Viking (2 page)
Isle of Man, Summer, 851 AD
Cold gray waves washed the western shore. The land was silent and deserted. No peasants roamed the shoreline. No smoke plumed above the wooded hillsides.
Peasants native to the isle knew better than to build too close to the sea lest a savage Viking horde swoop down upon them in their sleep and slay them. They were wise enough to build well away from the sea to give them time to close the log gates of the palisades surrounding their villages and string their bows in times of peril.
No sound broke the silence on this summer morning except the lapping of the waves against the
shore and the shrill crying of gulls as the rising sun broke through the morning mist.
At his post on a hilltop overlooking the sea, a young peasant boy wrapped in a heavy woolen cloak stretched and yawned and got stiffly to his feet. His job was to watch for any strange craft approaching their shore and warn the villagers in time to arm themselves. He had seen nothing since taking over from another boy the night before and was bored with scanning an empty sea. He reached into his greasy leather wallet for his breakfast of coarse black bread and cheese, but before he could take a bite, something far out in the swirling mist caught his eye. He blinked, then stared fixedly at a dark shape riding low in the water. Then he saw another, and another. Five altogether. Suddenly the sun caught the edges of sails and glinted from flashing oar blades.
Now he could see the fierce dragon heads rising above the graceful hulls. Flashes of light reflected off polished helmets, spear points and sword blades. Along each gunwale hung a line of brightly painted wooden shields, one overlapping the next, two shields to each oar hole. Each dragon ship was propelled swiftly by sixteen pairs of oars, seventeen feet long. From a yardarm slung across the forty-foot pole mast hung a single red-and-white striped square sail.
The young watchman stood frozen with fear as the five narrow, shallow draft ships scraped the shore below him. Thirty tall, bearded and moustached
golden-haired raiders leaped ashore from each ship. One hundred and fifty in all. They wore mail shirts of interlaced steel rings that reached almost to their knees, over which were slung handsome fur-trimmed cloaks, fastened at the throat by jeweled gold or silver brooches. Their leather shoes were laced and crisscrossed around their bare legs, and conical steel helmets protected their heads.
Each man carried an assortment of weapons: a long, two-edged sword, battleaxe, spear, short knife and round wooden shield with a metal boss in the center. As the Vikings disgorged from their dragon ships, the lad finally found the courage to move his frozen limbs. But by then it was too late. He had already been seen from below. Two fierce Vikings charged up the hill and seized him before he could carry a warning to the village.
“We have the boy, Thorne,” Ulm said as he dragged the struggling boy to the beached ships where Thorne was directing his men. “What shall we do with him?”
Thorne gave the lad a cursory glance, noting that he was young and offered no threat to them except for the warning he would have carried. “I will speak with him.”
Ulm held the boy by the shoulders while Thorne fired off questions. “How far to the village, boy?”
The lad stared at Thorne, surprised to hear the savage Viking speaking to him in Gaelic. When he remained mute, Ulm gave him an ungentle shake. “Answer the question, boy!”
The lad gulped and tried to speak, but terror froze his throat.
“I won’t harm you, just answer truthfully,” Thorne said. “How far to the village?”
“N-not far. A league, no more.”
“Does your village have a palisade?”
“Aye, but the gate will be open.”
“I’m looking for a woman. She has hair as black as midnight and eyes the color of violets. She is a witch. Do you know of her?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “A witch? Nay, there is no witch in the village. Only one woman matches your description. Fiona the Learned, but she is no witch.”
Thorne’s blue eyes narrowed. “Think hard, lad. The woman I seek is a great beauty, no mere peasant.”
The boy licked his lips nervously. “I-I—nay, I know not of whom you speak.”
Thorne didn’t believe him. He would find his witch, and when he did he would force her to remove her spell. “Take the boy away. Tell the men who will remain here to guard the ships to watch him. We’ll learn nothing more from the lad.”
The morning was fine and clear as Thorne led his savage horde toward the village. When Ulm spotted a monastery situated atop a hill, he turned off the path with half the men, leaving Thorne to continue on alone. Monasteries usually held a wealth of gold and silver, much more than could be gleaned from peasants. Wielding their mighty swords, Ulm’s men descended upon the unsuspecting monks. But
Thorne was not distracted by the promise of riches or slaves. He was here for one reason alone.
The witch.
Fiona the Learned wended her way through the forest to Brann the Wizard’s cottage. As was her habit, she visited the old Celtic sorcerer daily, usually before her father stirred from his bed and the villagers began their day at morning Mass. Today she carried a basket filled with medicinal herbs such as St. John’s wort, laurel, fennel, vervain and sage. Brann was a healer as well as a wizard. He concocted potions and brewed medicines that had mysterious healing powers. The villagers sought his help with everything from love problems, to impotence, to warding off danger.
Fiona trod the well-worn path to the tiny daub-and-wattle cottage sitting in a small glen not far from the village. She knocked once on the door, then let herself inside without waiting for an invitation. The cottage was dark and smoky, smelling strongly of herbs and medicines of which only she and Brann had knowledge. Before her untimely death, Fiona’s mother had been a renowned healer and she had taught her daughter her skills.
Though Mairie the Healer had embraced the Christian religion, her Celtic roots ran deep. She was said to have mystical powers inherited from her Celtic forbears. Fiona’s powers were not as strong as her mother’s, but Brann had shown her how to use those she did possess, such as clairvoyance and healing, for the benefit of others.
Fiona peered through the smoky gloom of the room and saw Brann standing at the single window, staring toward the sea. He didn’t stir as she approached him. She set her basket down on the table and gently touched his shoulder.
“Brann? What is it? Are you unwell?”
Several moments passed before the old man turned to acknowledge Fiona. Though his eyes were clear, they burned with a fervor that made Fiona shiver. They seemed to look right through her. She’d never seen Brann so distracted and it alarmed her.
“Brann? What’s amiss?”
“Ah, Fiona,” Brann said, suddenly gaining his wits. “ ’Tis beginning.”
“What? What is beginning?”
Brann glanced past her, his eyes unfocused as he began to recite in a singsong voice: “They will arrive on our shore in dragon ships to plunder and raid. You will know him by his name. He is called ‘Relentless.’ His sword is Blood-drinker and his ship is
Odin’s Raven.
He holds your fate in his massive hands. He comes to take your life. Instead he will steal your heart.”
His words fell off and his eyes cleared. But his expression remained grave.
“I’ve heard that prophesy before, Brann, why do you taunt me with it now? I no longer believe it to be so. Vikings visited our shore a year ago but nothing came of it, thank our blessed Lord, and they did not return. ’Tis an abomination to think that a Viking berserker will steal my heart. Besides, why
would a Norseman come to our shore specifically to kill me?”
“The answer is unclear, but you will know soon. If you survive the day, you will travel to a far-off land and face grave danger.”
Fiona knew better than to dismiss Brann’s prophesy out of hand. She had cut her teeth on his teachings and trusted him implicitly. But this … this implausible prediction simply could not be true. She thought back to her encounter with the fierce Viking warrior that moonlit night a year ago and remembered the feel of his hands on her naked flesh. There wasn’t a soft place on his hard body or a tender spot in his cruel heart. He had wanted to ravish her, and probably would have killed her afterward if she hadn’t used her wits to escape.
Though she’d never admit it, not even to herself, she thought of the Viking far too often for her liking. She remembered him as a golden giant, with strong features. He was fierce and strong and could have been called handsome if his face weren’t set in ruthless lines. Sometimes he tormented her dreams, but in those dreams he wanted to do things to her that had nothing to do with her death.
“What are you thinking?” Brann asked.
Fiona flushed. Could the wizard see into her mind? She prayed not. “How much time do I have before your prophesy becomes reality?”
Brann gave her a sad smile. “The day is at hand.”
Fiona started violently. “Vikings are here? On our shore? Now?” Why hadn’t she sensed this?
“At the village gates this very minute.”
“Lord protect us! What am I to do? I must return immediately.”
Brann nodded his shaggy white head. “Aye. We must make haste to the village. It may already be too late.”
Fiona didn’t stop to ask what Brann meant as she made a hasty exit and sped along the path to the village. Brann was hard on her heels, moving surprisingly fast for one so old.
“Hurry, Brann,” she called over her shoulder. “I can sense them now and feel their anger reaching out to me. You are right. They want to kill me.”
Thorne had surprised the villagers at their morning chores. A dirt wall topped by a stockade of pointed logs surrounded the village, but the gate had stood open. Few villagers had had time to arm themselves, and those who did were quickly cut down by the fierce marauders. After a short battle the peasants had laid down their crude weapons and surrendered to the raiders. Few pleaded for their lives, for most expected to die. By the time Ulm, fresh from his raid upon the monastery, rejoined Thorne, there was naught left to do but plunder, rape and fire the huts.
Thorne had no appetite for rape but he could not deny his men their pleasure. He watched with distaste as a man dragged a hapless maiden behind a hut. He shut out her screams as the remaining villagers were prodded at sword-point to the village green. Thorne was on a witch hunt. He wouldn’t
rest until he found and destroyed the woman who had cast a spell upon him.
“Who is your chieftain?” Thorne barked.
A slight man of middle age stepped forward. “I am Adair.”
“You are the chieftain?”
“Aye. Kill me, Viking, but spare my people.”
“No one will die if you give me what I seek.”
Adair made a helpless gesture. “You have already stolen all that we own.”
Thorne dismissed Adair’s words with a wave of his hand. “I seek a woman. I know not her name, but she is a witch. She has hair as black as a raven’s wing, eyes a stunning violet, and the body of an enchantress.”
Thorne was surprised by the collective gasp that rose from the crowd.
Adair stared at him, apparently appalled. “There is no witch in our village.”
Thorne’s eyes narrowed as he waved Blood-drinker in the air. “You lie! I want her. Bring her to me.”
“Why? What do you want with her?”
“The witch has placed a spell upon me.” He waved his sword in the air. “Blood-drinker will slay her and free me.”
“I do not understand any of this,” Adair said slowly. “We are Christians. There are no witches in our midst. Where did you encounter this witch?”
“On your very shore,” Thorne said. “She lured me here with her siren’s song on my last voyage. ’Twas then she placed a spell on me. If you do not produce
her now, you will all be made to suffer the consequences.”
Adair knew the Viking was referring to his own beloved daughter, Fiona, for no other woman matched his description. But Fiona was no witch. She did have certain powers Adair did not understand, and he prayed that Fiona would sense her danger and remain hidden no matter what happened.
Adair hung his head. “Do to me what you will, Viking, for I know of no witch.”
Exasperated, Thorne turned to the villagers, who were clinging to one another in abject fear. “Which one of you will speak out to save your chieftain’s miserable life? Where is the witch I seek?”
Not one man, woman or child stepped forward.
Never had Thorne felt so thwarted, so helpless. These people had ample reason to fear him, yet to a man they were defending the witch. Was she so beloved that they would sacrifice their lives for her?
“You have sealed your own fate,” Thorne thundered. “One man will be slain each hour until the witch is produced, beginning with your chieftain. When all the men are slain, your widows and children will be sold into slavery.”
Thorne expected to see at least one person willing to trade information for his life and was stunned when his words were met with silent tears and quiet acceptance. Was everyone bewitched? What manner of woman earned such blind loyalty?
“You!” Thorne said, pointing Blood-drinker at Adair. “On your knees. Perhaps when these peasants
see their chieftain’s head roll, they’ll come forward.”
Adair fell to his knees and bent his head. Thorne stared down at the vulnerable place on his neck where his hair parted and felt scant liking for his task. Killing didn’t bother him; he did it in the heat of battle with relish. But slaying an unarmed man was not his way. He had expected these ignorant peasants to break long before now. Unfortunately, there was no turning back. To rescind his order now would make him look weak. Instead of delivering the killing blow himself, he lowered Blood-drinker and motioned for Ulm to take over.
Ulm moved with alacrity into the spot vacated by Thorne. He raised his sword and prepared to bring it down upon Adair’s bowed head.
Suddenly a woman darted through the parting crowd and flung herself upon the kneeling man. Her long black hair fell like a protective cape around Adair, and Thorne felt as if he’d been slammed in the chest with a battleaxe. His limbs trembled and he felt a hardness swelling his loins.