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

by Norris, Màiri

  She rose, took from her sash the eating knife Brandr had provided her and walked, barefoot, to stand beneath the branches. Soon she had collected a goodly number of twigs and enough leaves to fill her packet.

  She had just pulled her boots back on when movement on the river caught her eye. Frozen in amaze, she stared. A boat, a simple, flat-bottomed fishing vessel, floated round the bend, close to the riverbank. The man rowing it gestured wildly at her and pointed downriver. At first thinking him mad, she opened her mouth to scream, but he shook his head vigorously. He held a forefinger to his lips. Shipping the oars, he raised both hands wide apart above his head, three fingers extended on the left hand and five on the right. His chin jerked to indicate the river beyond the sheltering swatch of limbs.

  Abruptly, she understood. She rushed back to the thickly leafed branches that had offered privacy as she bathed, and pushed back foliage to peer downstream. The view caused her heart to stutter, and then race. Brandr, Sindre and Alwin were climbing out of the water, three armed men fording the river behind them. On the opposite bank, two archers protected their fellows. One of the three warriors glanced around and she gasped, fear curdling in her belly. The hearth companions from yester day! How had they found them, or even known to look for them?

  A hand covered her mouth. She started so hard she nigh fell. A wickedly strong arm encircled her waist and drew her back against a hard chest. So absorbed was she in the drama playing out before her, she had foolishly forgotten the man in the boat!

  “Say naught!” The whisper was fierce, the man’s expression no less so when his hand pulled her face around to meet his gaze. “I know those men. They are not…kind. They would hurt you. Best if they never know you are here.” He watched her through wide, thickly lashed brown eyes that held a tinge of green. “Will you keep silent?”

  She bobbed her head. The situation had progressed so quickly from relaxed enjoyment of the warm sunshine to one of fearful uncertainty she felt a little dazed. His frown dissolved in a quicksilver smile. He stepped away and bowed. “I am Turold of Hamwic, my girl. I am a scop, on my way to the southern village of Eadfordwer from Wiltunscir and Searesbyrig, where I met those gentlemen who now escort your friends to yon clearing.”

  Lissa looked him over from tousled, fawn-brown hair to feet protected by worn but finely made boots. He was tall and trim, and clearly fit. “You do not look like any scop I have ever seen.”

  In truth, he did not. In his right hand, he hefted a well-used sword and slung over his back with his shield was a bow and quiver. Her single glance identified three visible seaxes on his person. There was no sign of a musical instrument, though a small flute might be hidden within his tunic—along with, she felt certain—more long knives.

  His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the grin did not waver. “Nevertheless, a scop is what I am. Howbeit, I admit I am also somewhat adept at the fighting skills, which should not surprise you. It is a dangerous world. Even a man who sings for his meals must be prepared to defend his life…or the life of a fair maid.” He cocked his head and returned her perusal. By the look in his eyes, he liked what he saw. “I was once a hearth companion, you see, but….” His chin gestured in the direction the men had gone. “Not of their ilk. They serve Aldwulf, King’s Thegn of Searesbyrig, a man for whom I have no love.” With a startling shift, his expression turned fierce again. “Your companions appear to be Northmen. If that is so, they will fare ill with Thegn Aldwulf. He is not known for offering goodwill to any but those he favors, and he makes no secret of his dislike and distrust of all things Dane. Still, I can help you free them.” His gaze flicked over her shorn hair and the makeshift slave collar she wore. His eyes smiled again. “Or perhaps, you prefer to accompany me on my journeys, and leave them to their likely fate?”

  She blinked, trying to keep up with his lightning changes of humor.

  “Rescue or flight, fair maid? Which do you choose?”

  She was not prepared for the decision, thrust upon her so suddenly. Each passing moment bound her wayward emotions to Brandr. He made no effort to ensnare her, yet the secret desires of her heart entangled her in tender, ever strengthening, fetters. No longer could she deny the yearning to learn, in his arms, of the pleasures to be savored between a man and a woman; and yet, that which she felt was so much more than the pull of the flesh. She looked beyond the outward appeal of his physical beauty, and the allure of the power and quiet competence of the warrior, to the honor and decency within.

  She believed him a good man, in the way of his people. But he was a man, and even those with the best intentions, like Talon, could not always be trusted to do right by a woman…and she did not yet know Brandr’s plans for her. She did not think he yet knew his designs.

  Reckless it was, and dangerous, to stay with him. There was no surety he would ever grant her freedom, even did he come to care for her. But since the nightmare, she no longer vacillated over whether to chance escape, or follow where led her foolish heart. The fear she could not make it alive to a suitable village held her.

  Howbeit, with this man, she would not have to journey alone. Still, she knew him not, or if he was worthy of trust. Maybe, the choice he offered would be worse than any Brandr gave.

  Turold raised his hands to his hips. His tone, when he spoke, was sharper than before. “It is dangerous to tarry here, fair maid. Are you truly of such uncertain resolve, in this matter?”

  Inwardly, she winced. He had correctly ascertained her slave status, and must think her the greatest of fools. He would be right. Only one lacking in wit would waver between slavery and freedom. Even Brandr had mocked her hesitancy.

  She drew herself up. “I do not know you, and there is the boy to consider. He is innocent. I…I must think.”

  Abruptly serious, he caught her elbow and led her to the boat. He hauled it further up the bank among a thick patch of rushes and reached inside for a satchel, a leather-covered object shaped like a lyre and another, disk-shaped, that might be a hylsung. Perhaps he spoke the truth, and was truly a scop.

  Slinging the items over his shoulder, he said, “Gather your things. We should find a safe place to wait until after dark.”

  “But the others!”

  He shook his head. “We can do naught for them now. We will not abandon them, unless that be your choice. Come. There is a place around the bend that will suit our need.”

  With a last look in the direction the men had gone, she followed him, her mind considering and rejecting options. By the time they came to a spot where a thigh-high area of the riverbank had been dug out by the current, leaving a very narrow, dry strip of pebbly sandbank, she had decided one thing. If this warrior scop proved less than honorable, she would clout him over the head with a stout branch.

  Turold dropped to the sandy stretch and lifted her down beside him. “We should be well hidden here. Do you hunger? I have food. We will eat, confer over how best to proceed, and rest.”

  They sat cross-legged. Her mouth watered when Turold unwrapped a whole chicken, baked and well seasoned, strips of roast boar, dried pear, creamy cheese, boiled duck eggs and an entire loaf of light bread. It was a feast. She would insure enough was left for the others, too.

  Turold looked up and chuckled as she licked her lips. “I bought this from a farmer’s wife upriver this morning. Do not be concerned, there is plenty, for all of us. Howbeit, there is a price to pay if you wish to eat.”

  As his words sank in, her jaw tightened and she lurched to her feet. His long fingers circled her wrist and pulled her back down. “You misunderstand. The price I ask is your name.”

  “Oh.” She sat back down. The stout branch could wait. “I am Lissa of Yriclea, only my village no longer exists.”

  He handed her a chicken leg and generous hunks of cheese and bread. “The Northmen?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. A neighboring thegn then, with a desire for that which is not his. A common complaint in our day.”

  She was too busy dev
ouring the chicken to answer.

  He let her eat until she was content. “Mead?”

  She nodded and took the skin. “It is a good batch.”

  “Aye, it is. So then, Lissa of Yriclea-which-is-no-more. Before we discuss the rescue—or not—of your companions, perhaps it would help pass the time if we get to know each other better. I have already told much of myself, but you should know I was rather alarmed when I realized the soldiers were nigh.” He flashed an engaging grin. “I thought they were after me. I fear my engagement at Aldwulf’s manor did not end well. He is master of a large and wealthy holding a league south of Searesbyrig. I have performed there before, but that was when the old thegn was still alive. Elstan was an honorable man, but his son does not appear to have inherited his sire’s better points.”

  He waved a half-eaten wing in the air. “Important guests graced Aldwulf’s halls when I arrived, and he contracted with me to entertain for five nights. I did so, and rather well, if I may be so bold. But yestre morn, when I was ready to leave, the thegn refused to pay for my services. I hardly need say the refusal did not sit well with me, and I fear I became rather…adamant, that he keep our bargain. He conjured a feigned slight by which I had insulted him—I will not sully your lovely ears with the details—to excuse his theft, and asked if I preferred to leave in one piece or become a permanent resident of his holding pits.

  “I considered my options and decided to accept his generous offer to keep all my parts attached to my body. I am rather fond of them, as you might guess.” He popped a handful of blackberries into his mouth and chewed with enjoyment. “When I caught a glimpse of the hearth companions slinking through the trees a short time ago, I thought Aldwulf had changed his mind and sent them to make an end of me. I am curious to learn if I was indeed their quarry, and their purpose changed when they came first upon your friends.” He slanted a look at her. “If you wish to free them, I will help, if only because I am wroth with Aldwulf. He owes me.”

  Lissa stared across the rippling current at a nesting water bird. A flash of red-gold in the sun-dappled branches above marked the presence of a cautious squirrel. She sighed. Though she had not given her oath, as had Alwin, she knew herself bound to Brandr by invisible chains. He had told her there would be no going back, no changing her mind. At the time, she had disregarded his words, and laid her plans accordingly. Now she understood the fullness of her folly, for in so short a time as they had been together, he had become of too great importance. She could not leave him, or the others, to face nigh certain death, not even the volatile Sindre.

  “It is likely these men followed us. They came nigh us yestre day as we lay hid, and we believed they knew naught of us. Brandr thinks their leader sensed our presence, and returned later to track us.” She turned to Turold. “How would we rescue them?”

  Disappointment shone briefly in the green-tinged depths of his gaze, and his finger traced the line of her cheek. “‘Rescue’, she says. What foul luck, that they should find her, first. Ah, but a man can always dream.” He sat straight, his tone becoming brisk. “Tell me of the Northmen and the boy, how you came to travel with them.”

  ∞∞§∞∞

  “Lissa! It is time to move.”

  Turold’s whisper in her ear brought her back to wakefulness, startled to find he held her against his chest. “What…? Why are you…? Why am I…?”

  Chuckling, he interrupted her stuttering queries. “Think naught of it, fair maid. You needed warmth. We shared heat. Naught more. Not that I did not enjoy your sweet form tucked close to mine, but truly, it was mere convenience. Come, we must make haste.”

  She got to her feet, grateful for his support, for her legs were stiff with cold. Dawn would come soon. The night breeze swirled the humid, earthy scent of the river around them and carried the sharp yip of a hunting fox. Swiftly, they made preparations.

  Turold swung her back up onto the riverbank and followed. “Earlier,” he said as he caught her hand and guided her through the dark trees, “before you decided I would make a fine blanket, I did some scouting.”

  “You left me?” She had not meant to accuse, but knew her words came out that way.

  She heard in his voice the smile she could not see. “You were completely safe, else I would not have done so. Fortune favors us. I think they expect no trouble, for they have left but one man on guard. They do not know yet about us.” He stopped and brought his face close. “I wish to make sure they never learn of you, so you will do exactly as I say, or we will take not a step further. You must trust I know what I am doing. Have I your word you will obey?”

  There was no mistaking the thread of iron in his voice. He would haul her away and never look back if she refused. “If it must be, I will.”

  “It must be. Have you further questions about what you are to do?”

  “No.”

  They skulked through the silent woods. He stopped again, divested himself of his packs and breathed close to her ear. “They made camp in a clearing. We draw nigh. You will wait here. I will deal with the guard, then return. Stay quiet.”

  Before she could protest, question or otherwise respond, he was gone. She untied her sash of belongings and laid it beside his satchel. The wait seemed dreadfully long. Little noises in the undergrowth disturbed her, for she could see little but the black outlines of trunks and branches. Just when she began to think he had abandoned her, or worse, been captured, he suddenly loomed from the night.

  She gasped and fell back, her whisper harsh. “You could have warned me you were returning!”

  The smile was back in his voice. “Where would be the merriment in that?” He found her hand and closed her fingers around the hilt of a knife. “You will need this. As I expected, each of your friends is secured with their back against a tree. Their arms have been stretched round the base and tied at the wrists. It is our job to sever those bonds. I will take the big one. You free the other. Do not forget to give him the knife. He cannot cut the rope that fetters his feet without it. We will release the boy when the soldiers are no longer a threat. Remember. As we draw nigh the camp, take your time. Check your footing before you settle your full weight. The men sleep, but they are warriors and accustomed to listening for sounds of danger, even in slumber. If you snap a twig, it will awaken them. If that happens, do as I told you. Drop to the ground, and stay still and silent. I will come for you. We will seek safety, and try again later. Ready?”

  Her heart was thumping so loud she feared he might hear it and make her stay behind. “Yes.”

  “You have courage, fair maid. Would that I had found you before he did.”

  Her lips curved. Had she not met Brandr first, she might wish the same.

  They covered the final distance to the camp more quickly than she had dared hope. Up ahead, the gleam of embers marked the camp’s location. Soon, Turold was pointing out the tree where Brandr was tied. She could make it out, but only just. He patted her arm and moved away.

  Terrified she would make some noise that would alert the soldiers, she eased forward, and almost ran into the tree. Peering around it in the glow of the coals, she realized the Saxons had not allowed the men to clothe themselves in their tunics. The belt containing the gold was no longer around Sindre’s middle, nor was it visible elsewhere she could make out. She wondered what had become of it. From the brief glimpse she got of Alwin, the youngling remained naked, and huddled as if cold.

  She knelt, her fingertips running lightly down the bark. Her hand made contact with something hard and very warm. Brandr! He did not appear to feel the night’s chill breath. The muscles of his bare arm jerked beneath her questing fingers. Tracing the curve of his forearm to his wrists—the right one of which felt oddly misshapen, somehow—she found the leather lashing and hesitated. The way they had him tied, it would be difficult to cut the binding without slicing into his flesh.

  Teeth mauling her lower lip, she set the blade to the leather, relieved to find her task easier than she feared. The kn
ife was sharp and the hide strands parted easily, but before she was through, Brandr gave one mighty heave and the last of the leather separated. His right hand wrapped itself around hers to gently squeeze, and again that sense of something wrong with its shape assailed her. Then, before she could think to put the hasp of the knife in his palm, he had it. Her part was over. She slid back into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brandr woke from a troubled, uneasy sleep, wondering what had awakened him. Within the faint light of what was left of the fire, he could make out the four slumbering shapes of their captors, and the shadowed forms of Sindre and Alwin across the camp. He winced as he tried to ease the strain on his arms. The Saxon captain had not been happy with their lack of answers to the questions he asked, and the response he offered was painful, even for young Alwin.

  He admired the boy’s refusal to speak. He had more pluck—and a greater sense of honor—than he had credited, and had acquitted himself well in the face of what was, for him, a terrifying situation.

  He licked dried blood from swollen lips and tried to isolate the stealthy sound that had brought him awake. He hoped it was not Lissa. He could not know where the guard was, but it was unlikely she could free him without alerting the man, and he did not want the others to know of her.

  The faint noise came again, from behind the tree where he was secured. He tensed. No animal would venture so close. Unless the guard thought to play some game of his own, it had to be his thrall. Cool fingertips slid down his forearm and despite himself, he started. Moments later, a knife sawed at his bonds. He felt them loosen and gave a sudden flex. His ribs protested, but the last tie snapped. He caught her small hand and gave it a quick squeeze, then took from her the knife. If only now she had sense enough to slip away and hide until he could deal with the soldiers.