Vengeance

(co-written with Vikingprincess)

Bitterly cold northern winds ate through his thin breeches and the few tattered remains of his shirt. It numbed skin and bone, and Will almost welcomed the deadening effect on his pain. The bastard sea robbers… Vikings… had him tied to a wooden pole, kneeling and bound so hard his wrists and ankles had bled, and he could barely move. Leaning his head against the post, he tried to look to the side where others who had been captured were receiving the same treatment. The groans of pain had been far louder only a few hours ago… some must have passed away in the night. He wished he’d been one of them. He could still be, aye… the Saxon would choose death over slavery to these barbarians.

*

“Where is Bjorn?” Green eyes flashed imperiously, and none of the hardened Viking warriors would meet her eyes. “I said, where is Bjorn?”

If she hadn’t been so angry, it might have been amusing to see the giant fighters shuffling their feet and playing with the fringes of their furs, or fidgeting with their double-bladed axes. No one wanted to cross Bjuffa, niece of their chieftain Ragnor Lodbrook, and ruler in the great hall as he was ruler on the longships. She might be tiny, but she was mean as a starved wolf in winter, and twice as stubborn as an ox. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news to such a woman. She might decide to bite instead of bark, and she had an overdeveloped sense of vengeance for wrongs and slights.

Just ask Fastvi, the buxom brunette who saw bed sport as her calling in life. Just ask Ovind, Bjuffa’s former lover, blond and enamored of death-defying risks. The brunette beauty had moved in on Ovind, who had been stupid enough to fall for Fastvi’s practiced seduction, and the dangerous thrilling lure of being unfaithful to the petite blonde. He got his danger, all right; Bjuffa had sent him on a cross-country raiding party that had never returned, and Fastvi ended up whipped bloody and demoted to kitchen servant. Not even the luscious pouting of her lips wrapped around Ragnor’s cock had improved her situation any. No one crossed Bjuffa and managed to escape unscathed!

“Don’t make me ask you again,” she snarled as the returned raiders thumped into seats around the main table and called for ale. None of them met her eyes.

Her uncle scooped her up in a hug –more to contain the violence he knew would erupt as soon as she heard the news, than to greet his niece affectionately upon his return. “He died on the raid,” Ragnor told his hot-headed niece. Predictably, she began to struggle violently, but he had the superior position, and simply crushed her ribs a little until she fought for breath, rather than against him. “He died well, and we’ve brought back many slaves and riches. You shall have first choice.,” he wheedled. “As weregild for the loss of your brother.”

“Who killed him,” she snarled, ready to strike a head from a neck. “Do they yet live?” Clearly, if they did, her first priority was to slaughter them, rather than to pick over the booty from the raid. “Only blood will satisfy me for Bjorn’s death!”

Ragnor sighed, and dropped her straight to the floor from his cautionary embrace. She landed easily, and snatched up an axe that looked too large for her dainty hands, spun it, and looked up at him. “Where are they?”

Silently, he pointed outside, then followed her as she stalked into the cold and snow.

*

A door banged open. There was the sound of shuffling, of people drawing near. At last, the bloody bastards were coming out of their warm comfortable homes It was time for William to meet the Maker.... if he'd believed in God. God hadn't smiled on him... not at his birth, not in his life time, and not now. If there was a God, he'd spit in his face.

A hush fell over the captives. An uncertainty settled over them. All of them had already tasted the Viking whip to ensure they caused no trouble on the longships. Was more of the same in store?

Green eyes flared with fury and loss, and Bjuffa raked the line of kneeling prisoners with scorn. None of them looked warrior enough to have slaughtered Bjorn! Not one was tall enough or strong enough to have matched her peerless brother on the battlefield! "Which one was it," she snarled to her uncle, trailing behind her. "Which of these pathetic lumps of human offal had the ill luck to kill Bjorn?" Once again, his only answer was a gesture with one finger, pointing at...

A slight, pretty young man... or he would have been pretty without the bruising and the blood. Fine blonde curls whipped in the chilly winter wind, and he regarded her with incurious blue eyes. Bjuffa stalked over to him, and tipped his chin up so she could meet those eyes. "This? This killed Bjorn?"

Ah. So he was that man. Refusing to flinch or give her the satisfaction of even a glimmer of fear, or other reaction, he stared right back at her. No, stared through her, thinking of his town, his now destroyed home of Filey. They’d rebuild. They always did. These Vikings would make no more mark upon Angland than had the Vikings before them.

She shook his head harshly from side to side, and struck him across the face to make new blood seep from his broken lip. “How? How did he do it?”

Enough Norsemen had settled along the coast of Angland that their words and speech had permeated some of the language. He didn't know of what he was accused, but was well aware he'd sent more than a few Viking dogs to an early grave. Her husband perhaps?

His chin grew wet, but the freezing air dried his blood quickly. When she shook him again and created another layer of blood caked over blood, unexpected anger coursed through him. That a mere woman would handle him so. Mustering up as much saliva as he could in his parched condition, he spat in her face. "Bitch."

She jerked her head back, too late, and his warm spittle splashed on her cheek. Furious, she backhanded him again, harder. "Scum." She ripped the remnants of his shirt free from his shivering torso, wiped her face clean with a bloodless bit of fabric, and then dropped the cloth to the ground, grinding it into the snow and mud. He was better built than she'd imagined, but what did that signify? Nothing at all. She took a step back, and swung the large axe testingly, making the honed edge whistle through the chilly air. His head would be hers.

William was blinded by a white light. Damn... Viking women had the strength of their men. If she'd been close enough, he'd have spit on her again. Instead, he watched with a bit of satisfaction as she ground her heel into the ground. He expected he'd be next under that boot.

"Use your axe then," he muttered drawing his gaze away from the sharp axe she'd expertly swung and meeting hers. His knees were already buried in mud, his head would fall next to his body and it would be over. And not an instant too soon. "Or is that just an accessory?" He lifted his chin, challenging the bitch.

His broken blend of Saxon and Norse was good enough to get the idea across, and Bjuffa's eyes narrowed. She swung the huge axe again, with fell intent, and altered the trajectory of her deadly blow when she saw he was... wanting it. Wanting to die. "No," she snarled, as the steel bit into the post just an inch above his head, shearing away some of those blonde locks. "Death would be too easy for you."

Expecting a blow, he bit his tongue... hard. His mouth was already bitter with the taste of blood, a little more made no difference. But her pronouncement did. A rebellious expression replaced the disinterest he'd previously shown her. "You won't be getting satisfaction, bitch. Not from me."

Bjuffa leaned forward and sank her fingers into his hair, jerking his head back and sideways. What better way to achieve vengeance for Bjorn's death than through lengthy and ignominious suffering for his murderer? She'd do better than simply get satisfaction. She'd get his suffering for every day of the rest of his life. "Oh, I think I will."

__________

A/N: Want to see more? Please comment!