Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05]

by The Blue Viking

  He was a despicable man, Duncan was. A nithing … totally devoid of honor. Rurik swore an oath to himself to make the man pay one day, not just for the continuing threat against the Campbells, but especially for putting Maire in a cage and attempting to force her into a marriage that everyone knew would lead to her eventual death.

  The MacNabs continued to laugh and make jests over Rurik’s threat of spirits overtaking their keep if they did not desist in their threats against the Campbells.

  They weren’t laughing for long. Soon, terrified soldiers who manned the ramparts and courtyard began to rush in with reports of dozens of ghosts flying about the MacNab castle.

  Dozens? Rurik thought. God Bless Toste and Vagn, and their ingenuity.

  Duncan and his men laughed about the ghost sightings, as well, till the numbers grew alarming, and the spirits’ warning of an evil spell placed on all MacNab men started to ring true.

  “What kind of spell?” Duncan demanded of Rurik, ice in his voice and his one hand on the hilt of a dagger that had been lying on the table.

  Rurik shrugged and tried to appear casual as he replied, “Oh, something to do with … let me see, how did Maire word the spell… ‘Every time a MacNab man harms a Campbell, in word or deed, his cock shall shrink … till his manhood is no more … and the MacNab line dies out.’ ”

  Duncan made a grunting sound of disbelief. Still, he glanced down at the joining of his thighs, as did every other male in the great hall.

  Maire had been right when she’d advised him not to offer threats … that men, including the MacNabs, would go into battle without a thought when their lives were in the balance, but when it was their precious male parts, that was another story altogether. That’s why his men and hers had been so willing to accept the lies-linked-with-shriveling-cocks nonsense.

  “I cannot credit Maire using the word cock in one of her ludicrous spells,” Duncan replied. “Despite her claims of being a witch, she is a high-born lady. Cock is a man-word … crude and unseemly for a woman of her station to use.”

  Rurik made a moue with his mouth that translated to, “Who can say what women will do?” Then he added, aloud, accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows, “Mayhap the lady has changed.”

  “What kind of game do ye play here, Viking?” Duncan yelled, standing with bull-like rage. “Maire Campbell is a notoriously inept witch. None of her spells ever worked, according to my brother, Kenneth. Why should we believe ye now?”

  As if to belie Duncan’s protests, more men, and several women, ran into the hall complaining of new ghostly visits. One of the ghosts had been waving what resembled a penis and testicles, which the ghost claimed had fallen off a MacNab villein stationed at the edge of Campbell lands.

  Rurik, who remained sitting, sipping a cup of ale, stifled a grin. Old John had been responsible for that last-minute inspiration, handing Toste a dead ram’s male parts, wrapped in a cloth. Good thing Duncan’s man hadn’t looked too closely at the hideous thing. He didn’t know about Scotsmen, but Viking male parts were much more beauteous than that.

  “Where is she?” Duncan bellowed. “How do we get her to remove the spell?” Rurik suspected that Duncan didn’t really believe, but he was fearful of taking chances.

  Rurik shrugged. “I cannot be certain where she is at the moment… ofttimes she flies off during the night, no doubt to visit with her coven or gather more familiars. Those black cats are hard to keep about… the animal sacrifices, you know.” Maire would kill him if she heard him speak of covens or familiars, and especially sacrificial rites. “Or mayhap she is dancing naked in the woods with her sister witches.” Yea, Maire would swat him good if she heard of this.

  Duncan made a growling sound of impatience and drew his one-brow low over his eyes. “Get to it, man.”

  “Well, I do know that she goes to the witch’s cairn in Devil’s Gorge every morn, just after dawn.”

  “Devil’s Gorge?” he snorted.

  Rurik nodded. “Yea, that narrow valley between Beinne Breagha and Beinne Gorm, which is so named because of its treacherous landscape in the wintertime. Maire goes there daily … something to do with renewing her powers and balancing herself… the kind of foolishness she is always spouting. But methinks ’twould be a bad idea for you to go there …” He let his words trail off deliberately, as if he’d revealed something he ought not to … like the fact that Maire would be alone, in a vulnerable spot. “Yea, ’twould be much better if you approach Maire in her own keep. I’m sure she would be willing to accept an offer of peace from you there.”

  Duncan said nothing, and Rurik knew he had no intention of making any concessions. Rurik would bet a king’s treasure that the MacNabs would be going to Devil’s Gorge, and they would be there, down in that valley, long before dawn.

  Just as he had planned.

  Late the next morning, Devil’s Gorge …

  Rurik and his men, with what was left of the Campbell clan, withdrew for a short respite. ’Twas time to assess their losses and prospects.

  The prognosis was not good.

  Swiping a forearm across his sweaty brow, with chest heaving for breath, Rurik glanced over at Stigand, whose skin remained as dry as old leather and whose breathing was normal, though he’d worked twice as hard as Rurik. “How bad?” he inquired.

  “Not so many deaths … just Young John, Rob the Mutterer, one of the shepherds, and the stable lad. But injuries aplenty.” Scanning the “battlefield,” he pointed to the larger number of MacNab deaths and casualties. “They have lost fifteen men, or more, and they have a like number of seriously wounded.”

  Their plan had fallen into place as if ordained by the gods. Once the MacNabs were far into the gorge, the boys had done their work with the sling shots to distract the men. Then the archers had gone into play, followed by hand-to-hand combat with sword and lance … not to mention Stigand’s famous battle-ax, Blood-Lover.

  Even the deadly snakes had been brought forth again to scare the nervous war horses. Rurik didn’t want to think about where such a large number of vipers were kept hidden in this misbegotten land. Vagn had been heard commenting to Toste, on first seeing Old John bring the snakes forward, that he was never again going to sit on a privy seat with ease, or take a stroll in a dark wood, let alone make love with a wanton maid on a grassy moor. Bolthor had promised to develop a saga about it… if they survived.

  But alas, all their efforts, successful as they’d been, had not been enough.

  “Despite it all, we did good, didn’t we?” Rurik asked Stigand now, though he already knew the answer.

  “Yea, we did. These Scots are a tough breed, I’ll give them that.”

  “It was a good plan, Rurik,” Bolthor interjected from Rurik’s other side. “Everyone worked together, even the young ones with slingshots in the trees. But the numbers were against us from the start.”

  “Well, it appears as if all of us will be drinking mead this day in Valhalla,” Rurik told his comrades, who nodded. Not a tear was there in any of their eyes. Death was a fate every Viking expected because of his violent life. All of the men joined their right hands together in one communal fist and raised it high in the air, shouting “To Thor!”

  Rurik’s men went off to give directions to the Campbell clansmen who remained … directions for the final segment of this battle. No doubt, most of them would be going to their deaths this day, but they would be going down with dignity … and they would be taking a considerable number of MacNabs with them.

  Off in the distance, the MacNabs, red hair shining in the sunlight, could already be seen assembling for the final clash, which would settle the fate of the Campbells once and for all. Rurik sighed audibly. He was only sorry that he had been unable to be the champion Maire sought… her knight in shining armor.

  Well, Rurik had one last task before he entered the fray. Turning, he motioned Maire forth. She had been standing far back, up behind some boulders, where he had ordered her to stay. He would have much preferr
ed that she remain in the keep, but she had refused, knowing her son was out here.

  “Is there no hope then?” she asked worriedly, rushing into his arms. He tried to hold her at arm’s length, not wanting to soil her with the blood that stained his garments, but she would have none of that.

  He drew off his leather helmet with its nose guard and kissed her softly, probably for the last time. “Not unless there is a miracle, and I see no sign of that.”

  “What will happen now?”

  “I want you to gather all the children and young boys. Go back to your castle and assemble only the essentials. Waste no time, Maire … do you hear me? It’s important that you not be there when Duncan arrives.”

  “When … when Duncan arrives?” she stammered, terror in her green eyes.

  The implications of this lost battle had still not seeped into Maire’s brain. Perhaps that was for the best. But she must obey his orders nonetheless.

  “Take every horse, mule, or means of transport and leave the Highlands immediately. Head toward the borders. With luck, you will run into Jostein and Eirik and his troops along the way. But, if you do not, head directly for Ravenshire in Northumbria. You will be given refuge there.”

  Tears were streaming down Maire’s face. But Rurik hardened himself not to notice. It was critical that she obey him immediately.

  “Is there naught that could save the day?” she asked on a sob.

  He shook his head. “Only the sight of a hundred or so warriors on the horizon, riding fierce destriers, swords aready, under the raven banner.”

  Wistfully, they both turned to the south where a long plateau was visible above the ravine. Then they both gasped.

  “Holy Thor!”

  “Holy Mother of God!”

  It was not a troop of soldiers.

  There were no war horses, or weapons glinting in the sun.

  And there was no sign of the raven … though there did seem to be crows … lots of crows.

  “What… is … that?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Have you been praying?”

  “Of course I’ve been praying,” she snapped. “Why?”

  “Well, it appears as if a plague of crows has come to overtake the battlefield. Like in your Christian Bible.”

  “I hardly think crows are the same as locusts,” she replied dryly. “And you hardly resemble Moses … or how I imagine Moses would look.”

  “Those aren’t crows,” Toste said, hurrying up to join them. “They’re witches.”

  “Witches!” they all exclaimed. Bolthor, Stigand, Vagn, Old John, Murdoc, Callum, and several others had joined their incredulous group.

  Narrowing their eyes, they peered at the horizon as the figures got larger and larger. Sure enough, they were witches … in every shape and size. All in black. Straggly gray hair predominated, but there were younger witches, as well… some of them were even comely. Toste and Vagn were already taking note of those, he could tell. Crystal amulets glinted in the sun. Many carried gnarled staffs to perform their magic; some held brooms in their hands… whether to fly away, or whisk clean the battlefield, Rurik couldn’t begin to guess. And there was a herd of black cats, as well.

  “St. Columba’s Chin! I do not know for sure, but I swear those are all the witches in Scotland,” Old John declared with amazement.

  Everyone turned to Maire.

  “Wh-what? Why is everyone gawking at me? It’s not my doing.”

  “Did you cast a spell for this?” Rurik asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “Well, not exactly,” she replied. “I did perform a ritual several nights ago… remember all the candles?”

  He nodded.

  “But I did not ask for this,” she said, sweeping an arm out to encompass the horde of witches. “All I asked was that Cailleach come back. One witch. That’s all.”

  Rurik groaned. Another of Maire’s spells gone awry. But he could not be angry with her now. Mayhap she had inadvertently handed them the means to victory.

  “Cailleach?” Stigand inquired. And what a comical picture he made, standing with a bloody long-handled ax in one hand, a bloody sword in the other, war braids sticking out in disarray, and a dumbfounded look on his face.

  “That’s Maire’s mentor witch.”

  “Which one would that be?” Bolthor wanted to know, scanning the advancing crowd of screeching witches.

  “How the hell would I know?” Rurik snapped.

  Everyone glanced at Maire again.

  She shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know. They all look the same from here.”

  Rurik could already see the dreamy verse-mood expression passing over Bolthor’s face. It said, silently, though loud and clear just the same, “Saga coming.”

  If Rurik and his men were staring, gape-mouthed with astonishment, the MacNabs were frozen in place, no doubt wetting their braies with fright. Then they attempted to flee for their lives.

  At a quick signal from Rurik, he and his men moved forward in an aggressive assault. In a matter of minutes, the MacNabs were pinned in by Vikings and Campbells on one side and witches on the other. With much cursing and some struggling, but only one more death, the MacNab clan soon surrendered.

  Maire looked at Rurik then.

  And he looked at her.

  They both smiled.

  He had told her just a short time ago that the only thing that could save the day was a miracle. It was a miracle.

  It was over.

  Finally.

  All of it.

  And no one was happier than Rurik, who sat alone an hour later on a boulder contemplating the empty, bloodstained battlefield, which had earned its name this day … Devil’s Gorge. Well, empty except for the lone body of the MacNab, which he’d ordered left behind, exposed to the vultures and animals of prey to feed on… a most appropriate end for the vermin he had been. Soon Rurik would travel to the loch on the other side of the knoll and wash off the red weapon-dew soaking his tunic and braies. And he would clean his sword, which still carried the life fluids of his prime enemy of the day—Duncan MacNab.

  Duncan was by now prowling the depths of the earth on his nine-day journey to the lowest level of all the nine worlds, Niflheim, Land of the Dead. Ruled by Hel, Queen of the Dead, Niflheim was said to be a gloomy place of ice, snow, and eternal darkness. Surely a perfect place for the evil Duncan to pay for all his misdeeds.

  Or perchance he was strolling through the fires of the Christian hell, with Satan’s pitchfork poking his seared skin.

  Rurik shrugged with indifference. Either way Duncan was now paying for his mortal sins … just as the miscreant had paid with his life under Rurik’s wrath.

  And pay Duncan had … with his life, in the heat of battle, engaged in one-on-one combat with Rurik… which was as it should have been.

  Rurik had known Duncan was a nithing, a less-than-nothing of a man, when he had first viewed Maire hanging in a cage above her ramparts. True men did not attack women in such a way. His opinion had been reinforced when he’d learned how Duncan intended to force Maire into marriage and a presumed early death after that. Even his needless torture and killing of dumb animals had been an indication of Duncan’s tainted personality.

  So, from the beginning, Rurik had decided that he himself would inflict punishment on the evil villain. When Old John had tentatively broached the possibility of mercy for the old laird, Rurik hadn’t hesitated in his refusal. That kind of man would never give up. He would come back with a vengeance greater than before.

  Therefore it had been Rurik who stepped forward to challenge the MacNab in that final battle, and they’d both known it was a fight to the death. Thank the gods, Rurik had been the victor.

  To Duncan’s credit, he had not pleaded for mercy or screamed in agony when the Raven came to take him to the Other Side. A groan at the final thrust of Rurik’s blade and the clenching of his fists had been his only concession to what he had to have known was impending doom, then a stiffening of his body b
efore the final death tremors had overtaken him.

  Punishment to the remaining MacNabs had followed soon after. Two dozen of the fiercest soldiers, all red-haired, had been dispatched to a secure holding barn on Maire’s estate. On the morrow, they would be escorted on the long trek to Jorvik in Britain, where they would be sent as slave gifts on long-ships to King Olaf of Norway. ’Twas not the worst fate. If these men were good workers, they could secure their freedom in time, and even return to the Highlands, if that was their choice, though many slaves grew to like the Viking way of life, and took blond-haired Norse women to wife.

  Finally, Rurik had made a tentative pact with Douglas MacNab, a twenty-year-old nephew of Duncan … already the father of three young daughters. Douglas was also red-haired, and something about all this red hair was starting to trouble Rurik, though he could not fathom why. He’d put that puzzle aside for the time being. The final terms would have to be decided by Maire, but Douglas appeared willing to live in peace with the Campbells and make reparations for years of abuse.

  So, all is settled, Rurik thought now as he pondered the empty battlefield. My mission here is done.

  His blue mark could be removed, even as soon as tonight, with the help of the other witches. Surely, one of them would know how.

  What then?

  Ah, that was the question, and also the reason why Rurik sat staring dolefully at the scene that should be filling him with triumph. He should be off celebrating, filled with glee. Instead, a crushing weight pressed down on him. And deep down, he sensed the reason why.

  Now that his work was completed here in Scotland, he had a wedding to attend.

  And it was not to Maire.

  Not that he wanted to marry Maire.

  Really.

  Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t.

  And he didn’t want to.

  Really.

  Why, then, did it feel as if a fist had reached inside his chest and was squeezing his heart?

  Why, then, did he keep recalling her words to him yestereve, “I love you”?