Ice Maiden. Debra Brown Lee

shot them each a steely glance. “Are ye threatening me, lads?”

      Neither replied.

      The room felt suddenly over warm, the air close and rank with the stink of them. George was aware of other eyes on him.

      Lawmaker’s.

      Was this another test then? Like that morning on the beach with young Ottar? The old man watched George closely, as he had that day, waiting to see what he would do.

      Lawmaker’s was not the only gaze trained to him. Two others—young men he’d overheard speaking ill of their jarl—watched him, as well.

      Hang the lot of them. No one threatened him.

      No one.

      “The tall one belongs to Brodir,” Ingolf said finally.

      George narrowed his eyes at the man. “What d’ye mean?” He couldn’t fathom Rika belonging to anyone.

      “If you touch her…” Ingolf slid a dirty finger along the blade of his knife, leaving a crimson smear of blood on the hammered metal. “Be warned,” he said, and stood.

      Rasmus grinned over his shoulder as the two of them snaked their way to the door of the longhouse and disappeared into the night.

      Lawmaker resumed his conversation with Hannes. The two young dissidents returned their attention to their mead horns, and the mood lightened.

      George glanced at Rika and saw that her game with Ottar was finished. She sat rigid, her expression cool, her eyes unreadable.

      What in bloody hell was going on here?

      

      Rika poured a thin stream of seal oil onto a rag and worked it into the chain mail of her brother’s hauberk. The armory had been quiet since Brodir went a-Viking last summer. Rika enjoyed the solitude, the smells of leather and burnt metal, the icy kiss of the mail where it rested against her knee.

      Ottar worked beside her, carving an ancient design into a shield he had fashioned from a timber hatch that had washed ashore after a shipwreck last year.

      The day was clear and cold, and Ottar had built a small fire in the smith’s brazier in the corner of the small hut. Rika set the hauberk aside and warmed her hands.

      “Why do you marry the Scot?” Ottar said abruptly.

      She turned to him, prepared with an answer, knowing he’d ask her sooner or later. “There are things I must—”

      “If you’ve need of a husband, why not me?” He paused and met her eyes, which widened before she could disguise her shock.

      “Ottar, you don’t understand.”

      “I do. You need protection—from Brodir.” He gouged a knot in the wood, abandoning the delicate skill required for such art. “I will safeguard you. You think of me as a child, I know. But I’m not.”

      Rika smiled and placed a hand over his to quell his attack on the ruined shield. “Nay. I have eyes, and I see you are a man.”

      He smiled, and in that moment she thought he looked more boyish than ever. One day the dark down on his chin would sprout into a man’s beard, but not this year.

      “Then marry me, instead,” Ottar said, and set the shield and the awl aside. “We’re well suited to each other. You cannot argue that.”

      Nay, she could not, for they spent a good part of every day together and had been naught but the best of friends for as long as she could remember.

      “It’s what Gunnar would have wanted were he here.”

      Rika arched a brow at him. Gunnar would not have wanted it, nor would he have condoned the scheme she was about to launch in order to buy his freedom.

      No one knew of her plan, save Lawmaker and two of Gunnar’s closest friends. All thought she was merely after her dowry as a way to thwart Brodir. She’d been careful never to speak of her plans for the silver in front of Ottar and the others. Regardless of his loyalty to her brother, Ottar’s tongue was far too loose. She’d tell him when the time was right.

      Ottar had worshiped Gunnar until the day her brother was taken from them—carried off in the night and sold into slavery on a ship bound for the mainland. Few believed Brodir was to blame, but Rika knew the truth each time the huge warrior looked into her eyes and grinned. The memory of him evoked a shudder.

      Ottar continued to look at her, waiting for her answer. She must think of a way to crush this foolish idea without harming the youth’s feelings. Lawmaker had been right, after all.

      “I’m not a suitable bride for you,” she said finally.

      “I’m not—” How could she tell him? “Brodir has already—” She fisted her hands in her lap and searched for the right words.

      “I know what he’s done, and had I known sooner I’d have killed him.” Ottar knelt before her. “I would…marry you anyway.”

      A bittersweet chord tugged at her heart. “I know you would, and I’m grateful to you for the offer.” But were Ottar her only choice, she would never allow such a thing. It was unthinkable. Brodir would kill him, as he would any man of her clan who dared such a bold move in his absence.

      As for the Scot, who cared what happened to him? Besides, if they moved quickly, both she and Grant would be long gone by the time Brodir returned.

      “Come,” she said, and rose from her stool. “We’ve worked long enough this day. Let us take our evening meal with the others.” Ottar opened his mouth to speak, and she put a finger to his lips to quiet him.

      “We will speak no more of this,” she said, and stepped outside into what promised to be a brilliant sunset.

      Ottar followed, dragging his feet in the crusty snow. Rika smiled inwardly. Honor and chivalry were rare among her folk. One day, Ottar would make a woman a happy wife. But not this year, and not this woman.

      “Ho!” a voice boomed behind them.

      Rika turned to see Lawmaker jogging toward them from the bathhouse, his breath frosting his peppered beard.

      “I’ll see you inside,” Ottar said to her, and continued toward the longhouse.

      She nodded, then smiled at Lawmaker.

      Strange that the old man would bathe midweek. She glanced at the small hut on the opposite side of the courtyard and saw that, indeed, a whisper of steam puffed from the hole in its roof.

      “It is but Thursday,” she said as he approached her.

      Lawmaker took her arm and led her toward the cliff overlooking the water. The sun was nearly spent. “Ja,” he said, “but my old bones cannot seem to get warm. I thought a good long soak would do me good.”

      Rika shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “And me.”

      “I shall leave the fire lit when I’m finished, if you like.”

      She nodded, and stepped closer to him. The wind whipped at her unbound hair and chilled her to the bone, but she would not miss a winter sunset on so clear a day.

      They often stood like this together, she and Lawmaker, watching as Odin’s fiery orb kissed the sea. Someone else watched, as well, below them on the beach.

      Grant.

      He sat alone with his back to them, unaware of their presence. Rika felt a sudden stab of pity for the lone Scotsman, but quickly pushed the unbidden emotion away. Compassion, like love, was for the weak.

      “Once you start down this path,” Lawmaker said, his eyes trained on the Scot, “there can be no turning back.”

      Rika had no intention of turning back. Gunnar must be freed. She would free him, and this was the only way she could conceive of to do it.

      “You