Norah had never seen the boy so resolute; there would be no persuading him. Releasing an anguished whimper, she embraced Cinead one last time.
“Be safe,” she whispered.
“And ye,” he whispered back. Then Cinead darted around the corner of the outbuilding, back into the seething chaos of fleeing people.
Better they get him now than he let her see him cry.
Alone, Norah stood trembling in the dark.
“Stop it,” she chanted to herself. “Stop it, stop it!” Shaking like a fool would not help anyone.
Instead she searched deep within herself, calling on an inner strength she’d found only once in her life before—three years ago when her eyes locked on the frightful, blue-eyed Viking who had been so amused by her terror.
Finding a sliver of it, she commanded her legs to move. One step at a time she walked; then trotted; then ran to the fortress and through the main entrance, pushing her way past the escaping islanders and their Viking pursuers.
The fortress was not nearly as turbulent as the grounds outside. Torches still burned in their mounts, and most of the voices she heard came from beyond the stone walls. Dashing through the corridor that would take her to the keep, she rounded a corner—and came to a dead halt.
Directly in front of her was a group of raiders. They shouted something in their guttural Norse language and charged after her. Emitting a strangled yelp Norah took off in the opposite direction, tearing through the lower passages towards the servants’ working chambers.
Outside a store room the opportunity to hide presented itself: a stack of empty basins three wide had been shoved against the damp wall. Norah did not hesitate to take it. With little time to spare she dove behind the basins, curling herself behind them as tightly as she could.
Please, she prayed fervently, unable to articulate anything more than that. Please, please ...
The thumping of heavy footsteps against the flagstone floor filled her with dread. Louder and louder they grew, like drums pounding against her soul. The tension was so great she thought she might die of it.
Closer. Louder.
They were right on top of her!
Then they thumped past, growing more and more distant. Until they were gone.
Expelling a sigh of relief, she listened to make sure she’d been missed. When she was certain she was alone she climbed back out from behind the basins, then retraced her steps to the keep.
Reaching them she hitched her sodden tunic to her knees and took the wooden steps two at a time, racing to the top. She prayed that she would find Friseal and Roisin there, hiding together.
Her prayers were shattered the moment she mounted the last step.
Visible from the doorway and across the common room, three lifeless forms lay together on the floor of her parents’ bedchamber. A single torch flickered outside the door, casting eerie, moving shadows over the motionless figures.
She approached. And stared.
“Mama,” she moaned, sinking to her knees and sobbing uncontrollably.
Iseabal lay with her arms draped protectively over Friseal and Roisin. All three were covered in horrid amounts of dark, thick blood.
Bending over them, Norah fretted over their bodies, desperate to discover some sign of life no matter how small.
There were none.
Behind her more heavy footsteps echoed up the keep stairs. Frantic, Norah glanced left and right, searching for a place to hide without success. The bed frame was high and uncovered; the chest in the corner would surely be searched.
With no other options she did the only thing she could think to do—she wedged herself under and around the bodies of her siblings and mother. Pressing her face into the floorboards of the chamber, she clamped her eyes shut.
And then Norah waited, hoping against hope that whoever was coming would think her dead, too.
“I told you,” came a rough voice speaking in Norse words she didn’t understand. “Knut’s already been here; there is nothing left to take.”
“Alright, alright,” grumbled another, entering the chamber. “Just thought it was worth it to check.”
A booted toe dug sharply into Norah’s ribs. She shook fiercely, biting back a gasp before it escaped her lips and gave her away. Pain rippled over her torso, but it was nothing compared to what was to follow.
Searing agony ripped through her scalp as she was pulled from beneath her siblings by her hair. When she was free of Friseal’s lifeless body the raider dropped her carelessly. Her forehead slammed into the ground with a crack, and her arm was wrenched behind her, flipping her onto her back.
Somehow, by the grace of heaven, she kept her eyes shut and her face blank—barely. Behind her closed lids she could feel the heat of torch light as it was held to her face.
“Oh, Thor’s balls,” exclaimed the first voice. “Did he have to kill that one? I would have enjoyed a turn with her. I might have taken her back with me, too, get a bit more use out of her.”
“You heard what Fairhair said: no one lives. Every stretch of these islands is to be scoured and cleansed.”
The Viking raiders gazed longingly down at Norah, who continued to feign death with everything she had. Then, sighing with regret, the men departed the chamber.
“Would have liked a turn with that one,” the voice repeated, drifting ghost-like up the keep steps as its owner descended.
Once they were gone, Norah raised her hand to her aching forehead, her fingers sliding over a stream of fresh blood. Her face crumpled under the weight of her despair and she crawled to her mother and siblings. Draping herself over them she submitted to a wave of grief.
“Mama,” she wept. “Friseal, Roisin, Madeg.” Their faces, alive and smiling, wended their way through her mind. She wondered if Garrett was still alive, and her father, and her Uncle Iobhar. Her clansmen and women she’d loved as though they were kin. How many of them still lived? One by one their faces revolved behind her eyelids. Would she ever see them again?
And then Torsten’s face flashed before her, his face as she knew it now, his face as she’d known it in lifetimes before.
Did he still live?
A new panic gripped her. She had to find him, to see him once more. She could not die in peace without seeing his face one more time.
Hauling herself up from the ground Norah launched herself at the keep stairs, flying down them and through the lower corridor.
The instant she exited the fortress a rough voice halted her.
“Stop!” it hollered in Norse.
To her right, two figures lumbered towards her, faceless against the darkness. But she immediately recognized their voices: they were the men who had thought her dead in the keep.
Another clap of lightning brightened the sky, illuminating their horrible, scarred faces. The anger in their eyes when they saw her, realized that she’d tricked them, turned her blood to ice in her veins.
Spinning around, Norah fled in the opposite direction of the village. She could not reach her destination now. The raiders were too close on her heels. She skirted the dwindling mass of islanders scampering in every direction and headed down the path to the harbour instead.
Halfway to the docks a solid, powerful body slammed her to the ground. One of her pursuers pinned her, knocking the air from her lungs.
“Let me go,” Norah gasped, struggling to breathe.
She fought against him, batting ineffectually at his great head. He brushed her off with little effort, forcing his hand between her thighs and tearing her skirts as easily as if they were made of gossamer instead of linen and wool.
When she felt his horrendous arousal pressing against her she screamed and sunk her teeth into the man’s shoulder. The tang of blood flooded her mouth and the satisfying resistance of bone pressed against her teeth.
The man hollered in pain and shoved his palm into her face, wrenching her teeth from his skin.
“Bikkja,” he swore, striking her first and then pulling his dagg
er from his boot to kill her.
Staring wide-eyed in terror at the dagger, Norah did not see anyone come up behind them; she only saw the blade of a sword the moment it swooped across the sky. With deadly precision the blade severed her attacker’s hand from his wrist, sending both the appendage and the dagger spinning to the ground.
Norah raised her eyes, startled.
“Freyr!” she cried.
Another thrust of Freyr’s blade and her Viking attacker slumped dead on top of her. Then he turned and fought off the raider’s companion, battling fiercely for his life.
“Go!” he hollered when she did not move, transfixed by a dangerous blend of horror and fascination at the skill of Einarr’s captain.
Freyr’s command snapped her spell. Norah scampered to her feet, still hopeful that she might make it to the village. But ahead of her more Viking raiders blocked her path, dashing her hopes. Hurtling towards Freyr, they soon overwhelmed him.
When their greedy, evil eyes turned to her, Norah sped away, down the path to the harbour. There was no way back, no way to reach the broch now.
Staggering onto the beach Norah was certain that, here and now, she would die.
Ahead, the sea pitched and heaved violently. Behind her a swarm of Vikings tore down the steep incline after her. The storm was at its highest point; it raged through the night, expelling itself with gale-force winds and driving rain as sharp as spears into the ground.
Death by sword or death by sea.
Those were her choices, though she knew there was no real choice. Her fate had been known to her for as long as she’d known the meaning of the word: the sea would be the one to take her life.
Confirming her tortured thoughts, the water released a soft, ominous chuckle. It called to her, luring her towards its watery folds once more.
Come, it whispered. This is where you belong.
But this time there was no cruelty in its laughter, no taunting. Instead the sea’s voice was inviting, beckoning her to find release in its undulating arms. It offered escape, a means to avoid a painful death at the hands of the demons that had descended upon the island.
Her destiny awaited her. It was time to meet it.
Shivering uncontrollably Norah climbed into a small fishing vessel that was tied to the nearest dock. Viking hands reached for her as she pushed off; their hateful voices laughed at what they thought was her pathetic attempt to escape.
“You’ll never make it,” they shouted. “You can’t row in this weather.”
The waves lolled and rocked beneath the hull, threatening to capsize the small boat. But Norah was no longer afraid. Clutching the anchored oars she rowed herself into the open water with difficulty.
When she was far enough into the channel between Fara and Rysa Beag she stopped, content to wait for the sea to do with her what it would. Tears coursed down her cheeks, blurring her vision.
An overwhelming sadness settled over her at the life which was now over. Her mother. Friseal and Roisin. Cook; Greine; Madeg. Freyr. The countless others who, if they had not yet died, would soon find their end.
And Torsten. Her beautiful Torsten, her warrior. How stupid she’d been to hope she could see him one last time. The water slashed at the hull of her boat, laughing at her for that one sliver of hope which she’d foolishly nurtured.
Consumed with self-pity she gazed towards the shore. Her pursuers were still there, but between the brief flashes of light from the sky she saw that some kind of upheaval had resumed. Another futile battle had followed them; the ragged remains of her clansmen and their Norse allies were making a final stand.
Alarmed, Norah scoured the forms fighting on shore, desperate to make out which of her clansmen were still alive. Another flash brought them all into horrible, pitiless clarity, and one face among them sent her heart leaping in her chest.
Torsten!
Petrified, she watched as he fought his way through his opponents, taking them down one after another. But despite his deadly skill his movements were sluggish. A piercing wail wrenched from her lips.
He’d been injured. Gravely injured. He brandished his sword with waning strength, stumbling and staggering as he fought. One more opponent, one wrong move, and he would die!
“Torsten,” she cried, sobbing into the wind. As she leaned over the edge of the boat, reaching involuntarily to him, the water rose sharply beneath her, nearly casting her into the sea.
Hearing her voice on the wind, Torsten’s eyes snapped upwards.
And met hers across the watery distance.
“Norah,” he cried in return.
The sight of her seemed to revive him, and abandoning his fight he raced towards the shore, throwing himself into the sea in his desperation to reach her. His warrior’s arms pulled through the water, bringing him to her stroke after stroke.
He was slow. Dear God, he was agonizingly slow! Several times his head dipped below the waves, his arms too weak to keep his body above the water. Each time he disappeared she screamed in terror; each time he surfaced she cried a breath of relief.
“Torsten,” she wailed again, helpless to save him.
With the last of his will he closed the remaining distance between them and threw an arm to the edge of the boat. Norah grabbed onto him, straining with all her might to pull him into it with her.
He could not offer much help; he was slipping away too fast.
Somehow she found the strength to pull him into the keel, where he collapsed into her arms beneath the driving rain. Torsten’s eyes were unfocussed and his face was deathly pale.
On the shore, the fighting grew quiet as the last of the men were killed.
“Please, my love, don’t leave me,” she begged, cradling his face in her palms. Urgently she kissed his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids. Anything to rouse him. His response was a weak, sad smile.
“I must,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “That is the way our story ends.”
Then with his last breath he whispered, “I love you, always ... wherever I am ... whenever ...”
His eyes closed, and Torsten slumped in Norah’s arms.
She gazed into his face, her tears falling onto his pale cheeks. He was so still, so peaceful. Her warrior, her love, was gone.
But she did not cry, not openly, at least. A strange calm overcame her, and acceptance took the place in her heart where, only a moment ago, anguish had been. It was a curious feeling—where agony should have ripped her to shreds, tortured every crevice of her body, there was nothing but peace.
Yes, she’d lost her love; Torsten was dead. But they’d been here before. Their destiny was not to live a long and happy life together. They would never grow old; their love for one another would never fade.
But it would live again in time.
She knew this as surely as she knew her place on the island of Fara and the fate which had come to claim her. As the tiny boat rocked violently in the sea, Norah knew her destiny in all its crystalline facets.
And finally, finally ... she was at peace with it.
Even as the sea pitched with deadly force, capsizing the boat and throwing her into the water’s frigid folds, she accepted it. She held onto Torsten, letting his body drag her down into the inky blackness, content to let it take her now.
Though she began to lose consciousness, she continued to hold onto him. The sea did not frighten her anymore. From its depths, faces rose to greet her. The beautiful, painted faces of the pictii. They smiled, welcoming her home.
The faces of her clansmen and women: her mother, her father. Roisin and Friseal and Madeg; Cinead and Greine; Cook; Seonaid; Iobhar.
Garrett.
All of them. They waited for her, too.
And Torsten—his face was ahead of them all. His unspoken love radiated from his eyes, shone from his smile. Without words he urged her to let go, to join him.
She did. It was alright. She was not afraid. Their story would be told again.
In time.
Twe
nty-One
The oppressive heat which plagued the southern lands of Skaney and the islands north of the Scottish mainland had been cleared away by the storm. In its place settled the harsh, unyielding cold of autumn.
On the islands of Orkney there was no one to notice the change. Its once inhabited lands, Fara and Rysa Beag among them, were now silent, its people sleeping forever upon blood-soaked ground. As if to protect the islanders of Fara, the thick and inexplicable mist surrounding this, and no other, of Orkney’s islands rose up, blanketing the dead where they lay.
The story of what happened that autumn on the islands north of Scotland would dissolve into myth. It would change, would become a celebratory tale of triumph over dissention, remembered in the written sagas of Harald Fairhair of Norway.
The legend of the Lady of the Mist would be lost to time. For those who might recall it, who might breathe its words once again, it would be nothing more than that: a legend.
Only a legend ...
Twenty-Two
Dunnet Head, Scotland, 1978
The sky which hung low over mainland Scotland’s northern-most point was a canvas of vivid autumn colour ranging in shades from orange, to red, to purple. October was normally a uniformly grey month in the far reaches of the North Atlantic, and skies this magnificent were rare.
Dorothy MacEachern, however, hardly noticed the stunning celestial vision as she exited the tourist centre, turned off the lights and locked the door behind her. She was later than usual—the centre closed promptly at five, but she’d had a personal call to make and ... well ... if past experience taught her anything it was that the Dunnet Head Historical Trust which operated the centre did not appear to scrutinize its telephone bills.
The icy wind of the coming winter ruffled her short, auburn hair, sending a chill through to her core. She shivered, pulling her well-worn coat tighter around her plump belly.
Dorothy cursed herself for losing track of the time. It was a terrible habit of hers when she got talking to her sister-in-law, but she should have been paying closer attention this evening. Michael had probably arrived by now; her eldest son was enrolled at the university in Edinburgh, but was home this weekend. To celebrate his return Dorothy had planned a large family supper complete with a homemade elderberry pie.
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