Viking's Prize Read Free Page B

successfully foiling
any attempt at escape. Finished with the task of lighting the scattered
torches, Sigurd, teeth bared, and growling, elbowed his way back through the
pack. Using the pitch torch as his weapon, he lit the man’s hair from behind,
garnering chuckles and laughter from the others. The Frenchman yowled in pain,
and Sigurd at once slapped out the small flame he’d begun, howling hysterically
at his own cleverness.
    Alarik’s brow lifted in droll amusement. Sigurd,
ever the jester, was as loyal as they came, but his humor was sadly
lacking—though evidently flamehaired Hrolf Kaetilson didn’t think so.
Red-Hrolf was clutching his belly and howling at the top of his lungs. At once,
Ivar Longbeard joined Sigurd in terrorizing the man, taking firm hold of his
own long russet whiskers and tugging wildly, looking every bit the berserker.
And seeing Long Beard ravage the hair of his face, Lars the Fair Head followed
suit.
    Bjorn, Alarik’s younger brother, nut-faced from
the sun and too comely for his own good, immediately began the chant, “Die!
Die! Die!”
    The others followed his lead, their voices in the
night sounding like a ballad to a Viking’s ear.
    Suddenly, Sigurd threw an axe at the man’s feet
and then waited for the fool to grasp it. Sensing his fate, the man stood
arrested, paralyzed with fright.
    To goad the man into lifting up the axe, Sigurd
removed and discarded his armor and then his clothing, taunting him all the
while, until he was finally nude as the day he was begot.
    “Look at me, Fransk!” Sigurd goaded in disjointed
French. “No breastplate! No shield! Still I will crush you ’neath my boots!”
    Hoots of laughter greeted his claim.
    “Hah! One blade behind my back!” With a flourish,
Sigurd concealed his sword behind his back, and added a lewd pelvic thrust,
then turned to collect grins of approval from the rest.
    Despite himself, Alarik chuckled, though he shook
his head.
    The Frenchman sought his gaze.
    Alarik’s flesh prickled as the man stared without
blinking. His own eyes narrowed as he moved nearer. The man shook violently,
though his gaze never wavered, and one by one, his men followed the Frenchman’s
gaze to where Alarik stood behind them, and quieted.
    ‘Tell me French dung,” Alarik demanded, once there
was silence, “where is your murdering count?”
    The sound of his footfalls echoed against the
stone walls.
    The man’s gaze skidded away, then back.
    Alarik halted before him, allowing a moment longer
for his reply. When it was apparent he would not speak, Alarik asked once more,
“Your count?” His hand tightened around Dragvendil’s hilt.
    It was a long moment before the man was able to
still his quaking long enough to respond, but when he did, he spat upon the
ground before Alarik’s boots.
    Alarik kept his composure, for there was only one
man whose blood he ached to spill this night. This one he would leave to his
men. “Stupid bastard!” he said. “I would have given you a clean death.”
    He motioned for his men to carry on. “Do with the
fool as you will.”
    The revelry recommenced at once with hoots and
laughter, and Sigurd, tired of waiting for the man to pick the axe up, feinted for
it. Only then did the Frenchman move to take the weapon, understanding that it
was his sole salvation.
    Sigurd’s claim had not been mere boast, Alarik
knew. His men were the finest—the best warriors to be found in all of the
North Land. The Frenchman had not a breath of a chance and he knew it. As it
was, the man’s fate was sealed the very moment his stout fingers closed about
the axe’s handle.
    Alarik turned from the melee, entering what
appeared to be the eldhus , or kitchen, while behind him an anguished cry spewed forth.
The gruesome sound was followed by the merry roar of laughter. It was over, yet
despite his feeling of justification, Alarik was not satisfied—not whilst
the gutless count lived.
    Behind the eldhus was an alley leading to a small