Page 6 of To Tame a Viking Warlord

Torstein's skin prickled. It was as if Brynhild's voice was coming back from the dead just to haunt him once more. He had told himself for years that the fever he had when he was young had conjured her words. That a boy half out of his mind with sickness might imagine anything.

But Morag had never heard Brynhild's prophecy. Yet here she sat, resurrecting a similar vision.

"And what," he said, in a mocking tone, "will this woman give me? Sons, I suppose. Every prophecy promises sons."

Morag's eyes glazed over, her hand reached out and gripped his forearm, when she replied in an ethereal voice, "Four sons and two daughters. One with a touch of the sight like her mother's mother before her. But only if ye are willing to endure what comes before."

The moment those words left her, Morag seemed to come out of her trance-like state and released his arm as if she hadn't just shaken his very foundation.

He stood abruptly, needing the outdoors, needing air.

"You spin a fine tale, old mother. You missed your calling as a skald."

"Mock if it eases ye." Morag had already turned back to her herbs, unbothered. "But mark my words, your jarl will summon ye early, so your journey can begin."

Torstein left a silver coin on her table and was about to duck out into the cold, when she stopped him and handed him a small parcel.

"What is this?"

"For your wedding. Ye'll ken when ye have need of it."

Torstein snorted at the notion of a wedding but tucked it inside his vest pocket regardless. Not wanting to argue with the woman any longer, he took his leave. He made his way back to the Keep and scoffed at her last words. Jarl Thorfinn was not going to summon him to return to Orkney early in this weather. And sons and daughters? He shook his head in disbelief. Perhaps the woman had inhaled far too many healing herbs.

***

LATER, AS HE AND HIS men took their ease in the Great Hall with the MacGregors, a rider came in on a lathered horse a little before midday. Torstein knew him. Ketil, one of the jarl's own household men, not the sort sent with idle words.

"Ye're a hard man to run down, Torstein Hagansson," Ketil said, swinging down. "The jarl wants ye home at once, and no later."

"Did he say why?"

"I am only to tell you, you are needed for a journey to the southlands."

Torstein stilled for a moment as Morag's words came back to haunt him and he understood the message. The jarl was sending him on a long voyage.

"South?" Torstein replied with a rasp.

"Aye," Ketil replied.

Torstein did not answer. The restlessness that had ridden him for months had gone very still, all at once. He felt his heart begin to race with anticipation. He could hear the pounding in his ears.

"Rest the horse and take a meal," he said. "We'll leave first thing in the morning."

Ketil nodded and let a stable lad lead the animal away. Torstein stood a moment in the cold yard and allowed everything that had just transpired to settle into his bones.

***

Chapter 3

Fez, Morocco

The blade whistled through the morning air.

Samira al-Idrissi pivoted on her right foot, bringing the curved koummya in a sweeping arc that ended a hair's breadth from her trainer's throat. Zohra did not flinch. Her dark eyes, creased deep from years of desert sun, regarded her with approval.

"Better," Zohra said, stepping back. "But still too slow on the turn."

Zohra used to be a royal guard, before Samira's father had hired her to personally train Samira in combat. Several years under her tutelage and Samira had learned enough to defend herself against attacks.