Maidensong by Mia Marlowe Page B

was drowning. Again and again, the waves closed over his head, dragging him down. He gulped for air, but got a mouthful of brackish water instead. Yanking off the mail shirt, he kicked back to the surface. The tips of his fingers bumped something solid. Ice. Panic rose like bile in the back of his throat.
      Bubbles escaped his lips and skittered along the un derside of the ice sheet, seeking a way to the world of light and air. He followed them; searching for the opening he must have slipped through. The freezing water stung his eyes. He pounded the ice with his fist, but it was too thick.
      His lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. They threatened to burst out of his chest, red and pulsing like a gory blood-eagle. He’d seen done it once, a man’s lungs ripped through his ribs and spread out like spongy wings across his dying back. A vicious death reserved for the vicious crime of patricide. Now he knew what it felt like.
      He began to sink, his sodden clothing pulling him into oblivion. The frigid water slowed his movements and lack of air disconnected his mind from his flailing limbs. He was bound for Hel, with no chance of Val halla. An ignominious death by drowning would not lure the Valkyries to bear him to glory. His eyes closed as he stopped struggling and accepted his fate.
      Suddenly, he twirled in the water and he snapped open his eyes to see what had disturbed the current around him. A flash of green scales and cold, reptilian eyes swished by him. Jormungand, the World Serpent. The monster turned in the dark water and headed straight for him, gigantic maw gaping, ridged with a thousand flesh-tearing teeth.
      He used the last bit of air in his lungs to scream.
    *    *    *
     
      The strangled cry woke Rika from a deep sleep, and in the dark, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Bjorn the Black’s bed. But surely the piteous sound she’d heard couldn’t have come from that beast.
      “No!” He thrashed about, tearing through the furs and blankets that made up his bedding. One of his hands found her at the far edge and pulled her in close.
      Rika realized he was still asleep and she shook him with no gentleness at all. “Wake up,” she said sharply. “You’re dreaming.”
      Bjorn jerked, chest heaving, holding her as tightly as if she were a life rope. He inhaled deeply. Rika felt his heart galloping in his chest.
    There was nothing amorous in his embrace, so Rika didn’t struggle. His body shuddered once. The fear some raider was more like a small, frightened boy now, and she wondered what phantasmal image could’ve reduced him to this weakened state.
    “A dream,” he repeated. “It was just a dream.”
      “Do you want to tell me about it?”
      “ No,” he said with force. “I don’t need to relive it again.”
      She felt his barely suppressed tremble and, for just a moment, she pitied him. “Sometimes, when Ketil has a bad dream, it helps him to tell me about it,” she rasped.
      “That’s all I need,” Bjorn muttered. “Now you rank me with a half-wit.”
      Rika pulled away from him and sat up. “My brother is a kind and gentle person, a pure spirit who wouldn’t hurt anyone. The day hasn’t dawned when you’re good enough to be ‘ranked’ with him.” Her voice had a raw edge to it.
      “I suspect you don’t like me. You’ve been subtle about it, but it’s beginning to sink in.” He sounded weary. “What’s the matter with your voice?”
      “It’s just tired. I’ve never told so many tales in one night before, but they wouldn’t let me stop.”
      She had recited for hours, sagas and eddas one after the other, the long room alternately ringing with laughter or gone silent with hushed expectancy. Bjorn must have seen her sway on her feet from exhaustion because he’d finally stopped the storytelling by lifting her over his shoulder and carrying her bottom first out of the great hall.
      Once they were in the privacy of his