Golden Surrender

by Heather Graham

  She would not burn to death, she tried to console herself. The smoke would ease her from life long before the flames could touch her.

  It wouldn’t be so terrible to die. If there truly was a God, she would have her brother Leith and Fennen and Bridget and Brian of Clonntairth at the porthole of the heavens to greet her, to bring her home. No, it wouldn’t be so terrible to die. Except that she was young, and her life stretched ahead of her. Her life with the warrior-king, the Lord of the Wolves … Olaf. She had never told him that she loved him. If only she could tell him. If only she could be in his arms once more, whisper the words into his lips.…

  * * *

  Olaf had eyes for only one man. Almost thoughtlessly he slashed his way through the men who would engage him in battle. He sat on the black with both hands freed, using only his knees to maneuver the trusted mount. He held his shield high in his left arm; he carried his sword in his right. If Friggid was hiding, he would find him. If he were to lose his own sword and shield, he would meet the Dane with his bare hands.

  “Wolf!”

  The shout rang out. Olaf stared through the melee of men and saw that Friggid was, at long last, riding to meet him.

  Despite the calamity, bloodshed, and intensity of that first, reckless engagement of the battle, the men began to part. Axes and swords were lowered. Half of the scattered makeshift buildings were already burning, but not even that gave destiny pause as the two men approached one another on their mounts. There was suddenly something akin to silence. The petty skirmishes ceased; all watched and waited the outcome of the one-on-one battle that had to be fought between the Viking jarls.

  They approached one another, warily but surely, the war stallions, both standing seventeen hands high, prancing skittishly with the scent of smoke and blood in their flaring nostrils.

  Five lengths away they halted, taking one another’s measure.

  It was a clash long in coming. It was for Grenilde, Olaf thought, and it was for Ireland, for the peace he had come to crave, for his son.… No. It was for Erin. She was the land, and she was his life.

  Friggid was clad in a ragged tunic and his armor. Olaf met him in the robe and mantle of the Irish, but he had also sheathed himself in the armor he had long ago learned from his enemy. Friggid has eschewed the use of his axe; he carried a sword and shield as did the Wolf; his head was protected by a helmet of steel, his face by a visor in the shape of a ram.

  Olaf still wore no helmet. His bare blond head was golden defiance in the sunlight.

  “It is between us, Dane. You and me. Do not lead your troops to suicide,” Olaf said quietly. “This is a battle between only two Vikings.”

  “Yes,” Friggid agreed. “The battle is between us. It has always been so. Destined by Odin, by Thor. But it is not between two Vikings. You have turned Irish,” he spat contemptuously.

  Olaf shrugged. “Perhaps, Dane. But you will remember, Friggid, I am the one to hold Dubhlain. I am the one who rides with the thousands—Irish thousands—now.” Olaf’s tone of voice changed to a growl. “Where is my wife, Dane?”

  A mocking grin slashed its way across Friggid’s features. “To the victor, Wolf, go the spoils. Surely you know that law of conquest.”

  “Then,” Olaf spat out, “let us have a victor.”

  Gregory of Clonntairth suddenly broke from the crowd, racing on foot to Olaf’s side. He brought the helmet and visor of the Wolf to his bareheaded liege. Olaf secured them over his head. Only his eyes were visible beneath the sheen of metallic silver; eyes that were the fire daggers of ice crystal. Suddenly the great black stallion reared high, snorting and pawing the air. Olaf cast back his head and screeched out his battle cry.

  It was the howl of the wolf, a sound so terrible, so chilling, that even Gregory, stepping back into the ranks of men, felt a tremor shake through his bones. He was tempted to cross himself. He did not, but he noted that the Danes seemed to ease backward.

  The ground trembled as the black again hit the ground with all four hoofs, and then there was nothing but a blur of action, a terrible screeching as the two great animals came together.

  Olaf and Friggid clashed swords, straining and grunting with the force of their arms. Neither was unhorsed. The war stallions spun on tensed haunches. Again there was a blur of speed. The terrible crunch of massive weight against massive weight, a shattering clash of steel.

  Friggid fought like a berserkr, his strength that of a madman who knew all was won or lost with this contest.

  But though all had heard of the fury of the Wolf, none had ever seen him fight with such a frenzy. He fought with the furor of a man who had suffered terrible pain and loss. He fought with vengeance, but more than anything, he fought for his mate.

  But on the next clash, it was Olaf who was unhorsed. He rolled into the dirt, scrambling for his shield and finding his feet with speed and agility. Friggid bore down upon him on horseback, seeking to both lunge and trample. But his lunge missed his target, and Olaf, ducking and reeling, grabbed at Friggid’s arm. Seconds later both men were rolling in the dirt, and they were on their feet, circling one another warily.

  The cry of the wolf rent the heavens again.

  Swords clashed. Steel penetrated Olaf’s armor and tore at the flesh of his arm, but he didn’t feel the pain. He wielded his massive sword again, kicking out as he raged at Friggid, sending the shield of the Danish jarl flying through the air. Olaf’s arm shuddered with the sickening reverberation as his blade then tore through flesh and muscle and bone.

  Friggid stared at him, staggering and stunned. He dropped his sword and clutched at his shoulder and neck where the blood poured out of him, where his life drained away. He fell to his knees, still staring at the Norwegian with astonishment, as if he had never believed he could possibly lose the battle.

  Olaf stood over his fallen enemy, shaking. He saw the glazing eyes beneath him and the triumph within them still. Kneeling beside Friggid, Olaf took the bloodied shoulders into his hands and shook the man.

  “Where is my wife?” he thundered, filled with a sudden panic. No dying man held triumph in his eyes unless …

  Friggid didn’t speak. His breath was a death rattle beneath his visor. There was a smile upon the barely visible lips.

  “Where is she?” Olaf roared.

  Friggid’s eyes were finding the empty glaze of death, but they blinked once and rolled in their sockets toward the far rear of the walled defense.

  Olaf released his enemy’s shoulders and stood in anxious confusion. He could see nothing but the wooden buildings of the camp, most of them in a blaze. And there was some type of a fenced area, a platform, probably a punishment dais, but it too was blazing.

  A rattle sounded from the ground, the strange echo that was like that of dry leaves rustling in winter.

  Friggid the Bowlegs was at long last dead.

  One of the Danes stepped forward suddenly, placing his sword at Olaf’s feet. “We surrender to you, Lord of the Wolves. We are weak in numbers and had no taste for this battle, but were loyal to our jarl. We expect none, but ask your mercy.”

  “Leave Ireland, or swear fealty to Aed Finnlaith, and mercy shall be yours,” Olaf said distantly, still scouring the camp with his eyes. “I have no more taste for killing; I seek only my wife.”

  The Dane turned to face as Olaf did, and smoke or emotion filled his eyes with a liquid gleam. “The woman … your queen.…”

  “Speak, man!” Olaf roared in a trembling thunder.

  The man lifted his hand towards the dais where the fire was rising high in a rim. “The fire, my jarl. If yet she lives, you could not reach her. Olaf of Dubhlain, believe this: We did not know Friggid’s plans for her; we had come to respect her, for she was a courageous woman—”

  The howl—the deep, chilling howl of the wolf—rose again. It was the howl of an animal wounded and desperate. “No!” he shrieked again, and then as all watched, he was leaping astride the black stallion and racing toward the far courtyard and
the inferno that blazed there.

  Troops of the Danes, Ulster, Tara, and Dubhlain alike scrambled on horseback or foot to race after him. He halted before the logs that burned so brightly, smoke rising in billowing black from their heat of red and glowing orange. No man could face it.

  Yet between the leaping flames of blazing intensity, the raised platform could still be seen. The fire had not yet touched the princess. Little tongues of it were just now beginning to touch the slope of wood that led to the stake from which the princess hung limply. She sagged against it, her face hidden from them all by a sheer cloud of ebony hair made indigo like fine silk from the reflection of the fire.

  The cries of the wolf rang through the smoke-billowed air again. He called out to Thor and to Wodon—and he called out to the Christian God.

  He spurred the black stallion furiously. The animal charged, but reared high at the wall of fire, spinning about. The Wolf backed the animal away.

  Erin raised her head, and she saw the mountain of men and horses before her, but they meant nothing to her in her dazed state. She saw only one man. The majestic giant on the black stallion. The Wolf, ever a king. His visor was still on his face; the visor with the shape of a wolf’s head, and she could still see his eyes, Nordic blue, locked with hers. The ice was gone; they were like a summer sea in a storm, filled with tempest, turmoil, and pain. Was she delirious? Did she imagine it? When she blinked, she saw his eyes again, steel cold with determination, and again they were ice.

  He did not love her. He had come because he was the conqueror, because he had to avenge Grenilde, because he was a man who would never relinquish what was his. Yet, as she was his, he had however briefly been hers. He might not love her—but he lived! And he would be forever locked in her immortal spirit as she saw him: a man above men on the black. More powerful, more regal, than mortal man. He was a golden god, and if ever he did fall, he would rule above all men even within the hall of Valhalla, unique in magnificence and splendor.

  She smiled because she saw him, because he lived, because she had always known that he was indomitable.…

  Olaf spun the black around. He raced the animal back a greater distance and spun again.

  The black stallion reared high, snorting furiously, pawing the air. A hush fell over the land, as if each man, each assembled warrior, caught and held his breath. Only the lone call of the wounded animal sounded on the deathly still air. Time again halted, waited.

  And then the black stallion was galloping, racing, mighty flanks straining and bunching with power and fluidity. Closer and closer came the wall of flame. The man was leaning over the neck of the animal, one with him, whispering, coaxing, encouraging.

  They reached the flames. The stallion did not balk but sailed over logs and fire unfalteringly. Olaf did not hesitate. He saw the platform, saw the laps of flame beginning to lick their way upward. He directed the horse toward the sloping wood that led to the platform.

  Erin saw him and her eyes widened incredulously. He was going to bring the stallion up the slope and to the platform. He can’t do it, she thought, because the sloping wood can’t possibly bear the weight of the massive war horse.

  But he was coming. The wood splintered and crashed, but always the hooves of the stallion moved ahead of it.

  Then he reached her. Olaf was before her. She lifted her head and saw his eyes, arctic blue within the visor that hid his face from her. She watched his sword arm rise, and for a moment she quailed, terrified that he had braved the fire only to slay her himself in his fury. But his blade merely fell across the loop of the rope, and she was falling.

  The sword clattered to the platform and she felt herself swept up before she could hit the wood. The horse pranced nervously and snorted as Olaf drew her high before him on the saddle with its battle trappings. Her teeth began to chatter as she so vividly saw the scene around them. Olaf had to be insane. The hooves of the charger were going to crash through the platform at any second, and they were surrounded by a wall of flames.

  For ungodly seconds the stallion balked, furiously working at his bit, and then he constricted his sinewed haunches and leaped from the platform. For a moment Erin felt as if they were sailing and then they hit the ground with a jarring thud. The stallion reared and screeched in protest. Olaf’s mail-clad chest held Erin firm when she thought she would fall, but the flames were still burning so high around them. How could they ever breach the fire? How long before the great animal and they themselves succumbed to the rising black smoke?

  She had been prepared to die with the glory of him forever implanted in her soul. But now, though he had gazed at her with curiously arctic eyes, she was in his arms and she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live, to know him, to feel him, to lie with him in the passions of their youth, to touch him with the tenderness of age. She wanted to at long last tell him how she loved him, her Viking lord, that she loved him no matter what his birth, no matter that he could never love her as his heart was in Valhalla with another golden beauty.

  “Olaf,” she whispered, and choked on his name, barely hearing herself over the snap and crackle of the flames.

  “Do not talk,” he commanded harshly. “Take a breath.”

  She did as he told her. It was now or never. He spurred the stallion for the flame.

  The onlookers stared on, still silent, scarcely breathing, Irish, Norwegians, and Danes alike.

  Then suddenly it happened. The massive black stallion appeared, forelegs reaching through the air, high, above a wall of flame. He soared and seemed to fly as if he were the mythical, eight-legged horse of the god Thor. He leaped above the fire as if scaling the heavens, and on his back he carried the Norse king of Dubhlain and his Irish wife out of the fire. And into life.

  CHAPTER

  26

  The cheers and shouts of triumph that greeted Olaf were deafening, but he did not pause to accept the ovations. Fire was still leaping and smoke billowing high. He nudged the stallion and eased him through the surrounding sea of men, sailed him over the remains of the outer defense wall, and across the valley and dune to a copse of sheltering pines.

  Erin shivered as she sat before Olaf. She had come from the blaze of the fire to the crispness of the winter’s day, and though he held her secure in the saddle, she felt little warmth from the man who had just risked his life to save her.

  Within the copse of pines he set her down. Erin swayed, and he held her until she found her balance, carefully assessing her soot-smudged face.

  “You appear to have suffered no permanent damage,” he said gruffly. Then, to Erin’s horror, he released her and turned away, his strides taking him back toward the stallion.

  For a brief moment she stared after him, her heart seeming to congeal with the winter air. No, she could not allow him to walk away. If she risked all, if she made herself the greatest of fools, she had to call him back. She was alive, and knowing now how very tenuous and delicate that gift of life was, she could allow herself to waste no more of its beauty. Pain would ravage her if he refused her supplication, but she had to risk that pain.

  Her arms reached out to him, quivering like branches in the breeze. She parted her lips and his name escaped her, a cry, a broken sob, a single word of such entreaty that the Viking warrior paused and felt his blood race warm, his body tremble like that of a boy. It was one word she said, his name and nothing more, yet in its utterance he believed he heard what he had so long sought. He was afraid, the Wolf was afraid lest he was wrong. He stood for several seconds, quivering, having to force himself to finally turn.

  He saw her arms outstretched, saw the tears that created silent rivulets down her cheeks, cleaning away the smudged soot. Still he paused, seeking now assurance in her liquid emerald eyes that beheld him with all the vibrant wonder of richest spring against the death of winter.

  “I … love … you,” she whispered, the words more form upon her lips than substance in the air, and still he heard them. “I know that you will always love Gren
ilde, and I seek only that which you can give.…”

  His immobility was at an end. a cry escaped the Wolf, and in two swift strides he was back to her, enveloping her within his arms, cherishing her and caressing her gently, holding her as if she were a flower, fragile and delicate to his touch.

  “Erin.…”

  The breeze seemed to take up the whisper of her name, and she closed her eyes, trembling with gladness in his arms. Time passed them and yet could not conquer them, as they stood there, feeling their love give them new strength, fill them with warmth.

  He pulled away from her, and Erin saw that the brilliant Nordic blue of his eyes dazzled, touched by tears that would never fall. His lips fell upon hers briefly, as tenderly and lightly as a caress of butterfly wings. Then he was staring at her searchingly, smoothing back her hair, assuring himself that she was in no way marred or harmed.

  Erin’s heart seemed to catch within her throat as she tried to speak, and so her words stumbled out. “I never did betray you, my lord … never. It was Friggid who led me astray the day we met at arms on the cliff.” A tear splashed on her cheek as she added with aching bitterness, “Friggid lies dead now, so he can’t bear out my words. I still have no proof … but neither did I mean to betray you since … I sought only to save our son, for he was a part of you that I could not bear to lose.”

  “Hush, my love, hush,” Olaf murmured, and she was crushed more fully against him. “I know.…”

  “I never meant what I said, Olaf. I despised the Danes, and I was terrified. But Friggid did mean to kill you, and he would have slain Leith before your eyes and then killed you—”

  “Hush,” Olaf whispered again, and he held her more tightly, more tenderly, against the cold breeze. As the cleansing winds swept by them, Erin was content to be held, but finally she spoke again. “You believe me, my lord?” she murmured, her voice again catching.

  “Aye, Irish.”

  “But I can prove naught to you—”

  “I love you, Irish,” he interjected softly, “and so I was afraid to judge impartially. Afraid that I would play a woman’s fool.”