Page 30 of Kiss of Wrath

“Swear jar, swear jar,” his laughing brothers hooted at Ben.

He picked Ben up by the waist and tossed him over his shoulder, swatting him once on his rump. Over his other shoulder, he ordered the others, “Get to work. Now!”

Ben’s slim body, which weighed no more than a small sack of meal, was quivering. With fright, or laughter, Mordr wasn’t sure. Putting him on his feet near the grill, Mordr hunched down so that they were eye to eye.

The boy wasn’t afraid of him, not one bit, which was rather alarming to Mordr. First of all, a Viking man did not want to lose his ability to frighten his enemies. Not that these little ones were his enemies, but they were combatants whom he had to conquer, in one sense. Secondly, a good soldier, and a good child, must have fear of some things, lest they mistakenly fall into danger. Fear was a man’s friend, truly.

“Listen and listen good, bratling. If you ever defy me again, you will get more than a soft pat against your buttocks. I do have a sword, and I know how to use it.”

Well, that was not a nice thing to say to a child.

Ben nodded his head, no longer grinning.

I guess “not so nice” is needed in some cases.

“Now, tell me, what the he— what in heaven’s name were you going to do with the grill?” Mordr asked, straightening to stare at the open grill, burnt matches, and charred newspaper.

“We . . . I . . . wanted to surprise Aunt Miranda by cooking dinner. I watched her barbecue hamburgers lots of time. But I couldn’t get the grill to start.”

It was a gas grill, which should have started with a mere click of a button. Mordr leaned down and examined the propane tank underneath. “Did it occur to your dimwitted brain that it might be out of gas?”

Apparently it hadn’t because Ben’s face reddened and he said, “Oh. So I guess it wouldn’t have started even if I poured gasoline on it? A little bit of gasoline,” he quickly added on seeing Mordr’s horrified expression.

“Do you realize the damage you could have caused? Not just to yourself and the other children, but to the house itself. The siding could have caught afire like tinder, and a mere hose might not have been able to put it out.”

“I’m sorry! I only wanted to do somethin’ good for Aunt Mir. She works real hard for us, and she’s not even our mother.” Ben’s eyes filled with tears.

That was all Mordr needed. Making a child cry. Quickly he patted the boy’s shoulder and said, “We learn from our mistakes. Do not ever do that again.”

“I won’t,” Ben said, swiping at the snot dripping from his nose with a forearm. “Do you really have a sword?”

“Yes, child, I do.”

“Will you teach me how to sword fight?”

A sudden image came to Mordr of the wooden sword he had brought home for Jomar, a gift he never got to see. But this boy wouldn’t know that. “I will make you a wooden sword to practice swordplay, not sword fighting, if you behave yourself.”

“Yay!” Ben said and turned to no doubt lord it over his brothers that he’d gotten something that they hadn’t.

“I will do the same for your brothers, if they agree to the same terms.”

Ben’s shoulders deflated for a moment, but he quickly got over his disappointment and gave his consent, “Okay.” In the way of children everywhere, his brain skittered to another subject. “I wish my hair was long so I could have braids like yours on each side of my face.”

“War braids.”

“Huh?”

“They are called war braids.”

“Cool!”

“One more thing. Can you tell me why your mother—I mean, your aunt—looked so fearful when Linda mentioned a phone call from your father?”

Ben’s face reddened, again, not with embarrassment as it turned out, but anger. “Because my dad’s an asshole.”

Mordr just caught himself from saying, “Swear jar.”

“That is not a nice thing to say about one’s sire . . . father.”