Askeladd poured onion soup into the mouth of a wounded warrior. He waited a moment for him to swallow, then lingered over the man's grievous stomach wound, inhaling deeply the mingling scents of soup and blood. A haunting smell for most, but for Askeladd…
"This one here," Askeladd called out casually as he stood up and took a step back. His command was met with silent compliance as one of his men approached with a blade gleaming in the afternoon sun. Without pause or pity, the blade found its mark, piercing the warrior's heart with cold precision. As life slipped away, Askeladd remained stoic, a silent observer to the fleeting existence of this warrior Dane. His death not even worth a mere footnote in this war.
When the Dane who dealt the final blow moved on to another, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight, Askeladd attention shifted to the row of wounded warriors, all lying on the ground of an encampment they secured, the one who had just died the last of the wounded he helped asses out of fifty or so (or more like to make himself look busy). Surprisingly, there were fewer casualties than he had anticipated, given the scale of the fortress they had just aided in conquering at King Sweyn generals command. Though outnumbered by the English, the Danes had easily overpowered their feeble opposition.
The English were weak. Pathetic.
But, in the end, Askeladd remained indifferent to the warfare as long as he got paid.
As autumn approached its end, a chill permeated the air, foretelling the imminent arrival of winter and snow. Seven winters had come and gone since the inception of the war, a war that remained only to the coastline of England, not yet pushing inward into English territory , yet Askeladd and his comrades had thrived amidst the turmoil, their coffers swelling with each passing season. With a shrewdness in negotiation and a mastery of strategic finesse, Askeladd orchestrated their ascent through it all, deftly steering the fortunes of war in their favor.
It proved remarkably effortless, courtesy of the English.
Atli was the first to approach Askeladd when he sat down alone at one of the many white tents that served mead. Taking a horn for himself full of mead he poured from one of the many barrels, Atli stood next to Askeladd, who sat on a log stool silently observing over everyone as they milled about, and asked, "Ah, fuck, my back," Atli muttered, arching to crack it before asking, "Hey, are we heading home after this?"
Askeladd took three gulps of his mead before he answered. "We've gathered a fine haul of provisions, enough to see us through the winter and then some. I figure it's high time we made our way back home to celebrate, wouldn't you say?"
"Ah, finally," came Atli's relieved voice. "I feared we'd be stuck here for the winter!"
Askeladd's gaze turned to Atli, observing his unkempt state and the gash on his right arm. He leisurely drained the final drops of his mead before remarking, "I'm surprised you even agreed to come along. Thought a bastard like yourself would let this one slide, given the stakes at hand."
Atli laughed so easily at Askeladd's jab, it disappointed him to a slight degree. But what did he expect from a Dane? "Well you know me, any chance of filling my coffer, I'll take it!"
A faux smile graced Askeladd's lips, one he wore habitually, slipping on effortlessly. "And easy fillings it is. These hapless fools don't know a thing about warfare. It's almost like they want to be conquered."
Atli laughed. "You got that right!"
Before long, Bjorn strode over, with Torgrim following closely, a sword streaked with blood resting on his shoulder. Askeladd rose from his stool, casually dropping his horn to the ground as Bjorn approached. "How many?" Askeladd inquired.
"Only five," Bjorn replied, halting beneath the tent, his hands resting on his hips.
"Is that all?" Askeladd said, arms crossing with a casual smile. "I expected more. And how many are wounded?"
"About ten, give or take. None serious enough to hinder our voyage," Bjorn reported like the good second he was.
"Excellent. And what of the gold?" The main reason why he'd kept to the tents full of the wounded, to make himself, a chieftain, look busy. Out of the way enough so not to draw suspicion for their real goal in joining this raid. Nowhere near his men to give directives about a certain stash within the fortress…
Bjorn's shrug was accompanied by a ruthless smile. "The other groups are fighting over how to divide the gold. At least, what's left after we took our share ." They were the first to get to the enemy's coffers, after all. All thanks to Askeladd's directive.
And with the help of the kid, too.
Askeladd's smile matched Bjorn's. "Looks like it's time for us to find our way out of this shithole. Our generous patrons' payment ought to reach our shores in about seven days. Wouldn't want it arriving without a proper reception, now would we?" He turned his attention back to Atli and Torgrim, who stood to his right. "You two, go tell the others we're leaving. Now. Anyone left behind will stay behind."
Askeladd and his band swiftly gathered their spoils as they embarked on the arduous journey back to the seaport. The return trek promised to be grueling, devoid of the aid of horses or carts. The injured men, unfortunately, faced a precarious fate; if they couldn't keep up, they were simply left to fend for themselves.
Not like Askeladd cared either way as he led the charge, his men hollering and whopping as they reminisced about the hard fought battle with grueling details of their kills and pillaging. The less men that made it back, the more treasure that could be passed around once they got back to their homes shore.
As Askeladd walked down the well worn path back to harbor, a small figure emerged from the western woods that surrounded the fortress. Halting his stride, Askeladd's lips curled into a sly grin as he observed the figure's limping approach, his hand splayed on his hip. "Huh, you're not dead yet, boy? I was sure you'd hit the dirt for good back there, vanishing into thin air after we slipped into the enemies fortress."
A youth with tousled blond locks, brown eyes, and tan weathered attire, slightly taller since joining Askeladd's band, though not by much, cast a glare of pure animosity at Askeladd. He remained silent, brushing leaves from his hair as he silently turned away from Askeladd and fell into step with the rest of the men. Askeladd observed the boy's resentful march, noting a fresh wound on his shoulder and the obvious limp in his stride as the boy ignored the jabs sent his way when others noticed him suddenly appearing in the march, and couldn't help but smile.
If there was anyone who'd take the crown of a fool, it would be Thorfinn.
But he guessed he owed the boy yet another duel and that alone made Askeladd's smile fade.
The young boy upheld his end of the bargain with unwavering resolve with a promise of a duel if he were to succeed in a reconnaissance mission into the enemy's fortress. Upon his own reconnaissance around the well fortified fortress, Askeladd noticed a well hidden drawbridge, one that blended into the sides, hidden by well placed foliage that covered the side of the fortress completely. Exploiting the Englishmen's concentration at the northern gates due to the constant attack of the other vikings factions trying to gain access, Thorfinn ventured into the western side where the hidden drawbridge was located, scaling its wooden walls with little resistance, clinging to the sides with his duel daggers. With his uncanny, natural stealth, he penetrated the fortress, fought his way through the Englishmen in his way, and when he reached his destination, the rope to the drawbridge, he let it fall. This allowed Askeladd's men to swiftly breach the stronghold and lay claim to its concealed treasures. Yet, as the drawbridge descended, Thorfinn vanished from sight.
Askeladd thought he was finally rid of a leech at his side, but it would seem he was wrong.
…good. The boy had many uses, and his anger and hatred were easily exploitable.
Askeladd's band traversed a half-day's journey to reach the bustling port where their trio of warships lay docked in a nearby harbor. Captured at the onset of spring from the English, the sea faring town now teemed solely with Danes, and as Askeladd strode through its lively thoroughfares, he only breifly noted little, if any sign of English or foreign presence.
Well, besides the slaves.
As the now exhausted men walked down the open street toward the harbor, their spoils in tow, a shout caught Askeladd's attention.
"Please!" the anguished cry pierced the air, cried out in English. "Please! I have a family—a wife, a child, and another on the way! Please, let me return to them! I beg of you!"
Askeladd and a few of his men halted, drawn in by the shouts, and turned towards the source of the plea. There, kneeling on the ground near a stable, was an English warrior, now reduced to rags, his face marred by bruises and cuts, swollen from a savage beating. He pleaded with a Dane who loomed over him, whip in hand, a look of anger etched on his face. Clutching the Dane's brown tunic, the Englishman implored, his eyes reflecting desperation and despair.
But the Dane only sneered, bringing the whip down onto the Englishman's cheek, causing the man to crumple to the ground from the force. "Stupid, bloody fool," he spat in Norse. "Don't you realize you're nothing but a slave now?" He leaned in close, grabbing the Englishman by the hair and yanking him upright. "A slave! Got it? Slave!" With a brutal shove, he threw him to the ground and delivered a sharp kick to his side. "Don't you dare lay your filthy hands on me again! Or I'll break 'em!" He continued his assault, raining down kicks until the Englishman lay motionless on the ground. Panting heavily, the Dane slave master turned to the other slaves in the stable. "Get him up and tie him to a post!" he commanded. Two slaves who understood Norse rushed forward to retrieve the newly introduced slave, dragging him back into the stable.
"Looks like they don't much care for the value an Englishman brings in," Bjorn commented, undisturbed by the brutality brought upon the Englishman pleading for his former life.
Askeladd fell silent, his attention abruptly shifting elsewhere. To his right, two Vikings cloaked in dark attire and sporting shining iron helmets, each topped with a golden nose guard, had emerged beside the slave master after his brutal treatment of the new slave, engrossed in conversation. At first glance, it might have appeared ordinary, were it not for their distinctive attire, reminiscent of the Jomsvikings yet undeniably unique. Askeladd's gaze roamed across the settlement, spotting several more figures dressed in the same fashion, intensifying his curiosity.
Clad in black cloaks, their heads topped with iron helmets sporting golden nose guards, their cloaks fastened with a peculiar penannular brooch, or something similar, adorned with a crimson fist at its center—a clan emblem, no doubt. However, it was a sigil unfamiliar to Askeladd.
Bjorn, catching Askeladd's gaze, remarked, "I don't recall seeing them during the siege. Seems like they missed out on the fun."
One of the dark-cloaked Vikings caught Askeladd's gaze and met it head-on. Askeladd merely smirked and fell into step with the rear of his men's formation, Bjorn trailing closely behind. "I have a hunch," Askeladd began, his eyes scanning the port for more of the peculiar dark-cloaked Vikings, noting their numerous presence. "They're not here on King Sweyn's orders."
"Do you think we have a problem on our hands?" Bjorn asked, his voice tense.
Askeladd shook his head. "No. We outnumber them."
"Then they are just passing through." It wasn't a question, but Askeladd still wondered.
When it came to Vikings, few bore the distinctive markings of their clans; most were simply wandering pirates, akin to his own band of men, albeit with Askeladd's lead, they weren't just ordinary wandering pirates. While some endeavored to carve out a fearsome reputation similar to the Jomsvikings, they all too often met an early demise due to their own arrogance or disbanded amid petty internal conflicts.
However, this particular band of Vikings stood apart from the riff raff vagabond. They exude an aura of experienced warriors, their eyes reflecting years of combat experience and a lineage steeped in the warrior's ideology.
Yet, Askeladd didn't have an inkling of who they were or where they even came from. This was the first he'd ever seen of them. Vikings from foreign waters…
Ultimately, however, such details were inconsequential. With the Viking season drawing to a close and the bountiful spoils they had amassed, nothing mattered more than their triumphant return.
Their ships weren't docked at the main port, but in a harbor nearby as there weren't enough docks for all the warships that came in for this recent siege. As they approached their ships, Askeladd ordered his men to start loading the ship with their newly acquired supplies .
"Make sure everything's on the ship before you relax," Askeladd instructed his men as they passed him, carrying trunks, trinkets, gold, and whatever else they had plundered from the siege. He then turned to Bjorn. "We'll be camping here for the night. Get a team together to start pitching tents."
"Is that really a good idea? Wouldn't it be smarter to leave as soon as we can so the other groups don't realize we've taken most of the valuables?" Bjorn questioned.
Askeladd only smirked. "If we move swiftly and load the ship before the other group arrives, they will be none the wiser. Besides," Askeladd shifted his eyes to the right of his boats, his eyes landing on a war boat not his own a few leagues away with a clan crest painted on the side, "I don't want to row out while it's dark. Best we wait for daybreak tomorrow.
Bjorn ran a hand down his braided beard, then mirrored Askeladd's smirk. "Can't argue with that."
When Bjorn left to gather a few men to help pitch tents, Askeladd walked over to ears who exited one of the boat's. When Ear's saw Askeladd approaching him, he asked, "What do you need, boss?"
Askeladd turned toward the other warships that were land bound near their boats. "See that long boat over there, the one with the fist painted in the side?" Ear's glances over, then nodded. Askeladd continued, "I want you to listen in on them. Let me know if you hear anything worthwhile."
Ears grunted and ambled towards the end of their warships, plopping down on the sand with his hands covering his ears. Askeladd's gaze shifted to the longboat, observing the black-cloaked Vikings moving back and forth between the boat and their tents. He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes.
Some of them wore léine's…
But Askeladd's thoughts on the dark-cloaked Vikings were momentarily interrupted when a small figure approached from behind him, brandishing two short blades.
"You promised me a duel," Thorfinn demanded, preparing himself for battle, his fist and short swords extended out in front of him, his usual fighting stance.
Askeladd hummed thoughtfully, the familiar mocking smile playing at his lips. "I did, didn't I? Well then, Thorfinn. I suppose there's no time like the present, you persistent little brat."
One thing he could always rely on with Thorfinn was that he never changed. He was a predictable little bastard.
Their fight didn't last more than five minutes before it concluded, with Askeladd emerging as the clear victor of their duel.
As night fell and the tents rose against the dimming light, Askeladd readied himself to retire for the night. But just as he was about to get up from his spot near the fire, a ruckus broke out in the camp. Near the edge, on the side nearest the black cloaked Vikings, his men suddenly grouped together, their voices blending with laughter, though their words were lost to him in the sudden commotion coming from them.
As Askeladd rose from his sandy perch, brushing off granules from his rear, Bjorn emerged from the cluster with an infectious grin. "You won't believe this," he began, gesturing behind him, "but a friend of Thorfinn has returned."
In an instant, Askeladd connected the dots, the mention of a return giving it away. "You're kidding..." he muttered incredulously.
He hasn't thought of this person in quite some time.
Bjorn let out a laugh. "I'm serious. Come take a look." He turned, heading back to the group of chuckling men. Askeladd sighed, running a hand through his hair as he followed suit, blending into the laughter-filled circle.
Atli, arm draped over s shorter fellows shoulder, called out, undeterred by his companion's disapproving stare from within his grasp, "Hey, Askeladd! Look who decided to show back up after seven long years!"
Wrapped in Atli's embrace was a shorter figure, clad in a dark blue gambeson, paired with charcoal trousers and distinctive knee-high leather boots. Their attire was completed by a black cloak adorned with crimson strip accents, and a black face mask obscured their features. Arms folded, they exuded an air of discontent amidst the scene as Atli's arm only tightened around their shoulder.
Unaware of the gender of the person in his embrace, Atli held onto them as if they were a longtime companion, oblivious to the fact he had a woman in his embrace.
Then those damn green eyes locked onto his, and he couldn't help but smirk in response. Unlike before, she held his gaze steadily.
To say he was taken aback would be an understatement. He never anticipated finding her here, of all places.
Askeladd aimed a finger at the girl attempting to pass as a man. "I remember you. You were among that pack of boys we caught off guard near that godforsaken rock by Iceland." A few of his men snickered, the ones who remained in his band from that time, but the girl simply blinked back at him. "Remind me, what was your name again?" Askeladd theatrically tapped his chin, feigning contemplation as he pondered aloud. "Started with an F, didn't it?"
Not even a flicker of defiance in the girl's gaze. Askeladd found that mildly intriguing. Previously, she'd betrayed her surprise before attempting to conceal it. Now, her facade was impeccably composed.
Askeladd pondered how long she could maintain this façade, if she stuck around for him to bother caring. Over the past seven years, he'd nearly forgotten about the girl who masqueraded as a lad. The one with a penchant for cooking, though he distinctly recalled the silent skirmish she'd waged with him during her brief stint with his band of men, then a futile attempt to recruit Thorfinn back to his homeland. It had been amusing for a while, but hardly a lasting memory of significance.
But there was one trait about her he couldn't stand. He remembered how she'd acted on the boat when he was about to face Thors—how easily she had read him.
He still couldn't fathom how she managed to do that, and the irritation he felt back then resurfaced.
"Getting a bit senile in your old age?" she quipped, her voice echoing the familiar tones he remembered, albeit now tinged with a deeper quality, as if she'd been honing that husky tone she believed made her sound masculine. "I suppose it's not shocking when you're nearing sixty. Memory's the second thing to go, they say."
Askeladd arched an eyebrow at the exchange, but it was Atli who inquired further, "Second? What's the first?"
The girl's gaze shifted to Atli, her green eyes shining and showing no hint of hatred she had in her eyes before. "Do you have a wife?"
"Uh, no, I don't?"
"Then it's something you don't have to worry about."
Bjorn erupted into laughter, prompting both of Askeladd's eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.
She…just made a dick joke.
Atli glanced between Bjorn and the girl, confusion etched on his face. "I'm lost."
The girl casually patted the hand draped over her shoulder, her tone devoid of sympathy as she remarked, "Don't fret. Understanding is third on the list."
One of Askeladd's recent recruits stepped into the firelight, arms folded across his chest. "Who's he, Atli? You haven't filled us in yet. And why's he here? Seems a bit puny to be a Viking." Laughter and nods of agreement rippled through the camp.
Atli blinked, momentarily forgetting the jest as a smile lit up his face. He tightened his hold around the girl's neck. "Ah, right. Most of you weren't around seven years ago, so you wouldn't know him. This is Thorben, hands down the finest cook you'll ever meet! Seriously," Atli insisted, over the ensuing protests and sighs, "this kid whips up the most incredible dishes you'll ever taste. Hey, that one dish you made back there with those other vikings…what was that?"
As the conversation continued, the circle around them gradually dispersed, Askeladd's men losing interest. After all, a cook wasn't anything remarkable.
"...a pizza."
"A pizza! See," Atli exclaimed, like that word would mean something. Then he looked confused. "...what's a pizza?"
"Wait," Bjorn interjected, stepping forward, "what do you mean by 'other Vikings'?" He echoed precisely what Askeladd had been pondering.
"Oh, Thorben was with that Viking group over there," Atli explained, gesturing towards the group in black cloaks behind him. "Torgrim and I caught wind of this delicious aroma and decided to investigate, leading us straight to Thorben!"
"So, you two just waltzed over to another Viking camp without informing anyone and stole their cook?" Bjorn inquired, his tone rightfully irked. Then, turning his gaze to the girl, he added, "And you allowed them? What exactly are you even doing with these Vikings in the first place?" Bjorn's question carried a hint of amusement rather than genuine concern, or the earlier anger directed at Atli.
"I didn't 'let' them," the girl responded, her gaze flickering away from Bjorn's intense stare. "I go where I please. As for being with them, I'm just traveling alongside them for now."
"And who exactly are your traveling companions ?" Askeladd interjected, his curiosity piqued above all else.
Her gaze returned to Askeladd, devoid of emotion. "Norse-Gaels from Dublin."
"That's quite a journey. What brought them all the way out here?" Bjorn asked.
"I needed a change of scenery from Ireland," the girl began, gently removing Atli's hand from her shoulder. She shot him a look, her hand waving in front of her concealed face as she pointedly looked at his armpit. "I asked nicely, and here we are."
"And they just followed your lead?" Bjorn sounded understandably skeptical.
"Why all the questions? Is it really so bizarre that I'm traveling with a band of Vikings? I did stay with you lot for a couple of days, if I remember correctly."
"...fair point." Bjorn hesitated before posing the question that had been lingering. "Do they know about your... situation?" His smile held a hint of ruthlessness, but it didn't elicit the reaction he anticipated, as the girl responded with a bored expression.
"Oh, absolutely. They're intimately acquainted with that aspect of me."
Surprise flickered across Bjorn's face before he burst into laughter once more. Askeladd, however, merely crossed his arms and leveled a stern gaze at her. "You've certainly grown bolder since our last encounter," he remarked.
The girl merely shrugged. "What can I say? Seven years can change a person. Most people, at least." Her gaze swept over the group. "I'm surprised you're all still kicking and sticking to the Viking life. Especially you," she pointed at Askeladd. "Figured you'd be six feet under by now. Actually, I hoped you would be."
Her directness caught him off guard. If memory served, she'd always avoided addressing him directly.
"Why? Expected the kid to have done me in by now?" Askeladd retorted, his smirk returning.
He wondered if she was aware of Thorfinn's whereabouts...
A flicker of surprise crossed her features, confirming his suspicions. It was a look he was looking for. "Thorfinn's still...?"
"Oh yeah, Thorfinn!" Atli said, oblivious to the tension exuding from the girl as he clapped her on the shoulder. "He should be around here somewhere. Probably on his fathers old boat. He usually sulks up there after losing another duel to Askeladd."
Anger. Pure unadulterated anger flashed in her eyes, causing Bjorn to tense beside Askeladd, who merely grinned, baring his teeth in a mockery of amusement. Yet as swiftly as it came, the fury faded, surrendering to the mask of indifference she wore like armor, concealing her true emotions beneath a veneer of apathy.
"Oh, is that so?" she began, arms crossing over her chest. "What a gods damn fool. I'm amazed he's managed to stick around with your lot for this long."
Atli and a few of his men who had stuck around but were now dispersing chuckled at her comment.
As the men began to retreat to their respective tents, their amusement waned with the novelty of the new arrival. Unaware of the woman in their midst, their obliviousness disappointed Askeladd. It wasn't difficult to discern. Her voice alone should have given her away.
But who was he to ruin the fun?
"So, what have you been up to these past seven years, Thorben? Stuck in Ireland?" Atli inquired.
With her arms still folded, she offered a nonchalant shrug. "Oh, the usual. Cooking, rebuilding the family home, traveling to different provinces, hunting down the blokes who offed my family, tossing said blokes in cauldrons, slow-roasting them over a small flame, then sending said cauldrons as gifts to their kin." She shrugged again at the stunned silence. "Just your average Irish melodrama," she added, her last sentence laced with a heavy Scots accent.
"...did you really just say..." Bjorn began, clearly taken aback. Askeladd was equally surprised, to put it mildly.
Both of her hands rose in a placating gesture, though a smile danced in her eyes. "Just kidding. I've been reading up on this torture device called the brazen bull. Gruesome stuff." Her hands dropped to her sides, one resting casually on her hip. "Now, if you don't mind," she turned to Askeladd, her eyes still twinkling with that smile of hers, "I'd like to have a word with Thorfinn."
Askeladd gestured towards his ships, still inwardly surprised by her mention of the gruesome torture method. "Feel free to do as you please. I'm not his keeper. You know where to find him."
The girl simply nodded and walked past, giving Bjorn a subtle wink as she went by. As she approached the side of the boat and hoisted herself up, Bjorn remarked with a casual tone as they watched her walk off, "Never thought we'd see her again."
"With that mouth of hers, I'm surprised we're seeing her again, too. She should be dead." Askeladd agreed.
A moment of silence, then, "Hold on, her ? What do you mean by her ?"
Bjorn and Askeladd turned around, with Bjorn cracking a smile at Atli's bewildered look. "Ah, forgot you were standing there." Bjorn chuckled, clearly amused.
"But, hang on. Are you serious, or is Thorben actually a woman?" Atli asked again, scratching his head as he glanced toward where the girl had gone.
"Think of it this way, Atli," Askeladd began, stepping up to him and resting his hand on the man's shoulder, "consider it like a surprise package. You never know what's inside until you open it right up."
"But," Atli's voice sounded defeated as Askeladd started to walk away, "you didn't really answer the question. And what the hell does that even mean?"
Askeladd waved a dismissive hand behind him as he headed back to his tent, Bjorn trailing after him. "Why don't you find out for yourself?"
"Think that's a wise idea to let that thought linger?" Bjorn asked once they were out of earshot.
"Why not? It's not like I'm invested," Askeladd replied, shooting Bjorn a smirk as they continued walking towards their respective tents. "You don't give a damn either, do you?"
"...no, of course not."
"It's not like it makes a difference in the end," Askeladd remarked, glancing over his shoulder. In the distance, a lone figure stood between their camp and the camp of the dark-cloaked Vikings. The figure blended into the darkness, save for the occasional glint of their helmet catching the firelight. Although they weren't attempting to hide in the night, they remained vigilant. Waiting. Askeladd noticed them as soon as he saw the girl in Atli's arm.
"I doubt she'll linger here for long."
Bjorn followed Askeladd's line of sight, spotting the figure for the first time. "Looks like we've got company."
"More like a sentry, if I had to wager," Askeladd remarked.
"Sentry?" Bjorn's eyes widened as realization dawned. "For the woman? But why would they bother?"
"Exactly," Askeladd agreed. "Why would a bunch of Vikings be so concerned about a girl whose only ambition is to cook? It doesn't add up on the surface."
Upon reaching their tents, Askeladd decided to stay outside instead of retiring for the night as he had intended, and Bjorn followed suit. Neither of them felt inclined to turn in just yet, preferring to observe the actions of their unexpected guest.
It seemed another night of sleeplessness lay ahead for Askeladd.
It didn't take long for the girl to descend from the ship, her eyes betraying nothing about her conversation with Thorfinn. Askeladd and Bjorn observed from their tents that sat adjacent from the ship as she walked a few paces away, but halted abruptly. She locked eyes with the cloaked Viking off in the distance and then did something that stirred memories for Askeladd: she raised her middle finger.
"Is she signaling them in some way?" Bjorn asked, his muscles tensing.
"...no. Pretty sure she's telling them to fuck off," Askeladd replied.
Bjorn blinked in surprise. "Why would she do that?"
Askeladd merely smirked. "Who knows."
She turned toward them, sensing their gaze, and their eyes locked. He half expected her to look away or maybe even flash that vulgar middle finger she liked to give, but instead, she winked at him, instantly reminding him of the look she'd given him seven years ago to throw him off guard. A sensual look meant to distract. Askeladd's lips curled into a lazy grin. She'd grown bolder. And her eyes—there was a slight change from the last time he saw them. Something hidden. Something... intriguing.
He silently wondered if it was simply the seven years that had changed her, matured her, or if it was something else entirely.
Because her eyes held a light—not quite that of a warrior, but something else altogether.