Chapter 7
Tor
I exit the tent in full battle readiness, sword in hand, muscles tensed and ready. The sound I heard was horses storming through the camp, and as my men don’t have horses, I’m ready for the attack.
And yet, it doesn’t come. I storm out of my tent and charge into the clearing of the main bonfire, and it’s then that I see what’s made the commotion.
“Tor!”
Ivar grins wolfishly as he jumps down from the large grey stallion he’s been riding.
“We have horses!”
I growl, muttering as I lower my sword and shake my head.
“You fucker,” I mutter, glaring at him.
“See?” Erik chuckles, shoving his blond hair away from his face as he jumps down from the black horse he sits upon. He nods his chin at Ivar.
“I told you he’d think we were the enemy.”
My two friends snort in laughter, ignoring my glares.
“Amused, are you?”
“Quite, thanks,” Ivar grins.
“I think you’d have found it hard to laugh if I’d come out swinging and taken your head off.”
Ivar snorts. “I’m too quick for you anyways.”
I roll my eyes, a small smile spreading over my lips as I glare at him. My eyes move from his horse to Erik’s, and then to the dozen or so other’s they’ve brought into the camp with them.
“Where exactly did these come from?”
There’s a whinnying sound as a white mare comes trotting up, it’s rider blonde, beautiful, fierce, and for all intents and purposes, my sister. Technically, Freya is Erik’s sister. But seeing as Erik, Ivar, and Bjorn are basically brothers, that makes her little sister to all of us. At least, that’s how I look at it.
Freya grins, pulling her horned helm off as she jumps nimbly from the horse.
“Some lord.”
I frown, folding my arms over my bare chest as I raise a brow at her. “Some lord?”
She grins. “I don’t know his name, if you’re somehow concerned about that.”
“What I’m concerned about is this some lord deciding to come look for his missing horses.”
Ivar rolls his eyes.
“What,” I growl.
“Nothing, nothing,” he sighs. “I was merely curious when exactly the witch cursed you from our brave leader into an old woman.”
Freya snorts, and even Erik grins.
“What’s this about a witch?”
The deep, thundering voice of Bjorn rumbles from behind me as he steps into the fire circle.
“The one that turned Tor into a scared old woman,” Erik answers.
Bjorn frowns, his huge arms crossing over his barrel chest. I’m a big man, even for my people. But Bjorn’s even bigger than I am—easily half a foot taller with massive shoulders and arms.
“What’s this then?”
“Tor’s worried about a reprisal from us stealing horses from some lord a day’s ride from here,” Ivar chuckles.
Bjorn’s brow stays furrowed.
“You stole all of these horses?”
Ivar grins.
“Well that was fucking stupid,” Bjorn mutters.
This time, I’m the one who chuckles.
“See? Bjorn understands.”
Freya frowns. “I thought your whole plan was to settle here? Be a little lord just like the rest of them?”
I ignore the sarcastic bite in her voice, because I know she’s young enough not to quite understand. I’m not entirely sure any of my friends understand, but they will.
Perhaps.
The plan is not to become “a little lord like the rest of them.” Not even close. But my plans do involve staying here, in the highlands of Scotland. My infamy in this part has grown, and I’m aware of that. I know they fear me and think of me as this “king” of the Norsemen.
…I am not.
Haraldsson Arvid is the actual king of the Danes, up in the north. It’s him who has us waging this perpetual campaign of fear, aggression, and pillaging of the coast of this land. I won’t deny that I’ve sated my bloodlust in doing so. I won’t deny being good at what I do, and even reveling in the fear and chaos I’ve sown in these lands.
But I am tired of it. I’m tired of the orders. I’m tired of the endless warring. I’m tired of calling a tent or a small cabin on my ship a home, for years on end. Haraldsson’s way isn’t sustainable, and the longer I and my men keep taking orders from him, the more we stray from the true Viking code of personal freedom. And that is what I crave—more than any riches, or plunder, or power that I’ve wielded over the shores of this land. And deep down, I know my friends understand that, even if they jest with me about it.
So, yes. The plan, eventually, and hopefully soon, is to settle here, on the shores of Scotland. I already fully grasp how difficult it may prove, given who we are, and the violence we’ve inflicted on these lands. It may even be impossible, but I know what I need—what we all need—as true, free people of the North.
…Stealing fucking horses that we neither need nor can even take care of, is not going to aid in that struggle.