Beyond A Viking Horizon Read online

  Mists of Time Viking Series

  Book Three

  Beyond a Viking Horizon

  By:

  Tami Dee

  Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc.

  27305 W. Live Oak Rd #424

  Castaic, CA 91384

  http://www.DesertBreezePublishing.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Tami Dee

  ISBN 10: 1-936000-96-2

  ISBN 13: 978-1-936000-96-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Publish Date: August 2010

  Editor-In-Chief: Gail R. Delaney

  Cover Artist: Jenifer Ranieri

  Cover Art Copyright by Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc © 2010

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.

  Ebooks are not transferrable, either in whole or in part. As the purchaser or otherwise lawful recipient of this ebook, you have the right to enjoy the novel on your own computer or other device. Further distribution, copying, sharing, gifting or uploading is illegal and violates United States Copyright laws.

  Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  Mists of Time Viking Series

  Under a Viking Moon - June 2009

  Dawn of a Viking Sunrise - January 2010

  Beyond a Viking Horizon - August 2010

  Through a Viking Mist - March 2011

  Dedication

  Beyond A Viking Horizon is dedicated to my husband, Heap, a man who has a deep love and respect for the earth, which comes to him via generations of farmers. Beloved relatives who to this very day till, cultivate, and subdue the red soil of Cambodia in order to feed their families.

  Thank you, darling husband, for being the inspiration for Balmung. I strove to capture your strength, integrity, compassion, and selflessness through this character.

  Prologue

  Kopi SmykkerArhus, Denmark 908

  Balmung Nabboddrson stood amidst the tender green whips of wheat just emerging from their cozy beds of rich, dark, soil. He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the comforting aroma of earth and recent rain. The dark rolling clouds of this morning had produced only a refreshing drizzle rather than the storm he had expected, just enough moisture to freshen the air and give the buds the nourishment they needed to continue their quest for sun, air, and life.

  He was at peace here, on his land, where as far as his eye could see, his sweat, strength and determination had resulted in thriving crops. He was a second son, his older brother Leif was Jarl to a people who prospered under his skill and care, just as Balmung's crops did under his hand.

  He wished his brother a long life, for Balmung had no desire to inherit those particular responsibilities. Not that he was unable to perform as Jarl when circumstances demanded it. He knelt to scoop a handful oof soil, letting the moist dirt sift through his fingers. For indeed, during the time when their father's mind had not been functioning as it should, and Leif had taken a remarkable sojourn through Time, it had been Balmung who had shouldered the responsibilities of caring for his mother, sisters, and clan. He had done well, providing for and defending one and all, despite the serious injuries he'd sustained the day of his brother's bitter betrayal the morn of Leif's wedding.

  But leading his people wasn't where his heart lay.

  Balmung stood, brushed at the knee of his leg covering, then carefully stepped through the neat rows, heading for the fortress he had built with his own two hands, a dwelling constructed to withstand the weather and any attack by warring clans.

  Balmung stopped just steps from his front door and sniffed. His heart thumping with what felt like despair, he scanned the landscape, then the sky. He shook his head. The pungent scent of smoke burned his nose and filled his mouth, yet there was no sign of fire.

  Fire. A ruthless enemy, capable of destroying anything and everything in its path.

  He scanned the area again, satisfying himself that there was no danger, before stepping over the threshold of his clean, strong, and only a little bit lonely, home.

  Chapter One

  Kopi SmykkerArhus, Denmark 1930

  Smoke seized Iris Johnson's lungs in an iron fist. Her throat was raw, the muscles of her arms and legs throbbed from exertion, and her hands and bare feet had blistered fighting the flames.

  Despite it all she screamed her despair and fury into the night, into the roaring yellow, red and orange inferno which now devoured her crop. Her livelihood.

  Cries sounded from behind her and she reined herself in. There was no saving the crop now, and if she didn't do something right away the flames would also take their home, barn and chicken coup.

  "Stay away from the field!" she ordered her children over the roaring of the flames. She thrust the thick rope tether of Millie -- their one and only milk goat -- into her oldest son's hand, then nudged him toward his weeping siblings. "For God's sake," she shouted. "Stay together."

  With trembling hands, she grabbed the handle attached to the water hose and let the jet stream onto the house's roof and walls. It wasn't a wooden structure, thank goodness, but even though the thick stone walls had endured for over a thousand years, there were sections which were crumbling and weakened from time and the elements.

  If the flames reached it, Iris doubted it would be able to withstand them.

  Then were would she and her four babies live?

  Even if their home survived tonight, with the crops destroyed, how would they live?

  She didn't delude herself that folks in the nearby community would assist her. No, for why would they help her and the children when it had been they who had started this fire in the first place?

  The moon had been full, the sky clear. She had seen them. Six men. Each from local, prominent families, sneaking around in the dead of night pouring gasoline around the perimeter of her land. Then striking a match.

  And all for the purpose of driving her out and freeing up her land for themselves.

  Had they intended for the flames to consume her and the children along with the crop? She shivered with the dark thought.

  The last of the flames died with the rising of the sun. Iris stood, her back and shoulders stiff and aching, the hose still trained on mercifully unhurt walls. Her children inched their way from where they had watched the flames until they stood, huddled around her legs, each clearly torn between wanting to comfort her, and their own fears.

  She looked into each set of dark, troubled eyes, and reached down to take Lissie from Ellen, enfolding the toddler in arms that trembled, and thanked God that her children were safe. Mark, at seven, was her oldest boy, and had spent the last year trying to be the man of the house after a terrible accident had taken his daddy away forever. Todd, at six, was the most sensitive of the lot and Iris knew he would relive this night in his nightmares for a long time to come. Ellen, at four, was a sweet tempered little child who fussed over and cared for little Lissie, just two, like a mother hen.

  Iris sucked in a shuttering breath. Each of her babies were old enough to understand that something very bad had happened, yet, blessedly, too young to know the extent of just how bad.
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  "What are we goin' to do, Momma?" Mark asked, his voice breaking despite the brave set of his little chin.

  Iris looked into his wide eyes and wished she knew. "Well, there's nothing to be done about the crops now," she said. "Its going to take two, maybe three days for the earth to cool off enough for us to dig in and try and clean it up."

  They all gazed at the smoking field.

  "So," Iris said, forcing briskness into her tone she wasn't even close to feeling. "While we wait, we'll just go about our business. Minnie is safe, the barn and chicken coup weren't harmed. I'll check after we get cleaned up to see if the hens laid their eggs this morning. I don't know if fear will affect how they lay, but I guess we'll be finding out."

  Mark nodded, his stiff stance relaxing a bit with his mother's apparent confidence.

  The five made their way into the sparsely furnished house and Iris proceeded to bath and comfort her children as best she could, all the while wishing with everything she was that Noah, her husband, friend, and constant companion since they were each sixteen, were here to comfort her.

  A distant rumbling and sudden darkening of the sky indicated an approaching storm.

  Why couldn't it have moved in last night and saved her crops?

  Hooves pounded on the dirt road and Iris's stomach clinched. She had no friends here, only enemies. Any visitors who showed up now wouldn't be welcome and Iris struggled to repress the clammy fear slipping through her.

  She poured the last cup of water onto Todd's now clean hair then handed him a towel as she helped him from the old cast iron tub. After reaching in and removing the plug, she absently rubbed her wet hands on her apron.

  "Sweetie," she said, hugging Todd's narrow shoulders. "You gather up your brother and sisters and go into your room to play. Momma's got some company out there and I'd rather you children stay out of sight for now."

  He nodded his head and Iris's heart pinched. Her son hadn't spoken in over a year, not a word since the day he had found his father dead in the field.

  "Iris!"

  The shout came from her porch. Only after she watched the bedroom door close behind the children did she step through the narrow hallway and push open the screen door.

  "That's Mrs. Johnson to you," she said without preamble. Halvor was one of the six who set her field on fire. And the one of the six whom she disliked the most. While Noah had been alive she had been uneasy around him, but since her husband's death she was downright afraid of the leering excuse for a man.

  "Mrs. Johnson, indeed." he mocked.

  She breathed deep, willing her voice not to betray her apprehension. "What do you want?"

  His thin lips stretched into a sneer. "Oh," he said, "I think you know what I want, Iris."

  She stiffened her spine, and met his eyes, knowing men like Halvor thrived on others fear. "Get off my property."

  She turned and reached for the screen when, on a startled gasp, she found herself spun around with her back pressed into the wooden frame and his hands around her upper arms in a cruel grip.

  "We've played nice until now, missy," he said, giving her a sharp shake. "You're going to listen and listen real careful," he hissed into her ear.

  She could smell this morning's coffee on his breath and the bitter scent twisted her fear clinched stomach to do a slow, nauseated roll. Oh, God, she thought, her children were inside the house. If he hurt her, really hurt her, what would become of them? She wanted to fight him off, she wanted to knee him in the groin, but she knew she couldn't overpower him, not really. So she stood as still as a stone and listened, praying that he would go away after he said his piece.

  "You need to take that litter of children you have and get yourselves back to Chicago where you come from. You have no business being here. That land should have never been given to your husband."

  Temper momentarily outweighed her fear. "Yes, it was supposed to go Noah!" she said. "The lawyer did the research. My husband was the only living relative entitled to this land, every last acre of it."

  "This land was stolen from its rightful owners by Norse Vikings over a thousand years ago," he shouted. "Vikings! Maybe you've heard of them? Blond, blue eyed? You can't tell me that that dark skinned husband of yours was any relation to a Viking, no matter how distant."

  "I don't have to tell you," she shot back. "The legal papers say it all and my husband went through every legal channel he had to before he laid clam to this land. His ancestor married a woman of color. Married her. And my Noah was a direct descendent from that marriage. This land was his, and now it's mine and it's going to stay that way!"

  She had seen a photocopy of the aged marriage license herself. It had been written in Norse, and English. The groom had signed it with large, almost child like strokes and, disappointingly, the brides name had been smudged and unreadable. The judge had refused to authenticate the document by the photo, and even after the lawyer had provided the court the actual document, painstakingly preserved through the years, serious questions as to its legitimacy had been raised. After all, the very paper which it had been written on, and the ink which had drafted it, had not even existed at the time it had been dated, 908 AD. In the end, the judge in charge of the case had ordered the original document to be authenticated by a museum. Tests used to determine the age of artifacts were conducted, and, although there had been no explanation as to where the paper and ink had come from, there had been no denying that the document itself was well over a thousand years old. The museum had offered to keep the marriage license, offering to display it in a safe airtight environment, and the judge, Noah, and the lawyer had all agreed.

  The question of Noah being the only living relative had also been a point of delay, as the judge had ordered an ad placed in the Chicago Tribune and a major newspaper in Denmark for several weeks, giving due notice to anyone who may have an interest in the estate or objection to the lands being turned over to Noah. The weeks of waiting had been tense, but in the end no one had stepped forward and the judge had allowed the will to stand as it had been written.

  "Last night only your land got torched," Halvor said through stiff lips, his words jerking her back to the present. "Next time, you and those kids of yours might not be so lucky."

  Then he did the unthinkable. Despite her frantic effort to avert her face, his lips pressed down on hers in a painful kiss that caused bile to burn her throat.

  Instinctively she clawed at him, leaving a jagged trail of red down his too shallow, pale cheek. He jerked away, his blue eyes blazing with rage, his hand poised to strike when the sound of an auto caused them both to look to the road.

  Sheriff Rikard stepped out of his auto and one long look at Halvor had him pulling his slap and releasing his hold on her.

  "I am sure that whatever point you were trying to make has been made," he said calmly. "You run on home to your wife now, and let me have a little chat with Iris."

  Halvor looked ready to argue, but with a barley discernable nod from the sheriff, he turned and left. Iris knew better than to relax, for the glow from the moon last night had reflected off the very badge the sheriff now wore while he himself had lit the match that destroyed her fields.

  He looked her up and down, and she felt real fear along with disgust.

  "Shame about your land," he said. "Guess you'll be heading back to where you come from now as you have no way of supporting yourself or those babies of yours."

  Iris swallowed and lifted her chin. It was all she could do not to scrub at her still throbbing lips until the filth of Halvor's kiss was annihilated. But she didn't. She refused to show any weakness.

  "I own this land outright, Sheriff," she said. "And as soon as the dirt cools off I will re-cultivate it."

  The milk goat was safe and her chickens had laid their eggs, she reminded herself, gaining courage. She took a deliberate step forward. "I'm not going anywhere."

  What might have been respect flicked though his eyes. "Oh, you own this land alright. But hear me cl
early, Iris, every homeowner has to pay taxes on their land," he informed her, a slight smile tilting the corner of his mouth. "And without your crop you will have no way of doing so. I'm sure you know that back in the States farms are auctioned off for back taxes every day. Things haven't been so bad here, but if you don't come up with what's owed, your place is going to be sold right out from under you and those children."

  He scraped at the dirt with his booted foot. "Of course you could make a few dollars working over at Mikkel's pub. I hear the dancing girls make some nice tips when they entertain the customers upstairs."

  Again he looked her up and down, slow and deliberately insulting. "You just might be able to make your taxes if you take that route." he paused, then said. "I would even consider helping you out there." He rubbed his hand over the snug material of uniform pants and met her eye. "Or, like I said, you can just pack up and leave." he shrugged. "It's up to you."

  He turned away, and then, as an after thought, called over his shoulder.

  "You keep batting those big brown eyes at Halvor and he just may take you up on that invitation one day," he chuckled under his breath. "And he sure won't be compelled to give you a tip afterward."

  He bent and grasped the long handle attached to the front of his auto, an auto which Iris didn't understand how he could afford. With a practiced flick of his wrist he cranked his motor to life, then walked around the car and arranged himself behind the big steering wheel. Before the dust his thin wheels left behind had settled, Iris was in the bathroom losing her meager lunch of milk and eggs.