Undercurrent (34 page)

He scrubbed his face with one hand, then lifted his eyes to the sky, hidden by branches and darkness. “Jesu, I am not fit to be jarl. The men are weary, and I have but added to their burden. I ask for your guidance and—”

Far off, almost too faint to be heard, a wolf’s cry interrupted his prayer. None of the men near him seemed to take notice. Likely ’twas naught more than a straggling pack member strayed from his clan. Still, Ragnar rose, listening intently.

Tiny clawed feet scurried through the undergrowth, foraging for food. Lower down the ridge, fires crackled from the defensive flame wall. He heard nothing more unusual than the sound of his own breathing.

His movement stirred several others to stand and grip their hilts. Kier questioned him with raised brows. He merely shrugged and remained on his feet. At any rate, it would be harder to doze off than if he sat.

The longer he stood, the more he realized the folly of that thought. His head soon bobbed once again.

But this time a chorus of piercing howls snapped him to attention. Fear and dread anticipation slammed him in the gut. He shifted, widening his stance. This would be no small skirmish.

Swords clashing and warrior cries drifted up the rise. The sickening thrill of the fight quickened his breaths—until an eerie aberration knocked the wind from his lungs. Dark shapes, low to the ground, loped up the hill with an unnatural gait, animalistic yet…not. What sorcery was this?

The inner circle of men surrounding him tightened, blades drawn and at the ready. Even so, Ragnar sensed their fear. “Hold the line! If one falls, close the gap. Let none break through.”

The freakish shapes barreled toward them. Fast. So did the stench. Singed fur, burnt flesh, the putrid reek of a decaying corpse…odors of death. Ragnar’s stomach convulsed, and he swallowed back the vile taste in his mouth. Some men turned aside and spit. Or worse. A few glanced back at him, faces devoid of color. The stink of their terror mixed with that of the approaching attackers. How could he let his men—his friends—bear the brunt of the onslaught while he stood safely ringed by their protection?

In three long strides, he shouldered his way in to join the circle, a breach of protocol that earned him a few odd looks from the men nearest him. Gripping his sword two-handed, he planted one foot behind the other in an open-legged stance. Knees bent, he readied for the first strike. Men all around followed his lead.

And with no time to spare. Larger than a wolf, bigger than a man, a demon creature rushed at him. A misshapen muzzle with fangs impossibly sharpened aimed at him. Dead, glossy eyes trained on his own. This close, the sight of the thing drained his courage.

The overgrown wolf reared on hind legs, revealing surprisingly naked innards. Shaken by the milky-white flesh beneath the fur, Ragnar froze.

In that instant, the beast lifted a razor-edged sword and slashed. Years of training kicked in, and he parried. The force of steel against steel vibrated up both arms. While the beast swung around, Ragnar crouched and thrust out his leg to tangle the thing’s footing. The instant it wavered off balance, he drove the point of his blade upward. The aggressor fell, not dead, but stunned enough for him to finish the job.

He sliced quickly, then withdrew his blade. Blood stained the fur and a man’s cry gurgled out. With the flick of his sword, Ragnar flipped back the thing’s snout. The hood of a wolf head fell away, and glassy eyes stared up at him—human eyes. Some shapeshifter. But another advanced before he could shout his discovery.

One after another came at him, a nightmare of blades and teeth and fur. He barely released his sword from one falling body before another charged against him. Thrusting, slashing, jabbing—his lungs heaved from encounter after encounter.

By the time the first enemy wave lessened, sweat slicked his body, tasting salty when he licked his lips. Heavy breathing, death moans, and a few whoops and hollers filled the air along with the metallic tang of spilled blood. A quick headcount showed three of the men in his circle had fallen, though he had no time to ascertain which, for another bout of mournful cries broke along with the dawn.

He replanted his feet, muscles trembling from exhaustion. As he braced himself for the new onslaught, time stopped. The world ceased to function as it ought. Was this how Cassie felt when her world turned upside-down? He squeezed the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword to make sure it hadn’t disappeared beneath his fingers.

In the gray light of early morning, swarm upon swarm of dark shapes emerged through what was left of the fires. An incalculable number of wolf-men sliced past Rogaland’s first line of defense and rushed up the rise. His mouth went dry and his skin clammy. So many. Sweet Jesu—

Blades clanked in a thunderous din. He’d take out one man, only to fight a stronger, fresher replacement. His muscles quivered anew, and his footing grew sluggish as enemy after enemy plowed at him. The man to his left fell. He side-stepped to fill in the gap, only to find that the gap would not be filled.

The circle had broken.

Ragnar wheeled just in time to ward off a blow that would have severed his head. He sucked in a breath, then charged forward. Hesitate now and he would lose his life.

As the morning light increased, so did the dead and dying. How long they fought the losing battle, he could not say. He measured moments only with every kill, each becoming more difficult. His lungs burned. Blood flowed into his eye from a gash on his forehead, blurring his vision so that he had to swipe it away.

“
Ragnar!”

The shouted warning spun him around. Torolf’s blade swung straight for his heart.

“
Nooo!”

A mighty shove landed him flat on his back. Winded and dazed, he wheezed and staggered upright in time to see Magnus fall. Torolf’s blade lifted to strike a final blow.

Anger shook through Ragnar, filling him with a surge of energy. His head buzzed, and he raised his sword high. “Torolf! It is me you want!”

He charged.

They met with bone-crunching power. Both of them reeled backward. Dazed from the impact, Ragnar shook his head.

Curses spewed from Torolf between breaths. Eyes aflame, he slowly began to circle Ragnar. “Look around you, little man. You have nothing left.”

Ragnar re-gripped his grasp on his hilt, surprised by the sudden peace filling him. Torolf could not have spoken a truer word. “I have Jesu. That is enough.” Then he slashed with all the strength he yet owned, slicing a deep gash across Torolf’s thigh.

A smile pulled Torolf’s lips into a hideous grin. “Is that the best you have?”

Torolf’s blade came alive. A punishing storm of hits drove Ragnar back. He countered most, but not all. One gouge cut deep into his shoulder, another hit sliced the length of his forearm. Blood mixed with sweat. Drops stung his eye. No time now to swipe them away. He engaged with his own hammering cuts. Even so, his strength dwindled into glancing swipes.

Torolf noticed and pressed him ever more. Tireless in his pursuit, Torolf’s successive blows took on a horrific rhythm.

Ragnar offset them with a tempo of his own—until his foot slipped and his step faltered. Righting that error would mean instant death.

He dropped and rolled.

Torolf’s blade plunged.

Jesu!

The steely edge bit into the corpse that had caused his fall.

In the breath’s span it took for Torolf to yank out his sword, Ragnar flew to his feet.

He reared back his blade then struck.

Torolf blinked as the flesh of his neck tore open. A red waterfall soaked his collar, spreading to his chest, and his head flopped forward. He sank to his knees, mouth working. His words were nothing but gurgles. No need, though. With a last supreme effort, he looked up. His eyes said it all. Black hatred. Insane rage. Clearly if he could reach out and pull Ragnar with him to Hel, he would.

But he couldn’t. Torolf fell face-first into the carnage.

Ragnar lowered his sword tip to the ground. His lungs burned, and he shook uncontrollably. He rubbed away the blood and sweat from his brow, clearing his vision.

Then stopped breathing completely at what he saw next.

Another wave of Torolf’s men advanced up the rise. A thick line, shoulder to shoulder, marching relentlessly. Ragnar cast a wild glance around. Kier and a few handfuls of men were the only ones left standing.

The sword in his hand would not be lifted. His strength was spent.

How would Cassie fare in this world without him?

Jesu, I commit my life and my death to you. Watch over Cassie and—

The enemy’s wolfish howls faded, replaced by a louder, fiercer sound from behind.

War cries.

THIRTY-FOUR

Five days. Five long, unbearable, never-ending days—and nights. Cassie kicked a pebble, shooting it a good ten yards ahead on the village roadway. She’d covered this ground so many times that she knew each miserable rut and bump by name. And she named each one Tammy. Frustrated, bored, but mostly heartsick, she wandered from river’s edge to the gate and back again. Over and over.

What if Ragnar didn’t return?

Rounding the corner of Great Hall, she paused. A scruffy dog snuffled at something in the road. She kicked a bigger rock, the force stinging her toe beneath the thin leather of her shoe. It pinged into the dog’s rear end. He yelped and skittered away. In her current twisted mood, satisfaction rippled through her, followed by remorse. What had gotten into her of late?

She sighed and resumed her village pacing. As horrible as the routine was, sitting in the longhouse was worse. Signy hadn’t spoken to her since that first day, nor to anyone else. Grunnhild tried to remain pleasant, but Cassie couldn’t contain her crankiness and ended up snapping at her. She really couldn’t blame Grunnhild for avoiding her since. By this point, she could hardly stand herself.

Autumn’s cool breeze whipped a piece of hair into her eyes. She yanked it back with more strength than was required, then rubbed her smarting scalp. This was stupid. If she didn’t find something to occupy her time and soon, she’d—

A gong clanged. Not a resonant, oriental type gong. More like the clank of an oversized garbage can lid. Whatever it was, Great Hall’s door burst open and Bryn peeled out. Cassie stared after him. That kind of all-out run meant something was about to happen that was either good…

Or bad.

She took off. No match for his speed, she didn’t catch up until he’d already climbed the lookout ladder and shouted an order to open the gate.

Her heart beat harder.

It took forever for the gate guards to remove the enormous plank barring the door. She clamped her lips before she shouted her thoughts about their sluggish performance. As soon as the opening cracked wide enough for her to see through to the other side, she dashed ahead.

Stomping across the empty fields, men marched toward the village. Most were bloodied, some leaned on others, and the rest were draped over what remained of the horses. So few.

Cassie squinted, searching each face. A brief glimmer of joy flashed in her heart when she spied Kier, but that fizzled as her gaze swept past the last man. She searched again. And again. Her heart lodged in her throat. No Ragnar.

Dizziness set in, and she wavered on her feet. Her stomach twisted and breathing halted.

God, please, no—

And then she saw him. In the rear, obscured behind a big horse, he led another with a huge figure laid atop. His trademark hank of hair covered more of his face than usual. He strode sure and steady, but even so, a shadow of fatigue weighted his shoulders.

She ran faster than Bryn.

Not slowing even when she drew near, she launched herself at Ragnar. He stumbled a step, yet scooped her up in a tight embrace. He smelled like a wild animal, but she breathed in anyway. He was alive, and that made it sweet enough to her.

His arms loosened just enough for her to look up. A new gash on his forehead would add another scar to his face. How many other wounds had he suffered? Her eyes watered at the thought. “Are you okay? I was so afraid.” All the emotion she’d tried to pen up the past five days spilled over her lashes and onto her cheeks.

He released her, bringing his hands up to her face. “I am well, little one.” Slowly and with unimaginable gentleness, he bent and kissed away every tear until she trembled from his touch.

The horse next to them snorted and stamped, breaking the spell. Ragnar pulled away and retrieved the lead. So focused on the man who’d become her entire world, she hadn’t noticed the body on the horse—the giant body. Her thoughts raced to Gwenn. She whirled to Ragnar, both hands grasping his arm. “Is Magnus, I mean, will he…”

A grim expression tugged down the corners of Ragnar’s mouth, and his shoulders sagged. “He lives. For now. Many others were lost.”

On impulse, she lifted her hand and brushed back his hair. He didn’t stop her. “I am sorry, Ragnar. I know you care for your people.”

He nodded, a faraway look in his eye, then turned and centered his attention solely on her. “True, but I care a great deal more about you.”

The smoldering gaze he consumed her with made her lick her lips. With one finger, he traced the full outline of her face. Slowly. A flash of warmth tingled through her, and she leaned closer, aching for his kiss.