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

by Norris, Màiri

  They faced each other.

  “What game is this, cub? Do you seek to fight, or play the night away?”

  The fool sought to goad him. He smiled.

  “Come closer, cub, and I will teach you a new step in this dance.”

  Brandr responded with a fast, hard jab that led to a flurry of blows and swings. The fight did not last long. The outlaw was good, but he was better, and the other was over-confident. The man lunged and brought down his axe in an overhead swing meant to cleave Brandr’s head, but Brandr threw out the cloak to tangle the axe, and jerked it aside. In the same moment, he ducked and stabbed from below and Frækn struck home.

  He waited until the light of life faded from the outlaw’s eyes and then glanced around. None of the thieves still lived. He was the focus of all eyes except the ones he most wanted to see open and aware. Sindre beamed approval. Turold nodded in a gesture of respect.

  The captive male—whose woman attempted, without success, to release him from the ropes binding him to the tree—said, “Leóf, we are in your debt. You saved….” He shook his head. “I cannot offer great enough thanks.”

  Brandr threw his sax to the woman, then knelt beside Lissa. He ran his hands in gentle question over her form, seeking damage besides the marks that marred her lovely face. Finding naught, he turned her over and lifted her head into his lap with the care he reserved for his baby sister. Blood trickled from a split lip that was beginning to swell, and he thought it likely her eye would soon take on a vivid hue, but unless the blow had done injury he could not see, she would be well. He brushed a lock of short gold hair off her forehead.

  A damp square of linen was shoved into his hand. “You and your companions are becoming quite a colorful bunch, my friend,” Turold said as he knelt on Lissa’s other side. “Black, blue and purple, with green and yellow to come…and that list does not count your clothing.”

  Sindre guffawed and slapped Brandr’s shoulder so hard he nigh fell over, forcing from him a groan. The fight had not aided his abused body. Now it was over, every bruise throbbed, while his ribs spasmed in counterpoint.

  His uncle stalked around the camp, searching the thieves’ belongings. He shoved a dead outlaw out of the way with his foot and picked up the axe that fell from his hand.

  “These men were no fighters,” he said, “though this one had a good weapon. See here.” In a move so fast Brandr would have missed it had he blinked, Sindre threw the axe, burying the blade deep in a tree trunk. “Já, fine weapon. I will keep it.”

  He retrieved the killing tool, cleaned it and tucked it into his belt beside Frithr.

  Brandr wiped Lissa’s face clean of tiny bits of moss, leaf litter and blood. “Lissa?” His concern growing at her lack of response, he gently patted her cheek. “Lissa!”

  “I believe she will be well.” The woman they had rescued knelt beside Turold. She handed Brandr his sax. Beyond her, the man she had cut loose helped Sindre. “I was closer to the brute who hit her than were you,” she said, “and though I fought those who held me, I saw what he did. His blow was powerful, but I think he did not wish to cause her serious harm. She will be disoriented when she wakes, and in some pain. She may sleep through the night.”

  Turold rose. “If you wish to return with her to our camp, I will insure things here are settled.”

  Brandr raised his eyes to Turold’s face. He nodded, lifted his burden into his arms and stalked into the night without further word.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  My head hurts.

  Voices. A woman.

  Soft laughter. Male. Familiar rumbling timbre, moving away until it was no longer heard.

  Sindre! What has happened?

  “Lissa?”

  Brandr’s deep voice. Something cool and damp against her forehead. Scent of healing herbs, of rain and musty corners.

  Ah. I remember. That terrible man hit me. Brandr came. That other woman, she laughs, so all is well.

  Gingerly, she tested the simple action of opening her eyes. It worked, but only for the left one. The other felt glued shut. Her jaw and mouth felt twice their size, but when she gave a cautious, experimental lick to her lips, they seemed less swollen than she thought.

  Blue fire gazed down at her through eyelids as black as her own must be. “Lissa?”

  “You came.” It was difficult to form the words, but more because of groggy thought than a sore face.

  “Já.”

  “I was not certain you would.”

  Something akin to self-disgust vied for supremacy in the azure depths. “If you think I will ever let you go, you are mistaken.”

  The words were uttered with a soft finality.

  “Of course. I am your thrall.”

  “Já.”

  A pinprick of hurt stung her heart. It should not, for he had given her no reason to believe he cared for aught but her usefulness. But the hand that bathed her face with the knitbone scented cloth moved with tender care. That touch—and the look in his eyes—spoke more loudly than his pride would allow him to say. Her trust in him remained as battered as she felt, but perhaps it could, with time, be redeemed.

  Her one good eye took in their surroundings. She lay, warm and safe between furs, on a pallet in a timber-framed cottage so small it would be crowded with all of them inside at the same time. Soggy morning daylight drifted through an entrance that seemed to be missing a door, revealing overgrown forest nearby, made hazy by the rain. It enclosed them in a world of gray mist.

  “Where are we?”

  “An abandoned cottage, a short distance from the mound. We returned there, but it started to rain in the night. Oswulf told of coming across this place before they were taken by the thieves.” He glanced at the ceiling where water dripped from several leaks. “It lacks comforts, but provides shelter.”

  “Oswulf?”

  “The husband of the other woman we rescued.”

  Some little distance away, a quiet female voice spoke. “That is right. Now stir again.”

  Alwin’s youthful voice answered. “This is better than mine.”

  His lisp had disappeared. Good. That meant the swelling of his face receded.

  The woman’s laughter tinkled softly. “But you are willing to learn. That says much of your care for your mother. She would be proud of you.”

  “Awww. It is only stew.”

  “Nay. It is more. One day, you will know.” A pause. “Leóf, is she awake?”

  “Já.”

  Abruptly, a female figure appeared, a cup in her hand. “Drink this.”

  Brandr slipped an arm beneath Lissa’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position.

  She took the cup. Steeped willow bark, woody and bitter, offered warmth in the wet chill and soothed her sore mouth. “I would thank you, but I do not know how you are called.”

  “I am Bryda, wife to Oswulf.”

  “Then my thanks, Bryda.”

  The woman returned to the small fire and her cooking.

  Brandr moved away. He did not look at her. “You will be well. I will leave you now.”

  “Wait. Will you first explain what happened?”

  “What do you remember?”

  “I was angry. I left. I ran into those men. They were going to hurt the woman…Bryda. I called to you. That man hit me. I remember naught more.”

  “They will never hurt anyone again.”

  She shuddered at the indifference in his tone, but said, “I am glad. They were not good men.”

  “It was decided we should remain here for this day, perhaps longer. It is still early. Sindre and Turold hunt. You should rest now.”

  She wanted to protest. There was much to which she should be tending, but the willow bark was taking effect.

  He eased her down and tucked the warmth of the fur more closely around her. The lid of her good eye closed of its own will.

  “Brandr?”

  “Já?”

  “You came.”

  Gentle fingers stroked her
undamaged cheek. “Always, lítill blóm. Sleep.”

  “Brandr? Does that name truly mean ‘sour face’?”

  If he answered, she did not hear it.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  The rain made the road treacherous for the horses. Talon held his company to a safe pace, though everything within him urged that he set the beasts to a gallop. He did not, for heedless haste was not his way. It was enough to ease the urgency of his soul that instead of taking shelter, as his men would have preferred, they continued at a steady, if sloshing pace along the ancient road from Searesbyrig. They would still reach Basingum well before the others. There, he would use the coin provided by his friend to hire fighting men. He would extend a net along the path of the Nordmanna so wide and tight a vole could not pass without his knowledge. Rain dripped from the hood of his oiled cloak, but he paid it no mind. Soon, his Lissa would be safe within his care, and those who had taken her from him would find their way to Valhalla.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “So the thegn had Oswulf whipped, though all knew his accusation against my husband was naught but a lie. Oswulf’s stripes became putrid. He was very ill for many days, and could not work. The thegn forbade any to aid us. I despaired, and feared my husband would die, despite what efforts I could make. But one morn, he opened his eyes and smiled, and I knew he would live.

  “It angered the thegn, so when Oswulf could not work, he used it as excuse to turn us from our home and take all that was ours, such as it was. He forced us to leave with empty hands, and naught to sustain us. We had nowhere to go.”

  Lissa, lying on her side on the pallet, took in the fair beauty of the woman who sat across the fire, skinning the new batch of hares Sindre had brought to the cottage after noontide. He had left them at the door, along with a wild goose and a string of fish, and disappeared again. She admired the ease with which Bryda accomplished the task, but the woman had not ceased work all day, cooking and doing what cleaning could be managed in the dilapidated house. She felt as if she shirked her own duties, but Brandr had ordered her to stay abed.

  “Your thegn did this because you would not sleep with him?”

  “Aye,” Bryda sighed. “I have been told by many that I am most comely, and I must take care not to become vain. I suppose that may be truth, but I have never found it a thing for which to give thanks, for it has ever been a curse. Were it not blasphemous, I could wish to have been born with a hideous disfigurement, or with ugliness as my only virtue.” She looked up at Lissa. “As we left the village, the priest, who came when he heard word of our plight, called out to me. He said our banishment was naught but God’s punishment for the sin of attempting to seduce the thegn. He cried loudly that all knew my guilt, and my husband’s guilt in not beating me into prayerful submission. He insisted that because God knew we would never repent, we were not to be allowed to prove innocence through the ordeal, but were instead fated to find a slower, more painful death, unshriven, in the wild.” She gave a little hiss and spit into the fire. “As if we did not know, the thegn spared me that torment because he did not wish that I should be scarred, and thus, his pleasure dimmed should I yield and come to him. But he was trapped by his own lust, for once the priest came, he could do naught but watch us leave, cursed by the Church.”

  Silence descended in the room, broken only by the spattering rain and the constant drip of water from holes in the thatch roof. Lissa’s stomach rumbled at the appetizing smell of the stew.

  Alwin, who had listened so quietly to Bryda’s tale they had nigh forgotten his presence, said, “What will you do?”

  “I do not know. We must travel far from our home before we may seek a new place, but we have no coin, and naught to eat. Most we have met have not welcomed us. I fear we will die upon the way, as the priest said.”

  Lissa shook her head. “Nay. You must join us. We travel to the east, beyond the lands of our king to that of the Nordmanna. I believe you would find refuge at some village along the way, or perhaps in Brandr’s home. He would see to it, if he agrees that you come with us. What is Oswulf’s occupation?”

  Bryda grinned and held aloft the hare skins, the fur side visible. “He is a leatherworker. See you. These pelts will make warm boots for him this winter. The hares were healthy and young, their fur soft and thick. The scop believes the rain will continue for some days, and the young Dane agrees. He has said we are to remain here until it stops, so there is time for a simple tanning.”

  Stepping to the door, she leaned out to rinse the carcasses. Soon, the meat joined the chopped greens, herbs and wild carrots in the stewpot that simmered above the fire pit. Picking up the pelts, she returned to the entrance and called to her husband. Oswulf, having no outer garment to protect him from the rain, had stayed nigh the cottage to keep watch on the women and Alwin. He worked at smoking meat in the shed, but came at her call. He took the skins and hastened back to his task.

  Bryda rinsed her hands and began to dice a stack of onions.

  Lissa threw off the fur and stood. “Too long have I lain abed. I must move about.” Then she threw out her hands, closed her good eye and waited for the room to cease its slow rolls. “But perhaps, not so quickly.”

  Bryda chuckled at the wry comment. “A few turns around the firepit will not harm you. Alwin, keep watch for the young Dane, so Lissa might be given proper warning should he turn up unexpectedly.”

  Alwin grinned and took up station at the door. Though he still moved with a certain care, he was recovering well from Captain Preed’s brutish treatment. Like Brandr, the colors of his face had changed to the rather lurid hues of healing bruises. Bryda had treated him—and the others—with the knitbone plasters she made from the herbs Lissa had gathered.

  Lissa hazarded a step, and then another. “I will speak to Brandr on your behalf, Bryda, but I would warn you, he likes to claim as thralls those who come to him. If you and Oswulf do not wish to become slaves, you should leave at first chance.”

  Bryda eyed her. “Your hair, and the collar you wear give away your status. Were you always unfree?”

  “Not born so, no. My lady gave me my freedom four summers ago. She…she is dead now. Brandr said I could only accompany him on this journey if I become his thrall. I let him think I agreed.”

  A conspiratorial grin lit Bryda’s face. “I do not believe my husband will submit to slavery, even if it might mean our death. You are welcome to join us when we leave. You as well, young Alwin.”

  “I cannot,” Alwin said, turning to face them, his back to the open doorway. “I did agree to stay with master Brandr. I gave him my bond. But I will help Lissa get away, if she wishes it.” A shy smile touched his mouth. “But I do not think she truly wishes it, though he does not always treat her well. She cares for him.”

  “Alwin!” Lissa’s face burned as she met the gaze of the other woman, but she saw there naught but a gentle sympathy.

  “You should not say such things, young one,” Bryda said. She dumped the onions into the pot with the rest.

  “It is but truth. She loves him.”

  “Even so, to tell it without her consent is not kind, nor would it be wise for the others to know of it.”

  Alwin frowned. “But, love is good.”

  “Aye, it is. But it can also be used as a weapon by one person to compel another to do their will.”

  Alwin’s eyes bugged. “Truly?” He blinked. “You believe master Brandr would do that to our Lissa?”

  “I do not know. With men, it is oft difficult to guess what they will do. It is best you do not speak of this to any other.”

  The expression he turned on Lissa was solemn. “Do not be afraid, Lissa. I will say naught, even should they torture me. I swear it!”

  So fierce was his tone she dared not laugh. “Your discretion honors me, Alwin.”

  Brandr appeared at the door, dripping rain. “What discretion?”

  Alwin jumped like one goaded. “Leóf!”

  ∞∞§∞∞

  Bran
dr shrugged off the cape he wore, wincing at the lance of pain in his hand and ribs, and hung it from a rotting peg, hoping the thing would hold. It did. He looked around at the three of them, wondering why they all looked…guilty. Stepping as close as he could get to the firepit threshold, he held out his hands to its welcome warmth. “Answer my question, Alwin—and why have you once again disobeyed my command, Lissa Brandr-thrall?”

  Alwin frowned. “What means this word, ‘discretion’?”

  Lissa answered the query. “It means to take care with the secrets of others.” To Brandr, she said, “We spoke of the reason Oswulf and Bryda left their home.” She did not meet his eyes. “I grew restless. Also, if Bryda will aid me, I have need of privy time.”

  He gave her a keen glance through narrowed eyes. Certain she skirted the truth, he started to question her further, then thought better of it. She was still pale, and one eye remained swollen shut, while both were discolored. It could wait.

  “Bryda’s hands are full. Come, I will take you.”

  A rosy flush emphasized the dark smudges on her face, enchanting despite the marks. She edged toward the entrance. “No! I mean, if Bryda is too busy, I can manage.”

  He slid in front of her.

  “‘No’?” The repetition was soft. He put a hand beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “Thralls may not deny their masters.”

  Temper flashed in the golden gaze, but she dropped her lashes and did not respond.

  Disappointment swelled, surprising him. When had he begun to enjoy their small squabbles? He waited for this new evidence of her influence over him to spark his own annoyance, as it would have but a few days past. It did not. Which surprised him even more. Perhaps, it was only that he was becoming accustomed to her ways.

  He draped his cloak over her shoulders and tugged her behind him, leading her to a private place among the trees before moving far enough away to spare her blushes.

  Back in the cottage, he insisted she return to her pallet. Reaching for a three-legged stool, the only one in the cottage, he set it against the wall and sat, stretching out his legs. “That stew smells good,” he said to Bryda. “A taste?”