that’s what swordplay is, isn’t it? A dance?” I ask.
“True. Though many people only see the violence and not the art in it. So are ye on yer way to the contest?” he asks.
“Contest?”
He makes his way to a board covered in parchments, and I follow, compelled by a force that I try to tell myself is merely boredom. The gap between his leather back piece and breeches flashes skin and shows definition in all the right places. Yeah, boredom, sure, that’s it.
“Someone with yer skill I thought surely would be on their way there,” he says and points to a poster as we reach the board.
Written in fine calligraphy, in Icelandic with runes bordering the edges of the parchment, it reads:
King Hildur seeks seven warriors to undergo a secret quest.
Riches will be bestowed upon the winners of a contest of his majesty’s design, which will consist of a riding competition, swordfight, archery and hand-to-hand combat. Anonymity will be maintained.
The date the contest is to be held is written below the statement. It’s less than seven days from today. My breath catches loudly in my throat as a hand goes involuntarily to my breast. If anonymity is encouraged then that means the king is searching for vagabonds, thieves, and the like. Every lowlife who can swing a sword with any skill will be there. Respectable Vikings will steer clear. Which means the one I’m hunting is likely to be there.
“I take it ye didn’t know about it,” Grím says with a raised eyebrow.
Excitement flashes through me. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been looking for. Surely the one I’m hunting can’t resist this. It seems too good to be true.
Beside me Grím laughs and asks, “Are ye a’right?”
“Oh, yes,” I finally say before grasping his leather tunic and pulling him down for a kiss.
Fire dances across me as our lips brush. Though I meant to keep it brief, I’m drawn in like a moth. My lips urge his apart, and I thrust my tongue into his mouth. He tastes of molasses. Sparks spread into me as his tongue dances with mine, making me want to press against him and feel how hard that body really is. But I don’t. Instead I pull back.
Before he can recover, I turn on my heal and start to walk briskly away. His boots pad softly against the cobblestones as he jogs after me. Damn, I’ve done it now.
“I take it ye’re goin’ to compete?” he asks, a bit breathless, whether from keeping up with me or from my kiss, it’s hard to tell. Truth be told, I’m still a bit breathless from the kiss.
“Oh, yes,” I say with a half-laugh that sounds near hysterics, even to my own ears.
Surely he thinks I’m crazy. A woman going to a sword competition. Even Viking women don’t normally do such a thing. I’ve no time to explain it to him, and I don’t care to.
“Let me buy ye somethin’ to eat then,” Grím suggests as he grasps my hand, slowing down my pace. His hand encases mine completely. My first instinct is to yank away and be free of him, but I stop at the last moment. His grip is light, and though his hand is rough, callused from wielding a sword, it is gentle. In its own way, that is just as scintillating as his probing tongue was a moment ago.
What am I thinking? I can’t get distracted like this. I turn to him. “I have to try to buy transport or a horse. There isn’t much time.”
I dump the contents of my money pouch into my hand. It is a very meager amount. My last victim was over a week ago, and he had only a few coppers on him.
“Looks like that might not do it,” he says.
“It has to. I have to get there,” I say. My voice is soft and urgent, revealing more of my desperation to this man than I mean to.
Grím straightens and closes my fingers tight around the few precious coins I hold. “Well then, I have two horses. Ye may ride with me,” he says as he bows his head low, his long lashes sweeping dramatically.
It is just as likely that he wants someone to warm his furs at
“True. Though many people only see the violence and not the art in it. So are ye on yer way to the contest?” he asks.
“Contest?”
He makes his way to a board covered in parchments, and I follow, compelled by a force that I try to tell myself is merely boredom. The gap between his leather back piece and breeches flashes skin and shows definition in all the right places. Yeah, boredom, sure, that’s it.
“Someone with yer skill I thought surely would be on their way there,” he says and points to a poster as we reach the board.
Written in fine calligraphy, in Icelandic with runes bordering the edges of the parchment, it reads:
King Hildur seeks seven warriors to undergo a secret quest.
Riches will be bestowed upon the winners of a contest of his majesty’s design, which will consist of a riding competition, swordfight, archery and hand-to-hand combat. Anonymity will be maintained.
The date the contest is to be held is written below the statement. It’s less than seven days from today. My breath catches loudly in my throat as a hand goes involuntarily to my breast. If anonymity is encouraged then that means the king is searching for vagabonds, thieves, and the like. Every lowlife who can swing a sword with any skill will be there. Respectable Vikings will steer clear. Which means the one I’m hunting is likely to be there.
“I take it ye didn’t know about it,” Grím says with a raised eyebrow.
Excitement flashes through me. This is exactly the kind of opportunity I’ve been looking for. Surely the one I’m hunting can’t resist this. It seems too good to be true.
Beside me Grím laughs and asks, “Are ye a’right?”
“Oh, yes,” I finally say before grasping his leather tunic and pulling him down for a kiss.
Fire dances across me as our lips brush. Though I meant to keep it brief, I’m drawn in like a moth. My lips urge his apart, and I thrust my tongue into his mouth. He tastes of molasses. Sparks spread into me as his tongue dances with mine, making me want to press against him and feel how hard that body really is. But I don’t. Instead I pull back.
Before he can recover, I turn on my heal and start to walk briskly away. His boots pad softly against the cobblestones as he jogs after me. Damn, I’ve done it now.
“I take it ye’re goin’ to compete?” he asks, a bit breathless, whether from keeping up with me or from my kiss, it’s hard to tell. Truth be told, I’m still a bit breathless from the kiss.
“Oh, yes,” I say with a half-laugh that sounds near hysterics, even to my own ears.
Surely he thinks I’m crazy. A woman going to a sword competition. Even Viking women don’t normally do such a thing. I’ve no time to explain it to him, and I don’t care to.
“Let me buy ye somethin’ to eat then,” Grím suggests as he grasps my hand, slowing down my pace. His hand encases mine completely. My first instinct is to yank away and be free of him, but I stop at the last moment. His grip is light, and though his hand is rough, callused from wielding a sword, it is gentle. In its own way, that is just as scintillating as his probing tongue was a moment ago.
What am I thinking? I can’t get distracted like this. I turn to him. “I have to try to buy transport or a horse. There isn’t much time.”
I dump the contents of my money pouch into my hand. It is a very meager amount. My last victim was over a week ago, and he had only a few coppers on him.
“Looks like that might not do it,” he says.
“It has to. I have to get there,” I say. My voice is soft and urgent, revealing more of my desperation to this man than I mean to.
Grím straightens and closes my fingers tight around the few precious coins I hold. “Well then, I have two horses. Ye may ride with me,” he says as he bows his head low, his long lashes sweeping dramatically.
It is just as likely that he wants someone to warm his furs at
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