Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Alarik turned, and the expression on his face choked the remaining words from Vernay’s throat. For the longest instant Vernay could not speak, paralyzed by the barely leashed violence that emanated from the jarl’s steely gray eyes, nevertheless it was the jarl’s other emotion unveiled that wrested the words from his mouth.

  Alarik threw his shoulders back stalwartly, defying the pain in his heart that the monk had perceived. Still, his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Where...” Despite himself, his voice faltered. “Where was the dog found?”

  “Betwixt here and the kirken, my lord. Mayhap that is where the demoiselle was bound?”

  Awareness came slowly, painfully.

  The smell of earth—and of something else vile—accosted Elienor’s senses. She rolled, wincing against the sharp pain that burst through her head. Her poor, poor head... Her lips met damp soil, and she sputtered at once, swiping her mouth in disgust. Sweet Jesu! It tasted of spoils!

  Her eyes flew wide in the darkness—where was she? She groaned as bits of memory besieged her: Hrolf standing in the portal, Hrolf striking her with the hilt of his sword.

  “Nay,” she murmured in agony.

  Not again? Bones of the saints, but she should have remained in the priory. How many times must she endure this? If she wasn’t so afeared to draw her captor’s attention, she might have laughed hysterically over the absurdness of it all.

  And her mouth, it was so dry… She tried to swallow and couldn’t, tried to moisten her lips and couldn’t. Her mouth felt as though it had been filled with thick, furry wool. Closing her eyes she struggled to think through the haze of pain.

  Where was she?

  Lifting her head slightly—her neck was so stiff—she reexamined her cell. It was nearly too dark to see anything at all, but by a flickering light somewhere up above she finally made out the dirt walls... dirt floor...

  Her heartbeat quickened, and she swallowed—never mind that there was naught to swallow—and tried to stifle the deafening hysteria in her mind. God in heaven above, have mercy!

  Nay! she told herself. She would be fine... she would be fine... if only she remained calm... she would be fine...

  Shuddering with fear, she scooted backward, propping herself semi-upright, her breath coming in short pants.

  Sweet Jesu, it seemed as though she were lying within her own grave!

  But it was not her grave, she reassured herself. Closing her eyes, she opened them again slowly. It was a cell, a simple cell—a barbarous and torturous cell, but a cell nonetheless. The oversmall pit was dug into the floor of a larger chamber, and was barely high enough to allow a soul to sit upright. Certainly, she could not even attempt to stand. From the upper chamber could be heard voices, faint but increasingly louder. One of those Elienor recognized at once and her heart pummeled faster as it grew closer.

  Within seconds, Hrolf’s repulsive face peered down through the thick bars. He grinned, a grin that sent a shuddering down her spine. “Well, now... you didn’t believe I’d forget you?” he asked her, his grin widening at the terror in her expression.

  Another face appeared, peering down over Hrolf’s shoulder, this one older, more weathered, though less harsh. Still, the ice-blue eyes spewed as much hatred as those of Hrolf’s. “You’ve a soft head,” the man muttered, cracking a smile. “Thought you might never waken.”

  Elienor wished she hadn’t.

  “Witch! If I’d known she’d fare so well,” Hrolf lamented, “I’d have struck her harder!” He spat down at her. His saliva pelted her face and Elienor cried out, swiping it away. “I should have cracked your skull wider upon the Goldenhawk, when first I had occasion!”

  “P-Please,” Elienor appealed, battling hysteria and tears. She reached up to seize the wooden bars in sheer desperation, appealing to the man at Hrolf’s back. “Please, please, hold me elsewhere... I...”

  Hrolf smashed her fingers and she cried out in pain, wresting them from beneath his boot.

  Silent tears coursed down her cheeks.

  The man laughed, clapping Hrolf upon the back. “I’ve no more use for the darkling,” he said arrogantly. “Mine tastes run fairer than she. Do with her now what you will, Red. For certain... you two seem to have unfinished matter at hand.”

  Hrolf tossed a look behind him, grunting in agreement, and then he turned to glare down into the pit. He waited for the man’s footsteps to recede completely before he whispered, “Indeed we do... indeed we do... for you shall gain me back mine honor, witch! Mayhap Ejnar wishes nothing more than to eliminate his daughter’s rival, but I shall not be appeased until you give me Trygvi’s bastard son into the palm of mine hand!”

  Crippling fear swept over Elienor, though this time not for herself. Unbidden, the image of Alarik leaping into the churning sea from the Goldenhawk, the gleaming axe blade hurling through the air at his back, assailed her. In that moment, she knew how very hopelessly she loved him. “H-He won’t come,” she whispered miserably. Averting her gaze, she prayed with all her heart that it was the truth. But even as she prayed... she knew... whether he came for her, or nay...

  The dream would come true.

  Someone would die.

  “Ya,” Hrolf said. “He will... for you’ve bewitched the fool—though I know not how! He will come... and when he does... mine blade will find his back!” His chuckle was malicious. “Mark mine words for true, you black-haired witch! And when he’s dealt with, I shall then deal with you,” he promised darkly.

  Witch.

  Elienor’s heart wrenched, for Hrolf was closer to the truth than he realized. Her own people had named her so and then had cast her aside for it. Even so, she’d been fortunate it was all they had done after her mother’s fate. Sweet God above... her mother... her poor mother had been valiant enough to speak her mind, at least. And she, Elienor, daughter of her womb, was born and would die naught more than a coward. Her eyes closed with her misery.

  How could she not have warned Alarik?

  In that moment, she thought of Alva and Vernay, and all who would suffer without him, and wondered how she could be so selfish. She wanted to weep. Wanted to scream. Wanted to die. She sat numbly, hot tears slipping past her lashes. When finally she opened her eyes and glanced upward again, Hrolf had gone.

  Chapter 31

  After days of relentless searching there was still no sign of Ejnar’s camp—despite the fact that Alarik had searched hill and vale for it. He knew without a doubt it was they who held Elienor, for within the kirken they’d discovered Hrolf’s dagger violently skewered through the fine gold brooch Alva had sworn she’d given Elienor only moments before Elienor’s disappearance. The infamous dagger had been driven into the brooch’s center with such force that it had disfigured and severed the delicate filigreed ornamentation adorning the jewel. Within plain sight, the brooch had been pegged upon the newly hung door, an arrogant missive to Alarik, for by it Hrolf declared that he cared not who knew of his perfidy.

  Yet, his wordless declaration seemed not to match his deeds, for the man was becoming a master of evasion, secreting himself more adeptly than an adder in the woods and striking just as venomously and swiftly. Since Elienor’s disappearance they’d discovered evidence of sacrifices within the nearby groves—a message to Olav no doubt, and likely to Alarik as well.

  It aided them not at all in their search that the people seemed to be growing discontent with Olav as their king. In truth, Alarik was even beginning to suspect that Olav had remained with him throughout the winter for his own protection, for Alarik’s own people were proving more loyal than his. And it struck Alarik as ill-boding that the steadings they’d inquired at were so reluctant to aid them in their quest to find Elienor. Nevertheless, most had complied, if reluctantly so, and still Ejnar and Hrolf eluded them. It was for that reason he’d determined to employ their last recourse.

  Bjorn.

  His sigh was deep and pensive as he regarded both his brothers at table with him, for he was well aware that B
jorn had found Ejnar easily enough when he’d sought him out the first time.

  Mayhap now, with a little manipulation on his own part, the misled fool could draw the Dane out for him.

  All else had failed.

  The thought of his brother forsaking him sat like acid in his gut, yet even as he hoped his youngest brother would remain steadfast in this... he prayed Bjorn would conspire to betray him...

  One final time.

  He wanted Elienor returned to him that desperately.

  Loki take him, he no longer cared that it might seem a weakness in him. He was damned weary of being strong. He was weary, period. Too long he’d gone without sleep, or bath, or leisure. By Hella’s curse, if it meant the return of Elienor... let him be weak. If it meant losing everything... let him fall. He wanted nothing at all... if he could not have her.

  And so it was he proceeded with the discourse he and Olav had intended for Bjorn to overhear. Leaning forward, he raked tense fingers over the stubble of his golden beard, and giving Bjorn a covert sideways glance, he turned to Olav and said a mite too loudly, “I’ve considered your proposal, mine bror...”

  Behind him Bjorn fell silent, concluding the conversation he carried on with Sigurd. Alarik resisted the temptation to turn and be certain he was listening.

  Perceiving the cause for Alarik’s pause, Olav nodded discreetly for him to continue. “And?”

  “I believe I shall join you in your quest to retrieve Tyri’s lands from Burislav, after all.”

  “What?” Olav exclaimed, taking an irritated tone as planned. It would serve them both well if Bjorn believed they’d quarreled over this. “And spare one instant in your search for the Fransk in order that you might aid your own flesh and blood? To what do I owe this honor, at last?”

  “Spare me Olav!” Alarik snapped, his eyes reverting to Elienor’s ring that still encircled Olav’s neck. No matter that he tried, he could not ignore the accursed thing. “I’ll agree on one condition...”

  The silence behind them thickened; even Sigurd stopped speaking to listen.

  The clash of Olav’s brows told Alarik that Olav sensed his anger was more than feigned. “And that is…”

  Alarik shuttered his expression, his soul too chaotic to be glimpsed even by Olav. “That you procure for me from Burislav the Pole at least ten well-manned vessels so that I might launch mine own attack upon the Dane... and with him Hrolf Kaetilson. I’ll not rest until my blade does as well… in his treacherous heart.” He sighed wearily. “For now it seems we’ve exhausted every other avenue,” he continued truthfully. “But I intend to find them eventually... and when I do I want good men at my back.”

  Olav’s gaze followed Alarik’s to the ring about his own neck, and his brow flinched in consideration. “And what of me and mine?” he asked abruptly, puzzled by Alarik’s unexpected show of vehemence toward him. It seemed of late, he’d spied that look once too oft. “Will you want us at your back, as well?”

  Alarik waited a moment before replying, weighing his words. Somehow, the conversation had digressed from that which they’d rehearsed. When he spoke again his tone was more resigned than angry. “Seems to me, mine bror... you have your own battle to fight. You have no time for mine.” Their gazes locked. In the silence of the moment, Alarik swallowed his resentment, for no matter how infuriated he was with Olav... Olav was his brother... and more than that... he was his king. “Nevertheless,” he began, when Olav failed to be soothed, “if you would care to make mine battle your own... then I will always... always welcome you at my back.” He nodded. “As I, in faith, hope you would have me at yours?”

  Olav returned the nod, satisfied. “Very well, then... if ’tis possible... I shall procure those men of the Pole for you... and then I shall add to them mine own. I would be there to see you skewer that red-haired heathen!” There was a lapse in conversation abruptly, a silence that was endless, for it seemed every man within the skali was intent on their conversation. “Shall we leave, let us say... within the fortnight?”

  Alarik nodded. “Within the fortnight,” he agreed, and it was then he sensed more than heard Bjorn rising from table. Again, he didn’t bother to look to be certain. Somehow, he knew. Pain knifed through him. Closing his eyes, he listened as Bjorn gave his excuses. He felt his brother brush by his shoulder, and opened his eyes, his gaze remaining upon Bjorn as he passed by him and made his way through the skali, looking more light-hearted than he had in weeks. A muscle ticked at his jaw, for on the way out, Bjorn stopped briefly to banter with Ivar Longbeard—nothing significant, the two merely shared a snicker—in truth, it was as though Bjorn had suddenly been given a new fate...

  And mayhap he had.

  Mayhap this day they all had.

  “Think you he took the bait?” Olav had bent to whisper the question at his ear.

  Alarik watched a moment longer, until Bjorn departed at last, and then his gaze returned to the ring Olav wore. He said quietly, enigmatically, without emotion, “I feel the blade twisting already.”

  “Good, then... mayhap you will reclaim the Fransk before long.”

  “Mayhap,” Alarik concurred.

  “Alarik?”

  Alarik met Olav’s gaze at last. He nodded sullenly.

  “It seemed to me that for an instant... for the slightest instant... there was sincerity in your anger. Is there aught you would speak to me of?”

  Alarik considered briefly asking of the ring, but knew he would not. He could not quite bring himself to disclose his weakness for Elienor to such a length. Suffice it that everyone assumed he liked not being thwarted, that he liked not being deprived of that which he owned. Why should any know of the bleakness that had settled into his soul and heart?—verily, even into his bones!

  Still, there was something that concerned him just as deeply. “Olav... mine, brother...” He swallowed, for it was doubtless the most difficult thing he’d ever said to his brother. “I know you say you have a passion for this faith... that for the love of it you would die... but can you not love it somewhat less... and practice it more?”

  Olav’s visage twisted suddenly with outrage. “What say you, Alarik? Do you denounce mine faith?” he raged, his face mottling.

  Alarik’s expression did not so much as change. “Nei, Olav. But if I were to... would you then treat me with the same heavy hand you lend to others when they do not fall to your demands?”

  Olav’s face reddened. “I’ll not answer such an impudent question!”

  Alarik shook his head. “You cannot sway the people through force.” His eyes fixed upon his brother, unyielding. “Can you not take a single backward step?”

  “And you! Can you so easily discard the wench?”

  Silence.

  “Never,” Alarik replied, his eyes sharp as daggers. “Never.” And it was God’s truth, for even if Bjorn failed to flush Ejnar and Hrolf out of hiding, he’d not stop searching until his dying breath.

  “Trygvi’s bastard will not find you, lest I will it!” Hrolf taunted, having overheard Elienor’s prayers.

  Filthy and reeking from the prison pit she’d been cast into, Elienor struggled to keep her dignity. She’d not deign to reply, she told herself, for every time she did, Hrolf committed some atrocious act upon her person such as spitting down at her through the bars. The man was vile! Jesu, but it felt as though she’d been imprisoned for years. Hell had nothing new in store for her after this!

  The hours passed slowly by. There was naught for her to do but sit and listen to the grating sound of Hrolf’s voice. Her legs and backside ached from inactivity. But at least they fed her well enough—small consolation though it was.

  “Olav, the fool... he’s turned every man against him with his oppression and his threats!” Hrolf declared. “For truth, there is no one who would betray us to him now—none that I know of. Though there are some who would betray him,” he said cryptically, and then snickered. “As you shall soon see…”

  Still Elienor refused to respon
d. Instead she listened, for in the last days she’d gleaned much information from Hrolf in just such a manner. Braggart that he was, Hrolf seemed pleased to goad her night and day, and through his prattling she’d managed to discover that her pit graced the hall of an old abandoned steading located on an isle in the middle of a marsh—thus accounting for the sour smelling soil.

  “Even those who might have followed the Christian faith will not now because Olav will not suffer them to choose of their own will. He shovels his own grave, I tell you, and he’ll pull his bastard brother down with him when he plunges down into it. Alarik, the fool, is simply too loyal for his own good... and you, witch, will insure me his ruin… and then shall you watch as I shovel putrid soil over both!”

  Elienor covered her ears and prayed for strength, forcing herself to ignore Hrolf’s mockery of Alarik and his horrifying prophecy. Dear God, she prayed, bear me through this...

  Even through her hands, she heard the rise of voices and uncovered her ears, trying to make them out.

  “Your God will not aid you!” Hrolf scoffed, snickering nastily.

  A quiver raced down Elienor’s spine at the all too familiar declaration. Her heart pounded frantically as the muffled voices grew in clarity, finally catching Hrolf’s notice, as well. He quieted, pivoting to face the men that entered, and then howled wildly with glee. Walking out of her sight to greet the newcomers, he laughed again and declared, “At last... at last! But then I knew you’d come!”

  “Dispense with the crowing, Hrolf!”

  Elienor cried out softly, recognizing the voice.

  ‘The information I bring comes with a price...”

  A long silence.

  “What price?” Ejnar’s gruff voice asked.

  There was another pause and then Bjorn declared, “Your daughter, Ejnar... your daughter and land of mine own if you should depose him...