Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2)

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Might I manage the vessel alone, with the oars rather than the sail? The moon’s slender crescent was in my favour, breaking only momentarily through the cloud; none was likely to see me, even were they to look out. I couldn’t delay; the fishermen would soon come, setting out on their day’s work.

  The pebbles shifted under my feet, loud to my ear and louder still as they tumbled before the boat. I hauled it by the bow, down the slope to the water’s edge. Every part of my body ached but I made jerking progress. Finally, I was wading out, holding the boat’s edge, light-headed with relief on feeling it float free.

  My sodden skirts slapped the deck as I tumbled in. I caught my knee hard on the edge of the seat to the stern, cursing a good oath to control my tears. The sail had been rolled away but the oars were still inside, and I wasted no time in fitting them to the locks. The sooner I left the shore behind, the safer I’d feel. There would be time, later, to rest and to think; for now, I needed to send the boat through the water, taking myself away from Svolvaen, and danger. It was a struggle to breach the waves, tilting the blade to the right angle, but I was soon taking longer strokes, letting the boat glide onwards, with the great cliffs rising on either side.

  I was shaken, weary and anxious but an old part of myself was awakening — the girl who’d climbed the tallest trees and swum in forest pools, who’d hunted rabbits and spun her own fate. If I were to survive, I’d need to be brave, and resourceful.

  The moon appeared again, illuminating the sheer face of the crags. I was further along than I’d realized, moving parallel with the escarpment. Stilling the oars, I looked for an opening wide and low and jagged either side: Helka’s cave. I dipped the oars again, taking care not to drift close. Perhaps I’d gone too far. I might so easily have missed what I sought, in the faint, silvered light.

  And then I saw it: the distinctive opening in the cliff and the narrow passageway through which I must pass. Another moment and I’d be level, relying on my oars to guide me, risking the little wooden boat on the jutting rocks.

  I felt the swell rising as I approached, the upward surge as it pushed into the inlet, lifting the boat and tossing me towards the unyielding stone. I reached out my oar, endeavouring to push myself away, but the force of the waves was too violent. There was a judder as the bow connected, an alarming scrape and grind of buckling planks. I braced with a single oar, only to see it splinter and snap. Unthinkingly, I did the same with my hands, crying out as my palms scraped upon limpets. The boat swayed beneath me, spinning to rasp upon the opposing rocks. I whimpered as the hull creaked, waiting for a crack of rupture which would end all. Water was about my ankles, the boat tilting. Grasping for the remaining oar, I pushed again off the rock and, with all my might, moving its blade desperately from one side of the boat to the other, propelled myself towards the cave’s shelter.

  26

  Even as the sun rose high the next day, it remained cold within the cavern. I was drawn to the furthest ledge in pursuit of warmth, of some touch of daylight. Watching the surf swelling and surging beneath, I sheltered unseen. Only one would guess I was here, and for her I waited. Helka would know what to say, what to do. She, I felt certain, would take my part.

  What could I do but wait? The boat had been damaged badly, sinking beneath me as I scrambled out. With the dawn’s thin light, I found it had disappeared altogether. Only the splintered oar remained, its fragments floating out of reach.

  I’d found Helka’s provisions: leather pouches of water, cheese and smoked ham. The cave’s cool interior had preserved them well and how good they tasted, filling my mouth not just with flavour but with their solidity, with the pleasure of eating. I made myself chew slowly, passing each piece over my tongue; I didn’t know how long I’d need them to last; even eaten sparingly, they dwindled quickly.

  Lying on my belly, I caught a sliver of shattered oar from the water, thinking I’d use it to prise limpets as the birds did with their beaks, but the wood was already too soft to be of use. Eventually, I found a shell, the cast-off casing of a mollusc long-dead, the inside smooth. It was a better tool, affording me several tiny mouthfuls, but those soft creatures clung tenacious to the rocks. In desperation, I smashed until my knuckles bled.

  Scraping slimed algae and pliant seaweed from the rocks, my nails tore ragged. I pressed my mouth where my fingers were inept, tugging with my teeth, eager for any nourishment. Each swallow made me only thirstier, my mouth brine-soaked, parched dry amidst so much water. I was steeped in the sea, the stinging spray penetrating not just my clothes but my skin and my eyes, its touch a torment to my cracked lips.

  I fell to licking from the damp walls, my tongue raw against the rough formation of the stone, seeking respite from the salt, needing fresh water. Time dripped as slowly as that thin trickle upon which I depended. It dripped in the long darkness and through the muted day, falling like those beads of moisture on the rock.

  I eyed the gulls soaring beyond the entrance of the cavern, wondering how they would taste, imagining the satisfaction of their flesh in my belly. None came near. It seemed more likely that they’d pick my bones than I theirs.

  Nights passed in the cavern’s embrace. I curled upon the gnawing ache of hunger, shivering, hiding my face in the crook of my elbow, wrapped in sweat despite the cold. The world had reduced to this damp place of stone and sea, to rock and water and the chill inside my bones.

  Only in slumber was there relief. In my dreams, I joined the boys I’d played with in my childhood, swimming in the forest lake, gulping down great mouthfuls, sweet and refreshing. How we would run, and jump from the highest rocks above, falling deep through the water, kicking up to emerge, gasping and laughing.

  I saw my grandmother, kissing me goodnight, my aunt and the mother I’d barely known. Would I soon meet them all again? And Eirik. I dreamed of his soft kiss and of his arms, strong about me.

  I dreamt, too, of entombment and engulfing dark, and woke to find it real. My chest, seizing tight, choked the air from my lungs: too thick to breathe.

  By the feeble light of day, I woke to throbbing within my left hand. I understood and felt the clutch of fear. There was a lesion, as I’d seen so many times. My fever had not just been from the cold but from the affliction I’d avoided all these months, caring for others in the village. Across the width of my palm, the sore was livid purple, the centre beginning to blister.

  How much time had passed? How long would it be until Helka came? Had she and Eirik been detained by Jarl Ósvífur, or been attacked by a rival clan on their return journey from Bjorgyn? The duration of their absence had been far longer than expected, even before I took refuge in the cave. I clutched Eirik’s amulet and evoked the gods. I did not wish to die, but to stay here would be my end.

  I’d been a strong swimmer, once. Shouldn’t I try? Swim for the shore; find some other place to hide. With limbs heavy and my head light, I sat upon the furthest point of the ledge, waited for a lull between the waves and lowered myself into the sea.

  27

  Closing my eyes against the brightness all around, I kicked hard. Dwelling in that cramped, underground space, I’d grown used to its gloom and the confinement of its walls. The sky now felt huge and the sun dazzling. I knew I must clear the perilous rocks. Only then would I have a chance.

  Almost immediately, the swell lifted me high then plunged low, saltwater entering my nose and throat. I struggled and spluttered as the current swept me sideways. Scraping my elbow, I spun, reaching out my hands to stop myself. I caught my breath in pain but fought forward, almost dragged under before being hoisted upwards on a surging wave and pushed beyond the jagged granite.

  I felt the difference at once and was filled with optimism. If I might now stay afloat, I could kick my way to shore. Yet, as I began to swim, I seemed to make no progress. The realization came to me in a flood of despair. How foolish I was! I’d never reach the shore, for the tide was on its way out, drawing me with it. I’d be swept out of the fjord, to the op
en sea.

  In my panic, I kicked harder. I might, perhaps, make my way back to the rocks, drag myself hand over hand, returning to the cavern. That hope was in vain for the current was strong. Already, I was drawing level with the next opening in the cliff: a smaller hollow, without visible ledge but also without rocks. I might take refuge there and wait for the turning tide. Summoning the last of my will, I thrashed through the water. Turning my body, I swept close to the cliff face and braced myself. Knowing how easily the waves could crush me against the unyielding granite, I launched myself into the cave.

  I entered green twilight, the water calm. It stretched back a long way, ending in a shelf wide enough for me to sit upon, perhaps to lie. Algae grew thick upon the walls, fanning like hair where it touched the brine. I clutched a clump, pulling myself by its anchor, to heave myself from the sea.

  Had I the strength, I might have cried but my quiet despair lodged in my throat. I fisted my left hand shut, not wishing to see what I knew grew there. My head throbbed with the fever and my limbs trembled. I could think no further than to rest, to sleep, curling upon myself as animals do, knowing themselves in the grip of sickness.

  She came to me in my dreams. I lay in a lush meadow, the cornflowers tall around me and the sun warm, my eyes closed to its glare. I heard her singing and then felt her gown brushing against my leg, from my ankle to my knee. There was nothing to fear for she was with me. I opened my eyes and saw her face as lovely as it had ever been.

  I woke to find my leg trailing in the water, long strands of green sweeping my skin. It had only been a fanciful reverie, yet I felt somehow comforted and renewed by Asta’s appearance. And there was something familiar in the sensation on my leg. Had it been the same that I’d felt those days before, when I’d been bound to the pier?

  Something else had brought me from sleep. Not touch but sound, for there was a rushing noise, the low rumble of a storm and, closer, the sound of trickling water. The light was dim, for it was the first of the day, but enough to show me rain upon the sea and a low mist.

  My body had no wish to move. Scraped, aching and fevered, my inclination was to close my eyes once more. Too long since I’d eaten, too long since I’d been warm or dry. The struggle had left me.

  The tide would be turning but it would do me no good. My legs were leaden and my body bruised; to swim seemed impossible. Straightening my arm brought a stab of pain. The abrasion on my elbow had crusted then broken. The sore on my left palm itched. I opened it partially and winced. I clutched still some algae, torn as I’d dragged myself from the water, its slender strands plastered to the lesion. I would examine it later, when I had the mind. There were nagging irritations elsewhere on my body that I refused to dwell upon. I’d no wish to look, for what good would it do?

  I lay still, listening to a steady drip and splash. Helka had told me the cliffs were riddled with chasms and cracks, crevices through which water would travel. Perhaps if I could find the source, there would be fresh water to drink — enough to wet my mouth, at least. Turning my head, I saw the fissure and a faint slant of light. Would it be wide enough for me squeeze through?

  I groaned as I found my feet, my back and limbs protesting, head reeling, but it was good to stand. If I allowed myself to sleep, the temptation would be to never wake again.

  The first section of the opening was the hardest to breach, the bones of my hip chafing awkwardly. Had I tried even a week ago, my flesh would have been too ample. There was a curve, obliging me to bend then crawl. I shuffled on my knees and knuckles, hearing the trickle of water, telling myself it would be only a little further. If the tunnel came to naught, forbidding me final passage, it would be more than I could bear.

  At last, the rock receded and I emerged into a narrow column of space. I felt a change in the air: only a fraction warmer but certainly brighter. What I sought was flowing down the wall, forming a clear pool beneath. I plunged my lips, drinking greedily until my stomach ached to bursting. Craning my neck to look upwards, I almost laughed with relief, for there was sunlight and a fresher smell: a hole through the rock, to the cliffs above. The gods had answered my prayers, showing me the way.

  The rising granite had footholds and places my hands could grasp but it would be coated in fine algae, running with water. If I slipped, my bones would find their rest here, hidden in the heart of the rock.

  My left arm was in pain and my right gashed. Could I take the rough treatment of climbing? I still felt feverish — my forehead hot and my hands clammy. I steeled myself to unfurl my fingers, knowing that I must inspect my palm. Algae had pressed into the tender flesh, preventing me from seeing the progress of the lesion. I lifted the strands, easing them from the sore. It was tender but there was no ooze of pus. The blister had reduced in size with no tinge of yellow, no appearance of aggressive infection. Pink and swollen though it was, it appeared to be healing. I flexed my hand and blanched a little but the discomfort was bearable.

  Not only had divine forces watched over me but nature, too, offering her bounty. I rested my head against the rock and gave my silent thanks. Wasn’t this what I’d been looking for, all these long months? I’d investigated many of the seaweeds along Svolvaen’s shore but had never found this fine-threaded variety. The gods had led me here. This would be the remedy for those who’d shown me love, and those who’d doubted me.

  It would be easy to return later, with other villagers, to bring a boat and fill it with enough to treat every person in Svolvaen many times over, but how could I re-appear in the village empty-handed? The charge of being a witch would mar the miracle of my survival in their eyes. If I brought the cure which they needed, perhaps it would convince them of my true intentions. No algae grew in this small space where the spray did not reach. I grunted my discomfort as I crawled back through the fissure but was driven by the thought of Astrid, Ylva, Torhilda and her children. I’d collect what I needed and climb from this place. I’d cure the affliction for which others had blamed me and, in the process, save myself.

  My apron I tucked upon itself, creating a pouch in front and behind, to stuff with the algae growing plentifully from the walls. With the torment of hunger nagging me, I pushed some into my mouth, making myself chew the thin strands. I’d need what strength I could muster to make my climb.

  A further length I twisted secure around my hand. My mind and heart were set.

  28

  Had the incline been steeper I would never have succeeded, but the tunnel provided ledges upon which I took respite, bracing my feet on the opposing side, allowing me to rest my heated forehead against the cool rock. Several times, I hit my skull and lashed the air with curses but an inner determination pushed me on. I’d come so far and would not fail.

  No matter what lay in store, I’d perform this last act. Ylva would be released from the sores that blighted her young beauty, and Torhilde, too.

  The sun was well past its zenith when my face met its warmth, the landscape soft bathed in splendour. Pressing my cheek to the moist grass, my tears welled. I’d been lost to love, had been entombed, but I’d emerged into the light again.

  After the quiet of the subterranean passage, I marvelled at how the world hummed: bees hovering and dipping, grasshoppers in the clover, and the chirrup of birds. The breeze carried the sound of every rustling leaf. The grass was as I’d never seen it, each blade defined. A buzzard circled, sailing wild above the cliffs, observing everything in sharp detail, as I now did.

  I set my jaw and inhaled deeply. Tempting as it was to lay in the late afternoon sunshine, to let it dry my clothes and revive my aching body, I needed to hide. Only after dusk would I creep down the hill, skirting behind the huts, seeking refuge in Astrid’s home.

  The last time I’d entered the shade of the trees, the wild strawberries had barely begun to flower; now, the fruits were ripe, staining my trembling fingers as I crammed their sweetness to my mouth. Beneath, the moss was soft: a bed waiting for my head. I found the oblivion of sleep, knowing that
I’d soon be with those I cared for.

  It was night when my eyes opened again. My body was stiff but my palm no longer felt tight and tender. My head felt clearer than it had in days, and the skin cool. Had eating the algae released the fever from my blood? I marvelled at its properties. Steeped in boiling water, it might make an effective brew.

  A bird shifted in the bushes, disturbing a fluttering of moths, their flimsy wings flitting past my cheek. I thought I heard a sigh. I swallowed against the sour taste in my mouth, the pang in the back of my throat. Was someone here? My neck prickled at the thought.

  There was no footstep through the undergrowth, no snapping of twigs. Peering deeper through the velvet dark, I saw nothing, but the conviction remained that someone breathed at my shoulder.

  A rush of feeling overcame me. “Asta?” How thin my voice was: a quivering reed in this great forest. Huddling my arms close, I felt for the amulet at my neck. My hand brushed the brooch, still pinned high on my apron. Asta’s brooch: the one she’d given me.

  I’d dreamt of her, in the cave — had felt her touch. I’d feared her spirit’s anger, but it had never been her way.

  “Forgive me, Asta.” My voice still quaked.

  In the distance, an owl hooted and took flight, its hunting sights set. It was time, too, for me to leave, to rejoin those who’d shown me friendship.

  29

  On my second knock, Ylva opened the door.