Page 3 of Kiss of Wrath

“Whoever said that did not know cats, or women,” Ivak interjected.

They all turned to stare at Ivak.

“I am just saying,” Ivak defended himself. “Besides, there are advantages to a toothless woman in the bed arts.”

They all gaped at Ivak with incredulity.

“I am just saying,” Ivak repeated, this time with a grin.

“I do not need another wife,” Mordr said with growing impatience.

“You could go exploring with those Vikings who seek new countries to settle beyond Iceland,” said Trond.

Mordr arched a brow at Trond, who was the laziest Norseman ever born. Trond would never go exploring himself because it would require too much energy. “The only way I am going to Iceland is if there is a Hordsson sitting on an iceberg thereabouts,” Mordr declared.

Sigurd the Healer made one of the most outrageous suggestions. “Methinks you should let me drill a hole in your head. Trepanning, it is called. Mayhap all your body’s bad humors would be released, and you would lose this madness.”

His other brothers were as stunned as Mordr.

“I like my madness, thank you very much. You come within an arm’s length of me with a drill, and you will find that instrument lodged in one of your body parts, the one where the sun does not shine, lest it come up from a privy hole.”

Harek, the most intelligent and most wealthy of all his brothers—he was a moneylender and tax collector—said, “If you’re going to continue on this path of self-destruction, can I have Stonegarth?”

Mordr could not be angry with his brother. Harek was what he was, a greedy Viking bent on amassing enough treasure to establish his own kingdom.

“I’ve already given it to Atzer,” Mordr told him.

His brothers left him eventually, as did many more of his followers. In the end, Geirfinn was the only one of his original hersirs to stay. When Mordr could find no more Hordssons to kill, Mordr, Geirfinn, and a handful of loyal comrades-in-arms hired themselves out as mercenaries to kings and chieftains of many lands. For a while, they even became Jomsvikings, but Mordr chafed under the rigid rules of that monastic-like living.

Thus it was that five years after the invasion of Stonegarth and the death of his children, Mordr found himself in a battle against a band of Saxon villains. There were only twelve men with Mordr now, but thirteen powerful Norse warriors could handle twice, mayhap thrice, that many foemen. But not today. They were outnumbered five to one, and the gods were against them, pelting rain down on them in cold misery. If that were not bad enough, Thor raised his mighty hammer Mjollnir, causing lightning to flash, as if foretelling doom. Already vultures—ravens of death—circled overhead, just waiting to pounce on the human carrion.

The field became slippery with sword dew, as well as mud. The air rang with the clang of metal weapon against metal weapon, the death screams of the fallen, the grunts of soldiers brandishing heavy broadswords, and his own roars of berserkness.

Mordr cleared a path through the fray in front of him, trying to get to Geirfinn, who was being attacked from both sides. When he was almost there, he saw his good friend go down from a lance thrown from behind by yet another Saxon villain. A death blow, it had to be.

With a bellow of outrage, Mordr tossed his shield and leather helmet to the ground. Storming forward, he wielded his heavy broadsword in his right hand and his battle-axe in his left. One foeman got his head lopped off. Another Mordr speared through the heart with the sharp butt end of his battle-axe. Still another would ne’er swive any maids in the future, for Mordr firmly planted his sword Vengeance in the soldier’s groin.

As he was pulling his sword back out of the groaning man’s body, Mordr made a huge mistake. Ne’er turn your back on the battlefield. Someone had come up behind him, quickly reaching around and garroting him from shoulder to shoulder. Blood gushed forth, and he felt a flush of heat race across the skin of his entire body, as if he had been scalded. His arms went numb, and his legs gave out, causing him to fall forward. Soon, the sounds of battle faded as he felt his blood soaking the ground beneath him. Someone rolled him over with a booted foot and laughed. “King Edmund will give me a great boon for having felled this vicious Viking.”

But then Mordr heard nothing as he sank into a dark slumber, and it was not a peaceful sleep as he’d expected death would be. It sounded like beasts gnashing their teeth all around him, just waiting for the cue to devour his flesh and bones. Is this death then? Why am I not on the road to Asgard? Where are my Valkyries? Why am I not being welcomed into Odin’s great hall in Valhalla?

“Because thou art not in Valhalla, Viking,” a voice boomed above him.

Mordr hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. In truth, how could he speak with his neck nigh split through to his nape? He blinked his eyes open. He was still in the middle of the battlefield. Fighting was going on around him. Rain still came down in stinging sheets. Except for the circle surrounding him where a tall man stood over him. Instead of wearing a battle helmet and brynja of chain mesh, this lackwit wore a white robe, similar to those worn by men in eastern lands. It was tied at the waist with a golden rope, and his dark hair hung loose to his shoulder. Most amazing of all, a light emanated from the man, like a full-body halo. Mordr knew about halos, having once seen a Byzantine church mural depicting a saint, but that fellow’s halo had been surrounding his head only. This must be an important saint.

“Are you a saint?” Mordr asked, oddly unsurprised that he could speak.

“You could say that,” the man said, and from his back suddenly unfurled a massive set of pure white wings.

“Bloody hell! An angel?”

The man—rather, the angel—nodded. “I am St. Michael the Archangel, and you, Viking, are in big trouble.”

Mordr noticed that the angel did not say “Viking” in a complimentary way. “What do you have against Vikings?”

“You are a sorry lot of men. Vain. Prideful. Greedy. Vicious. Fornicators.”

“We are also brave in battle. Good providers for our families. Yea, I know what you are going to say. We provide by plundering, but that is not so bad when you consider we are doing a good deed by relieving your churchmen of the overabundance of wealth they garner for themselves. As for vanity, some could say that your God made Norsemen beautiful; therefore, ’tis not our fault that we are proud of ourselves.”