Avelynn (10 page)

I found my feet, spinning to discover the extent of my trouble. Were there more invaders? Did the Viking know I was alone with no chance of aid? Were his men scoping the surrounding area even now? Did they find our campsite with only two horses and two bedrolls? Where was Bertram?

The Viking looked down at the circle drawn in the sand and bowed. With his body still bent, he raised his head, blue eyes regarding me. “I apologize for the disruption to your ritual, Seiðkana,” he said, speaking in the Norse tongue.

I narrowed my eyes at him. Seiðkana? I wasn't sure of the translation of the word, but I thought it meant witch.

“Who are you?” I asked in Norse, earning a look of shock.

“I am Alrik the Bloodaxe, your servant.”

Bertram appeared from out of the fog, his hands bound as he was tossed back and forth like a rag poppet between three brutes, each man armed with axe, sword, and shield. They turned their attention to me, leering, and made vile comments, grabbing and rubbing their crotches. Even if I hadn't understood the language, their sentiments were unmistakable.

I realized, belatedly, that I was completely exposed. I loosened my belt and the fabric dropped, covering my legs. I couldn't do anything about my bare arms, so I crossed them in front of my chest.

Alrik growled, and they stopped. He removed his axe and set it down beside a nearby rock. He then unclasped his cloak and tossed it within the circle.

I stood taller, lifted my chin, and didn't budge.

He grinned at me, revealing brilliant white teeth in a nest of neatly trimmed blond bristles, and then turned to one of the men. “Dispose of this rotting flesh.” He kicked the dead man in the ribs. “And set up camp.”

“What do you want with the old man?” another asked, and thrust Bertram in front of him.

“Bind him to a tree, but see that no harm comes to him. He carries the staff of a druid.” He pointed to Bertram's worn staff, the smooth wood etched with Ogham symbols.

The Vikings were notorious for their penchant for slaughter, but they were also rumored to be extremely superstitious. The Ogham symbols may have saved Bertram's life. As for my fate, it seemed we were at an impasse. Alrik made no effort to cross the line, and I had no intention of stepping over it. If he truly thought I was a witch, he would not dare enter the circle, fearing a curse or other such malevolent treatment at my displeasure.

By late morning, the sun had long burned off the last remnants of fog. The sky was a stunning, clear blue, and the day—thank the gods—was blessedly warm. I sat in the sand between the smoldering fire and the edge of the circle. He sat on a rock.

After a short while, he had removed his helmet, revealing a mass of shoulder-length blond hair; a tidy braid hung on his right side. He placed his shield and weapons on the ground beside his axe, undid his belt, and pulled his mail coat up and over his head, adding these to the pile. He lifted his hands.

Since I was clearly unarmed, I emulated his gesture and lifted mine in response.

He laughed—a surprisingly hearty, warm sound. “Finish your ceremony, Seiðkana,” he insisted, gesturing to the circle. “You would anger your gods.”

I thought fast. Was there some way to evade him? “This is not a ritual for a man's eyes. I cannot close the circle with your eyes on me.”

He stood and turned his back to me. “How is this?”

I studied his strong, wide shoulders. He looked like one of the fabled giants, a titan born of earth and stone. Could a mere mortal outrun a mythical beast? I doubted it. But maybe if I made it to the forest I could escape. I knew the territory, but he didn't. I wouldn't be able to free Bertram, but I could alert the countryside. It would take days on foot, but I could follow the River Avon until I reached Bath, a powerful royal village. There would be men garrisoned there. Perhaps they could prevent the Vikings from marauding farther inland?

I frowned. Even if the gods were kind and I managed to elude the Viking, how could I avoid getting caught by one of his henchmen? They had scattered into the wood heading south, probably in search of game. Perhaps if I stayed to the north. I eyed the line of trees. I certainly couldn't stay in this circle. If he didn't fear me, I was his prisoner, and I had no interest in finding out what he planned to do with me. I might be ransomed, raped, tortured, or sold—Saxon women were known to fetch a high price at the slave markets. I looked at the line drawn in the sand. Without the proper rites to close the ceremony, I couldn't voluntarily leave the sanctity of the circle either. If I did nothing, I was as good as trapped.

I judged the distance between the forest and my towering sentry. “Fine,” I replied. “Stay there.”

I made my way around the circle, stopping at each of the Four Directions, and thanked the Goddesses for their presence at the ceremony. Out of the corner of my eye, I never lost sight of the Viking, who, true to his word, remained turned. When I reached the most northern part of the circle, directly opposite where he stood, I murmured a hasty thank-you to Aine, the Goddess of the North, grabbed the Viking's cloak, and dashed for the edge of the forest.

 

SEVEN

Once embraced by the cool shadows of the forest, the sharp dampness of early spring seeped into my bones. It only worsened when the Viking's cloak snagged on a hawthorn branch. Rather than stop and wrestle the cloak free, I left it hanging, the branch bending under the weight.

In preparation for the ritual, I had left my sword and knife beneath my shoes and set them both beside my kirtle, all of which sat in a neat pile on my bedroll back in the clearing where Bertram and I had set up camp. A knot formed in my stomach when I thought of Bertram. I prayed his status as druid would keep him safe, but I had no way of knowing how he would be treated or if I would ever see him again.

I looked over my shoulder to gauge if anyone was chasing me and stubbed my toe hard on a rock. I yelped and hobbled awkwardly, limping until the pain subsided, cursing my lack of shoes. A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and I tried to see past the thick canopy of shifting greenery. “Goddess, help me,” I whispered.

For the next few hours, I continued to make progress, but much slower, navigating every carefully placed step. Part of my brain kept a vigilant focus on the sights and sounds around me. If the Vikings pursued me, I couldn't hear them.

In retrospect, while I realized it would take days for me to reach Bath, I hadn't considered that the Vikings could have burned and pillaged half the coast by then. My efforts to get help were most likely in vain. It seemed I'd only been successful at saving my own skin. I thought of Bertram again and swallowed the bitter taste of guilt that rose in the back of my throat.

The loud snap of a breaking twig sliced through the silence. I stopped and crouched in the ferns, my heart pounding. Cold perspiration pricked the back of my neck, and the hair on my arms stood on end. I felt the ground at my feet for anything I could use as a weapon. A heavy, jagged rock fit smartly into my searching palm, and I clutched it.

Running for help had been a terrible idea. Escaping, wandering off alone without food, water, shoes, a cloak, or weapons had been foolish; in fact, downright reckless. My eyes welled. Gods, what was I thinking?

A wolf's high-pitched howl echoed around me. It couldn't be more than a few yards away. I turned my head slightly, terrified to move or make a sound for fear of drawing further attention. Where was it? I scanned the clearing and locked onto two fierce yellow eyes glowing in the underbrush. My breath froze in my lungs. I stood and searched the wood. The nearest tree was a silver birch about five yards behind me. Even if I could make it, I wasn't sure I could climb it. It was tall and thin without so much as a lower branch to use as a foot- or handhold, and the only way to manage it would be to shimmy up the trunk. For the first time since I'd entered the forest, I was grateful for bare feet. At least they would give me better traction on the papery bark.

The wolf stared, assessing me, its massive tensile body waiting.

I didn't have a great deal of experience dealing with hungry wolves. I tried distraction.

“Bet you think you can just walk in here and eat me.” I took a few slow, steady steps backward.

“I've been told I'm just skin and bones.” I took another step toward the tree. “Not worth the effort.”

I was only a yard away from it. Another step and I could start climbing.

The wolf growled a deep, menacing warning. Rusty-red and burnt-orange highlights flecked its thick brown coat. The hackles rose on the back of its neck. I searched for some other means of escape and panicked. If Wulfric or my father had been here, they would have wrestled the beast to the ground with their bare hands. I lacked their size and strength, and the odds were not stacked in my favor. I adjusted the rock in my hand, turning the sharp, jagged edge outward.

Another wailing howl in the distance snapped my head in the opposite direction—reinforcements. I pictured myself high in the birch tree, a pack of wolves circling hungrily below. Trapped in a horrific standoff until exhausted, I would fall asleep and drop like a juicy apple to their waiting teeth and claws.

The wolf pounced. A shadow of fur and vicious teeth flew through the air. I clutched the rock, aimed for the spot between its eyes, and swung my arm with everything I had. A blur of movement caught my attention, and I was knocked sprawling to the ground, the rock flying from my hand, the breath forced out of me. I rolled onto my side and gasped for air. My hands searched blindly for the rock.

Time slowed. Sounds amplified within the cavern of trees—a piercing yelp, a heavy thump, silence.

The soft, rich mulch of the forest bed cushioned my fall, its fresh, earthy scent clashing with the sharp tang of blood. My eyes watered but my breath had settled.

The wolf, very much dead, lay beside me, its glassy eyes staring empty and cold. I recoiled and scrabbled desperately away from it. Standing next to the wolf was Alrik, his sword stuck fast in the wolf's heart, the cross guard gleaming with inlaid garnets.

“You are strong for such a small thing.” He presented his arm. It was bleeding and swelling rapidly. “If I had known you were going to hit me with a rock, I might have thought better of saving your life.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, uncertain what else to say.

He leaned over the wolf. “Loyal protector, he who sits at the right hand of your master, Odin, go forth in spirit, my brother. His faithful servant Alrik the Bloodaxe sends you.” He reached down and stroked the beast's fur tenderly, murmuring in soft, soothing tones before wrenching his sword from its body. He wiped the sword's surface with a cloth and slid the long blade back into its scabbard.

He removed his cloak and handed it to me. “You dropped this.”

It was only then I realized I was shivering. Whether it was from cold or my ordeal I didn't know, but my entire body shook in earnest and my teeth clattered painfully together. I took the cloak without hesitation.

Another howl, this time closer, interrupted the fragile feeling of security.

“It is time to go.” He looked down at me, crumpled as I was in a heap on the cold, moist forest floor. “Are you hurt?”

“I don't think so.”

He took the edge of the cloak and wiped my cheek. “Blood.”

I reached up and felt my cheek. “I don't think it's mine.”

“No, it is mine.” He pointed to his arm.

“Sorry,” I grumbled again.

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk. There's nothing wrong with my legs.”

He bowed, granting me leave to get myself up, and leaned against the birch tree, crossing his ankles and arms.

I pushed myself up and promptly fell back down as my gelatinous legs gave out from underneath me.

He laughed and unceremoniously lifted me up and over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

“Put me down!”

He stopped. “Are you prepared to fight a pack of wolves, Seiðkana?” Several howls echoed in the woods around us.

“No.”

He resumed his pace.

Resigned, I propped my elbow against his shoulder, rested my chin in my hand, and watched the world retreat away from me.

After a great deal of traipsing, he set me down in a small clearing.

“Do not move. I will gather wood for a fire and want you here when I return.”

I nodded and watched his powerful body march back into the woods.

The clearing was bright. I lowered the cloak and let the late afternoon sun's warmth kiss the top of my head and shoulders. It looked much safer in the brilliant sunlight than under the dark canopy of trees, but I knew better. Suddenly leery, I told myself he wouldn't go far. A yell of distress would bring him quickly back.

I kicked myself for my helplessness. I had managed to ruin this day entirely. I tilted my head back. “Are you laughing at me?” I asked the sky, picturing the Goddesses upon their golden thrones, thoroughly entertained by my paltry human troubles.

I spread the cloak out underneath me and lay down on the soft grass. The day had started out so well but had deteriorated quickly. I had deserted Bertram in a vain attempt to save my own skin, I hadn't been able to alert anyone except hungry wolves, and now, not only was I still in the presence of a Viking, but I was also utterly lost in my own forests, defenseless and at his complete mercy. I buried my head in my arms at the humiliation of it all.

Sometime later I awoke. The sun had set, and Alrik was leaning against a rock, his long legs straight out in front of him. There was a warm, tidy fire burning between us, a hare roasted on a spit. I marveled that I hadn't woken, hadn't heard his comings or goings.

“Good evening, Seiðkana.”

I sat up. “Good evening, Viking.”

Succulent juices dripped and sizzled into the fire when he turned the spit, filling the clearing with the heavenly scent of roasted meat.