The Enchantment Read Free Page B

leather headband of the sort worn by most of the men in Borger’s hall. Within that swirl of flame-kissed hair was a sleek, sun-polished face, the likes of which had never been seen in Borger’s village. Prominent cheekbones and a high forehead framed unusual features set in perfect balance: a long straight nose with gently flared nostrils, thickly lashed eyes the color of Baltic amber, and a broad, sensually carved mouth the color of red sea coral. It was a stunning and undeniably womanly face, but what was most remarkable about it was the sense of power and light, the force of spirit within that countenance. It was indeed a face that could have been birthed by a rare raven Valkyr. Or sired by a god.
    Borger felt fingers of dread teasing the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. The bewitching creature stood slightly taller than him . . . taller than most of the men in his hall.
    â€œThis is
your
daughter, old man?”
    â€œShe is mine.” Serrick chuckled and reached for the ties of her cloak. When he dragged away her heavy mantle, Borger sucked a breath unexpectedly and choked on his own juices. Gasps and murmurs of amazement rattled throughout the hall, then all fell deathly silent.
    Over her linen tunic Aaren Serricksdotter wore a molded leather breastplate that was fitted with shocking faithfulness to her womanly attributes, and she wore a warrior’s breeches, leggings, and wristbands. It took a moment for their eyes to overcome the shock of her raiment and realize that the frame beneath those garments was just as amazing. She had long, shapely legs; broad, smooth shoulders that framed high, full breasts; and arms that were both sleek and muscular. Above her left shoulder rose the polished horn and silver handle of a sword, and on her tapered hands were calluses that spoke of her use of it.
    Around the hall, eyes burned and mouths drooped.
    Aaren Serricksdotter was a warrior . . . a battle-maiden . . . the very essence of a Valkyr in human form.
    â€œMy three daughters, Red Beard.” Serrick swept his offering with a trembling hand. “Do you accept my payment?”
    â€œYea, Old Sword-stealer,” Borger said thickly, unable to tear his gaze from the battle-maiden’s provocative breastplate and what obviously lay beneath it. His conflicting passions shocked his voice to a whisper. “I accept.”
    â€œThen by your own word you have made them yours.” Serrick heaved a sigh of satisfaction and turned away. But after two steps he stopped and turned back to find Borger’s eyes still bulging and his mouth still agape.
    â€œOh . . . and did I forget me to say . . . they’re under an enchantment?”
    A wasp nest stuffed into his breeches couldn’t have had more of an impact on Borger than those fateful words.
    â€œEn-chantment?”
he roared, ripping his gaze from Serrick’s daughters to spear the wily warrior with it. “Hel’s gate, old man! What have you saddled me with?”
    â€œNothing too terrible.” Serrick’s withered mouth drew up into a crafty smile. “The enchantment was laid upon them by the goddess Freya herself, at Odin’s command. That I captured and compelled one of his Valkyrs to warm my furs, the Allfather might have understood, for a warrior should have rightful spoils of conquest. But to capture and plant my seed in
two
. . . Odin was angered mightily that a mere mortal owned such cunning craft. He demanded reparation.”
    â€œAnd?”
Borger jolted forward, his fists clenched and his neck veins at full swell. The battle-maiden stepped deftly in front of her father, stopping the jarl short. He had to tilt his head slightly to meet her fierce golden stare, and the sight of her looming slightly above him sent a draft of cold caution through him.
    â€œBy Freya’s decree,” Serrick continued, “none of Serrick Sword-stealer’s daughters can be mounted and bred until the eldest, the