Journey Beyond the Edge

“Are you going to stare all night, or will you undress? Or do people where you come from do it in their clothes? They say it’s cold up north. Do you ever bathe?”

Eric smiled and rose from the bed.

“Every seventh day, on the fifth day of the week.” His leather breastpiece, studded with metal plates, struck the floor with a clatter, revealing the ridges of powerful muscle beneath his linen shirt. “Do not be afraid, Blue-Eyes. I will not hurt you.”

Growing bolder, the girl lowered the hands shielding her breasts and began working the wooden buttons of his shirt through their loops.

His compliments and his body, seemingly carved from living rock, awakened a desire low in her belly that she had long forgotten.

Sex had become work to her, and the sudden spark of genuine longing came as a welcome surprise. The giant whispered strange yet impossibly pleasing words into her ear, as though she were not a harbor whore but a lady of noble birth.

She was ill at ease, but the foreigner’s sincerity had its effect. She pressed herself against the broad, peculiar scar crossing his chest and breathed in his scent. He smelled of salt and sea, of waves and wind—nothing like the men who had come to her before.

“Who are you?” she whispered, only to forget the question when his lips touched her neck.

The northerner knew precisely what he was doing. A trail of kisses descended lower and lower, drawing ragged breaths from her. It was as though his lips were tracing strange runes across her body, reawakening sensations that had almost died.

Somehow, this barbarian had kindled a genuine fire within her.

When he lifted her by the thighs and began kissing her breasts, she wanted with every part of herself to feel him inside her. For the first time it was more than a duty. For the first time, she truly desired it.

The barbarian played her as a master bard played a lute, melting her soul while her body grew slick with need.

Eric laid her upon the bed. The girl parted her legs in invitation, but he stretched out beside her and continued his caresses. His fingers drifted over her mound and then a little lower, barely brushing the wet folds at her entrance.

She arched into his touch.

“Come inside me,” she whispered, but the northerner returned to her nipples, circling them with his tongue.

His fingers began a slow dance around her clitoris, teasing the entrance to her sex from time to time.

Overcome by fierce desire, the girl wrapped one hand around the thick shaft of his cock, no longer able to resist either instinct or longing.

“God, you’re so… I want you. I can’t bear it anymore. Please,” she whispered as though delirious, surrendering to a passion she had almost forgotten.

Her sex opened, aching to be filled. It occurred to her that at that moment she would agree to absolutely anything this frightening yet maddeningly tender northerner might suggest.

“What a fiery creature you are,” Eric whispered, playing with her clitoris and savoring the way the young beauty moaned and writhed beneath his touch.

“Do whatever you want—only take me at last, my lord,” she pleaded through bitten lips, and the northerner covered her with his body.

Not like all those half-drunken louts. He barely touched her; she felt the heat of his skin rather than his weight, and it inflamed her further.

His cock entered her slick sex to the hilt, and the oldest dance of all began—the true tango of life.

She wrapped her arms around the giant’s neck. As his thrusts grew harder and faster, she locked her legs around his hips.

For the first time in her life, a man was making love to her instead of using her. For the first time, she felt like a woman someone desired rather than a scrap of meat tossed to hungry dogs for a few copper coins.

For all his tenderness, the giant was no clumsy calf. His thrusts were as powerful as a battering ram striking a city gate and as steady as the roll of a drum.

How desperately she wanted to press herself into this strange man, to merge with him and become one, to surrender completely and dissolve into the moment. The sensations flooded her mind until she had no strength left to resist. A hoarse moan escaped her as she shuddered through her climax and went limp in the barbarian’s powerful arms.

Sweet euphoria still coursed through her veins, but she was determined to thank the northerner for the feelings he had given her—for the bliss that had made her feel like the happiest woman alive.

Moving such a powerful body was like trying to shift a mountain, but she attempted to roll him onto his back, and he yielded. He let her take command and close her lips around the head of his cock.

Her tongue traced patterns over the velvet flesh, and the stern northerner could not suppress a groan of pleasure.

His size made it impossible to take him fully into her mouth, but she used her hands with practiced skill, rapidly bringing the barbarian to his release.

A few minutes later, a powerful jet of seed struck her palate. The redhead smiled in triumph, deeply satisfied that, if only for a little while, she had gained mastery over this mighty brute.

Inflamed by his intimacy with the blue-eyed beauty, Eric embraced her and buried his face in her silky, flame-colored hair.

The young Saxon’s body radiated health. She smelled pleasantly of hay and fresh bread. Eric drew a deep breath, trying to memorize the fragrance of meadow grass and flowers.

The pine splint had almost burned itself out. Its fading flame barely held back the darkness of the hovel, deepening the warm tones of Blue-Eyes’s sun-browned skin and beautifully accenting her dusky pink nipples.

Unable to resist, the northerner combed his fingers through her hair, savoring its softness.

“You’ll tangle it, and then it’ll be nothing but rats’ nests. Customers don’t like filthy, unkempt little scarecrows. I never should’ve agreed to undo my braid.”

The girl pulled away and crawled out from beneath the healer’s arm, which was as enormous and heavy as the paw of a brown bear.

She sat on the mattress with her back to the flame and began straightening her long hair. Eric merely smiled, picked up his bag from the floor, and rummaged inside it.

“What are you up to?” she asked warily. Then a finely worked bone comb flashed in his hand, decorated with silver inlay and a delicate openwork pattern.

“What is that?” she breathed, unable to tear her eyes away.

“A gift. A comb.” The Viking held it out to her.

“You give presents without even asking a girl’s name? Who are you, a rich man or a madman?” she grumbled, though she snatched the comb before the barbarian could change his mind.

She turned it over in her hands, then drew it through her hair.

“Is this what your women use?”

“Almost,” he answered so quietly she could barely hear him, admiring her grace and the mischievous fire in her eyes.

“My name is Maniva,” she whispered, lowering her gaze.

“A strange name for a Saxon.” Eric’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I’m not a Saxon. My ship was caught in a storm. I washed ashore unconscious. But that’s a long story.” She paused, curiosity overcoming caution. “Is it true that all northern women have beards, and the only difference between them and the men is their tits? Big tits?” She glanced down at her own barely rounded breasts.

“Of course not.” The Norseman laughed, stroking his beard. “And their tits come in every size. You should leave this trade. Get away from here. Find a husband.”

The cheerful spark in her eyes died at once.

“Who would marry a harbor whore? One with neither money nor maidenhood?”

“Money…” The warrior sighed heavily. “Today you have it, tomorrow your pocket is empty, and the day after that it is nearly tearing beneath the weight of coins again. I have a little. I can help you with that. And as for maidenhood—think of yourself as experienced now. You know how to please a man. If I weren’t bound for that damned island, perhaps I would take you myself. But what would you want with an old bald man? You need someone younger. More spirited.”

Eric drew a worn old purse filled with unfamiliar coins from his bag and offered it to her. She drew back distrustfully.

“Are you some kind of sorcerer? Who ever heard of a man scattering gifts and money like this?”

“No sorcerer. But the business awaiting me is a dark one, and I will have no use for coins there. If fortune favors me, perhaps you will remember me with a kind word. And beyond the Edge…” His voice suddenly turned sorrowful, as though he had remembered something dear. “Perhaps that kind word will lend me strength. Take it. Do not be afraid. Leave this place before some drunken fool maims you or kills you.”

Heavy footsteps sounded outside the door.

The girl burst into tears and began bowing to him, the words scarcely more than movements of her lips.

“I’m a fool. Forgive me, sinner that I am. Forgive this wretched, faithless beast.”

At that moment, the door crashed open and several hulking men burst into the room.

The Viking moved first. He hurled a pillow at the lead intruder. The man raised his arms to protect his head and immediately took a monstrous blow to the liver. He dropped as though scythed down, howling in pain.

The second man caught a straight punch to the nose. Bone crunched sickeningly, and blood sprayed across the hovel’s rough plank floor. He doubled over and met the healer’s knee. The robber flew into the corner like an empty sack.

The third brute was luckier than the others. His blade sliced the skin of Eric’s shoulder. That was the end of the Saxon’s good fortune. The healer kicked him in the stomach and shattered a stool over his head.

“Who are they?” The Viking stood naked over the fallen robbers, a broken stool leg in his hand.

“Vincent Crooked-Hand. He and his brothers run everything here. All the girls belong to him. We pay them tribute.”

“Then why burst in like this if you are earning money for him?”

“The mistress whispered that you were some foreign prince and told me to keep you occupied. I owe them money. They ordered me to hold you here while they robbed you—or they would cut me to pieces. But you were so… With you, I forgot everything in the world. Forgot about them too. You made me feel like a woman.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Forgive me. You’re the only man who ever treated a fallen woman like me… and then you gave me a gift, and I…”

The girl broke down completely.

“How much do you owe?”

“A great deal. A quarter short of a gold piece.”

“For what? That would buy three sheep.” One of the Viking’s brows rose in astonishment.

“Protection, shelter, food…” Her crying subsided, though her shoulders still trembled.

The Viking picked up a dagger from the floor.

“You owe no one anything now, Maniva. Take the money and leave. Be gone before dawn.”

“But they…”

“Go, child. You need not see what happens next. I doubt these men will ever harm anyone again.”

Maniva threw on her rough shift, clutched the comb and purse in her hands, and fled the room.

Only a choked-off scream and a final rasp behind her told her she was free.

Chapter Three: The Knights of Wingrod

The commotion brought the entire longboat crew running. Naked or barely covered, they burst into Eric’s room with weapons at the ready.

The jarl came first. He still had an erection, but fury blazed in his eyes and a battle-ax gleamed in his hands.

At the sight of the bodies and blood, his first question was what had happened.

“Self-defense, my king. But now I know why Thor did not allow us to reach the island.” The healer had already donned his armor, and the hilt of a long dagger protruded from his broad belt. “I have found what I was seeking. You kept your word, my prince. Our roads part here.”

“But we are in Saxony. They still fear us here on the coast, but go farther west and everyone you meet will try to kill you.”

“Trying and succeeding are not the same, my prince. You know that as well as I do. Your longboat is heavy with silver. The men are weary, and their wives await them at home. Thank you for everything.”

Eric bowed to the jarl.

“So be it, my friend. But know this: the gates of the Storm Wind will always stand open to you.”

Eric slung his bag over one shoulder and left the room.

Maniva ran blindly onward without choosing a road or looking back. She felt free, almost winged. Her feet carried her away from the wretched cesspit of the harbor town and into the endless openness of fields bordered by the dark wall of an evergreen forest. Her arms clutched the strange visitor’s gifts to her breast.

She lost all sense of time and kept running wherever her eyes led her. Yet her strength did not fade. With every step, she seemed to gain more of it. The fields of rye ended, and meadow grasses filled the air with their fragrance. Maniva wanted to laugh and weep at once.

To her left, a river flashed like a blue gemstone. The glitter of waves rolling steadily along that enormous azure serpent awakened both thirst and an irresistible desire to wash herself clean. Without hesitation, she left the path and headed toward the water.

Beside a large wild hawthorn bush, she undressed and stepped into the river’s refreshing coolness. The water seemed to wash away the filth of men’s sweaty hands—men who had paid robbers for the right to touch her. It could not restore her virginity, of course, but it did grant her a measure of peace.

After splashing and swimming to her heart’s content, she was about to return to shore when men’s voices stopped her cold and sent her scrambling for cover.

Her heart froze with fear. Terror locked her muscles and stole her breath.

“Arnaur, you’re mad!” shouted one of the men, who wore an unfamiliar leather tunic. “This is the Belgeste—the Mermaids’ River. Going near it is suicide.”

“Since when does a brave knight of Wingrod fear children’s tales? Next you’ll tell me you believe in demons and werewolves.”

“You shouldn’t mock folk legends, Ar. There’s no smoke without fire. Mermaids take the form of maidens, lure warriors into the river, and drown them.”

“All nonsense. Stories invented by men who never learned to swim. Besides, we’ve spent four months chasing the Wolves through these woods in hopes of catching the Beast of Nelum. At this point, my cock rises at the mere mention of a woman’s tits. I’d tumble even a mermaid right now.”

The man called Arnaur swung down from his horse and strode straight toward the hawthorn bushes. Maniva filled her lungs and slipped beneath the surface.

“Look. Someone left clothes here.” The man in mail picked up Maniva’s rough shift, and the comb fell from its folds. “Well, now. A woman’s things.”

“Ar, mermaid enchantments work on everyone. They don’t care whom they drag under, peasant or knight.”

“Wait, Eridan. Something is wrong. These rags plainly belong to a serf.” Bone flashed with silver trim in the man’s hand. “But the comb is fit for royalty, and the purse is full—not with copper either.”

Arnaur poured the coins back into the purse, drew his sword, and advanced toward the bushes.

Maniva clenched her teeth. The air in her lungs was running out. Her head began to spin, but emerging from the water seemed no less dangerous. Experience had taught her that much.

“Ar, don’t…” pleaded his companion, Eridan.

“It is certainly a woman. The gods sent her to us. I am sick with hunger for a woman’s touch, and I will not leave without having her—even if she is Fauna herself.”

Her air was gone. Instinct drove Maniva back to the surface for a breath. She rose to her full height, gulping air like a horse run to exhaustion.

“There is my prize. And you doubted my luck.” Arnaur’s lips spread into a predatory leer that barely resembled a smile.

The warrior devoured her with his eyes but did not dare enter the water.

“Come now, redhead. Don’t be shy. We’ll have ourselves a tumble. I may even return your little comb—and perhaps a few of the coins.”

Maniva shook her head.

“I would sooner feed myself to the mermaids than spread my legs for you, highborn bastard.”

“Hear that, Eridan? She curses like a peasant girl. Peasant girls are strong. There’s enough of this one for both of us.” Arnaur turned back to Maniva. “Come out. We promise to be gentle. Don’t we, Eri? We’ll be gentle?”

Arnaur stepped toward the water without taking his eyes from Maniva’s naked body.

“Don’t go silent, Eri. You wouldn’t kill a beauty like—”

The knight took another step toward the river, but his friend’s silence finally made him turn.

At that very instant, Eric’s dagger found the knight’s heart.

“Neither of you will kill her!” the Viking growled through clenched teeth, driving the dagger into the knight’s chest again and again. The blade glowed blue as it pierced steel armor as though it were paper.

Maniva stood frozen at the sight of death. Eric had impressed her back at the house of red lanterns by the harbor, but watching him strike down a seemingly invincible armored knight with a single motion was beyond comprehension. Reason told her that a man who handed out costly gifts and took lives with equal ease was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Why is he here? Why did he come after me? If he only wants his gifts back, that would be fine. But what if he wants something from me? What could I possibly give him? He must be a sorcerer—but sorcerers hunt virgins. Harbor whores are far too spoiled for them…

“Maniva, come ashore. These waters are dangerous. They did not earn their evil reputation for nothing.”

The healer’s voice broke through her thoughts and pulled her from her stupor, but the redhead made no move to leave the river. She was already judging whether she had the strength to swim across and overcome the swift current—and which was more dangerous: reaching the opposite bank naked or remaining with this very strange giant.

“Why are you here? If you came to take back your gifts, they’re on the bank. I haven’t spent a cent.”

Eric stepped closer to the shore. Maniva sank deeper into the water.

“I came to help you.”

“Why would someone like you help someone like me?”

Eric wiped the knight’s blood from his dagger, sheathed it, and crouched down.

“Come out, and I swear by all the gods that I will tell you everything. Though afterward, you will most likely decide I am mad.”

“Tell me now. I can hear perfectly well, and I swim at least as well as you do. You won’t catch me in the water. You have no bow, and you won’t want to throw your dagger into the river.”

Eric glanced around. The dead knight’s spear lay nearby. Maniva followed his gaze and was seized by terror, but the northerner did not reach for the weapon. Instead, he nearly pleaded with her.

“Maniva, please…”

“Start talking. Then I’ll decide which way to go.”

The girl straightened and planted her hands on her hips.

Eric nearly burst out laughing at the sight of a naked young woman dictating terms while standing waist-deep in a river. He could see she was far from comfortable. Her nipples had hardened and lengthened, and arousal was plainly not the cause.

“If you fall ill, I will never forgive myself,” the Viking said. Rising, he moved farther inland. “I am only asking you to come out. You can always dive back in. Are you wounded? Did those monsters hurt you?”

The healer’s composure vanished when he noticed a scarlet streak on her shoulder.

“I don’t think so.” His alarm infected her. “Why do you ask? Is this another trick?”

“There is blood on your shoulder.” He pointed toward her left arm. “And the creatures here are highly sensitive to blood. Come out.”

“You killed two knights without a second thought, yet you fear fairy tales?”

“Monsters are harder to deal with. And those two may have friends nearby. Meeting them would do us little good. Come out, please. You are bleeding.” Irritation was gathering in Eric’s voice.

Maniva examined herself and laughed.

“That isn’t blood. It’s dye. My hair is gray. If I don’t color it, customers refuse to sleep with an old witch.”

“You? An old witch?”

“In Saxony, people believe witches gather on Bald Mountain at Oncrest and fornicate with virgin youths, then bathe in their blood to regain their youth. Only the gray in their hair can’t be hidden.”

“Is that why you shave?” Eric asked, lowering his gaze to her groin.

Maniva blushed and covered herself with one hand.

“Dye is expensive. Shaving is easier than coloring everything.”

“Since when have Saxons been unable to tell silver from gray?”

“Many of my customers have never seen silver in their lives. After last year’s drought, people forgot even the sound of copper. Sometimes I had to work for food.”

“I swear by all the gods that I will not harm you. You are already freezing. Come ashore.”

Maniva had heard many vows in her short life. For some reason, she believed this one.

But the moment she started toward the bank, the water behind her erupted in foam and several revolting brown tentacles burst from the river.

Something slick and slimy wrapped itself around her waist. The air filled with the stench of muck and rot. Maniva screamed. The river monster seemed to have been waiting for that: another tentacle, thinner and pinker than the rest, coiled around her throat.

Everything that followed unfolded like a dream.

Eric hurled Arnaur’s spear. The blade struck something behind her with a wet crunch. The monster’s grip loosened at once. The tentacle released her neck, but a claw embedded in it tore open an artery.

Blood spurted from the wound.

Maniva tried to breathe and could not. The terror of approaching death overwhelmed her will. All she managed was to press her hands to the wound, bathing them in her own blood.

Only a savage grief for all the years she would never live burned in her soul. There was so much she had not done. Perhaps she had been wrong to flee the life given to her.

Time slowed, as though suspended in thick jelly.

Eric swept her into his arms, carried her ashore, and laid her on her back. Her throat burned with hideous pain. She could feel her life draining away with her blood. Despite the summer heat, she grew terribly cold. Only the warmth of the healer’s heavy palms upon the wound seemed to hold her soul inside her body.

“Easy. Everything will be all right.” Eric clamped one hand over the wound in her throat. “Look at me. Maniva, look at me! You are a daughter of the Demiurge. I have searched too long to let you go now.”

The girl tore her gaze from her blood-covered hands and stared into the healer’s eyes, gray as a brooding sky.

He began to whisper.

The speech was strange and incomprehensible, full of harsh, shuffling sounds that plainly belonged to some alien tongue. The muscles in the Viking’s neck bulged. His entire body tensed as though he had seized hold of something and refused to release it. Several drops of blood fell from his nose into his beard.

Eric growled like a wild beast.

“She is coming with me. You have no power over her. Withdraw, or we will both regret it. I swear by Shakespeare, I will leave not one stone of this plot standing upon another!”

Only the wind answered, striking the warrior’s face and tossing his beard.

The pain in Maniva’s neck vanished. All that remained was the warmth of the northerner’s callused, heavy hands.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and his expression cleared. Eric’s eyes were blue now, like a bottomless summer sky.

Maniva tried to inhale. It worked. Then she did it again and again, gulping fresh air like a harbor drunk gulping new wine on the morning after a binge.

She wanted to shout with joy, but only a whisper escaped her lips.

She touched her mouth with both hands.

“Forgive me,” Eric said. “That was the price. You cannot take something without giving anything in return. The spirit of death had no desire to accept my payment.”

Chapter Four: The Werewolf

Still unable to believe what had happened, Maniva ran her hands over herself.

Not a trace of the wound remained. Eric gathered her clothes and helped her dress. He also fashioned her hair into something resembling a braid and secured it with the bone comb.