Page 1 of The Last Viking

Chapter One

A distant land, A.D. 997

Geirolf let out a wild Viking battle cry before burying his face in Ingrid’s massive breasts.

She was woodenly unimpressed.

He roared his outrage. Then, still clutching her voluptuous figure, he jumped from the rail of his splintering, already sinking longship into the roiling seas…and certain death.

Ah, well, ’tis the fate of many Viking warriors, and better than most, Geirolf thought fatalistically as a whirlpool sucked him under, swirling his body uncontrollably, faster and faster, into the briny depths. ’Twill be over soon…even now the Valkyries should be coming to lead me into Asgard, the hall of the gods, where a grand feast surely awaits me in the afterlife. Leastways, I hope ’tis Asgard, and not Hel. After all I endured this day, I misdoubt I deserve the underworld.

Still holding his breath, he hugged Ingrid closer—his companion in death—and chuckled silently. Mayhap this night I will get my very own bedmate with breasts as magnificent as yours, sweet Ingrid.

But then some instinct moved inside Geirolf, perchance the warrior reflex. He’d been trained from boyhood to fight to the bitter end. He would not yield now like a wet-nosed pup!

Nay! Damn the gods! I am Geirolf Ericsson of the noble Yngling clan. The blood of kings runs in my veins. I am a master shipbuilder and a fierce soldier. I will not die yet. Honor demands I complete my pledge-mission for my father. Lives depend on me. I…refuse…to…surrender.

Kicking out with powerful thrusts of his legs, Geirolf escaped the whirlpool’s briny grave and rose swiftly, like a dolphin, to the surface of a strangely calm sea.

With a toss of his head, he cast the wet swath of his long hair over his shoulder. And, to his great surprise, it was Ingrid and her glorious breasts that kept him afloat, bobbing gently on the ocean waves. Ingrid—the outlandishly carved figurehead of a buxom, blonde-haired goddess.

More than three years past, his brother Jorund had given him, as a coarse jest, the wooden sculpture of a woman’s upper torso to embellish the prow of his newest dragonship, Fierce Wolf. Fortunately, Geirolf had been able to grab onto the figurehead when his vessel began to shatter apart moments ago.

Geirolf laughed joyously at the irony. Saved by a woman’s tits. His mother, Lady Asgar, a Christian of Saxon birth, would say it was the One-God’s just retribution against her youngest son’s wild life of licentiousness. His father, Jarl Eric Tryggvason, ever the Viking, would hoot with laughter at the lewd paradox. Geirolf’s latest leman—sweet Alyce of Hedeby—would cluck with disapproval, then merely smile her pleasure at his being alive, no matter the means.

He gave Ingrid’s left nipple—the size of a fat, sun-drenched grape—a quick lick of salty appreciation. And hoped belatedly that he didn’t get a splinter in his tongue.

By the fading light of the Demon’s Moon—the odd celestial apparition that had drawn him to this dangerous location—he gazed fondly at his stiff companion and relaxed. His fate was in the hands of the heavenly beings now. He could only believe that Odin had chosen to deliver him from that evil Storr Grimmsson, the villainous outlaw who’d killed or captured his entire crew of loyal sailors a sennight ago, sparing only Geirolf to a crippled vessel and stormy seas.

Pondering all that had happened to him, Geirolf decided that the Norse All-God must have some other destiny in mind for him. Thus resigned, he gave himself up to the rhythmic current.

He knew not where he was, long ago having lost his star bearings under the exotic aura of the Demon’s Moon…surely farther west than any Viking adventurer had traveled afore. Even Eirik the Red. He would have much to tell the skalds at his father’s court in Vestfold. Of a certainty, the skilled storytellers would weave sagas telling of his great bravery for eons to come. If ever he returned, that is.

Nay, he would not think doomful thoughts. I must return, he vowed, rubbing one palm over his wide leather belt, grasping the heavy clasp that hid the sacred talisman. Otherwise, there was no point to the endless journeying. No point to the bloody battle with Storr. No point to all the lost lives. Yea, I must return the relic to its rightful place, as directed by my father.

With a long sigh, he fought his fluttering eyelids and a soul-deep exhaustion. He was so weary and battle sore. If only he could rest for a moment. But, nay, he had to be alert for omens, for any sign from the gods that would steer him toward his future.

At dawn, Geirolf forced open his bleary eyes—he must have dozed, after all—and saw his sign. Thanks be to Odin! It was a half-completed longboat sitting on a grassy knoll atop a craggy cliff. Just waiting for him.

“Come, Ingrid,” he shouted jubilantly to his figurehead companion, tucked now under his left arm. With renewed vigor, he swam for shore as the sun began to rise. “There is the ship that will take us home. Destiny. Yea, I will call it Fierce Destiny.”

Maine, A.D. 1997

“No way! You are not putting breasts on the figurehead of my ship,” Meredith Foster declared, shaking her head indignantly.

Her grad assistant, Mike Johnson, gave her an impatient scowl as he rolled up the sketches he’d prepared for her approval. “Now, now, Dr. Foster. I’ve researched the figureheads of tenth-century Viking ships, and it wasn’t unusual to have a favorite goddess adorn the prow.”

Meredith tapped a pencil on her desk and peered at him over the top of her reading glasses, trying to determine if he was serious or not. The ex-Marine, who still clipped his blond hair in a short G.I. cut and wore old U.S. Army T-shirts with his jeans, had a dry sense of humor. And he often ribbed her, thinking her much too serious and overly engrossed in her work.

“It was just as usual to have animal heads, Mister Johnson. Give me a dragon, or a serpent. No buxom bimbos.”

He grinned.

“And don’t think I missed the fact that this particular woman looks a lot like Sharon Stone,” she added. In the few months she’d come to know her handsome grad assistant, a doctoral candidate in Dark-Age Norse culture, he’d made no bones about the fact that Sharon Stone was the one woman he’d most like to be stranded with, just about anywhere. Sometimes, she suspected that he talked about the movie sex symbol to cover his pain over losing his young wife two years before in a freak skiing accident. “Remember, we’re going for historical accuracy here. And Sharon Stone is pure anachronism.”

Mike rolled his shoulders in a “Hey, it was worth a shot” shrug, and then tried another tactic. “I could always put a bra on the babe.”

Meredith lifted a brow. “My friend, a Wonder Bra and a forklift wouldn’t hold up the pair you’ve drawn on those blueprints.”