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

by Norris, Màiri

“Come and break your fast. We leave shortly.”

  Relieved to find the swelling of Sindre’s ankle much reduced and his uncle able to put weight on the foot, he laughed with Alwin as they watched him hop around the clearing to get accustomed to the walking staff. Sindre’s antics proved his uncle would not noticeably slow them down.

  The day had moved close to evening before he held up a fist to halt them. “The town of Andeferas lies to our left. A short distance ahead of us, according to Turold’s recollection, flows the second of the three rivers we must cross before reaching Basingum.” He did not mention he was convinced they had, by chance, already missed one ambush at the first crossing. If there was to be another, it would likely be in this place. “Andeferas is large enough to boast a bridge in town, and a ferry west of it, rather than a ford. I have purposely guided us east of both, in hopes of avoiding trouble. Wait here.”

  As he crept forward alone to see what lay ahead, he passed through a spider web. Chuckles followed him as he grunted, and batted around his head, then rubbed the sticky stuff off his hands. His footsteps slowed. Through the trees in front of him loomed the weathered walls of a mill. Men moved in and around the building, as if in search. The roar of the water rushing through the millrace was loud, drowning out sound.

  For us? How can they know we are here? Perhaps it is but a precaution…unless the one called Talon has suspicions about yestre day’s passage of the road and the river.

  The nape of his neck prickled.

  Turold was suddenly beside him, hand on his shoulder, his whisper urgent. “Back, Brandr! Back!”

  Without waiting to ask why, he pulled Frækn and allowed the skáld to pull him into the deeper shelter of the trees.

  Turold, Fægennes in hand, was furious. “They know, or suspect, we are here. I saw two of them. They skulk through the trees like cowards, but they have bows, the arrows already nocked.”

  His own anger lashed. “The fools risk hitting the women and Alwin!”

  “Aye. Sindre and Oswulf are moving them farther east, but there is only so far to take them before we run into the main river. We should retreat, Brandr. If they corner us in the confluence….”

  “Já. But I fear no matter where we try to cross, we will run into more of them. The first marshal seems to have every crossing covered. We cannot underestimate his cunning.”

  “What if we wait until night? There is rain in the air. Clouds move in. They would give us cover.”

  “Agreed. We will fall back and find a safe place to wait.”

  He was turning to follow Turold when screams broke out.

  Turold cursed. “That is the direction the others went. They have been found.”

  “But we have not! We may yet win this day.”

  Need drove them, but stealth won out as they slipped through the trees, moving toward the shouts. They halted when a flash of movement ahead of them betrayed a lookout.

  “Wait here.” He sheathed Frækn, pulled his sax and worked his way around and behind the guard. Moments later, the man lay dead at his feet.

  He waved Turold forward. “There is likely another lookout on the opposite side of the clearing.”

  “Aye, I will deal with him. Look there!” Turold pointed to the scene that played out in a clearing before them. “There are only a few.”

  Sindre and Oswulf stood their ground with the women and Alwin between them. The húdfats and other baggage had been dumped on the ground around them, as if to provide traps for the feet of the eight men who surrounded them. Oswulf brandished the woodman’s axe from the cottage and a hadseax, but he was no warrior and looked more determined than capable. Bryda, her face pale, stood behind her husband with her arms wrapped protectively around her belly. Alwin, his gaze fixed on Sindre, hefted a palm-sized rock. Sindre’s creative curses filled the air as the eight began to close in. His uncle held Frithr at the ready but leaned heavily on his walking staff, keeping his foot off the ground as if completely unable to put weight on it.

  Brandr suppressed a grin. Sindre feigned a worse injury than he had. Once the fighting began, his uncle would fight as if there were none at all.

  Then Lissa turned more fully in his direction. His heart clenched in sudden pity. She stood tense, and pale as thistle down, her jaw clenched so hard her lips were pinched white.

  She remembers Yriclea.

  She held her arms stiffly at her sides, her hands clenched, every line of her body braced in stark rejection of the coming bloodshed. Horror blazed from her golden eyes as she stared at one of the attackers, not the leader, but a small, lean individual with dark hair and weathered skin. He held out his hand to her as if in supplication.

  She knows him, fears for his life! Is this Talon? Nei, not the first marshal. Talon would command the others.

  He abruptly wished, for her sake, it would not be necessary to kill, but knew the futility of the desire even before he thought it. These men would not allow otherwise.

  Their leader loudly demanded that Sindre and Oswulf lay down their arms.

  Brandr frowned. “Where are the men with the bows? These eight cannot be all there are.”

  “I see no others, nor do I feel any close by. The two with the bows are not here. They were moving toward the village.” He raised a brow in question. “Do we attack, or wait for a better chance?”

  “We cannot let them take our people into town. We will make a stand here, but we will have to overcome them quickly, else more may come than we can defeat—and Turold, that man there, the short, dark one?”

  “Aye?”

  “Do not kill him unless he gives you no choice. He is one of Lissa’s people.”

  A flash of understanding crossed the skáld’s expression and he nodded, a feral glee shining in his eyes. “I will find and dispatch the other guard. Yell when you are ready. Lead on, O warrior!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Brandr sheathed his sax and slid his shield over his arm. He pulled his axe from his belt as he prowled toward the clearing. Turold moved away to his right.

  He focused on catching Sindre’s attention. His uncle’s head swiveled, trying to eye the five warriors who approached him. Sindre’s gaze suddenly locked with his, acknowledged him without a blink and moved on.

  The leader of the attacking band, one of those facing Sindre, shouted. “Take them!”

  Not waiting for Turold, Brandr threw the axe, bringing down one of five, then raised his voice in a fierce war cry, followed moments later by Turold’s yell. Unsheathing Frækn, he charged into the clearing, making for the leader, who broke formation to meet him head on. Another went for Turold.

  The distraction gave Sindre all the aid he needed against the two who were left. He brought up the walking staff in a stunning, arcing blow that shattered one opponent’s shield, then swung his axe. The man fell. He thrust the stick into Alwin’s hand and traded axe blows with the second.

  After that, Brandr was too busy fighting to notice much else. He also had two to deal with at once, but glimpses of the others in his peripheral vision assured him even Oswulf held his own.

  He had just killed the leader and engaged the other, when he saw Sindre’s danger. His uncle had drawn one of the attackers away from the women. The man was a skilled fighter and had maneuvered Sindre so his back was unprotected, vulnerable to another combatant who came at him from behind, sword raised for a killing blow. He cried out a warning, but fighting for his life, had time for no more.

  Then there was naught but his enemy, the battle, and the fierce determination to win. He dodged a thrust, too close for comfort, and returned to land a mighty blow against his adversary’s head with the flat of his sword. The man went down and died, Frækn piercing his throat.

  He looked around and saw that seven of the attackers were on the ground. The surviving man—Lissa’s acquaintance—abruptly fled. He threw a hard, speculative glance at her before disappearing into the trees in the direction of the town. That he went for help, there could be no doubt. Turold start
ed after him, but Brandr called him back.

  Sindre stood undamaged, his face stretched by the familiar battle grin. At his feet lay three of the dead, one of whom was the one who had meant to kill him while his back was turned. Alwin stood staring at the dead man, looking pale, but grimly satisfied. The rock he had held was on the ground beside the man, dark streaks attesting to the youngling’s excellent aim. Turold’s kill lay at the edge of the clearing, and Oswulf had somehow accounted for his attacker with the knife he had held.

  He moved quickly to Lissa. “You are unhurt?”

  “I…yes.” She searched him with haunted eyes. “And you?”

  “I am fine. Bryda, you are well?”

  “Aye, leóf.”

  “There are tales to be told of this battle, but not now. The one who got away will seek help, but it will take time. We cannot be here when they come. Grab the baggage.” He pointed opposite the way they had originally fled, in the direction of the village. “We will go that way. When they find the dead here, it is my hope they will think we still make for the main river. If we double back and move west of Andeferas, we may throw them off. Turold, take the lead. I have heard this village boasts two watermills, one east, and one west. I have seen the first. Make for the latter. We will seek a hiding place there and then cross in the night, using the mill as cover.”

  Lissa grabbed his hand and shook her head. “No, Brandr! The man who got away was Wat, Talon’s tracker. He will find us. Even if we manage to cross this night, unseen, he will follow easily on the morrow. We cannot outrun them.”

  He glanced at the countenances that watched him with such confidence, feeling the burden of leadership as never before. With a tracker after them, there was nowhere they could hide they would not be found, but perhaps it made their choices simpler. He grinned and took Lissa’s face in his hands. “Then what would you have me do, Lissa Brandr-thrall? We are surrounded. If this Wat can track us, as you say, where do we go?”

  “It will make no difference. He will follow. We must go into the river, the big one the other three flow into. He cannot track the water!”

  “But it is not deep enough, nor does it flow fast enough to carry us swiftly along, and we cannot be certain of obtaining boats.” He glanced up at what he could see of the sky beyond the tree canopy. Clouds, black and puffed with rain, rolled and scudded. The gloom of evening was deep, but not yet such as to veil their escape. They needed time. “If it matters not which way we go, then we want a place to hide until it grows dark enough we cannot be seen. We will decide then which direction is best.

  “Howbeit, it is already too dark for tracking. We will flee to the east mill. It is nigh. The building was searched before the fight. It may now be safe. I think they will not expect us to move closer to the village. During the night, we will ford the river. If Thorr is with us, it will rain, and blot out our tracks. They will be forced to waste time deciding their next course.”

  Lissa swallowed. “And if they decide correctly?”

  “One problem at a time, if you please, litill blóm!” He smiled at her to soften the rebuke.

  Shouts sounded in the far distance.

  Sindre growled low in his throat. “They come!”

  “Sindre, follow me. Turold, bring up the rear.” Keeping Lissa’s hand in a tight grip, he started at a lope in the direction of the mill. Menace whispered in the air, but none challenged them.

  They stopped at the edge of the millhouse clearing. Only when he was certain they were alone did he lead them to the doorway.

  Hammer of Thorr!

  It was locked. He had not expected this, though perhaps he should have when he noticed the searchers, who must have secured the building when they left. He checked the large, window-like portals that were propped open during the mill’s operation to allow light and cross-ventilation. No access, there—they were barred from within. He looked around, his mind racing, seeking a different choice of cover.

  “What is it, Músa?” Sindre leaned over his shoulder. “Ah, I see. We cannot get inside. Well then, we cross the river now.”

  “Nei. It is still too light.”

  Turold came close and bent to take a close look at the impediment to their plan. “I have a better idea.” He grinned. “It behooves a scop to learn many skills besides how to sing and write poetry.”

  From somewhere within his tunic he removed a small, odd-shaped iron tool. After a few moments of concentration and the small sounds of metal scraping metal, the big lock popped open. He opened the door and made a gesture inviting them to enter.

  Brandr shook his head. “I see a difficulty with your solution, skáld. If they come to check, they will see the lock has been removed.”

  “Not if I replace it. I will hide over there, behind those empty grain casks. It is unlikely they will look further, when they see the lock remains in place. When it is time, I will release you.”

  “I do not like this,” Sindre said. “We would be as animals in a cage. Defense would be difficult.”

  Brandr raised a brow. “Have you another plan to offer?”

  “Nei. I did not say I would not go in, only that I dislike it.”

  Brandr waved them all inside and followed, then exchanged a last glance with Turold. “Wait for the rain.”

  The sound of the lock catching made his jaw clench and his heart lurch. He liked being confined no more than Sindre.

  It was utterly black inside the building. It took a bit of groping and stumbling around before his small flock was settled in relative comfort. In the process, he lost track of his thrall.

  “Lissa, where are you?”

  “Here, Brandr. Follow my voice. The floor is clear between us.” She crooned a tune, sweet and low.

  He found his way to her side, leaned Frækn against the wall and groped downward along the wallboards to find her head. She turned to him as he sprawled beside her, nigh crawling into his lap. Guilty pleasure infused him, body and soul, at the warmth of her soft curves in his arms. It seemed battle was required to break through her resistance and cause her to seek his embrace. He wanted her there of her own desire, and could not bring himself to regret the events just past, for she clung to him in her need. Still, knowing it hurt her, he should shy from fighting when possible, do all in his power to avoid it—in truth, he already had—but battle or not, she belonged in his arms. His hunter’s soul knew it, if she did not.

  She buried her face in the crook of his neck, the heat of her breath caressing his flesh. It sent sparks of fire skittering to deep places. He ruthlessly suppressed them.

  “If death and dire peril had not driven us to this pass,” she said, “I would feel like a child playing a foolish game of hiding and seeking.”

  Sindre’s snort and Alwin’s snigger were loud in the darkness.

  Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. Alwin sounded more and more like his uncle, though he was not so sure that was altogether a good thing. There was much he did not wish for the youngling to learn from Sindre. Still, he had no regrets at bringing the child along. Not once had he slowed or hindered their way, and he was holding up well; but then, at his age, their journey was more a grand adventure than a perilous endeavor. He felt safe in the company of warriors.

  He had proven a deft hand at the chores he was given, and now it appeared he had a fine aim with a rock! The youngling had saved Sindre’s life with his throw. He was a good child, too, neither timid nor given to whining, nor was he slothful. If aught, he could be too bold. If his actions this eve were indication, when the time came, he would take well to Sindre’s warrior training, though he was two winters past the age when that instruction should have begun.

  Bryda suddenly spoke up from the darkness. “I fear I am not so brave as you, Lissa. I am frightened, more than when we were forced from our home.”

  “But we have been led well, have we not, my love?” Confidence filled Oswulf’s voice. “We are safe here.”

  “I am not brave.” Lissa whispered the words, her br
eath warm against his neck. “Hold me, Brandr.”

  His body tightened at her plea and a wholly possessive triumph surged through his veins. She needed him! He lifted her fully onto his lap. She cuddled like a child. Some of his elation leached away at the tears that scalded his skin. Her whole body shuddered. She uttered a silent gasp as sobs raged. Someday, she would come to terms with the slaughter of her people, but tonight, their loss was still too fresh.

  “Shhh, lítill blóm, it will be all right.” He gently stroked her hair until the fierce spasms eased. She gave a little hiccup and slumped against him. Freyja’s tears, but he liked that she leaned on him, that she wanted, nei pleaded, for the comfort only he could give.

  He shifted slightly against the hard floor, trying to change his position without disturbing her. His backside was going numb.

  Without moving, she said, “Are you uncomfortable? I can sit by myself.”

  “Nei! Nei, I am fine. Go to sleep.” He raised his voice so the others could hear. “Those who can should sleep. Once we leave here, we will not stop again until we have put leagues between us and those who search for us.”

  He chose not to mention that other searchers, on the far side of the river, would also be on the lookout for them. Those could be evaded easily enough in the dark and the rain, but the first marshal would be after them at first light. The morrow would likely bring more of the ‘adventure’ Alwin craved. He only hoped he was strong enough—and wise enough—to bring them all through it, alive and whole.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  Safe in Brandr’s arms, Lissa dozed, only waking fully when men approached the mill. They made no effort to keep their voices low. Tension spiked through the darkness inside the mill as one of searchers rattled the lock. Brandr lifted an arm from around her and she knew he silently took up Frækn. She tensed, prepared to throw herself out of his way should the man unlock the door. She prayed for the safety of Turold in his hiding place, and for all of them. The voice outside called that all was secure. The searchers moved on and the night became still. Only then did she breathe again, and relax in the arms of the one who held her heart in his unpredictable care as surely as he held her body in his arms.