Death Blow Read online

  Acclaim for Jianne Carlo’s Viking Warriors

  The Bear and the Bride

  “…fantastic…great physical and sexual chemistry and great dialogue.” 4.5 Lips.

  —Rose, Two Lips Reviews

  The Dragon Slayer

  “Oh my good Lord above! Did I adore this book? Yes, I did.”

  One of the Best—A #1 Top Pick.

  —Miz Love, Miz Love and Crew Love Books

  The Peacemaker

  “…another outstanding job by Jianne Carlo… If you appreciate a historical romance that transports you into the pages, then this is a story you must pick up today.”

  4.5 Nymphs

  —Amethyst Nymph, Literary Nymphs Reviews

  The Destroyer

  “I loved every bit of it.”

  —LT Blue, Just Erotic Romance Reviews

  ~ Look for these titles from Jianne Carlo ~

  Now Available

  The Viking Warriors

  Book One: The Bear and the Bride

  Book Two: The Dragon Slayer

  Book Three: The Peacemaker

  Book Four: The Destroyer

  Book Five: The Seducer

  Now in Print

  The Viking Warriors Collection

  The Viking Vengeance Series

  Malice Striker

  Death Blow

  Coming Soon

  Vengeance Hammer

  Death Blow

  Viking Vengeance Book Two

  Jianne Carlo

  Copyright Warning

  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By

  Etopia Press

  1643 Warwick Ave., #124

  Warwick, RI 02889

  http://www.etopia-press.net

  Death Blow

  Copyright © 2012 by Jianne Carlo

  ISBN: 978-1-939194-36-7

  Edited by Nancy Cassidy

  Cover by Annie Melton

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Etopia Press electronic publication: December 2012

  Chapter One

  A thunderous roar deafened Konáll and jerked him out of his stupor. He gritted his teeth against a stabbing agonizing pain spreading from ear to ear and forced his eyes open.

  He had died and been sent not to Valhalla but to Niflheim.

  Not a hand’s breadth from his nose stood a blue beast, with the body of Sleipnir, Odin’s giant, eight-legged horse, and a massive head like those of the lions he had encountered in the great eastern city of Miklagard during his service to Emperor Ioannes Tzimiskes.

  Loki’s balls! Konáll tried to rise from his position on the floor and stifled a howl when ropes tied around his wrists and ankles sliced into his skin. His arms and legs were stretched wide and bound to wooden staves dug into the dirt. He heaved with all his might, but could not budge.

  The formidable creature sat back on its haunches and licked a paw.

  Konáll nigh pissed himself in relief.

  The beast snarled again, a booming growl which echoed off the stone walls in what Konáll now recognized was a cave. He scanned the dark cavern. Naught but rock, moss, and shadowed crevices. No weapons met his line of vision. His chest was bare, but he wore hose and boots.

  How had he come to be here, encroached on the animal’s lair?

  And who had laid him out, ripe to be eaten?

  “I hear you, Mús. ’Tis not necessary to repeat your call.” A female appeared behind the creature. “How feels your head, Viking?”

  Was she witless? Did she not see the evil monster? Had she not heard its roar?

  “Run! Race as far and fast as you can! I will distract the beast afore he makes a meal of you!” He arched and tugged on his fetters.

  “A meal of me?” She rolled eyes the hue of glittering steel. “Nay warrior, Mús would have you, not me.”

  Mús? The female had lost her senses. She thought the cat a mouse?

  “Mayhap, the Viking tastes better than he looks. What say you, Mús? Should we carve a chunk of his flesh for the stew?” She winked at the lion.

  “Have you lost your wits?” he yelled. “Run!”

  “Nay. ’Tis you who had lost your senses. Mús and I found you and your broken head not two eve’s hence. I warn you, Mús likes not to be called beast and mayhap will punish the offence should you repeat it.” She tapped a foot and folded her arms.

  Forsooth, he had lost his senses. Or mayhap ’twas a spell cast on him by the trickster god, Loki. He forced his eyes shut, shook his head, and groaned at the agony inherent in the slight action.

  “Aye. ’Twas a foolish move. Think you to undo all my healing, Viking?” She marched over to him, squatted, and pressed a hand to either side of his head.

  The torture lessened at once. Her fingers soothed the knives piercing his brow and in less than two inhales, the acute stinging subsided all together. ’Twas the miracle the Christians spoke of, the magik of her soft touch akin to the joyous intoxication experienced after drinking poppy juice.

  “’Tis why you are bound so tight. Your skull was cracked and you had entered the sleep of the dead when Mús found you. But you fought my healing with all your might, thrashing and kicking. I was forced to bind you. There, the pain is better, no?”

  “Aye.” To his dismay she removed her enchanted palms. At once he felt bereft and could not stifle a moan. He yearned to beg for the return of her touch but bit his tongue to strangle the plea scratching at his throat. ’Twas not his nature to beg—not e’en an emperor. Had she fed him some magik potion to shatter his discipline?

  “I will release you if you swear on your honor to move with care.”

  He nodded and moaned again when the throbbing drummed like Thōrr’s hammer in his ears.

  She made the scolding noise all females seemed to have in common, even the youngest of girls. “Mayhap you needs be bound longer—”

  “Nay. I have other needs to attend to.”

  His full bladder was near to bursting. Heat scaled his throat when she grinned and gazed directly at his groin. His foolish cock thickened under her eyes’ sweet caress. Thanks be to Odin, the loose hose did not reveal his reaction to her gaze, and the need to piss dampened his arousal. What madness had him in lust whilst so vulnerable? What about this female had him drunk with the need to swive?

  “Forsooth, Viking, ’twas not easy to assist you with nature’s call these past two days. I have nursed many a man back to health, but your pecker is of a size worthy of a scald’s tale.”

  By Odin, he had lost all his wits. For he could not force a word out of his slack-jawed mouth and did not notice when she undid the knots at his feet until the cat slapped a hefty paw on his erection. At once his cock went flaccid.

  “Aye, ’twas only Mús’s slight nudge that chastised your pecker into submission.” She chortled.

  Sig
ht nudge? The beast had nigh severed his cock, and she called the blow a slight nudge? He had no liking for the female or her treacherous pet.

  “If you wish me to be still, set your beast far away from my cock,” he snapped.

  “’Tis true then, the sirens’ songs of men and their peckers.” She finished working free the last restraint, sat, and crossed her legs.

  Fine, shapely legs clothed to the knees in torn and ragged leggings and shabby, threadbare boots.

  His lack-a-wit cock twitched. Konáll glared at his groin and pictured the abbess, Lady Gráinne, wearing her warriors-are-worthless sneer. ’Twas the command his pecker needed and the wayward organ subsided at once.

  “Sirens? Know you sirens?” He rocked his feet from side to side and clenched his jaw when the fierce prickles of restored blood flow heated his icy toes. Slowly, he eased into a sitting position and leaned back against the cavern’s rough wall.

  “I was sent to the sirens to learn seductive ways.” She curled her lip. “’Twas naught but a waste of time and now I needs take back our castle.”

  Konáll studied the cave’s moss covered roof, closed his eyes, and begged Loki to release him from the cursed spell the god had cast. He lifted one eyelid, hoping to see the great hall of his brother’s holding, and heaved a weighty sigh. Even though every instinct urged him not to, he asked, “Take back your castle?”

  “Aye.” She stamped her hands on the rock-strewn floor and pushed to stand above him. “My fool of an uncle allowed a troupe of music makers entrance to our keep. In truth, the lack wit gave succor to our fiercest enemy, Bagan One-Eye, and now our holding is ruled by filthy Picts.”

  Picts, the people famed for their ruthless warring—firing villages and killing every inhabitant of every castle, holding, and village they invaded. The girl spoke of naught but folly. A female regaining a holding inhabited by hordes of Picts?

  ’Twas not his problem.

  He dug his boots into the dirt and graveled floor of the cave and shoved his palms against the wall until he stood. His knees wobbled, the cavern dipped and bounced. Konáll inhaled, a slow deep breath, and concentrated on ignoring the light-headedness hazing his sight. Gradually, his blurred vision cleared.

  She cupped his elbow and circled an arm around his waist. “I will help you outside.”

  “Nay. Leave me. I will manage.” He dashed her hands away and stumbled to the cave’s entrance.

  ’Twas the half light of dawn that met his eyes, but even that faint glimmer of the sun nudging the horizon hurt. He kept his gaze fixed on the uneven ground, felt his way around the corner of the rock face, and loosened the rope tying his hose. The relief of emptying his bladder was sheer bliss.

  As he shifted his garments back into place, Konáll scanned the immediate area. Naught was familiar. Not the dense forest of sweet smelling giant pines crowding the mountainside, nor the thick carpet of purple heather covering a meadow in the distance.

  Stumbling over the rock-strewn terrain, he edged his way back into the welcome shadows of the cavern.

  The girl stooped near the fire pit. She glanced to him, forehead puckered. “Are you relieved, Viking?”

  Her crassness had him clenching his jaw. Had she been taught no female modesty? He had been too preoccupied earlier with the beast and her crazed ramblings to notice her shorn cap of flaxen hair and filthy skin. But her eyes were wider, more slanted, and more beautiful than a newborn doe’s, and her lips too full and cherry not to taste of the nectar of the gods. His cursed pecker stiffened. Not once before had he ever lusted after a mere girl. The notion filled him with disgust. He was a man of honor, not a base marauder.

  “How many summers have you seen, girl?”

  “Of what is that your concern, Viking?”

  “How know you I am a Viking?”

  “We are speaking your Norse, are we not?” She arched a brow and threw the cat a quick glance. “Methinks the blow addled his brain, Mús.”

  He choked back an oath at his stupidity.

  She spoke Norse with a Gaelic burr and the duskiness in her voice reminded him of the skilled courtesans of the Saracen harems.

  A deep rumble drew his attention. Near the cave’s entrance, the cat’s amber eyes glowed in the shadows, and the creature fixed him with a malevolent stare.

  “You call your cat, mouse? Were I he, you would wear my claw marks. Not that any claw could find purchase through the oil and grease matting your arms.”

  He watched as the woman set a flint to the tinder in the pit. Sparks flew. A metallic aroma floated on a gentle breeze.

  A grin captured her sultry mouth revealing even white teeth and twin dimples. “I stole away from the sirens’ palace on a Saracen trader’s ship. I knew the crew would find me and could not risk them knowing I was female, so I cut my hair and oiled and greased myself head to toes.”

  “’Tis not greased now, your locks. Why leave the rest on your flesh?”

  “How knew you I am female? The Saracen who owned the ship took me for a boy.”

  Konáll could have told her his cock had ne’er erred in twining man from woman, but he did not want her knowing she had the power to arouse him. He liked not the way she prodded him, not replying to his queries, but responding with her own questions. “How many summers have you seen?”

  “How many, think you?”

  He marched toward her.

  The lion snarled and sprang between them.

  Konáll fisted his hands and froze.

  Fangs bared, tail cracking like a whip, the beast stood in front of her crouched form. Without taking his focus from Konáll, the lion edged closer to her.

  She reached over to scratch the animal’s crown. “Nay, Mús.”

  The animal shook its vast head, and the golden fleece of curls covering its neck glinted in a stray beam of sunlight. How had he thought the creature blue and eight legged? Mayhap it had been a trick of the dancing shadows?

  “The Viking is unarmed and you are near at hand. Be at ease.”

  Instantly he felt for his thick leather belt, stunned and disgusted he had forgotten his training and not checked for his axe the second his senses cleared. “You have Dauði Dkellr?”

  “I understand not those words. My Norse is little used.” She blew on the kindling and a wisp of smoke curled above the pit.

  The scent of singed pine needles wafted to his nose.

  “’Tis the name of my axe.” He opened and closed his fingers and yearned for the cold, hard reassuring steel of his famous weapon. Absently, he tightened the strings on his black vambraces. If he still wore the leather cuffs, them mayhap she had saved his axe, armor, and chest.

  “Your arms are near. When you are ready, I will return them to you.” She paid him no heed, but placed a bundle of dried twigs and grasses in the center of the branches in the pit.

  The beast growled and flicked its tail from side to side. The sharp crack prompted her to shake her head and send the creature a narrow-eyed glare.

  “I am ready now. Where are my axe, sword, and daggers? Return them at once.”

  She ne’er even flinched, but raised a brow and met his gaze. Not once did she blink.

  The men who did not cower and jump to obey Konáll’s barked commands numbered few and women even fewer. With a grudging respect, he studied her from ragged tresses to shabby, worn boots. She was not as young as he had first thought, and the contrast between her soot-covered skin and the light gray of her eyes proved un-nerving.

  She had courage, this woman-child and, worse, the powerful attraction he felt for her magnified with each passing moment. Women sought him. Not since his green training days had he needed to pursue a lady. Yet the urge to train this wild female to his hand proved nigh overwhelming. He worked his jaw.

  “Sit. ’Tis time we became acquainted.” She motioned at a flat rock to the left of the fire. “How are you called, Viking?”

  He moved to stand opposite her, ignored the cat’s low rumbles, leaned a shoulder on the roug
h stone, crossed one ankle over the other, and tipped his head back forcing her to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

  “I am Konáll, and I am known as Dauði Dkellr.”

  Let her dwell on the two words that put the fear of Niflheim, the Norse version of the Christian Hades, into the heart of every mortal living in the highlands, even Kenneth, King of Scots.

  * * *

  Dauði Dkellr. The moment the words issued from his sinful lips, she’d known. Nay, she had known on first sight of him.

  Konáll, the Viking known as Death Blow, the name spoken in furtive whispers and frequent signings of the cross by men and women alike throughout the highlands. A warrior of considerable wealth.

  The man to whom King Kenneth had promised her in marriage, Konáll’s wealth to gain the lands she had inherited. Though she respected her parents and gloried in their happy marriage, she had not been raised to simmer under a husband’s thumb. For so long she had sought to avoid this man and their fated marriage. No good could come of the union she dreaded with every fiber. She struggled to keep her breathing even, but the scent of her fear must have flooded the cave for Mús roared and charged the Viking. His great paws hammered the floor. Pebbles and boulders splattered in a wide spray.

  “Nay!” She jumped to her feet. “Mús. Heed Aegir’s curse!”

  Mús twisted in mid-air and landed facing her. He bellowed his displeasure, snarled, and slapped the dirt. Hard rocky missiles spewed the cavern’s walls.

  “Go. Hunt your meal. If needs be, I will call.” Mús locked gazes with her for a long moment, the cat’s displeasure palpable in the oppressive silence of the hollow cavern. With a final, ferocious growl Mús whipped around and bounded out of the cave.

  For long moments she and the Viking stared at each other.

  “You have been cursed by Aegir? Who are you? How come you to a Sea God’s notice?”

  He stalked to her wearing a menacing scowl, but ’twas not his furrowed brow or his flared nostrils that had her belly fluttering. Nay, her fingers itched to touch his bronzed skin, to savor the hard ridges of his powerful arms. She liked not her reaction to this warrior, her betrothed. Never had she felt so drawn to any man.