Magnar (The Wolves of Clan Sutherland Book 1)

by Mary Morgan

  “Warrior,” he interrupted.

  Nodding, she clasped her hands in her lap. “In truth you are more. You are now my chieftain.”

  His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Father is your chieftain, not I.”

  Elspeth swallowed. The lump of pain grew within her chest, pressing against her body. “Sadly, our chieftain was slain by the enemy. Your father is dead, Erik.”

  The lad’s face paled, and he stood abruptly. “You lie!”

  “Nae.” She shook her head solemnly. “I speak the truth.” Elspeth reached for his hand, but he scooted away from her.

  “We have to go back. He needs our help,” he protested.

  Standing, she continued to speak in a calm voice. “I watched him die. He is gone from this world.”

  The terror that lit within her nephew’s eyes scared Elspeth. She feared he’d take off running through the trees, so she went to his side and wrapped a firm arm around his shoulder. “You must trust me.”

  He struggled to get free. “Nae, nae!”

  Tears smarted her eyes, and she blinked in an effort to keep them from spilling. “Are you not a brave warrior, Erik, from the house of Gunn?”

  Burying his head against her waist, he poured out his grief.

  Elspeth held on to his quaking body, allowing this time for him to shed his sorrow. Finally, she allowed her own tears to trickle down her cheeks as she wept with him. Sorrow engulfed them both.

  The shrill cry of an eagle snapped Elspeth out of her misery. Darting her gaze in all directions, she half-expected the Northmen to come charging through the trees.

  She brushed a hand over the top of Erik’s head. “We need to keep moving and put some more distance between us and the enemy. We can follow the path of the stream.”

  Her nephew lifted his head. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Raw determination glittered back at her within the depths of his eyes. “One day, vengeance will be mine.”

  In that quiet moment, Elspeth witnessed the birth of a chieftain.

  Chapter Four

  “You are unwise in your move, old friend,” remarked Magnar, studying the board with intent.

  Berulf refilled his cup with more ale. “And as always, you insult me with your words. Might I remind you that it was I who taught you the game of hnefatafl?”

  “Did I not win our last battle?” inquired Magnar as he moved his defender forward.

  “It was a first in many moons,” countered Berulf, glaring at him over the rim of his cup.

  “Yet a win.”

  His friend narrowed his eyes and returned his attention to the game. “Are you boasting?”

  Magnar watched him in silent study. Stirring the ire of Berulf was one that led to him winning. Would the elder fall prey to the trap again?

  “Presenting the facts,” replied Magnar.

  The man grumbled a curse and moved one of his attackers.

  Magnar smiled inwardly.

  “Your meeting with Ragna must have gone well. You are still here.”

  Magnar’s smiled faded, and he swiftly moved his king out of harm’s way. Until he spoke with King William, he could not confess about his quest to seek out his brother. Another thought occurred to him. “She held news about my mother’s passing,” he offered, and then quickly added, “Have you heard of any thieving by traders without honor?”

  Berulf’s hand hovered over one of his war pieces. “Are you gaining knowledge for King William?” His question held a note of warning.

  Magnar arched a brow. “My loyalty is to my king…always. But this is not for him.”

  After moving another piece across the board, his friend leaned back in his chair. “I was sorry to hear about Olga’s passing. Many mourned her loss.”

  Keeping his focus on the game, Magnar nodded slowly. He had nae desire to speak further about his mother.

  Silence hovered like an unwelcome companion. Flames snapped in the hearth behind them, and Magnar moved another piece on the board.

  Berulf let out a soft belch. “There have been rumors of certain Northmen who are intent in regaining a stronghold in Scotland.”

  Returning his gaze to the man, Magnar frowned. “Continue.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “As I’ve stated. Merely rumors. Their actions and deeds are not what you would call honorable. They make claims as traders, but in truth, they are seeking to stir the wrath within the country.”

  Magnar folded his arms over his chest. “Rumors?”

  His friend shrugged. “Scotland’s troubles are not my affair. These skirmishes come to us as messages on the sea breezes—from one man to the next. How am I to discern truth from a tale woven by another after a few cups of ale?”

  “Nevertheless, you chose to tell me.”

  Berulf tapped a finger to his chin, surveying the board. “Did you not admit this knowledge was for you and not your king? Nae doubt you shall take this information to him.” Shifting another piece, he announced, “I have you.”

  Magnar leaned forward and swiftly moved his king from being captured. “You are wrong, old friend. A few men intent on stirring the wrath within Scotland can be easily handled. I am certain your king did not approve this kind of plan, aye?”

  “Is not King Inge your king, too?”

  Magnar leveled a hard glare at the man. “You ken my loyalties are to both, but I serve only one—the Lion of Scotland.”

  Snorting in disgust Berulf shoved away from the table and stood. “Kings, men, wolves—you’re all beasts, each trying to defeat the other.” He went to the hearth and tossed more wood into the flames. The fire snapped and hissed.

  Taken aback by his friend’s words, Magnar shifted in his chair. “What ails you?”

  The man glanced over his shoulder. “Will there ever be peace?”

  Stunned, Magnar burst out in laughter.

  “You find humor in my words?” snapped his friend.

  Magnar held up his hands in surrender. “Forgive my laughter. ’Tis only shocking you would speak of peace when our people have been plundering for hundreds of years. There will always be differences, war, and men seeking to cause unrest. All for the love of power. You ken this, old friend.”

  Berulf blew out a sigh and went back to his chair. “I grow weary of the battle.”

  All humor vanished from Magnar. “Do your bones speak for you, Berulf the Axe? Or is your mind addled from too much drink?”

  The man fingered with one of the war pieces. “Perchance both.”

  “The table at Valhalla is not ready to greet one of its finest warriors,” remarked Magnar.

  His friend chuckled softly. Slipping another piece across the board, he said, “Do not attempt to thwart the plan of All Father.”

  “I can always bargain with Odin.”

  “You tempt fate, MacAlpin.”

  “I deem I have my entire life,” admitted Magnar, moving a defender in front of his king.

  Berulf leaned back and stroked his beard. “Next time we meet, we shall talk of crops and the weather. I see this discussion has not kept my mind focused on our game.” He tapped a finger to his head.

  Magnar roared and smacked his hand on the table. The game pieces toppled everywhere. “Or leave the drinking to me and you can have water.”

  Reaching for his cup, Berulf grunted a curse and drained the remainder of his ale.

  ****

  Narrowing his eyes at the glaring sunlight, Magnar waited for the small boat to approach the shore. Earlier, he had gathered some of his belongings from his former home and had them placed on board his ship. Instead of two days, his visit on Kirkjuvágr had grown to a sennight, and that had been more than enough. Strangely, though, he felt a small ache at leaving the isle. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his parents’ home. Others in the village would watch over and tend to the dwelling. Perchance he would return in six moons.

  He watched Rorik dismount from his horse. The man staggered, and Magnar pondered if his friend got an
y rest in the past week. You have had far too much drink and women. The sea journey back home will not be pleasant.

  Berulf approached Magnar’s side. “I shall take care of the horses.”

  Magnar gave him a curt nod. “Thank you.”

  “Before you take your leave, the group of men plundering, instead of trading are known by a certain name. They barter for goods with precious amber stones, furs, and narwhal tusks.”

  The boat landed on the sandy shore. Magnar gestured to Rorik to proceed ahead of him. He turned toward Berulf. “Aye? And their name?”

  “Loki’s Vengeance. They seek to bring back the ways of the old Gods before Odin ruled.”

  The wolf within Magnar growled. “There is nae purpose or justice in vengeance in this world. ’Tis between the Gods, not us. They’d best serve Odin than stir his wrath.”

  “Have you forgotten the edda—the tales spoken by the fire? Loki will use any to gain power in all realms.”

  Magnar shook his head. “Surely the Seer would advise us of any threat of a battle, aye? Her magic would see beyond to the other side.”

  Berulf shifted his stance and scratched the side of his face. “Depends on whose side she seeks her power.”

  Leaning near the man, Magnar uttered softly, “Be warned—Ragna would never betray her people for power. I am not overly fond of the woman, but I ken unfailing loyalty from her.” Straightening, he added, “And I might remind you she has ears everywhere.”

  The man looked affronted. “Did I mention her name?”

  “And yet she approaches.”

  Berulf let out a sigh and turned around. “Good morn, Ragna.”

  Ignoring his greeting, she continued past him. “Walk with me, Magnar.”

  He winked at his old friend. Magnar kept his steps slow as he kept pace with the Seer. “Have you come to give your regards at my passing from Kirkjuvágr?”

  “Do not flatter yourself, wolf,” she replied dryly.

  The beast within Magnar gnashed his teeth. But the man remained composed.

  When she came to the bend along the shore, Ragna paused. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she kept her sight fixed on a flight of sea birds gliding over the waves of the ocean. “Have you gleaned anything from the bones?”

  “South appears to be the message,” he replied, clasping his hands behind his back.

  Chuckling softly, Ragna lowered her hand. “The Gods and Goddesses must favor you, Magnar. They refuse to answer me.”

  Her admission startled him. “I am unsure how to respond.”

  This time her laughter surrounded him. She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “Contrary to my certain gifts, there are times when the Gods and Goddesses choose not to deliver their messages through me. Often times, they judge it wiser to deal directly with another.” Ragna turned fully toward him. “You have been chosen, Magnar. Tread carefully on this journey you have been given. There is a division in your lineage. The path is unclear.”

  “Before I undertake any quest, I must report to King William.”

  “Aye. Your king must be informed,” she replied dryly. “You never did state the name of your brother.”

  Magnar turned away from her questioning gaze. “I did not ken his name until I read the letter from my mother. He is called Thorfinn.”

  “The Fates are definitely guiding you.” The woman removed a sealed parchment from the belt at her side. Handing the document to Magnar, she added, “This is the third letter your mother wrote. You must see it safely to your brother.”

  As Magnar took the document from her hand, his anger surfaced once again at being denied a chance to know his twin. Yet he quickly suppressed the emotion. His parents were dead.

  I shall right this injustice. My oath to you, Thorfinn.

  After tucking the parchment securely inside his pouch, Magnar exhaled softly.

  Ragna bent and picked up a shell along the water’s edge. “If I may ask, are you considering bringing your brother into the brotherhood?”

  He cast her a sideways glance. “You ken the rules. Only one from each clan.”

  A muscle twitched in her jaw. “I am familiar with the edicts proclaimed when the ancient order was birthed. You have not answered my question, which leads me to reason you’re unsure of what you will offer him.”

  “Nae. But would you be comfortable with the knowledge, if I decide to bend the laws?”

  She rubbed her thumb over the smooth surface of the shell. “Out of all the wolves, you are the most stubborn.”

  Magnar roared with laughter. Recovering quickly, he replied, “And here I thought you believed Rorik was the most stubborn.”

  Her mouth twitched with obvious mirth. “There is another word for that wolf.”

  Magnar’s good humor vanished. “He is a man first, Ragna.”

  She tossed the shell out into the water. “Simply a wolf that prefers to sniff under the gown of any woman whom he desires.”

  Curious, he asked, “Why do you despise him thus?”

  “Because he unleashes the beast within the man,” she snapped.

  Magnar arched a brow. “I suppose there is more to your account. The man has honor, as do all within the brotherhood.”

  She snorted and folded her arms over her chest. “You all have your own rules.” Pointing a finger at the small boat, she continued, “Ask how many he bedded this week. Shameful.”

  Curious at her venom toward his friend, he asked, “Since when did Rorik’s carnal appetites concern the Seer?”

  She gave him a horrified expression and took a step back. “You…you misunderstood my meaning.”

  “I think not.” He dipped a slight bow. “Until we meet again.”

  Without giving her time to respond, Magnar strode quickly across the shore. Tension between his friend and the Seer had always been a thorn in his side. He should have brought another on the voyage. Out of all within the brotherhood, Ragna despised his loyal friend the most. With each visit to the isles, the tension between them became more terse—each spouting harsh words at the other.

  Upon reaching the boat, Magnar climbed inside and signaled for the man to proceed with rowing them back to the ship.

  Rorik leaned his head against the edge of the boat, keeping his eyes closed. “What words of wisdom did the witch spout to you?”

  “Your shameful appetites,” confessed Magnar, watching for his friend’s reaction.

  Rorik cracked open one eye. “I do not recall seeing her at any of my meals.”

  He snickered softly. “Carnal appetites.”

  “Bloody interfering woman. Her words and tongue are as sharp as the sting of nettles. She should keep to her runes and bones. ’Tis not her concern.”

  Leaning forward, Magnar braced his forearms on his thighs. “I agree with you. Can you share why she loathes you?”

  The boat rose and fell over a large wave, and his friend let out a groan. He rolled over and heaved the contents of his stomach into the sea. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Rorik resumed his position in the boat. “You might as well confer with Odin, since I cannot give you an answer. The woman is foul-tempered and ugly as the Black Hills of Gorlean.”

  Magnar shoved the man’s leg aside with his boot. “Might I remind you that those hills you speak of are stunning in summer months—filled with flowers.”

  Rorik placed a fist over his stomach. “All this talk of the woman has soured my gut. I have nae wish to speak of the vile witch any further.”

  Sea spray washed over them, and Rorik uttered a curse. “By the hounds, are we heading into a storm?”

  Magnar threw back his head and roared with laughter. “’Tis a long journey, my friend. And you best pray to all the Gods and Goddesses we do not encounter any tempests, or your body will suffer greatly. I deem a prayer to the God of the Sea and Winds, Njörd, to keep back any threat of storms might aid you.”

  Rorik rolled to the side again and held his head over the boat. “If Njörd forsakes me, I give yo
u permission to take your blade to my heart.”

  Chapter Five

  Clamping a hand over her nephew’s mouth, Elspeth stilled. She studied the area ahead. Several horses were tethered to low-hanging tree limbs. Her ears strained to pick up any sound of their owners. Birds chirped and darted within the thick forest, only adding to her frustration.

  Time moved slowly, and Erik squirmed at being confined.

  She brought them both to a crouching position behind a large gorse bush and released her hold on him. “I do not ken who is out there,” she whispered.

  Erik rubbed his eyes. “I say we take their horses.”

  Narrowing her eyes in thought, she pondered her nephew’s plan. “What if there are others on horseback?”

  “Then we ride hard and fast,” he responded. He pointed to the small blade tucked in his boot. “I can always toss my weapon at any who may come for us.”

  You have learned to master the small blade, but you are not that good, nephew.

  She tapped a finger to her chin with a better idea and smiled. “What if we take their satchels?”

  His eyes grew wide. “Food?”

  Elspeth nodded in agreement. “Can I trust you to stay hidden while I fetch the satchels?”

  “I can help you,” he offered, a grin creasing the corners of his mouth and his eyes bright with the new challenge.

  Her chieftain was growing in confidence. Since their conversation two days ago, he had tried to defend his right in doing things his way. Elspeth could not find fault with the lad. She required strength and courage during this hardship while they traveled the land, not a fearful lad. With no food, she tried her best to forage the forest for any signs of fruit or nuts. Though her nephew kept silent about his gnawing hunger, his strength was declining.

  Placing a firm hand on his shoulder, she uttered softly, “Wait until I raise two fingers. When you see the signal, come forth with quiet steps.”

  He gave her a curt nod.

  Elspeth rose from her position and studied the landscape once again. Swallowing the fear lodged in her throat, she darted out from the gorse bush. Making slow steps toward the horses, she tried to squash her uneasiness so as not to frighten the animals. Dry leaves rustled under her feet with each step she took.