With Dragons She Walks

by Darby, Brit

  Cailin sat next to him and set the bowl on the floor. “Face away from me,” she said, opening the bag.

  Tense, Drake waited to see what was in the bag first. He would not soon forget the live scorpion Zoe had dropped down his shirt once. That was her idea of foreplay.

  Cailin opened and set aside an assortment of small jars, innocuous-looking enough, though they smelled vile. Another packet was less reassuring. She unrolled a cloth and a gleaming line of silks and needles caught his eye.

  Seeing his frown, she said, “I’m afraid sutures are necessary.”

  “Then I hope you are skilled with a needle.”

  “Yes.” She offered no more than that, all business now as she took a clean cloth from the bag, dipped it into the basin and wrung it out. “This will hurt,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Hurt was an understatement. Drake gritted his teeth as she gently cleaned his broken flesh with a rag and clean water, and then used the pads of her fingers to daub some foul-smelling unguent into the gashes left by the whip. He sniffed and grimaced.

  “By Brùnaidh’s beard, woman, that smell alone will eat through my flesh. What is it?”

  Cailin chuckled. “It is called Eir’s Kiss. Calf’s fat and a herb called hvönn. I know it smells awful, but it does help wounds heal faster. Keep still.” Her fingers continued lightly stroking over his skin, and despite his anger, Drake felt a corresponding quiver deep in his belly.

  It was a long time since any woman touched him, even in rage, much less love. Though Cailin’s touch was impersonally efficient, even the vile herbal odor could not block out the scent of her sitting so close. Her scent reminded him of our-lady’s-tears, a delicate white flower that grew wild in his homeland.

  A pang of emotion clutched Drake. His promise to take Leo home was beginning to seem like a futile wish, now that he found himself in another woman’s clutches. Suddenly he felt the need to turn the tables on her, rattle that cool facade however he could.

  “How is it you have a Gaelic name?” he asked. He knew it sounded like a demand for answers, almost an accusation. He felt her fingers still, heard her quick intake of breath. Aha, the topic was a sore one for some reason.

  “My mother was a Scot.” She said no more, but he sensed a secret pain behind the words. Mulling it over, he charitably decided to let it go, for now.

  When Cailin finished treating his wounds, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her focusing to thread a needle with silk thread. Her gaze rose and met his, and he was surprised to find that up close her eyes were an intense violet hue, like a meadow full of blooming heather.

  He was glad when the needle piercing his flesh gave excuse for his own quick intake of breath. He did not have to see them to know Cailin’s sutures were as precise and neat as the weaving he saw on the loom. But when she finally bit and tied off the last thread, each of them heaved a sigh of relief.

  “WHO BOUGHT THRALLS FOR the House of Thorvald?”

  “I did.”

  Cailin did not meet Hulda’s accusing gaze, but continued stacking the coins she counted on the table. Before her sat a small brass set of scales. “Since the Dreki Logi has not yet returned, manpower was needed to help Janus move goods into storage. Otherwise they will be damaged from sun and salt exposure.”

  “Thorvald will not approve,” Hulda said.

  “He would approve less of losing this cargo,” Cailin said a trifle sharply. Then she softened her tone. “You know he permits me to oversee matters in his absence.”

  “I do not doubt your competency, dottir. It is the tall Pict who troubles me.”

  “Has he given you cause for offense, Hulda?”

  “No. But I see how he looks at you, how he glances in here whenever he passes.”

  Cailin felt a flush creeping up her neck. She knew Hulda watched her for a reaction. Since she bought the two thralls to help Janus, she had seen little of either man. They bunked with Janus in his small hut near the docks, and he saw to their needs. Yet, like Hulda, she was aware of Drake’s presence when he was near.

  Before she could think of a response, a horn blast startled them both. She leaped to her feet with relief, scattering the stack of coins across the table. “The ship!” The low, mournful melody drifted on the breeze — the deep, rich sound echoed across the water, announcing a longship returned home. Again, it blasted.

  Cailin pulled a cloak about her shoulders and helped Hulda with hers. Both women hurried from the house and made their way toward the docks, where people already gathered in anticipation of the ship’s return.

  Impatiently, Cailin pushed her way through the crowd to the dock’s edge and waited. The longship had too deep a keel to dock, so a knarr pulled alongside it and planks were drawn across for unloading. Despair assaulted her, the initial hope inside her fluttering and dying beneath its potent onslaught. Thorvald was nowhere to be seen. He always entered the fjord standing at the helm of his ship, the great Dragon’s head towering above him.

  Cailin could wait no longer and scurried aboard, her gaze searching the deck, the men, and the cargo. She ran to Gunnar, her father’s captain. He turned when she touched his elbow, and she knew, she saw it in his eyes.

  Chapter Three

  UNTIL THAT VERY MOMENT, Cailin had never hated her dreams — or the Dragons. Dragons that whispered to her, telling of the future, warning her of the danger her father was in. Now, she hated her Sight, she hated herself for having failed in keeping Thorvald from sailing on this voyage.

  Pain and guilt scorched her mind, tore at her heart. Cailin felt her world spinning about, the noise and chaos of the docks closing in about her. She thought she’d be sick, the truth clutching her stomach into a knot and constricting her throat. The blood drained from her and her knees buckled.

  AN INKY BLACKNESS SURROUNDED her.

  “Please.” Cailin called out to Thorvald. She saw his face as always, hard and unfeeling. “Please, Fadir, you must heed my warning. There is danger on this journey.”

  Thorvald remained distant, ignoring her plea.

  As Cailin reached out for him, he turned away.

  “Someone you trust will betray you,” she cried out in desperation. Still, he would not look at her.

  “Listen to me!” she shouted. But Thorvald’s image faded away, leaving Cailin alone.

  “Seek the truth,” her Dragons whispered softly. “Seek the truth, believe not in lies.”

  “Cailin.”

  Hulda called to her, rousing Cailin from the darkness. She didn’t want to listen, she didn’t want to awaken and face her failure again.

  “No,” Cailin mumbled, swatting at the hand gently pushing back the hair from her face. “Go away.”

  Hulda did not. Instead, she shook Cailin. “Wake up, child.”

  Cailin opened her eyes. Confusion made her sit up suddenly. She was home, not at the docks or aboard ship. “What happened?”

  “You fainted, Cailin. Gunnar carried you home.”

  Cailin put her hand to her head, feeling the strange weakness still upon her. “I … I’ve never fainted before.”

  Gunnar stepped forward from the shadows, looking uneasy. “You know about your father?”

  She nodded, wishing it weren’t so.

  “But I said nothing,” he whispered, glancing at Hulda this time.

  Hulda tsked him. “Paugh. We women need no words to know when something dreadful has happened. Now, tell us the news, Gunnar.”

  Gunnar straightened, sadness lining his tanned face. He was ten years older than Cailin, having earned the coveted position of Thorvald’s captain only two years before when his own father had died. He was tall, near six feet five inches, his body well muscled, formidable.

  “I do not know for certain what happened to him, Cailin. I can only tell you what I know.”

  Cailin tried to remain patient. She saw Gunnar was experiencing his own difficulties in telling the tale. Deep in thought, he stroked his beard.

  “It wasn’t long after we arr
ived in Miklagard that your father disappeared. We spent weeks trying to find him, to find out what had happened.”

  “What did you discover, Gunnar?”

  He shook his head, four long blond braids swishing about his broad shoulders. “He’s dead, Cailin.”

  “How do you know?” Hulda demanded.

  “Gunnar,” Cailin asked as she rose from the bed and took Hulda’s hand to comfort her great aunt, “do you know this for certain?”

  Gunnar’s head dropped to his chest and he stared at the ground. He seemed choked up when he spoke. “I saw him myself, though he was mangled nearly beyond recognition by crabs by the time he was pulled from the water. It was Thorvald, Cailin. I’ve no doubt. Not enough remained of his body to bring it back, so we dedicated him there to the gods with honor. But I knew you would seek proof. He was wearing this.” Gunnar touched a heavy, ornate silver torc circling his thick neck. It was studded with amber. Both women recognized it as Thorvald’s.

  “He is dead,” Hulda repeated, her voice trembling as grief and resignation settled over her.

  “Ja. We stayed as long as we could to search for the man or men who had committed this foul deed,” Gunnar’s voice rose with distress, “but time and perishable cargo forced us to leave before we discovered the story behind his murder.” He pulled the silver torc from his neck and gave it to Cailin. “This is yours now.”

  Cailin barely glanced at the torc before she tossed it aside on the bed. Something was wrong in the words he spoke. The whispers in her head grew strong, unrelenting. She looked closer at Gunnar, he was confident in what he told her; he believed Thorvald was dead. Then why did she not accept it? She shook her head. “Fadir is not dead.”

  Her denial made Gunnar angry. “You do not believe what I have seen with my own eyes? Do you call me a liar, Cailin?”

  She did not answer his question right away, trying to sort out what she did feel. Finally, she spoke. “I know you believe it to be so; it is the words themselves that are false.”

  Hulda gasped and Gunnar stood staring at her in disbelief. “Grief has addled your mind,” he said, big fists clenching at his sides.

  “If you will not go back to Miklagard and search for Fadir, then I will, and I will find him.”

  “How?” Hulda cried. “It is madness, child.”

  “What could you hope to find that we could not after weeks of searching, Cailin?” Gunnar demanded, his tone rising, unable to hold back his impatience with her. “What’s done is done. Thorvald is in Valhalla and you must accept it.”

  “Gunnar’s right, dear dottir. What can you possibly do when Thorvald’s own men found nothing?”

  Cailin’s anger brought warmth back to her blood. She faced them both despite still feeling unsteady. “I knew the danger Fadir faced before he set out on this voyage. Just as I know now he is not dead. My attempt to warn him failed, but I will not fail him again. I am sorry, Gunnar, but I cannot accept your theory of his death.”

  An odd look crossed Gunnar’s face, a look Cailin couldn’t discern. “You knew Thorvald would be murdered?”

  “I knew he was in danger,” she clarified. “He is not dead; not yet. But he is still in grave danger.”

  Gunnar frowned.

  “I also know—” Cailin paused, gathering strength to continue, “I also know someone he trusted betrayed him.”

  His eyes widened. “Impossible,” he barked. “I know all the men aboard the Dreki Logi. None would betray your father.” His deep voice rang out, challenging her.

  “One did.” Cailin watched Gunnar, suspicion churning about her distressed mind. Was he the one? She saw no evidence he had betrayed Thorvald, and there was no reason why he should, but she didn’t truly trust anyone now, except Hulda.

  Hulda stepped forward and placed herself between them, her face drawn and pale. “Gunnar, Cailin is confused, distraught … her grief makes her say things she does not mean. Please, you must go and let her rest. You can talk later.”

  “I warn you, Cailin. No man here will help you try and prove such a foolish notion. And you will offend the gods if you try.” Gunnar turned and stomped from the house.

  Cailin watched him duck beneath the doorway and leave. Hulda whirled about, looking angry too. “Have you lost your senses, child?”

  It was not what she expected from Hulda. Cailin’s nerves snapped and so did she. “I am not a child anymore, Hulda. I am a woman grown and know my own mind. You have never doubted my visions; why do you do so now?”

  She could tell Hulda wanted to deny her prophecy of betrayal, to scream she was mistaken, that her Dragons’ whispers of treachery were wrong. The thought that someone Thorvald trusted was disloyal too much to bear. The old woman looked confused, overwhelmed by emotions. Whether he was alive or dead, it was likely she would never see him again.

  Hulda’s own prophecy skills placed her in high regard by all in Hedeby, honored in her own right, not because she was Thorvald’s aunt. Hulda wore her gift like a badge of wisdom, basking proudly in her ability to read the runes, an unusual gift for normally men did so. Yet, suddenly the old woman crumpled, like a worn out house against a strong, unyielding wind.

  Cailin took Hulda into her arms and held her while she wailed her grief, her anger, her despair. Though Hulda and Thorvald were opposites by nature and bickered at times, they were of the same blood, and Hulda loved her nephew.

  Comforting her great aunt as best she could, Cailin remembered how Hulda’s prophecy kept Thorvald from tossing her into the sea in his disappointment years ago. Since then, it was Hulda who stood mother to Cailin, teaching her how to read the runes, telling her to accept her gift of Sight and not fear it.

  If only Thorvald had believed in her ability as Hulda did.

  But he hadn’t and nothing Cailin did would change that now. All she could do was find him. She owed Hulda that much, and so much more.

  If she had learned anything over the years, it was to trust in her Dragons. They whispered to her, telling her to seek the truth. This she must do regardless of the objections of others.

  DESPITE THE CHILL OF the coming winter, Gunnar wiped the sweat from his brow. Anger still seethed in him, warming his blood, heating his mind with conjecture.

  How could she know?

  The question clamored in his mind like a clumsy ox, running into other thoughts, blindly flailing about like he did as he staggered to his own small house, drunk with mead and lust.

  It was impossible, but somehow Cailin knew of his treachery. Gunnar thought his heart might explode from the emotion pumping through his veins when he gazed into her cool amethyst eyes. Was he imagining it, or did her silent accusation brand him with guilt as surely as she had captured his heart?

  Once, he loved Thorvald, serving him as loyally as his father had before him. But Gunnar loved Cailin more. Since she grew from a gangly girl into a willowy woman, he had not been able to tear her from his thoughts.

  It was this obsession that drove him to betrayal. Thorvald wouldn’t hear Gunnar’s pleas for his daughter’s hand in marriage. He insisted she must make the choice for herself; he’d not force her into it. The plain fact was Cailin would not accept Gunnar’s proposal, and both men knew it.

  At first, Gunnar was merely angry. For years, he suffered in silence, longing for the one woman who seemed indifferent to his good looks, strength or wealth. Cailin barely glanced at him after each trip when he brought ivory to be measured or hacksilver to be weighed; she was all business, whether counting out the crew’s pay or balancing her father’s ledgers.

  Any attempts to please her, to give her jewelry or the best furs, were met with a polite thank you and he never saw the gifts again.

  But when he met the bishop, that all changed.

  What a small world it was to meet Edwin, the step-uncle of the woman he craved with every part of his being. Bishop Fetherstone hated Thorvald as much as Gunnar did. Their reasons differed, but their goal was the same. Together they created their plan, their r
evenge upon the one man both believed had ruined their lives.

  Thorvald was dead — Gunnar knew it for a fact. He had seen the jarl’s mutilated and torn body with his own eyes. Though he had not been present when Edwin slit the jarl’s throat from ear to ear as they had planned, he saw the body maliciously cast aside like trash afterwards, thus he doubted it not.

  Thorvald’s final curses floated across Gunnar’s mind, haunting him. The jarl’s fury at the trap Gunnar carefully set, at his betrayal into enemy hands, was daunting. Gunnar knew the curse of Odhinn was on him now, he felt it; he breathed it at every turn. Cailin’s damned Sight chilled him to the bone with its ugly truth, sucking the heat from his flesh, much as vultures feasted upon carrion.

  “I swear,” he whispered, “by the sacred blood of Odhinn, Cailin, I will have you. Whatever you see in your dreams will not help you now.”

  CAILIN HELD THE SWORDS up and called out, “From the mountains good Dwarves bold often came in times of old, with their magick and their spells. Now I ask you come to me. Spell-bind these swords here, my Dragons. That magick-filled these weapons be. Good Dwarves, magickal and bold. Join with me as in times of old.”

  Carefully, Cailin placed both Dragon swords in their matching gold and silver scabbard, to strap the steel creatures to her back when needed. For now, she wrapped and tied the precious objects in a leather skin and securely tied it. She placed the bundle in the trunk in her room with other supplies she gathered.

  Several days had passed since the ship returned without Thorvald. She must leave within the week, Cailin decided. Every day she delayed, winter came closer, threatening to strand her in Hedeby. But knowing she must go did not make it any easier to do so.

  Hulda talked and pleaded with her until her voice croaked from the strain, but Cailin was not to be swayed. She must find Thorvald or discover his fate. Hulda’s tears had not stopped, and her distress tore Cailin apart. But she must find answers, one way or another. For both herself and Hulda.