Page 13 of Truly, Madly Viking

Most important, he saw no one who even remotely resembled his brother Rolf. That at least was good news. Apparently his brother was still alive.

Too bad Jorund was not.

Best he gather his wits about him and study the situation. He should pull himself up onto land and walk among these curious people who were gaping at him as if he were the strange one. However, he was much aware of his nudity, and did not relish displaying his manly parts before one and all impressive though they might be. He was little inclined toward modesty, but he would be a lackwit not to mind being the only one unclothed... and vulnerable.

An idea came unbidden to him. What if this were a test? Mayhap this was just the outer portal to Valhalla—not unlike the Christian limbo, leading to heaven. Mayhap he must endure some ordeal in order to finally enter the hall of the gods. Could being naked in a clothed crowd constitute an ordeal?

Without hesitation, he levered himself up onto the narrow, wharflike ledge, pretending unconcern over his nudity. Standing, legs braced apart, hands clasped behind his back, he harbored a passing vain concern that his staff might be all shriveled up, as male genitals were wont to be when in cool water, but he resisted the impulse to glance downward. Instead, with practiced nonchalance, he looped his thumbs in his leather belt and slowly scanned the crowd.

On his initial survey of the staring faces, he noticed children. In a blink he grabbed a large toweling cloth off the ground near his feet and wrapped it about his hips, leaving an opening on his sword side. It was one thing to exhibit bold arrogance before adults, quite another to show himself to children. He was not a pederast. Who knew there would be children in Asgard? But he supposed it made sense. There had to be a place for all the young persons to go.

But, oh, that brought another thought to mind: would he be seeing his own precious dearlings here...

Greta and Girta?

No, it was impossible. Where did these fanciful ideas come from? No doubt he had salt on the brain from all that time spent underwater. His brother Magnus would call it pickling of the brain, though most Vikings did it with mead, rather than brine, and were known as aleheads.

Enough of this nonsense! He was a warrior... one of the finest in all the Varangian Guard. Where were his well-honed instincts? Why was he standing about waiting for something to happen? Every good soldier knew it was best to take the offensive.

He inhaled deeply and let all the sounds of this unfamiliar place seep into his pores. Some part of him had already suspected that foreign tongues were being spoken here, yet he'd been able to understandand speak—moments ago. At first all the words had seemed to blend together, like endless, raucous chatter.

No matter. He would do what Thora, the killer whale, had instructed him: Listen, Viking. Listen with your heart. Well, he did not know about listening with his heart, but he opened his mind as best he could and concentrated with all his might. Soon the words began to separate, like wheat from chaff.

"Armed and dangerous," one man shouted in an accusing manner.

"Well, of course I'm armed," he snapped back, and was surprised, just as he had been moments ago, that the words coming out of his mouth were in this strange language. "And you had best hope that you do not learn firsthand just how dangerous I am."

The man who had shouted stepped back, even though he was separated from Jorund by the several hundred people sitting and standing in the bench area. The man exchanged glances with some men behind him who wore identical clothing—dark blue braies and long-sleeved, collared sherts of a lighter hue.

Silver, starlike, metal emblems flashed on their chests, and on their heads were ridiculous round hats with hard brims, which were the oddest helmets he'd ever seen. They would be no protection at all in a real battle. By the looks of their livery, these men must be the royal hird for the king of this land, or guardsmen to one god or another, if this indeed were Asgard.

More important, the men carried metal implements in their hands, which they pointed in his direction. He sensed that they were weapons of some type.

Surreptitiously, he loosened his sword from its scabbard, making ready to defend himself, if necessary.

He would not attack unless he was provoked, but it was always best to be prepared when in hostile territory.

It appeared the armed guard was having trouble spearheading a way through the mob, so he had a few more moments to study the situation. Stepping back slightly, he began to examine the people standing and sitting in the arena.

What manner of dress was this that people wore here? The arms and legs of many of the women and children were bare, as were those of some of the men. He supposed it was in deference to the heat. Still, it appeared odd to him. The majority of the men, besides the guardsmen, wore short-sleeved, collarless sherts with indecipherable messages on them, like Just Do It, Forget about Your Gardens; Show Me Your Busch, Houston Oilers, and My Wild Oats Have Turned to Shredded Wheat. Later he would have to ponder this bizarre business of people wearing words on their bodies, like human books. In addition, these people wore braies made of coarse-woven blue fabric similar to sailcloth, and high-heeled leather boots.

High-heeled boots on men! Are the men of this place demented? Do they not know how ridiculous they look? Do their toes not hurt and their ankles not ache at the end of a day spent in men's work?

His keen eyes were scanning the front row now, left to right, when his attention snagged on one particular person, then doubled back for closer inspection.

Initially, he'd thought it was a diminutive, dark-haired male because of the short haircut in the Frankish mode, which exposed the nape and ears. But no, no male had the curves this person did. Full, rounded globes filled a collarless, knitted shert that had short sleeves and stretched barely to the waist. From the arch of her hips to just above the knee she was covered by a garment of the same blue fabric as some of the booted men.

But then she stood, as if involuntarily, and raised a hand to her hair nervously, which cause the shert to lift and the bottom garment to recede, leaving a band of bare skin exposed. It was that area between her shert and her lower apparel that caused his breath to catch and his heart to skip a beat. In that region where smooth skin gleamed with a summery glow was the most enticing belly button he had ever seen—and he had seen more than a few—pierced with a small golden ring. It was not the first such ornament he'd ever viewed, but most of them had been on houris in Eastern harems.

He couldn't help smiling. In fact, another part of his body was starting to show its appreciation, as well.

He had to be thankful now for the toweling cover over his nether parts.

Jorund raised his eyes and met the direct gaze of the woman with man-hair. Her eyes were wide and blue as a springtime sky in the Baltic, fringed by black lashes that curled up prettily. Her nose was straight, her cheekbones high and her mouth full and rosy red. It was the kind of mouth that led a man to wicked thoughts, especially in combination with that belly ornament.

She did not return his smile, but instead continued to stare at him as if hit by a thunderbolt.

He knew how she felt. Ripples of some odd connection were assailing him as well.