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

by Norris, Màiri

  Brandr blinked in rapid succession. A strange expression, almost of amaze, crossed his battered countenance. His gaze flicked from Turold to catch her eye. She fell back a step. It felt as if he had struck her. He seemed almost to accuse her, though of what, she could not guess. His brows drew together and he said something hard and short in his own tongue. Sindre humphed and answered with an equally brief comment.

  As if the last few moments had never happened, Brandr relaxed. He shrugged. “It is ended.”

  She shuddered. Alwin puffed out a breath.

  “Odinn must sleep,” Sindre muttered. “Twice this day have I been deprived of bloodshed.”

  The flinty stillness of Turold’s face eased. His eyes still fixed on Brandr, he said, “We have not been introduced, as is proper. You, I have heard called Brandr, and Lissa, I have met.” He glanced at Sindre. “But by what name are you called, O Bloodthirsty One?”

  The light, jesting tone he employed eased the tension further.

  “I am Sindre, called Melrakki, and this,” Sindre’s hand left his axe and dropped heavily on Alwin’s head, “is Thrall.”

  Alwin bristled at the víkingr. “He jethts, leóf! I am Alwin.”

  “Alwin Brandr-thrall, in truth,” Brandr said. “Do not forget to whom you belong, youngling.” He glanced at the sky. “I have decided we will rest here, and break our fast. We have need of swift passage, but I hunger.”

  As Turold shared out the remains of the meal from the previous eve, Lissa closed her eyes and tried to control gripping nausea. Too close, had the violence come. In the eye of her thoughts, she pictured again the killing, the horror. Yriclea in smoking ruins. The abused bodies of the thegn and Lady Eadgida, so dear to her, and others she had known all her life, soaked in their own blood. Why could men not learn to live in peace?

  Jaw clenched, she refused to yield to tears.

  Conversation subsided while the others satisfied their hunger. She could not bear the thought of food, though she was gratified at the amount the others consumed—if, for the two injured ones, they ate it more gingerly than usual. Almost, she wished Brandr’s hurts were more severe, for a man might be less willing to draw sword, did it hurt him enough.

  She looked up to find him watching her, his eyes hard, his expression closed. “You should eat.”

  The gorge rose in her throat. She would spew it back up if she tried. “I do not think I can. I am….I do not feel well.”

  She thought he would command her, but he only nodded once. In a gesture of contempt, his head turned away, his chin dipping nigh to his chest, but his eyes stayed upon her until the blue fire seared her. He went back to tearing flesh from the bone he held.

  Bewildered, she dropped her gaze to her feet. What had she done to draw forth such scorn? Did he blame her for what had happened? She still felt deeply unnerved, for she liked Turold, and knew she cared far more than she should for Brandr. That the two men might have killed each other—over her—sent a new spate of horror shivering down her spine.

  Brandr suddenly rose. “Alwin, pack the food that is left. Lissa, take yourself off. See to your needs.”

  His tone could freeze hot boar grease. She hastened to do as he ordered. When she returned, he was standing off by himself, staring to the north. The others were ready to go, so she took up his húdfat and settled it upon her back.

  Brandr looked at them over his shoulder. “When we approach the road, Turold and I will scout to make certain we encounter no travelers. Only then will we cross.”

  He trotted off without waiting to see if they followed.

  She descried a look between Sindre and Turold. They glanced at her. She flushed, and hurried after Brandr.

  The road he spoke of was closer than she had expected. They walked no longer than the time it took to prepare bread for baking before Brandr signaled they should take cover. They had to wait among the trees for a caravan of merchants protected by hired troops to pass, but otherwise, the road was clear.

  The land beyond had gentled from what they had traversed before, taking them over low, rolling hills, strange, rounded mounds, shallow, thickly wooded dales filled with waterbrooks, and pastured flatlands that had to be skirted to avoid the inhabitants. They saw many people, but faraway, encountering none. Behind her, Sindre grumbled, but Turold did not sing, unless it was to himself, and the others also kept quiet. They all felt the menace of discovery surrounding them, and in unspoken accord, picked up their pace. The sooner they left this heavily populated area, the better for them all.

  Their march slowed, however, as the day progressed and they entered a wildwood. Brandr’s sun-browned face was grim. Alwin limped heavily and his face beneath the bruises was pale and strained. Though the boy made no complaint, he struggled to keep up. Both were in pain, but Brandr would not stop.

  As the sun skimmed the far line of the sky where it met the earth, they climbed to the flat, treeless top of a lofty, circular mound, fenced by thick woods around the base. From its height, they saw the land open out before them in what seemed an endless forest atop a series of undulating ridges. The last gleaming rays of the sun flared briefly, then were snuffed as it set. The lights of two small, far-flung villages, one to the northeast and the other to the south, twinkled in the gloaming.

  Brandr pointed to the northern cluster. “Our way lies in that direction.”

  Lissa left the men to walk toward the middle of the great mound. At its center dipped a grassy hollow, deep and round, like a bowl. Its sides sloped gently to the bottom where the ground looked damp.

  Brandr came to stand beside her. “We will camp here for the night. It is a good place, readily defensible.”

  “It is said that mounds such as these are barrows.” Turold offered the information with easy indifference as he stood upon the rim, Alwin by his side. “If such is truth, below us the dead wait in eternal sleep.”

  “Dead people?” Alwin eased closer to Turold. “Are b-barrowth not thacred placeth? Thurely, leóf, it ith not withe to linger?”

  “As much war as this land has seen,” Sindre said, “the dead lie everywhere. Did the bones of an entire army lie buried beneath us, they would not disturb my sleep. I do not fear ghosts. My own bones are weary. I will take my rest here. Come, youngling.” He grasped a protesting Alwin’s arm and started down the side. “Should such be needful, I will teach you how a warrior deals with the spirits of the departed.”

  Lissa wandered to the opposite, southern edge. She harbored no fear of those who had gone before. Her lady had explained much of the otherworld. Departed souls could do no harm to the living, so long as they were not disturbed. She had no intent of bothering them.

  Around the mound’s outer edge on this side ran a quiet rill barely deep enough to fill their water skins.

  She called over her shoulder. “Brandr, there is water here. I would seek knitbone. It grows well nigh moisture.”

  “Stay within easy call of the camp.”

  She followed the rill downstream, relieved to quickly find more of the herb than she needed. She gathered as much as she could carry and returned. Turold and Brandr lay stretched along the hollow’s flanks, their feet toward its floor. Sindre lounged cross-legged upon a kind of hollowed out shelf, lazily watching Alwin distribute the remnants of their food from among the packs.

  Approaching Brandr, she said, “I have need of a fire.”

  With a single flick of his so-very-blue eyes, he dismissed her, looking through her as if she was not there. “Nei.”

  “Brandr, I must boil these leaves to make the balm to treat your injuries.”

  “I will heal. I have no need of your potions.”

  Gritting her teeth, she turned away and looked first at Alwin, then Sindre, who regarded her with the habitual taunting mirth in his blue eyes. “Perhaps there are others who wish for my skills,” she said. “The ointment I make will ease the discomfort and swelling by morn.”

  Alwin opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Brandr rose to hi
s feet. “I said, nei!”

  Her temper flashed. She whirled on him. “And you are stubborn as a goat, as witless as a sheep and as conceited as a crowing cock!” She threw the precious knitbone at his feet. “Suffer, then! I will no more pity…ow!”

  The tirade ended abruptly when he swung her around to face him. His grip on her arms was painfully tight. But it was the savage expression on his face that made her quail. He started to shake her, and fear rose to choke her.

  “You…try…my…patience, female! If you ever dare to speak with such impudence again, I will beat you, and worse than the blows which I took from the Saxons. No slave will be allowed to shame me so.” The fingers of his undamaged left hand gripped her chin with painful force. “Hear me, thrall! Keep your insolent tongue silent, lest it be cut out.”

  He shoved her from him. She staggered and fell, rolling the short distance to the cupped bottom of the hollow. For a moment, she made no move.

  Then Turold was beside her. “Lissa, are you injured?”

  She was, but not as he meant. “No, but I thank you.”

  He helped her sit up, then throwing a disparaging glance at Brandr, he returned to his place.

  She turned her back to the others and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms about them. Tears of pain, fear and bitter humiliation scorched her cheeks. Yet, the feeling that dominated was rage. A favored curse of Thegn Wolnoth seared its way off her lips, eliciting a sympathetic chuckle from the big víkingr.

  Brandr! An overwheening fool he was, yet was it not she, who in truth utterly lacked all wit? Why had she surrendered her freedom to stay with one such as he? Well, that bit of senselessness could easily be remedied, and this very evening. She rose to her feet and climbed up the sides of the hollow. In the fading glow of the gloaming, her gaze sought and found the lights of the southern village, charting a course through the forest toward it. The trees would provide the cover she needed to slip away. She hoped to find aid there, but if she did not, she would keep going until she did. The direction did not matter so long as it was away from him. Even living under Talon’s thumb would be better.

  “Lissa! Where do you go?”

  She stopped but did not turn. She could not bear to look at him, but moderated her tone to a stony calm. “I have need of…private moments.”

  Silence. She felt the weight of his gaze. Then, “Go not far.”

  “As you say.”

  It was late. She fixed the beacon that was the village in her mind and left the mound, crossing over the rill and into the woods. The shadows of evening faded and night enveloped her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The silence in the hollow grew until it clamored. Brandr was again sprawled on his back along the inner slope of the hollow. He would have gritted his teeth at the unrelenting pain in his ribs, but his jaw hurt too much. He felt keenly every blow, every slap and kick the Saxons had meted out. He stared into the blue-black expanse above, watching the stars slowly brighten. Instead of relaxing, his muscles danced and skittered beneath his skin, crawling with the need to draw blade and do battle. So intense was the need, it was all he could do to remain motionless.

  Disgust at his own jealousy, at the black rage that had so shattered his control he had nigh killed a skáld, a man of worth and influence—and that over naught more than a foolish, disrespectful thrall—sent shame crawling through his mind like worms in rotten meat. Worse, that skáld was a freeman of his own warrior class who would be a friend. Maybe he should have obeyed his first impulse and killed Lissa.

  “She runs.” The quiet comment came from Turold.

  His thoughts furious, Brandr ignored it. To think he had restrained his lust out of concern for her innocence. She was his thrall. He should have beaten her—or taken her, or both—that first night when she crossed him. She would not have fought him. He could have enjoyed her as he pleased from that moment on.

  At the thought, his revulsion at himself deepened. Hammer of Thorr! Now he sounded like Sindre, except that coming from his own heart, it somehow seemed much worse. His lips tightened as her stricken face loomed in the eye of his thoughts. In a part of his mind he steadfastly refused to acknowledge, he admitted his jealousy was not Lissa’s fault. He had not meant to shove her so hard, and was gratified Turold had gone to her aid, for at that moment, his rage was such he could not have.

  He growled, low, into the night. There were proper disciplines for an unruly, disrespectful thrall, which he always administered with complete dispassion. What was it about Lissa that dragged from him the most primitive of instincts, as if he were no more than a base animal? His ire rose all over again in rejection of the power she wielded against him.

  “If you care for her welfare, you will go after her. She runs.”

  Annoyance at the skáld’s insistence brought him abruptly upright. He did not like the continued reminder of his wayward actions. Thankful for the darkness that concealed the restiveness he could not curb, he said, “She is not foolish. She knows she will die, alone in the wilderness.”

  “If this was true wild land, maybe. I know somewhat of this place. Many live here, and many there are, not far distant, who would shelter her. She may also tell them of us, and give away our position. At very least, if you wish to keep her as thrall, you will have to waste the better part of the morrow tracking her down.”

  Sindre grunted. “He may be right, Músa.” The mockery in his voice was deep. “I, for one, will not aid you in seeking her, unless it be to rid us of the vexation she poses, as should have been done before we began this journey.”

  “Leóf?”

  The small voice out of the darkness held a wary note.

  “Speak, Alwin. The others have offered the benefits of their undoubted wisdom. You may as well do the same.”

  “Litha wath weeping. You hurt her. That ith why the fleeth.”

  The garbled words sliced, as would a blade.

  “This land is also known for its thieves.”

  Turold again. Why could the man not be silent? He would ask for other’s thoughts if he wanted them.

  “These roads are among the most heavily traversed in the land. There is much prey upon the travelers. Such men would make good sport with a woman alone.”

  “Enough!” Brandr got to his feet, uncomfortably aware sufficient time had passed she should have returned. “I will find her, though it is likely she simply waits, pouting, in the dark. If she has run, she will regret it.”

  He started up the side of the hollow. He was at the rim when a frantic, terrified scream ripped the silence of the night into shards that pierced his heart.

  Lissa!

  Pushing bodily discomfort aside, he leapt down the mound, Frækn already in hand. At the base, he vaulted the rill and tore into the forest in the direction from which the cry had come, peripherally aware the others followed.

  “Brandr! Brandr!”

  She needed him. She called for him. Unmanly fear for her tore at his gut. From up ahead came the sound of course laughter, and jeering masculine voices. A woman’s pleading cry was raised, and a man’s voice bellowed in rage and then cursed steadily.

  Brandr slowed as he drew nigh, battle training taking over at sight of a flickering flame through the trees. He paused to take take stock of the situation and listen. There! In a clearing. A camp. Lissa’s voice, begging someone for mercy. Another woman screamed, her tone bordering hysteria. His wrath flipped from fire to ice in the space of a breath.

  Sindre and Turold appeared, one at each elbow.

  “Flank my position. Wait for my signal.”

  He crept forward until he could clearly view the site through his swollen eyelids. A ragtag group of men, certainly outlaws—he counted nine of them—held three captives. On the opposite side of the camp Lissa struggled, fighting wildly, against a man large and strong. The man grunted now and again, as she managed to kick or scratch him, but she could not break free.

  The cursing came from a man tied to a tree. His expressi
on was frenzied and his muscles bulged with the effort to break free of his bonds. Two of the thieves held the screaming woman to the ground, one of them trying to push her skirts up around her waist. Obscene suggestions of what the two men should do came from those who watched. Taunts, aimed at the bound man, filled the open space, along with leering threats that Lissa would be next.

  Brandr had seen enough. He stepped to the edge of the clearing. As he reached it, Lissa bite the wrist of the man restraining her.

  The outlaw screeched. He flipped her in his hold and backhanded her. She dropped, landing facedown on the forest floor, and did not get up.

  Scalding rivers of red haze gushed into Brandr’s mind. A great clamor filled his ears. He howled his wrath, a primal roar signaling death, and leapt into their midst. To either side, Sindre and Turold charged to the call, their own cries resounding through the trees. Almost before the echoes ended, half the outlaws were dead.

  Brandr fought his way through two more to get to the man who had held Lissa. The outlaw was larger than he had first seemed. In his left hand, he gripped a Saxon langseax. In his right, as if it were a child’s toy, he hefted a massive axe, bigger, and with a longer reach than Sindre’s Frithr. He grinned and stepped away from Lissa’s crumpled form, taking battle stance.

  Brandr circled him. His mind had cleared. He never took his gaze from the man’s eyes. The others had been pitiful fighters, their weapons dull and barely serviceable. This one was a warrior. Já, a powerful, experienced fighter. Brandr welcomed the challenge. The honor-less nidingr had laid hands on Lissa. No mercy would be granted.

  The other made the first move, a feint with the axe to Brandr’s right to open his left flank, while the hand with the langseax sought to pierce his heart. He blocked the first while sidestepping the latter, angled a slash from the side the man barely avoided, and skipped out of reach. He bent to grab a cloak lying on the ground and gathered it in his left hand. The outlaw laughed.