Free The Enchantment by Betina Krahn Page A

reach Valhalla itself while trapped between those thighs! What a creature she was, to inspire such a delicious combination of woman-lust and battle-lust in a man.
    With fresh insight, he looked back at Jorund. Shades of the Troubler! The gods had delivered her into the old jarl’s lap just when he was about to abandon all hope for his eldest son and heir. She wasn’t here to torment
him
—the gods had sent her to confound and provoke Jorund!
    His eyes fairly misted. The battle-wench was the fulfillment of a desperate father’s prayers.
    Aaren’s blood roared in her head and sweat rolled down the back of her neck and between her breasts and shoulder blades. Her pace continued quick and steady, but she could feel Thorkel slowing, could see the strain in his sweat-slicked body and feel the desperation in his blows. It was only a matter of time. That knowledge fired both her courage and her caution; the final throes of battle were always the most desperate and therefore the most dangerous.
    Drawing on her deepest reserves, she launched a final offensive, using her feet, connecting with his braced knees and jarring his arms, forcing him back. Then she leaped onto the benches along one wall and used the added height to advantage, raining downward blows on his blade. When she bolted down onto the earthen floor again, he bellowed, raised his sword in both hands, and charged her full-out.
    She felt more than heard his battle cry and focused on the stark line of his blade . . . a demarcation between life and death. She saw the tilt, the beginning of the swing, and in an instant projected the circle it would inscribe. Instead of raising her blade to meet it, she whirled to counter with a savage sideways blow.
    The hit spun his shoulders to the side, throwing him off balance. He slammed into the hearthstones and wobbled—just as she reversed and brought her blade crashing into the hilt of his. Before he could right his balance or weapon, she had struck the sword from his hands and sent him sprawling back onto the upraised hearth in a billow of cold ashes. In the blink of an eye she stood astride him, her steel pressed to his throat.
    There was dead silence in the hall, except for the sound of Thorkel’s choking on the flying ash. Every man in the hall suffered a violent shiver at the sight of her standing on the upraised hearth in the shaft of sunlight, wrapped in the fiery haze of hair, her long, powerful legs astride her opponent’s prone body. In that moment, she was the very essence of a Valkyr, the fierce goddess who challenged each man to taste her passion, to drink of her and die a hero’s death. Each warrior present burned to test both his sword arm and his flesh-blade against her hot, lathered body.
    Aaren fought back crashing waves of dark and light in her senses . . . her lungs felt raw and her heart beat as though it would burst from her chest. Then through that inner chaos came the low, sweet trill of triumph. She had won! The discomfort of her body was swept away in a massive eruption of exultation. She turned to Borger and found him standing with his feet braced wide and his thumbs tucked in his belt.
    â€œI claim victory, Jarl,” she panted. “And with it, I claim a seat in your hall, a place at your board . . . a warrior’s honor in your service.”
    A ripple of angry surprise went through Borger’s men at her bold demand.
    The jarl narrowed his eyes. “This day you have earned a place at my board, Serrick’s daughter. But as to the rest . . . you cannot serve both my purposes and Odin’s,” he declared with a crafty expression. “You will be
my
warrior when you are
his
no longer.”
    A clamor broke out among the men as each demanded the right to snatch her from the Allfather’s grasp. Aaren jumped down from the hearth with her blood still roaring in her head and her body still vibrating with battle-fury.
    He refused to honor her victory?