Page 2 of Truly, Madly Viking

"There is no better time," his father said wearily. "There is naught you can do for Inga and the girls now.

Nay, do not scowl at me. 'Tis true."

Suddenly Jorund noticed how much his father had aged in the time he'd been gone. Was it the famine and all the human losses? Or something else? He furrowed his brow in question.

"Your brother, Geirolf, is missing and feared dead."

"Oh, Father! He's probably just delayed on one of his voyages." Rolf was a shipbuilder who often tested his vessels on extended journeys before selling them to high-placed nobles from many lands.

"Not this time," his father insisted. "Whilst you were gone, I sent him on a quest that I hoped would end the famine here in Norway, but then his dragonship sank after a violent sea battle with that misbegotten cur, Storr Grimmsson. His body was never found." He paused, then added, "I need to be sure, one way or another."

"You think Rolf may still be alive?" he inquired, suddenly alert, though still stunned by this latest news.

"Some seamen from Storr's crew told us, under torture, that Geirolf was last seen in the waters... alive. "

His father shrugged with uncertainty. "You and Magnus must travel to Iceland and mayhap even beyond that to Greenland... the region where Geirolf was last seen alive."

"Iceland!" he exclaimed. This was no small favor his father beseeched of him. "No!"

"But—"

"Nei yöir nei," he practically shouted. Then, more softly, "No is no."

His father merely stared at him, making him feel like a child again... a selfish child.

Jorund was torn. Should he stay here in Vest fold and suffer penance for his failing of Inga and his daughters? Or should he leave his homeland to help his father, and perhaps expiate his guilt?

"I beg of you, my son. Put aside your sorrow for now and grant me this boon. 'Twas I who sent Geirolf into harm's way. The guilt is weighing me down so, I can scarce think or speak."

Jorund knew exactly how his father felt. Soon he nodded.

This was a mission he could not refuse.

Autumn, 998 A.D. Beyond Iceland

"Look, Jorund, look! There she blows... again. Hmmm. Mayhap that is the fair Thora's way of blowing kisses at you. Dost thinks..."

"Magnus," Jorund Ericsson warned his brother with a disgusted shake of his head.

"I have heard more than enough of your nonsense today. I suggest you go take a seat at one of the oarlocks and row off some of your excess vigor."

He was standing at the rail of his longship, Fierce Warrior , honing the blade of his favorite sword, Bloodletter. Magnus was standing next to him, honing his tongue. Unless Magnus had a plow in his hands, or a mead horn in his mouth, or a wench in his bed, he tended to think it was his mission in life to bedevil his brother. It was no exaggeration to say that Magnus had an opinion on every bloody topic in the world.

"Now, now, do not be overmodest, little brother," Magnus advised, puffing his chest out, which was a sure sign he was about to expound at length... on some triviality. His long, blond hair was pulled off his face with a leather thong tied at the nape, which drew attention to his uncommonly large ears. For years, Magnus had claimed that his large ears were a sign of other... well, attributes that were equally pronounced, but Jorund could hardly credit that.

And what did he call me? Little? In truth, he and Magnus were of the same immense height, though Magnus was bullish in stature, being a farmsteader by trade, while Jorund carried the leaner-muscled body of a fighting man. And they were a mere nine months apart in age. So little hardly applied. For the love of Odin! What importance is there in whether my brother deems me big or little? My mind must be melting in this unseasonably hot sun. And that is another thing... who would think the sun could be so hot in Iceland? Perchance we have strayed farther than— "One and all can see that the fair Thora has developed a passion for you,"

Magnus blathered on. "And not just the blowing of kisses. You must admit she has been following you about for a sennight and more. Wagging her tail at you like a Hedeby whore. Besotted she is, for a certainty."

He sliced a glare at his brother. "What makes you think she is blowing kisses?"

He knew that it was a mistake to react to any of Magnus's jibes. Still, he blundered on, "Mayhap she is just blowing air."

"Like breaking wind? Now there's a thought."

Magnus grinned. "Mother always told us when we were growing up that females do not break wind, leastways not in public... just old men and bad boys. Ha! I suspect Mother was laughing behind our backs with that mistruth. Either that, or I warrant she was never in close quarters with Fat Helga, the goatherder, after a night of eating gammelost." He tapped his chin with exaggerated pensiveness.

Jorund groaned. When will I ever learn? I can predict what he is going to say now.