by Allie Mackay
“You no longer have any women.” Magnus scythed his own blade, cutting the air, taunting. “My men are seeing them to a new home, a place where they’ll enjoy the benevolence of Holy Church.”
“You lie.” Godred made another vicious swipe, clipping Magnus’s arm. “They’re at Castle Greer.” Magnus tossed back his hair, ignoring the sting at his elbow. “Castle Greer is no more.” He whirled his blade in another hissing arc, forcing Godred down the strand. “I have many men. Some used my ship, Sea-Raven, to make a swift visit to your hall after you left this morn. They burned your keep while others saw your women away. All that remains is a blackened hillside and”—he lunged, slicing Godred’s cloak—“that which was mine.
“Alan, Donnie, bring the sacks!” Magnus raised his voice above the clash of swords. “Show this dung beetle what you found when you dug beneath his hearth.”
Two large men with broad chests and thick arms crossed the strand and hurled the heavy pouches at Godred’s feet. The bags clinked as they landed.
Magnus slashed down with his sword to split open the largest sack, and a river of silver and gold spilled onto the sand. Coins, rings and necklaces, jewel-rimmed drinking horns, silver cups and candleholders, several large Celtic brooches, and even a fine warrior’s helmet inlaid with gold.
“You did fire my hall.” Godred paled, staring at the plunder.
“I retook what was mine.” Magnus raised his sword, pointing the tip at Godred’s belly. “Thon treasure was part of my Liana’s bride gift. Sigurd Sword Breaker kept most of it, I’ll vow. But he paid you a good share for letting him know where he could find such bounty.”
“You’ll have no joy in it.” Rage burned in Godred’s eyes. Snarling, he swept his blade in a furious arc, aiming for Magnus’s side. He roared when he missed by less than a hairbreadth.
Magnus spun away, whirling with lightning speed and bringing his brand against Godred’s in a blur of sparking, ringing blows that sent his foe staggering backward into the surf. Magnus fought like a fiend, sweeping his blade from left to right, cutting and slashing until a bright tide of crimson spilled down Godred’s mail-clad ribs.
“Whoreson!” Godred slipped in the waves washing the sand, but kept lunging, clumsily now. His swings grew wilder, each one missing by inches, slicing air.
“Killing me changes naught.” He grunted, stumbling again. “Sigurd will sleep in your bed, hump your woman—”
“I have no woman!” Magnus roared, rage almost blinding him. “And you are dead!” He charged, his sword clashing furiously against Godred’s blade, the force of the blows knocking Godred to his knees.
“Stand and die!” Magnus snarled, glaring. “I’ll no’ kill a kneeling man.” He whipped his blade, flashing it within a breath of Godred’s neck. “’Tis time for your blood to color the sea and feed the gulls.” The wheeling birds were already gathering. “They will grow fat on your flesh.”
“Nae, yours!” Godred surged to his feet, howling as he swung his sword. He cut air again and this time the blade flew from his bloodied fingers and disappeared beneath the breakers, sinking into the sea.
“Greet Odin!” Magnus lunged, his sword taking Godred’s throat in a single vicious swipe. Godred crashed into the water, blood fountaining in a hot, red arc, splashing onto the sand and staining the waves’ frothy spume.
He toppled, writhing and jerking, clutching his opened gullet, as the surf washed over him. His face said he knew he’d not be greeting Odin or any other Norse god, dying without a weapon in his hand. Then, at last, he gave a pitiful, gurgling cry, and a final twitch, his hate-filled eyes glazing.
It was done.
Panting, Magnus glared down at his foe and then slammed his sword, Vengeance, into the wet, bloodred sand. The blade quivered, singing death’s song, her steel humming with the force of Magnus’s fury.
Alan and Donnie came forward then, both men spitting on Godred’s corpse.
“Shall we bury him?” It was Donnie who spoke, his tone revealing that he’d sooner slice his own throat than give Godred even that courtesy.
“Nae. We leave him.” Magnus gazed out over the empty, rolling sea. He didn’t look at his men, or what was left of the bastard he’d once thought of as a friend. “The gulls will have done with him. The tide and wind will take whatever they leave behind.” It was a kinder fate than Magnus’s own.
It was a kinder fate than Magnus’s own.
He closed his eyes then and shoved both hands through his hair, not caring that his fingers were sticky with Godred’s blood.
Vengeance had been served.
Nothing else mattered.
He did draw a tight breath, the echo of Godred’s slur squeezing his chest, pummeling his heart. “ . . .
Sigurd will hump your woman.” Liana had been spared from suffering that horror. And he, Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer, wouldn’t sully her memory by taking another bride.
He didn’t even lay with whores.
Donata’s curse couldn’t touch him. Any lust that burned in him was killing fever.
And looking down at Godred’s hacked and mangled body only fueled the flames of his anger.
So he knelt and—as he always did—slid a twisted gold ring from Godred’s limp arm. When he stood, his blood finally cooling, he turned to Alan and Donnie.
“Gather the coins and whate’er else spilled from thon bags”—he jerked his head at the bride goods fanned across the sand—“and take them with Godred’s sister and his other women to the first nunnery that will have them. The coin alone will buy the ladies a good life behind cloistered walls.
“I’ll no’ have any of the treasure at Badcall Castle.” A wash of distaste rolled over him. “No’ after the grief it’s wrought.”
Donnie and Alan exchanged looks. Glances that made Magnus’s anger start to ignite anew. He arched a brow, waiting.
Alan spoke first. “Those bags hold a fortune, lord.”
“They cost me more.” Magnus yanked his sword from the sand, wiping its blade on his plaid.
“Something far more precious and that all the world’s gold cannae replace.”
Alan looked down, shamed. “I dinnae mean—”
“Godred’s bitches will nae thank you.” Donnie glanced across the strand to the cliff path. From above, Donata Greer’s angry voice could be heard shrieking at Magnus’s men. “One o’ them bit me when we carried them from Godred’s hall. See here”—he rolled back his sleeve, showing the bite mark—“the kind of hellcats—”
“That’s all the more reason to gift them with a new life of prayers and penance.” Magnus sheathed Vengeance. “Begone now. Take the treasure and Greer’s sister. If you ride swiftly, you’ll catch the others before dark.”
And before the sight of the tainted bride goods could stab more fiercely into Magnus’s heart.
The pain was already beyond bearing.
As was his surety that, in the midst of cutting Godred to ribbons, he’d glimpsed a beautiful naked woman standing in the surf, looking on in wide-eyed horror as he’d given Greer the final blow.
Dripping wet and with water streaming down her body, the spume glittering in her shining, sun-bright hair and on her shoulders, the droplets sparkling like jewels on the lush swells of her breasts. She’d looked straight at him, crying out as he’d swung his blade.
Her scream was silent.
He’d blinked and she was gone.
Her image had stunned him. And even in that bloodthirsty moment, he’d wanted her. Desire, hot, swift, and powerful, had swept him, making him burn with a need such as he’d never felt before.
Not even for Liana.
It was a blaze of passion that could only have been conjured by dark magic. And that slew him more roundly than if he’d felt the cold steel of Godred’s sword slicing into him.
He no longer had any use for women.
And he certainly didn’t want to lust after a will-o’wisp summoned by Donata to plague him. Doing so could only give credence
to what his men had been harping on for so long. His determination to follow the sword path, his fierce quest for vengeance, was finally getting the best of him.
He was losing his wits.
Hours later, once again at Badcall Castle, Magnus stood on the raised dais of his great hall and looked out at the men enjoying their supper. Blessedly, he didn’t catch the merest glimpse of an unclad siren, her shimmering, soaking length slipping through the shadows to taunt him. There was nothing to stir his vitals. Whoever— or whatever—he’d seen had vanished with the tide.
He could’ve laughed out loud with relief.
Instead, he drew a tight breath and put the naked beauty from his mind.
Donata’s screeches and his own joy in savaging Godred had clearly left him befuddled. There could be no other explanation. Wet, bare-bottomed vixens didn’t appear out of nowhere and then disappear before a man’s eyes.
More like, she hadn’t been there at all.
Willing it so, he stood straighter. Then he sent one more probing glance about the hall, just to be sure that all was well, the evening progressing as it should.
And it was.
Thick candles on the long tables illuminated his men’s bearded faces as they applied themselves to a meal of ale, bread, and cheese. And enough roasted meat to satisfy an army. Braziers burned in corners, spending warmth, as did the fire on the large central hearth. But it was a dark night and cold wind lashed at the shutters, the icy air seeping in to chill the poor souls unlucky enough to have claimed seats beneath the hall’s small, high windows.
Magnus glanced down when his dog, Frodi, shuffled over and leaned into him. He reached to rub the beast’s bony shoulders. Magnus’s friend and companion of many years, Frodi knew him better than any man and no doubt sensed his restlessness.
The seething anger that coiled inside him always, twisting his gut even now.
Triumph should be surging through him.
Godred Greer was a he-ass and had deserved to die. Seeing his blood stain the sand and hearing his last groans fill the air had satisfied him. Magnus’s only regret was that his death hadn’t been slower. A more torturous end for the black-hearted fiend who’d brought such horror to the innocent fisherfolk of Badcall village.
He’d sold Liana’s and her people’s lifeblood for the glint of silver and gold.
Now he’d paid the price of his greed.
But Sigurd Sword Breaker yet lived.
And until Magnus warmed his hands on the Viking warlord’s death pyre, he’d know no peace.
He’d never know happiness.
Fortunately, he also knew that if he kept standing at the dais edge, staring out into the smoky hall, more than one of his well-meaning men would take it upon themselves to try to foist jollity on him.
They did so more and more often of late.
And to his increasing annoyance, their idea of merriment frequently took the form of some poor bigbosomed, lusty-natured kitchen wench whose well-tested charms they believed would make him smile again.
The problem with their logic was that Magnus liked not smiling.
He also enjoyed his peace, so he returned to his place at the high table, a magnificently carved oaken monstrosity crafted centuries ago as a gift for the wife of a long-dead MacBride chieftain. Determined to be left alone, he pretended interest in the beef ribs he piled onto his trencher. If he was careful, no one would notice that he intended to slip most of his supper to Frodi.
The old dog needed meat on his bones.
And Magnus’s prickling dread that he’d glance up to see a naked, spume-covered Valkyrie jiggling her breasts at him ruined his own appetite. Since Liana, other women left him cold as winter’s frost. The large-eyed, flaxen-haired vision from the strand had burned him like the sun.
He could still see her blue gaze piercing him. Her stare had locked with his as if she’d been real.
Donata’s curse echoed in his ears, damning him.
Furious, he looked down at his beef ribs.
His anger at the sorceress knew no bounds. His body’s reaction to the woman who hadn’t been there might have him passing on his supper for a fortnight.
Perhaps even longer.
Something told him that a mere fourteen days wouldn’t be enough to banish her memory.
Gods pity him.
“You’re no’ fooling anyone, lad.” Calum, the aged warrior Magnus loved like a father, gripped his wrist just as he tried to give Frodi a choice bit of beef.
“Truth is”—Calum leaned close, lowering his voice—“men are starting to worry about you.”
“Humph.” Magnus jerked free of Calum’s grasp and gave Frodi the tidbit.
He also scowled.
His men couldn’t dream the worries crashing through his head just now. Unless the louts were too fearful to admit it, not a one of them had seen the tempting sea witch.
Valkyrie, goddess, water nymph, or whatever she’d been.
“My men have no cause to fret.” Magnus spoke in his hardest tone.
Then he reached for his ale and took a long swig, setting down the cup with a clack. “They saw me blood-drenched and grinning at Badcall Bay a few scant hours ago. They looked on as I opened Godred’s gullet and sent the bastard to Odin’s corpse hall.
“An unfit man couldn’t have done the like.” Magnus poured himself more ale. Then he gave Calum a narrow-eyed glance. “My men, and you, are fashing yourselves o’er naught.”
“No one will argue your fighting skills.” Calum returned his stare with irritating reason. “You could cut down any one of us before we had our swords half-drawn. Every man in this hall knows that. But”—he spoke in a tone that made Magnus feel like a lad of twelve—“look in the shadows of thon window embrasure and tell me what you see.” Magnus bit back a curse and followed the older man’s gaze. “I see Maili, the smithy’s daughter.”
“Is that all?” Calum pressed him. “You see nothing more? What’s the maid doing?”
“Maili is no maid, you old goat!”
“Aye, well, she has other talents to commend her, eh? And old I am, ’tis true. My eyes aren’t what they were. ...” Calum shook his head, feigning a troubled look. “So make an auld man happy and tell me what she’s doing, there in the shadows.”
“By Thor, Odin, and Loki!” Magnus snarled his favorite Norse oath. Then—knowing Calum would pester him all night if he didn’t do as bidden—he twisted around to peer deeper into the alcove’s shadows.
He saw at once why Calum was needling him.
Maili, a plump wench with an unruly mass of flame-bright hair and saucy eyes, sat on one of the alcove benches. She’d opened her bodice to air her full, round breasts and her nipples were taut and thrusting.
And—Magnus scowled—the little minx had a hand beneath her skirts. When she caught his stare, she smiled and quickly flipped her hem, giving him a glimpse of the fiery red curls betwixt her slightly parted thighs.
“Damnation!” Magnus whipped back around. “You lecherous old goat”—he shot a furious look at Calum—“you knew fine what she was doing.” Calum had the gall to jut his bristly chin. “Could be I asked her to help me show you why men are talking.
Other men wouldn’t be wearing a glare about now.
They’d be halfway across the hall, their itch for a bonnie lass setting wings to their ankles.
“See there.” Calum paused as one of Magnus’s guards joined Maili in the embrasure. The man pulled her close, lowering his head to her breasts. “It isn’t healthy for a man to live for war glory alone.”
“I live for many things.” The words sounded hollow even to Magnus. Calum spoke true and knowing it only made him the more furious. “My warring keeps Maili and others safe of a night.”
That was something his old friend couldn’t argue.
Unfortunately, his words put an even more belligerent glint in Calum’s eyes. “That may be. But Maili didn’t tempt you just now, did she?”
“So?” Magnus scowled,
his night now fully ruined.
Calum didn’t blink. “Your men fear you’ve gone monk.”
“And if I have?” Magnus’s voice was dangerously low.
“Then you’re treading on perilous ground.” Calum speared a chunk of cheese with his eating knife.
“Mac-Brides are a superstitious lot. There be some”—he broke off a corner of the cheese, chewing with annoying deliberation—“what think built-up seed can poison a man, even work its way into his head and clog his brain. If you don’t soon spill—”
“I spill blood, you nosy arse!” Magnus half rose from his laird’s chair.
Lightning quick, Calum’s fingers closed around his arm again. And this time when the older man narrowed his eyes at Magnus, the fierce look on his face prickled Magnus’s nape.
He dropped back into his chair, a strange dread making his chest tighten. For a moment, the firelit hall seemed to darken and he imagined he heard the tinkle of Donata’s silver bangles. “See, you are damned even here, in the heart of your home.” Her taunt hushed across his mind, then whispered away, leaving him doubting his senses.
Calum was watching him sharply.
Magnus frowned. “What is it?”
“’Tis odd you’d speak of spilling blood.” Calum’s blue eyes glittered in the torchlight. “Orosius thinks you’ll die soon. He—”
“Hah!” Magnus shot to his feet, the sorceress forgotten. He searched the hall for the burly, big-bellied seer. The only man able to strike terror in Magnus’s heart, Orosius saw truths, heard the voices of the dead, and cast runesticks with unparalleled skill.
Orosius claimed the gods walked beside him, but he also suspected they’d caused him to lose part of his left ear in a long-ago sword fight. Retribution, he believed, for trying to use his talents as a seer and rune master to hear more than he should.
The gods didn’t like when such blessed mortals believed themselves grand.
Now Orosius was cautious and respectful of his gift.
He never used his abilities for gain and refused coin for his wisdom, accepting only ale and viands in payment. And, as need required, peat for his fire.
