Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  “What has upset him?” he wondered aloud.

  Norah tensed, her body straining to run after Torsten. To combat the urge she locked her knees in place and clamped her lips shut. Only when the flurry of activity died down and people began to drift away from the hall did she addressed Torsten’s sudden flight.

  “Perhaps I might seek out Sir Torsten and try to discover what has riled him so,” she suggested.

  “How can you help?” Einarr questioned, cocking an eyebrow at her.

  “Well ... perhaps a woman’s touch is what is needed. We are, after all, gentler in manner than men, are we no’?”

  “Dinna be daft, lass, yer time would be better spent attending to yer husband-to-be,” Iobhar dismissed, waving his hand in her direction. “Let yer mother go, instead.”

  “Eh—I’ll no’ be taking yer orders,” Iseabal protested hotly, to which Iobhar sheepishly mumbled his apologies.

  Norah used the distraction to her advantage. “There is no need, mother,” she put in. “Ye must be seeing to the children anyway. I shall go, I willna be long.” Before anyone could stop her she scampered away, threading through groups of conversing people on her way to the entrance.

  Once outside the fortress she stopped, looking left and right, trying to guess which way Torsten had likely gone. Her first thought was the broch. Perhaps he had gone there, hoping she would come to him ...

  But no, there was no call from the broch; it was silent.

  The wind permeated her thin-spun woollen gown; had she known the weather would shift so suddenly she would have fetched her cloak. Wrapping her arms around herself, Norah started forward into the night, with not even a vague idea of where Torsten might have gone. She was halfway to the harbour before she found him—or, rather, it was he that found her.

  “Come, let us go,” he said, marching up behind her on the trodden path.

  Releasing a startled yelp, Norah whirled around to find Torsten striding towards her. In his arms was an awkwardly shaped bundle which had been carelessly wrapped in bed sheets.

  “Where did ye go?” she demanded.

  “To your chamber. I have collected some items and clothing that you might need or want.”

  “My—my clothes?”

  “Ja, your clothes. We are leaving here.”

  Brushing past her, he stalked on towards the harbour. Norah trailed after him, her panic growing.

  Leave? She could not leave Fara; he could not mean what he said.

  “Wait,” she cried, grabbing his elbow. “We canna leave.”

  “Ja, we can,” he insisted flatly, and continued to walk, pulling Norah along with him. “We will take a boat from the harbour; one of your smaller birlinns will do nicely, I think.”

  “Ye canna take a birlinn,” she laughed, incredulous. “Have ye lost yer mind? Ye’d need twenty men to row it.”

  “Not tonight. The wind is strong enough that I can sail it out of the harbour myself. We can wait out the storm on Shetland and sail again in the morning.”

  “Sail again? Sail again where?”

  “Anywhere. It does not matter. I will not let you marry him—I’ll die before that happens!”

  Still staggering along behind him with her fingers gripping the crook of his elbow, Norah shook her head. He must be made to understand. She could not leave Fara; she could not go onto the water. She would not see land again if she did.

  As if acknowledging her thoughts, the sea laughed as it rolled and heaved in the distance.

  “Stop,” she begged. “Let us discuss this first.”

  “There is no time to discuss.”

  “Please!” Her panicked cry came out in a shrill pitch, finally breaking through Torsten’s singular determination. Halting, he heaved a sigh.

  “Do you not see, Norah? We must leave now. Now, while we have the opportunity. Who knows what chance we might have again?”

  “I—well, aye, I agree,” she stuttered, stalling for time. “But surely we can talk about it first. We must have a definite plan, after all.”

  Though her hesitation clearly frustrated him, he agreed for her sake. Transferring his bundle to one arm he took her hand in his. Then he led her off the path and down a shallow crag where they would not be happened upon.

  Unknown to them, a pair of eyes had witnessed their exchange.

  Shrouded in darkness Cinead stood at a discreet distance on the main path to the harbour. Watching them intently, a sharp twist of betrayal stung his small chest.

  He had always been mistrustful of the Viking demon and was concerned by Norah’s growing friendship with him. When she’d raced from the hall, Cinead suspected the reason, and had followed her. He was glad he had, for it appeared that his concerns were well-founded: the Viking bastard had somehow made Norah fall in love with him.

  And now the man was asking her to leave Fara. Well, not if Cinead had anything to do with it. He could stop her; for her own good, he could prevent it from happening.

  His eyes trailed down to the ground at his feet. Barely visible against the moonless night and the drifting mist was the object he’d seen fall from the Norseman’s bundle when Norah grabbed his arm. Bending, he scooped it up and examined it in his palm. It was the necklace he’d given her, the ruby suspended on the delicate gold chain. A tarnished ring he hadn’t seen before had been added to the chain, and was nestled beside the jewel—it, too, a ruby. Instinctively the boy knew the Viking had given that to her as well.

  The Viking was too bold; he must be stopped!

  His duty mapped before him like the islands of Orkney themselves, Cinead marched back to the fortress, the necklace clutched tightly in his small hand. He would do what he must to protect Norah.

  Even if it meant breaking her heart.

  * * *

  “If Olaf Gunnarsson thinks we’ll not retaliate against Joldusteinn, then he must have Fairhair himself guarding his back. He would not have moved against Hvaleyrr otherwise,” stated Freyr, punctuating his remark by stabbing the surface of the trestle table with his meaty forefinger.

  “We don’t know that for certain,” argued another of the Norsemen gathered at the table. “Perhaps he seeks to gain Fairhair’s favour by instigating the attack in the first place. It would not be the first time such a thing has been done.”

  “Yes, but do we want to gamble on what we don’t know for certain?” said another.

  Freyr agreed. “What we do know for certain is that, though Gunnarsson is known to be a courageous leader, he has never in the past shown himself to be a risk-taker. He has his pieces in place, you can be sure of that.”

  “What about his message?”

  Freyr snorted and rolled his eyes. “What will Fairhair do? Sail out here to these forsaken little islands and pick a fight with every one of us pirate bands? There are too many islands and too many of us hiding among them for him to do anything.”

  Einarr sat in the centre of his men, hunched over his cup of ale which he’d already refilled several times. His head was beginning to grow pleasantly foggy—he was not so far in his cups that he could not take on any one of these sorry brutes, but just enough that Siri’s battered, bloody face had sunk to the recesses of his mind.

  He did not need to be sober for this conversation anyway; he’d only been listening with half an ear since it started. That was more than an hour ago, and still they had yet to come up with a viable plan for their retribution against Gunnarsson’s lot.

  Besides, when he was drunk he could also ignore the disturbing fact that the itch for war no longer nagged him. The thought of battle, of thrusting his sword through flesh and bone and feeling the life of his enemy vibrate against his shoulder as it slipped away ... it no longer got his blood pumping.

  His men, it appeared, had not been thus afflicted. They were still as thirsty for killing as they’d always been. And they’d look to Einarr, their leader, to spearhead the attack. No matter what he might be feeling—or not feeling—Einarr could not let them down.

&nbs
p; It didn’t mean he had to think about it now, though, and took a long swill of ale from the cup clenched in his giant hand to further silence the voices in his head. It was a crisp, fragrant brew that Fara made. He let it caress his tongue, savouring its hints of heather and herbs that were unique to this area of the world.

  Not for the first time since returning from Hvaleyrr he begrudged the men their need for revenge. Why could they not let it be, at least for a few years? Perhaps they should concentrate instead on building up the settlement on Rysa Beag. He could live quite happily on that little piece of land in the middle of the sea, with Norah by his side and a brood of boys nipping at his heels.

  His thoughts were so pleasing, so warm and comforting that he did not hear the small footsteps which approached from behind him. He did not notice his men had stopped talking until one of them brought him out of his reverie.

  “Er ... Einarr, you have a visitor,” said Freyr. He nodded his chin to where Cinead stood, a foot away from the table of war-hungry Vikings, his small head held high in defiance.

  Einarr peered over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the boy as much to bring him into focus as to intimidate him.

  “Well?” he barked. “Speak, if you will, otherwise dig yourself to Muspelheim. I’m busy.”

  “So busy ye dinna care where yer betrothed has run off to ... or wi’ whom she’s run off?” Cinead answered casually.

  The table fell silent. All eyes pivoted to the boy who had dared antagonize the great Einarr Alfradsson. Einarr himself swivelled slowly on the wooden bench to fully face Cinead. A vein twitched dangerously in his forehead and his nostrils flared. When he spoke his voice was soft, controlled. But still vicious enough to freeze the blood of even the most seasoned warrior.

  “If you are playing games with me, sveinn, I’ll tear your head from your neck with one hand before I slice you open from gullet to throat. What do you mean ‘with whom’?”

  Cinead stared down the Viking with cold hatred. Not the tiniest bit did he flinch beneath Einarr’s withering glare. Pulling his hand from behind his back Cinead tossed the necklace on the table. Its heavy amulet thudded onto the wood with an echo that vibrated off the stone walls.

  “She’s wi’ the man that gave this to her,” he answered, and for good measure, added, “and they’re no’ discussing yer upcoming wedding, either.”

  Einarr stared at the ruby, a slow fury working its way through his body. His heart begged his mind not to believe it. Torsten would not do such a thing; his own brother would not steal his betrothed from him ... would he?

  And the girl, Norah. He thought she’d been different. Einarr generally disdained women; they were nothing but bed warmers as far as he was concerned. But Norah ...

  Her innocence and her beauty had blinded him. At the core she was no different than that sagging whore Gnud! He should have known. He should never have let himself believe she was any better than the rest!

  A torrent of memories blurred his vision, memories he hadn’t known existed because he’d not thought much of them at the time. Torsten taking such violent offence when Einarr had called the wench bikkja; secret, meaningful glances between the pair of them ... Muspelheim, she’d run after Torsten because the wedding day had been set—how had he not realized that?

  He was so angry that the table beneath his fist began to shake.

  “Where. Are. They?” he growled between clenched teeth.

  “Einarr, be calm,” Freyr warned, placing a restraining hand on his forearm.

  “Where are they?” he repeated, shaking off Freyr’s grasp.

  From a nearby table Garrett and several of the Gallach warriors had watched the confrontation unfold from the minute Cinead walked through the doors of the hall. When the boy led the group of Vikings away, the Gallachs followed.

  “He’ll no’ hurt her, will he, Garrett?” said one of the warriors.

  “Nay, I dinna think he’ll hurt Norah. His brother, on the other hand ...”

  “Get the chief,” ordered one of the Norsemen to a passing servant as the large group made their way through the corridor to the main entrance of the fortress, grabbing torches from their mounts as they went.

  The servant pressed herself against the wall, her mouth falling open before she caught Garrett’s eye. When he nodded, encouraging her, the servant fled for the keep where Fearchar had retired for the night.

  The torches pitched violently once outside, the wind lashed so strongly it threatened to extinguish their flames. Nervous murmurs flitted among the men that followed Einarr as their furious leader stormed down the path to the harbour. When Cinead reached the crag he stopped, pointing into the darkness.

  “See for yerself,” he said triumphantly.

  Wrenching his sword from its sheath across his back Einarr barrelled forward with the rest of the men tight on his heels.

  Indeed, the boy had spoken truth. At the bottom of the crag Torsten stood, holding Norah’s hands in his and pleading with her. At his feet was a bundle that looked as though it might contain belongings.

  Belongings that would be needed for travel.

  Einarr’s vision darkened with rage at the pair of traitors. The moment they registered the intrusion, their heads snapped to the ledge above. Shocked, their eyes flew wide, and they stepped back in unison, Torsten angling himself in front of Norah to protect her.

  “Einarr, brother—” Torsten began, holding his hands up in front of him. But Einarr would have none of it.

  With a shriek that carried on the wind he launched himself over the side of the crag. Einarr stumbled when he landed, and staggered to his feet again before rushing at his brother, swiping his sword with each stride. With little time to react Torsten shoved Norah out of the way, then unsheathed his own sword to deflect his brother’s blow.

  “I’ll kill you,” Einarr swore in Norse, striking again. Again, Torsten deflected the blow.

  As the others scrambled down to break up the fight, Einarr lashed over and over. Torsten defended, making no move to attack. The Viking leader’s aim was off, the ale he’d consumed making his movements sluggish and sloppy.

  “Stand still so that I can run you through, you cur!” he snarled.

  Norah, who had fallen to the ground when Torsten shoved her, scuttled out of the way to avoid being trampled on. She was not fast enough. Einarr swung; Torsten stepped back to dodge the blade ... and tripped over her. Despite the ale, Einarr was on him in a blur, the edge of his sword pressed and ready to slice his brother’s throat.

  Norah screamed, and squirmed from beneath Torsten to wedge herself between him and the blade.

  “Dinna do it, Einarr,” shouted Garrett, throwing himself overtop his sister.

  “Take her away,” the Viking spat, “and then I’ll kill him.”

  “No,” Garrett repeated firmly. “I’ll no’ let ye kill yer own brother.”

  “It’s no concern to you.”

  “Then do it for Siri,” he cried. “Yer Siri wouldna want this.”

  The mention of his sister’s name sent a shock wave through Einarr’s system. He froze, glaring at the young Gallach who had put himself at the mercy of his blade for the sake of peace. His eyes moved to Norah, who gazed back at him in terror; to Torsten, who gazed back at him with regret. Then his eyes swept upward to his men who had moved in around them, their faces a mixture of shock, horror, and grim disappointment.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly, in the distance, the urgent blowing of a horn interrupted him. It was an alert, coming from the harbour.

  An attack!

  “We are not finished, brother,” Einarr hissed. He stepped back, glaring a final time at Torsten, then waved his sword, signalling his men to follow him as he climbed back up the shallow crag.

  The Fara men remained, waiting for Garrett as he helped first Norah to her feet, and then Torsten. He, too, glared at the Viking, making his displeasure known to the man. But he made no comment on what had been revealed this night. There was no
time.

  “Hide her,” he said instead. “No’ at the fortress, they’ll be sure to find her there. Somewhere else.”

  “I will,” Torsten promised.

  Then they scrambled up the crag together, praying they were not too late to save themselves from whatever force had landed upon them.

  Shortly after, the first clap of thunder announced the arrival of the storm. A harsh rain broke through the clouds, extinguishing the torches and plunging the island into darkness.

  Twenty

  Longships ...

  Perhaps fifty of them rose from the sea like mountains, each one packed from port to starboard with forty robust men. Even from a distance the carved dragon-heads of the ships’ bows could be seen in outline against the shards of rain which pelted them. They swarmed the harbour, their hulking keels sliding up onto the wide, pebbled beaches one after another. Slicing into the earth like terrible blades.

  Einarr and his men halted at the crest of the well-trod path before it pitched steeply to the harbour; Garrett and the Gallach warriors, followed by Torsten and Norah, halted behind them. Together they stared down, surveying with dawning horror the spear of the impending attack below. Lightning pierced the clouds, illuminating in hideous clarity the details of the invaders from their blood-stained, wooden shields to their soulless faces beneath riveted iron helmets.

  Vikings.

  “Who are they?” Garrett demanded, shouting over the howl of wind and rain.

  “They fly the banner of Fairhair,” Einarr answered flatly, stupefied by the usurper king’s bold ambition. As many as two thousand men poured over the sides of the vessels, each one heavily armed. There was no stealth about this attack, no strategy. It was a display of sheer power, a force sent for one reason only—to kill.

  That runt of a messenger left behind in Hvaleyrr had spoken true: Fairhair meant to end this war.

  “Ye bloody fool,” spat one of the Gallachs, stepping forward to confront Einarr. “Yer damned war has followed ye here. This isna our fight; we’re no’ in this wi’ ye.”