Maidensong by Mia Marlowe Page A

shifted all his weight onto his good leg. He brought up the tip of the staff and punched the butt end into Canute’s gut. When Canute doubled over from the blow, Bjorn whipped the staff around and whacked him soundly on his broad backside, sending him sprawling.
      “ If you’re as slow as that, Canute,” Bjorn said with a satisfied grin, “it looks like we have more than one old man in this hall.” He extended a hand to the fallen warrior.
      Laughing heartily, Canute clambered to his feet and clasped forearms with his vanquisher. “It’s good to see you up and about, Bjorn the Black. But I thought all weapons except a meat knife were supposed to be left at the door.”
      In that gruffly generous statement, the symbol of Bjorn’s weakness was elevated to the status of a weapon. Gunnar made a low growl of annoyance in the back of his throat. His little brother’s progress toward the dais was slowed by the congratulations and well-wishes of the fighting men he passed.
      Gunnar watched the procession through narrowed eyes, distrustful of the deference his brother received. Something would have to be done about that. And soon.
      When Bjorn reached the end of the hall, the great bear of a man seated next to Gunnar stood to greet his youngest nephew with a rib-cracking embrace. Uncle Ornolf’s bald pate shined, though the ring of iron-gray hair at the sides of his head grew long enough to brush his shoulders. His clothing was an odd mix of furs and exotic silk.
      “Bjorn, my boy!” Ornolf’s voice boomed loud as the crash of a glacier calving.
      “Uncle!” Bjorn’s eyes glittered with pleasure. “Why was I not told you were here?”
      Ornolf ogled Rika and a knowing smile waggled the ends of his bushy mustache. Their uncle always did have an eye for the wenches and Gunnar had to admit the skald was looking particularly fetching this night. Though, of course, she would stand out on any night.
      “ Perhaps because I thought you might be busy else where.” Ornolf’s gaze swept her again approvingly. “And to good purpose, too, by the looks of her.”
      “ Rika, this is my Uncle Ornolf.” Bjorn turned to pull the skald toward the older man. “He’s Sogna’s most profitable trader and a demon in a dragonship. My fa ther and he opened the trade route to the far south when they were young.”
      “Bah! You make me sound a doddering graybeard,” Ornolf complained.
      “Graybeard you must admit to, but anyone who’s crossed blades with you would never call you doddering,” Bjorn said with obvious affection. “Ornolf, meet the new skald of Sogna.”
      “A skald? I look forward to hearing you.” Ornolf bowed his head and sketched a gesture that was purely Eastern, though the smile left his lips. He seemed to have noticed the iron circle at Rika’s neck. He stared at it, his wiry brows nearly meeting over his hawkish nose. When she arched a russet brow at him quizzically, he recovered himself. “Forgive me. I’ve been in Miklagard for the past year, trading with an Arab there. No doubt I’ve picked up some of his effete manners. Sit down, Bjorn, before you fall down. We have much news to catch up on.”
      Rika made Bjorn comfortable and filled a trencher with his favorites. Gunnar noticed the way her face flushed with color while she fussed around his brother.
      Gunnar couldn’t remember the last time a woman had fluttered around him like that. Even before her pregnancy had turned her into a waddling cow, Astryd had ceased to stir herself on his behalf.
      The skald leaned toward Bjorn and whispered some thing to him. When he nodded, she turned and glided away. Rika moved across the hall in a flowing stride, another new tunic and kyrtle his little brother had given her draped around her. Her limbs were loose and graceful as a long-necked crane. Gunnar’s hard glare followed her.
      When Evja came to refill his horn with mead, he stopped her with a hand to her wrist.
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