Viking (21 page)

The armies met in the tilled fields surrounding the hall. Both sides were evenly matched and well trained, and fought with all the joy and fierceness attributed to Viking warriors. Men slashed and battered one another with gleeful anticipation of a happy death. They were berserkers, loyal to their
chiefs, men who glorified war and death in song and poem.

Thorne wielded his sword with skill and courage. Many men had felt the bite of Blood-drinker this day, and all lay dead or dying. Sweat ran down his face in rivulets and drenched his body as pure exhilaration pumped through his veins. He was a true Viking, willing to die in battle for his cause and to reach Valhalla at the end of the battle if it was his destiny.

As Thorne slashed and cut his way through Rolo’s army, he kept a watchful eye on Thorolf and Aren. Though they acquitted themselves admirably, Thorne’s protective instincts were fierce. Suddenly, through a mist of sweat and blood, he saw Rolo approaching Thorolf’s back. Thorne bellowed out a warning, swiftly dispatched the man blocking his path, and raced to Thorolf’s aid. He knew instinctively he was too far away to save him.

Willing speed into his legs, pushing himself to the limit, Thorne feared that Thorolf was going to die. Rolo had raised his battleaxe, ready to deliver the killing blow. Then, to Thorne’s utter shock, Rika appeared from out of nowhere, much closer than he to Thorolf. He saw Rika cock back her arm and let her dagger fly. Her mark was true, striking Rolo in the middle of the back. The battleaxe dropped from Rolo’s hand and he spun around, his mouth open in silent horror when he saw who had thrown the dagger.

Thorolf sensed danger and whirled, his sword striking flesh and bone. When he saw Rolo writhing
on the ground at his feet, he realized just how close to death he had come. Then he saw the blade embedded in Rolo’s back and spun about, seeking his savior. When he saw Rika racing toward him, he knew it was she who had saved his life. He held out his arms and swept her up against him.

Thorne watched all this from afar. Though he was impressed by Rika’s act of selfless courage, and admired courage in either sex, he was grateful Fiona had enough sense to remain behind in camp. Thorne was so absorbed in protecting his brother that he failed to sense danger approaching him from another direction. Rolo’s lieutenant, a man who’d been with him since Rolo had become jarl, had seen his chief fall and was overcome with rage. Aiming his spear, he let it fly at Thorne.

The scene unfolded before Fiona’s eyes like a bad dream. She saw Rika race toward Thorolf, saw her dagger bite deeply into Rolo’s back, and winced when Thorolf delivered the killing blow with his sword. Rika had just flown into Thorolf’s open arms when Fiona heard Brann speaking to her over the din of battle.

Death is near, child. You must save him.

Fiona acted instinctively, even though she had yet to spot the threat to Thorne. She moved deftly around the battling men, ducking sword thrusts and stepping over fallen bodies, oblivious to danger as she hastened toward Thorne. Then, from the corner of her eye she saw the source of danger. She cringed when she saw an enemy warrior aim his
spear at an unsuspecting Thorne. She was close, so close.

Thorne saw Fiona rushing toward him at full tilt, and fear raced through him. Odin’s bones! What did she think she was doing? “Go back, Fiona!” His warning was lost in the pandemonium of battle raging around him.

Fiona screamed in rage and frustration when she saw the spear leave the enemy’s hand and speed toward Thorne. He was calling out to her but she paid his warning scant heed. There was a slim chance she could save Thorne’s life and she didn’t hesitate to act upon it. With a strength born of love, she launched herself at him. She sailed through the air and hit him squarely, knocking him flat on his back scant seconds before the spear thudded into the ground where he had been standing.

Bretta cursed long and fluently when she saw that the battle was all but lost. Rolo was either dead or dying, and the witch had somehow managed to save Thorne’s life. Soon Rolo’s men would realize the battle was lost and they would lose heart. Bretta had fought beside Rolo for a time, but had withdrawn when she recognized defeat. She was left with no recourse but to flee to the fjord as quickly as possible.

Carefully, she circled around the battlefield, edging toward the forest. But as luck would have it, she was seen by Tyra, who had been watching the battle from the sidelines. Tyra realized that Bretta was trying to escape and reacted swiftly to prevent it. Rushing headlong onto the battlefield, she
screamed Aren’s name and pointed at Bretta when she finally gained his attention.

Bretta froze. She’d been discovered! She couldn’t possibly make good her escape now. Unless … She had but a split second to make a decision. Both Garm and Aren were racing toward her to cut off her escape. Thorolf had his arms full with Rika and at the moment presented no danger. A few paces away Thorne lay on the ground, the breath knocked out of him and Fiona sprawled atop him. Bretta ripped her dagger from her sheath and leaped with the agility of a cat toward Thorne and Fiona.

Fiona was beginning to stir from atop Thorne. When she had thrown herself at Thorne, the impact had knocked the helm from her head, dazing her. She was still groggy when Bretta leaped at her, grasping a handful of her hair and hauling her to her feet. Fiona’s eyes widened with surprise when she felt the prick of a dagger against the tender flesh of her throat.

“Move away from Thorne,” Bretta hissed into her ear.

Fiona obeyed. The Viking woman was stronger than she. Bretta was also cornered and desperate, and Fiona knew she wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

“What do you hope to gain by this?” Fiona asked with forced calmness.

“Freedom. A dragon ship awaits me at the fjord. You’re going to help me get there. Thorne is besotted with you. He’ll do nothing to endanger your life.”

Thorne vaulted to his feet, seeing nothing beyond the dagger Bretta held to Fiona’s throat. It had all happened so fast he’d not realized what had transpired until he felt Fiona’s weight leave him and saw Bretta pressing a knife to Fiona’s neck. He stood very still, watching Bretta, fearing to move lest she thrust the dagger into Fiona’s throat.

“Let her go, Bretta,” Thorne said in a voice filled with menace. “ ’Tis me you want, not Fiona.”

“Fiona is my protection,” Bretta contended. “I knew you’d deal harshly with me so I made prior arrangements to leave should the battle turn against us. A dragon ship is provisioned, manned and waiting for me at the fjord. I’m taking Fiona with me. She’s my guarantee of safe passage.”

“Let Fiona go and I’ll grant you safe passage,” Thorne offered.

“Nay. The witch stays with me. She’s been my nemesis since the day we met.” She dragged Fiona toward the fjord, the dagger pressed to her throat.

“Will you release Fiona when you reach the fjord?” Thorne called after her.

“Perhaps,” Bretta said slyly. “Do not attempt to follow. If I see you behind me I’ll plunge the dagger home and kill the witch.”

Bretta was gaining ground as she spoke, dragging Fiona with her. When she disappeared amid the trees in the forest, Garm, Aren and Thorolf started forward. Thorne stopped them with a single word.

“Nay! Bretta is a desperate and dangerous woman. She’ll not hesitate to kill Fiona if we follow
too closely. I’m going after her alone. Stay here and tend to the battle.”

“The battle is all but won,” Thorolf said. “Rolo is dead and his army will soon join him in Valhalla. Victory is ours.”

Thorne’s attention was focused on the place where Fiona and Bretta had disappeared into the forest. He heard little of what Thorolf said. Never had he felt so helpless. Intuitively he knew that once Fiona boarded Bretta’s dragon ship he’d never see her again. His own dragon ship was anchored nearby, but it was neither provisioned nor ready to sail.

“I’m going after them,” he said with grim determination. “No one is going to take Fiona from me.”

Fiona’s fierce struggle to escape Bretta gained her naught but a sore neck. The Viking woman was literally dragging her along the forest path, and all Fiona could do was move her feet in an effort to remain upright. She knew that once she faltered Bretta would kill her.

“Hurry,” Bretta urged as she pricked the dagger deeper into Fiona’s neck to emphasize her words. “Your lover is not a patient man. Doubtless he’s already hard on our heels.”

“Let me go,” Fiona pleaded. “Thorne will let you leave in peace if you spare me.”

Bretta’s harsh laughter was bitter with resentment. “You don’t know Thorne the Relentless if you think that. He will neither forget nor forgive.”

The path they followed was a well-trod one, used
frequently by those in Rolo’s household as well as by travelers. It led directly to the fjord and the place where Bretta’s dragon ship was moored.

Fiona’s neck was streaming blood from numerous small cuts by the time they reached the fjord. Fiona saw the shallow draft vessel rocking gently in the surf and her heart pounded with fear. She knew that once she stepped aboard her life was forfeit.

The sailors Bretta had hired saw them and flew into action. A rope ladder was lowered into the knee-deep water and one man scurried down to hold it in place.

Bretta forced Fiona into the icy water. “Climb the ladder,” she ordered.

“Nay! You no longer need me. I have served my purpose. Go while you still can.”

Bretta recognized the wisdom of Fiona’s words. “Aye, I no longer need you,” she agreed. “Neither does Thorne.”

Thorne burst through the forest just as Bretta raised her dagger to bring it down into Fiona’s heart.

“Naaaay!” The wail of protest ripped from his throat in a heartrending cry of raw agony.

His cry distracted Bretta for the space of a heartbeat, time enough for Fiona to take advantage of the lapse. As Bretta swung the dagger upward and paused, the arm around Fiona’s neck relaxed. A sudden twist and Fiona was free, and in that split second she ducked away and threw herself into the dark, icy water.

The bitter cold stunned her, but helped to keep her calm. She dove deep, heading away from the ship, remaining under water until she thought her lungs would burst. When she finally broke surface and dragged in a sustaining breath, she saw Bretta scurrying up the ladder. A moment later the sails were unfurled and the ship bearing Bretta slid away from the shore. Oars came out, helping the ship along as the tide took it toward the open sea. Then Fiona’s heavy mail pulled her beneath the surface and she saw her life racing before her eyes.

Thorne reached the shore in a frenzy of panic. His gaze skimmed the blue-black water, searching for his love. The water was so cold he doubted anyone could live long in the freezing surf. Then he saw her, bobbing up to the surface a brief moment before being dragged down again by the weight of her mail. He had torn off his own mail and tossed aside his weapons as he raced toward the bank. He wore naught but his tunic and padded vest when he launched himself into the water and swam toward the place where he’d last seen Fiona.

Let her live,
Thorne chanted over and over, pleading with his gods for her life as his strong strokes carried him through the freezing surf. Thorne was frantic with worry when Fiona did not rise to the surface again. Fearing his own gods had forsaken him, he sent a fervent plea to Fiona’s Christian God, promising to become a Christian if He would but spare her life.

Chapter Twenty

Fiona sank like a rock, caught in the current and buffeted about like a grain of sand. She was cold. So very cold. The need to breathe, which had been so urgent just moments ago, no longer seemed crucial as her heartbeat slowed and nearly halted. She knew death was at hand and was surprised she did not sense the ominous presence of the dark spirit hovering over her.

Fiona didn’t feel as if she were dying. But for the bone-numbing cold, she felt nothing at all. She knew she should try to save herself, and it suddenly occurred to her that she should remove her mail. The struggle hardly seemed worth the effort as she wrestled with the heavy wire-link shirt. And then she thought of Thorne and how desperately she wanted to stay with him. She struggled harder, so
near to unconsciousness her numb hands and fingers simply refused to work. Suddenly she heard a soothing voice.

’Tis not your time, child.

Then hands she couldn’t see were lifting the mail from her and she began to float upward through the dark, murky water toward light.

Thorne couldn’t find her. She’d been under water so long he feared she was dead already. He plunged down into the murky depths again and again, until the cold numbed his reflexes and sapped his strength, yet still he refused to give up.

Then miraculously he felt silken strands of hair curling around his hand. Fiona’s hair. Grasping a handful, he swam upward until her head popped to the surface. She appeared not to be breathing. Somehow, he knew not how, she had found the strength to remove her mail. It had saved her life, for he never would have found her had she remained on the bottom of the fjord.

Fiona suddenly felt warmth, sensed sunlight on her face, but could not summon the strength to suck in that vital first breath of life-giving air. She was in limbo, aware of her surroundings but unable to respond.

“Is she alive?” Thorolf asked anxiously.

“Nay, she’s dead,” Garm said, firmly convinced that the wan creature dragged from the fjord was no longer living.

Thorne was not ready to accept defeat. Someone
handed him a fur cloak and he wrapped Fiona in it, then lifted her so she was half reclining in his arms. Without thinking he began thumping on her back, willing her to respond. Then astonishingly she did. Fiona gasped and stirred in his arms.

“She lives!” Thorne rejoiced. “Thank the Christian God for giving her back to me.”

“ ’Tis impossible, she was under too long,” Garm said in disbelief.

Fiona turned her head aside and spewed forth a great gush of water. Then she coughed and opened her eyes. She saw Thorne looking down at her with love and concern and gave him a shaky smile.

“What happened?”

“You almost drowned,” Thorne explained. “You need a warm hearth and something hot to drink. I almost lost you. ’Tis a miracle. How did you remove your mail by yourself?”

“Aye, a miracle. I didn’t remove my mail,” Fiona said. Her words made no sense to Thorne. Before he could question her further, she said, “Help me to stand.”

“Fiona, I don’t think …”

“I can still see Bretta’s ship, Thorne.” Her eyes had a wild, glazed look to them. “There is something I have to do. Please.”

Reluctantly Thorne helped her to her feet. She hugged the cloak around her and took a few shaky steps to the water’s edge. Thorne started to protest but thought better of it. She appeared determined to see this to the end, whatever it was. He stood close behind her, ready to come to her aid should
she require it. He was stunned when Fiona tossed aside the cloak, raised her arms heavenward and spoke.

“Lightning, thunder, rain and wind. Raging seas and violent storms. Descend upon those who disobey God’s laws.”

Thorne stared at Fiona in fear and awe. It sounded to him as though she’d placed a curse upon Bretta. How could that be? She’d denied repeatedly the charge that she was a witch. No one but a witch or a wizard could implore the elements to call forth storms. Fiona was a Christian. Was she more than that? He knew she was learned in the old ways of her people as well as her own Christian religion. And though she had special powers, he knew she would never use them for evil.

“What just happened?” Thorolf asked with a hint of fear.

“Naught. Fiona is overwrought and near exhaustion. She needs rest, warmth and nourishment. Return to the battlefield. I’ll take care of Fiona.”

Garm, Thorolf and the few men who had followed reluctantly retraced their steps back to the field of combat as Thorne retrieved the cloak from the ground and wrapped it around Fiona’s shoulders. Fiona felt his warmth behind her and relaxed against him, suddenly too drained to move. Her knees started to buckle and he scooped her up into his arms.

“Are you all right?”

She looked at him in confusion. “Aye. What happened?”

Thorne went still. “Don’t you know?”

“I know I nearly drowned and you saved me. How did you get my mail off without me knowing it?”

Now Thorne was truly puzzled. “I didn’t remove your mail. I thought you did.”

Fiona was tired, so very tired. “If I did, I don’t recall. It just seemed to … float away. It was all so strange. I was certain I was going to die, but after a time I no longer felt the need to breathe. I could have sworn someone told me it wasn’t my time to die.”

“You’re tired and confused,” Thorne said, not knowing what to make of her strange words. “Do you remember what happened later, after I dragged you out of the water?”

She shook her head, her violet eyes wide and questioning, her brow furrowed in concentration. At length she said, “I remember naught. It seems as though I opened my eyes but moments ago and found myself in your arms. Did something of consequence happen?”

“Nay, naught that matters.” If she didn’t remember, he wasn’t going to tell her. Better that she forget her odd behavior and the words that had sounded very much like a curse. Fortunately, he’d been the only one near enough to hear. Garm and Thorolf had been suspicious but hadn’t the slightest notion what had transpired.

Fiona rested against Thorne, wrapped warmly in his arms as he carried her back through the forest toward the house. The sounds of fighting had ceased as they approached the battlefield. Bodies
littered the tilled field; some were dead, others merely wounded. Rolo still lay where he had fallen, a pool of congealed blood beneath his stiffening body. Those of his men who had survived were limping away into the forest. The joyous victors were already celebrating by breaking open Rolo’s best ale and wine.

Thorne carried Fiona into the house. Rika and Tyra followed close behind, wringing their hands and looking worried. Thorne set Fiona down on a bench close to the hearth and piled more wood on the fire. When he shouted for hot wine, a slave hurried to obey.

After a time, warmth and wine restored Fiona and she threw off the fur cloak so the fire could dry her wet clothing.

“Perhaps Bretta left some clothing you could change into,” Rika suggested. “Shall I go see?”

“I will wear naught that belonged to Bretta,” Fiona declared.

“Fiona will have new clothes fit for a queen as soon as she’s able to sort through the bolts of cloth I have stored aboard my ship, or those Rolo kept here in the house.”

Shortly thereafter, Thorolf, Garm and Aren entered the hall. “The dead have been dispatched to Valhalla,” Garm said. “I will carry my own dead home for a proper sendoff by their families.”

“Is all well with Fiona?” Thorolf asked.

“Fiona will recover,” Thorne said. “Do you intend to return to your hall?”

“I’m going to accompany Garm and Rika to Bergen,”
Thorolf revealed. “We will return after we are wed.”

“We should decide upon the disposal of Rolo’s land,” Thorne said.

“ ’Tis yours if you want it,” Garm offered.

“Nay. I have new land awaiting me on the Isle of Man.”

“Since the land adjoins Thorolf’s,” Garm mused thoughtfully, “ ’tis his to keep. Consider it part of Rika’s dowry. The rest of her dowry is most likely stashed somewhere in the house.”

“We will find it,” Thorolf assured him.

“Let me know when you are ready to travel as I am anxious to return home. Garda will worry if I fail to return in a reasonable time.”

Garm took his leave and Thorolf and Rika went off in search of her valuables. Only Aren and Tyra remained in the hall with Fiona and Thorne.

“What about you, Aren? Will you remain or take your chances with me and Fiona on Man?”

“I am for Man,” Aren declared. “I have no land of my own and welcome the opportunity to become a landowner. Tyra is of the same mind.”

“ ’Tis settled then. We will sail as soon as my ships are provisioned and manned. Most of my men are landless and have expressed their eagerness to sail with me and settle on their own land. Those with families can return for them later if the land pleases them.”

“Everything is intact,” Rika exclaimed happily as she bounced into the hall with Thorolf in tow. “I found my jewelry, linens and everything else I
brought with me stored in chests in Rolo’s room.”

Suddenly one of the slaves ventured forth and dropped to her knees before Fiona. “Mistress, if you please,” she said timidly. “You remember me, I am Erica. Mista has been gravely hurt and needs attention. Would you look at her?”

“Who hurt her?” Thorne demanded.

“Rolo beat her most severely, master. We all received beatings but none as brutal as Mista. ’Twas she who came to you in the night and told you where to find Fiona.”

“I will see her,” Fiona said.

She turned to Thorne. “Would you send someone to Garm’s camp to fetch my pouch of herbs?”

“I will go myself,” Thorne said, rising. “There are personal items I wish to collect before Garm departs.”

Fiona returned her attention to the thrall. “Where is Mista?”

“I am here, mistress.” A small, battered woman stepped forth.

Fiona saw Mista and blanched, appalled by the woman’s pitiful condition. Her right arm was swollen to twice its size. Apparently it had been broken and left to heal without proper care. The bones had not healed properly and infection had set in. Her face was flushed with fever and she appeared to be in considerable pain.

“Erica, help Mista into Bretta’s bedchamber,” Fiona ordered briskly. “Ill need lots of boiling water, clean rags and a sharp knife. The arm needs to be lanced and the poison drained.”

Fiona set to work the moment Mista was settled, using all the skill and knowledge of healing that Brann had taught her. Unless Mista’s body was purged of infection, she would die.

Fiona had done all she could for Mista. It was very late, and Erica had come to sit with Mista so Fiona could get some rest. Thorne waited for her in the hall.

“Come have something to eat,” he urged. “You’ve been through so much today.”

“I’m not hungry, truly, just tired.”

Before she realized what he was about, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into Rolo’s bedchamber. “Rolo won’t be using this anymore,” Thorne said as he lowered her onto the bed of furs and followed her down. “Have I told you how truly amazing you are?”

“I am no different from any other woman.”

Slowly and with loving care he began to undress her. “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever known.”

“Do you still think I’m a witch?”

“I think of you as the woman I love. Brann was right. Destiny created us for one another. Go to sleep, my love. You’ve earned it.”

During the night a fierce storm blew in from the sea. A storm the likes of which hadn’t been seen in Thorne’s time. The wind howled, uprooting trees and shattering buildings not sturdy enough to withstand the raging gale. Thunder rattled the house and lightning created fireworks in the sky. Then came the rains. Solid, wind-driven sheets pounding
into the earth. By morning the storm had moved on, leaving grim reminders of its fierce passage.

Fortunately, Thorne’s flagship and two others had ridden out the storm in good shape. The other two had broken from their moorings and were smashed to pieces against the rocky shore. The next day Thorne began to provision his surviving ships and to recruit his crew for their imminent voyage to Man.

To Fiona’s delight, Mista’s fever broke two days later and her arm showed encouraging signs of healing. Garm and Thorolf broke camp that morning and after a lengthy farewell, left for Bergen. That same day Bretta’s dragon ship mysteriously washed ashore. Its masts had snapped and its red and white striped sails were in tatters. Thorne and Aren were working aboard
Odin’s Raven
when it appeared out of a thick mist. They quickly abandoned their task and climbed aboard. They hadn’t expected a ghost ship, but that was exactly what they found.

There were no signs of life anywhere on the ship. Proof that it had been battered by the recent storm was visible in the wreckage they found aboard. Apparently the occupants had been swept overboard and lost. Thorne wanted to believe Fiona had had nothing to do with the misfortune, but his heart and mind told him otherwise. Even though she might not recall doing so, Thorne was convinced that Fiona had placed a curse upon Bretta.

“What do you think happened?” Aren asked curiously.

“No ship at sea could survive a storm as furious as the one that blew in two nights ago,” Thorne said. “ ’Tis a sad but fitting end for Bretta. She tried to destroy everything I loved and earned God’s wrath.” He felt a sudden need to see Fiona’s sweet face. To hold her next to her heart. To tell her he loved her. He didn’t bother to explain his need to Aren as he made a hasty retreat.

Fiona didn’t need to be told about Bretta’s demise. She’d been sorting through bolts of cloth she’d found in the house and was selecting those she liked to make into new tunics for herself and Thorne when a vision appeared.

At first she
saw
nothing but darkness. Black, suffocating darkness. She fought for breath. She felt as though she were reliving her recent near-death experience. Suddenly the veil of darkness lifted and she was allowed a peek into a dazzling light. She saw herself standing on the floor of the sea. Water surrounded her but she had no trouble breathing. Then the limp figure of a woman floated aimlessly along toward her, her eyes wide and sightless. It was Bretta, tangled in a mass of weeds and flotsam, tendrils of long blonde hair drifting around her in the eerie silence.