Page 1 of Viking Beast
1
Eldberg
May, 960AD
He woke to the crackle of flames. Sparking and spitting, the thatch was alight, glowing dull through a veil of acrid smoke.
The end of the bed was afire. He sat up to kick at the furs, to draw breath to shout, but his throat closed against the foul ash.
“Bretta!” He choked out her name, shaking her, but she made no answer. Reaching beneath, he lifted her into his arms and, forced to inhale, was wracked by coughing.
By the gods! They had to get out.
With eyes smarting, he found the floor.
The blaze was moving quickly, the flames licking through the timbers.
Eldberg buried his face in Bretta’s shoulder. She was limp, her head flung back.
Find the door.
He managed several steps, ignoring scorching embers upon his bare feet, scorning the fierce heat. Nothing mattered but to escape. He was almost there when something struck his head.
Bretta rolled from his arms as he fell. He called her name, or thought he did.
Bretta! My wife. My love. Mother of our child yet to be born.
And then, though the room was bright with flames, there was only darkness.
2
Eldberg
May, 960AD
Eldberg lay three days and nights, his body not yet ready to wake. When he did, it was to searing pain.
The memory of that night returned with the force of all Thor’s thunder, striking fear in Eldberg’s heart. Already he knew his fate, but would not accept it, not until the truth had been spoken aloud.
Sweyn, the commander of his battle-guard, stood to one side, his face severe, flanked by Fiske, Rangvald, Hakon, Ivar, but none would meet his gaze—not even Thoryn, the most steadfast of his sworn men.
Only Sigrid—Bretta’s aunt—summoned the courage, though her fingers trembled. “The great hall’s roof lies smouldering.” Her voice rose not above a whisper. “Ivar and Thoryn battled through the flames to drag you out.” Sigrid drew a deep breath. “Thrice, Thoryn returned for Bretta, but the smoke was too thick, the heat too ferocious.”
She bit her lip. “Rangvald and Fiske held him back from trying again. My Bretta! She is…”
Eldberg’s chest constricted.
“She’s gone, my jarl.”
A shudder passed through him—a sudden, terrible despair. He lay still, willing command of his desire to howl in anguish. His wife! The woman he’d wed at her father’s behest—a contracted marriage to tie his loyalty to Skálavík. The wife for whom he’d never expected to feel love. The wife who had adored him—inexplicably, and without reservation.
And the child.
His hands bunched the cloth upon which he lay.
His child. Six months in the womb.
Eldberg swallowed back sour bile and set his jaw. With renewed intensity, he scanned the faces before him. Motioning Sigrid away, he looked to Thoryn.
