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  “And your people are aware of it, too,” Oslac pronounced, squeezing his forearm in warning.

  A serving maid, Asabor, stepped forward to refill their horns from a pottery jug in her hand. He could guess from the flushed expression on her round cheeks what was about to come.

  “Did ya hear ’bout the woman who buried her husband twelve feet under?”

  “Nay, Asabor, I did not.” Spare me, Lord.

  “It was ’cause deep down he was a good person.”

  That was not even funny. “Ha-ha-ha! Very good, Asabor.”

  When she left, he rolled his eyes at Oslac. His people had taken of late to telling lackwit jokes in hopes of garnering a smile from him.

  First of all, to say that the people of Norstead and Amberstead were “his” people struck an odd chord with him. He still thought of his home as Norsemandy, where he grew up. When he and Thorfinn had come to Hordaland, it was Finn as the older brother who had ruled. He did not want nor need that role. Alas and alack! He was stuck being a jarl in a country that was not even his own.

  Second, it was beyond distasteful that the common folks were not only remarking on his moods but attempting to do something about them.

  “I do not seek pity from anyone, Oslac.”

  “’Tis not pity, my friend. Everyone shares in your grief. They speak in general of a gloom that pervades this valley.”

  “Oh,” he exclaimed, “now I know what you refer to. It is those damn witches, Kraka and Grima, who continue to spread their prophecies of a great light coming to brighten all the world.”

  “Not all the world. Just Norstead.” Oslac’s lips twitched with amusement.

  “Have you e’er met these two sisters, Oslac? Living in some mountain hut as they do, they are enough to scare the braies off a priest with their wild white hair and incessant cackling. I swear, they are older than time. I know they were here when my grandsire ruled Norstead, and that was some fifty years ago.”

  “Mayhap you need to wed. Mayhap that will be the light they speak of. Get yourself a wife and start breeding sons. King Olaf still claims you were betrothed at birth to his third daughter, Isrid.”

  He shot a glower at Oslac.

  “What? She is not so bad.”

  “Oh, she is comely enough, but she talks constantly. About nothing. Blather, blather, blather. I would have to put a plug in her mouth afore tupping.”

  Oslac suggested something about the plug, which Steven should have expected. He had stepped into that one like a boyling unused to male jests.

  “Whether Isrid or someone else, you must wed at some point. Heirs are needed for Norstead and Amberstead.”

  He shrugged. “Isrid or some other, it matters not to me at the present. Time enough later.”

  “It’s your brother then,” Oslac guessed.

  He nodded. “Yea, ever since Thorfinn disappeared two years past—”

  “Disappeared?” Oslac scoffed.

  “Ever since Finn died, then.” He cast a scowl at Oslac for the reminder. “We were in Baghdad. One moment he was laughing and telling me to meet him at the ship, warning me not to purchase any harem houris, whilst he conducted a final meeting with the horse breeder. The next he failed to appear, and all we found was a pool of blood and his short sword lying beside the road. Mayhap he is still—”

  Oslac put up a halting hand. “Nay, Steven. You searched for sennights. Two years have passed. He would have let you know.”

  “But there was no body,” he insisted.

  “The miscreants who took his life no doubt dumped his body elsewhere. Accept that he is gone and move on with your life. I know how close you were, but he is in Asgard now, my friend.”

  Steven sighed and drew another long slurp of ale from his carved horn cup.

  “I must say, though, that Finn was always the serious one, especially after his wife left him, taking their infant son. And you were the lighthearted one, always up for a good time.”

  “Are you saying I have lost my sense of humor?” he inquired, not at all offended, though Viking men did prize their ability to laugh at themselves and all of life’s foibles.

  “Hah! You have lost more than that. Remember the time you and I fought off a black bear with our bare hands? Remember the time you tripped Balki the Bold when he was being particularly arrogant, and he fell into Mathilde Wart-Nose’s big bosoms? Remember the time you brought that ivory phallus back from the Arab lands and talked Maerta into inserting it whilst we watched? Remember the time we drank so much mead we decided we could jump off the roof of the keep into a hay wagon? Remember the time you tupped six women in a row and could still rise to the occasion?”

  He just sighed deeply again.

  “Mayhap you should go a-Viking.”

  “I did that last month. Brought two shiploads of plunder back from the Saxon lands.”

  “Boar hunting.”

  “Boring.”

  “Amber harvesting.”

  “I have too much amber already. That reminds me. We must needs send several chests to Birka for trading afore the winter freeze over the fjords.”

  “Visit King Olaf’s royal court.”

  “I will be going there for the Yule season. A man can stand only so much of Olaf’s bad breath.”

  “What we need is a good battle. Why is everyone so bloody peaceable of late?”

  “I know. My broadsword will get rusty from lack of use. Many thanks for reminding me. I will have the armor boy oil it and my brynja on the morrow.” In fact, now that he thought on it, it was time for the yearly cleaning of all the metal armor, putting the pieces in a barrel of sand and vinegar that was rolled around to shake and remove the rust. Later, they could be polished with bran.

  Oslac poured them both more ale. “There are those pirates who are getting more daring of late.”

  “Or desperate.”

  “That, too.”

  “Especially Brodir the Bold. What have he and his outlaw band against you? He targets your ships more than any other.”

  Steven shrugged. “Some grievance he has against my family. I have met him in person only a handful of times, and never in recent years.”

  “You should post extra sentries lest they strike afore winter.”

  Steven nodded. “’Twas a time when they only attacked longships that were poorly armed and usually those farther south. Now they even stalk the inland fjords.”

  “Brodir has set an example for other outlaw Vikings, giving pirating a good name. If a Norseman of noble birth can pirate, why not them, too? Truly, they are becoming a menace as their numbers increase.”

  “Yea, ’tis a waste, too. Brodir was once a fine warrior, and respected even when he went rogue, but then he and his men raped those novices at a Sudeby abbey and put a blood eagle on the mother superior, for sport. Now he is a nithing, using his fighting skills to organize the pirates and train them to attack in fleets.”

  “Ah, look. Here comes Lady Thora, Rolfgar’s widow. Mayhap she can lift your spirits . . . or leastways your staff.”

  “She already lifted my staff. Three times last night she let me swive her. Or rather, she swived me, to be more accurate.”

  “Are you sure? I swived her three times last night.”

  He and Oslac exchanged looks of incredulity, then burst out laughing.

  “Dost think she would consider joining us in ...” Oslac then suggested something so outrageous that Steven, who thought he had tried everything that involved his cock, solitary or otherwise, was shocked.

  But only for a moment.

  Suddenly, Steven’s enthusiasm gurgled back to life. Not his mood. But then, when had a good mood been required for a zesty bout of bedsport? A man’s enthusiasm for sex play was a constant, especially the perverted kind.

  “Oh, Thooor-aaaaa?” Oslac drawled out.

  But in the end, Steven went to his bed alone. Turns out, he was not in the mood, after all.

  Chapter 2

  The only easy day was yesterday . . .
or was that yesteryear? . . .

  Rita was hot, sweaty, tired, and smelly, and having the time of her life.

  She was one of fifty WEALS candidates still surviving the yearlong training program out of the original seventy-five, many of whom had “rung out” going DOR, dropped on request, which meant they’d volunteered out of WEALS. Or they could have “rolled back,” giving them the opportunity to try again for the next session, having sustained some injury or personal crisis that prevented their going on.

  While her teammates groaned and moaned about the difficulties, Rita was finding many of the exercises easy, and those that weren’t posed welcome challenges.

  Their day started with an 0500 muster, followed by a dip in the pool, fully clothed, including boots, then a jog to the chow hall for breakfast. After more running, at least twenty miles per day, they headed to the O-course, or obstacle course, that was often referred to by others as the Oh-My-God course. To Rita, it was the Oh-Boy course. It was located on the Grinder, an asphalt square surrounded by buildings on four sides, much like a penitentiary exercise yard. The Slide for Life. Whee! Log rolling. Just call me Twinkle Toes. The monkey bars. Anyone got a banana? The Tire Sequence. Dance, baby, dance! The tower! King Kong couldn’t climb any better. The Cargo Net. Hey, I did scarier things when doubling for Julia Roberts in her last film.

  Of course, they hadn’t started Hell Week yet. That would come in just a few days. Then they would get their gaudy Heineken pins, a mocking copy of the Navy SEAL trident pin, better known as the Budweiser. But that didn’t mean their training would be over, oh no. SEALs and WEALS continued to train for years after graduation to keep in shape and up to date on new technology.

  Rita had been an only child, so it was hard to understand why she had such a competitive nature. Her inclination toward physical activities was more understandable. Genes, pure and simple. Although he had divorced her mother when Rita was a toddler, her six-foot-three father had been . . . aside from a blatant womanizer . . . a twice silver-medaled Olympic runner and later a professional golfer of some note before his early demise in a car accident. Her diminutive mother had been an Olympic gymnast. Rita had been a gymnast, too, until by age twelve she was already growing too tall and big to excel in that sport . . . eventually reaching five nine and a curvy, muscle-toned hundred and thirty. Picture backflips on the parallel bars with that body. Ouch!

  Later she had tried figure skating, and while she’d become proficient, she hadn’t excelled to the national level. Then, of course, there had been her marathon running, sky diving, mountain climbing, kayaking, cliff diving, NAS-CAR racing (okay, only one week of that before being booted off the track for recklessness), skeet shooting, and alpine skiing. All that was before discovering stunt work, which combined many of those skills. And now rigorous military training, of course.

  They were jogging along the shore of the Pacific Ocean now.

  “Haul ass, sweet cheeks!” Master Chief Frank Uxley, best known as F.U., yelled out to her bunk mate, Wendy Patterson, when she lagged behind. Never let it be said that Navy SEALs were politically correct. The elite troops, when not on active duty or between assignments, were often assigned TDY, temporary duty, as instructors for BUD/S, the Navy SEAL training program, and for WEALS.

  Jogging backward beside the group, he then homed in on her. “Ya ain’t in Hollywood now, are ya, Mz. Stunt Woman. What are you, some kinda Six-Million-Dollar Woman, or somethin’? Why dontcha just give up now, and I’ll walk you to the bell myself?”

  When she refused to react to his needling, he added, “Ya think yer gonna find some kinda Brad Pitt here, honey? No? Some folks say I resemble Matt Damon.”

  She flashed him a look of disbelief. And saw his grin. When she shook her head at having risen to his bait, he winked at her and moved on to taunt some other poor trainee.

  F.U. was the most arrogant, offensive, politically incorrect of all the SEALs she’d met, and she suspected it was a deliberate pose he put on to annoy one and all. It worked.

  It was their second five-mile run of the morning on the Coronado beach, the early haze now replaced by a brutally scalding sun. As usual, there was sand everywhere. In their mouths, buttocks, ears, hair, eyebrows, and noses. And inside their heavy boondockers, which weighed them down even more. At the end of the day, that weighted jogging, plus long swims with web fins, caused their feet to ache painfully. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a pair of high heels. Nor did she want to.

  “Okay, ladies, gimme some sugar.”

  They all grimaced but didn’t dare voice their objections. When he said “sugar,” he meant sugar cookies. As in rolling their wet bodies in the sand, following a quick dip in the waves, then resuming whatever evolution was called for next, uncomfortably coated.

  They followed orders, then heard, “Fifty push-ups, grunts. Come on, come on, work ’em out, work ’em out.”

  “We’re working, we’re working,” several of Rita’s teammates muttered.

  For that infraction, they were all required to do twenty more, at the end of which F.U. ordered, “Now lean and rest.” That meant putting the body parallel to the ground, without sag, held up on extended arms and the tips of their boots.

  “Stand!” Once they came to their feet, he added, “Brace.”

  They all tucked their chins in, backs straight, shoulders thrown back. Then, “Stand easy. Let’s take a water break.” The trainees carried two canisters of water tied to their web belts at all times and were told to “Hydrate!” often.

  The class was divided in half, with the first group going with F.U. to the pool for advanced drownproofing lessons, where they would be bound, hands and feet, then tossed into the water to “bob for life.” The rest of the group were assigned to Lieutenant Mendozo or JAM, the nickname for Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, who had just come on duty.

  All the SEALs and WEALS were given nicknames. Hers was Spider because of her agility in climbing impossible places. It could be worse. Wendy’s nickname was Windy. Not a play on her name, unfortunately. Nope, Wendy had accidentally farted one time during strenuous PT, and the SEAL instructors thought it was funny to embarrass her in that way. They’d been instructed by their XO to cease and desist, which they skirted by continually addressing her as “Windy . . . oops, Wendy.”

  In any case, JAM was looking hot today . . . and she wasn’t referring to the temperature, which was blazing . . . in a New Orleans Saints baseball cap, drab green shorts, a white SEALs T-shirt, boondockers with socks rolled over the tops, and mirrored aviator sunglasses.

  They were similarly attired, except their shirts said WEALS, and their caps had the logo, Navy Scruffies, which just about said it all. Rita’s hair was in its easy-to-manage short spiky style, now plastered to her head with sweat, while many of the WEALS had long hair pulled back in ponytails that hung out the back hole in their caps so that they resembled horses’ tails when they ran. Like they cared! Physical appearance lost meaning for women when they were dripping with sweat and often puking out their guts from overexertion.

  “Up boats!” JAM yelled.

  This was one exercise she did hate. They all did.

  At the sound of their groans, JAM quipped that old SEAL motto, “Pain is your friend.”

  And you’re the Marquis de Sade, I suppose. That’s what she thought but didn’t dare say aloud.

  The smaller of the ugly rubber boats, known as an IBS, Inflatable Boat, Small, weighed almost three hundred pounds. It was twelve feet long and six feet wide. Trainees were required to carry the boats on their heads almost constantly, even as they ran. An equal number of trainees were on each side for balance. After a while, the three hundred pounds felt like a thousand, and the boats did irreparable damage to a lady’s hair. That’s why some of them began to don helmets, which would make them even hotter. Better hot than bald, though, knowing that some SEALs developed permanent bald spots on top of their heads. Sometimes they were told to carry the boats up on extended arms, which was alm
ost worse, since muscles were soon screaming with pain.

  JAM had become a friend and mentor since he was at least partially responsible for her being here. She reminded him of that fact every chance she got, like when she was crawling in mud or covered with sand fleas. He winked at her, as if reading her mind.

  Rita stuck out her tongue.

  He arched his brows, as if she’d issued some sexual invitation.

  “I think he’s got the hots for you,” Wendy commented at her side.

  “Nah! He’s just teasing. He used to be a priest, you know.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Well, he was studying to be a Jesuit. Not sure he ever took vows.”

  “Same as.”

  They took their positions under the boat, opposite each other with two WEALS in front and two in back of each of them. Then they all began a synchronized, slow jog.

  “He’s a friend. In fact, he’s taking me to a party at the commander’s house tonight as a fake date,” Rita continued her conversation with Wendy.

  “Huh?”

  “The commander’s wife, Madrene, is always trying to fix JAM up, usually with one of her Viking extended family.”

  “Whaaat? Vikings? In California? Are you sure you don’t mean Minnesota? Ha-ha-ha! How come I’ve never met any?”

  “There’s a whole bunch of Magnussons here, from Norway, a lot of them associated with SEALs. Anyway, I’m to be his buffer.”

  “So you’re not coming to the Wet and Wild with the gang tonight?”

  “Nope.” The Wet and Wild was a bar that catered to Navy personnel, including SEALs and WEALS. Its claim to fame was the wet T-shirt spray at the door, plus its hot wings and Friday night band. Missing a night out with the girls would be no great hardship.