Page 1 of To Tame a Viking Warlord

Prologue

1029 - Orkney Isles

The sickness had come swiftly, a burning heat that consumed Torstein from within. For three days and nights, he drifted in and out of consciousness, the world around him a blur of faces and voices. Sweat plastered his golden hair to his forehead, his young face contorted in pain as the fever raged through his body. Though only twelve winters old, he had survived raids and storms at sea, but this invisible enemy that burned him from within proved his fiercest opponent yet.

His father, Hagan, stood grim-faced by the bedside, watching as his only son fought for each labored breath.

"He burns hotter than the flames of Surtr, the herbs are not working," his mother Runa said, desperation creeping into her voice as she administered a damp cloth to Torstein's brow. "We must seek the help of Brynhild."

"Nay." Hagan's voice was sharp. "I'll not have a seiðkona tending my son."

"Would you prefer to have a dead son to bury 'neath the stones?" Runa replied with an intense glare.

All the fight left Hagan then as concern for his son won over his prejudice against the old ways. Hagan sighed and then nodded in agreement. "Aye, I'll fetch the old witch then."

***

NIGHT HAD FALLEN BY the time Brynhild the elderly healer arrived. Ancient even then, with eyes the color of storm clouds. She carried a bag of strange-smelling herbs and spoke in a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself. The old woman was both feared and respected throughout the isles. Some whispered she was a völva, a seeress with one foot in this world and one in the realm of spirits. Others claimed she was a witch who had learned forbidden magic from Christian monks. Whatever the truth, she was known to possess healing knowledge that had saved lives when all else failed.

Torstein's eyes fluttered open at her approach, glassy and unfocused. "I see them," he whispered, his voice cracked and dry. "The Valkyries... they're coming for me."

Brynhild snorted, the silver amulets woven into her gray braids jingling as she shook her head firmly. "Look away from them, lad. Ye have many winters yet."

"But they call to me," Torstein murmured, his eyes half-lidded, seeing beyond the worried faces of his parents and their small cottage to golden halls where dream-like warriors feasted.

"Odin can wait," Brynhild snapped, slapping his cheek lightly. "Your saga has barely begun, son of Hagan. Would you have the skalds sing of Torstein who died before his beard grew?" She made a 'tsk-tsk' sound.

Torstein's fevered gaze focused momentarily on her face, seeing the determination etched in lines across her brow. "I am tired of fighting," he confessed.

"No, son. Do not give up!" came his father's gruff voice through the haze.

"Do not leave us!" he heard his mother's tearful plea.

Torstein's body racked with shudders in response.

Old Brynhild's weathered hands crushed some herbs with a mortar and pestle, the pungent aroma filling the small space. The mixture sizzled as she added it to a wooden cup of steaming liquid while she muttered incantations and prayers to Eir, goddess of healing. Then she whispered, "Listen well, son of Hagan. Valhalla awaits, but your time is far from now." She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "You have a long life to live. You will not surrender it to fever!"

Torstein's breathing slowed slightly as her words reached through the fever's haze.

With Hagan's help, Brynhild lifted Torstein to a sitting position and pressed a horn of foul-smelling liquid to his lips. "Drink. This will cool the fire within."

Torstein drank, grimacing at the taste that was somehow both bitter and sweet, like overripe berries. The liquid burned down his throat, settling in his stomach like a stone. The room grew still, and even Hagan, skeptical as he was, did not dare to speak. Several moments passed until, much to his parents' great relief, Torstein's breathing began to ease and even out as his body visibly relaxed. He lay back against the pillows.

"What ails my son?" Runa finally asked.

"He walks between two worlds," Brynhild replied. "His fever is of the soul. It is torn, you see. Half here, half elsewhere."

"What nonsense is this?" Hagan demanded.

Brynhild ignored him, her storm-cloud eyes fixed on Torstein. "The other half of your soul awaits. In a land of mystical sands."

Hagan replied, "I am grateful for your help, Fróð kona, but please do not fill my son's head with fairy tales." His wife Runa shushed him, and Hagan grunted his displeasure, moving away from the bed to pace the room.

Torstein's eyes widened slightly, the mention of unknown lands stirring something within him. He asked with a rasp, "What land?"

"Your fate is tied to a place you have not yet seen and to a lass born under different stars, where the endless sands meet the great waters. She waits for you, though she knows it not. She is your destiny. Would you abandon her to walk this world alone?"

Torstein shook his head.