Free Undercurrent by Michelle Griep Page A

stood arms crossed, eyes darting, lips pressed. Foreboding swelled, bearing down upon each soul.
    At the base of the jarl’s dais—a raised platform with an intricately carved chair, upholstered in the finest silks from the far east, and set on a bearskin rug—Torolf’s men squared off, standing grim-faced.
    When the front doors swung open, every head turned. Torolf loped down the aisle created by villagers edging backward. Fastened at each shoulder with silver clasps, a brilliant sapphire cape billowed as he ascended to the jarl’s throne.
    The odor of fear emanated from each man. Even Ragnar’s spirit was troubled within his breast. He swiped at the perspiration tickling his brow while assessing the terrible glory Torolf commanded.
    A curtain of straight, white hair hung as a mantle over his shoulders. White eyebrows, white eyelashes, but no beard nor moustache. His sleeves rolled up over colorless skin that stretched taut against enormous biceps, lending him an overall translucent blue glow from the veins beneath. He gazed out from storm-gray eyes, as if lightning might strike at any moment, daring anyone to turn from his horrible beauty. But the magnetism of the twistedly handsome figure could not be denied.
    With a sweep of his gold-banded arm, Torolf displaced the cape and sat in the jarl’s chair. “Brothers, your troubles have not gone unnoticed. I come to offer my assistance.”
    “ We need none.” Steinn’s voice rang out, echoing off the mud-plastered walls, but he did not step forward.
    Torolf strummed his long fingers against the armrest of the throne. “Perhaps, then, I did not assess the situation correctly. Has not Hermod, Jarl of Rogaland, taken to his bed, babbling as a mad man? Does not his firstborn, Einar, even now lie dead? Is not Alarik on the run with Gerlaich and his men at his heels? Are these things not true?”
    Silence. Torolf leaned forward, lifting one thin, white eyebrow. “Are they?”
    “ Aye!” Steinn growled the word through clenched teeth.
    “ Then Rogaland is vulnerable.” Torolf relaxed against the cushion and impaled Steinn with a pointed glare. “I wager none here desire to forfeit their homes and women to outsiders. This is why I have come. Rogaland must have a strong leader to stave off hungry wolves.”
    Steinn pulled himself to full height. “What wolves?”
    “ Bloodthirsty wolves, hungry for power.”
    “ Such as you?” Steinn clamped his lips but too late. The question hung in the air like an empty noose seeking a neck.
    Ragnar’s gut twisted as Torolf stood and descended the dais. Jesu, have mercy. Steinn does not yet know you. Spare his life. Please.
    Men stumbled over themselves to gain distance from Steinn, leaving him to stand alone—alone in a room full of warriors who would not defend him.
    Torolf stepped up to him until his broad chest almost flattened Steinn’s nose. “Do you challenge me, little man?”
    The guards nearest Ragnar smirked. They’d come with bloodlust, but Ragnar knew the state of Steinn’s soul. If he died now…
    Ragnar stepped forward. “I challenge you!”
    Jaws dropped and eyes riveted on him as his words rang out. All except for Torolf. He did not turn, and Ragnar saw his shoulders begin to shake. Laughter followed.
    This did not bode well.
    Jesu, if someone must die here today, let it be me. I am ready.
    A shuffle of feet, and now Ragnar stood deserted, his heart thumping in a chest barely knit together. One solid blow would be the end of him.
    Torolf pivoted, the swirl of his cape whapping against Steinn. “Ahh, Ragnar.” He approached with a smile. “How could I have forgotten you?”
    He drew up close, a head taller, a hand span broader, and a good many stones heavier. Ragnar’s palms grew damp. Torolf’s eyes traveled over him from head to toe and back again. Every pore on Ragnar’s body rained sweat.
    Jesu, give me courage. Let my sacrifice not be in vain but to your glory.
    Torolf turned back to face the