Let my brothers be safe, he prayed to the gods. Let them come back alive.
Alarr watched the men, his attention caught by the tall Irish king. He didn’t know if Feann MacPherson had come as an invited guest, or whether he had arrived of his own choice. It might be that he wanted an alliance or a wedding for his daughter, if he had one. The king wore a woollen cloak, and there were no visible weapons. Yet the man had a thin scar along his cheek, evidence of an earlier battle. His dark hair was threaded with grey, but there was a lean strength to him.
When he saw Alarr staring, his expression tightened before it fixed upon Sigurd. The hard look was not of a man who wanted an alliance—it was of a man itching for a fight.
Someone needed to alert the guards, but Alarr could not leave in the midst of the ceremony. He searched for a glimpse of Danr or Sandulf, but they were nowhere to be found. He only saw his aunt nearby, and she could do nothing.
You’re overreacting, he tried to tell himself. But no matter how he tried to dismiss his suspicions, his instincts remained on alert. He could not interrupt the ceremony, for it would only humiliate his bride. This was meant to be a day of celebration, and Gilla’s smile was bright as she looked at him.
She was a kind woman, and as he returned her smile, he forced his thoughts back to the wedding. Friendship was a solid foundation for their union, and he inwardly vowed that he would try to make this marriage a good one.
He stood before her, and Sigurd brought the sword of Hafr that they had dug from his uncle’s grave. Alarr presented it to Gilla, saying, ‘Take this sword as a gift from my ancestors. It shall become the sword of our firstborn son.’
She accepted the weapon and then turned to her father to present their own gift of another sword. ‘Take this sword for your own.’
The blade had good balance, and he tested the edge, noting its sharpness. Gilla knew of his love for sword-fighting, and she had chosen a weapon of quality. It was a good exchange, and he approved of her choice.
Alarr placed the ring for Gilla upon the hilt of the sword, and was about to offer it, when he caught a sudden movement among the guests. Feann cast off his dark cloak and unsheathed a sword from where it had been strapped between his shoulder blades. His men joined him, their own weapons revealed. The visible threat made their intentions clear.
Sigurd’s face turned thunderous at the insult, and he started to reach for Alarr’s sword.
He handed the weapon to his father and commanded, ‘Take Gilla to the longhouse and guard her.’ The last thing they needed was his father’s hot-headed fighting. ‘Vigmarr and I will settle this.’
He took back his uncle’s sword from Gilla, and her face turned stricken when she murmured, ‘Be safe.’
His father heeded his instructions and took Gilla with him, along with a few other men. His aunt joined them, running with her skirts clenched in her hands. He heard his mother scream as she fled towards another longhouse in the opposite direction. Only when the women were gone did Alarr breathe easier.
It was a mistake. Chaos erupted among the guests as his men hurried towards the longhouse where they had stored their weapons. King Feann uttered a command in Irish, and his men surged forward, cutting down anyone in their path.
Alarr ran hard, and iron struck iron as his weapon met an enemy’s blade. He let the familiar battle rage flow through him, and his uncle’s sword bit through flesh, striking down his attacker. The weapon was strong, imbued with the spirt of his ancestor. Alarr swung at another man, and he glimpsed another warrior behind him. He sidestepped and caught the man in the throat before he slashed the stomach of his other assailant.
The volva was right, he thought. It was an ill omen.
Already, he could see the slain bodies of his kinsmen as more men charged forward in the fight. Alarr searched for his brothers, but there was no sign of Sandulf or Danr. By the gods, he hoped they were safe. If only Brandt and Rurik had been here, they could have driven off their enemies. He caught one of his kinsmen and ordered, ‘Take a horse and ride north as hard as you can. Find Brandt and Rurik and bring them back.’ The man obeyed, running hard towards the stables.
A strange calm passed over him with the knowledge that he would likely die this day. The shouts of kinsmen echoed amid the clang of weapons, only to be cut short when they died. The Irish king started to run towards the longhouse, but Alarr cut him off, swinging his sword hard. The older man caught his balance and held his weapon against the iron.
Feann paused a moment. ‘Stay out of this, boy. The fight isn’t yours. Sigurd has gone too far, and he will pay for his crimes.’
‘This is my wedding, so the fight is mine,’ Alarr countered. He swung his weapon, and the king blocked his blow. ‘And I am not a boy.’ He was beginning to realise that Feann had travelled seeking vengeance, and his intent was to slaughter Sigurd. But what crimes was he talking about?
They sparred against one another, the king toying with him. Alarr struck hard, intending to stop the man. But with every blow, he grew aware that Feann was stalling, drawing out the fight. It was then that he saw men surrounding the longhouse where his father was protecting his bride. Gilla’s father, Vigmarr, was fighting back, trying to defend them.
And then Alarr caught the unmistakable scent of smoke and fire.
He renewed his attack, slashing with his sword as he fought to find a weakness. Feann parried each blow, and when the screams of the women broke through, Alarr jerked his attention back to the longhouse.
A slashing pain struck him in the calves, and he saw the king withdraw a bloody blade, just before his legs collapsed beneath him. Alarr met the man’s gaze, waiting for the killing blow. Instead, Feann’s expression remained grim as he wiped his blade. ‘If you’re wise, boy, you’ll stay on the ground.’ Then he strode towards the longhouse.
Alarr tried to rise, but the agonizing pain kept his legs from supporting him. He called out to his men to attack and defend the longhouse. But a moment later, he watched in horror as the fire raged hotter. Someone threw open the doors, and Sandulf staggered out. Four other men emerged from a different door, and Alarr struggled to his knees. He spied the slain bodies of his father... Gilla... Vigmarr and his wife...
His stomach lurched, and Alarr turned his gaze back to the sky, hating the gods for what they had done. A lone raven circled the clouds, and he could only lie in his own blood while his enemies cut down the remaining wedding guests and returned to their ships.
In the dirt beside him, he saw the familiar glint of a golden brooch.
Chapter One
Ireland—ad 876
The heavy slave collar hung around Breanne Ó Callahan’s throat. Her mouth was dry from thirst, and she could hardly remember how long it had been since she was taken captive. The days blurred into one another, for she had been stolen from her foster home and sold into slavery. The trader had locked her in chains, and she had travelled for days in a wagon with the other women. She knew that he intended to sell her in the marketplace at Áth Cliath, for he could get a higher price for her there.
Exhaustion weighed upon her, and her body ached from bruises where she’d been beaten. It had been especially humiliating when they had taken her to the healer. Although it had been a woman who had touched her, her cheeks still burned at the memory. The healer had verified her virginity, and Breanne knew it was the only reason she had not yet been raped. The slaver knew that he could command a higher price for her innocence. She tried to clear her mind of the terrors rising and the fear of being held down and claimed by a stranger this night.
Breanne clenched her hands together in a vain attempt to keep them from shaking. Thus far, no one had come for her. She had searched in vain for any sign that her foster father had sent men to save her. They might not know where she was being held captive. With each day that had passed, her hope had begun to fade.
Do not surrender, she warned
herself. Not yet.
There might be a chance at escape with so many people in the marketplace. She held fast to the frail hope, even as they dragged the first woman to the auction block. Breanne did not know her name, but the girl began to sob at her fate.
The trader called out the woman’s value and stripped her naked in the marketplace. The girl whimpered when he extolled the virtue of her slender body and soft breasts. He turned her around, and there was no denying the lustful gazes of the men.
Breanne turned her attention to the crowd of people, searching for a way out. There were a dozen wooden carts rolling through the streets, and if she could only get to one of them without being noticed, she might hide herself among the barrels or beneath the straw. She would have only precious seconds to act, and only then if she could break free. Her wrists and ankles were chained together, but if she shortened her stride, she could still run. All she had to do was wait until the woman before her was sold. She was last among the women, a lucky place, for soon there would be no one chained to her and she might be able to flee.
Her brain warned that it would be nearly impossible to escape notice. Not if she was running with an armful of chains. But even so, she tried to keep hope. If she imagined the alternative, the panic would rise up and overpower what little courage she had left.
The first woman was sold to a fat merchant, and he seized her hair as he pulled her forward. He groped her bare breast, laughing before he covered her body with a rough shift. Breanne suppressed a shudder. During the auction, her gaze fixed upon a row of three carts. One of them might serve as a place to hide—but first, she needed to create a distraction.
An outdoor peat fire burned nearby, and she spied another cart filled with straw. A fire, she decided. It would allow her to flee unnoticed while the others attempted to put out the blaze.
The second woman was sold, then the third. But before the fourth climbed up to the block, Breanne saw a taller man drawing near. His dark hair hung to his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes stared at her. He appeared to be one of the Lochlannach, a fierce warrior from across the sea. His skin held a darker tone, and an iron chain containing three hammers encircled his throat. He looked like a man who had spent the entire summer upon the waters.
Breanne lifted her chin and stared back, refusing to let him intimidate her. A hint of a smile lifted his mouth, as if he had accepted her challenge. Danu¸ what if he attempted to buy her? It was clear that she had caught his interest. He appeared to be a man accustomed to getting his own way.
She noticed his strong hands and the way his shoulders filled his tunic. Unlike the fat merchant, there was no trace of weakness in his body. A vision flared in her mind, of being stripped naked before this man. Her body flushed at the thought. His blue eyes never left hers, and she felt a strange pull within her, as if he had somehow caressed her flesh without a single touch.
The warrior took another step closer, and this time, she noticed his slight limp. He wore armour, and a sword hung from his side. Who was he?
Her heartbeat pounded, and she had no more time to wonder, when the slaver dragged her up the stairs towards the block. He held the length of chain in his arms, and Breanne locked her gaze with the Lochlannach, wondering about his intentions. It would not matter. She would be no man’s possession.
She feigned weakness, reluctantly drawing close to the block. Though she continued to walk forward, she waited until she could feel her captor’s grip on the chain going slack as he prepared to strip her naked.
Now.
Breanne dived forward, leaping from the block towards the crowd. As she’d predicted, the unexpected motion jerked the chain from the slaver’s hands. She lunged through the crowd of onlookers, making her way towards the wooden carts ahead.
Many tried to stop her, but she shoved her way past them. The weight of the manacles on her wrists and ankles impeded her movement, but she would do anything to escape.
But a moment later, a hand caught her chains and dragged her backwards. Breanne fought to free herself, but the chains held fast.
‘Let me go,’ she gritted out, but she could not move. When she turned around, she saw the face of the Lochlannach. His expression was unyielding, like iron.
He wrapped the chain around his arm, making it impossible for her to escape him. His blue eyes were chips of ice, with no pity in them. Her heartbeat quickened, for she knew he would never release her.
‘Please,’ she begged.
He ignored her, holding the chains with one hand as she struggled to free herself. The slaver approached and raised his hand to strike her. Before his fist could make contact, the Lochlannach caught the man’s wrist and held it. He spoke in a foreign tongue she did not understand, but his tone brooked no argument. The slaver started to argue, but the man ignored him. Instead, he reached into a pouch at his waist and withdrew a handful of coins. He placed them in the slaver’s palm, and the man’s protests were silenced.
And so, it was done. She had been bought by this Lochlannach. Hatred rose up within her at the thought of being this man’s slave or worse, his concubine. She struggled again to free herself, but it was no use. He kept the chain tight, securing her firmly at his side until he reached his horse. In one motion, he lifted her up, before he swung up behind her.
He spurred the animal and rode towards the outer edges of Áth Cliath. Throughout the short journey, he said nothing at all. She almost wondered if he was even capable of speaking her language. Her only consolation was that he had not attempted to touch her...yet.
The uneasiness inside her intensified, doubling her fears. He was a raider and a Norseman, one who would take whatever he wanted. Why had he bought her? She wanted to believe that it was only a moment of chance, a sudden whim.
But he had been watching her and waiting. He had stopped her from fleeing the slave market, and now, he had claimed her. Gods be merciful.
They reached the river, and he dismounted from his horse, lifting her down. Breanne wondered if she could dive into the water, but he dispelled any thoughts of escape by keeping her chains tight. Inwardly, she cursed the man for taking her. She wanted to return home to Killcobar, and now she might never see Feann again. He and her foster brothers were the only family she remembered, since her parents had died years ago. Was Feann even looking for her? Or worse, had he given her up for dead?
Her heart ached at the loss of her home and family. The pain welled up inside her, mingled with loneliness and fear. She knew not what would happen to her any more. It seemed as if her life had crumbled into pieces, scattering to the wind.
The Lochlannach led her towards the docks until they reached a small boat where another man waited for them. The vessel was not large, and the sail was tied up against the mast. Her captor lifted her inside, and she glanced down at the dark water, wondering if she had the courage to jump. The other man seemed to guess her thoughts, for he shook his head in warning.
The Norseman spoke to the other man in the language she did not know. Another flare of anxiety caught her, for she feared they might take her to their country. She might never see Éireann again, and the thought terrified her.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, even knowing that they might not understand her. The men lifted the anchor and began to row out to the open water. As she’d predicted, they did not answer her question. Once again, she eyed the water, wondering if she dared to jump. But then, the chains would only drag her down to the bottom of the river and cause her to drown.
Though it was still morning, the sky was dark and heavy with moisture. Clouds obscured the sun, and soon, fat raindrops splattered upon her. Breanne welcomed the water, trying to quench her thirst by opening her mouth. The Norseman seemed to notice, and he held out a drinking skin, tipping it against her lips. She took a sip, and the water was stale but welcome. When she had finished, he took it back. Then he reached inside a wooden container and pulled out
a heavy fur of seal skin. He lifted it over her, and she realised that it would shield her from the rain.
She was taken aback by the gesture. Why should he care if she were drenched from the rain? It poured over him and his shipmate, soaking through his dark hair. Though he rowed steadily, he kept his gaze fixed upon her.
His attention unnerved her, reaching deep within. Though he had bought her as his slave, she could not deny that he had shown kindness. And it was difficult to reconcile the two parts of this man. What did he want from her?
She remained still while the rain fell steadily. Both men were soaked now, but they appeared indifferent to the elements. When she eyed the other man, she saw that he was watching her with interest. There was no sense of surprise, as if he had expected to have a female slave aboard the ship. It made her question what else he knew.
Breanne huddled beneath the seal skin, and they continued to row until the river met the edge of the sea. Áth Cliath was now behind her, and she could see only a light fog and the water surrounding them everywhere. Once they were further out to sea, the Norseman gestured for her to put out her chained wrists. He withdrew an awl and a small hammer, and she understood his intention. Within moments, he had hammered out the pin and her chains fell to the bottom of the boat. Next, he removed her neck collar, and she rubbed at the chafed skin, feeling relief from the weight. Last, she extended her ankles, and he removed the chains there, as well.
Her wrists were raw, and she tried to ease the soreness. She didn’t quite know what to think of this man. True, there was nowhere she could run, now that they were nearing the open sea. Perhaps he’d meant to offer her comfort, and for that, she was grateful.
Stolen by the Viking Page 2
