Chapter 1

He was not on the boat. There was a rough, stony sand under his cheek and in his mouth, along with a great deal of warm, salty water that had rushed in with the last tidal surge and tried to choke him.

Tranum forced open his stinging eyes and made an effort to stand upright. He did not know how he had ended up back on the beach but if the little dark men were coming, he would not be caught lying down. Warriors only went to Valhalla if they perished in combat. He knew this requirement from childhood. His grandfather, the one who raised him after his parents died, had always said that a Viking should seek honor, not long life, if he sought a place in Valhalla.

Actually, his grandfather had said: A king should seek honor, not long life. That sentiment was particularly vehemently voiced if grandfather did not care for the king in power, and he hadn't liked any of them since the Valdemars converted to Christianity and tried to outlaw the worship of the old gods, Odin, Thor, Frey, Frigg. With the prohibition of the Thing and raiding to the south, and all this new cursed peace, it was practically impossible to die in combat. Grandfather, one of the few freemen not land-taxed into villeinage under Valdemar, was often apoplectic on the subject. The old man had been forced from the comfort of his death bed so that he could ride to town and die while attacking a priest. There would be no cowardly straw death for Selig Svensen, next to the last of the great Svensen Vikings, he saw to that.

The old man had actually died on the way to Svenborg without attacking anyone, but Tranum was certain that the effort counted. He could not believe that so ardent a worshipper as Selig had ended anywhere except in Odin's hall.

And Grandfather Selig's beliefs applied in this situation as well. If Valdemar had quit seeking long life in his new religion, if he had left his conversions to Christianity at the waterless baptism, Tranum and his brethren would not have been forced into trying to find free lands in this hostile new world of skraelings; and he would not be preparing to end his life on a strange beach far from the lands of his ancestors.

Tranum pushed the distracting thoughts away and tried to concentrate. As the rede of honor said: The fury of the moment plays folly with the truth; to keep one's head is a virtue.

It was difficult to see even though the storm had abated. Night had fallen while he swam and this beach... His half completed thought trailed off rapidly. He began to blink in confusion.

"Hvor et det?" He spat the sand from his mouth and began to look around.

He was not on the same beach. The sand beneath his boots was hard and uneven, the water rushing over his leggings was almost warm on his chilled flesh, and there were no dark forests under the silvery moon. To his right a high boulder cut off his view of a coastline that should have been empty. To the right a low, unfamiliar headland jutted into an inky sea. The view in the distance was obscured by haze, but it was apparent that there were no trees along this stretch of sand. This was no markland he stood upon.

Tranum shoved his hair back from his face and began to scan the sky. He had been carried south by a current. He had no solbradt to navigate with but the night sky would tell him precisely where he was. The bright star in the north should be exactly... Another thought came to an abrupt end.

The sky was all wrong. The stars were-- He was-- He couldn't possibly be where the stars said he was. If that was north, then the ocean was facing the wrong way.

Tranum smacked his head in irritation. Obviously his eyes were blinded with sand or had been magicked. They were not to be trusted. He would close them and instead listen to the waves. The ocean would sing her song and then he would know where he had landed. All oceans had their music when they touched the land. Sometimes drums, sometimes humming. In Greenland the waves rumbled like raiding horns where they hit the icy shores-- But he was not in Greenland. It was too hot. Too hot for... anywhere he had ever been.

Now that he was calm and listening, he could indeed hear music over the waves. But it was not the ocean that chimed so prettily; It was real music. Strange but real music... maybe magic music. A man had to be wary of magic. It meant that trolls, or giants, or unipeds-- or even werewolves-- could be casting theirs lures into the night.

But if this was magic, then the evil spirits were also cooking vildt og fjerkrae on an open fire and laughing happily in human voices. The smoky air smelled delicious and made Tranum aware of how long it had been since he last ate a hot meal. For weeks they had lived on the salted cod and dried apples stored in the chests of their longboat. Magic feast or not, the smell of roasting meat made him hungry.

Now that his eyes were clearer, he could see the torches in the distance. There were dozens of them all along the beach just beyond the black line of flotsam that marked the sea's reach at high tide, boldly lighting up the night and marking a narrow path to a grass covered longhouse.

Tranum blinked again. A longhouse?

Skraelings did not build longhouses. Was this a trap or an invitation? An enchanted isle or a good Viking land?

"Hi."

Tranum spun around reaching for the sword he carried on his back. It was stuck in his wet harness, as it always was when he was forced to swim with it, and it wouldn't come loose.

Fortunately, the woman standing before him seemed to be unarmed. The tight fitting white tunic that was tied to her lush body by some hidden means had nowhere to conceal a knife. She carried no axe or sword.

She was quite tall for a female, he noted. The top of her head would very nearly touch his chin! But she was delicate and didn't dress like an ice huntress or one of the hostile dark people.

Her unbound hair was also too light; darker than his, definitely, but still blonde. Skraelings weren't blonde; and ice huntresses were silver haired, not golden like Thor's beautiful wife, Sif.

Tranum relaxed and ceased wrestling with Leg-Biter. She didn't look like a sea spirit either. She was simply a comely wench with an enticing smile. Perhaps she was the mistress of the longhouse, and seeing him wash up on the beach had come to offer her hospitality.

"Welcome to Club Valhalla."

He didn't understand her words, not at first, but he listened to them carefully. They were familiar. Almost engelsk.

"Hvor," he began to ask and then recognized what she had said. "Valhalla?"

"Oh! Are you Danish? Um... danmark? Hvor kommer Defra?" The accent was strange but he more or less understood her.

"Danmark! Ja! Where am I?" He cleared his throat again. He hardly recognized the roughened voice that came from his salt sore throat. He must have swallowed half the ocean before he washed ashore.

"You are at Club Valhalla," she answered carefully in her strange Danish, coming a small step closer and peering up at him. "I am Linden Kirstensen. I... live here."

"Linden Kirstensen!"

Tranum thought about this. He knew that he was exhausted and confused by the berserker mushrooms and near drowning, but this did not make any sense. Everyone knew that King Valdemar the Great had killed his sister-- had forced her to dance to death before murdering her lover as well. If this was truly Linden Kirstensen then...

The sky was all wrong.

The water he was standing in was too hot.

The ocean was in the wrong place.

There was strange music and bright torches inviting strangers to come to the cook fires.

Also the wounds on chest and legs had healed.

And there was a dead princess here to welcome him.

It wasn't at all what he had expected, but it seemed that he had indeed drowned in the ocean and been brought to Valhalla. This woman must be a Valkyrie sent to bring him to Great Odin.

Tranum felt immediately more cheerful. Being dead in Valhalla was a great deal better than being stranded on an unknown beach in the land of the skraelings. And it was certainly better than finding himself in the Christian heaven or on the long cold road to Hel where the cowards went after death.

"Hello, Linden Kirstensen. I am Tranum Svensen from Svenborg. I know your brother."

"You do?" Her lovely smile grew wider. "Are you one of the ship builders we have been expecting?"

Tranum blinked. "I was expected? Old King Valdemar said I was coming? I did not know that he was here. He wanted to go to the Christian heaven, but I don't think they would have him."

"Valdemar?" Linden tipped her head to one side and studied him with a frown. "Only a few people would know of Valdemar. Did Rolf tell you about me?... No, he wouldn't. But you are a Dane, yes? That's why you know about Valdemar... He was a horrible man, wasn't he?" Linden smiled again, as if making a jest. "Do not worry. I am the queen of the Valkyrie here at Club Valhalla and I decide who gets into the big feast. You will not find that bastard here, not even on costume night. And I would have appreciation if you didn't speak of him again."

Tranum did not understand these words club, bastard and costume night. Actually, he was not entirely certain that he understood her at all. He had never heard such strange Danish.

"I was talking about my other brother, Rolf. He will be... joyous-- is that the word?-- to see you. He would not start building the ship without you."

"The ship?" He followed that much clearly. Then, "Rolf?"

"Yes," she answered impatiently. "The longboat. My brother Rolf's boat. The one he-- what the devil is the word for hire?-- sent for you to build."

The curious queen of the Valkyrie was definitely using some form of the Englander tongue along with her strange Danish, but he was not able to follow most of her speech.

He did understand that he and Rolf were to be reunited and together they would build another ship. This pleased him mightily. It was good to know that one was expected to sail ships in Valhalla.

Linden did not know what to make of this Tranum Svensen beyond the fact that he had obviously had too much to drink. The fact that he was in costume told her that her brother was up to his old tricks and luring the unwary into embarrassing behavior in the name of religion. The erect-- even aggressive-- stance that the Dane maintained suggested she was dealing with a man of physical impulses; but something sensitive-- perhaps the smile folds around the pale eyes or the curiosity still alive behind the glazed stare-- contradicted the image of a grim and purely physical personality.

Or so she hoped, for he looked like the drunken berserker from a bygone age who had been washed in from a sea battle with the evening tide. Like the one who had recently been haunting her dreams. The one she had-- Linden slammed the door on that line of thought. It was too embarrassing, not to mention impolite, to be thinking of a guest that way. She was going to have to see her doctor about this hormonal imbalance before she did something really stupid and humiliating.

In the mean time, she would keep both thoughts and hands to herself while she coaxed this stray out of the bay waters.

Normally, she would have sent Rolf out to deal with this. Tranum was her brother's hired hand or Odin convert; he should have to cope with his early arrival and explain whatever con he had used to get this man here. But Rolf was, as usual, nowhere at hand when there was a serious task to be done. He was in Humboldt trying to speed up delivery on the lumber for the boat. Oak trees of a size sufficient for carving the keel of a fifty-eight foot boat were apparently rather rare. He was trying for some redwood. No doubt very expensive redwood-- Everyone of Rolf's great ideas was expensive, she thought resignedly. Where he found the money for them she did not ask.

She could send for her handyman, she supposed, if Tranum gave her any trouble about getting out of the water. Petr was good at jollying the sometimes inebriated clientele they got at Club Valhalla.

But Petr had his hands full with the Saturday night Mead Feed that had grown so inexplicably popular with the locals. He and Tabby were probably too busy cranking out the barbecue and honey wine to spare much time on Rolf's drunken Dane.

So that left Linden. She probably deserved to be stuck with the Rolf's inebriated ship builder for sneaking off in the middle of the entertainment to go for a walk on the beach. Usually she was at the forefront of the nose-to-the- grindstone movement, but in recent months she had begun to absolutely loath the synthesizer combo that played for them on Saturday night, and she avoided the Mead Feed whenever she possibly could.

The musicians were cheap-- And certainly that was a consideration-- but their repertoire of songs was commiserately small and out-dated. The guests didn't seem to notice. Rolf maintained that if they poured enough honey wine down their patron's throats, he and Petr could haul out their kazoos and comb harps and still get a standing ovation and reasonable tips... Maybe the kazoo and comb harp thing was a good idea. They could pass out a few drums and call it an at-home, Viking-style entertainment and save a few bucks.

She gave herself a mental shake and turned her head to offer the blond giant shuffling in the surf another encouraging smile. She hoped to goodness that he didn't pass out on her before she got him up to the inn. He seemed fairly able and content to trudge along beside her and stare at the flickering tiki torches with a mesmerized gaze, occasionally grunting a phrase or two in very odd Danish.

Lord! He must be pie-eyed to have tried swimming with that ridiculous long sword strapped to his back. In fact, his whole get-up was really weird. It looked almost authentic. There was such a thing as carrying the Danish Viking bit a little too far-- Though that silver amulet he was wearing was rather gorgeous. Especially set against that great big, tan chest-- Still, even if this was a costume night-- which it wasn't-- a man would still have to be completely nuts to try swimming in that get-up. The skin boots alone would weigh you down like concrete over-shoes. And to try it at night, too! Monterey's waters, even during the day, were always a little too cold to be considered anything except frigid. And after sundown? Even for a race of people that liked skinny- dipping in ice melt, this was a peculiar thing to do... Well, absent-minded Rolf had certainly picked a special one this time. It was too bad that he wasn't here to deal with his handywork.

Stop being such a wet blanket, she scolded herself. Sheesh! What a grump you're turning into! You're walking along a moonlit beach with a gorgeous specimen of Danish manhood and all you can do is complain!

Linden tucked her head down, feeling momentarily guilty for her sour thoughts. Saturday nights always brought out the worst in her, and lately she had been as restless as water on a hot, greased griddle. That probably accounted for the outrageous dreams she'd been having. Emotions that had been in deep freeze since Gordon left her were finally coming to life; and they were cranky about being denied.

But that was no excuse for bad manners. She would try to be a little more welcoming. If the man could travel all the way from Denmark-- at his own expense!-- to work on her brother's boat, then the least she could do was try to be friendly and gracious.

Truthfully, Linden found the whole Viking thing to be extremely silly, but there was no denying that their seaside bed and breakfast had picked up a lot of business when they switched over to the campy, Anglo-Saxon motif and began trolling for tourists with colorful brochures and ads in trade magazines that featured a helmetted and cloaked Rolf doing a modern, handsome version of Eric the Red.

Originally, she and her younger brother hadn't had any plans to end up as inn keepers at a Viking longhouse. They bought the inn property, in spite of its lousy beach, because it was in an ideal location for a miniature golf course and game arcade.

Rolf had researched it thoroughly with that computer of his and determined that this was the absolutely perfect spot for an entertainment center. There was nothing like it nearby and the tourists that came to Monterey Bay area were the kind that brought their bored children with them on their family vacations.

What an opportunity it would be for them, Rolf had said, weaving another of his spell-binding visions as he wooed his cautious sister into helping finance his venture by baiting her with her favorite dream. It was a chance to be their own bosses and to make a fortune besides! Separately, their inheritance was too small for a stake, but together... and as she had been at loose ends, frustrated at work and only just getting over the disaster area who went by the name of Gordon Petersen, the creep who had ruined her already all but non- existent love life by running off with another teacher at school and leaving her to the humiliating task of explaining to the rest of the staff what had happened to her fiance, Linden had recklessly thrown in her lot with Rolf and moved to California where she could make a fresh start.

La Luna still was a great location for an arcade. The trouble was that the zoning commission had turned them down flat. No arcades. No miniature golf. It would ruin the small town atmosphere of La Luna and bring in too many tourists.

Rolf hadn't investigated that possibility at all, he said. It had never occurred to either of them that the town might not want to bring in new business, and this new fact had left them in something of a financial lurch.

They could however, get approval for a bed and breakfast, Rolf added cheerfully. That was almost as good.

After she had called herself-- and her bright brother, because she was generous with the blame-- fifteen kinds of fool for not investigating this possibility beforehand, they began to look at other solutions to pay off the mortgage on the great location that nobody else wanted.

They were left with little except a stony beach on a stretch of water that was home to both rip-tides and sharks, a rotting wood and stone pile jetty, and the homely, but energy efficient structure, deliberately buried under a grassy verge by the environmental commune that had gone bust half a decade before while trying to farm the lousy sea-side soil.

The long, sod covered house didn't lend itself to any of the usual, quaint-- translate that to popular-- country inn styles. It did however make an admirable Viking-type village longhouse. Rolf, the eagle-eyed, spotted that right away-- And with just a little effort, some extra plumbing, a few flowers for the goats that lived up on the sod roof-- maybe a Viking ship to offer tours of the coast and bay, they could really have something unique to offer the tourists. Something even better than an arcade!

It was a sad fact that beggars could not be choosers. And Rolf pointed out that they were more or less left beggared after spending very nearly their last dime on the beach property. Linden didn't like it; but Linden went along. What else did one do with two skinny acres of rough shoreline and a twelve bedroom long, solar powered sod house?

And if the place was architecturally uninspiring, at least the house wasn't authentic, pre-Christian Danish wattle and daub with a smokey fire pit and no windows. They could thank the local zoning commission that denied their building permit for the arcade and California's rigid earthquake safety standards for the actual timbered walls and floor of their new home.

Linden liked these modern conveniences. If Rolf was disappointed not be squatting on a real dirt floor and cooking over an open fire-- Well, her beloved brother was just plain weird about their illustrious ancestors.

"What's that?" she asked, realizing that Tranum was no longer grumbling in general, but actually trying to make conversation with her. "Is Leif here? I really don't know. He might be. Rolf didn't tell me that anyone was coming tonight. We didn't really expect to see you for a few more weeks."

Her companion fell silent again as he meditated on her words. No doubt she sounded rather strange to him, too. Her Danish was the Americanized kind and rusty at that. She didn't use it very often now that her grandmother had passed on. Grandma and Grandpa Kirstensen had been the ones who were big on using the old tongue. It was Grandma Kirstensen who had named Linden and Rolf, over their widowed mother's half- hearted objections, and Grandpa Kirstensen who told them all the exciting and violent stories about their ancestors.

Stories that Rolf adored and she didn't. Stories like the one about her namesake from the early fourteenth century, who had come to a bad end at her own brother's hands.

"So, Tranum, you are from Svenborg? Where is that?" She asked, trying for some polite conversation to lighten her mood.

"You do not know?" the deep voice asked. He seemed surprised.

"Rolf didn't tell me very much about you," she apologized.

"Svenborg is in Fyn," He pronounced it Foo-nen. She had never heard of it. "Near Middlefart."

"Middlefart." She suppressed a giggle. It wouldn't do to be laughing about his country. He probably wouldn't understand why the name was funny. And she wasn't about to try and explain. "Let's see, Fyn... Oh! You mean Funen!"

"I mean Fyn." The voice was definite. Linden sent another glance up at the leathery face. It was a harsh visage but not unfriendly. It might even be called handsome by those that liked a very rugged look and a bushy mustache to hang above some well-developed, but battered pectorals. Being a sailor in Denmark must be unusually dangerous, to judge by Tranum's scars. Or else he was a very reckless seaman.

Linden's lips quirked. Tranum's leggings were making funny, sloshing sounds. She was betting on his scars coming from reckless actions rather than a dangerous profession.

"I've never been to Fyn. Copenhagen is quite pretty." She had seen that on her one trip abroad. It was on that vacation when she was ten years old that she discovered that she didn't like flying. She hadn't been back since.

Tranum snorted. "It is full of people."

"You don't like large cities?" Conversation was certainly hard going tonight, but it was the best she could manage.

"Hedeby is good."

"Hedeby?" she asked in some bewilderment. "Wasn't that the old Viking trade center? The one you had to get to by going--" She couldn't remember the word for tunnel. "By going under the ground."

"Ja. It is a very good city."

"Sure. A thousand years ago," she muttered in English. Tranum and Rolf sounded like two hearts that beat as one about this Viking thing.

Linden was relieved to reach the open area of the large barbecue pits. Tranum seemed docile enough, but she was a whole lot happier having other people around them.

"I will feast now," he announced suddenly in a booming voice, scaring her half to death.

Petr looked up from the grill where he was roasting chickens and a leg of lamb and gave her a startled look. Apparently he wasn't expecting Rolf's ship expert either.

"Uh... sure, Tranum. Vaer venlig og." She waved a hand at the green sheeted picnic benches that served as their lordly buffet table.

The feast was laid out in crude wooden trenchers. There were lots of seafood salads to go with the roasted meats, and they even had a hand woven horn of plenty, spilling out several types of grapes and berries.

It wasn't a feast up to the standards of a Victorian lord, Linden admitted, but it was certainly better in terms of variety than your average Viking jarl would have had.

Linden looked over at Tranum when he made no move toward the table. She tried an encouraging smile and another wave.

Her ship builder frowned.

"Don't you like our feast?" she asked.

"Ja. It is good. You will bring food for me now."

"What?" Maybe she hadn't heard him properly. "I apologize. Please say that again."

"It is good. You will bring food for me now," he repeated obligingly, then added: "I am very hungry. I did not eat at all today and then I drowned."

"Okay..." Well, maybe he was shy and didn't want to just barge in, she thought charitably. Maybe he was from an old fashioned family like her grandparents, where women always waited on the men folk. And she was an inn-keeper, right? She was supposed to wait on her guests, which he was. Kind of. His comment just sounded like an order because it was in another language.

"Have a seat. What would you like to eat?" She managed another smile.

"Meat. Mead. Everything." He eyed the food with an appreciative eye.

Linden shrugged and started for the stack of small wood trenchers they used for plates. She would give him all the food he wanted, but she wasn't bringing him anything else alcoholic to drink. What a strange thing to say, I drowned today. Unless, she paused with the serving tongs over the crab salad, he was making another joking reference to getting into Valhalla. He was educated enough to know about an old Danish king offing his sister, also named Linden Kirstensen. Maybe his humor ran to the slightly sophisticated and obscure.

Linden looked over at the dripping Tranum who was staring at the other guests with a fascinated eye. He didn't look like an intellectual humorist, not the way he was gaping. On the other hand, they were an odd crowd of celebrants that came to Club Valhalla, that was for sure.

Those that came every Saturday to the Mead Feed had taken to wearing long cloaks and stupid battle helmets with deer antlers glued to them, in what they imagined was good Viking style. They looked especially dumb when they were tipsy enough to try and dance in their helmets. She hoped that Tranum understood that the Iron Age costumes weren't a deliberate mockery of his country and that he wasn't offended by the tactlessness of the regulars.

Fortunately, there were a sprinkling of inn guests to leaven the regular crowd. They were dressed in the usual I SWAM IN MONTEREY BAY sweat-shirts and jeans with an occasional, inappropriate sundress on someone from out of state, who naively believed all those commerce department lies about California beaches being blessed with warmth and eternal sunshine.

In Monterey, they got a nightly blanket of thick coastal fog. Especially during the summer months. It was rolling in already, she noted. If it got cold enough, maybe they could wind things up before midnight.

Feeling more cheerful, Linden plopped a generous helping of crab on Tranum's plate and then moved on to the grill.

"Hi, Petr. Any problems?"

The skinny, dark man peered at her through the hazy smoke.

"No. Things are going great. Thank goodness the air quality is good on the coast. They had another no burn day in Santa Clara county. Tabby's picking up some good tips tonight, too," he said with satisfaction. Petr and Tabby shared the tips equally between them. They were the source of their main income since she and Rolf couldn't afford to pay their employees much above minimum wage.

Good thing that Petr and Tabby were both obsessed with Rolf's boat building scheme or they would have gone off and gotten real jobs by now.

Or maybe not. It wasn't every job that gave free room and board at a place on the beach.

Linden saw Tabby deliver another full tray of Valhalla's souvenir mead goblets to a table of tourists and felt more cheerful. The goblets went for five dollars apiece. That was three-twenty in profits for each one.

She knew that there weren't any of her regulars at that table because along with the deer antlers, the locals had all gone out and purchased their own fantasy chalices. But that was okay. The locals tipped well.

The red haired Tabitha, Valhalla's waitress and sometime cook, was doing a landmark business now that the temperatures were dropping and the patrons were feeling the need for some extra liquid warmth.

Linden frowned and glanced at her watch. Nine thirty.

"Okay, but shut the mead down in another hour. Switch over to the hot drinks and no alcohol after eleven. I don't want any drunks on the road."

"Yes, mama," Petr answered lightly. He knew of her fear of getting sued by some drunk driver-- or worse yet, getting sued by some poor victim that was hurt by a drunk driver. "So, who's the Prince Charming?"

"That's not a prince. That's Tranum Svensen, a great Viking come to his reward in Valhalla, can't you tell?"

"Oh please! Not another great Viking! They always get drunk and try to fight with the torches," Petr complained. "Please tell me he isn't another nutcase."

Linden grinned and relented. "He's one of Rolf's Danes who's come over to work on the boat. And speaking of which, spear me some chicken. He is hungry. I am to bring food at once."

Petr chuckled.

"Have some lamb, too. It's free." Linden winced at Petr's callousness. She knew that they had to cull the lambs or they would soon be over-run with the commune's old livestock, but she didn't care to be reminded of it. "He looks a bit damp. What happened to him?"

Linden shrugged. "I don't know. I guess he tried to go swimming in the bay."

"At night?" Petr was horrified. "I think he's a little bit drunk. Tell Tabby, no mead for him, okay? I just want to feed him and then find him a bed. Damn Rolf anyway," she said without any real heat. "A little warning would have been nice. We're full up right now."

"Put him in Rolf's room. If he's the ship expert, maybe he'll get a kick out of looking at the blue prints and models."

Linden's face relaxed.

"Good idea. Well, I better get over there. My master is starting to slobber on the table. Oh! Better start brushing up your Danish," she warned.

"Why?"

"Because Rolf's expert doesn't seem to speak any English."

"Oh dear."

Linden walked back over to the table where Tranum had taken a seat and braced himself upright with a strong right arm. He was currently gaping at the couples bobbing up and down on the circle of packed earth they liked to think of as the dance floor. His long muscled legs were thrust out from the bench in a careless manner suggestive of an arrogant sprawl, but Linden suspected that his tri-podal posture was due as much to the battle against alcohol and exhaustion as any territorial arrogance.

"God appetit," she said pleasantly, laying the trencher in front of him. "Eat. You will feel better. Jet-lag can be ah... tiring."

Tranum blinked at her and then looked down at the food.

"Where is noget morkt ol?"

"Morkt ol? Oh! Beer. How about some nice juice instead-- en drik med frugtsaft?"

"You have fruit juice? That is good. I have a great thirst," he admitted, finally permitting himself a small smile. The stern mouth that lay beneath the generous mustache seemed unsuited for even this tiny hint of frivolity, but the slight crinkling at the edge of his eyes gave him away.

"I'll bring you some." Linden was beginning to feel better about Rolf's muddled Dane. He obviously had a sense of humor and she felt rather stern herself sometimes when dealing with the people at the inn. Especially at the Saturday night Mead Feed.

A new thought occurred to her as she stared at her dripping and glassy-eyed guest. If her Dane was an intellectual, then maybe the poor guy wasn't one of Rolf's party animal, Norse worshipers pulling a stupid, macho stunt. He certainly didn't look like one of Rolf's usual no-brainer Aryan friends, even if he was dressed like a Viking and dripping wet from swimming in the Pacific.

Maybe he had had a good reason for having a drink or two, and being unaccustomed to alcohol he was easily over-powered by it-- Why he was probably afraid of flying! That was it. She certainly hated it. She would drink herself near a coma before boarding a plane and then try to sleep through the flight. The hangover this act caused just made the jet-lag worse, but she still did it every time she flew. Maybe Tranum did the same thing, she thought charitably.

Then he had landed in a strange country where they didn't speak his language, and he had had to take a long ride in a cab because there was no one to meet him at the airport! He probably didn't even have the inn's phone number-- Blast Rolf anyway! He was getting more forgetful every day-- And the airlines had lost Tranum's suitcases. They must have done, because he certainly didn't have any luggage with him out on the beach and he definitely hadn't come up to the inn to drop off his luggage. She would have noticed.

Linden groaned to herself. The beach! How had the poor man ended up down there? Had he fallen off that nasty old pier? There was a sign, but no one could see it at night. Rolf should have closed it off completely. The pier was dangerous, but people wanted to go out on the water and they wandered out on it anyway. Poor unsuspecting Tranum! And then to have almost drowned in a riptide!

"Don't worry, Tranum." She patted his arm comfortingly, all her sympathies aroused by his imagined plight. "You are here now and safe. I will bring you some fruit juice and then we will find you a nice, comfortable bed to sleep in. By tomorrow morning, everything will be normal again."

"Normal?" Tranum sat up straight, looking alarmed. "You are sending me back?"

"No-- no, of course not. I meant you won't feel so-- how do you say jet-lag?-- kvalme?"

"I have no stomach sickness. Jeg har det bedre," he insisted and began to eat with enthusiasm.

"I'll bring the juice," she answered, but was mentally shaking her head. Eating like that on top of all that alcohol was probably a mistake. She'd bring him some orange juice and some aspirin, if she could find it. The vitamin C would be good for him.

Linden went to the small bar they had set up at the end of the patio farthest from the smoking grills. Tabby was pouring out some coffee and liqueur into Club Valhalla souvenir mugs. The switch to hot drinks had begun. They made a better profit on the coffee based drinks than on the honey wine.

"Hey, Linden! Who's the blond hunk?"

"Tranum Svensen of Fyn, Denmark," she answered absent- mindedly. "He's Rolf's ship-builder. The poor thing flew in this evening and he's completely jet-lagged. Have you got any aspirin?"

"That's Rolf's Dane?" Tabby was shocked. "I thought he was supposed to be some old geezer from Jutland?"

"Apparently not. Pour me some orange juice would you. I want to get some fluids down him."

"Why? He looks like he's got plenty of fluids on him."

"He fell in the water," Linden explained.

"Fell in the water! What was he doing down there?"

"I guess he got lost and wandered out on the pier."

"He must be as loaded as a semi if he got lost on the beach."

"He is not!" Linden defended. "Well, maybe a little. He hates flying and he had a few drinks to calm his nerves. Then the airline lost his luggage and he had to find a cab to bring him here-- because Rolf forgot to tell me he was coming today!-- and then he fell in the ocean and almost drowned. I feel terrible."

"Oh, Linden! You're such a worrier. He's going to be fine. A little water won't shrink a specimen like that." Tabby opened the small refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of orange juice.

"I know. It's just that it was so rude to not go and meet him at the airport. You know he paid his own airfare."

"Uh-hu." Tabby wasn't as impressed by parsimony as Linden was.

That was probably because she didn't keep the books, Linden thought. To be fair, Tabby had never looked at the spread-sheets because, although Rolf let Linden use his precious computer to do the inn's paperwork, nobody else was allowed into his inner-sanctum where he did his model design work. That was how Rolf made his living, designing models of ships. Mostly U.S. war ships, but his favorites were the Viking longboats. They were his private obsession... And it was a good thing it was a profitable hobby, because the inn's revenues, though improving steadily, were marginal at best.

"Where are we going to put him?" Tabby asked practically. "We're completely full. The Wests even took the roll-away bed for their daughter."

"I know," Linden said again and picked up the glass of juice. "Rolf is going to make the supreme sacrifice and give up his room for the evening. Most of our guests will be leaving tomorrow. We'll choose a room for him then."

"Okay," Tabby agreed uneasily. "But you know how Rolf is about anyone touching his stuff."

"Too bad. This is all his fault for going off to Humboldt and not saying a word about Tranum coming."

Linden hurried back to the table. She barely had time to set the glass down when it was snatched up and drained by her thirsty Viking.

"Good," he approved in a slightly raspy voice. She noticed that he had nearly polished off the food she had brought him. "There is more?"

"Yes. More orange juice?"

"Orange?"

"Yes. Orange. Never mind," she muttered in English. "My Danish must be worse than I thought. I'll bring you some other juice this time."

"Ja. And more meat. And more-- What is this?" He pointed at the shredded crab and then stuffed another fingerful in his mouth. Linden noticed that his silverware was untouched.

"Crab, krebs."

"Krebs," he repeated wonderingly. "It is very different."

"Huh? Oh, I guess they are. They are a Pacific crab. From Alaska, I think."

"Pacific?" he asked thickly around another mouthful of food.

"Yes. The Pacific ocean." Linden pointed west and then shook her head. What a stupid thing to say. Tranum was from Denmark, not the moon. "I'll get that juice."

She hurried back to the bar and opened the refrigerator. Her hand hovered over the sweetened lemon-lime juice and then she changed her mind. Too acidic. She would give him some mango-banana. It would be fun to see how reacted to something truly exotic.

"Here you are." She offered Tranum the glass. Again he downed the juice with barely a visible swallow.

"What is this?" He peered at the few drops that remained in the bottom of his cup.

"Mango-banana." She smiled and sat down beside him on the bench. "I don't know the word in Danish. It is good?"

"Good." He looked at her oddly. "You are going to sit here?"

"Well... Not if you want to be alone," she answered, feeling a little bewildered and offended at his surprised tone of voice. It had been nearly twenty years since a male had acted like she carried cooties. If you discounted Gordon.

"I do not want to be alone," he assured her, patting her heavily on the leg with his less than immaculate hand and leaving a smudge behind on her white skirt. It was a very hard hand, she noted. A hand that worked with tools. "There are many Englanders here."

"Englanders? No, they are Americans. Except for the Wests," she pointed out the family that was dining quietly on the far side of the dance floor. "They are Canadian."

"Kan-a-de-yen," he repeated.

It was getting ridiculous, she thought, the way they kept repeating each other's words. It was just that Tranum had a way of saying things that made it sound as if he had never heard the words before.

"It must all seem very strange to not know the language," she said sympathetically. "But you will be comfortable here. Soon. After you sleep."

"I will sleep soon," he agreed. "Where are the fighters? And the skalds? Why are those women dancing?"

"Because they want to." Linden stared at Tranum. As though sensing her regard, he turned away from the dancers and looked down at her. For the first time she noticed the color of his eyes. They weren't the expected shade of blue that would go with the silvery blonde hair, but rather a light grey-green favored by alley-cats. Green like the strange light in her dreams.

"They want to?" Tranum repeated, shifting the emphasis to the pronoun.

Linden smiled a little. "Their partners want to dance, too. No one is forcing the men to do this."

"That is good." Tranum relaxed again and turned his gaze back toward the dancers. He added disapprovingly: "They should save their strength for battle."

"Battle?" Linden's smile grew. Was her Dane afraid that she was going to drag him out there to dance with the other Vikings? Or was that a comment on the state of male-female relationships. "We won't be having any battles tonight. No poetry either unless you would..." Then she noticed the goose flesh that was coming up on Tranum's bare thighs. The temperatures had dropped in the last several minutes and he was sitting there in wet clothes. Very scant clothes they were, too.

Which reminded her that Tranum didn't seem to have any luggage.

"Did the..." How did she say airline in Danish? "Did you lose your baggage?"

"Bagage?"

"Yes, Bagage. Clothes. Klaeder." She tried to keep down her exasperation at the language barrier. Why did Rolf pick out a builder that couldn't speak English? Petr would manage but Tabby's Danish was pidgin, at best.

Tranum nodded once. "I think the rest of my clothes are in the sea. I saved Leg-Biter."

He reached over his left shoulder and patted the hilt of the long sword that was harnessed to his back.

For the moment, Linden ignored his sword. It was typical of the male mentality to feel that a hunk of steel was more important than other mundane considerations like all the rest of his worldly possessions that he would need while living in California.

"In the sea! All of it?"

"Ja."

It was worse than she'd thought. If the airline had lost his luggage there was always a chance that they would find it soon; but if his suitcase was in the bay, the odds of ever finding his luggage were slim. Given the tides, his clothes would be in Bora Bora by morning. Even if they did find his case caught in the rocks off shore, his clothes would probably be ruined after a night in the brine. Still, she could hardly complain about him choosing to save his life over his luggage.

"What about your money and passport?" she asked worriedly as a new thought occurred. "Pas? Uh-- penge?"

"Pas? Penge?"

"Oh no..." Linden closed her eyes and called Rolf a few more names. No passport and no money! She'd kill her brother just as soon as he got back.

"What is wrong, Linden Kirstensen?" Linden opened her eyes and saw that Tranum was frowning at her, as if he thought that she was over-reacting to his loss. Well, if he wasn't concerned about his missing luggage, why should she worry about it?

"It is not important. Come on, Tranum." She stood up and tugged on his arm. Her Dane reluctantly rose to his feet.

"Where are we going? To see Odin?"

"This is no time for making jokes," she scolded. "We are going to find some dry clothes and then you are going to bed. We will worry about your passport in the morning."

"You are coming to bed with me?" he asked hopefully, draping a heavy arm over her shoulders and letting her take some of his great weight as they started toward the inn.

"Not a chance." She snarled in English as the last of her patience wore out: "Rolf, you're a dead man."

Club Valhalla

Copyrighted (c) 2002 Melanie Jackson

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