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Bound Through Time: Past (A Viking Brothers Novel Book 1)
Bound Through Time: Past (A Viking Brothers Novel Book 1) Read online
By Twyla Turner
©Copyright 2019 Twyla Turner
©Copyright Cover Images Fotolia.com
©Fxquadro
©Vlastimil Šesták
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.
To the ones who have lost love,
Continue to keep your heart open. Love is always worth it.
Table of Contents:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Twyla Turner
Connect with Author
1051 A.D., Iceland
The night air was cold and quiet. The calm before the blood. Thorin and his older brothers Jerrik (YEH-rik) and Dag, crouched low on the hard earth awaiting the perfect moment to strike. There was little light to guide them. The New Moon left their surroundings drenched in darkness. Even with no light, they knew the way. They’d watched their enemy stumble drunkenly from their jarl’s longhouse before they wound down to go to bed in their respective homes. With the guards’ throats slit, all they had to do was wait until clan Bjorn was deep in slumber.
This raid was to protect what was theirs. Or better put, what was Jerrik’s. Thorin’s brother was jarl, chieftain of their clan and village. Theirs was the most prosperous clan on Iceland. And that made them sitting ducks. All of the surrounding tribes wanted to raid them and take their land for the fertile soil that was hard to come by on the harsh landscape. Land that was more volcanic rock than anything else. Bjorn and his people were one of the last clans they needed to put in their place to ensure that they would not try to attack them in the near future. There had been rumors of an impending raid. So, it was either kill or be killed.
Thorin’s blood pumped through his veins with excitement. He loved battle. Almost as much as he loved sex. Almost. His eldest brother, on the other hand, was ready to be done with it. Jerrik was ready for peace. He just wanted to do what most Norsemen did when they weren’t marauding the Saxon coastline. Farm or fish. Get married and have a brood of children.
Thorin shuddered at the thought.
At least he had an ally in his bastard half-brother Dag. Dag was worse than Thorin. He was bloodthirsty and reveled in battle. He was their clan’s greatest warrior. Their trainer. There were no better fighters in Iceland than clan Jerrik because of Dag. They were fierce, and they were feared. A perfect combination.
Thorin glanced at Jerrik to his left. Pale blond hair, braided back out of his way. Thorin could just barely make out his brother’s ice-blue eyes as Jerrik looked at him and nodded. He was ready.
Thorin’s eyes moved to his right to find Dag’s silver eyes gleaming with barely banked glee over what was to come. A scar ran down the left side of Dag’s face, from forehead to cheek, giving him an even more savage look. His ash-blond hair was shaved on the sides with a braid down the middle. Dag gripped his ax and shield and winked at Thorin. He was ready, as well.
Before he died five years previously, their father Rolf had been proud of the formidable sight his sons made. Rolfsons. Thorin stood the tallest at six feet seven, then Jerrik at six-six, and Dag at six-four. They were built with solid muscle and made a formidable trio with their chiseled good looks. They made Norse lasses swoon with desire, and many men tremble in fear.
With swords drawn, battle axes raised, spears gripped tightly, and shields at the ready, Jerrik’s band of warriors got to their feet and began a slow jog towards the sleeping village. As they got closer, they broke out in a full run. White mist billowing from their mouths and noses as their hot breath hit the cold air. Silent as deadly wraiths.
Their enemy was ripped from their dreams. Many, too late to save themselves before a blade was plunged into their chest or sliced across their throat. Those with quicker reflexes were up and barely disoriented, their metal clashing.
Thorin smirked as he approached one such adversary, who burst from his home ready to defend it to his death. Thorin would gladly oblige him and send him to Valhalla. The man gripped his ax and went on the attack. Thorin swung upward, and his opponent blocked the deadly blow with his battle ax. The battle ax swiped down towards his legs and Thorin leaped out of the way just in time. He raised his sword above his head and brought it down quickly. Too quickly for his enemy. The sword cleaved into the man’s skull. Thorin put his foot into the downed man’s chest and pushed to free his blade from the man’s split head.
Thorin felt someone from behind and quickly glanced back. It was Dag as he fought off his own adversary. Another of Bjorn’s clan came running to attack Thorin, and the two brothers fought back to back.
“How many is that for you, brother?” Dag shouted over the sound of steel and screams.
“Five!” Thorin shouted back.
“Ha! I am at seven. Better hurry or ye’ll never catch up!” Dag teased.
Thorin chuckled under his breath as he sliced his enemy down the middle of his chest, and he collapsed in agony. Thorin plunged his sword into the man’s heart to swiftly end his misery. It was his and Dag’s ritual to count the lives they took to see who the better warrior was. Dag usually bested him.
“Only seven! By now, you’d have ten or more. Must be getting slow in your advanced years, old man,” Thorin shot back.
“Oh, ho!!! We shall see, young brother.” Dag announced as his ax swung and decapitated his challenger.
“Oh, would you two stop carrying on like a pair of old wedded people.” Jerrik scolded them good-naturedly, always playing the mediator.
Jerrik turned to make sure there was no one left to put up a fight. Most of those who fought for clan Bjorn were either dead or wounded. The sound of steel whistling through the air reached their ears, but they were too slow to react. Thorin watched in horror as a battle ax sailed through the air and headed straight for Jerrik’s heart. Jerrik tried to move out of the way, but the ax still sliced his chest before implanting itself in the ground.
Warriors from Jerrik’s clan seized the man who threw the ax.
“Are you alright brother?” Dag asked as they watched Jerrik touch the bleeding flesh wound on his chest.
“Aye…” Jerrik said before swaying and then collapsing on the ground.
“NOOOOO!” Thorin bellowed as his eldest brother and chieftain dropped to his knees.
A look of shock crossed over Jerrik’s face before he fell back. Thorin was there to catch him. Dag ran over to them to look over his brother.
“I…I can’t feel my le
gs or arms,” Jerrik whispered. Fear tinged his voice.
Dag reached for the ax that had seemed to only nick their brother. He sniffed the blade. His eyes rose to Thorin’s, and he saw fear in his elder brother’s eyes.
“Poison,” Dag whispered.
Dag slowly rose from the ground before turning and charging over to the man who had dealt their brother a fatal blow. He went berserk, killing the man. Dag’s anguished cries intermingled with the death gurgle of the dying man. Once the man was dead, Dag raced back to Jerrik’s other side. Both Thorin and Dag each held onto Jerrik’s hands. Thorin felt Jerrik squeeze his hand slightly, and he looked down into his brother’s eyes.
“Thorin…” he whispered.
“Aye, brother,” Thorin answered gruffly.
“T-Take c-care of the village in m-my stead,” Jerrik said haltingly. “I know you do not believe it, but father was proud of you. He was only hard on you because he knew you had potential to be great.”
He then turned his head to his other brother. “Dag.”
“Aye, my jarl,” Dag responded respectfully.
“W-Watch after our l-little brother. He’ll need your help.”
“I will.”
Dag may have been the bastard son of their father, birthed by Rolf’s mistress only months after Jerrik was born. But their father made sure he raised them to be close. They were not only brothers. They were best friends.
Unable to hold on any longer, Jerrik’s eyes closed and his hands went slack. Thorin and Dag both squeezed his lifeless hands tighter, not wanting to let go. Jerrik had seemed indestructible. His loss would not only be felt by his brothers but the whole clan. He may have been the serious and strict brother, but he loved his people, and it showed in every action he took. Their village had thrived under his rule.
Thorin didn’t cry. He blinked rapidly, and he clenched his jaw tightly, but he refused to show any emotion. Especially in front of those of clan Bjorn who were still alive. He was the new chieftain now. His seat on the throne of his tribe would be precarious if others thought him weak.
He slowly stood and glanced at the faces around him. Some enemies, most fellow clansmen. Ready to give his first orders as the new jarl.
“You four.” Thorin pointed to a group of his men. “Tie up the survivors before we sack their village. The rest of you prepare one of the smaller ships for Jerrik. He shall have a funeral fit for a king.”
~~~
Thorin and Dag placed Jerrik’s body on the ship themselves. Some Shieldmaidens that had come with them, just as bloodthirsty as the men had taken the job of preparing his body. They cleaned him up, and then picked flowers and brush to place around Jerrik’s body. It was not only to adorn the ship but was also easy to catch fire. Thorin said a prayer to Odin before he and Dag pushed the boat out to sea. One lone archer stood above them on the jagged rocks. The Northern Lights waving green and blue added to the dramatic backdrop.
The archer lowered the notched arrow into the flames of a small fire flickering and burning next to him. The arrow caught, and he lifted the bow up and drew back the string. He lined up the boat drifting further out to sea with his arrow and then raised it up a few degrees higher. He released the arrow, and it left a smoking trail as it arced down towards the ship.
The arrow hit the dragon head on the bow of the longboat perfectly. Thorin watched as the railing of the boat caught fire, lighting it up as it traveled through the inlet to the open sea. His heart squeezed at the loss of his beloved brother. He was not ready to be chieftain. He had not been raised like Jerrik had, as a firstborn son. He’d been the happy-go-lucky, second legitimate son. The baby and charming rake of the three. The one that chased skirts more than glory.
Before their father died, he’d been so frustrated with his devil-may-care youngest son. While he wanted to teach both of his legitimate sons how to run a clan, Thorin was flipping skirts behind barns and burying the weasel in every honeypot he could find. The look on his father’s face was constant irritation. They often got into arguments about his lack of focus.
Norse life wasn’t so strict that Dag couldn’t take over as jarl. But there was a wildness about Dag that was different from Thorin’s. He was restless. His eyes often on the horizon, set on something unseen. Once peace was reached, Thorin felt that one day Dag would disappear into the night and never return. They were close, but their middle brother was only borrowed to them. He would eventually move on.
Thorin loved his village. His home. He had no plans on leaving. Just none on ruling. Now that time had come to an end.
It’s time to stand up and be a man, he thought. Time to make Jerrik and father proud.
With the internal decision made, Thorin raised his chin a little higher and stood a little taller as he watched the burning ship carrying his brother’s body disappear into a thick predawn mist.
“Goodbye, brother. I shall meet you in Valhalla soon enough.”
****
2003, Boston
“Ooh! My song’s on,” Sahana leaned forward and turned up the radio to blast Crazy in Love by Beyoncé.
She started to sing along at the top of her lungs. Her husband James began to sing with her when she held the imaginary mic up to his lips as he gripped the steering wheel.
They loved the song, and James made sure he recited Jay-Z’s rap perfectly. They liked the song because they said they were crazy in love. And as they gazed at each other adoringly, it was apparent to anyone looking that they were.
Including their daughter who pretended to hate their singing from her spot in the backseat. Elliot rolled her eyes at her parents’ antics. Even though she secretly loved it.
“Come on, Ellie! Sing for me!” Her mom turned in her seat and held the invisible mic up to her.
Elliot giggled as she took the mic and began to sing like she was on a stage in front of millions. Her dream was to be a performer when she grew up.
At age 9, she was already a beauty. Her mother was from Mumbai, India, and her father was African American. Elliot’s skin and hair were a combination of both her parents. Her skin was deep mahogany with red undertones. Her hair, jet black with corkscrew curls going in every direction.
Elliot’s facial features were unique and striking. Her large eyes were downturned, which made her look sleepy or sad all the time. Her top lip was slightly fuller than her bottom, making it look like she was permanently pouting. Her father always told her she had a face that could get away with murder.
Her parents had given up everything to be together. Her mother had moved to Massachusetts to attend Harvard. Once she was done, she was to return to Mumbai, where she was betrothed to someone else.
James Allen was from a family of high-powered lawyers. His family too had plans to marry him to the daughter of another lawyer family. Two families that planned to merge companies and lineage. His father and hers were planning to become partners together in a new law firm. Meeting Sahana at Harvard changed everything.
They were both disowned, and Elliot had never seen her extended family. But that didn’t matter to her. Her parents were her world. They were all she needed or wanted.
And then in the blink of an eye, her world fell apart as a deer dashed into the road…
~~~
2006, Boston
“Hey, Scar! Why’d you have to kill Mufasa like that?” A senior girl pushed Elliot’s back as she walked from the bus stop home after school.
Elliot stumbled forward from the shove and weight of her backpack. Her feet slipped on the ice under the slushy snow, but she caught herself just in time.
“Fuck off!” She glared back at the girl.
“Damn! You better watch out, Krystal. Or she’ll throw you off a cliff too.” The senior boy Krystal was trying to impress teased her.
“You see that body, though?” Another boy commented before whistling. “Who cares about her face.”
“You’re right. You’re right.” Krystal’s crush agreed.
“Oh, please. T
hat bitch is fat. Plus, she’s a freshman. Are y’all really trying to rob the cradle?”
Elliot tried to drown out their disgusting conversation and picked up the pace. She practically ran all the way to her temporary home, slipping several times in the process as their laughter slowly drifted off in the distance.
Her life couldn’t get any worse. Her parents were gone. She was bounced continuously around from home to home. Her body had developed early into that of a curvaceous adult. A body that made horny boys salivate. But her scarred face repulsed them enough to stay away.
Most adults said her scar wasn’t that bad. Yeah, right, she thought. Tell that to a teenager at a time when appearances meant everything.
The scar was deep and ran horizontally from her nose to ear, just under her cheekbone.
Her dreams of being a performer were dashed along with growing up in a loving family, as soon as her father lost control of the car trying to avoid hitting that deer and spinning into head-on traffic.
Elliot’s stomach growled loudly, bringing her back to her present situation.
Why is it that I only get to stay in the warm, loving foster homes with fridges full of food for short periods? Elliot thought to herself.
It was her fifth foster home in a year. For one reason or another, she was bumped from home to home. But the best homes were the shortest stays.
Her current foster home wasn’t as bad as it could be. At least her foster parents weren’t abusive. They did love to gamble away the money they received from the state, instead of feeding their foster kids, though. And the house had a revolving door of ‘babysitters’ to watch the kids while they were gone to the casino.
Elliot opened the front door to her foster home. Inside was one of those so-called ‘babysitters.’ The next-door neighbor who had been eyeballing her like a creep since he’d first laid eyes on her a few weeks ago. He was average height with a big beer belly. His skin was pasty and always looked a little grimy like he didn’t bathe very often. And his hair was so oily she couldn’t tell if he had blond or brown hair.