by Jianne Carlo
“’Twas then Aegir cursed Nyssa?” Forsooth, had he lost his wits? Curses, gods and goddesses—’twas hard to swallow. If not for the fact his wee sister, Hjørdis, had been sired by the god, Thōrr, Konáll would ne’er have considered such notions.
“Aye. And ’twas also then that Lord Rurari and Lady Gwen and their party vanished. Aegir doomed Nyssa to death by burning. He was so incensed by Rán’s cuckold of him, that he cast a spell o’er Nyssa making her sicken if any man touched her with carnal intent. She is a healer and since then cannot set her hands on a man. You are the first since the curse. You must have the ring of the Saracen on you. How come you by this?”
Konáll swore and slapped a palm on his thigh. “Of what concern is this to you, vándr dýr—”
With a thunderous roar, the monstrous feline sprang to all fours, and his clawed feet dug deep into the pebbled beach. “Evil beast, am I? You know not evil until you have fought a sea-god. Think you this form is the only wound I bear from my battle with Aegir?”
The lion stalked a circle around him, golden eyes trained on Konáll. “Afore I let my temper reign, Viking, know this—when Aegir cursed Nyssa, Rán cast off the spell, changing the curse so if a warrior who bears the ring of the Saracen takes her maidenhood and gives her a woman’s pleasure, the curse shall be lifted.”
Konáll froze. Fingering the jewels embedded in the center of his axe, he met Mús’s predatory stare. “How know you of the Saracen’s ring?”
“I served with the Jomsvikings through three winters. ’Tis a tale oft repeated, there. Asides, Castle Caerleah’s healer and magik woman, Elsa, foretold the warrior with the Saracen ring would save Nyssa and rule this isle.” The lion rolled an enormous shoulder. “Also, Nyssa refused to aid you in relieving your bladder and ’twas a chore left to me. I saw the ring.”
Konáll gagged. He could not take his eyes off the lion’s long, hooked claws.
Mús grinned, a wide toothsome, evil smile.
Fisting his hands to resist the urge to check his cock and stones for nicks and scars Konáll scowled at the beast.
“Did Nyssa see it?” For some reason Konáll misliked the idea of her knowing of his shame. And who was this Elsa to know of his ring mayhap e’en afore the caliph set it into his skin?
“Nay. She was focused on your head wound. Will you save her?” The creature fixed him with a piercing stare.
Konáll knew he would have to battle to the death if his answer was nay. “And if I do not do so?”
“Know you how many times she has escaped burning at the stake because of her healing powers? E’en from those she had healed?”
“Why would someone she saved seek her harm?”
“The priests call her evil, a witch, and Satan’s whelp, and all believe them. The good men of the church want her dead. They envy her powers. And still she believes in the Christian god. Our castle priest warned her ne’er to heal again.” The lion shook his head. “Yet, though you could scarce draw breath, and at great pain to her, she insisted on healing you e’en after I ordered her not to.”
“Why would you prevent her from tending to my wounds?”
A sea hawk circling the cove shrieked and dove beneath a cresting wave.
“She absorbs the injury when she heals and retains the scars and the pain for some time. E’en now she wears the same welt you do in the back of your head. And the bile from touching a man leaves her unable to eat for days. You are the first man she has touched in four seasons.”
Automatically, Konáll rubbed his fingertips along the back of his head where he had earlier discovered a long, curved, raised welt. The kind of wound caused by a scimitar, the saber used by Saracen warriors.
“I feared for her life at the end for she swooned, and she has ne’er done that afore.”
Konáll had not deemed it possible for an animal to wear sorrow like a shroud the way Mús did at that moment. If the cat’s tale was true, he owed Nyssa his life. “Tell me more of her curse.”
“When the Lady Nyssa faces her fate, the one known as Dauði Dkellr will either save or doom her afore the dawn of Thrimilci. So spake Rán after Aegir cursed Nyssa to slow death by fire.”
Konáll sucked in a deep breath. At least Nyssa’s goddess mother had interceded on her behalf and had given her a way to break Aegir’s curse. Could such a strange tale hold true? Another notion occurred to him. “If what you say is true, then Nyssa knew who I was the moment I spoke my name. Why did she pretend otherwise?”
“My half sister holds no hope for a reprieve from Aegir’s damnation.”
All at once, the lion’s claim hit him. “Your half sister? How?”
A sudden gust whipped Konáll’s hair across his face, blinding him for a moment. He flicked the locks aside.
“Aye. I was born of the Lady Gwen and Lord Rurari not long after Rán gave Nyssa into their care. She is but three seasons older than I. I was once a warrior. I told you I served with Jomsvikings.” Mús lurched to his four paws and stalked toward him.
Konáll had dismissed the lion’s earlier claim, but let the bald statement go without question in the hopes of discovering more about Nyssa. He gestured at the beast’s massive body. “How come you to be a mountain cat?”
“I challenged Aegir on Nyssa’s behalf. Know you this, Viking: ne’er anger a god. Coward that his is, Aegir refused battle and transformed me to what I am now.”
“Methinks ’tis not possible to win a fight with a god.” Konáll scratched the stubble on his chin.
“Nay. ’Tis possible. So said Rán when she gave me the power to return to warrior form for one day each season. ’Tis on that day I can break Aegir’s spell, but I must find the one who sings with the wind first.”
“You have my thoughts in a whirl, lion. Why tell me the all of this?” Konáll regretted asking the question immediately.
“I want Nyssa’s happiness. To that end there is more you should know. Aegir was enraged when Rán gave Nyssa a way to break the curse. He cast another spell. Should the ring of the Saracen touch Nyssa’s flesh during the taking of her maidenhood, all that is attached to it will wither and die.”
Konáll and Mús bore each other’s strained gaze for long moments.
“My stones and cock will wither and die if I take her maidenhood. Ask you this of me? Would you do such for her?” Konáll fingered the carved handle of his axe.
“I would die for her.” He had not known a lion could shrug, far less while prowling as if on the hunt for a kill.
“’Tis an easier fate to face Valhalla than to lose my manhood.”
“Rán would ne’er have chosen you had she not believed you could break Nyssa’s curse. Know you this, the wording of the curse is all. Think you carefully on what I have said this aft and ’twill become clear to you.”
“You speak in riddles, cat.” Konáll wanted to howl his frustration.
“I speak the little the gods allow me to know. ’Tis vital none know I am Nyssa’s kin or that I am a man. Treat me the way Nyssa does—as her pet. I am doomed to become the beast whose form contains me. Each day my hunger for mortal blood grows. The time fast approaches when I will be cast first into Niflheim and then to Hel. I can no longer guard Nyssa.”
Konáll staggered. “Think you to slaughter your own half sister?”
“I cannot risk it. Her fate is in your hands, Viking. Thrimilci dawns on the morrow. Nyssa sleeps now. Let her rest. She is bone weary.” The feline flicked its tale and vanished in a swirling fog of sand.
Only when one of the three multifaceted rubies on his axe’s handle sliced the skin on his thumb did Konáll realize he stood alone on the beach. He sucked the droplets of blood from the stinging wound and then shook his head. ’Twas an unbelievable tale Mús told.
Yet the cat had spoken to him.
And Nyssa had healed his broken skull.
Had so much time elapsed? That the nine nights of the feast of Walpurgis ended on the morrow with the All Father’s self-sacrifice on the world tre
e, Yggdrasil? He clenched his fists and tried to dredge up his last memory.
A vague recollection of a violent, sudden storm niggled at the corners of his mind. Mayhap a swim would jostle the memories buried by the blow to his head. Mús had said Nyssa slept, so he had no need to hasten back to the cave. He set his axe, sword, and belt on the flat rock Mús had vacated and tugged off his tunic. After removing his boots and breeches, he picked his way through the throngs of narrow, pointed stones.
The multitudes of seagulls perched on the tips of the boulders screeched their displeasure at his intrusion and soared into the wind amidst the thundering of dozens of flapping wings. The yammering birds formed a thick white blanket against the blue sky.
Konáll sighed when the lapping warm water cascaded over his bare feet. The lure of the balmy ocean proved irresistible, and he dove into the belly of a wave about to crash against the shore.
For some time he forged his way from one end of the bay to the other, and the rhythmic strokes focused his wandering thoughts, but he could recall naught after leaving Thōrfin’s holding. Konáll treaded water and frowned. One moment he had been standing on the deck of his langskip, the next he had awoken in the cave.
A flock of mud-colored birds flew overhead, their discordant shrieks lost in a sudden howling wind. He sniffed. The salt in the breeze had deepened and a thick moistness weighted the air.
In the distance, a line of smoky clouds galloped from the horizon, their advance so swift as to trample on the winged heels of Hermod, the gods’ messenger. One of the swift, violent gales peculiar to the seas of the Scottish isles approached. Already the sun’s light had faded to the haze of portending dusk even though ’twas not much past midafternoon.
Swearing, he drove his arms into the white-crested, whipping waves and swam to shore. The second his feet found purchase on the sandy ocean floor, the skies erupted. A jagged bolt of lightning sizzled atop a rock close to the one where he’d laid his weapons. He cursed and sprinted forward.
’Twixt the dense curtain of rain and the strained shadows caused by the arrival of the black carpet of clouds, he could see no more than an arm’s length ahead. Thunder boomed and echoed around him, he hurdled a boulder blocking his way, and fell flat on his face.
Sharp rocks cut into his chin and forehead.
Before he had chance to draw breath, hands locked onto Konáll’s wrists and jerked him over and onto his back.
Rough fingers manacled his ankles.
Instinctively, he kicked and yanked on the restraining hands.
A blade bit into his side.
He froze. Squinted through the cold raindrops battering his eyes, and choked back a howl.
Ambush.
At least a dozen men encircled him.
Four warriors held him down. Another squatted beside him slowly tracing a dagger across his midsection. Konáll sucked in a breath, hollowing his belly.
“Who be you, warrior?” The streaming drops did little to cleanse the thick layer of grime coating the man’s countenance. He wore a patch over one eye, and Konáll knew with a sinking stomach ’twas the Pict, Bagan One-Eye.
“My liege!” The bellow came from behind Konáll’s head. “We found her!”
Konáll choked back a howl of sheer frustration. He had not considered obscuring the cave’s entrance.
Bagan One-Eye lurched to his feet and pointed his knife at Konáll. “Bind him. He lives. For now. Bring him along.”
The Pict and a couple of his men vanished between the rocks.
Konáll scanned the five armed bandits left behind, but afore he could make a move to escape, they trussed him like a pig ready for slaughter. All the while, swords and knives slashed ominously close to his cock amidst much ribaldry and vulgar jests. All centered on making Konáll an eunuch.
“Move.” A warrior prodded Konáll in the stomach.
Two of the others hauled him to his feet.
“Make haste lest you lose your balls with a slip of my knife.”
The man inserted the long steel blade of his weapon between Konáll’s thighs. He worked his jaw and concentrated on climbing the cliff face and avoiding castration. By the time they crested the trail and entered the cavern, blood ran down his back and thighs from the myriad wounds delivered by the bawdy Picts.
It took a few moments to grow accustomed to the cave’s shadows. Konáll stifled a bellow when he saw Nyssa staked out on the floor, much as he had been earlier. The bastards had ripped her tunic and sliced her leggings to reveal her breasts and a slash of pale curls at the juncture of her legs.
Konáll snapped his teeth together and snaked a sidelong glance at the arrow rock near the back of the cave, behind which lay his other weapons, his spare sword, three daggers, and a crossbow.
Not a man would see the morrow.
“She be a fine woman, the Lady Nyssa.” Bagan squatted beside Nyssa. He traced the tip of his dagger around one firm, mounded breast and outlined the pale serpent birthmark she had inherited from Rán. “A maiden. ’Twill be my pleasure to breach her sweet puss.”
Nyssa tossed her head away from Bagan’s malevolent scrutiny and met Konáll’s gaze.
She blinked and for a second he saw a flare of hope in her stormy eyes before she shuttered them.
“You take her now, brother?” The warrior who spoke was stout, bearded, and of short stature. “And we have a turn after. Then we burn her and gain our reward.”
Cheers, shouted lewd suggestions, guffaws, and roars echoed off the hollow stone walls. The noise rose to a deep rumble. The men crowded around Bagan and Nyssa forming a tight circle.
None paid Konáll any heed as he edged to the back of the crowd and shuffled to the arrow rock. The dense shadows hid his movements and all eyes were focused elsewhere. He dropped to his knees, then onto his side on the floor, felt for his knife, grasped the blade, ignored the deep gouge in his palm, and began sawing the ropes binding him.
The ferocious snarl of Nyssa’s cat deafened all other sound.
Konáll had managed to work a few of the ropes free. He scrambled to a sitting position, glanced around the rock, and grinned. Mús had Bagan One-Eye’s brother by the neck and whipped him back and forth.
Shrieks, screeches of terror, and agonized screams rang out. Men fought each other for the cave’s entrance.
Konáll sliced through the rest of the ropes and threw them off. He grabbed the three daggers and raced to Nyssa.
“Look to me.” He cleaved the ropes trussing her arms, then her feet, and met her gaze. Pointing at the arrow rock, he snapped, “Go there. Stay until Mús and I have all in hand.”
She clamped the torn tunic together with one hand and used the other to lever herself to a squat. “Worry not of me, Viking. Go help Mús.”
Standing with knees bent, he brandished his knives and spread his legs to block her movements as she crawled into the shadows.
The battle had moved outside. The lion’s roars echoed off the cliff face and the beast decimated man after man with powerful swipes of his great paws.
Twixt the snarling enraged animal, Konáll’s war bellows, and the tortured shrieks of the wounded, the pounding rain seemed a mere whisper. The moment Nyssa hugged her arms and ducked behind the rock, Konáll galloped into the storm. Few men were left standing, all either injured or dying or racing into the woods. The berserker in him reared.
Through a scarlet haze he slashed and severed all who stood their ground and halted only when he heard the cat’s howl of pain. Konáll swung around to glimpse the beast crumpling to the muddy ground, a sword buried hilt deep in its side.
“Nay. Nay.” Nyssa, half-naked, bounded to the fallen animal and flung her arms around its neck. “Do not leave me. Nay.”
He could not tell her tears from the hammering rain, but the sob in her voice could not be mistaken. After checking the immediate area and reassuring himself all threat had either vanished or been vanquished, he hurried to Nyssa and grasped her arm. He shook her. “Woman! Cease you
r infernal tears. Want you your pet to live we needs get him inside so you can tend to him.”
She nodded, and her glazed eyes focused. “Aye. Inside. Help me.”
To his astonishment, she discarded the remnants of her tunic, eased the cloth under the cat’s shoulders, knotted the ends, slung the cloth over one shoulder, and heaved.
“Yield to me, woman.” He grabbed the sling from her. “Light the fire. He is soaked and will take a chill.”
For a moment she looked about to argue, eyes narrowed, hands fisted, but then dropped her gaze to the filthy handle of the sword embedded in the cat’s side and bounded into the cave.
Konáll dragged Mús near to the pit she’d dug earlier.
The blaze had already caught, and low flames welled a cloud of charcoal smoke to the roof of the cavern.
He shifted the beast to the back of the fire, away from the entrance, and let the cloth drop to the ground. “I needs—”
“I know, Viking. I am too well accustomed to battles. See to what you must, but secure me a weapon afore you depart.” She did not look at him but bundled the tunic into a roll and eased it under Mús’s head.
Konáll could bring himself to consider Mús a man, not with the great cat lying wounded with a sword buried to the hilt in his mane. He had learned a long time ago not to care too deeply for the warriors he served with or the stallions that carried him in battle. Death was too frequent and the loss too painful, and the business of a conqueror was of more import. That Nyssa’s brother would survive such a blow was doubtful, but she had proved her healing abilities with Konáll’s injury.
Konáll retrieved a sword and several knives from the fallen Picts and gave them to Nyssa. She did not notice when he left, too absorbed in heating and pulverizing a handful of the moss scraped from the cave’s walls.
