Page 18 of Truly, Madly Viking

He had narrowed his mental list to some particularly creative extermination methods after a full seven days of being held prisoner in her dungeon. At least, he assumed it was a dungeon with its barred window and locked door, though its white walls and metal fixtures resembled no torture chamber he'd ever seen. No actual physical tribulations had been levied yet, except for the Norse people pricking him on occasion with a needle and taking his blood in a little glass vessel, hut there had been indignities aplenty. The most outrageous of these involved a metal trencher slipped under his bare buttocks on a regular basis for the relief of certain bodily functions. The white-uniformed dragon who performed this function had the face of a battle-ax. Her name was Norse Hatch-her, not Hatch-it; still, an appropriate name.

What was not appropriate was her other name...Glad-ass. Norse Glad-ass Hatch-her. Now, he had met a few women in his time for which the appellation would fit like that highpriced strumpet from Cordova with the pretty heart-shaped arse. But Norse Hatch-her had a backside the size of a warhorse.

He could not fathom anyone giving her the glad-ass description.

Every time Norse Hatch-her came into his chamber, she asked with a snide grin,

"Does the stud muffin have to tinkle today?" After hearing the din of his piss in the metal trencher, he could pretty well guess what a tinkle was. But the other... What was a stud muffin? On occasion people referred to horse droppings as horse muffins, and for a certainty, some horses were put out to stud. Was the dragon calling him a horse's arse?

At first he felt a rise of anger at the insult. But then, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been called such.

Norse Hatch-her may have been the one to shove down the loose braies that covered his lower half, forcing the cold metal object under him, but a good warrior knew that, in the end, the leader was responsible for his soldiers' actions. It was this brassy female sitting before him now who would bear the brunt of his anger... in good time. It was she who had instructed the guardsmen at the whale place to bring him here.

"Can't you at least tell me your name?" the wench urged.

Jorund refused to answer.

"Well, can you tell me why you were nude in a public amusement park? I really don't think you came there with violence in mind, despite your sword, but there has to be a reason for your... well, exhibiting yourself before a crowd at Orca land. If you'd only talk with me about your nude display, perhaps we can..."

On and on the dimwit female blathered, with most of her words unfathomable to him. Still, one message came through to him: She thinks I'm a pervert.

He heard the sound of his own grinding teeth. "Most psychologists sit back and listen while the patient talks. It's hard to do that when you won't cooperate."

Sigh-colic-jest? Another big word for Jorund to add to his list for later unraveling. How could the wench be a dock whore and a jester at the same time?

Was she a humorous strumpet?

The whole time she talked and he pondered, the magic stick continued to skim across the parchment, leaving foreign scribblings in its wake. He would like to examine the sorcerer's instrument at a later date.

While she wrote, he used the opportunity to study her lips, which were full and wantonly kiss-some, especially with that rose-colored, glossy substance that glistened on them. Oh, that is just wonderful, he chastised himself. Now he would have to think of her as the wench of the man-hair, sexvoice, comely legs, and kiss-some lips. Said lips were pursed now as she tapped her witch stick on the parchment, perusing something she had written.

Aaarrgh. What difference did the temptation of her lips make? He was going mad with all this inactivity.

Concentrate, Jorund. Concentrate.

He half-reclined on the bed, his head supported by down pillows that were softer than any he'd ever rested upon, even in the Eastern harems. His posture was relaxed, but inside he was poised to pounce at the first opening. Unfortunately, he'd tried once with Norse Hatch-her. Thus the ankle restraints, in addition to the seamless shert. Who knew a female could be so strong? Or could spout such foul language? Grudgingly, he admitted that the Amazon would make a good warrior in battle... not only wielding a battle-ax, but a pike and a battering ram as well.

The woman sitting before him now was another matter. He could break her slim wrists with a snap of his fingers. He could lift her by the waist and toss her over his shoulder. He could press her to the bed, and...

Well, he could do things to her.

Her eyes caught his then, as if she sensed his carnal thoughts. The air nigh sizzled between them, like heat flashes in a lightning storm. He was aware of an intense attraction to her... something far beyond her physical attributes. He could tell she was attracted to him, as well... and was just as puzzled as he.

He shook his head to rid it of these alarming thoughts. And she did the same.

Focus on something else. Do not be diverted. A weak link in a man's armor can be his undoing.

Jorund noted that at least the wench was alone today—Thank the gods! Sending a defenseless maid into his chamber was akin to sending a paltry kitten into a wolf's lair, assuming he could finally manage to break free of his restraints. Missing today was her comrade-in-arms—the man with the bald head covered oddly with his swath of side hair. The man was a dock whore, too. Dock-whore Seabold.

Jorund refused to contemplate what a man would be doing as a dock whore, and on the bold seas, no less. He reminded Jorund of Dagfinn the Dumb, one of his soldiers who'd once tried to braid his nose hairs... all for the sake of male vanity.

Jorund thought he had it figured out. After watching for hours on end that black box in the corner with the illuminated face, he was coming to understand the language of this land rather well, even down to reading some words, as he had those on the Lady Muck-bride's parchment. People here spoke English, though vastly different from the Saxon English with which he was familiar. More important than teaching him the language, the box was giving him views into many other worlds... Genoa City, Cross Creek, Springfield, Port Charles, Pine Valley.

Then there were Sesame Street, Nashville, Mayberry. Speaking of the latter, Jorund was more than a little amused to realize there was a man-or was he a god?—named Barn-knee Fife with ears as big as his brother Magnus's. His brother was twice the size of the Maybel world's guardsman, but they were both bumbling idiots.

Every time a Norse came into the room, she turned a tiny wheel on the box, which gave him a peephole of sorts into a different world. He kept watching, hoping that one of these times he would see his own Vestfold.

It was surprising, really. Norse legend said that when a fighting man died, he went to Valhalla, hall of the gods in Asgard. Apparently there were many other worlds, and many gods he'd never heard of... like Victor New-man and Bill Clin-town.