Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1)

by Norris, Màiri

  He repeated his first question. “Why are you here?”

  “The Stethi sank.”

  Brandr halted. “What?”

  Fuzzy memories clamored through his aching head and suddenly came into focus. Já. He remembered now, watching the ship go under. The Stethi was the drekar Sindre had commanded.

  Sindre peered back at him. “Did you happen to notice the gift we left you on the shore? We found him trying to chop a hole in the Hauss. We stopped him. What we did not know was that he had already removed a good-sized chunk of the hull of the Stethi, just above the water line, packed it with mud and moss, then threw a skin over it and shoved one of the chests in front of it. As soon as we began rowing into the open sea, the mud washed away. By the time we discovered where the leak was coming from, we had already shipped too much water. We could not bail fast enough. We gathered as many of the supplies as we could and when the ship started to go under, we dived for the Hauss and the Andskoti, except I decided to make a little detour. You know I cannot resist a good adventure, and I thought you might appreciate company on the way home.”

  By the time he had finished the tale, Brandr was holding his side while he roared with laughter. Such a ridiculous turn of events could happen only to Sindre. Gasping, he hurried to catch up. “And Karl? He will live?”

  “When we got to the beach we removed the axe and let the seawater cleanse the wound. Olaf slapped some of that foul mess he carries around on it, and bound it up. Karl will feel a twinge or two for a few days, but I expect it will heal. I bound your side, in case you have not noticed.”

  “I did.”

  They were nearly halfway around what was left of the east side of Yriclea’s timber palisade, when a new sound had them both pulling a weapon. Brandr caught Sindre’s gaze. They had believed none still lived but themselves.

  “I will go.” If the low mewling was what he believed it to be, Brandr preferred to be the one to first confront its source. He stalked along the base of a section of the palisade that had not burned with the rest, its height offering cover. He peered around the corner.

  A lone female of medium height dug at a shallow hole in the ground nigh the wreckage of the gates. Her clothing was badly rumpled, and she looked as if she had dumped one of her own shovelfuls of earth over her head, for dirt dimmed the gold of her hair, smudged her face and dusted her shoulders. Here and there, smears of ash added to the dishevelment. An ugly red streak on her wrist evidenced a burn.

  She wept steadily, the tears forming muddy tracks down her cheeks. To one side lay a slender form wrapped for burial in bloodied, smoke-stained linen. The girl had naught but a broken-handled wooden shovel to work with, and though her efforts had met with little success, determination hardened her watery expression. He had seen that depth of fierce resolve more than once, usually on the face of his brother Hakon. She would finish digging the grave if it brought about her own death.

  His lips firmed. Her efforts might not kill her, but he would. A warrior’s honor did not forbid compassion, even toward a captive. She was without protection. Left alone, the best she could hope for was death by starvation, if the predators did not find her first. He saw no need to allow her to suffer. He would approach and speak gently to her, and when her fears were eased, snap her neck before she knew to be afraid.

  His keen gaze searched in all directions, but he neither saw nor sensed any other presence but hers, and that of Sindre behind him. His uncle would have only one use for an unwanted female before killing her, one he did not wish the girl to endure.

  He threw a whisper over his shoulder. “Wait.”

  He moved into the open and strode toward her. She did not at first notice him. All her attention was given to the work at her feet, and the soft keening of her sorrow masked his approach. He stopped a few feet from her and set his face in the pleasant lines that never failed to entice the women back home. He waited.

  Even through the cloud of dirt, she was lovely, though her whole mien carried the bruised, exhausted look oft displayed by those unaccustomed to slaughter and violence. Marked as a thrall by the short, thick length of her hair, she wore a simple brown cyrtel, but the fabric was of a fine, soft weave, costly and well made. No mere drudge worker this, but a house slave highly valued by her owner. The thin summer gown did little to hide the rounded, pleasing curves of her form and he repressed an unwanted surge of desire. He did not rape, not even slaves.

  Some sense must have alerted her, for she lifted her gaze. She went silent, and as still as the quick, painless death he would grant her. Terror briefly twisted her expression, but she did not scream, nor did she faint or run. She stared back at him through tear-washed eyes, their black centers huge and ringed with golden brown. An unexpected intelligence took his measure. She sniffed, and one hand rose to wipe at the tears.

  Had he not respect for her grief, he might have chuckled, for the action further smeared her dirty cheeks, like a child caught playing in the mud.

  She swallowed, and returned to her task. Either she had decided he had no intent to kill her out of hand, or did not care.

  He made to speak gently to her, but she pursed lust-inducing lips, and silenced him with a shake of her head. Thinking her dazed and thus not fully aware, he stepped to her side and sought to take the shovel.

  She would have none of it. She straightened and broke into a spate of words. “No! She was my lady. I will bury her. No other hands but mine will touch her.”

  She turned another shovelful of dirt and threw it almost at his feet.

  “I will help, if you will allow it.”

  She started. “Who are you? You speak…differently.” She ran her gaze over him and her eyes widened further. “Are you traders or…wicing?”

  Though she sounded horrified, her voice was not that of an untutored thrall. Musical and light, its tones vibrated straight into his gut.

  “Já, víkingr, you may call us that, though in our language, we are inn Danski. Norræner menn.”

  At the blank look that crossed her face, he elaborated further. “In your tongue, Nordmanna.”

  Understanding dawned. “Northmen. Yes.”

  He wondered at her calm. In other raids, females had cowered in terror of him, yet this woman seemed to easily control her fear. Perhaps it was as he thought, that she was too stunned by the day’s events to feel aught.

  “Some summers,” he said, “when we go í-víking, we trade rather than raid. I learned as a child to speak other languages to ease the bargaining.”

  She started to dig again, and he felt a tug of annoyance. Females did not ignore him, and this one had no right to refuse should he choose to press his attentions. Not that he would, but she could not know that.

  “I would help you. Work is finished twice as quickly with two pairs of willing hands.”

  She did not look up. “Why?”

  Again, she surprised him. Thralls did not question, especially when faced with a warrior of unknown temper. Perhaps she spoke so because she expected to die.

  “Because I wish it,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Lissa.”

  It suited her.

  She suddenly tensed, her attention flashing in new terror to a point beyond his shoulder.

  “Will you talk her to death, Músa?” Sindre said in their tongue. “Either take the shovel from her and finish the work, or kill her.”

  “She wishes to honor her lady by digging the grave herself.”

  “She should have left her to burn.” A new note entered Sindre’s voice. “Shall I take her off your hands, Brandr? She is comely, and lushly formed. I will lay her on yonder soft grass and pleasure her gently and well before I send her to serve her lady. Or if you prefer, I will share her with you.”

  Brandr bowed his head, not wanting Sindre to see his sudden burst of temper. Along with his father, Sindre had been fostered by a brute of a jarl who believed all he wanted was his, merely by right of desiring it. Females, especially, were fair game, and the
ir wishes had played no part in the man’s use of them. He had once been a great warrior, but to Brandr’s mind, had little honor, and he had loathed him. When he heard of the old man’s death—the fool got drunk and fell into the fjord and drowned, losing his place in Valhöll—he had offered a rich sacrifice to Thorr in thanks. But too much of the foul man’s influence remained in his father, who cared more for silver than for his family, and in Sindre, who unwisely took what he wanted with no thought for aught else. Both followed the tenets of Odinn, and to a lesser extent, of Loki. It twisted them.

  “Nei.”

  “Nei? She is a thrall. Do not tell me you care what happens to her.”

  “Nei.”

  Sindre snorted. “Have it your way, Músa.” He flung the word at Brandr. “My brother should have beaten a bolder attitude into you when you were young. You behave as if you wear a smokkr and have no man parts. At least have sense enough to kill her before we leave.”

  He stashed his axe in his belt and made his way through the mess of bodies and broken timbers at the gate, scorn evident in every move.

  Brandr did not respond. Sindre loved him, but would never understand him. He had long ago ceased to care.

  His gaze flicked back to Lissa. Eyes wide, she watched Sindre go. When his uncle disappeared through the drifting smoke into the village common, her shoulders lost some of their tension. Her gaze came back to him, and then quickly dropped. She could not have known what they said, but it was clear she suspected they argued over her.

  “Give me the shovel.” This time there was no mistaking the command.

  She hesitated, then released the instrument to his grasp. The soft skin of her palms was blistered, another indication of the high status she had held.

  “Who was your lady?”

  “Eadgida, wife of Wolnoth, our thegn.”

  In his hands, the grave deepened rapidly. “How is it you escaped the death, Lissa Eadgida-thrall, and why did others not also find safety?”

  “There was no time. One moment Hemert was telling us of Northmen at the gates…,” She flicked a glance at him, “and the next, soldiers from the war band were inside the walls, killing and killing.”

  He cursed beneath his breath. The war band had only to step through the gates after he broke them down. Again, he regretted the ill timing that botched the raid. He and his men would not have slain everything in sight. Their goal had been to take as many slaves as possible.

  “The thegn was at the door, shouting,” Lissa continued. “My lady put a candle in my hand and shoved me into a safe place, but did not come there, herself. She told me she loved me, and ordered I stay quiet and…and then she barred the entry. She would not release me, though I begged her, but said she would return as soon as the thegn came.”

  The last words sounded strangled. Brandr did not look at her, nor did he pause.

  “She never did,” she said. “I heard their voices in the sleeping chamber and tried to break through, but could not. There were screams, and the thegn cried out in rage. My lady called his name and then there was naught but the soldiers, rampaging through the house. I remember weeping, and praying and being so frightened and angry I did not know what to do. I smelled the smoke and knew they had set fire to the village. That’s when I…moved away. I waited a long time, until the raiders went away and the fires…the fires burned down. There was naught left.” Her words hitched in a ragged sob. “I counted the dead. They took none as slaves, and left none alive. None! They even slew the animals. Our village was peaceful and our thegn a good man. I cannot understand the purpose of those who did this. It was as if they desired only to destroy.”

  Brandr threw aside the spade, an inner shrug his only response. It was the way of things, and naught to him. “The grave is deep enough.” He bent to lift the shoulders of the dead woman. “Take up her feet.”

  “No. Do not drop her, I beg you. I…I loved her.”

  Sighing, he dragged the body close to the edge of the shallow pit and leapt inside. He lifted it and set it on the ground, then climbed out. He started to shovel the dirt, but in a daring move, she touched his hand to stop him. He nearly jerked away at the fiery pulse that shot straight to his man parts. She looked as startled as he felt, as if she too, had experienced that jolt. He set his teeth and nodded, stepping back. She flushed, but schooled her features and knelt at the foot of the grave. Her fingers found a leather string around her neck and pulled from beneath the bodice of her cyrtel a small, silver cross.

  Brandr blinked. She was a Christian. He did not know why he was surprised. Most Saxons were.

  She kissed the icon, crossed herself and began to pray. He wondered briefly if she had stolen the costly item, but it was of no importance. When she was dead, he would keep it, to remember her loyalty and to honor her courage.

  He turned away, looking for Sindre as he strode through the smashed gates. He saw no sign of him, but most likely, his uncle had no desire to watch him make a fool of himself, as he would deem it. He would be searching for whatever useful items he could find to aid them in their journey. In the distance a wolf howled, and was answered, not too close, but nigh enough. The sun arced toward the western horizon. Soon, they must leave.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  From beneath her lashes, Lissa watched as the one called Brandr left her to go inside the walls. Her eyes closed as a deep, rolling shudder vibrated from head to toe. He had startled her deeply, appearing as he did, as if by magic. At that first, shocking sight of him, she had thought him an apparition, a creature of nightmares come to life. Tall and powerful, built for warfare, he might have sprung from savage, primal legend.

  His clothing was well made and of good quality. Close fitting trousers of a red so dark it was nigh black encased long, heavily muscled legs. A padded gold undertunic, with sleeves reaching to the elbow and hemmed with woven bands of red and gold, was bound at the waist by a leather belt with a bronze buckle.

  Those things were ordinary enough, but from there, ‘normal’ ceased. Dark splotches of dried blood sprinkled his lower garb. Along his side, the tunic was soaked with it. The frightful blue markings on his hands were dashed with blood as well, and ugly streaks of dark red marred his neck, the lower part of his jaw and crusted his right forehead. Was any of it his? If he suffered injury, he did not show it.

  His nose was straight, his hair the tawny hue of ripe barley grain, flaxen streaked. Three rows of plaits on each side of his head ran from his temples to behind his ears, taming shoulder-length locks as tightly curled as the new ferns of the forest. One of the heathen blue marks decorated his left temple. Another series of patterns, nigh hidden beneath the blood, began in front of his left ear and trailed downward to curve around and below the sharp angle of his jaw. A wide arm ring of twisted bronze and silver gripped his left forearm. The only other thing about him that appeared normal to her eyes was his facial hair, though he wore less of it than most Saxon men. His mustache was thick, but his beard was naught more than a single, narrow strip of barley-hued hair, close-trimmed, as a warrior would wear. It covered only the point of his chin, softening the sharply defined angles of the jaw.

  Still, it was not the strange, fearful look of him that transfixed her, but his eyes. Piercing, crystal clear blue, their rich color intensified by the sea-tan of his skin and emphasized by the hue of the markings, they peered intently at her from beneath curved brows. It was as if he wished to communicate some thought to her, but without speaking. Her skin had prickled with the disturbing sense those eyes could see all she sought to hide. He had smiled at her as if he wished to put her at ease, as if she were an acquaintance he welcomed. Did he not know what a terrifying sight he made, nigh drenched in blood, and with a disturbing and unfamiliar light in those blue orbs?

  Then she had touched him, and the confusion he wrought multiplied. Never had a mere graze of fingers upon the flesh of another brought about such a keen awareness. It was as if a shaft of the leashed force she sensed in him had leapt through her ow
n veins, linking them somehow. She still felt him as if he stood beside her, though he was no longer in sight.

  Shifting her weight from one knee to the other, she tried to return to her prayers, but instead found herself wondering about the blood. Both men showed plain signs of battle, hard fought, but why, and where were the rest of their men? Had they come here alone?

  She frowned, the chaos of the morning’s battle returning to her thoughts. When the attack began, Hemart, Yriclea’s second marshal, had come to tell Thegn Wolnoth that Northmen had used the fog to slip, unseen, almost to the gates before their presence had been detected. Their shield wall protected them from the arrows loosed upon them, and he feared they would quickly break through, but had assured the thegn his force was ready to repel them. He had not returned, but not long after had come the report that their enemy was not the dreaded raiders from the sea, but the large war band from north of Yriclea that had recently harassed the village and attacked the ceorls and their farms.

  If that was true, what were the—víkingrs, as the one called Brandr had named them—doing in Yriclea? The only thing that made sense was that they had come to scout for trade—for all knew Northmen were the most skilled of that ilk—and the rest of their companions awaited them elsewhere. Perhaps they had learned too late their visit was ill timed, and had gotten caught up in the fighting. It was a strange chance indeed, but not impossible. Aye, that explained it. They were merchants. Now that all hope of profit from Yriclea was gone, they would return home.

  In haste, she completed her prayers and rose to finish her lady’s burial, her thoughts still on the Northmen. Were all Danes as unusual as these? She had shaken her head at Brandr when he tried to interrupt her work, believing him not quite real, and hoping he would disappear as suddenly as he had come. Instead, flesh and blood, he stepped toward her. She had braced for death at his bloody hand. It shocked her when instead, he offered, in tones soothing and deep, to finish the digging. It was not at all what she expected of a barbaric víkingr. His action spoke of a strange sort of honor.