The Enchantment by Betina Krahn

between them. Then Jorund turned and strode out into the frosty night.
    Borger sank back into his high seat and into his ale as he stared after his strapping, woman-pleasing son and wondered at the way the boy had gone wrong. His heir was strong as a bear, quick as a fox, sharp as a blade . . . and appallingly peaceable and good-natured.
    â€œWhat did I do to deserve such a fate?” he lamented to the half-conscious skald, Snorri, who leaned from a nearby bench to give him an ear. “I never asked the gods for much. A bit of victory here or there . . . a bit of fame when I’m ashes and gone . . . a son and heir with a proper Viking battle-lust in his blood.”
    He scratched his belly and made a sour face.
    â€œBy the heavens . . . they got the
lust
part right, but forgot all about the
battle
!”

    A S THE NIGHT air cooled his ire, Jorund’s mind settled on the sanity and comfort to be had in woman-scented darkness. But after three long strides across the moonlit clearing, he stopped dead, staring at the looming shape of the modest, steep-roofed women’s house.
She
was there. He reeled off toward the darkened loft of the thrall house instead, where a jumble of welcoming arms and legs awaited. And again he stopped dead.
    He was not of a mood for fur-sport. Just now he had more of a yearning for companionship and talk.
    He set a course for the thrall house, after all, though not for the woman-sweetened loft. He crept through the darkened central chamber of the house, around bodies curled on benches and draped over mounds of straw, making his way to a low, wall-hung shelf from which a deafening snore rumbled. He gave the snorer’s shoulder a sound shake.
    â€œGodfrey!” he shouted in a whisper. “Wake up!”
    â€œHuhhh? Whaaat—” A round, tonsured head and fleshy face came lurching up out of the gloom. “W-who—”
    â€œIt’s me. Sit up,” Jorund said quietly, nudging the priest to one side and easing onto the creaking planks beside him. Godfrey pushed up unsteadily on one arm, blinked, and peered around them at the darkness.
    â€œIt’s the middle of the night,” he moaned groggily. “What is it? What’s happened?”
    â€œYou’re about to be drowned. By Borger’s own hands,” Jorund told him.
    â€œAgain?” Godfrey’s eyes closed and his arm sagged so that he dropped back onto the pallet. “What did I do this time?” he mumbled. “I haven’t converted any more of his women, I swear.”
    â€œYou’ve corrupted me,” Jorund said wryly, sliding his big frame to a comfortable slouch against the rough wall. “Turned me against the gods of Asgard and fighting.”
    â€œI have?” The implications of Jorund’s words and the reason for Borger’s anger at him slowly seeped through Godfrey’s sleep-numbed wits. His eyes flew open and he burrowed out of his patched woolen blanket. “Why, that’s wonderful.” Beaming at the thought, he rubbed his face and wrested his rotund frame about until his back was planted against the wall and his unshod feet dangled over the edge of the wide shelf, copying Jorund’s pose.
    â€œI told him tonight that I don’t believe in Odin . . . or Asgard . . . or enchantments,” Jorund said with an edge to his tone. “You should have heard him. He howled like a scalded hound.”
    â€œI’ll wager he did,” Godfrey crowed, grinning before remembering himself and pulling his unholy pleasure beneath a wistful sigh. “I wish I could have seen it.”
    â€œAnd he brought up the high seat again,” Jorund said after a pause. Godfrey opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking as he watched the troubling in Jorund’s strong, chiseled face. “He is desperate. My brothers and his warriors sometimes grumble about what would happen if he took a wound.”
    â€œThey wish to know what would