Dark Viking

  After that, as a way for them to warm up, they were told to run. Of course!

  Pain, pain, pain, that was the name of the game, all to condition their bodies to the horrors they might face on a real mission.

  Following a brief lunch in the chow hall where some of them fell asleep over their trays of food, they were told to prepare for Rock Portage, one of the most dangerous tests a SEAL or WEALS candidate faced. It was so dangerous that the ratio of instructor to trainee became one to one. The women geared up in wet suits with Nomex hoods and flippers, then walked to the hated IBSs.

  Before they left, Commander MacLean came over and told them, “Remember, it’s all a case of mind over matter.”

  “Yeah,” Wendy whispered to her. “They don’t mind, and we don’t matter.”

  “That’s for sure,” she agreed.

  “Good luck!” the commander added.

  Now in the water once again, they climbed into their IBSs, eight each, and paddled to a count shouted out by the coxswain, which was Wendy, over to the smooth area beyond the breaking waves facing the Hotel del Coronado shore. On arriving, they paddled in place, waiting, about a hundred yards from the shoreline, where jagged black rocks stood up like sentinels of death.

  The goal was for each boat, one at a time, to make a safe surf passage, riding a wave, through the treacherous rocks, without breaking a limb or drowning. At least they were performing this operation in daylight. In BUD/S the SEAL trainees went out at night. The Hindenburg factor was multiplied dramatically in moonlight. Not that this wasn’t bad.

  Rita was going to be the bowline man for her team . . . or was that bowline woman? Whatever. Once a perfect wave . . . please God, let there be a perfect wave . . . rose behind them, they tossed their paddles aside and lifted themselves to straddle the tubes on both sides, Rita at the forefront on her side. One of the women let loose with a rebel yell when Commander MacLean, on the shore, raised his hand. “Go, go, go!” a SEAL instructor from a nearby boat shouted.

  In they went, way too fast, like a giant surfboard, except not so fun. At the last moment, Rita jumped into the water and found a secure spot between two rocks. “Take a bite! Take a bite!” someone screamed into a bullhorn.

  “I’m biting, I’m biting,” she muttered to no one in particular as she wrapped the bowline around her waist. A few seconds later, the boat came closer on a second wave, and she reached for the stern line.

  But it was a rogue wave and it twisted in on itself, overturning the boat. So powerful was the force that it snapped her bowline and hurled her up into the air. She heard shouts of alarm and screams before she came down, striking the back of her head on one of the rocks.

  Then everything went blank.

  Men! Clueless through the ages . . .

  “I can get a tongue thickening.”

  Steven and every sailor within hearing distance turned to stare at Oslac.

  They were on Steven’s favorite dragon ship, Wind Breaker, on the return trip from Birka . . . a very successful trip, by the by, in which they had traded amber for fine Frisian wine, pottery from the Rhineland, oats and barley, samite silks, iron kettles, swords, bows and arrows. Ells and ells of Northumbrian wool to supplement the lesser quality Norseland fleece to make clothing for one and all at Norstead and Amberstead over the winter months. Six horses, a goat, and three cows to be serviced by their randy bull Ornulf, best known as Ornulf the Ornery. Ornery had no finesse in the bedsport . . . or was that pasturesport? As a result, after a few tries, the female cows ran when they saw him coming.

  “That is naught to brag about, Oslac. My tongue thickens, too, when I am drukkinn, and it grows a fuzz, as well,” Steven said, leaning on the rail beside him.

  “Not that kind of thickening, lackwit. The other kind. The good kind. Besides, I was not bragging. ’Tis no great feat.”

  “You mean, it hardens, like your cock when it readies to tup?”

  He nodded.

  “That for damn sure is a great feat, if you really can do it.” Steven arched his eyebrows with disbelief. “Show me.”

  “You must be daft. Nay, I will not.”

  “Next you will be telling me that you can lick your own balls.”

  Oslac just grinned.

  “Oslac!”

  “What male has not tried such?”

  “A boyling, mayhap, but not a grown man.”

  “Pff! I did not say I tried it recently. Besides, there is that age-old question: Why does a dog lick his ballocks? The answer: Because it can. I say, if a dog can do it, why not men?”

  “Dogs are so lucky in that way,” a nearby seaman shouted out above the roar of the waves slapping against the longship and the rhythmic dip of the oars in the water.

  “Me wife Mary refuses, sayin’ no way is she puttin’ her tongue anywhere near those hairy buggers,” another sailor contributed.

  “Yea, betimes a man has just got to do a job himself,” a third sailor added to the barmy discussion.

  “I would wager that Adam of biblical lore could pleasure his own ballocks,” Oslac added defensively since everyone within hearing was laughing at him.

  “Before or after he ate the apple?” Steven asked, his lips twitching with mirth.

  They both burst out with laughter, that they were reduced to this type of conversation. It was a warped kind of stress reliever after having spent the past night and morning outrunning Brodir the Bold and his pirate crew. There had to have been more than two hundred outlaw Vikings in the six pirate ships.

  If they had been traveling with more than three longships, they would have stopped and fought to the bloody end, but it had been pointless with Brodir’s six ships against their three. In retrospect, it had been foolhardy of Steven to have sent his other supply ships up ahead. After Brodir had been exiled from his homeland, he had developed some kind of plot against those at Norstead for unnamed past crimes. Steven knew without a doubt that he and Brodir would meet again. Hopefully soon.

  Thank the gods, they were almost home now. Of course, he would probably be subjected to one joke after another from his people, as he had been before departure, in their halfbrained attempts to raise his spirits. Mayhap he would issue an edict: No more jokes!

  As if reading his mind, Aghi, the helmsman manning the rudder, said, “Why do men die before their wives?”

  “I am not going to participate in any of these word jests.”

  “Because they want to,” Aghi said with a whoop, laughing at his own joke.

  Steven just shook his head. “Oslac, I have been thinking about that conversation we had sennights ago,” Steven began.

  Oslac cocked his head to the side in question.

  “When you suggested that it is time for me to wed.” The almost-battle with Brodir had brought home to him that if he died, Norstead and Amberstead would be left without any of his blood in charge.

  “Aaaahhh! So you have picked a bride. Isrid?”

  “Nay, what is it with you and King Olaf’s daughter? Mayhap you should take her yourself.”

  Oslac looked horrified now that the tables were turned on him. His good friend had been married at one time to the most disagreeable woman that ever was born. Girda drowned one day, two years past, whilst nagging Oslac as he’d prepared to board a longship. Yea, it was wrong to take pleasure in anyone’s death, but really, Girda had been beyond shrewish. One time she had even carped at Oslac to help with the laundry, and when he refused by laughing at her, she had attacked him with a broom. Imagine that!

  “By the by, do you know why men fart more than women?” Oslac asked of a sudden.

  “Oh, please, Oslac, not you, too!”

  “Because women do not shut up long enough to build up wind in their bellies.”

  “You should know, having been married to a talksome woman,” he remarked.

  Oslac nodded vigorously.

  Steven once again picked up on the thread of their previous conversation. “I have not chosen a bride, and in truth it matters not t
o me whom the woman is. As long as she is of child-breeding years, passably fair, and biddable.”

  “And passionate? Do you not want a woman with an enthusiasm for the bedsport?”

  Steven shrugged. “There are bedmates aplenty. Wives are for popping out heirs.”

  “I thought you were Christian.”

  “I have been raised in both the Norse and Christian religions. I was not thinking of the more Danico. Only one wife will I ever take.”

  “So you are Christian when it suits you, and Norse at other times.”

  “Precisely.”

  Oslac laughed. “I would like to be a fly on the wall of your great hall when you make this proposal to your prospective bride.”

  “Oh, my gods and goddesses! What is that?”

  Steven’s longboat was riding low in a course close to the rocky shore as they approached Ericsfjord, the waterway that led to Norstead. There was something crumpled atop the stones.

  “What is that?” Oslac repeated Steven’s question back at him. “’Tis a body, but is it man or animal?”

  “It has seal-like skin with breasts. Leastways, those two bulges appear to be in the right places. And its feet . . . unbelievable! It has webbed feet. ’Tis a monster, for a certainty. A female monster.” Steven raised a hand for his archers and lancers to ready their weapons as the rudder master steered the vessel landward.

  “Too bad it is not a mermaid. I have heard they are incredible sex partners.”

  “You have not. You are making that up,” Steven said, as he lowered the rope ladder over the side. They were in the shallows now, and the anchor had been thrown. Although longships were built to ride low waters as well as the high seas, maneuvering any closer in the midst of the rocky landscape posed peril to the ship. Sharp rocks could cut through the seasoned oak like a hot knife through butter.

  “Truly. Mermaids have no nether channel for a man’s cock.” Oslac was still blathering on about mermaids. The lackwit! “So he must put it in their sucking mouths.”

  They both looked at the creature, which appeared to have no place for a woman’s parts, like a mermaid, which was half fish. But, nay, it had no mermaid tail. Just the webbed feet.

  “I swear you have been listening overmuch to the old ones who speak the ancient sagas of giants and trolls and dinosaurs and such.” He was already halfway down the ladder, his small sword unsheathed, but he kept his head turned toward shore. He had to admit, on closer scrutiny, that the mouth was lush and sensual. Good for sucking, to be sure. Unless it had teeth. They would have to check.

  “Have a caution, Steven. There may be others.” Oslac had his sword drawn from its scabbard as well. “Ahoy there, monster! Stand slowly and raise your hands.”

  At first the monster did not obey. Mayhap it did not understand words. But wait. Slowly it rose to its webbed feet, fighting for balance. Then it raised its head and stared directly at him.

  What an ugly beast! Its face was an odd mixture of brown and green and black, and it had no hair, just a black sealskin covering its head and neck.

  “Where am I?” it squeaked. “Where are the instructors?”

  “Huh?”

  “The instructors. The SEALs.”

  He and Oslac exchanged glances at the mention of seals. So it was a water creature after all. A talking one, no less.

  “I have an idea,” Oslac said. “Let us put this creature in a cage and set it upon the dais of your great hall. Think of the fun it would provide.”

  “We have no cages at Norstead.”

  “How about those large crates used to take geese to market . . . the ones that fit in the hold of a knarr?”

  Steven was not so sure how much entertainment he would get from a seal creature. Mayhap they could sell the creature to some wooly-witted Saxon, if worst came to worst. The Saxon kings were wont to keep bears in cages at their royal courts . . . a practice he had always abhorred . . . but they enjoyed taunting them to snarl and shake their bars.

  He shrugged his approval.

  “What shall we call it? Oh, oh, I have an idea. How about Siren? A jest. Because, of course, this she-creature is far from tempting.”

  Steven smiled at Oslac’s ever constant humor. “Sea Siren it is then.”

  Even mermaids get PMS . . .

  Rita blinked groggily through a mist of confusion.

  She must have blacked out after the IBS overturned during Rock Portage and struck her head on one of the breakwater rocks. She didn’t even know if she’d completed the exercise, or . . . God forbid! . . . would be rolled back and have to do it all over. This Rock Portage rotation, the culmination of Hell Week in WEALS, was not as demanding as a BUD/S Hell Week for SEAL trainees. Still, this was worse than the time she’d crashed her motorcycle after a triple wheelie over a California freeway in Die Again 5. Hellish, for sure. She’d broken both legs and three ribs.

  Her head pounded with pain. Her throat and chest burned from all the water she’d swallowed and then upchucked. Nausea churned inside her stomach. And she was about to get her period. She was not in a good mood.

  Trying hard to focus, she recalled what felt like gallons of murky water spewing out of her mouth, hurling onto a size thirteen boondocker that probably belonged to one of the SEAL instructors. Oddly, the man had exclaimed, “Holy Thor! There is vomit on my best boots.” Must be that ridiculous Viking Thorfinn Haraldsson. Good! The chauvinist deserved a bit of humbling puke.

  Slowly her vision started to clear and her senses to focus. That’s when she realized that she was lying down. And that there were bars in front of her. Wooden bars. On all four sides of a space that was no more than six by six.

  Whaaaaat?

  She immediately launched to her feet, not an easy task when she was still wearing flippers, and her head skimmed the roof. Was she in the brig? No, how could she be? Even if she’d failed the Rock Portage rotation miserably, the worst that could happen would be her being dumped from WEALS or forced to repeat the exercise. Besides that, what kind of brig had wooden bars?

  “The Sea Siren awakens.”

  Rita’s eyes shot to the right where a man stood, a man with compelling silver gray eyes. He of the size thirteen leather boots, she presumed—not boondockers after all—was tall, with black hair down to the shoulders and braids framing either side of his face. Braids that were intertwined with colored crystal beads. What kind of man wore beads in his hair? A hippie? No, she couldn’t see this brute singing “Kumbaya.” A rock star? Hah! He didn’t look even a little bit like Steven Tyler. He was too big. Too masculine. Too menacing. And, whoa, check out that gold-embroidered tunic he’s wearing, held together at the waist with a gold-linked belt worth a king’s ransom.

  But the clothing and braids were nothing compared to his facial features. Holy cow! He looked like a bigger, darker, younger version of George Clooney in some period costume. But definitely not George himself.

  “What sea siren?” Rita asked, turning to see who was behind her, where there were only more bars.

  “You.”

  “Huh?” She shook her head to clear it, which caused her brain to practically explode. “Why am I in this cage?”

  “Protection.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Not yours. Ours. You are dangerous.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  He shrugged.

  “I don’t even have a weapon on me.”

  “Do you usually carry a weapon?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” he repeated, as if she’d just confessed some great crime.

  She realized then that he had been speaking to another man who’d come up to stand beside him, handing him a horn of what she assumed was some alcoholic beverage. Whereas the first guy was dark and dangerous, this guy was blond with whiskey-colored eyes. A blond Adonis. Brad Pitt. Yep, she was locked in la-la land with George Clooney and Brad Pitt look-alikes.

  She licked her dry lips and said, “I’m thirsty, too.”

>   Both men were staring at her lips in the oddest way.

  The blond not-Brad god handed her his horn and jumped back as if he expected her to pounce on him right through the bars.

  She took a sip, then grimaced. “What is this?”

  “Mead,” the frowning not-George replied, still staring at her mouth.

  “Mead? Is that like beer?”

  Not-George nodded his head. “Mead is a honeyed ale.”

  After emptying the horn, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, just realizing that she was still cammied up. “So, who are you two jokers?”

  Not-George hesitated, then disclosed, “I am Steven Haraldsson of Norstead and Amberstead. This,” he waved to his friend, “is my comrade-in-arms, Oslac. And, believe you me, sea wench, this is no joke.”

  “I’m Petty Officer Rita Sawyer. U.S. Navy WEALS.”

  “Ree-tah,” Steven sounded out her name as if it was an uncommon one. “Where are you from, Ree-tah?”

  “The United States. I told you I’m with WEALS.”

  “I do not see any wheels on her. Do you, Steven?” Oslac asked.

  Rita threw her hands up with frustration.

  Apparently tired of standing, they pulled over a bench and sat down, continuing to study her intermittently as they chatted with each other in low voices.

  Rita was beginning to think this was all a hallucination. She was probably in the Coronado Special Forces medical center, being treated for a concussion. Hell, maybe she was even in a coma, and she was imagining this whole scene. Hopefully, she would awaken soon and laugh over her crazy dream. Hopefully, she was not dead.

  In the meantime, she said, “So, Steve, what do you plan to do with me in this cage?”