Free The Viking’s Sacrifice by Julia Knight Page A

Survival, that’s everything. There’s nothing else. God gives us what He will, and He gives us the strength to survive it. Or not. All is God’s will.”
    “A cold one, I said before. You’re well-suited to this place, my lady. Colder than a witch’s tit.”
    Wilda knew it to be true. Cold in her heart, for too long. The fire there had died when a sword ran through her mother in front of her, when she had to leave a boy to die for her own survival. Only he hadn’t died, had he? Yet that coldness had served her well, had made her cool in a crisis, practical, an asset to her father’s, then her husband’s households. Fire in her heart was worth nothing, could do nothing but hurt, so she quenched it with cold practicality.
    Bebba spoke quickly with Agnar and came back with another question. “He wants to know why Toki gave you the hammer. Why he told you to run. He ain’t spoke to no one for years, poor sod. Why you?”
    Wilda looked down at the amulet, a wash of guilt tingling through her that she wore a heathen token. It was smooth under her hand, yet ridged with signs and meaning. His meaning, when he’d put his finger to her lips. Silence. Her answer was truthful enough, as far as it went. “I truly have no idea why he gave it to me. You say it’s for protection. Who should I need protection from? Agnar?”
    Bebba snorted. “No, the old goat’s soft as melted butter under all that hair, though he’s as lustful as the rest. But you must know. Agnar says Toki ain’t spoke a word for eight years, not since his brother got killed on a raid. The fear of it turned him simple, that’s what they say, drove the sense from his head and the words from his tongue. Till last night, and he spoke to you, a thrall. Why?”
    The amulet seemed to throb in Wilda’s hand. His brother had died in a raid, and he hadn’t spoken since. A big man, a heathen, run through from behind by Bear Man. The twisted smile as he’d turned on Einar, intent on doing the same to him. A touch of fingers on her lips. Silence. “I don’t know. Truly.” God forgive me the lie. Not a true lie though, because she didn’t know why, or not exactly.
    Bebba pursed her lips in a silent “humph.” Disbelieving, and rightly so. Agnar’s gruff voice growled out more nonsense words.
    “He says you keep away from Toki, you hear? I reckon it worried him, last night. Not for you, for Toki. These two, they had no children, to their grief. And Toki—I don’t know, but I think they feel they should watch out for him, especially the way everyone else treats him, like he was lower than pig shit. Agnar and Idunn are the only two in this village that don’t call him names, that don’t sneer at him. Poor young fool, he is, as welcome in this fjord as the Devil at a birth. Agnar and Idunn don’t sneer, even if they ain’t too welcoming, because of what he done. I told you, didn’t I, courage is all to a Norseman? The way they see it, the whole village sees it, he sees it, he’s shamed himself. Like a man sinning before the sight of God, with no hope of confession. But they don’t like to see him upset, and he was right upset. Difficult to tell with this lot, until you have the way of it. If you don’t know, you don’t know, though I’m thinking there’s more here than you’re letting on. But we’ve work to do, lass. Come on, we’ll get started, and I can teach you their tongue. Young Sigdir was most insistent about that. You’re to know their words, at least enough to understand most of what’s said to you, by Winter Nights. Lord knows why.”
    By the time the early dusk came on, Wilda’s back was aching but there was no rest as she and Bebba made the night meal for the older couple and the two thrall boys. The stew had been brewing most of the day by the fire, but now they baked fresh bread and Bebba brought out something she called skyr—a type of curd too soft to be cheese and sweetened with honey—for Agnar and Idunn. A delicacy, Bebba