NEW RELEASE - To Tame a Viking Warlord: Keeper of Secrets III

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He crossed an ocean based on a prophecy. She never asked to be anyone's destiny.

Samira al-Idrissi reads the stars, drives a hard bargain in the souk, and carries a blade she knows how to use. What she doesn't know is that she is the keeper of an ancient relic guarded by a secret order. Now there's a price on her head, and her only road out of Morocco runs north, at the side of a Viking she's known for two days.

Torstein Hagansson trusts steel before he trusts fate. But a seer swore his soul mate waited in a land of endless sand. When he finds Samira in a Fez alley, blade drawn and giving no ground, even a hardened warlord has to wonder.

The prophecy said she was his. It didn't say she'd make it easy.

Getting her home is the simple part. Keeping her safe from the Norman Brotherhood and others hunting her bloodline is another matter entirely.

Good thing Samira has never backed down from a fight.

When a desert-born warrior stands beside a Viking warlord, their enemies are about to discover that some forces of nature cannot be tamed.

Can be read as a stand-alone or in series order.

NO cheating. NO cliffhangers. HEA. 

***

Prologue

1029 - Orkney Isles

The sickness had come swiftly, a burning heat that consumed Torstein from within. For three days and nights, he drifted in and out of consciousness, the world around him a blur of faces and voices. Sweat plastered his golden hair to his forehead, his young face contorted in pain as the fever raged through his body. Though only twelve winters old, he had survived raids and storms at sea, but this invisible enemy that burned him from within proved his fiercest opponent yet.

His father, Hagan, stood grim-faced by the bedside, watching as his only son fought for each labored breath.

"He burns hotter than the flames of Surtr, the herbs are not working," his mother Runa said, desperation creeping into her voice as she administered a damp cloth to Torstein's brow. "We must seek the help of Brynhild."

"Nay." Hagan's voice was sharp. "I'll not have a seiðkona tending my son."

"Would you prefer to have a dead son to bury 'neath the stones?" Runa replied with an intense glare.

All the fight left Hagan then as concern for his son won over his prejudice against the old ways. Hagan sighed and then nodded in agreement. "Aye, I'll fetch the old witch then."

***

Night had fallen by the time Brynhild the elderly healer arrived. Ancient even then, with eyes the color of storm clouds. She carried a bag of strange-smelling herbs and spoke in a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself. The old woman was both feared and respected throughout the isles. Some whispered she was a völva, a seeress with one foot in this world and one in the realm of spirits. Others claimed she was a witch who had learned forbidden magic from Christian monks. Whatever the truth, she was known to possess healing knowledge that had saved lives when all else failed.

Torstein's eyes fluttered open at her approach, glassy and unfocused. "I see them," he whispered, his voice cracked and dry. "The Valkyries... they're coming for me."

Brynhild snorted, the silver amulets woven into her gray braids jingling as she shook her head firmly. "Look away from them, lad. Ye have many winters yet."

"But they call to me," Torstein murmured, his eyes half-lidded, seeing beyond the worried faces of his parents and their small cottage to golden halls where dream-like warriors feasted.

"Odin can wait," Brynhild snapped, slapping his cheek lightly. "Your saga has barely begun, son of Hagan. Would you have the skalds sing of Torstein who died before his beard grew?" She made a 'tsk-tsk' sound.

Torstein's fevered gaze focused momentarily on her face, seeing the determination etched in lines across her brow. "I am tired of fighting," he confessed.

"No, son. Do not give up!" came his father's gruff voice through the haze.

"Do not leave us!" he heard his mother's tearful plea.

Torstein's body racked with shudders in response.

Old Brynhild's weathered hands crushed some herbs with a mortar and pestle, the pungent aroma filling the small space. The mixture sizzled as she added it to a wooden cup of steaming liquid while she muttered incantations and prayers to Eir, goddess of healing. Then she whispered, "Listen well, son of Hagan. Valhalla awaits, but your time is far from now." She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "You have a long life to live. You will not surrender it to fever!"

Torstein's breathing slowed slightly as her words reached through the fever's haze.

With Hagan's help, Brynhild lifted Torstein to a sitting position and pressed a horn of foul-smelling liquid to his lips. "Drink. This will cool the fire within."

Torstein drank, grimacing at the taste that was somehow both bitter and sweet, like overripe berries. The liquid burned down his throat, settling in his stomach like a stone. The room grew still, and even Hagan, skeptical as he was, did not dare to speak. Several moments passed until, much to his parents' great relief, Torstein's breathing began to ease and even out as his body visibly relaxed. He lay back against the pillows.

"What ails my son?" Runa finally asked.

"He walks between two worlds," Brynhild replied. "His fever is of the soul. It is torn, you see. Half here, half elsewhere."

"What nonsense is this?" Hagan demanded.

Brynhild ignored him, her storm-cloud eyes fixed on Torstein. "The other half of your soul awaits. In a land of mystical sands."

Hagan replied, "I am grateful for your help, Fróð kona, but please do not fill my son's head with fairy tales." His wife Runa shushed him, and Hagan grunted his displeasure, moving away from the bed to pace the room.

Torstein's eyes widened slightly, the mention of unknown lands stirring something within him. He asked with a rasp, "What land?"

"Your fate is tied to a place you have not yet seen and to a lass born under different stars, where the endless sands meet the great waters. She waits for you, though she knows it not. She is your destiny. Would you abandon her to walk this world alone?"

Torstein shook his head.

Brynhild's eyes grew distant, seeing beyond the walls. "Trials await her, and she will need your strength. Would you leave her unprotected?"

"No," Torstein whispered, his voice barely audible above the crackling fire.

The old healer nodded, satisfied. "Then fight. Push the Valkyries away."

"How... how will I find her?" Torstein asked, his voice slightly stronger.

Brynhild replied, "Grow strong. Learn the ways of sail and sword. In time, the gods will guide your ship to her shores." She placed a hand above his heart. "But if you surrender now, she will walk alone forever."

Torstein grasped Brynhild's wrist with newfound strength. "Tell me what to do," he said.

Brynhild smiled in the firelight. "Live, Torstein Hagansson. You must live."

"I will," he whispered, his gaze no longer fixed on invisible Valkyries but on the smoke hole above, where stars glimmered.

"Good," Brynhild nodded, satisfaction in her voice. "Now rest so you will be alert and ready to rise again with the sun."

As Torstein's eyes grew heavy and eventually closed, his breathing grew steadier. Brynhild and Runa kept vigil over him through the night as Hagan stoked the fires and guarded his household.

By morning, when the first gray light filtered through the windows, Torstein slept peacefully, the worst of the fever broken. Brynhild sat back on her stool, her old bones aching from the night's vigil. "Stubborn, just like your father," she muttered with grudging approval. "This desert maiden of yours will have her hands full with you."

***

Chapter 1

1047 Winter - Kirkwall, Orkney Isles

The boat came in with the morning tide. Two women in travelling cloaks stepped onto the shore and requested an audience with Thorfinn Sigurdsson, the mighty Jarl of Orkney.

To anyone else they looked like simple nuns. But Thorfinn, who had been watching for their arrival, knew better. They were women of the cloth, but they were also part of one of the highest secret orders in Christendom, and only a fool would treat their visit lightly.

He recognized the first as Abbess Murdina of Saddell Abbey. His cousin, King Macbeth mac Findláech, had once described Murdina's life as one long chessboard, the pieces forever moving, the woman always several steps ahead. Thorfinn had known her long enough never to underestimate her. He also knew that a woman who crossed the Pentland Firth in winter did not do so without good reason.

***

Jarl Thorfinn received the Abbess in his private council chamber, because whatever she had come to say was not for other ears. Sister Eithne took her post outside the door, a quarterstaff strapped to her back and her eyes scanning the corridor. Thorfinn knew a bodyguard when he saw one.

Murdina sat without being asked and folded her hands on the table. "You look well, Jarl Thorfinn."

"As do ye, Abbess. Though I can tell ye have come in person because what ye have to say could not be put in a missive."

She smiled slightly. "As always, nothing escapes your attention. I hear you plan to make your pilgrimage to Rome soon."

"Aye. I journey with Macbeth."

"That is why I came now rather than later. I need to contact an old friend in Fez. A merchant trader named Dawud ibn Yusuf al-Idrissi. He has something that must come north. A parcel that has waited a long time for the right escort."

"What manner of parcel?"

"The kind that requires discretion, and someone ye trust, with a legitimate reason to be in Fez. Trade goods. A scouting mission. Something that does not invite suspicion."

"And if I were to ask what it is?"

She took a breath. "An ancient relic. Of great power. The Brotherhood are searching for it, and they are closer than I would like. It cannot fall into their hands."

Thorfinn stiffened. He had heard of the Brotherhood, and of their strange hunger for old relics. He turned his cup slowly on the table. He was a strategist, and he knew there was more to this than the Abbess was saying. Someone had forced her hand, or she would not have crossed the firth in the dead of winter.

"Ye have come yourself, rather than sending a letter," he said. "That tells me ye move because ye must, not because ye choose. So my question is this. Who else is looking for it?"

Murdina smiled. "You always did see the whole board, Thorfinn Sigurdsson."

"I see what a person does, not what they say. Macbeth speaks well of your Order, and so do I. I am a man of practical arrangement, Abbess. Ye ken this."

"I do."

"Then I shall send my best man south. He will make contact with your merchant and bring your parcel north safely. But when I have need of the abbey's assistance, at a time of my choosing, ye will not refuse me."

Murdina was quiet a long moment. Then she inclined her head. "Agreed."

"Then I'll have my men on the water come the thaw."

She reached into her boist and drew out a small square of vellum, folded twice, and smoothed it open on the table. The sketch showed a pendant, a disc no larger than a man's palm, carved with a design like outstretched arms beneath a crescent moon, the whole of it ringed by a plain border.

"This is what your man will escort north," she said. "The merchant will provide proof of my seal, and my letters will tell your man all he needs. But he must learn the tongue before he sails, and the customs with it. Latin will carry him through the Christian ports, but south of them it is worth little. From Lisbon to Salé the harbours are held by Muslim lords, and your man will be speaking Arabic long before he reaches Fez. I have arranged a tutor, a scholar named Brother Aiden, well traveled and adept in the tongues and customs of the region. He will teach your man Arabic, and what courtesies one winter allows."

Thorfinn leaned forward to study the sketch. Then he went still.

"I have seen this carving before," he said slowly. "Or its likeness. Not far from here. In Maeshowe. Carved into the stone, among the runes."

Murdina sat up. "This design has no cause being anywhere near these isles."

"And yet."

Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

"Then it is even more important your man is on the water before the thaw closes on us," she said.

She laid the remaining parchments and a cube of sealed clay on the table. "The merchant's family seal. Proof that I am the sender. Whoever you send presents this with my letter."

The Abbess rose, collected her cloak, and moved to the door. She paused with her hand on the frame.

"Your man will ken what he is looking for when he finds it," she said. "Of that I am certain."

She left.

Thorfinn sat alone. After a long moment he rose, crossed to the shelf, and picked up the ancient stone he had found buried beneath the fort when the wall collapsed. Dark. Carved. Warm, as it had always been. A seer had once told him it was a ward against evil. He had never quite believed it, but he kept it there regardless.

He held it a while longer. Then he set it back on the shelf, and sent for the only man he could trust with the task.

He sent for Torstein Hagansson.

***