by Mary Morgan
“Were you not the one that spoke of keeping away from Magnar and the wolves?”
“A momentary circumstance.”
“What direction do you see, Ketil?” asked Thorfinn, eager to shift the conversation away from himself.
The Seer held up the rune bone. “Ahh…a question I have waited for someone to ask.”
Thorfinn shifted on the ground and stretched out his legs. Do all seers speak in such confounded riddles?
After returning the rune bone to his pouch, Ketil settled back against the broken log. “We are drawing near a mighty force of power—one that is difficult to foretell. Even with magic, I am unable to determine its commanding source.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Thorfinn. “Within my vision, it is not Halvard who must take possession but you.”
The wolf within Thorfinn ceased his pacing.
“With this power, can we thwart King William from taking full control of the north?” Though he was cautious with his question, hope surged within Thorfinn.
Ketil shrugged. “Anything is possible. Perchance we can succeed in capturing all of Scotland.”
Thorfinn considered the Seer’s words. Did not the warriors of old speak of conquering all of the country? As a young lad he used to listen to the skalds recalling the tales of how Scotland was once connected to the Orkneyjar Isles. When the great dragon, Nidhogg grew angry at the people in the far-off land, he severed the land from the isles by gnawing on the root of the tree that linked them. The Gods spoke of a time when it would take a great warrior to unite the two once again.
However, he would not be lulled into a fool’s quest by another, even if Ketil was a Seer.
Reaching for his axe, Thorfinn placed the weapon across his thighs. Drawing in a huge breath, he released it slowly. Temptation to shift and let the wolf roam ahead of Ketil had him smiling. Yet now was not the time to make an enemy of the Seer.
An owl hooted in the tree above him, unaware of the wolf below, and Thorfinn lifted his head. Even in the dark, he could make out the gleam within the bird’s eyes.
You are a creature of wisdom. Guide me on my quest.
Returning his attention to the Seer, he stated, “Get some rest. We depart before the last star fades from the sky.”
****
Dark clouds hovered over the morning landscape like a blanket of doom, adding more misery to Elspeth’s mood. She chastised herself for her sullen behavior when she had broken her fast earlier with Erik. ’Twas nothing more than worry about Magnar. Yet it seemed as if her mood captured others in the keep. Even her nephew had remained silent. Had he, too, sensed the unrest lingering around the keep like the mists snaking the hills?
She rubbed her temples, easing the ache behind her eyes, but it did little to soothe the chill that seeped into her bones. “This is the one time I wished I had your gift of insight, Grandmother, so I can see the path of my husband. I ken it has only been a few days, but this foreboding will not fade.”
Releasing a frustrated sigh, Elspeth moved away from the arched window. Thunder rolled in the far distance with the threat of rain to follow. She desperately wanted the unease to leave her thoughts and spirit.
“You cannot stay confined in your chambers all day and night,” she chastised with a heaviness that made her spirit weary.
You must cease this madness!
Reaching for her cloak, she sought to keep busy by tending to the herbs in the kitchen garden. Her steps led her quickly from her room and along the quiet corridor. Making her way steadily down the stairs, she paused by the entrance to the great hall. Not a soul dwelled within, but the ghosts long dead reached out to her. Even the silence within the keep was troubling.
She rubbed her hands together and banished the horrible images, especially those of her brother.
When she entered the kitchens, some of the women were tending to the meal for the day. Their grim expressions mirrored her own. In an attempt to shake off the uneasiness, she gave each a small smile in passing.
Grabbing a basket off the table, she paused and reached for an apple.
“Would you like me to fetch you something, Lady Elspeth?” asked Muir from a chair by the hearth.
She went and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Nae. I think I shall work in the herb garden.”
“Rain is coming,” warned the woman as she kept tending to her current task of stitching.
“Or I might go in search of some berries?”
The woman’s face lit up, and she dropped her mending. “I can fetch what meager items we have and make a few tarts.”
“Did you not say someone found a jug of honey in the cellar as well?” asked Elspeth, hoping the account was accurate.
“Aye!”
Elspeth removed her hand. “Good. Then after I tend to the garden, I shall go on a quest to bring back berries.”
With a renewed sense of purpose, Elspeth made her way out of the kitchens and quickly strolled across the bailey. Glancing upward, she indeed noted the looming threat of clouds. Indecision plagued her. Rain would surely arrive, but when?
“The herb garden can wait. We need berries,” she mumbled.
The pithy bleating of a goat sounded behind her. Darting a glance over her shoulder, Elspeth spied the irksome animal with her nephew not far behind trying to capture the escaping goat.
Dropping her basket, Elspeth spread her arms and legs wide in an attempt to block the animal’s path. She should have known better. It leaped and dashed around her.
Erik came to an abrupt halt in front of her. “By the hounds! Una escaped again, Aunt Elspeth!”
Chuckling softly, she ruffled the hair on her nephew’s head. “It appears her fleeing her pen often might have saved her from the vile men who stole everything from us. She could have been a meal for them.”
The lad scowled. “But Gunnar and I fixed the pen yesterday.”
“And yet she escaped once again.”
His eyes widened. “She used magic.”
Elspeth folded her arms over her chest. “Una is a goat and not capable. After I have collected some berries, I will consider another area where we can keep Una. Perchance she does not like being too near the stables.”
“Berries, you say?” Erik smacked his lips in obvious joy. His appetite taking priority over the goat’s lodging’s.
She bent and retrieved her basket. “Aye, for tarts with honey.”
“I ken where there are many,” he admitted, running toward the gates.
“Wonderful. But we cannot go any farther than right outside the portcullis!” shouted Elspeth, making long strides after her nephew.
She waved at the guard in passing as she dashed across the bridge. Elspeth knew of the vines snaking a portion of the stone walls and headed in a northern direction. After several moments, she glanced all around. Most of the berries were absent from the bramble of vines, along with her nephew. Perchance some of the others had eaten the berries.
“Where are you, Erik? Did I not state to stay nearby?”
She followed the sound of his laughter, drifting between the ancient oak trees. Onward she walked until she came to the clearing overlooking the stream. Thunder clapped furiously overhead, and she knew her time was running short.
Glancing to her left, she noted the huge bush of blackberries. And still no sign of the lad.
“This is not a game, Erik! You had better not be stuffing your mouth with berries or you will not get any tarts.” Her tone had taken on an edge of worry.
A breeze lifted the hair on the back of her neck as she allowed her gaze to travel down to the stream. She squinted in the gray light and let out a gasp. “Magnar,” she whispered.
Overjoyed at seeing her husband, Elspeth dropped the basket and took off running. Her cloak slapped furiously at her legs, but she gave no care. Worry infused her at seeing her husband back so soon. Perchance someone was injured on their journey, or the threat of Halvard was gone. Nevertheless, she wanted to wrap her arms around him and bury her face ag
ainst his chest.
“Magnar!” she shouted, slowing her stride down the hill after she almost slipped on a soft patch of leaves and mud.
Yet as she drew nearer, fear clutched at her heart like a falcon’s talons. Coming to a halt by a pine tree, she studied the man. Something was horribly amiss.
Her husband had one lone habit. Magnar clenched his right fist when troubled. This man clenched his left fist.
Elspeth knees went weak as the blood drained from her face with the reality of what she now knew. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Thorfinn.”
The man turned around. His growl cloaked her like the stench of foul meat. “How fortunate. The prey has come to the hunter.”
Elspeth shuddered and stumbled backward. His features mirrored those of his brother, except for one—a deep crescent scar from his right eyebrow down to his cheek.
Shaking his head slowly, he ordered, “Do not flee. I am swifter. And do not attempt to scream.”
Shoving aside the bile that threatened to heave from her stomach, she straightened and looked beyond the man. “Where is Erik?”
Thorfinn arched a brow. “If you come willingly, he lives.”
Determined not to easily yield to the terror of this man’s plan, Elspeth’s mind sought to think of something to say. “Can you not speak with your brother? You must mend this rift,” she pleaded.
“Magnar is not my brother!”
Lightning flashed in the sky behind him, causing Elspeth to flinch.
He stalked closer and inhaled sharply. “You reek of him.”
Fury squashed her panic, and she dug her hands into the folds of her cloak. “Magnar MacAlpin is my husband. And if you take me, he will kill you, Thorfinn. This will gain you nothing.”
His mouth twisted into a sneering smile. “Not if my blade enters his heart first.”
“Why?” she asked in desperation to fathom his intent.
“Because you are the source of power,” declared another man approaching from her side, carrying the body of her limp nephew over his shoulder.
Unable to stop herself, Elspeth lunged at the man. “What have you done to him?”
The blow to her face came hard and swift. Staggering back into Thorfinn, Elspeth tried in a feeble attempt to wrestle free from his iron grip. “Release me,” she mumbled as pain clouded her vision.
He complied but kept his stance far too near.
“Bind her mouth and hands,” ordered the other man. “I have nae desire to hear what spews from her.” He dumped Erik’s limp and possible lifeless body onto the ground, adding, “When you are finished, bind the lad as well. I will fetch the horses.”
The man drew closer. Elspeth refused to cower in front of him. The smile he gave her never reached his eyes. “I can sense the power on you.” He ripped apart her cloak and regarded her with contempt.
Elspeth gasped and clutched at her pendant.
“It is what I felt and was shown in a vision. You wear Odin’s blue stone.” The man glanced sideways at Thorfinn. “Be on guard when we reach Halvard. Do not speak about this until I have confirmation.”
Thorfinn gave the man a curt nod, watching as he departed through the trees.
When the dizziness and pain subsided, Elspeth looked down on her nephew. A large purple knot began to form on the side of his head. Lifting her head, she stared into the stony expression of her enemy. “Allow me to tend to his wound first and make sure his breathing is sound.”
Ignoring her request, Thorfinn yanked her by her arm away from her nephew. She staggered as he drew her near his satchel and withdrew a fair amount of rope.
“Please,” she begged, fighting the burning tears that threatened to spill.
Elspeth noted the hesitation and offered up a silent prayer he’d soften to her plea.
With a curse, Thorfinn relented and shoved her toward Erik. “You have only a few moments. If Ketil returns and sees you have not been bound, his wrath is far viler than mine.”
“Thank you,” she said softly and went to her nephew.
Slumping down to the ground, Elspeth placed her hand over her nephew’s nose. When his faint breath brushed over her palm, she let out a sigh of relief. With careful fingers, she examined the swelling on his head and the surrounding area. Bending near his ear, she whispered, “Erik, you must wake.” Gently cradling his head onto her lap, she tried to stir him awake.
“Leave him. He lives,” ordered Thorfinn.
She gave the lad one more shake on his shoulders. “Erik, wake.”
On a mumbled groan, the lad turned from her and emptied his stomach onto the ground.
Elspeth tenderly swiped her cool fingers across his brow. “Take deep breaths in and out.”
“He…he is not Magnar,” mumbled Erik.
Before she could wipe the spittle from his mouth with a portion of her cloak, she was pulled away from Erik and forced to stand.
Thorfinn pointed to her hands. “Hold them outward.”
It took all of her control not to strike out at Thorfinn. Elspeth battled the words she wanted to hurl at the man. Gritting her teeth, she grudgingly yielded. She watched in anger as he secured them tightly. When he was done, she asked, “And my mouth?”
“Unless you are prone to fits of screaming, you can go without the binding.” He gripped her chin so tightly, pain shot to the back of her jaw. “Do not misuse my trust.”
After releasing her, Thorfinn went to her nephew and quickly secured another portion of the rope around his hands.
Returning to her side, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Do you carry any weapons on you?”
I will tell you nothing! And you cannot claim what is not yours!
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Tell me, Elspeth.”
Hearing her name on his tongue made her ill. Attempting to be indifferent to the pain he was inflicting, she turned her head away and fought the wave of dizziness.
Thorfinn bent near her ear. “So be it. I asked and you denied me. Now I shall take.”
With deft skill, his hands skimmed over her body, remaining too long over and under her breasts. When his hand delved lower, she fought the scream within her throat. He swiftly turned her around and bunched up her cloak and gown, revealing the small blade tucked in her boots. Thorfinn removed the weapon and tossed it aside onto the ground. She did not ken how much more she could endure of this torment while he touched her body in search of any more blades. Beads of sweat broke out along her brow.
“There are nae more,” she confessed, fear edging her voice.
Immediately he ceased his actions and moved away to help Ketil who with the horses now approached.
Elspeth tried to calm her racing heart as she glared at her husband’s twin.
If Magnar does not take a blade to your heart, I will.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Can you say for certain they have fled to the Orkneyjar Isles?” demanded Magnar, gripping his mug in silent frustration. The din of noise within the inn had increased with the mass of people entering to avoid the raging storm. He’d thought many more would follow, and some would be the enemy they sought, but it did not happen.
Rorik leaned his forearms onto the wooden table. “My man’s account is accurate. He is a trader from the isles and overheard one of Halvard’s men boast of returning with wealth and goods. They have forsaken their plans to stay in Scotland.”
“As I have stated before, I judge Halvard is not a man to retreat so easily,” disputed Magnar.
“Perchance he wants to enlist others from Orkneyjar?”
Shrugging, Magnar drained his mug and shoved it across the table.
“Do you seek a battle?” asked Rorik, his expression grim. “I ken we all wanted to rid Scotland of this vermin, but they have retreated.”
Confused with this latest information, Magnar scratched at the three days’ growth of beard on his face. “My instinct tells me differently. Even Steinar sensed they were returning to Steinn. Until I receive confi
rmation from Bjorn that their ship did depart, we shall remain here.”
Rorik’s expression grew taut. “Have you considered they took another path to Steinn?”
Magnar grunted. “Over a steep rocky incline and across a treacherous path?”
Leaning back, Rorik argued, “But a possibility.”
“Nae. One of the men at Steinn spoke about the damage from heavy snowfall during the last winter. ’Tis not fit for any to journey through.”
Rorik tapped his fingers on the rough wooden table. “Then clearly they have fled, or we would have encountered them along the road or forest to the coast.”
“Aye,” Magnar concurred.
The door to the inn crashed open and slammed against the inner wall of the building. A gust of rain and wind engulfed the men entering.
Magnar and Rorik both glanced sharply at the entrance, anticipating Bjorn’s return.
“Loki’s balls!” Rorik picked up his mug and guzzled deeply. “We have been trapped here most of the day.”
“Relax. You will only inflame your beast,” urged Magnar, doing his best to quash the turmoil within his own wolf. Between the threat of battle, being surrounded by others not their kind, and a raging storm, their wolves were restless—a circumstance that did not bode well in this strange mix of company.
“At least you allowed your wolf to roam most of the way to the coast,” his friend responded dryly.
“Someone needed to tend to the horses.”
The man grumbled another curse and stood. “More ale?”
“Aye and food. I have nae plans on going out into this tempest.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Magnar studied the group gathered inside the inn. Sturdy men hardened by life near the sea. None looked to be common travelers. In truth, he judged Halvard was unable to procure any men here in Scotland for his plan, despite his offer of coin. Many were loyal to King William. Magnar had heard the tales of men who had nae treasonous thought against the king. Their regard for their king was immense.
Your plans went awry and failed, Halvard. Perchance Rorik was correct. You left for the isles.
A deafening roar of thunder shook the roof of the inn. The serving lass stumbled on a gasp, spilling the contents of her tray onto the floor. Several of the men, including Rorik came to her aid.
