Page 2 of The Bewitched Viking

“Well, as I was saying…that’s when Lady Alinor put her curse on Anlaf, threatening, ‘Curse you, heathen! May your manpart fall off if you do this evil deed.’ Well, his manpart didn’t fall off—leastways, not yet—but it took a turn to the right.” Bjold took a deep breath after that long explanation.

“And?” Tykir prodded. “What has that to do with me?”

“The king wants you to bring the witch back to Trondelag, with her magic veil, to remove the bloody curse.”

“Is that all?” Tykir remarked. But what he thought was, A Saxon. Anlaf expects me to stop in the midst of my trading voyage, go all the way to Britain to get the wench, who will no doubt be unwilling, take her back to Norway, by way of Hedeby, where I must needs drop off the last of my trading goods, then make my way home to Dragonstead. And all this afore the winter ice sets in. Hah! Anlaf ever was an overbearing lout, even when we were boys. But he goes too far this time. “Nay.”

“Nay? Do you say to your liege lord nay? Where is your Norse loyalty?”

Tykir stiffened with affront. “Hah! Anlaf is no more my liege lord than the Wessex King Edred. You know well and good that Northmen pledge allegiance to a particular leader, not a nation. My uncle, Haakon, is all-king of Norway, and to him alone do I pay homage. Further, ’twas Haakon—then fostering in King Athelstan’s court in Britain and having seen only fifteen winters—who went back to Norway on King Harald Fairhair’s death and returned to all bonders the odal-rights to their land. My title to Dragonstead was reaffirmed to me by Haakon and will remain free and clear in my family name for posterity.”

Tykir felt an aching tug in his heart at the mere thought of Dragonstead. If he was being truthful with himself, he would have to admit that Dragonstead mattered more to him than anything. And that was dangerous.

Bjold’s face flamed with the heat of embarrassment, but still he blundered on. “The king thought you might be reluctant.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

“He said to tell you that you could have Fierce One for a boon if you wouldst do him this favor.”

Tykir sat up straighter. “Anlaf would grant me his prized stallion—the one gifted to him by that Saracen chieftain?”

“Yea.” Bjold nodded emphatically. “The black devil with the white markings on his hooves. That be the one.”

“Hmmm,” Tykir said, despite his misgivings. Still, he resisted. “Nay. I have too much to do afore retreating to Dragonstead for the winter.”

“In that case, King Analf directed me to offer the slave girl, Samirah, as well. The one with the tiny silver bells on her ankles, and the two silver bells dangling from the pierced rings in her…” He cupped two hands in front of his chest to indicate Samirah’s most noted endowments.

“Hmmm,” Tykir said again, but not because of the slave girl, enticing as he knew her to be. Truth be told, the horse held more appeal. In the end, though, he repeated his earlier refusal. “Nay, I have no time.”

Bjold wrung his hands nervously. “I had not wanted to tell you this, but afore I do…well, uh, tell me one thing. You are not the type of man who is wont to kill the messenger with bad tidings, are you?”

Tykir drew himself up alertly. “Speak, wretch, or I will slice your tongue from your mouth and send it to Anlaf on a bread trencher.”

Bjold’s face went even brighter. “’Tis Adam the Healer,” he squeaked out. “Anlaf holds him as friendly hostage till you deliver the witch.”

“What?” he roared. “How did Adam end up in Trondelag? I thought he was in the Arab lands. And what in bloody hell is a ‘friendly hostage’?” Adam was a young man of no more than twenty years who had been studying medicine these past five years in the Arab lands, where the most noted healers practiced their arts. He was the adopted son of Tykir’s half-sister, Rain, and her husband, Selik, who resided in Jorvik. Adam was like family to him, a nephew by adoption.

“Friendly hostage means Adam will come to no harm. He just cannot leave Anlaf’s court.”

Tykir made a low, rumbling growl of outrage in his throat.

Bjold shriveled under his obvious wrath and concluded in a rush, “It all comes back to the witch and your mission to capture her.”

Standing abruptly, Tykir leaned across the table and grabbed Bjold by the front of his surcoat, lifting him off his bench and half-leaning over the table toward him, knocking horns of ale hither and yon. The boy looked as if he might soil his braies, so afeared was he. “Start from the beginning,” Tykir said icily, “and leave naught out.”

He settled back for what he hoped was not an overlong tale. Especially since his head was pounding like Thor’s mighty hammer, Mjolnir. Especially since he was in dire need of a bath house to rid himself of the fleas that infested his skin and clothing after a long sea voyage. Especially since his good friend Rurik raised his equally mead-sodden head from the table next to him and grinned, silently mouthing the words, “A witch-hunt?”

Rurik had good reason to relish the prospect of a witch-hunt. Being godly handsome (second only to Tykir, in Tykir’s not so humble opinion), Rurik wore his long black hair, as well as his beard, in intricate braids. His mustache was a daily clipped work of art. But Rurik’s overblown vanity had been dealt a blow two years past—by a witch, no less—a Scottish witch, who’d dyed a jagged line down the middle of Rurik’s face, whilst he slept, from hairline to chin, with the blue woad of the Scottish warriors. Thus far, Rurik had been unable to wash the color from his skin, or find the wily witch.

Yea, Rurik would be encouraging him to undertake Anlaf’s witchly mission.

Then things got worse.

Before Bjold could begin to talk, Bolthor the Giant, Tykir’s own personal skald—may Odin have mercy!—slid onto the bench next to him. Tykir could not suppress the groan that escaped his lips. He needed a skald almost as much as he needed a witch, especially a skald as tall as a small tree.

But what was a man to do when a fellow warrior saved his life in battle? When said life-friend lost an eye at the Battle of Ripon five years past, Tykir had felt compelled to offer work to the despondent knight. Thus far, Bolthor had tried—and failed—as cook, blacksmith and armorer on Tykir’s northern homestead. Finally, Tykir’s household had revolted at the unpalatable food, burned-down smithy and broken swords.

Tykir gave Bolthor a passing sideways glance, then looked again. Uh-oh! Too late, he realized that Bolthor had that certain dreamy expression on his face that foreboded the versemood coming upon him. Too late to escape now.