Read Viking Heat for Free Online

the third phase of her grieving process. Maybe she’d never left step one and was just repressing her outward signs.
    Looking up at the starry sky, she wondered, as she often had in the past year and more, if her brother Matt was up there watching her. Laughing at all her efforts to prove herself, once again, in a man’s world.
    Sometimes it was debatable whether it was her brain or her heart that was splintering apart.

Chapter 3
     

When good men go berserk . . .
     
    Today was the day. Today the madness would end.
    Brandr stood at the top of the rise, staring down into the valley at the last of the Sigurdssons who were camped in tents and hastily erected timber and sod huts. Dawn was just rising, and women were beginning to stir the fires. There would be no stealth required in the fray today.
    For three months now, Brandr and his comrades-in-arms had wreaked vengeance on the miscreants in a wave sweeping north of Bear’s Lair, through all of Sigurd’s holdings. He was most impressed with how his unseasoned brothers, Erland and Arnis, had proven themselves as fighting men. In time, they would make great warriors, mayhap even Jomsvikings, if they chose. Through spring and summer, Brandr’s troop had trudged on, awash in sword dew, knowing months-long darkness would soon be biting at their heels. He must be back at Bear’s Lair soon to prepare the keep for the bitter cold winter ahead.
    Brandr’s hird was sixty strong, including thirty Jomsvikings who counted as a hundred when it came to combat skills. Thus far, they had only lost five men, and another three were gravely wounded. But the Sigurdssons and their followers . . . ah, they had fallen like sheaves of wheat afore the scythe. The ravens of death resembled black clouds in the skies over this northernmost Hordaland, feeding on the carrion. So much blood had Brandr shed, so many bodies had he sent to Valhalla!
    Joining him today were Jarl Tykir Thorksson of Dragon-stead, a neighbor from south of here, along with a full dozen of his hirdsmen. Tykir had been a good friend for many a year, and now he rode at Brandr’s side as a good and faithful comrade-in-arms. He was especially grateful since Tykir left behind his wife Alinor and their baby Thork to join him in battle.
    But Tykir was not the only one to send soldiers. King Thorvald of Stoneheim had sent men, as well. Although Thorvald had no sons, only five daughters, he spared him a full dozen warriors led by the far-famed Rafn, soon to wed one of Thorvald’s daughters once she was of age, so the rumors went.
    Forseti, the god of justice, had been at their backs, while Thor, god of war, had guided their sword arms, and now . . . well, now it no longer felt like a hero’s mission. Brandr did not regret the carnage. His vengeance was justified. Still . . .
    But would he ever be the same?
    Did he want to be the same?
    Nay, he was a berserker now. The bloodlust was imbedded in him. Rage and fury thrummed through his body with an endless rhythm, especially when in battle. Even when at rest, a blackness shrouded his soul. He knew his own men feared him at times, especially his brothers, who gazed at him betimes in horror at what he had become. Those had been the moments when his arms and chest had dripped with his foemen’s blood, spittle foaming at the sides of his mouth like a rabid beast, and still he had roared for more.
    Tork, whom he’d appointed as his hersir, came up to him and looped an arm over his shoulders. They were both dressed for battle with padded undertunics, hauberks of flexible chain mail with attached coifs, and tight, thick chausses and cross-gartered leather boots, helmets, and Jomsviking shields with the embossed battle raven. Whetstones had sounded through the night as men sharpened swords, battle-axes, and knives. Archers had prepared their longbows and arrows.
    “The men are ready,” Tork told him. “Do we strike at dawn?”
    Brandr nodded.
    “And do we spare the women and children,