by Cathy MacRae
Patrick watched the viscous black fluid drop ominously from Ormarr’s side to the glistening floor. The puddle enlarging at his feet bespoke the fate before him.
“Even I, a shoemaker, know ye are sorely injured,” Patrick murmured. “Is it true ye arenae the cruel beast Harald claimed?”
“In the beginning of time, not long after I hatched, I earned the name Ormarr the Terrible. I was bigger, stronger, faster and more dangerous than any mere human. I disdained that which could not threaten me. There was no compassion in me, and I ruled as I chose.
“It took a few centuries to learn nurturing over destruction, honor over pride. But there is none alive today who remembers the reality of my predations.”
“And none who remember Vikings beyond someone else’s curse—thanks to Ormarr,” Laila added. “He has kept them from our shores for nearly sixty years.”
“Och,” Ormarr rumbled. “Their ships supplied the wealth ye see before ye. And the hunt was enjoyable,” he added, a flash of happy memory in his eyes.
Patrick drew a deep breath. “I believe ye both. But if we dinnae hurry, Harald will send someone in my place. If we stay here, we are trapped.”
“Aye,” Laila agreed sadly. “But Ormarr cannae carry us away. If he shifts, he may be able to heal. But rescuing me from the crowd cost him dearly, and I dinnae think he has the strength to change again.” Her face full of devastation, she placed a hand gently on Ormarr’s shoulder.
“I have lost too much blood, daughter.” Ormarr smiled broadly. “I have wished to name ye daughter for many years. It does my heart good to say it now.”
Patrick’s heart filled to overflowing. If I’d lived, I would have searched the whole world for a lass as brave and caring as Laila. Clearing the lump in his throat of all the things that could never be, he summoned their attention.
“I think I have a plan.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laila didn’t take more than a moment or two to consider Patrick’s sincerity. On the one hand, time was critical, and if someone had a plan for them to escape the fire, even her deeply ingrained sense of caution wouldn’t stand in her way. On the other hand, something in her heart told her Patrick was entirely trustworthy. She could feel the strength of his desire to do everything in his power to right wrongs and protect those who could not help themselves.
I never knew there were men like ye, Patrick. Yer kindness and strength of character will be the way I measure all others. What a shame ye are a ghost. She steadied her heart.
“Tell me yer plan.”
They helped Ormarr finish dressing, warm clothing to stave off the chill in the cave for as long as possible. It touched Laila that Patrick had wanted to take Ormarr with them, but the auld dragon remained stubborn, and in the end, they had agreed to leave him behind.
Ormarr shooed them with a wave. “Go. Away with both of ye.” His dark amber gaze froze Patrick in his tracks. “Protect her. Take her far from here and see to it she never has to worry about men like Harald and his ilk again.”
“How can I? I’m a—”
Laila jabbed her elbow into his side, halting his words. “We will be fine, Ormarr.” Her eyes blurred. It hurt unbearably to leave him alone. “How will we know … ? This is good-bye, isn’t it?” She dropped to her knees on the cold stone and folded herself gently against Ormarr, careful not to jar his arm. But his muscles tightened and he sucked in a sudden breath at her touch. Laila scrambled to her feet.
“I’m sorry, Ormarr. I wish things could be different.” Her eyes met his, reading the wealth of sorrow in the warm golden depths.
“As do I, lass. I left ye once so ye could have a better life. I wasnae certain it was the right thing to do.” He gave a nod to Patrick. “This time I am.”
She wouldn’t tell Ormarr the truth. ’Twas better he did not know there was no future for herself and Patrick, even had she desired it. Did she? She hazarded a quick glance at the man beside her. Built with long, lean lines, his muscles were gentle and trim. His face was rather plain, but his smile lit his beautiful eyes and cast a brilliance to his features that went straight to her heart. And she already knew what his heart was like. Contentment of a gentle summer rain. Purity of fresh-fallen snow. Simplicity and kindness and loyalty.
And he was a ghost.
* * *
Patrick jerked as Laila’s elbow made painful contact with his ribs. He narrowed his gaze at her, trying to discover if she’d done it a-purpose, to keep him from telling Ormarr he was a ghost. She did not glance at him, but moved to Ormarr’s side as they said their good-byes.
Patrick sniffed, then jammed his hands into his coat pockets, embarrassed by the sudden sting of tears. “We should go, Laila. The longer we wait, the more likely we will meet with Harald or his men.”
“Aye. ’Twill take time to screw their courage to coming here, but Harald doesnae like to lose, and he lost rather spectacularly last night.” She reached into the small selection of clothing Ormarr kept in a wooden chest and retrieved a heavy cloak. “Thank you,” she said to Ormarr. “I hope to be like you one day.”
“Ye have my strength, but ye willnae have my shape, daughter. Ye are fully human.”
Laila’s laugh was more of a sigh. “I wish to have yer sense of honor, the wisdom ye have shared with me. And I will always remember the laughter, Father.” She hazarded a twisted smile. “’Tis a relief to know I willnae sprout wings and fly.”
Ormarr inhaled, prelude to words, but sighed heavily, apparently discarding what he’d intended to say. He waved a hand over the room. “Take a few pieces of the hoard with ye. Something that can be traded for food and supplies.”
It seemed a good idea, and Patrick glanced about, spurning the goblets and vases for a few handfuls of gold coins that weighed heavily in his pockets. A clear crystal, shaped roughly like a heart, hung from a delicate gold chain, and he placed it in a pocket, too.
Patrick caught Laila’s hand in his and she squeezed it—hard. With a nod to Ormarr, she allowed Patrick to lead her through the door, a last look over her shoulder causing her to stumble. Patrick peeked, too, at Ormarr, pixie lights twinkling like stars above his head, torchlight glowing fiercely red in the windowless room. A dragon in human form, aged and injured—and the glimmer of death in his eyes.
* * *
The coins in Patrick’s pockets jingled as they hurried through the dark corridors. Laila’s knowledge of the maze and its hazards allowed them to move at a brisk pace. Still, the speed did not suit him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and the need to be out of the cave nipped aggressively at his heels.
“Hurry!” He gave Laila’s elbow a nudge.
“I—I’m trying,” she replied, her voice muffled. At the next corner, she stumbled to a stop. “I—there’s something in my eye—” She drew her sleeve across her face.
“Ye mustnae stop,” Patrick complained, feeling rattled. Pixie lights swooped about his head, too fast to focus on. He swatted at them in irritation. “They’re a menace!” he grumbled.
“Aye,” Laila agreed. “But they led ye in, did they not?”
“How did ye know?”
She shook her head. “One trip through the maze doesnae make ye a competent dragon-hunter. Especially since ye’d no idea ye would be back.” She paused. “And I saw them join the flock in Ormarr’s lair.”
Tiny lights flew in Patrick’s face, driving him back a step. “Come, Laila. We cannae linger.”
Already, their surroundings had taken on a decidedly grayish hue, indicating not only were they near the mouth of the cave, but it was no longer night.
“We must hurry. Too much time has passed and we must get out of the cave.” Patrick brushed aside the twittering pixies and strode forward, peering eagerly into the semi-dark passageway. Laila followed, her torch causing the deep shadows to flee as they passed. After another turn and a crack to Patrick’s head as he failed to judge the upper limits of the doorway, they arrived in the rock-strewn area at the cave
rn’s opening. Pixie lights vanished.
Sunlight sparkled on the wet stone and twinkled in tiny faceted stones buried in exposed veins in the wall. The portal shone white in the force of the sun, and Patrick held a forearm above his eyes as they grew accustomed to the light. The air freshened as it circulated more freely near the entrance—unlike in Ormarr’s lair where neither breeze nor sunlight purged it of the stale odors of centuries.
“How are we to get off the island, Patrick? My craft is on the mainland.”
“There isnae hidden boat about? We are truly cut off?” He’d not wanted to use his second plan. “Then we must surprise Harald’s men as they return for me. We will strike out for open water and come ashore far from here.”
Laila stared at him askance, one brow arched impossibly high. “’Tis not much of a plan.”
Patrick’s lips tightened. “We cannae swim the straight, and it appears we cannae fly. If there is no boat hidden away nearby, we dinnae have any other choice.”
He motioned for her to precede him from the cave. With a heavy sigh and a toss of her head, Laila doused her torch in a convenient puddle and stashed it in a metal bracket near the door. She stepped through the entrance, ducking slightly. Patrick followed, squinting against the full force of the sun.
Laila’s gasp and solid thunk against his chest took Patrick by surprise. Instinctively, he spread his arms to either side, catching her before she could slip back inside the cave.
“Och! What is the problem, Laila?”
She turned, facing the small group of men who stood several feet away, flanking a fair-haired man. His malevolent grin sent icy water through Patrick’s veins.
“Just as we planned, my friend,” Harald said with a nod of satisfaction. “Ye have done yer part well.” He took a few steps closer. “Is the dragon dead?”
“I dinnae know what ye mean,” Patrick stuttered. “What plan?”
“Why, to bring fair Laila out of the dragon’s cave so we can escort her to the village.” Harald cast a dark look at the healer. “Where she will be burned as a witch.”
He motioned his men forward. Laila stumbled back a step, but Patrick was too stunned to move out of her way. She fell against him, then jerked away, her eyes flashing angry fire.
“This was yer first plan? I trusted ye.”
Her words cut Patrick to the quick. She thought he betrayed her. “I thought ’twould be easy … .” Easy to elude Harald’s men. Easy to overpower them and steal their boat. He shook his head at the foolishness of his plan. It would not have been easy.
Laila’s accusing glare punished him. “I dinnae mean for this to happen,” he murmured.
Furious, she shoved against his chest. Caught off-guard, he lurched to the side, coins jingling merrily in his pocket. A handful of gold spilled to the ground, winking in the sun.
Harald started forward, eyes wide. “So, ’tis true! There is a dragon hoard in the cave!” He turned to his men.
“Hunt the dragon’s lair!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Wait!” Patrick bent to retrieve his spilt coins, then straightened as Harald’s men shoved Laila into their boat. Leaving her stranded in the rocking craft, the men brushed past Harald and Patrick, advancing on the black opening to the cave. Small golden lights zipped from inside, bursting into white sparks as they met the sunlight. They swooped and dove about the men’s heads. Waving their hands and swords in the air, the men warded off the tiny pixies.
One of Harald’s men shrank back, fear in his eyes as he ducked beneath the pixies’ swarm. “’Tis bewitched!” His wide eyes slid to Laila. “Witch!”
The men paused at the doorway, uncertain gazes seeking Harald’s instruction.
“’Tis gold to be had! Treasure for those brave enough,” he taunted. Harald’s gaze hardened on Patrick. “He will lead ye.”
Startled, Patrick took a step back. “I dinnae know the way,” he protested.
“Ye’ve been in and out of the maze twice. Ye will do so again,” Harald stated. Two strides saw him alongside the boat, his arm snaked about Laila’s waist, pinning her against his side. “Or I will ensure our witch never sees the fires that burn her.” A dagger appeared in his hand, too fast for either Patrick or Laila to react. The point winked at the corner of Laila’s eyes, a hair’s-breadth from slicing into the sparkling orbs.
“Nae!” Laila shouted, her voice broken, weary, despairing.
“What will it be, my brave dragon-slayer?” Harald mocked. “Ye will receive yer share of the treasure.” He slid his gaze to Laila. “Or I can make things verra unpleasant for our witch.”
“She isnae a witch!” Patrick protested, certain in his heart that the woman he’d known for such a short time was neither a witch nor a liar. His muscles burned with the inability to rescue Laila. Or perhaps with the impulse to flee. How could he fight with so many against him?
Will I never be brave?
It takes bravery to fight the urge to flee. Patrick caught the memory of Laila’s words as a sigh through his mind. Encouraging. Reassuring. Even when he knew it would be easier to go along with Harald’s demands. To accept his role as part of the crowd.
Her gaze met his. Her head unbowed, though he knew she feared for Ormarr’s life. A link, tangible as a caress, flowed between them. She trusted him to do the right thing.
But what was right?
She blinked once, then slid her gaze to the mountain, the ancient stone formidable in the glare of the sun.
Did he go and lead the men to Ormarr? Or refuse and risk Laila’s almost certain torture and death?
Patrick cleared his throat, his eyes firm on Laila as he spoke to Harald. “Will ye pledge no harm to her if I lead yer men to the dragon’s lair? Will ye exchange her life for the gold?”
Laila’s eyes widened with alarm. Harald looked thoughtful. “If ye return with the gold, I will give her to ye.”
Patrick sent a sharp look to Harald. “Alive.”
With the grin of a man caught in a word game, Harald flourished his blade in the air. “Of course.”
Patrick nodded once and took a step toward the cave. He checked, seeking a last reassurance. “Unharmed.”
With a sigh, Harald glanced inside the small boat. “She has wet feet and the hem of her gown appears the worse for wear. But I willnae harm her further.”
Patrick inhaled slowly, deeply, searching Harald’s words for hidden lies.
Laila gasped, thrown roughly to the wooden seat in the boat.
“But I willnae allow her to escape.”
* * *
The absolute darkness of the windowless room did not hinder Ormarr’s sight. His eyes glowed from within, causing the gold in the cavern to shimmer with an unearthly luminance. Here, the walls did not drip with moisture, reflecting the treasure’s glow, but tiny crystals in the stone sparkled like flightless pixies.
He forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle, allowing healing power to flow through his veins. Not that he expected to last the night, but he would not meet his enemies defenseless. Not if he could help it.
Bjorke. One thousand gold pieces from his ship, one hundred years ago this summer. Geir and Ivar. His gaze traveled over the pile of jewel-studded goblets. They ate well. A slight smile quirked the corner of his lips. Almost as well as they tasted. Not since he became lord of the forbidden isle had Vikings invaded his land. He lingered on the individual piles of his hoard. So precious to him centuries ago. Now a cold bed, soon to be taken from him.
He closed his eyes, dismissing the gold as unimportant. Let his memory glide like silk over a woman’s skin—his woman. Freydis. Laila’s mother.
Golden hair flashed silver-white in the sun, tribute to her ancestors, the Vikings who had raided the coastline for many years. Arms, slender and white, lifted as she danced on the shore, abandonment in her moves, the music in her head echoed in the graceful patterns of her feet. The hem of her gown lifting and falling in time to her dance.
He would always rememb
er her thus. Captivating, young, exciting. He’d loved her with the fierceness of his dragon’s heart, unable to deny himself the taste of her. Knowing they had no future together. Knowing she would one day belong to another.
But his decision had brought him Laila. So many stolen nights, bartered moments alone—and Freydis had given him a daughter. A young woman who—because of him—was accused of being a witch.
Ormarr bestirred himself. This was intolerable. His trust in Patrick was to give Laila a loving home. But would the man die to defend her? What awaited them at the cave’s entrance below?
The wound in his side protested sharply as Ormarr rose to his feet. Bracing one hand against the stone wall, he forced himself upright as befitted a warrior. He flexed his arms, testing their strength. Power flowed over him, the smooth coolness of scales rippling just beneath his skin. Claws pressed against his fingertips, ready to extend. Spines rattled against his backbone, dorsal ridges on the verge of slipping through.
He was a dragon. He would not die trapped in human form. Calling upon his true identity, he shifted, ignoring the pain as muscles adjusted along his lengthening bones. His neck arched upward. Glistening fangs appeared as his jaw jutted forward. His tail swished angrily, sending golden treasure tumbling across the room in discordant melody.
Scales locked together as impenetrable as armor. The wound beneath his foreleg would take time to heal, and left him weakened on that side. But his heartbeat strengthened as his body walled off the sword wound that had violated his chest. Air banded tight in his lungs, but smoke slipped from his nostrils.
With waddling, earth-bound grace, he stalked to the rear of the cavern. He wedged his bulk around a corner and down a corridor. Light made him blink as he approached the crest of the mountain, the upper entrance to his domain. A wide ledge opened up before him, and he halted, surveying the beach far below with his dragon sight. Even at this distance, the sands glimmered, sharply individual in the sun. To the west, a boat lay a length off the shore. Laila sat on its bench, rocking gently on the waves. But the man at her side was not Patrick. Ormarr’s gaze narrowed. Harald rested one booted foot on the top edge of the boat, his gaze on the cave opening.
