Lillemor struck his chest once. “What am I going to do?” But she didn’t wait long before she hit him again, this time, a little more fervently.
“What am I going to do, Dægan!”
Dægan grabbed her wrist as she aimed to bring about a third and jerked her forward into the swathe of his arms. “You are going to come home with me and I will take care of you.”
Lillemor softened as he took friendly charge of her and she began sobbing in his chest. “Oh, Dægan! Eirik was going to be a father…”
“What?” Dægan asked, thinking he had heard her wrong.
“Aye, I told him this morning.” Lillemor recollected Eirik’s face during their morning meal. “I have never seen him so happy.”
Dægan held her head against his chest so she could not see the anger welling in his face. He wanted to scream. To rip the longhouse to shreds with his bare hands, to choke Rutland again even through the cold of death. He wanted more! So much more! He wanted the emptiness and the sick feeling in his gut to go away. He wanted Lillemor to stop crying. And most of all he wished for Eirik to walk through the door and say it was all just a horrible prank, something for which Dægan would gladly forgive him.
But Eirik never would. Never again.
The thought pounded at Dægan’s temples, flooding his mind with vile images of the evening’s events; Eirik choking on his own blood, the feel of it warmly seeping between his fingers, and the cold rush of the black river water washing his hands clean as he held tight to Rutland’s skinny neck. It was all a grievous nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
Dægan felt nauseous and tore from the room, unable to keep his rage and stomach contents within him. The night’s quiet was put asunder as he howled and ran back to the stable where Eirik had breathed his last. His body still lay there, a pool of blood starting to coagulate on the stone floor.
Dægan entered quickly, sliding to his knees. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders, calling his name. “Open your eyes, Eirik! Look at me! I am through with your games!”
He dropped two fists to Eirik’s chest and yelled at him some more. “Get up! Get up, I say! Lillemor needs you! I need you!”
Dægan crumbled over Eirik’s body, gripping his brother’s clothes and crying. He was so consumed with the smell and feel of his brother beneath him that he was completely unaware of someone in the stable with him.
Vegard put his hand on Dægan’s shoulder. “Come on.”
Dægan spoke without lifting his head. “Leave me be.”
“‘Tis the will of the gods, Dægan.”
“There are no gods!” Dægan sharply retorted over his shoulder. “They exist simply because we say they do!”
“Careful, m’lord. Odin is watching.”
“Is he?” Dægan asked, twisting to stand against Vegard. “Then let him strike me down! Let Thor and his mighty hammer strike me dead right now!” Dægan yelled with outstretched arms reaching for the Heavens. “Come on, you bastards! Do it! Do it, I say!”
Vegard stood in uneasy stillness a short distance from Dægan as if waiting for Mjollnir to slam through the rafters of the stable upon his friend’s head. But the room was deathly silent and undisturbed by Thor’s vengeance.
“You see?” Dægan whispered. “There are no gods! Just as there is no more life in my brother’s eyes! We all walk blindly, with no one but ourselves as watchman!”
Vegard shook his head. “I will hear no more of this.”
“And I will not give praise to a group of gods who take from me in pleasure!”
“Dægan…” Vegard warned putting his hand up.
“They laugh at the grief my heart is plagued with! So I curse them and if Odin were here right now, I would spit in his eye and have a laugh of my own!”
Vegard slammed Dægan against the wall, shoving a forearm to his throat. “If you want to anger them more, so be it! Curse yourself!” Vegard bellowed. “But I will not stand here and let Thor’s hammer crush my skull along with yours!”
Dægan laughed cynically from beneath the strain on his Adam’s apple. “Whether you stand beside me or an ocean away…we are all cursed, Vegard.”
The old man released Dægan with a jerk. “Go ahead! Pity yourself this night if you must, but come morning you had better open your eyes and take a look around at the many blessings that befall you. You have a whole fleet of men and more on the way simply because you say so! You have land, riches and arms, more than any merchant south of the Hebrides! And by the gods, Dægan, you have a woman of gentle birth in your bed! Is that not enough?”
Dægan sighed, and leaned his head against the rock wall behind him. “What good are all those things if one day I lay as Eirik?”
“They account for the grand life you lived on Earth, worth bragging of in Valhalla—if the gods should still welcome you there.”
“I am no less fortunate if they do not.”
“Frankly, you are no more the wiser to forsake them,” Vegard said poignantly. “The gods see what you cannot and that includes the manner in which you shall die. I hope for your sake you have not forgotten what it means to die honorably.”
“I would like to believe there is more to this cursed life than just an honorable death.”
“Like what?” Vegard said disdainfully.
“Like peace.”
“Peace? Peace you say? Dægan, you will spend a lifetime looking for peace! Where there is man, there is war. ‘Tis been that way since the dawn of time.”
“Perhaps in this life, Vegard, but what about the next? Are we to spend a lifetime fighting only to die and fight some more? ‘Tis absurd!”
“‘Tis an honor! Not all of us are called to Valhalla. It is how we die here that determines who we are in the eyes of the gods!”
“And I tell you ‘tis not how we die, but what we die for that determines who we are! I am tired, Vegard! I am tired of fighting! I just killed a boy I once raised as my own son!”
“Rutland made a choice.”
“And I killed him! To the gods, I am a hero. But to my heart I am wretched! I want to be more than another warrior called to his doom!”
“Valhalla is not our doom. ‘Tis our reward! Keep talking like that, Dægan, and you will be doomed, for I am certain Odin is ill to fancy an insult just like any other proud man. And what of your father? Do you wish to cut him to the quick, too? Abandon the hope of one day joining him in the Great Hall?”
Dægan shook his head and rudely turned his back on Vegard. “Just to fight!”
“And drink!” Vegard added excitedly. “Forget not the ample supply of mead that shall spill forth from Odin’s bottomless barrels! You want peace? I can think of no better peace than dropping like a stone after a long night of drinking!”
Dægan didn’t have to look at the old man’s face to know he burnished a smile as big as the horizon. He glanced over his shoulder, finding a small bit of comfort in Vegard’s mead-diluted optimism, but it soon faded as his eyes fell over his brother’s stock-still corpse.
“I just lost the only brother I had left. I should have been here,” Dægan confessed. “It should be me on that floor.”
“You cannot undo what has been done,” Vegard concluded, grabbing Dægan’s shoulders and turning him around. His hands were definite and full of strength despite his age, and remained there upon Dægan, just as a father would before speaking of something important. “What you can do is honor Eirik by keeping a keen mind and let not his death be in vain. Get Lillemor and Mara to safety lest you risk the possibility of others more capable than Rutland trying their hand at treachery. You must leave Luimneach as soon as you can. Ottarr and I will take care of Eirik. And Hansen will round up the men and meet you at the langskip. You leave tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
Mara walked alongside Dægan down the length of the steep hill just before the harbor. She was redressed in the dark green, ill-fitted cloak with the hood drawn over her head. It was too warm even for the cool night, but she dared not
protest given Dægan’s sullen temperament. He hadn’t said much while packing his belongings and armor, and even as they walked, he remained quiet.
She noticed when Dægan filled each of the two chests, he did so to the brim, emptying the entire contents of his longhouse as if he had no intention of ever returning. His sword, shield, and assortment of bows, arrows, and spears had also been gathered and loaded on the warship. Mara, however, hadn’t much to pack, for her only possessions were Dægan’s exquisite gifts of silks, spices, jewels, and oils from the king’s chest. No matter how little she packed, she assumed she was bringing a world of trouble.
She was no fool. Rutland had probably heard of the substantial reward offered by her father, and tried his hand at bettering his life of fealty through the prospect of obtaining easy coinage. Not that Dægan had ever been cruel or unjust in his mastership, but Rutland’s life was not truly his own. And since it was not his, there was not much at stake for the lad. All he had to overcome was the weight of betrayal, and given how quickly he took to the plan, there was obviously no concern for Dægan, nor the countless others who opened their homes to him. Only a need to nourish the ever-hungry, gluttonous self. For this reason, Dægan’s pace to the harbor was swift, trusting no one, hence the unfavorable disguise Mara was forced to wear.
Through the fog, she could see the large wooden prow of Dægan’s drakkar. It was carved as an open-mouthed dragon with teeth and scales, raising its head proudly for all to see, even in the dead of night. Its eyes watched fiendishly as Mara stared back. Its neck was rigid and self-righteous, long and curved as it preceded the rest of the ship and ended with a coiled tail for the sternpost.
As they pushed closer, Mara could finally distinguish the rest of the wicked ship’s body through the lucid fog. It was draped with colorfully painted round shields at the gunwale, each one as lurid as the next, and five oars on each side extending into the black river, like ten legs steadying the rocking hull as it was loaded down with chests, barrels and brimming sacks. It provoked a feeling of instinctive fear in her heart, which was probably its very purpose, she thought, when landing on virgin soil.
Hansen called from within. “Dægan, the men are ready when you are.”
Dægan nodded and walked past the longship to the next one on the shore. Mara looked for its bulging-eyed prow, but to her relief, it lacked the carved head and tail of the drakkar. It was wider and deeper than the dragon ship and less ornamental. Simple and plain were its qualities and Mara quite honestly preferred it that way.
Dægan shouted for Ottarr and he responded quickly, joining them on land.
“Where is Eirik?” Dægan asked without much emotion.
Ottarr sighed and hesitated to answer the question, dribbling around motives and respect. “Why take him with you, Dægan? He deserves a proper burial.”
Dægan’s eyes narrowed. “I intend to give him one.”
“This was his home,” Ottarr reminded.
“I will not bury him in the same soil that betrayed him. ‘Twas done to my father before I had a say, and I will not have it done again.”
“The island you live on is not but limestone,” Ottarr argued sensibly. “You will not be able to dig deep enough.”
Dægan broke in with his own means of solution. “The knarr will be ready by tomorrow morning, aye? Bring the rest of the men and supplies to the island. I will meet you come midday to help unload. From there, I want you to take as many men as you need and head east for Gaillimh. Bring me back an entire cargo ship full of soil and seaweed.”
“Soil and seaweed,” Ottarr repeated.
“Aye. The Gaels have used it for many years to substantiate their crops on the island, and I plan to use the same idea. But I need enough to cover a ship. Understand?”
“Aye, m’lord.”
Dægan took a medium pouch from within his cloak filled with silver coins and gave them to Ottarr. “This should be enough.”
For the rest of the preparations, Dægan was almost methodical, laying down a concise strategy as if it were routine. He may have shown less sentiment in his voice, but Mara noticed the importance of gaining the raw materials for his brother’s burial was markedly imperative. It was a duty he would not short simply because of a minor complication like a bed of rock.
“…by the following day I should have the grave ready. If you and the men work fast enough, you should also be back by the next morning. Tell them that they will be rewarded with two cows each, for their swift return from Gaillimh.”
“My lord, ‘tis a high price to offer so many men.”
“Which is why I expect the knarr to be reloaded and beached within two days. Do not fail me, Ottarr.”
“Consider it done.”
“Now, where is my brother’s body?”
“Over here—”
Dægan had already rushed past Ottarr before he could finish and stalked up the gang plank of the large merchant ship with Mara closely behind. When they entered the hull, Eirik was tightly wrapped in a tan linen cloth, hiding the white of his face and the unsightliness of the wound. Mara noted the care that had been taken, realizing the extent of their love and dedication to their own. Nor did it stop there.
As Dægan and two others carried Eirik to the drakkar, the rest of the crew on the shoreline stopped working and hushed their voices in respect. There was sorrow as thick as the harbor fog on everyone’s heart and a sense of pity for the young expectant widow. Lillemor was already aboard, dressed with a heavy woolen cloak, but without the hood, her hair braided down her back like a thick golden rope. It was the only thing that was in order, for the rest of her was in complete disarray.
After Dægan set Eirik at the prow, he reached for Lillemor, and they both sat beside him. With a sympathetic hug, Dægan shielded her from everyone’s gawking, but to everyone else aboard, he gave a silent but unmistakable look, sending them tersely to the task of loading the rest of the supplies for their departure. Within minutes, the rigging was sea-worthy and the narrow hull was fully loaded, with two men at each oar—their seats being that of their own personal chest, filled with their possessions.
Dægan wasted no time in slipping from Lillemor’s grasp and fetched Mara from the harbor. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the water, paying no heed to the warmth in her eyes. He made a conscious effort not to face her, and Mara noticed it, feeling the chill of his coldhearted conduct.
After shuffling through the water, he dispassionately set her feet to the ship’s floor and stepped in after her. But before she could open her mouth, he had put an icy arm around her, guiding her to the back of the ship, near the dragon’s curled tail.
As glad as Mara was to be far away from the ugly dragon’s head, she was a little insulted that Dægan felt the need to separate her from Lillemor, putting her on the remote end of the ship. She tried not to be offended, but her face said otherwise, and Dægan, as unattached as he had been, misread it.
“The serpent will not hurt you,” Dægan said, judging the beast for himself. “It was the first thing I, too, feared as a boy. But in time you will grow to love the sight of it, as I have.”
Mara thought she saw a smile flit across Dægan’s face, but realized as he stared at the carved wood through the drifting fog, it was a cruel adoration for something dark and menacing, something that seemed to match his corresponding mood. It was safer to be just like his beastly ship, ominous and unapproachable. At least if he were distant, no one could get close enough to be hurt, and they in turn couldn’t hurt him.
“Row, men!” Dægan shouted from the steer board. “Row this langskip like you stole it!”
At that, the dragon ship began to move, slowly at first and then quicker as the ground fell deeper beneath the keel. The men pushed and pulled at the oars, chanting with each effort like a beating drum until they were completely turned from the shore heading south toward the ocean.
The River Shannon coerced the ship easily downstream, as if it were thankful that th
e dragon was leaving. The night sky was clear and full of stars, despite the thinly drifting fog below. The serpent vessel sliced through it, holding true to the role it was carved to imitate.
“Dægan,” Mara said from within her hood. “I am very nervous to meet your mother. I fear she will not be able to stand the sight of me after what has happened?”
Dægan turned from his navigating and pulled the hood from her face, his eyes piercing into the night. “‘Twas not your fault. No one blames you and neither will my mother.”
“’Twill be hard to face her. I cannot help but think every time she sees me, she will no doubt recall the tragedy caused to her son. My face will forever be tainted in her eyes.”
“No more tainted than mine,” Dægan said, turning away. “At least you will not have to be the one to tell her she must bury another son. ‘Twould be easier for me to slay a dozen men than to tell her this.”
Mara watched him struggle to reckon with facing his mother. There was only a brief moment before he couldn’t seem to bear it any longer, and left her alone at the sternpost. He walked down the narrow aisle between the rowing men, tapping one of them on the shoulder to operate the steer board while he tended to Lillemor. Obediently, the man stepped up and took his place beside Mara, who was staring out into the dark water.
Kindly, he spoke to her. “Our ships are built for the sake of speed, not comfort, else they would have benches for seating. But you may rest yourself at my chest if you would like, m’lady.”
Mara glanced at his empty seat and shook her head. “Thank you, but I would rather stand.”
“Very well.”
Mara eyed the handsome crew member. He was tall and broad, as most seemed to be, but there was a quality that made him more distinct than the others on the ship. Perhaps it was his dark auburn hair that set him apart, or the blue-green eyes beneath his prominent brow. Either way, he carried himself with dignity and confidence, a valor most men lacked. His beard—if you could say he had one at all—neatly shadowed his jaw and concealed a small cleft at his chin. His lips were narrow and his nose was perfectly straight. Without really knowing him, Mara assumed he held a high rank, more than just another pair of hands at the oars. “What is your name?”
The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set Page 13
