CHAPTER FOUR
Eric followed Hrafn past dozens of people, toward a large longhouse near the center of their settlement. The scent of fresh fish was redolent in the air, and several women were busy cooking at outdoor hearths while children chased each other in a game. A few dogs sniffed at his legs, before they moved away.
As he walked, he kept his gaze fixed upon the dwelling ahead, his thoughts still hazy with confusion. He rubbed at the wound on his thumb where he’d drawn blood. It held a slight ache, and his body had gone cold at the thought that this was not a dream.
But whether it was a dream or not, he had to find a way out of this place, back to his father’s home. Only then would he find the answers he sought. He needed a ship, and then he could navigate to England.
He slowed his pace, studying his surroundings. Never in his life could he have conjured such a settlement within his thoughts. There were no carriages, no brick buildings or architecture of any kind. And yet, the women wore jewels and gold. They were clearly a proud folk, ready to defend their homes and their families with a sword or a battle-ax.
He caught a glimpse of Katarina leaving one of the dwellings, followed by herthrall, Astrid. Her long blond hair had come slightly unbraided, but her wild appearance only intrigued him. She was tall and carried herself differently from other women he’d known. Her hand rested at the weapon sheathed at her waist, and he didn’t doubt she could gut any man who attempted to harm her. She glanced over in his direction, and though she acknowledged him with a nod, her eyes remained troubled.
With reluctance, he forced his attention back to Hrafn. The man’s expression held a knowing look, but he said nothing.
They reached the longhouse, and Hrafn kept his voice low, saying again, “Your father has claimed your place asjarl. You must take it back.”
Eric gave no reaction, for he had no intention of taking a leadership role in this place. What would he possibly know about reigning over this settlement? He had come with Hrafn in the hopes of negotiating for a ship to take him back to England. Though he wasn’t certain how he would bargain for anything since he possessed nothing of value, all he could do was try.
He followed Hrafn inside, and the moment he entered the space, the room grew hushed. There were only men standing around, save a single female servant pouring drinks. At the far end, there was a large wooden chair, and a man with dark hair stood up and stared at him.
A numb sensation caught him in the throat, while ice flooded through his veins. For this man looked exactly like his father, Gregory. He possessed the same dark eyes, the same stern demeanor of a man determined to make his son follow the path of duty.
God in heaven,Eric thought. He must be dead. For it could not be a coincidence that his own father bore such a striking resemblance to this man.
Visions crashed over him, silencing any words he might say. His mind blurred with memories that didn’t belong to him. Eric closed his eyes a moment, searching through the sea of thoughts for the right name.
Valdr. His father…and yet, not his father. Cold tightened his skin, but he forced himself to take a step forward.
A slight flicker of relief passed over thejarl’s face before he masked it. The man’s dark hair was longer than Gregory’s, tied back with a length of cord. The edges were rimmed with silver, showing his age. A beard covered his face, and he wore a dark leather tunic with leggings of a lighter color. A sword hung at his side, and he wore rings of gold on his hands and a jeweled arm band.
“You’ve returned,” Valdr said by way of greeting. The old man took a step forward, and for a fleeting moment, Eric wasn’t certain if he was meant to bow or embrace the man. He stood his ground, staring back at the leader. For a moment, he studied Valdr’s features, trying to understand what had happened. Was this his own father reborn into another life? Or was he caught in purgatory, lost within the centuries?
An ache gripped his heart, and he wondered what to say. “I have,” was all he could manage.
The man studied him intently, and his gaze shifted into doubts. “And what of the battle-ax that cut you down?”
There was no logical explanation. Eric had felt the phantom pain of a wound upon his spine, but it was not his. “I do not remember.”
There were a thousand questions roiling within him and no answers at all. But he sensed the danger if he did not give this man a strong reason why he was alive. These people were eager to believe in divine intervention and supernatural phenomenon, and he supposed that was as good a reason as any.
“The gods willed me to live,” he said, meeting the gaze of the leader, and then turning to the people surrounding him. “I thought I was dying, but I heard the voice of a woman on the wind.”
At that, several men stepped backward, murmuring amongst themselves about Freya.
Thejarlnodded his head, but gave no reaction to Eric’s words. “Come with me.” He beckoned for him to follow. “We will drink, and you will tell me what has happened.”
He didn’t know how he would manage that when he didn’t know the truth himself. He remembered only fragmented moments of the shipwreck. Even so, Eric joined Valdr, still unsettled by the strong resemblance between this man and his father.
More than all else, it felt as if his life had been switched with Arik Thorgrim’s. It made him feel displaced, trapped in a world he didn’t know or understand. But why had it happened?
As he walked back to join Valdr, a hand brushed against his. Eric turned and saw an old woman watching him. White streaks blended within her black hair, and her ancient skin was wrinkled and gaunt. Her clothing had been fashioned from several animal skins, and she wore a cloak with black feathers sewn upon it. In one hand, she carried a brass staff.
A shudder passed over him, for she reminded him of the witches he’d read about in fairytales as a boy. Although her gaze was not malicious, there was a knowing look in her eyes that unnerved him.
But he walked past her, continuing to follow thejarl.Valdr led him into a small corner of the longhouse, partitioned from the rest of the gathering space. He offered Eric a goblet of ale and bade him to sit down.
Valdr paused a moment and regarded him. “I should have you killed.”
They were the very last words he’d expected to hear. It took an effort to keep his reaction shielded. “And why is that?”
