Norway, AD 853

Chapter One

"It's not neat enough." Gerd flicked the spinning whorl in Frea's hands, dismissing her work with a shake of her head. "Start again."

The tension in the room tightened. A couple of the other slaves glanced her way, then quickly turned back to their own tasks.

"Mistress." Frea discarded the length of thread and picked up a new clump of wool from her basket. She cared nothing for spinning. She only had thoughts for Alf. Please let him be safe, she prayed.

The healer poked her head around the door, a sheen of sweat glistening across her forehead. "A moment please, Gerd."

Frea glanced between the healer and Alf's mother. Gerd paled, but straightened her shoulders and followed the healer back into Alf's private room.

Silence filled the longhouse. Nobody dared speak. Nobody seemed to know what to say, not the slaves, or the Council of Elders seated to Frea's right.

She swallowed, twisting the whorl between her callused fingers. She could almost hear her own blood pumping through her body and her breath catching in her throat. The moments slugged by, each more painful than the last. Not knowing what was happening was almost as bad as knowing.

The curtain covering the door twitched. Frea jumped.

The healer reappeared, head bowed. "There's nothing else to be done."

Frea's heart leapt into her mouth. What do you mean? she wanted to yell. You can't let him die! She shifted in her seat but didn't speak, pursing her lips to keep the words from spilling out.

Gerd stepped back into the main room and the Council of Elders rose to their feet, their eyes fixed to her face. "My son asks that we remain calm. He—" Her voice halted. "He'll not be in this world for much longer."

The spinning whorl slipping from Frea's fingers, skidding along the floor.

"Frea." Gerd's voice snapped across the room and all eyes turned to her.

She rose and bobbed at the knees. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

Gerd jerked her head towards the door. Her short, greying hair fluttered a little and she ran hand impatiently over her head. "Hurry up, girl."

She crossed the room and her hands started shaking so her clutched them behind her back.

Gerd grabbed her elbow, pulling her passed the curtain covering the door. "He's asking for you," she hissed, keeping her voice low so nobody else could hear.

Frea leapt across the room, pulling free from Gerd's grasp. She knelt by Alf's bed, touching his hand. The sweetness of burnt flesh filled her senses and she clenched her jaw. Wet sheets had been spread over his chest and legs, cooling his burnt skin, while his white blond hair was scorched. Tears threatened to cascade down her cheeks but she clenched her jaw, determinate not to cry. She didn't want his last few moments to be one of tears and regret.

"Alf," she whispered. "It's Frea, I'm here."

His eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on her face. "Are we alone?" he asked, rasps marring his beautiful voice.

She glanced over her shoulder—his mother still stood by the door, her eyes narrowed on Frea. "Not quite. Gerd's here."

"Ar," he breathed, as if saying 'I should have guessed'. "Mother, leave us."

"I don't think—"

"Now," he ordered, his voice barely more than a croak.

"All right, but you need rest." And she left.

Alf gripped the front of Frea's tunic with frail hands and pulled her closer. "You know what I want. You have to promise me!"

"Alf," She moaned. Even when he was dying, he was thinking of her. She leaned further over his deathbed, her forehead almost touching his. He was like her brother; her only friend in this foreign land.

"Promise me."

She shook her head and the baby-fine hairs along Alf's hairline tickled her forehead. How could she promise what he asked when it meant they'd be separated for the rest of eternity? She loved Alf and never wanted to be parted from him. Even if it means dying?

"Frea," he warned and a touch of his old commanding self laced his words.

"I don't know." She pulled back an inch to look at him imploringly, but there was a sudden hardness to his eyes.

"We knew this day might come. We've talked about it before. You know I don't believe the lore, not really. No enough to risk—"

He clenched his side as a spasm of pain convulsed through his body. "Promise me!"

"Yes." She buried her face in his shoulder, wishing she could take away the pain. He couldn't die now. He was still so young with much to live for. And the village needed him. He was their clear-headed, thoughtful chief who'd do anything to keep them safe. Her whole world would collapse without him. "Anything."

He grunted. "That's my girl. Now, recite the plan."

She closed her eyes and forced the words from her mouth. "Wait until its dark, then head for the river. And then—"

"Walk through the water so the hounds can't follow your scent."

"Yes," she nodded. He squeezed her hand and she continued. "Travel south, across the Trondhjem Plains until—" she faulted. This wasn't right. She couldn't leave him.

"Until Helgi," he encouraged naming a Norse town. "There you'll find Egil. He owes me a big favour and will shelter you." He drew a shuddering breath. "It will be hard, Helgi is a long way from here, but I know you can do it."

She bit her lip. She didn't want to do it. She'd run away once before and it had been the hardest journey of her entire life. She didn't want to go through all that again.

Alf stared up at her, a small smile touching his mouth. "You are braver than you think. And you have more allies than you believe. I've made sure of that." And the last breath left his body.

Time seemed to disappear. She could have been sitting there for only moments or whole days. Nothing seemed very important anymore. Not without Alf.

She pressed his cooling fingertips to her lips. He'd given her hope when she'd had none. The very least she could do for him now was keep her promise. No matter what.

Frea tugged at the end of her long braid as panic surged through her body. Beyond the door, covered by nothing more than a curtain, was his family. They might burst in at any moment. They didn't trust her and didn't want her near Alf.

She should tell them. Your son. Your leader. He's dead. They deserved to know, but her feet wouldn't move. As soon as they knew, her life would be forfeit and she'd just promised Alf never to let that happen.

She didn't have much time. She dropped to her knees, pulled open Alf's trunk and frantically rifled through his belongings. There had to be something useful inside; maybe something she could use to escape. She pushed aside pairs of worn breeches, the shirts she'd sewn for him last winter and pieces of finery—silver plates and jewellery—loot from many successful raids. At the bottom was an old hunting knife. She grasped the bone hilt, running the blade along her finger. It was too blunt to draw blood.

The curtain covering twitched. Her heart leapt into her mouth and she stuffed the knife into her dress pocket as somebody entered. More than a head taller than her, his shoulders and arms were thick with muscles, and clearly visible through the thin fabric of his sleeves. A new scar cut through his eyebrow, just missed his eye and continued down his cheek. The flesh around it was red and tender. His light hair was worn short so a hint of the tattoo covering his head was visible. Hanging off his hips was a weapons' belt holding a dagger with matching sword, and a large battle-axe who's blade shone, even in the dull evening light. His torso was covered with sleeveless leather body-armour, a white shirt beneath. The collar was open displaying a light scattering of hair over a tanned chest. The legs of his breeches were tucked into his calf-length boots, the toes of which were scuffed.

"Thrall." The warrior glanced from the open trunk, to her flushed cheeks, to Alf's still body. As he turned, she glimpsed dark ink marks swirling down the back of his neck and disappearing beneath his collared shirt.

Esben Káre. An unmistakable, if unusual sight. Although only a few winters older than her, he was Alf's most trusted warrior, preferring to spend his time at sea. Each year, he lead a crew into uncharted waters and brought back previously unimagined treasures.

He studied her with an unblinking gaze, as if trying to read her thoughts. His blue irises were haloed with silver flecks. One hand fingered the hilt of his battle-axe in a manner that was relaxed, almost subconscious. He was obviously used to carrying such weapons. She swallowed. Did he intend to harm her? He could overpower her in a heartbeat.

"He's gone," Esben said, his deep voice mellow.

"Only a moment ago, my lord." Frea stepped away from the chest, her eyes darting to the open door behind him. If she could just get free before he raised the alarm she might get a few moments head start. The knife pressed against her stomach: a small comfort.

"You understand what this means?" Esben folded his arms across his chest, muscles tense. "You were his favourite thrall. You'll be expected to follow him to Valhalla."

Viking Heaven. "Your beliefs are not mine." The words slipped from her mouth without thought and she gritted her teeth against the beating her disobedience normally evoked.

Nothing happened. She chanced a glance in his direction. He didn't look particularly offended. His had tipped slightly to one side as though in thought, then he said, "I forgot. You're a Christian."

She touched the base of her neck where her cross had hung. That was, until a Norseman snatched it away, greedy for silver.

"I'm still waiting for your answer." He contemplated her with narrowed eyes.

Frea pursed her lips. Esben's reputation preceded him wherever he went and in that moment she was willing to believe anything. Power rolled off him. He stood straight with his shoulders level, but there was an ease about his body that gave the appearance of supreme confidence and self-assurance. "W-waiting?" She didn't know what he expected of her. His chief was dead but he seemed in no hurry to spread the news.

"You understand what this means?" he repeated. "You know what will happen to you?"

"I—" She chocked back the words. Alf had tried to explain Norse rituals but she'd been so convinced nothing would ever happen to him she'd hardly paid attention to his lectures. All she really knew was that the chief's body would be burnt, along with everything he'd need in the afterlife, including his favoured slave. It was a tradition that was centuries old, dating back through Norse lore to the very beginning of mans' creation.

But Alf had wanted more for her. He'd made her promise to live, even if that meant running away. Again.

She could suddenly feel the blood pumping through her body as though wild fire seared through her veins. She couldn't let them kill her! She had to escape. The world rocked and the wooden floorboards reared towards her.

"Are you all right?" Esben took a step forward, his brow creased.

"I'm—" The door was now unguarded, and Frea stumbled around him on legs that barely supported her weight.

"Neinn, you don't." Esben wrapped a solid arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest.

She struggled against his hold, flaying her arms but he caught her hands in his, pressing them against his shoulders. A fission of awareness ran down every nerve. Disturbing. Frea hated men touching her.

Esben raised his eyebrows—she was stronger than he'd expected. Winters of servitude had obviously strengthened her muscles. Still, she remained petite, the top of her head just grazing his shoulder. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a very Celtic style braid, while her skin was sallow from spending long hours working in-doors.

"Let go," she spluttered, but her words lacked force. Perhaps she was just not used to giving orders; slaves were taught to obey, not make demands.

She resisted for another moment then fell slack against him, her face buried in his leather armour.

He caught sight of Alf over the top of her head and his heart sank. His fearless chief and great friend. Dead.

Esben had returned home the moment he'd heard of Alf's accident, hoping the worst wouldn't come to pass. But he'd been too late. There hadn't even been time for him to say his farewells.

Frea tensed and he stepped back, keeping a firm hold of her fists. Tears glistened in her eyes and her jaw was clenched tight against the on-flow of emotion. He sighed—the last thing he needed was a crying thrall. The news still had to be broken to Alf's family. He frowned. Why had Alf treasured Frea so much? There didn't seem to be anything special about her. Just another Celtic thrall. Still, a promise was a promise.

"Stein," he called, turning his head towards the curtain, "Come here a moment."

His crewman entered, his face falling as he caught sight of Alf's body. "Captain?" he queried.

"Take her outside, I'll follow."

"Right," Stein wrapped an arm around Frea's shoulders, guiding her from the room. She glanced back, her eyes searching Alf's face.

In the main room, several women were gathered around a fire preparing dinner, while a cluster of elders huddled against the back wall. To one side, the rest of Alf's inner circle sat slumped at a long, wooden table. Thirteen had just returned from sea with him, but had agreed to wait in the main chamber until Esben had taken stock of the situation.

"He's dead." Silence met his words. He looked at each of his crew in turn and they stared back with hollow eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Captain." Kormak, Stein's twin, stepped forward and clapped him on the back. "Did you manage to speak to the chief before he died? Did he say anything to you?"

Esben paused. If Alf had said something what would it have been? Sacrifice Frea? "Neinn." He shook his head. "The thrall was the only one with him when he died."

"My son insisted on speaking with her alone," an old woman with greying hair called from the back and the hall fell silent. "She bewitched him the moment she came here. He never favoured any of the other slaves before her."

"Gerd." Esben nodded his head in respect to Alf's mother but she turned away in a rejection of his welcome. He took a slow breath, trying to ignore the insult. Apparently not everything had changed.

"Where is she now?" asked Kormak. "Where did you send her?"

Gerd's eye snapped to Esben's face, her mouth a thin, disapproving line.

"She's outside, Stein's watching her." He looked towards the Council of Elders seated against the far wall before the health. They watched him with hooded eyes, their distrust an almost palpable thing. He ignored the anger clenching his stomach into a tight knot. "She's in shock, she isn't thinking clearly. Therefore, I plan to keep her at my house until the ritual. I'll act as her guard and make sure nothing happens to her before the funeral."

"Neinn," Gerd called. "That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Alf wouldn't have—" she began.

"Alf trusted me. He made me captain of my own ship. I have proven my worth in battle a hundred times over. Haven't we returned year after year with silver treasures?" Esben waved a hand towards the inner circle, indicating the rest of his crew and giving credit were credit was due.

"Your mother was mad," said Gerd. "Possessed even. We can't trust you with the thrall, you might let her escape. She might kill you in your sleep."

"This has nothing to do with my mother," Esben growled, glaring at Gerd. "And I can handle a girl. The men will testify to my abilities." He crossed his arms over his chest, his sleeves pulled tight over his muscles.

Kormak nodded but the others didn't move, apparently not eager to cross verbal blades with the chief's mother moments after her son's death.

"My son was a great and just leader but we all know he didn't always make sound choices when it came to his friends. He practically adopted the thrall girl."

Another elderly woman rested a hand on Gerd's arm. She stood straight backed and her beady eyes studied Esben through the thin layer of smoke issuing from the fire with a clear gaze.

"Dalla," Esben sighed. She was a great friend of Alf's mother and held a highly respected position in the community. She was the Carrier of Death and, when the time came, she would thrust the knife through Frea's heart, binding her soul with Alf's forever.

"Káre," she said, addressing him by last name only, "It's not yet winter. You and your men should return to sea. If you don't bring us fresh wealth and slaves the other settlements will consider us weak and attack."

"Neinn!" The rest of his crew exclaimed in protest, they didn't want to miss the funeral. And they had every right to attend—they were some of Alf's closest friends and allies.

Esben raised a hand, silencing them. She wouldn't rid the village of him so easily. "We can't leave before the funeral. Nobody, even our neighbours, would expect that of us. Besides, I promised Alf, long ago, if anything should happen to him, I'd care for Frea."

All eyes in the room snapped to him and his hand drifted towards the hilt of his sword for comfort. He was telling the truth. A few winters ago, when he'd returned for winter, Alf had pulled him aside. "Promise," he'd demanded. "If I die, you'll protect Frea." And Esben had promised, he'd never been able to refuse his chief anything.

"He never mentioned anything like that to me." Gerd frowned.

"He's lying," snapped Dalla. "His mother lied. He lies."

"That's all you can think of saying. Well, it seems like a feeble argument to me." Esben shook his head, grasping his hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened. Gerd flinched but Dalla removed a short blade from her belt, brandishing it before the elders. Esben was sick of everyone associating him with his mother's illness. It had haunted his life for as long as he could remember.

"I have been blessed by Death, as my mother was before me. This funeral is my domain and I have full authority concerning the sacrifice. You"—she pointed the ceremonial dagger towards Esben's chest—" will return the thrall into my keeping."

"Neinn." Esben shook his head and withdrew his battle-axe. He would not be threatened by anyone, not even his spiritual leader, and certainly not when it meant turning his back on Alf's promise.

"Bersi!" Dalla yelled and a man in his mid-thirties stumbled forward, pulling his own weapon free.

"Do as you're told," Bersi cried, rushing Esben.

Esben stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow. He stared at Bersi and the older man hesitated for a fraction of a second.

It was all Esben needed. Quickly, he stepped back and swept the sharp edge of his axe lightly across the palm of his own hand, the sign of a blood oath. A thin trickle of blood ran down his wrist, staining the sleeve of his shirt. "I promised Alf I'd protect Frea and I'm swearing to you now, nobody will go near the girl. Not until the day of the sacrifice or Thor help me, I will kill them."