Page 14 of The Very Virile Viking

Her gaze went back to the man then, as if compelled to do so. He was staring about the set and acting profoundly baffled, but still protective of his family… if that was what the children were.

In a town that was loaded with gorgeous men, this man took the prize. His features were not perfect. In fact, when the wind blew intermittently, she noticed that he had rather large ears. Furthermore, he was too tall—and too bulked up—for her tastes. Despite all that, he was as handsome as a Viking god.

Kevin Sorbo in his role as Hercules… but better.

For some strange reason, Angela's heart was racing. And she felt like laughing and crying at the same time. If she didn't know better, she would think this was love at first sight. But, of course, she knew better.

"Who is he?" she finally managed to ask.

"I have no idea," Darrell said, still gaping goggle-eyed out the window. "But I'm sure as hell gonna find out."

The tone in his voice made Angela instantly suspicious. "Why?"

"Why? I'll tell you why." He was chortling with glee. "Screw Dirk Johansson. Who needs him now?"

"Why?" she asked again.

"I've just found my perfect Viking."

Out of the fog, but someplace hot…

"By thunder! It's hotter than the fires of Muspell here." Magnus wiped sweat off his forehead with a forearm—the same arm that held his favorite sword, Head Lopper. In his other arm he held Lida, who was gooing at every bird or breeze that passed by. The wee one certainly had a pleasant disposition, but in this case her good mood was probably due to her nappy being rilled with some stinksome substance.

"I have heard of such hot weather in the deserts of the Eastlands," Torolf answered him. He also was perspiring profusely under the blistering sun, as evidenced by the beads of moisture on his forehead and upper lip and by the underarm stains on his leather tunic.

"How could we have gone from the cold of Vinland waters to this excessive warmth in such a short time? The fog was confusing, but I am fairly certain we did not travel eastward. Dost think we have entered the Land of the Dead?"

"That fiery first level of the Norse underworld, comparable to the Christian hell?" Torolf shook his head.

"I hardly think my younger brothers and sisters have done anything wicked enough to merit such punishment. Bloody hell, I have not been so bad myself… except for that time when I put honey on the privy seat when I was a youthling… or when I seduced the smithy's daughter… or when I got drukkiw on Frey Day and… Oh, never mind. Besides, those people over there look alive… and normal. Well, not normal, considering their clothing and hair. But not dead. 'Tis strange, this place, though." Obviously his rambling son was equally puzzled by the scene surrounding them.

They were still on his longship, and they were still at sea, if the waves lapping at the sides of Fierce Dragon were any indication, but the land that was visible a short distance away was anything but familiar.

The irksome whale was gone, he noticed. Thank the gods for small blessings . In the distance he could see huge letters propped against the mountainside: H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D… the same sign he had seen in his dreams. Or was it through the fog? Next he expected to see the white-haired lady with the prayer beads pop out of one of the puffy clouds. If that happened, he might just jump overboard and end it all.

The only thing certain in this uncertain happenstance was that they had entered the land of Holly and Wood. But where this strange new land was, he had no clue. There were enormous buildings unlike anything he'd ever seen before; the longhouses reached far up into the sky. And moving horseless vehicles fairly shot along the roads that crisscrossed all the land as far as his eyes could see. In addition, at the beginning of one of the roadways, much closer than the Hollywood sign, was another sign that said, Universe Studios . He tried to sound the words out, "You-knee-verse Stew-dios." It was all so confusing.

The most alarming thing to Magnus was the lack of farmland, or open spaces where cultivation of the land would be possible. What would he do in this new land if he could not farm?

The people who were gathering along the shore were strange, as well. The hair on most of the men was short, in the Frankish style. Some of the women had short hair, too, which made them look rather mannish. And the clothing! Not a man in sight wearing a belted tunic over braies . And the women! Some of them wore men's breeches, and some wore short gunnas that were so tight as to be a second skin, ending barely beneath their womanplace.

"For the love of Frigg!" Torolf exclaimed, as his eyes riveted on the same scandalous attire of the women. Soon an appreciative smile spread across his son's face. "Could this be a land of harlots?" He did not appear displeased at the prospect.

"I would like to be around when one of them bends over to churn some milk or feed the chickens,"

Magnus remarked, not often sharing such lascivious thoughts with his son, but too shocked to restrain himself.

"Nay, Faðir , did you misremember your vow? 'Tis best that you not view such sights and be tempted. I will look for both of us."

Magnus glowered at Torolf, but the cocky cub just laughed.

But women were not the only ones in the gathering crowd, and some of the men arriving looked angry, especially those with matching dark blue sherts and braies with shiny, star-shaped brooches on their chests. They carried objects in their hands that Magnus suspected were weapons, though they were not the spears or battle-axes with which he was familiar.

"I sure hope they are not as vicious as those natives in Vinland," Torolf commented, noticing the direction of his stare. He fingered his sword, Skin Slicer, as he spoke. "I have grown accustomed to a hairy scalp on my head." Torolf had a misplaced sense of humor betimes.

Just then Magnus's attention was drawn to a movement overhead. "Hamr, get away from there this instant. If you climb that mast pole one more time, I am going to chain you in some dungeon till you are at least"—he had to quickly do a mental count to remember the rascal's age—"six years old."

"Which dungeon, Fadir ?" Hamr called out, an impudent grin on his face as he slid down the pole. "Do they have dungeons in this new land?"