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

by Norris, Màiri

  “Nei.”

  “I begin to grow weary of hearing that word from you.”

  “Then make no more suggestions you know I will reject.”

  “She is a thrall, Brandr, and one of little use. She holds us back. Today, much of the work required to cover our trail was of her making. Our chances of getting the gold home would be markedly better without her.”

  “She stays.”

  “You do not trust her.”

  “She stays!”

  Sindre’s expression darkened. “Since you seem wakeful, keep watch on the food that it does not burn.”

  He unrolled his sleep sack and stretched out upon it. His snores followed a short while later.

  Brandr set aside his ring-shirt, his gaze falling on the slender form cuddled close under his hand. Lissa seemed to prefer sleeping nigh him. Já, and during the day, she spent half her time trodding upon his heels as if she feared he would leave her behind. Or perhaps, it was only that she rightly feared Sindre.

  His jaw tightened. Listening to the soft sounds of pleasure she made as she bathed earlier this day had incited a singularly unpleasant response. All his efforts to control his imagination had been for naught. When it became too much to bear, he decided to end it, only to find her in the clinging wet cyrtel. The sight had been more arousing than had she been naked, yet she was so much an innocent, and unaware of the effect she had on him.

  Then she had curled up by the fire and combed out the cropped, spiky strands of her hair. It was the first time he had seen it free of dirt and ash, and was reminded of the fall of yellow fire that tumbled from Sindre’s hand when he first found the gold. She followed that with sewing up the slit seam his knife had made in the shoulder of the old brown cyrtel. The domestic scene, coming so quickly after the one at the stream, had given rise to uneasy visions of things he had not yet earned, of his own lands and home, of a woman by his side and children of his loins.

  The fire crackled and hissed as fat dripped from the cooking meat. He turned the spit to let the pieces crisp on the opposite side, then stared into the flames.

  It was not that he wished for Lissa as his wife. He grimaced, uncertain why he allowed that unsavory thought to form, even fleetingly. Lesser warriors sometimes wed thralls, but nobles did not, though he remembered a tale of days long past when a great warrior jarl had married the beautiful princess he captured. Lissa, while bright and lovely, was no princess, nor of noble blood. When he took her from Yriclea, her life became of no value except that which he made of it.

  Even did he set her free, without legal residence of her own, she was unworthy of aught but his lust. If he could not control that, he would make her his concubine. He knew now she would not fight him, for the strength of her passion for him matched his own. She could even bear him sons without condemnation. He would keep her in his home until time came to take a noble wife, then he would build a house, close by, for her and their children. Já. That was the sensible course. It was but a matter of firming his will in line with what was right and proper.

  With the matter resolved to his satisfaction, he waited for his unease to abate, and was surprised when it did not. Abruptly, he became aware he had let his vigilance slip. Silently cursing the unforgivable lapse, he relaxed, setting his senses free to seek the threat. The hair on his nape rose and he fought the clamor of nerves that demanded he leap to his feet, Frækn in hand, to meet the danger. Somewhere in the dark, a watcher lurked. Maybe, more than one. Had the Yriclea hearth companions found them, or others?

  That he and Sindre were not yet riddled with arrows was a good sign, for it meant the enemy might wish to take them alive. Keeping his movements unhurried and natural, he removed the meat from the fire and offered the spies a huge yawn. He scratched a non-existent itch and got to his feet, then turned in the opposite direction from the source of the intent regard. He moved away from the fire, unfastening his trousers as if he meant to relieve himself, expecting with each step to feel the agony of a lance or a shaft embedding itself in his back.

  He melted into the relative safety of the darkness without mishap, then flitted from tree to tree, silently circling the camp. None challenged him, and he felt no presence but his own and that other. Perhaps his initial impression of a solitary watcher was correct. He neared the place where he believed the man hid and halted. He let his gaze roam among the various shapes of the undergrowth until it came to rest on a shadowy hump that did not belong. He waited.

  His patience was rewarded when the hump moved restlessly, leaning away from the tree trunk. The profile of a man’s head, with the unmistakable upthrust of a hunting bow slung across his back, was briefly outlined by the light from the fire. He was now certain this intruder was alone.

  The figure squawked and froze when his fingers tangled in his greasy hair and jerked his head backwards to expose his throat. The blade of his sax caressed the skin, slicing just enough to emphasize the warning.

  He spoke in a whisper. “Why do you spy upon us?”

  The fellow shook as if caught in an ague-induced fever. He stammered a response three times before it came out intelligible. “I, I…I am hungry!”

  The answer stunned Brandr. It was the last thing he had expected to hear. He dragged the man to his feet by his hair and was further startled by the fellow’s small size.

  The knife sliced a fraction deeper, eliciting a strangled yelp. “Beg pardon, leóf! Please, do not hurt me! I meant no harm. It was the smell of the meat cooking. I could not help myself.”

  The spy was but a boy, and not a particularly brave one. Brandr voiced his deepest growl, hoping to put the fear of Thorr into the scamp. “Where are the others who came with you?”

  “There are no others, I swear it!”

  “You would have me believe you, a child, are here alone? Where are your parents?”

  “I am a man!” The tone of the words was indignant. “I have nine summers. I can take care of myself.”

  Brandr grinned into the darkness and relaxed. Typical response of a male so young. He deemed him little threat, and he had told the truth. He was alone. “Answer my question.”

  “My mum and pa are dead. I can prove it so.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “They lie buried with my sister, past the cottage, yonder.”

  So, if this was also truth, the youngling was an orphan, kin to those Sindre had found buried. Better and better. He could use another thrall. He eased the sax blade away from his skin, but still kept it close to the neck. “I am told the cottage appears to have been abandoned for some time. Where do you live if not there?”

  “My pa was a charcoal maker. He moved us here from our village, but I do not remember how long ago. I was only a boy.” His tone indicated he thought himself grown. “They all got sick—that was in the month of feasting—from eating bad meat. They died. After I buried them, I went south to the village to find work. One of the ceorls saw me and decided he wanted a new slave. He chained me. He did not treat me good, but I got away and came back here. It is not safe to stay in the cottage. Others have come, and they took what they wanted. Maybe, they would also take me away, like the ceorl. I do not want to be a slave.”

  So, his family had been dead for nigh two months. “Why did you not die from eating the bad meat?”

  “I did not eat of it.”

  “Why not?”

  The lad fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with both the knife still at his neck and the question. “Do I have to answer, leóf?”

  “Já, you do.”

  “I did not eat because I was not allowed. It was…punishment.”

  It was all Brandr could do to keep from laughing at the aggrieved assertion. “What crime did you commit to receive such a harsh penance as going to bed without supper?”

  “I forgot to feed the pigs.”

  “Ah. Then your punishment was just, was it not? I am sure the pigs were equally as hungry as you.”

  “I suppose.”

  “W
hat are you called?”

  “Alwin.”

  “Like it or not, Alwin, you will be my thrall, but how I deal with you will be your choice. If you obey, work hard and do not lie to me, I will treat you well and make sure you have enough to eat. I will punish you only when you deserve it. If you will give your word of honor—and you know how important it is a man keeps his sworn oath—you will not try to escape, I will not tie or chain you, excepting a collar. Have I your word?”

  He waited while the boy thought it over. Just when he thought Alwin would not answer, he pulled himself straight. Ignoring the sax, he raised his chin. “Aye, leóf, I do give my oath not to escape, and to obey.”

  Brandr sheathed his sax and relieved Alwin of his bow and an eating hadseax. “Do not believe yourself safe now I have put away the knife. I can kill you so quickly with my bare hands you would be dead before you knew it happened.” His words were true, but saying them would suitably impress a boy of this one’s years. “Do you understand?”

  “Aye, leóf. I will make no trouble, I swear.”

  Still lugging him by the hair, he dragged the lad toward the camp.

  Sindre waited, axe in hand, a huge, darkly shadowed form, backlit by the light. “Oh, ho! What have we here, a new throat to satisfy the blood-thirst of Frithr? I would gladly savor the pleasure if you have no stomach for it, Músa.”

  He caressed the weapon’s gleaming edge, but never took his eyes off the captive.

  Brandr rolled his eyes. “Put away your weapon, Uncle. This one will better serve as another gift to appease Father’s ire.”

  Sindre went still. “We have had this conversation. I do not wish to repeat it.”

  “Then, do not. I captured him. I keep him.”

  “I regret my hasty decision to join you on this journey, Brandr. Had I known the softness of your will, I would have left you to die the ignoble death you seek.”

  Brandr shoved the boy to the ground. “If you move, I will kill you.”

  He launched himself at Sindre. Elation flashed that he took his uncle by surprise, but lasted no longer than the split-moment it took for Sindre to respond. The resulting scuffle had a sleepy, terrified Lissa screaming, the boy scrambling out of harm’s way and both he and his uncle sporting bruises, burns from rolling through the fire and a painful slice or two of unprotected skin.

  It ended with Sindre at Brandr’s mercy, his uncle grunting at the point of the knife threatening his life vein. Astonished at his victory—his uncle was one of the best fighters he knew—Brandr snarled, “Shall I demonstrate for you the softness of my will, Uncle?”

  Sindre started to laugh, the sound rapidly ascending into loud guffaws so strong he could barely draw breath.

  Disgusted, Brandr gave him a mighty shove and leapt away, maintaining a fighting stance. He did not trust Sindre in this mood. He glanced around, satisfied to find his new thrall still in the camp. The boy’s mouth hung open, his eyes huge and dark. Lissa fared little better. She stared at him in stunned silence. He had a vague recollection of ear-splitting shrieks as the two of them rolled completely over her while she struggled to free herself from the enveloping húdfat. She looked rather disheveled, but did not appear damaged.

  Sindre’s mirth finally subsided. He lurched to his feet, spit blood and stuck his axe in his belt. “You surprise me, Músa, but pleasantly so. By the many shapes of Loki, I began to think you had lost your taste for bloodshed.”

  Brandr hid a grimace and relaxed. He should have known the altercation was one of his uncle’s twisted jests. Disdaining the offense, he reached for the cooked carcasses he had set aside before it began. They too, were the worse for wear, having been knocked into the leaf litter on the forest floor.

  He grunted in annoyance and threw them at Lissa. He hated the taste of dirty food. “Clean them as best as you can and then pack up. We are leaving.” He strode to where Alwin crouched and hauled him to his feet by the back of his tunic. “Alwin Brandr-thrall.” He pulled forth a length of rawhide, cut it to proper length and tied it around Alwin’s neck. “You will serve me, from this day to your death. Disobey, and you die.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, but he made no protest. He shoved him in Lissa’s direction. “That one is Lissa Brandr-thrall. You will help her.”

  He turned and stalked from camp. He needed perspective, or he would kill his smirking, Loki-forsaken uncle.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  The piteous baa-ing coming from the lamb slung over Brandr’s shoulders raked on Lissa’s nerves. She wished they would kill the animal and be done with the noise, but Brandr insisted on waiting until they were far from the pasture where he had stolen it. He wanted no enraged villagers following them. He would slaughter it, he said, when they reached a place where the remains would not be found before being consumed by predators.

  At least, he had also decided not to follow the stream, since they had spent too much time in the camp they had so precipitously left the previous night to hide the traces of their time there. She was grateful to be dry, for the day had turned overcast and chill. A storm was coming. She hoped the víkingrs had sense enough to seek shelter until it was past.

  Escaping to find a place of her own in a quiet, peaceful life was looking better with every step she took toward the eastern horizon. Brandr was in a foul humor, saying little throughout the day and snapping at them all when he did. That state of affairs was not aided by Sindre’s endless mockery. The man seemed to hold naught in respect, not even his gods. She wanted to crack the big víkingr over the head with the largest rock she could lift.

  It was well after noontide, and they had but recently forded a shallow, tree-shaded river. They tramped through an empty meadow, circled by forest and full of knee high grass and a rainbow of flowers. She tripped over a hidden root or stone, she knew not which, just that it was hard and hurt her toes. For once, Sindre made no jibing comment as she limped for several steps until the throbbing ceased. Ahead of her, the boy Alwin loped along in Brandr’s wake, munching one of the winter apples from the cottage. Thin and wiry, but filthy and ragged, he was nevertheless a cheerful soul, and willing to do as told. She suspected he did not much care if he served Saxons or Northmen, so long as he was not beaten and got enough to eat.

  Brandr suddenly stopped and threw up a fist. The sound of voices and the jingle of harness wafted clearly from the woods behind. He turned and with a fierce gesture, indicated they run.

  “Hurry! Into the trees.”

  He waited for her to pass and followed, Sindre right behind. How they made it among the concealing trees in time, she never knew, but when they halted and dropped to the ground, the men were already moving into the open. There were five of them, hearth companions by their armor, and they rode at leisure. Clearly, this was home territory and they expected no trouble. They crossed the meadow at an angle that would take them into the woods some distance north of where their group lay hidden. Still, her heart pounded. They passed too nigh for comfort.

  Brandr, so close she got a good look at a tiny white scar in his left eyebrow she had not noticed before, caught her wrist. He mouthed one word. “Talon?”

  She shook her head.

  His whisper came again. “Look there, at the horse the leader rides! It is a fine beast, its lines sleek and powerful. It was bred for war.”

  His eyes shone, and she blinked at his enthusiasm for the animal. Horses were rare creatures, and costly, and from all she had heard of Northmen—which granted, was not really so much—they eschewed their use except as draft beasts. Certainly, she had heard no tales of Northmen riding them.

  A plaintive bleat reached her ears. She cringed before realizing the sound did not come from beside them. Peering around the shielding tree trunk, she saw that Brandr had left the lamb in the meadow, where it waited, lost and alone. Its call alerted the patrol. The leader threw up his hand and the men drew rein. For a long moment, while she felt the tension rise in Brandr and he gripped Frækn’s hilt, the Saxon captain sat withou
t moving, listening, his head turning, seeking.

  She started to breathe again when the man relaxed in the saddle, pointed at the animal and said something.

  One of the men wheeled his horse and walked it over to the tiny animal. He picked it up, slung it over the front of his saddle and trotted back to the others. The leader gestured to the lowering skies. They continued at a more rapid pace and were soon out of sight.

  “I think perhaps, I should have heeded your suggestion,” Brandr said to her. “They take with them enough lamb stew to feed us for days.”

  There was so much rueful annoyance in his tone, she could not help but grin. “We will find another.”

  “Hare will have to suffice,” Sindre muttered, “but the female is right. There will be others.”

  “No time, now,” Brandr said. He paused. “Those soldiers. Their clothing was fine and their armor and weapons, well made. Alwin, is there a large holding nigh here?”

  “Umm, umph.”

  Lissa stood and for the first time, saw the big víkingr had one arm wrapped around Alwin, the other hand over his mouth. The pounding of her heart eased a little more. At least he had not killed the boy out of sheer reflex.

  “Aye, leóf,” Alwin said, when he could.

  “Why did you not mention this before?”

  “You did not ask.”

  “I ask now. What can you tell of the lord?”

  “He is a king’s thegn, and very rich! It is said his hall is very large, the walls covered with tapestries of spun gold. He drinks wine from silver cups and has many horses.” The bright wonder on Alwin’s face revealed his awe, and an answering gleam lit Brandr’s eyes. “He is said to be a mighty warrior, and very strong. Few have dared challenge him, and they did not succeed.”

  “Spun gold tapestries?” Brandr’s deep tones conveyed bright splinters of laughter.

  “Aye. I swear it.”

  Lissa felt her heart skip a beat when Brandr glanced at her, his lips softening into an almost-smile.

  “I would like to see those,” he said. “But we should leave this area before those men grow curious enough about the lamb’s solitary presence to return. We will seek what shelter we may find when the rain comes. While I am glad for the moisture, for it will erase our tracks, I, for one, have no wish to pass this night wet to the bone.”