Lord of the Runes (8 page)

Strong men surrounded her all the time. Why would Magnus think she needed to learn how to defend herself?

His sword arm tightened. He could use a practice session himself, but it might not be wise to reveal his abilities just yet. Let them continue to think he was just a rune caster who needed to protect himself on his journeys.

Any man could have a weapon, but not all were trained fighters. And even fewer were true
vikingr
, as he was. He grimaced and took another drink of ale. He
had
been a
vikingr
. Then, for a few moments, a jarl. Now he was neither. He had lost everything in one morning. His inheritance lay at the bottom of a fjord and his heart had remained back in his village. It was as the runes had said. He hung suspended, like Odin had from the Tree of Knowledge.

He only needed to withstand the uncertainty and pain of his losses in order to come out, like Odin, wiser in the end.

A
sa changed into her dress and put away her tunic and pants in the chest. She hadn't wanted to train with Eirik sitting and watching in the common room, but she couldn't let her brothers' men tease her for too long and get away with it. She'd fought too hard for their respect. Few knew of her talent with a blade. The men did, for Magnus had trained her for years along with them, and she had fought beside them on the seas. But in the region beyond this village, it wasn't common knowledge. She wanted to keep it that way.

True, shieldmaidens were not unknown, but they were rare. The Danes had many of them in their armies, and the historians and skalds told stories of them and their viciousness.

She smiled as she put on her amber and glass necklace. She wasn't trying for viciousness, or glory for that matter. But Magnus had been right in thinking it would help her regain a little of her confidence to know she could handle a situation. As she had not been able to before.

She sat down on her bed. Although learning to fight had given her confidence, she still had her moments, especially with outsiders. And Eirik was an outsider. But he also might be the only one who could help her with the dragon. For the past several nights, she'd dreamt of the carving. It had come alive, screaming its demands, unable to rest in its true form until it carried the runes on its neck. In the dreams, she'd touched the wood and it had been warm under her hand. When she'd brushed her fingers over the blank area, another hand had covered hers. It was strong and large, and power coursed through it. The ancient symbols sparked from the touch between them. They settled on the wood, burning into it, then blazed into colors. The dragon had cried out one last time, then melted into its position, becoming still once again.

She'd had the same dream several times, but she never saw whose hand guided hers. She didn't need to see. In the dream, his scent enveloped her, his strength embracing her. The deep knowledge that he was a warrior carried into the vision as the dragon accepted Eirik and allowed his essence to join with its own. And with hers.

Did the dragon speak to her, or did the runes? One way or another, she had to find a way to ask Eirik to help her. It had to be done or she couldn't continue the carving. The image sang in her mind, how the scales would wrap around the runes, and how the interlaced creatures on its front would slide beneath them. She had to carve them together, all of it intertwined as one.

How could she approach him? Perhaps when he sat with Leif. The two of them had become friends, playing
tafl
, drinking together, and talking into the night.

She left her chamber. Leif had gone into the cooking room to find either the serving girl he favored, or a bite to eat. She smiled. Or both.

He was there, sitting at a table with a girl under each arm. He grinned when she stood in front of him, hands on her hips. The girls giggled and slid away. He frowned at her.

“Come to spoil all my fun again?”

“They do have work to do, Leif.” She sat and nodded her thanks as Birgitta set a mug of ale in front of her.

“Would you like me to leave your evening meal in your work area this night, as usual, mistress?” She poured Leif more ale.

“That would be fine. My thanks.” She sipped at the brew. No one could make it like their ale-woman. It was more food than drink, rich and dark.

“So, Asa, why have you invaded this dreaded domain? They're still trying to scrub the soot off the walls from your last baking attempt.”

One of the women laughed. “That's not true. We finally washed it all off just last week.”

Asa winced, but joined in the laughter. Once, her lack of such skills had bothered her. But she had found her own way. It would never be that of other women, buried in kitchens and bearing child after child. Not for her the bedchamber, but the open oceans. Not for her the glow of a cook-fire, but the flash of a sword blade. It was enough.

“I need to ask you a favor.”

“Oh?” He raised his brows.

“You've been spending time with the rune caster of late.”

“What of it?” He took a long drink.

“You know that in the past, I've carved runes on my dragon's heads. Our old master always guided me, but he's gone now. This dragon calls to me in my dreams. It wants them also, but I don't know the proper symbols. If I carve them incorrectly, it could bring disaster.”

“So ask Eirik to help you. His readings have been impressive. More than even the old master's, may he forgive me for saying so.”

“Could you mention it to him? You know it'll be difficult for me to approach him.”

He put his hand on hers where it lay on the table between them. “It's your carving. You need to speak to him of it. If you can't even do that, how will you have the courage to work with him? Just pretend he's a bit of sewing you have to attend to. Very nonthreatening.” He considered. “Maybe not. You don't want to hack him to pieces, just talk to him.”

She shot him a glare. “You're an evil, evil man, Leif.”

Several of the women called out in agreement and he grinned, giving them a wink.

She hit his arm. “You're not taking this seriously. You never do.”

“That's Magnus's duty. I had the good sense to let him slide on by me first, out of the womb. He has all the responsibility.” He patted a girl on the rear as she passed. She giggled and scooted away. “And I don't.” He faced Asa then, and sobered. “But the runes are never a laughing matter and neither are these dreams you're having. They both speak to you, the dragon and the runes. Listen to them. Follow where they lead. And it would seem they lead to Eirik. Perhaps there's a reason for that.”

He finished his ale as he rose, and set the mug back on the table. With a small bow to the women, he left. He was right. She needed to speak to the rune caster herself. Only she could tell him what she had in mind, what protections she wanted. He would seek the right runes and then guide her, as the old master had done. That was all.

But his hand wouldn't be cold and wrinkled. His arm wouldn't be weak, his voice brittle with age. His scent would be that of the wind and leather, not herbs and cobwebs.

Perhaps the spirit of the dragon tested her to see if she was worthy to bring its essence into the world.

She dealt with strong, powerful men all the time. Her brothers. Their warriors. What threat could Eirik be? She had faced far worse than he, a guest in her brother's hall. She was the strong one, and if the dragon wanted to test her worth, she would not fail. She was a shieldmaiden. And that would have to be enough to make her worthy.

* * *

A good, hot sauna was just what she needed. Asa stretched her neck to the side to loosen the muscles as she walked through the darkness toward the bathhouse. She had spent the day sanding and detailing the parts of the dragon she had already carved, but the sides of the neck remained empty, untouched. Waiting for the runes.

She'd eaten her evening meal as she'd worked, as she often did, so she hadn't seen if Eirik was in the common room. She would have to face him eventually. The sooner she did so, the sooner she could finish it.

Now, she only wanted to relax in the heat of the sauna. The others were gathering for the evening activities of board games, drinking, and telling stories. Eirik should be giving rune readings. The bathhouse would be empty.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside. A pile of men's clothing and a fur cloak lay on the bench of the outer room. Her heart sank. She would have to wait. She started to leave, but the knife lying on the top of the pile caught her eye. It was Eirik's knife. He always wore it, as most men did, to eat with and to have at hand in case he needed to defend himself. Even women wore them. Usually. But she was without hers this night since she'd only intended to bathe and return to the longhouse.

The other women conjectured about what Eirik looked like under his thick shirt, tunic, and cloak. Whether his body was that of a rune caster who never worked at physical labor, or that of a warrior, as many whispered about. Of course, if he was as successful with the women as Estrid had insinuated, then they should know. That, however, didn't seem to be the case.

Magnus had wondered if Eirik was actually a fighter but hid that fact from them for some reason. If she could just glimpse him, she might be able to tell.

To see a man, unclothed . . . Heat rose into her cheeks. If she could do this, it might be a matter of their safety. That was her responsibility, the same as any other warrior. Maidenly modesty played no part in this.

She crossed to the door of the bathing room and cracked it open. At first, the steam from the moist, heated stones blocked her view. But her opening the door created a slight draft and some of the mist lifted upward toward the smoke hole in the roof.

Eirik stretched out on one of the benches, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back on his strong neck. His eyes were closed and his blond hair streamed down his back, gleaming in the thin light of the fire. The golden radiance played on his glistening skin as he reached up to comb his hair back with his fingers.

She caught her breath. His arms were defined, like river rocks in a swift-running stream. His stomach was flat, his thighs strong, and scars crossed the slabs of muscle in his chest. An old, deep scar ran along one heavy shoulder, and he bore several others on his forearms.

He was perfect. This was not a man who sat all his life in the shadows, pondering the meanings of ancient symbols. His was a warrior's body, with all the marks of war. As he leaned forward to toss more water on the hot stones, she looked closer. He had no scars on his sculpted back. He would never retreat from a fight, but face his adversaries without fear, with much skill. Most of his scars were light and small, except for the one on his shoulder. That should have killed a lesser man, or rendered that arm useless.

But he had healed, and from the condition of the other scars, he had gone on to fight again after that. Who was he? No doubt, he had a great deal of talent with the runes. And with a weapon. Did he follow the wisdom of Odin, or the strength of Thor?

He rose and picked up a bucket of cold water. He poured it over himself, as was customary to rinse away the sweat brought on by the steam. The water cascaded over his naked body, running along his strong arms and down his chest and stomach. It sluiced down his hips and his hard thighs. With the firelight reflecting on the water, his body glistened as though covered in molten gold.

Her head swam. He was like one of the gods who dwelled in Asgard, come to earth. Primal. Powerful. So beautiful, she trembled, her legs weak. Was this fear, as she had thought before when she looked at him? Or something else? Something she had never known?

The women often spoke of desire. She'd listened, but such things weren't for her. That part of her had been destroyed before it'd had a chance to blossom. She'd always looked at men only for their potential as allies or as rivals in warfare. She'd been interested in their skill with weapons, not with kisses. How they held their swords was more important than what their embraces would be like.

Her breath came shallow and her skin heated as though she sat in the sauna herself. With him.

She drew back, away from the door. This couldn't be. She wanted nothing to do with him. He was too male. Too dangerous. And it was not the type of danger she'd faced when the pirates had attacked their ship in the Baltic when they were sailing to Birka last year. Then, all her years of training had come into play and she'd slain two of them while Magnus and Leif had dispatched the rest.

No, this was very different. Far more threatening to everything she was. Shaking, she eased the door closed, needing to put distance between them. She would bathe later, once Eirik was in the longhouse.

Her trembling made her hand slip and the door banged against the frame. Her heart faltered. He must have heard it. She ran to the entrance. If she could get out fast, he might never know who had been there. But just as she reached the door, he grabbed her from behind and spun her around. He caught her wrists in his hands and pressed them to either side of her head against the wall. Trapping her.

“Thought to do a little spying?” He grinned, his eyes alight with laughter.

His body leaned against hers, caging her in.

She tried to find her voice as she turned her arms to twist free. “I only wanted to bathe. I'll come back later, when you're done.” The night closed in, but she fought the darkness. She couldn't weaken, couldn't panic. Fear was the mind-slayer.

His hands tightened as he chuckled. “Perhaps you need to pay a small fee to leave here. A tiny kiss.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes. She couldn't look, couldn't see.

Brown eyes, hard and cold, froze in her memory, and she stilled. Rough hands held her captive. The scent of the smoke and the heat of the steam rolled through her. The pulse of blood in her head grew louder and louder, until crimson covered everything. Everywhere. Pouring over her as she screamed and screamed . . .

Time. Just. Stopped.

* * *

Asa's eyes went blank. One moment, he'd thought only to tease her a bit, maybe try a playful, fleeting kiss as payment for her curiosity, and the next she turned white, staring into nothingness. He'd seen that look before, on men who had seen too much blood, too much death on the battlefields. Their minds had retreated into themselves. Some never came back.

“Asa?” He let go of her wrists and cupped her face in his hands. “Asa, it's all right. Tell me where you are.”

She cried out and sank to the floor, crouching there, her hands on her throat. He grabbed his fur cloak, threw it around himself, and fastened it at his right shoulder. He knelt in front of her, not touching her. Should he get Magnus? He didn't want to leave her like this, as though she didn't even see this world any longer. He wouldn't leave her alone to face whatever shadows haunted her.