste at his pungent scent of myrrh.

“But, Princess, will you not ride in the litter my mistress has sent for you?”