Page 66 of Hungry Like a Wolf
Carmel studied the villagers, laughing and talking, and the children and animals milling about. They seemed happy, content, and at peace with each other and their strange gods.
And right now, in this strange land, she felt safe. She felt cared for and respected. Helga even dropped a small, respectful bob as she walked past holding a tray of food. There was no jealousy or malice there, that much was clear.
And a relief.
Ravn had offered her a choice at three years, but at this moment in time, that didn’t feel long enough. Carmel wanted these feelings for the rest of her life. Love. Serenity. Satisfaction.
But she wouldn’t worry about the future now. Today was today…the present.
A few hours later, all was set and the people gathered.
“Let the tournament begin,” Ravn bellowed as he raised his arms in the air.
The crowd hushed.
“As your king, your ruler, and a skilled warrior, I will be judge.” He held out his hand to Joseph, who passed him a horn of mead. “And I wish you all the luck of the gods.” He paused, then repeated the words in his own language.
A cheer went up.
“Archers, begin.”
“I want to be archer,” Thormod said, tugging on Carmel’s gown.
“Do you?” She reached for him and he happily went into her arms and settled on her hip.
“Ja.” He took a lock of her hair and wound it around his finger, studying it. “Thormod archer.”
“Then make sure to watch these skilled Vikings and see how they do it. Then when you are a big boy, you will be one of them.”
“Ja. Thormod watch.” He turned, his face serious and his eyes wide.
Carmel had the urge to kiss his soft, round cheek but resisted. She’d only just come into his life, but she hoped this would be the start of a close bond between them. He really was very sweet.
The first archer lined up his arrow and pulled it back in the string of his long bow. He was a tall, lean, young man with hair in a long plait. His tunic was blue and his pants and boots black. In his earlobe he wore a long golden chain that looped up to the top of his ear and pierced again.
He blew out a breath, seemed to steady himself, and then fired.
It hit the target, but not in the red.
“Ah, more practice for you, Bjorn. But you’ll get there,” Ravn called. “Next.”
The second contestant was an older man, shorter, fatter, and with a thick, grizzly beard. He took aim, fired, and hit the target dead center.
“Ja,ja,” Thormod said, bouncing in Carmel’s arms.
The crowd cheered.
“Well done.” Ravn nodded at him. “Next.”
The final archer took his place, prepared, and fired. His shot was good but sat on the edge of the red.
“And the winner is Daneson,” Ravn said, gesturing to the older Viking. “The queen and I look forward to feasting with you and your prize of three gold coins will be on your plate awaiting your arrival.”
“I thank you.” Daneson grinned.
“And onto the knives,” Ravn said.
Carmel took a step backward as a huge Viking, minus his tunic, stepped onto the sand spinning a lethal tooth-edged knife in the air and catching it. She wouldn’t like to meet him in battle, even with her best spear.
