Avelynn: The Edge of Faith

by Marissa Campbell

  Gil’s face turned a mottled red. “I’m warning you. Leave off or …”

  “Or what?” Alrik swept his hands to the men around him. “No one appears to be rushing to your aid. It is just you and me. Choose your move wisely. Either the next words out of your mouth are a confession, or I will make the choice for you.”

  I could sense Gil judging how many steps it would take to reach Alrik. One false move and his mother’s throat could be slit. He took flight, hurtling himself at Alrik.

  Alrik was ready for the attack. He grabbed his shield from Tollak and raised it high to take the strike.

  An enraged bull threw its weight and blind anger into a fight, its movements and kicks wild and without order. Gil flailed and attacked without thought. The lack of control left him off balance and exposed points of weakness. Alrik blocked the shattering blows with his shield and delivered a grueling attack of his own.

  Alrik circled, watching, waiting. “Your mother will die, as will you. But you can decide the manner of her death. Slow and painful, or quick and merciful. The woman deserves the first, but I will let you choose the latter.”

  “You want words, Alrik? How many men fucked your little whore in Gwynedd? Did they hold her down, or did she open her legs and beg for more?”

  Alrik dove forward with a punishing blow. Gil parried it with his sword. I shuddered. I could feel the impact in my bones.

  “Have I touched a nerve, Viking? How many English rammed their cocks down her throat?”

  Taunt thrown down, Alrik took the bait and lunged. The edge of Gil’s sword ripped high into Alrik’s shield arm. The shoulder of his tunic turned crimson.

  Alrik hissed. “Slow and painful it is.”

  The next few moments were a blur of steel, sparks, and splintering wood. Gil was a worthy adversary, but Alrik was larger, stronger, and better skilled. The decisive moment came when Alrik’s sword slashed through Gil’s right thigh. Gil stumbled forward, half falling, half hobbling to stay up. Alrik stalked him. The knowledge was written on everyone’s faces. No one moved to intervene.

  Gil must have realized it as well, for he dragged his useless leg over to his mother. Alrik stepped behind him and delivered a cruel strike, tearing the hamstrings from Gil’s standing leg. The man crumpled into the dirt, grabbing hold of Sigy’s kirtle, desperate to stay up.

  “Gil.” Her voice choked with suffering. Tears fell, creating rivulets down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.” He panted.

  “Shhh, now. It’s all right.”

  Gil shook his head. “Alrik.”

  “No.” Sigy’s voiced squeaked with fear. “Do not let him manipulate you. Do not give him what he wants.”

  Cormac reached around the pole, his arm around Sigy’s neck, and squeezed.

  “Alrik,” Gil pressed. “I choose mercy. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you. I will honor your choice, provided you speak the truth.”

  Gil nodded and hung his head.

  Alrik motioned to Hyffaid and Llewelyn. They stood in front of Gil, who struggled to stay upright. Pain etched in the hard lines of his face, sweat dripping into his eyes, his skin washed of color.

  Leaning on his sword, Gil pulled himself up until he sat before them. “The charges are true. I conspired—” Gil had started in English.

  “In Welsh—and speak these words loud and clear.” Alrik interrupted. “I would have your people hear this from your own lips, so there is no confusion or doubt.”

  Gil started over, his words translated in Norse and English for the remainder to hear. “The charges are true. I conspired with Rhodri to kill Gwgon. We provided Seisyllwg in exchange for a peace treaty promising me unmolested control of Dyfed once Hyffaid perished. Avelynn was taken and shipped to Aberffraw, where she would await the English. Rhodri would receive the bounty of gold on her head.”

  Gil spat at Hyffaid’s feet. “I would have been king of Dyfed. You would be dead, and my mother would have seen her efforts come to pass. It is through my mother’s line that the rightful king of Dyfed should have ruled. It is through her that the line of kings should have prospered. Not you.” He strained for breath, his eyes bloodshot from pain.

  Silence enveloped Gil’s confession.

  Alrik held his hand out to Tollak. “Give me Widow Maker.” Tollak placed the long-handled axe in his grip. Alrik stepped in front of Sigy. “You do not deserve mercy.”

  Cormac released his grip on Sigy’s neck and stepped away. Sigy’s face pulsed with a purple tinge from lack of air, her voice hoarse. “I should have let my daughter kill your little kunte when she had the chance.”

  Her eyes burned bright with hatred. Alrik swung, and the flames died. Sigy’s head rolled to a stop at Gil’s feet.

  Gil struggled to control his emotions. “Thank you.”

  Alrik grabbed the box Llewelyn had stood on and dropped it in the mud in front of Gil. “Kneel.”

  Gill hobbled forward and closed his eyes, as if in benediction. He stretched his neck over the wood.

  Despite his desire to see Gil suffer, Alrik was not a cruel man. With the axe raised high in the air, mercy at last swooped down.

  No one moved. I suspected everyone needed a moment to absorb what had transpired. The confession couldn’t have gone better if we’d planted Gil’s words ourselves. Alrik was absolved of murder, and for now, I’d managed to skirt the haunting spectre of witchcraft.

  In time, Bleddyn’s men marched away, presumably to head back to Gwynedd or to await Rhodri’s arrival with his new wife, ready to assume control of Seisyllwg. Hyffaid’s men retreated behind the gate, and Gil’s followers regrouped, most likely trying to determine their best chances of survival. They had after all gone against their rightful king.

  Hyffaid promised to honor our agreement. To that end, no sooner had the gate closed than it reopened, and two men rolled out a cart burdened with chests. The cart stopped in front of Alrik, and the men beat a hasty retreat back to Hyffaid’s ranks. Alrik lifted the lids and inspected their contents. I peered around him. Gold and silver filled the deep boxes to their rims. Alrik nodded to his men, and the Vikings left the field. Each Northman took an opportunity to pat Alrik on the back or share a look of solidarity.

  Back on Raven’s Blood, I stood at Alrik’s side. I’d bandaged his shoulder. It was a deep wound, but I’d cleaned it and threaded five lengths of thorn through the skin, as I’d seen Sigy do when tending to Cormac’s wound. I admitted with petulance that not everything the witch had done was evil.

  One of his hands gripped the steering board; the other drew me close. We would head north, skirting the land of the Picts, and then travel southeast to the land of the Rus. We both needed rest and time to reassess our plans for the future. I understood his longing for the familiarity of home. I would have given anything to return to mine, and perhaps in time, I would. I thought of Plegmund’s letters and the promise they held. But after all we’d been through, I hoped to find a place where we wouldn’t have to run—where, for a short while, we could be safe.

  He kissed the top of my forehead, his free hand playing with the short curls at the ridge of my neck. “This will take some getting used to.”

  I reached up and patted my hair self-consciously.

  He clasped my hand. “It will grow back.”

  We were both silent, listening to the lap of the sea, the call of the gulls, and the whistle of the wind. Tollak gave a great shout, and Raven’s Blood shot forward. Powerful bodies rowed us out to sea, the bow trained to the horizon. Devastation, despair, treason, and treachery wafted behind us like a foul odor, the fresh sea breeze cleansing the whole. I didn’t know what awaited us in this new chapter. There were wounds to heal between us, but I was confident that, together, we could overcome anything. No matter what happened, no matter where we went, in his arms I was home.

  The end

  Avelynn

  One extraordinary Saxon noblewoman and one fearless Viking warrior find passion and danger in this dazz
ling and sensuous debut.

  It was the year 869. For eighteen years, Avelynn, the beautiful and secretly pagan daughter of the Ealdorman of Somerset, has lived in an environment of love, acceptance, and equality. Somerset has flourished under twenty years of peace. But with whispers of war threatening their security, Avelynn's father makes an uncompromising decision that changes her life forever.

  Forced into a betrothal with Demas, a man who only covets her wealth and status, Avelynn's perception of independence is shattered. With marriage looming, she turns to her faith, searching for answers in an ancient ritual along the coast, only to find that Alrik the Blood-Axe and sixty Viking berserkers have landed.

  In a year of uncertainty that sees Avelynn discover hidden powers, stumble into a passionate love affair with Alrik, and lead men into battle, she must walk a fine line as her deceptions mount and Demas’s tactics to possess her become more desperate and increasingly brutal.

  Avelynn and Alrik are caught in the throes of fate as they struggle to find the way back to themselves and onwards to each other.

  Marissa Campbell is the author of the Avelynn series and coauthor of the award-winning self-help book, Life: Living in Fulfillment Every Day. She is a proud member of the Historical Novel Society and Romance Writers of America. An E-RYT hatha yoga instructor and studio owner, Campbell lives in Ontario, Canada, with her three amazing sons, dashingly handsome hubby, and adorable golden retriever, Razz.

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