Read Online The Enchantment by Betina Krahn - Free Book Online Page B

high seat.
    â€œYou sent for me, Jarl?”
    â€œI did.” Borger’s voice boomed out over the sudden quiet. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees and his arms bowed out. As he passed a hard gaze over her, his attention caught on the blade she wore strapped against her left shoulder. “What manner of weapon do you wield, Serricksdotter?”
    â€œA blade of the Ulfberhts,” she declared, sliding the shoulder strap over her head and slipping the blade from its sheath. The polished blue-silver blade gleamed as she lifted it into the sunlight and turned it slowly, reflecting light into the grizzled faces around her. A murmur rippled through the men and a number of them shoved to their feet, their eyes fixed on her weapon.
    A sword from the Rhineland, from the famous forge of the Ulfberhts, was indeed a treasure. Such blades were widely reputed to be harder, tougher, lighter, and to hold their edge against far weightier weapons.
    â€œSuch a blade should have a name,” Borger said with grudging admiration.
    â€œShe has a name.
Singer.
”
    â€œSinger?” Borger snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “What manner of name is that for a blade?”
    â€œA fitting name, for she sings sweetly on the air.” With a powerful swirl of her arm, she set the blade whirring above her head so that the air hummed with sound. Then she brought it slashing in a downward arc between her and Borger . . . from shoulder to opposite knee and back up the opposite direction . . . so close to the old jarl’s arms that it brushed the hair on them as it passed. When she brought it to a halt, tip upraised, Borger jolted back a step, taken aback by her boldness.
    â€œBy the Great Hurler!” Borger bellowed, his face puffing so that his whiskers stood out like hedgehogs’ quills. He turned and called out: “Thorkel Evardson!”
    A tall, lanky warrior, seasoned by sea salt and blade-battle, rushed forward to accept his jarl’s command. Borger looked from Aaren to the formidable warrior, who was exactly her equal in height, and broke into a cool smile. “Draw your blade, Thorkel Ever-ready. And break for us the Allfather’s curse.”
    Aaren gave her new opponent a long look, which he returned in kind, then she strode to a nearby table to set her scabbard aside and prepare. Her heart beat faster as she tightened her wristbands and braced a foot up on the edge of the table and leaned into it to stretch her legs. In the midst of stretching her other leg, she looked up—straight into the face of the handsome giant, the woman-judge.
    He stood a few paces away, his chest heaving and his hair wind-tossed, as if he’d just run a long distance. For a few unsettled heartbeats, they stared at each other. She narrowed her eyes and her lips formed her silent claim:
warrior.
    Behind her, a blood-chilling cry rose from her opponent. She just had time to clasp the grip of her sword and pivot to meet his rush. The suddenness of his attack had caught her off guard, half prepared; she’d had no time to warm and stretch or even put away her hair.
    The first three hacks of his blade forced her back huge steps, then a sideways slash sent her dodging and feinting. Then something in the familiar ring of steel on steel penetrated her senses and began to resonate deep in her core, calling forth her strength and summoning her skill. She dug in her heels and met, then countered, his next blow.
    Around them the men were on their feet, shouting, galvanized by the savage start of the fight and by the battle-maid’s struggle to meet Thorkel’s attack.
    The lean, battle-toughened warrior wore a fierce grin, which dimmed as Aaren’s resistance to his blows increased. She wore a smile also, but on the inside. For after the first shock of his lightning-quick strike, she had recovered and assessed his straightforward fighting style . . . down-hacking and free-swinging that made