Page 61 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
Sweyn grasped the man’s hair at the crown.
In the heat of battle, Eldberg thought nothing of severing a man’s limb or head, but the state of the prisoner made him grimace. Being unable to close his mouth, bloodied drool hung from his chin. His cheek and nose were likely broken, the flesh bruised and raw.
Eldberg liked to look a man in the eyes—to judge by what he saw within, but the swollen flesh prevented him from doing so. He returned his gaze to Sweyn, whose own granite-grey eyes remained impassive.
“How was it done?”
Sweyn gave answer without hesitation. “He learnt of your chamber’s position within the longhouse. He carried a bow and was able to fire flaming arrows to where they would have most effect. By the time our watchmen saw the flames, your chamber was already imperiled.”
Eldberg was assailed, most suddenly, with the memory of Beornwold’s funeral. Sweyn had soaked a strip of linen in fish oil and wrapped it about the arrow, dipping the head into the fire cauldron before setting aim for the pyre upon the old jarl’s longship. Sweyn was not only adept with sword and axe but one of their most masterful archers.
Eldberg stared meaningfully at Sweyn. “The cur was well-prepared. Were he able to answer me, I would ask him much.” If his sworn-man related the truth, the assassin before them had been cunning and courageous, and favoured by the gods—for the guards under Sweyn’s command swept the perimeter of Skálavík daily.
The town’s trade in metals and weapons, made from the ore dug from the mountains, had made Skálavík wealthy. There was hardly need for raiding to bring bounty to their coffers. Many from across the region came to them. Their warriors engaged now in protecting the town’s commerce, ensuring its security.
“What now, my jarl?” Sweyn wet his lips. “A few blows of my axe and we may toss him by parts to the pigs.”
A gurgle rose from the prisoner’s throat, and his feet scrabbled momentarily before he hung limp again.
“’Tis fitting,” Eldberg declared. “If a man is willing to inflict pain, he must expect like for like.” He held his commander’s gaze, but Sweyn did not flinch.
Signaling his wish to lie down again drew Rangvald and Hakon forward. Eldberg blanched as they aided him but did not voice his discomfort. The burns would take time to heal, but they were nothing compared to the wounds that tore his heart. The grief would become part of him. He would focus on that pain—would feel it and remember.
And a day of reckoning would come.
He closed his eyes, leaning back. “Hold the wretch’s head in the fire pit, and keep it there until I no longer hear his screams.”
* * *
Eldberg
At last he slept. In his dream, he clasped her close. Her skin was soft and her hands caressing, though her fingers were chilled.
Don’t leave. I need you. Stay with me. Bretta!
But his arms could not hold her.
Waking, he was soaked in sweat, alone, and his chest so tight he could hardly breathe. She was gone forever—his only love. His wife, and the child she carried—his son or daughter.
He wanted to howl to Odin and Thor, to swear vengeance by all the gods for what had been taken from him. Casting back his head, he gave a mournful cry. Let others hear and quake to know his anguish. He would find no rest until he’d devoured his enemies. Let them know the beast he was and fear him—a man disfigured not just in body but in soul: The Beast of Skálavík.
3
Elswyth
July 30th, 960AD
The fjord was filled with shimmering light and the squawk of gannet chicks. Eirik pulled deep on the oars, the warmth of gold-veined summer on his back.
His shoulders flexed as he rowed—entirely naked, bronzed, lean-muscled. The waves lapped softly.
Letting the boat glide, he lifted the oars from their cups, safely stowing them. He made a show of placing his hands behind his head and resting his gaze where I’d hitched up my gown of green linen to enjoy the sun on my skin.
“You’re slow to catch up, wife.”
“Not wife, yet.” I suppressed a smile. “I’m free to do as I please until the vows are spoken.”
“You wish to disobey me?” Eirik’s eyes flickered with mischief. “If it’s punishment you desire, raise your skirts and I’ll gladly redden your backside.”
