Read Edin's embrace for Free Online

sought only an amber-haired maid to light me to bed."
    "Were you not told the woman is mine?"
    "I told him, Thoryn," Rolf said, shrugging, "but the Berserk doesn't listen when his battle craze is on him."
    The maiden was sitting with her legs sprawled, her short shift riding up above her knees, exposing her silken thighs. Thoryn watched as Rolf gathered her and lifted her to her feet, where he supported her. Thoryn saw her peculiar emotionless stare, the ashen color of her face. But then she blinked, and her hands lifted, like cup handles, to her head. The motion reassured him that she would recover.
    He turned back to Sweyn, now with a cold, dry smile. Other Norse were gathering, as though some instinct had told them trouble was brewing. They muttered from one to the other as Sweyn said, "What makes her yours, Jarl?" Trouble indeed. A clear challenge to Thoryn's authority. The Norsemen shifted on their feet as they waited, tense and restless, reckoning to see blood spill and to feel the earth shake to the weapon strokes of their two mightiest warriors: their jarl and the strongest of their jarl's elect.
    Thoryn said: "I see the Berserk needs to be reminded why I am called 'jarl.' " He backed away from Sweyn, his face set. He placed himself, left foot forward. His motions were deliberate, and Sweyn recognized that Thoryn had accepted his challenge. His own ashy blue eyes went huge and wild, and he laughed again, laughed as though he owned the skies. Then, abruptly, the laughter faded to an ugly grin, and he lifted his axe. With a yell, he rushed at Thoryn, swinging his great weapon.
    Thoryn's shield was made of thick wood with a heavy iron boss in the center. Sweyn's first mighty blow splintered the top right off. Thoryn retreated, discarding the wreck.
    Sweyn struck again — swung his axe up then brought it down toward Thoryn's head. Thoryn stood still as a stone as the blow came, then stepped to the side and with a two-handed grip used his sword to catch the axe shaft. His father's blade still carried the old magic; the sharp edge of it penetrated the heavy handle of Sweyn's axe to the depth of half an inch.
    Sweyn had to pry the axe free. The cords of his neck stood out; a vein pulsed in his forehead. Once again he attacked, and once more Thoryn thrust out his sword and parried the blow.
    Sweyn made to lift his weapon yet again, but now Thoryn sliced, so swiftly that Sweyn had to suck in his stomach and curve his back in order to avoid a slit in his belly. Sweat beaded his brow. Seldom did it take him more than one or two blows to finish a man. But then, seldom did he face Thoryn. He stood uncertain a moment, clearly wondering how best to proceed. Meanwhile, Thoryn gave a bellowing cry and leapt forward. Sweyn lifted up his axe to fend off the sword-sweep, but Thoryn's attack was too shrewd. His sword was raised in two hands, swinging back over his shoulder; his left foot stepped as he braced himself to pull down the blow; his blade crunched right through Sweyn's mesh armor and into the joint of his shoulder.
    Had it not been for that armor, his arm would have been severed. A Norse sword could take off a man's arm, or his head, in one smooth blow. As it was, his grip loosened; his axe clunked to the floor. He stooped, disbelieving, tried to regain his weapon, but found his fingers would not close on the handle. He sagged forward onto one knee. Blood spilled down his useless limb to pool on the floor.
    The onlookers stood with their weapons lowered, their eyes full of wonder and fear to see Sweyn the Berserk's arm streaming with the hot crimson wine of war. Sweyn lifted his own gaze from the exposed, pulsating veins in his wound, and looked from face to face, ending with Thoryn. "The hour of departure arrives and we go our paths, I to die, and you to live. Which is better only Odin knows." His lips drew upward so that Thoryn could see his yellow teeth clenched in a smile of fatality. "Finish it!"
    Thoryn lifted his sword