Page 4 of Merciful Salvation

She admired her foster brother’s face. Chestnut curls framed hismagnificent features. High cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes revealed his birthplace. His mother came from an Icelandic province.

Marteinn loved her. She struggled with it, cringed at the idea of regarding him as more than a kinsman. How could she? The boy who used to hold her arms down and force feed her dirt and bugs. It seemed unnatural. The way he stared at her while she ate, reminded her of the way she’d often caught him ogling her backside whenever she walked by. She’d grown shapelier over the last two years. Breasts too big for her small frame and a curvy arse drew unwanted attention from men in her household every day, further justifying her father’s desire to train her to fight.

Men, including ones as honorable as Marteinn, are soulless creatures in the presence of beauty.

Her sire’s philosophy, not hers. She wholly disagreed. Whenever Kara looked in the mirror, she didn’t see comely features, only someone who refused to embrace womanhood. At nineteen, all her personal interests revolved around charting the stars, riding horses, and learning the healing arts. She hated her body, especially once she realized why her father’s men treated her differently. Some avoided her altogether now. Why? She couldn’t stop the hand of the goddess Frigg, who eventually beckoned all women to the marriage altar.

Over time, Marteinn had grown more aggressive about spending time alone. He asked to go on long walks and expressed the joy he felt sitting with her in the moonlight while she star-gazed. Mapping the heavens meant everything to her. Although she wasn’t opposed to Marteinn’s company, whenever his hand slipped over hers or he scooted too close, she always found an excuse to leave. She refused to give the household slaves reason to gossip about her. What her favorite childhood companion needed was a wife. Perhaps she’d help find him one.

Aaron had yet to find a farm or village containing boys worthy of recruitment in the three days he’d been on the road. They were either too scrawny or too young. The further north they traveled, however,the greater their chances of success. Northlanders were bloodthirsty.

As his party approached a clearing in the forest, he spied a group of men at swordplay. Hope spiraled inside him. Soldiers training in the forest suggested a steading nearby. A jarl with sons and possibly guards to spare. He halted to watch, concealed by trees. A boy attacked a much larger opponent. The man retreated, cunningly drawing the boy into an obvious trap. The youth attempted another careless strike and was promptly rewarded with a stout kick to his stomach. He tumbled to the ground. They laughed.

Aaron couldn’t resist smiling. What the lad lacked in stature, he made up for with fearlessness. With time and proper training, the boy would become a valuable fighter, maybe even Aaron’s first recruit. He preferred working with fourteen and fifteen year olds. It was much easier to shape their young minds. In hope of demonstrating Olaf’s tolerance, Aaron planned on appointing pagans to leadership positions in his new regiment. Norseman were severely loyal, regardless of what faith they claimed.

Suddenly, a band of masked riders emerged from the woods and swarmed the clearing. Bandits preyed on unsuspecting travelers in the wilderness all the time. But not so close to an established household, unless a blood feud existed between families.

Aaron quickly assessed the situation. Four men and a child against a dozen horsemen... even if he didn’t want to get involved, he felt obligated to protect them. He signaled for Agni and Varinn to follow, then heeled his horse beyond the trees. The lad and his tutor still defended themselves. They were backed against the trees, with two of the attackers on the ground nearby. Aaron circled and caught the attention of two riders. They charged him—full gallop. He gripped his sword in his left hand and his battle axe in the right, controlling his stallion with his thighs.

He cut between them, hitting each with his weapons, knocking them from their mounts. Jumping from his saddle, Aaron landed onhis feet. Before his opponents recovered from their fall, Aaron delivered two deathblows, one to his first opponent’s chest, the second to the other man’s neck. Breathing hard, Aaron raced to the other side of the clearing where Agni had joined the fight. The marauders retreated, disappearing into the forest. Aaron wiped his bloody blade off on the tunic of one of the dead raiders, then sheathed his weapons. He twisted and looked at the man who’d been training the boy. He wasn’t full Norse.

“We’re indebted to you. My name is Marteinn Hagebak.” The stranger introduced himself. “These lands belong to Erik the Bald. On behalf of my master, I welcome you to Lagenheim.”

The strange emblem on Marteinn’s helm attracted Aaron’s attention—Thor’s hammer. Erik the Bald was pagan. It surprised Aaron that a heathen lord would live so far south. A lucky twist of fate—he desperately needed recruits. And if his instincts proved correct, there should be others living nearby.

“Those men never meant to kill anyone,” Aaron observed. “They were after something, maybesomeone.”

“Aye,” the stranger agreed.

Aaron’s gaze swept the clearing. Nothing remarkable to note. A river, trees, and he guessed plenty of wild game. What caused those bastards to attack? “Does your master have a quarrel with someone?”

“No.”

The warrior spoke little, but Aaron decided to seek answers later. At the moment, he was concerned about the injured men on the ground. “We should look after your brethren.”

The stranger nodded, then followed him to where Varinn was tending the wounded. Another reason Aaron had chosen him for this expedition was his skill at stitching and setting broken bones. One of the soldiers had died in battle; the other two were seriously injured.

Marteinn inclined his head reverently, then introduced one of his companions. “This is Geilir, my master’s eldest son. I don’t know your name.”

“Jarl Aaron McNally.”

Geilir made a severe sound, almost reminiscent of a laugh. “A Scottish jarl?” He scowled. “What business do you have here?”

Heat rose in Aaron’s cheeks. “I’m an emissary for King Olaf.” He’d save further explanation for the lad’s father. But one thing bothered him as he let his gaze search the field. The lad was nowhere to be found. Only horses and weapons remained by the trees. “Where’s the boy?”

“What boy?” Marteinn acted as if he didn’t know who he was talking about. Then, realization dawned on his face. “Kar? Probably rushed back to the keep after the fight ended.”

Perhaps the boy was the jarl’s youngest child and was ashamed of what happened. “How far is it to the keep?” Aaron asked.

“Two miles,” Marteinn answered.

“We have need to get these men home so I can clean and dress their wounds properly,” Varinn said in a voice that left no room for argument.

Aaron inspected the gash on Geilir’s left leg. “Tis deep—it will take time to heal.”

Geilir looked away, huffing.

Caring little about what this man felt, the mystery behind the boy’s disappearance still gnawed at Aaron’s gut. If he had a young son, he’d keep better watch over the child. In the spirit of diplomacy, Aaron chose to reserve judgment until after he met Erik the Bald face-to-face.