" 'Twould be one h.e.l.l of a big bird. Come here, Starri, look at this s.h.i.t and see what you think," Tykir called out.

Men! They focus on the oddest things. "Bears would not be living on an island this small, lackbrains."

Tykir and Starri shrugged, not convinced.

"I wonder if they might be on that other island," she remarked to no one in particular. When Tykir glanced her way, she pointed to the steeply pitched, mountainous island some distance away.

"I do not see how. There is no sh.o.r.e to speak of. Climbing to the top would require the skills of a mountain goat."

"See. You should have let me bring some of my sheep. I told you it would make a good gift."

"Alinor," he said on a sigh, as if she were too dense to understand manly things, "you do not give gifts to pirates." Adding under his breath, "Especially not stinksome walking blankets."

She rolled her eyes. Tykir was not fond of her sheep, even the far-famed curly-horned ones.

Again, in that condescending voice she hated, he went on, "The Sea Scourge asked for gold, not woolly beasts."

She bared her teeth at him, and he realized, too late, that he'd gone too far. He pretended to cringe in fright.

"No one mocks my precious lambs and gets away with it." She wagged a forefinger at him in warning.

He pinched her bottom. "I was just teasing."

She shook her head as if he was a hopeless case, but then she asked, "What shall we do?"

"Go home."

"I swear, husband, if you say one more time that we never should have come to begin with, you'll be swimming the whole way back to Dragonstead."

He grinned at her. Her husband loved when she got "feisty" with him. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"We will just have to wait until the inhabitants of this island return," she said.

Tykir raised his eyebrows at her. "Are we going to be staying on the ship or in that broken-down hut?"

"Neither. You are going to set up a campsite for me. You did bring tents, didn't you?"

"I always have tents on board," he replied, grumbling again. But then he brightened.

"I know what you are thinking, you scoundrel."

Her husband of almost thirty years was practically a graybeard, but inside, and down low, he still had the desires of a young man. In fact, he looked particularly handsome today in his black leather braies and rust-colored wool tunic with the amber pendant on a gold chain hanging to the middle of his still wide chest. He'd woven amber beads in the gray-threaded war braids framing his face. His golden eyes crinkled with mischief. He might be more than fifty, but there was still a spark in the old man.

He winked at her. "Remember the time we pitched a tent on that Baltic Island where I was harvesting amber. I swear, Starri was started in your belly that night."

"I can hear you," Starri reminded them of his presence nearby.

"Did we make love three or four times?"

"I think I'll go hurl the contents of my stomach," Starri said, and walked away.

She smiled. "Four, if you count that thing you do . . . you know."

They exchanged a knowing glance.

"The Viking S-spot," they said at the same time.

Immediately, Tykir gave orders to the men, "Go back to the ship and bring the tents. Guthrom and Selik, take care of food supplies and the trunk with our clothing. Starri, check out the inside of the hut and see if it's habitable."

"It smells like old woman," Starri complained.

Alinor turned slowly on her heels to glare at him.

Realizing his mistake, Starri said, "You are not old, Mother." He had the good sense then to do as he'd been told.

Turning back to Alinor, Tykir said with mock sternness, "You will owe me for this favor, Alinor."

She put a fingertip to her chin, as if pondering. "There is this thing I heard about involving bedsport. An unusual . . . um, position."

"What?" he asked, immediately interested.

She whispered in his ear, then stepped back. "Are you shocked?"

"Alinor, Alinor, Alinor, when will you learn? You cannot shock a Viking, especially when it comes to s.e.x." Then he yelled loud enough to wake the dead, "Where is that b.l.o.o.d.y tent?"

Time to face the (Viking) music . . .

It was past midnight and the tide was getting low. Thork was preparing to go through the tunnel to meet with his parents for the first time in five years. Nervousness had him pacing back and forth. He didn't know what to expect.

The fact that they came must mean they planned to rescue him. Not that he needed rescuing, but they didn't know that. So, yea, he was pleased. Still, he was unsure exactly what reaction there would be.

From their lookout atop the mountain earlier that day, they watched as tents were erected on Small Island, and a campfire built. Good thing Sigrun and Salvana weren't out there. From all the trunks and barrels brought ash.o.r.e, you'd think they were planning a long stay. Medana will have a screaming fit. In fact, there was an air of festivity below. Hope they brought some of Aunt Eadyth's famous mead. Truly, he should not be surprised. That was his parents. They never did anything in a small way.

It was hard to tell from the distance between the mountaintop and the island exactly who had accompanied his parents, but Thork was fairly certain that he could pick out Starri, Guthrom, and Selik. Oh joy! A family reunion!

Thork had argued with Medana throughout the day and early evening. They must go out and greet his parents. He knew his mother and father. They would not just retreat. His mother, especially, loved a puzzle, and she would consider Medana's ransom letter and an empty Small Island a personal challenge to solve.

In the end, Medana, with a woeful resignation, gave her consent. In her mind, all was lost, now that others would know about Thrudr. While Thork would do his best to maintain her secrets, she was correct in saying he could not guarantee what others might do.

To her credit, Medana was going with him through the tunnel. Reluctantly. Along with his seven men (Bolthor was composing sagas faster than his thick brain could retain them), unarmed (yea, Medana was apparently aware that the men had been pilfering weapons one at a time; how else would Bolthor have been able to chop wood?), and seven of Medana's women (fair is fair, she'd contended, a warped pirate logic, Thork supposed), with weapons (pirate ladies must keep up their image). She'd insisted on those equal numbers, and, Thor's hammer, they really were dressed for war, each one carrying a short sword, battle-axe, and shield. Some, like Gudron, even wore a leather helmet. One of them, Elida, carried a bow and quiver of arrows. Demented, that's what they were. One sweep of his father's arm and they would be on their way to Valhalla or Asgard or wherever fallen female warriors went.

Medana, too, was attired like the pirate she was with leather tunic and braies, high boots cross-gartered up to the knees, and a red scarf wrapped around her head and tied in a knot to one side of her neck. Even in the male attire, she appeared beautiful to Thork with those amazing violet eyes and sensuously full lips. And other body parts.

His mother would love her on sight. His father would fall over laughing.

"Why are you smirking?" she asked as movable stairs were being carried over to the almost empty pond for ease of descent and ascent. They would have only two hours before the steep-sided pond started filling again, so no time could be wasted.

"I am not smirking. I was smiling."

"You are happy to be seeing your parents, then?"

"Of course." Actually, I was picturing you lying on a blanket, minus all those garments, with your blonde hair billowing out like skeins of silk, your thighs spread, your b.r.e.a.s.t.s arched up- "But nervous also," she remarked.

"Huh?"

"Nervous about your parents." At the questioning tilt of his head, she explained, "You are wearing a path around the pond with your pacing, and you have developed a twitch in your jaw."

He clenched his jaw tightly. "And you . . . are you nervous, Medana?"

"As a cat on hot coals."

"My father and his men would not hurt you, unless they were attacked first. Even then, they would avoid physical violence with women. Even pirate women." He waggled his eyebrows at that last part of his comment.

"Do not make mock of me."

"I was not. You are the one who named yourself Sea Scourge."

"I did not! Some miscreant monk who did not want to give up his sack of gold coins is the one who did that. All I did was kick him in the shin and knock him to the ground afore making off with the unholy h.o.a.rd of treasure."

He shook his head with amazement. The possible mother of his child off a-pirating and attacking priests! Lady Alinor would probably not be too happy about the priest business, being a Christian and having been raised in a Saxon household. Thork never told people that he was half Saxon because he considered himself all Viking.

But on to other matters. "Do you know if-"

"Do not ask me again," she warned. "I already told you, at least a dozen times, that I will not know for a sennight or more."

"I just thought . . . well, do these things not come early betimes?"

She crossed her eyes with frustration, and looked d.a.m.n adorable when she did. " 'These things' do not come early for me. Now, stop asking."

He glanced down to her stomach.

"And stop looking at me there."

He went down the ladder first and waited for Medana at the bottom. And enjoyed watching her descent as the fabric of her braies tautened over her b.u.t.tocks. Which reminded him that he hadn't taken her from behind yet, dog style, one of his favorite s.e.xual positions. He wondered if he'd get the chance now.

"You better not be ogling my a.r.s.e," she warned.

"Of course not," he replied, and continued to ogle. Mayhap he would still get an opportunity to try other positions. There must be dozens. Mayhap even hundreds. Nay, he could not think of that. Not now. Not when he was about to face his mother. She would know what he was thinking. Mothers, leastways his mother, could practically read the minds of their naughty sons. G.o.ds! You would think I am eight years old and not twenty and eight.

He took her hand, but she pulled it away. "We are not greeting your parents hand in hand."

"Why not?"

"Because it would imply we are lovers, which we are not."

"Right," he agreed. Although, you must admit, we were lovers already, and we might be again, please G.o.ds. It is in the hands of the Norns of Fate now. Or my mother's, if she finds out what I have been up to.

Torches were being carried by some of his men, and a full moon had just emerged from behind a cloud cover. So there was reasonable nighttime visibility, more so when they emerged on the other side where the moon and stars reflected off the water.

As they walked across the narrow landma.s.s connecting the two islands, he could see that everyone was abed for the night in the three tents and on the ground. Torches on tall poles set at intervals gave some additional light. Two guardsmen were up and on duty but they studied the seas, not expecting to see anyone coming from this direction.

"Hail! We come as friends!" Thork shouted out.

Startled, the two guards jerked around and noticed them for the first time. "Foemen! Foemen!" one of the guards yelled, not recognizing him.

Oops, Thork had forgotten to mention his name.

Too late!

His father's other men were rising, too. Out on the longship, torches were being lit. His brothers, naked as the day they were born, emerged quickly from one of the tents. All of them drawing weapons.

Which caused Medana to cut him with a killing glance, as if he'd led them into a trap. She let loose with one of her two-fingers-to-the-mouth whistles. A call to arms.

"Are you demented?" he barked at her.

Guthrom raised a battle cry. "Weapons! Weapons!"

Others were clamoring about in a rush to arm themselves.

"Death to the pirates! Hew them down!"

"An ambush . . . we are being ambushed!"

Guthrom was closest, so Thork roared at him, "Lower your sword, Guthrom! It is me, Thork."

Guthrom didn't hear him apparently because he not only failed to lower his sword but he grabbed a pike as well.

Selik was trying to pull on a pair of braies one-handed while he held a broadaxe in his other hand. And he was yelling, "They came from the sea. Must be underwater warriors. Water G.o.ds . . . and, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! G.o.ddesses, too. Must be they are Valkyries."

He heard Jostein mutter something about, "If these are Valkyries, I do not want to go to Valhalla."

"Is it possible the Water Valkyries are the pirates who took Thork?" Guthrom asked no one in particular.

My family! Thork thought in the midst of the chaos. I should have expected that things would not go smoothly. How anyone could mistake the women of Thrudr for Valkyries was beyond Thork.

In the confusion, one of the women shot out an arrow, and hit a member of his family high on one thigh. Guthrom! No wonder! He'd been standing there making a fool of himself with those ridiculous speculations about the women. But whoa! A little higher and his brother's manhood would have been in peril.

Guthrom dropped his sword and gaped at the arrow sticking out from his thigh. The stunned expression on his face was one Thork would relish telling him about. Later.

The whole time Thork was shouting, "It's me. Thork! You b.l.o.o.d.y idiots!"

Starri picked up several of his throwing knives. Thork recognized him immediately by his red hair and freckles, noticeable even in the half light. If Starri released even one of those knives, someone was going to be dead, so expert was his brother at this particular skill. Thork was about to rush forward and tackle him to the ground, but just then, a loud, booming voice bellowed, "Halt! Lower your weapons, you b.l.o.o.d.y lackbrains. It's your lackbrain brother Thork!" Emerging from the tent was his father, who was tying the cords on his braies. Peeping out from behind him was his mother in a night rail, covered with a shawl over her shoulders.

Everyone froze in place, even the women. His father was an imposing figure. And, G.o.ds be praised, Thork could see by the torchlight that his father was remarkably the same since last he'd seen him, except for a little more white in his long, sleep-mussed hair. If he'd expected to see a graybeard bent over at the shoulders as some aged folks tended to be, or if he'd thought that old war wound would have deemed his father a cripple by now, Thork was sorely mistaken. And pleasantly so.

The frozen tableau seemed to go on for an hour, but it was probably only a moment before a feminine voice said, "Thork?"

It was his mother.