Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  The sight of him hurt threw Norah into an unprecedented fury. Her fear smothered by the ferocity of her anger, she plunged into the fray, tugging at Einarr’s arm, at Garrett’s leg, at the collar of Torsten’s tunic to pull him out from under the two men wrestling furiously on top of him.

  “That’s enough, the both of ye,” she cried.

  Now that a maid was in the ring, a number of men from each side jumped in to break the fight apart. One of the Gallachs pulled Norah to safety, though she squirmed against his grip. Recovering, Torsten stood, blood still flowing from his nose, over his lip and down his tunic.

  “Get yer bloody hands off me,” Garrett spat at the large Viking who held him by the elbows, dragging him backwards.

  “Ja, get your bloody hands off him. I’ve not finished with him yet,” Einarr hollered, himself straining against the three Fara men which held him back with considerable effort.

  “Dinna provoke him, Sir Einarr,” Norah snapped.

  “You mind your tongue, bikkja, or I’ll mind it for you,” he barked.

  The vile insult snapped the line which held Torsten’s temper in check. “You goat buggering drinker of sheep’s piss,” he hurled in Norse, and landed a solid fist in Einarr’s mouth, splitting his lip open and evoking another wave of cheers.

  Marching to the dead centre of the ring, Norah lifted her chin. Taking a deep breath, she bellowed at the top of her lungs, “Ye stop now, the lot of ye!”

  The entire ring stilled, for the voice which carried on the wind echoed with inherent authority. The Norse, the Gallachs, even Garrett and Einarr quieted. They glanced uneasily at one another, none of them quite sure what it was about the command that made them stop, yet none of them daring to question it.

  Torsten, however, knew exactly from where the authority had been called. Or rather, from when it had been called. It was an ancient authority, he could see it in the depths of her changeful eyes. Even as he gazed upon her now, entranced not by mere beauty but by a radiance that transcended time, the green of her eyes shifted, melting from emerald to aquamarine and back.

  “Garrett, that is enough. Sir Einarr, ye too,” she commanded. “Now both of ye, get yerselves down to the water and wash up. Ruairi, Donaidh, Iain, yer help bringing Sir Einarr, if ye please,” she said, addressing the three Gallach clansman restraining the Viking leader. And to the Viking that restrained her brother she said, “and ye, sir—I’m sorry, I dinna ken yer name—can ye bring our Garrett wi’ ye? The rest of ye, clear off!”

  The men in the circle milled about briefly, speaking to one another in hushed tones. One by one they trickled away to commence with their daily activities.

  “Get off,” Einarr grumbled, pulling his arms from the three Gallachs who held him loosely. They let him go, but trailed behind at a distance. Garrett, too, shrugged off his captor, and sauntered off to the water behind Einarr, tossing glares filled with loathing at his broad back as he went.

  Once they were alone, Norah turned to Torsten. “Are ye alright?” she asked, her voice soft as a caress.

  “Ja, I’ll live. That was impressive, the way you took charge and put an end to the fighting.”

  She giggled. “I hardly think I took charge. But I thank ye all the same.”

  They walked together to a section of shore which lay just east of the harbour. Below, both Garrett and Einarr were bent to the water, washing the errant smears of blood from their bodies. Their guards stood behind them, the Gallachs conversing genially with the Norseman. The fight, it seemed, had worn itself out of all of them.

  “Your man fight good for he be not Viking,” called the Norseman to Norah in his awkward Gaelic.

  She nodded her thanks to the man and kneeled at Garrett’s side. “Ye’ve been away for three years now, and ye come here wi’ yer swords sharp and ready, looking for a quarrel? Ye may hate them to the pit of yer soul, but ye’re throwing the rest of us into turmoil when all we want is peace. Ye might as well have stayed away if that’s what ye were meaning to do.”

  “Ja, you should have,” snarled Einarr, who had been listening.

  “And ye, sir,” she continued, turning on him. “Ye forget that this man is my brother. Ye forget the reason for his anger, too. Three years isna long enough to forget yer dead; thirty years isna long enough. Ye’d be well to remember a bit of compassion. I tell ye now, bargain be damned, I’ll no’ marry a man that would kill my own brother for naught better than sport.”

  When Einarr opened his mouth to protest, Torsten halted him. “You would not dare,” he warned. “She is well within her rights to say such things, and I’ll not have you insult her again like you did.”

  The large, battle-hardened Norseman flushed. “I ... er ... I am sorry, fifla, for calling you a bikkja.”

  “It is alright, sir, I dinna ken the meaning of the word.”

  “It means—”

  “Yes, thank ye. I can guess.”

  Having determined that neither Garrett nor Einarr were badly hurt, she stood, glaring at both of them with equal irritation. “Garrett, I want peace,” she repeated.

  “So does Father,” he growled. “And he’d sell ye to this beast of a Norseman to keep it. I tried abiding it, Norah, but I canna, so ask it of me no more.”

  With vehemence, he shoved himself to his feet and marched across the beach. When his Viking warden clamped a hand on his arm lest he attack again, Garrett wrenched himself from the man’s grasp.

  “Dinna touch me,” he clipped. “I’ll no’ hurt yer precious leader anymore.”

  “We’ll watch him, Norah,” assured Ruairi, and the three Gallach warriors followed him off the beach.

  Norah’s eyes tracked to Einarr. “Please leave him, sir. Canna ye see he’s hurting? Ye must be able to see that.”

  Einarr sighed. “For your sake, and yours alone, fifla,” he agreed. Then with a nod to the Norseman still on the beach he stalked off. “See to my brother, ja?”

  “It looks as though the bleeding has stopped,” she noted, approaching Torsten when Einarr had gone. Bending to the water, she added, “Here, let me help ye.”

  Torsten swallowed convulsively. The lovely creature at his feet that peered up at him was inhumanly alluring. He moved without conscious thought, kneeling beside her so close that their thighs grazed. The accidental touch sent a warm flush through his body.

  Removing a small handkerchief from the pocket of her tunic, Norah reached to the water’s edge and dipped it in. The mist which hovered over the surface skittered away at her touch, settling again in thick wisps over the stones. Its movement drew him in, distorted his senses.

  When she raised the handkerchief to Torsten’s face, dabbing the blood congealed at his swollen nose, the energy which existed between them radiated from her hand straight into the pit of his stomach. It liquefied his insides completely, and he closed his eyes, a light shudder running across his shoulders and down his back. His will overpowered by the intensity of his desire, he turned his face, pressing his lips into the cool flesh of her palm.

  Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his brain, Torsten knew that what he was doing was wrong. She was his brother’s betrothed. In this world of men and their designs, he would never allow him to have her.

  Yet, at the same time, a part of his soul knew that she could never be Einarr’s betrothed, for she did not belong to that world of men. She belonged to the mist, to the world of faeries and ghosts and translucent memory.

  He pursed his lips, kissing her palm, and raised his own hand to hers, trapping it against his cheek. He felt, rather than heard, her sigh. Her fingers curled at his temple, toying with the strands of hair that had come loose since the morning. His lips travelled down her wrist, and he breathed in the scent of her. She smelled of summer breeze and clover.

  “Niria,” he moaned into the satin skin of her wrist.

  “W-What did ye say?”

  Ripped from the spell which held him captive, Torsten started and opened his eyes.

  “I ... I
said Norah.”

  “Ye didna.”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded. “I said your name. Norah.”

  “Aye, ye said my name ... ye said Niria.”

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. Norah. Niria. Both names fit his tongue as though he had said them each a thousand times. Niria. The slipping of the waves over the shore echoed the name. The face he had seen in the mist days ago flickered in his mind. Niria’s face. So much like Norah’s face ...

  His eyes widened in disbelief. By the wrath of Odin, what did it mean? Was his mind truly shattering? Was he destined to be as mad as the maid before him, the maid who rose from the mist which swirled around her as though she were of it?

  “Ye ken,” she whispered, watching his expression change from confusion to horror. “Ye ken the connection between us. Dinna deny it. We ken one another, ye and I. We’ve always kent each other. In lifetimes before this one.”

  “No,” Torsten hissed. He shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, trying unsuccessfully to block out the truth of what she was saying. “This is madness.”

  “It isna,” she insisted. Taking his face in both her hands, she pleaded, “Torsten, open yer eyes. Look at me.”

  He would not.

  “You’re my brother’s bride,” he asserted, pulling away from her. “I cannot be here. Forgive me.”

  “Torsten, please—”

  Her cry failed to sway him. Staggering like a man drunk, Torsten fled the beach, fled from the cloying mist. Fled from her.

  Norah made no move to follow. When she could no longer see his frantically retreating form, she turned her face and stared out at the gently rolling sea. It seemed to be laughing now, reminding her that this time of peace was a thing granted her. That it would not last.

  “I havena forgotten,” she murmured. “I ken ye want me still. But ye’ll no’ have me yet.”

  As if to acknowledge her demand, the sea reached for her. A wave, one single wave, surged over the stones higher than any before it. It bubbled around her where she sat, soaking the fabric of her skirts.

  She watched it come for her, and recede. Then the sea stilled, its laughing call silent.

  “Thank ye,” she breathed.

  Thirteen

  “What in the bloody hell have ye done?”

  Iobhar’s voice echoed through the hall as he took the side of his nephew’s face in his rough hand. Giving it a sharp turn, he assessed the damage from the morning’s quarrel which was rapidly growing visible. Garrett’s right eye was swollen shut. A bruise was beginning to flower from his left cheek bone to the outer edge of his jaw, and long, jagged scratches welted up on the soft flesh of his neck.

  Indeed, a number of the servants bustling about the hall gasped in shock at the sight of the chief’s son, but none dared to fuss over him when they caught the stormy look on Iobhar’s face.

  Garrett made no answer to his uncle, pulling his head away defiantly and making to leave. His escape was thwarted when a number of exuberant Norsemen entered behind him.

  “Chief Feh-ruh-ker, your son has an impressive set of bqllr on him,” exclaimed one, his great arms flung wide in his excitement.

  “He what?” said Fearchar, glancing angrily at Garrett.

  “He challenged Einarr to a duel.”

  “By God, lad, ye were fool enough to cross blades wi’ him?” the chief railed, grabbing Garrett by the arms and giving him a furious shake.

  “Ye stupid lad,” Iobhar spat. “Ye may have ruined the peace we’ve worked so hard to achieve. Ye’re lucky he let ye live, for we all ken the man could have cut ye from gullet to brow wi’ a single strike.”

  “Oh, no, Sir Iobhar,” Freyr jumped in, his enthusiasm so great that he was nearly hopping from foot to foot. “Your nephew stood his ground against Einarr. I’ve never seen anything like it. We were all shocked, Einarr especially. Our fearless leader is not accustomed to losing a victory, ja?”

  “Sir Einarr lost the battle?” Iobhar gasped.

  “I did not say that. I said he lost the victory, for it is certain that he did not win, either.”

  “All this was done when he crossed blades wi’ Sir Einarr?” Fearchar questioned dubiously, his hand sweeping up and down Garrett’s battered body.

  “No, no,” laughed the first Viking who had spoken. “That was what happened when Garrett knocked the blade from Einarr’s hand. From there they had at each other with bare fists.”

  “Ye stupid lad,” Iobhar spat again, slapping at the side of Garrett’s head for good measure.

  “Damn ye, Uncle, can ye no’ see I’m wounded,” Garrett shouted back. The display of familial discord pulled a ripple of laughter from the Norsemen present.

  “You must give your nephew credit, Sir Iobhar,” Freyr said. “It was the best fight we have seen in a long time. There is not a man among us that wouldn’t love to best Einarr the way your man here has. Indeed it is something we have not seen yet. Truly, Einarr was angry as a swarm of bees about it.”

  “We are in grave peril,” Fearchar groaned.

  “Aye, we are,” Iobhar agreed, his eyes focussed on Einarr who, at that moment, entered the hall. “Let us see just how grave our peril is, shall we?”

  They crossed the floor, approaching Einarr who had stopped to talk with two of his men busy heckling a young serving maid. The unconquerable Viking leader was a sorry sight to behold. As badly battered as Garret, his split lip was crusted with sticky, congealing blood, and a similar array of cuts and bruises adorned his person. He glared at the island’s chief, who wore a carefully constructed mask of regret over his rage.

  “Sir Einarr, please allow me to express my most sincere apologies on behalf of my son—”

  Einarr silenced him, holding up a scuffed forefinger. “There is nothing to apologize for, Feh-ruh-ker.” He offered nothing further, instead continuing his conversation with his men.

  Fearing the Viking’s wrath was only temporarily quelled, Fearchar glanced helplessly to Iobhar. “Sir, I must beg ye no’ to let this tear apart the alliance we’ve struck. Ye must remember that these past years we’ve done everything we can to accommodate ye. I’ll send my son away if it pleases ye. I’ll no’ have him around to insult and attack ye again. I beg ye, let this not come between what our two clans have achieved.”

  For long, agonizing moments, Einarr’s jaw worked back and forth in silence. Then he turned and considered Fara’s chief, his face impassive. When he spoke, his words were clipped, and his voice curt.

  “I said, sir, that there is nothing to apologize for. There is no need for you to send your son away, and our alliance is in no danger of being broken, ja? Now please, I must speak with my men on another matter, so leave me be.”

  Accepting their dismissal, the two men returned to the point from where they had started. The Norse with whom they had been speaking watched with a combination of amusement and sympathy.

  “Chief Feh-ruh-ker, you must think no more of it,” Freyr explained. “Your son and Einarr engaged in fair combat, and both parties entered into it willingly. Einarr was bested—or, as good as, for he did not win. So it is a simple matter, and it is over. Your son accuses Einarr of having no honour, but that is not entirely true. Our leader has enough honour to accept defeat. He would not exact retribution, on your son or on anyone else, for the exchange which is now in the past.”

  Then the captain threw a massive arm around Garrett’s shoulder in a gesture of approval. And though Garrett looked rather uncomfortable being so close to a Viking, he did not reject the overture.

  In fact, his shoulders straightened ever so slightly from the accolade.

  Fourteen

  Again Torsten did not attend the evening meal.

  His continued absence drew curiosity and speculation from both sides in the hall, especially after this day. He had been at the training that morning, after all, and had seemed in good spirits. If Einarr and Garrett could show their mottled faces then surely Torsten could as well.

 
Perhaps Einarr’s elbow had done more damage than anyone realized. And if the man’s errant elbow, thrown without aim in the midst of a fight, could send a man running for cover ...

  Norah, however, had no need for speculation. She knew exactly why Torsten was not there. It was because he could not face her, could not face the truth of who he was to her, nor she to him.

  She had vowed to give him the time he needed to accept what was, and what had been. And she was still prepared to do so. Still, she could not help feeling disappointed by his avoidance of her.

  Dragging herself up the keep stairs to bed that night she fought to smother the tears that threatened to break her. She kissed her mother and father good night, assailing them with an over bright smile.

  With nothing else to occupy her thoughts, she lay in bed, suffering Roisin’s flailing limbs as the little girl slept and refusing to let her tears fall. There had been much to cry about in recent years. If she had not shed tears for those things, she would not shed tears for this. Despite the hollow ache in her chest which would not relent, she drifted off.

  In her dreams the beautiful, painted faces appeared to her. Smiling, they floated before her eyes, encouraging her. Reassuring her. There was an overarching sense of relief about her dreams, the painted faces a touchstone for the future which she and Torsten were destined to share. The faces were a promise. A premonition.

  He’s coming, they called in their sing-song voices and lilting language. He is ready.

  The sun had not yet risen when she awoke, the promise of a new day evident by only a hint of light sifting through the sky’s indigo canvas. In her hours of slumber an acute sense of knowing had infiltrated her being. More than just the knowledge of mind it was a knowledge that saturated every part of her. Something had clicked into place over night; a piece of the enigma, like the broch or the sea which had conspired to drive her mad since her birth, had aligned. A purpose had taken shape in those dark hours.