Legend of the Mist (14 page)

Torsten, too, had stayed. Not because he had any interest in hearing the story, but because it was where Norah was. He
had set himself directly across from her so that he could gaze upon her face as often as he wished. Her eyes, today a soft spring green, swept over the gaggle of children with something akin to maternal pride. The expression on her face squeezed at Torsten’s heart.

Forget for a moment that he could not bear the idea of her marrying his brother, this maid was simply too good for Einarr. Too pure and gentle.

Simmering over the thought, Torsten listened to the tale Lady Iseabal wove with only half an ear. At first.

As the story of the legend progressed, however, he found himself absorbed in her words. Like a moth drawn to the flame that would burn it. The lady of the mist
; her love for the warrior; the battle. He’d never before heard this story told.

And yet he knew it.

With dawning horror Torsten listened to Iseabal’s account of the fighting, and images began to swirl before his eyes: a legion of warriors marching in perfect formation; brass helmets adorned with crimson plumes; tunics belted with the Roman balteus; swords strapped to uniformly armoured backs. They swarmed the island, their movements precise, their tactics deadly.

Then
, more swirling images of the helpless
pictii
warriors—the painted people, the soldiers called them. Their symbols of woad ran red with their own blood as they were cut down in droves, defenceless against this new and unbeatable army.

He nearly cried out at the last, merciless image to show itself. He saw
Norah ... or not Norah ... watching helplessly, her green eyes wide with terror. Her beautiful mouth opened, and she screamed as a soldier raised his blade high.

But not for her; it was not she
who would receive its fatal blow. The gleaming steel of the sword flashed in his eyes as it swooped down in an arc and then ...

N
othing. Blackness. The vision was gone.

“Heartbroken, the maid cast herself into the sea, unable to bear the tho
ught of a life wi’out her love. But here, children, here is where tale turns to legend. Ye see, it is said among the islanders that, to this day, the lady drifts in the mists of Fara, her spirit hovering over its rocky shores and gentle hills. In this ethereal form she shrouds her island, waiting for her lost love to return to her ...”

When Iseabal had begun her story, Norah knew that Torsten was watching her, knew that he had placed himself across from her so that he could
observe her. But soon it was she that began watching him.

A
s soon as Iseabal spoke of the warrior, and of his love for the maid, the blood drained from Torsten’s face and his attention turned inward. He was seeing something in his mind’s eye. She knew what it was like to experience such visions all too well. They dominated the senses, took away one’s sight and replaced it with things seen long ago.

Torsten was seeing things from long ago
now. He was remembering. Just as she remembered watching him, her warrior love, die by the sword of a Roman soldier. Just as she remembered the call of the sea, that cruel, taunting call that offered release from her unbearable grief in exchange for a watery grave.

These visions were not madness
. They were memories. And she was not the only one who possessed them.

She let Torsten
leave when the story ended; she did not follow. His distress was evident, and was noticed by more than just her.

“Torsten,” the one called Freyr shouted after him. But Torsten did not
stop.

He was not yet ready to admit to himself what she already knew: that he had lived a life before this one. And that she had lived it with him.

The legend of the mist was their story.

Though he did not accept it now, h
e would in time. And time was something she could give him, for fate was not yet ready to alter the course which others expected them to follow. Whatever form it chose to take, her destiny lingered still in the distance.

Twelve

When dawn broke the next day, Torsten was not aboard any of the birlinns or smaller vessels which arrived at Fara’s harbour. Nor the next day. Nor the next. He stayed away, though the pull of the island across the channel was almost unbearable. Long hours he spent staring across the water to the mass of white fog, his thoughts rolling about in his brain like a boiling kettle.

This desire he felt for Norah, his brother’s
betrothed
, was unconscionable. It was a desire which went far beyond lust—though he could not deny that his lust for her alone was enough to shatter his mind. He wanted to possess her, to possess every part of her down to the smallest thought that might flutter through her mind. And he wanted her to possess him just as completely. It was a desire which he’d never before imagined could be possible.

He stayed away to rid his mind of her. Of Fara. Little good it did him.

He filled the agonizing hours with busywork. Freyr was in need of furniture for his growing family; Einarr’s captain may have built a beautiful, two-storey timber home, but he had yet to add beds in which his family might sleep, or tables at which his family might eat their meals.

Torsten appreciated the
company; the mindless prattle Freyr offered was a distraction for his wandering thoughts. But Freyr, like all the others, journeyed to Fara at least twice daily to enjoy the hospitality of the Gallach chief. His absence left Torsten with more time alone than he would have liked.

In between the time he spent crafting
his goods Torsten would occasionally swim in the waters that licked at Rysa Beag’s shore. The heat which continued could be unbearable at times, and he craved the cool water on his skin.

Alone, he would travel to a narrow strip of untamed beach from which Fara could be glimpsed in the distance. Here, the floor of the sea dropped steeply, allowing Torsten to pull himself down, down as far as he could
go before his lungs began to ache. The further down he went the colder and darker the water became. He welcomed the numbness it brought to his tortured mind.

But all too often he would realize when he surfaced that he was much closer to Fara than he’d thought. No matter which way he faced when he descended he found himself heading out to the distant, misted island when he
re-emerged.

He would have blamed it on the current, except that the current which passed between Fara and Rysa Beag was weak, and should have dragged anything in its path out to
the open sea.

After three days of his self-imposed banishment, Torsten reached his breaking point. Staying away was doing nothing to cure him of
the desire for either Norah or her island.

It was rather convenient that Einarr provided the perfect excuse
for his return.

“
I’ve had enough of your brooding,” he stated late one evening when he returned to find Torsten sanding a set of benches he’d carved for Freyr’s hall. “You’ve built enough furniture for all the houses in
Skaney
. I’ll have you know that the Lady Iseabal has asked for you several times. She worries that you do not come because she has offended you in some way.”

“
Of course she has not offended me. Never in my life have I encountered such hospitality. The fact that it is offered to us Norse barbarians on pain of death makes it all the more remarkable.”

“I’ll ignore that,” Einarr grimaced. “
Then what is it, the food? Is there not enough ale to slake your thirst?”

“Stop being an
arsch
. We’re not all gluttons like you and your men.”

“Then tell me, why do you not c
ome?”

Torsten hesitated, unable to find a plausible explanation.

“If you have no reason, then I must insist you end this little hiding you’re so determined to carry out,” Einarr demanded. “Come back. I have not engaged in training with the Gallach warriors in quite a while, not since we’ve returned from the a-viking season. The men and I were keen on holding a quick lesson to sharpen their skills tomorrow after we’ve broken our fast.”

“
You’ve been training them for three years. Their skills are not sharp enough after all that time?”

“There’
s always room for improvement. As
you
well know.”

Torsten cracked a smile. “I’ll ignore
that
.”

“Come
back to Fara with me tomorrow,” Einarr repeated, a note of pleading in his voice this time. “A little light sparring would do you a world of good.”

Though he made a pretence of resisting, he never truly intended to. And so, the next morning Torsten found hi
mself once again in the hall of Clan Gallach, staring covertly at the captivating maid at the high table—and blushing furiously when she returned his helpless glances.

At the conclusion of the meal
, the island’s warriors and a number of the Norsemen headed to the barracks where a ring of boulders stood. The place had served as training ground for generations of Gallachs, and the dirt in the centre had been tramped down solid by thousands of heavy feet over the centuries.

Reaching the training ground the Gallach men set themselves up on one side of the ring and the Norsemen on the other. As closely as they had been working these past years the division between them was still evident.

Norah cold not blame her clansmen for their lingering resentment. They had been warriors in their own right before the Vikings had descended upon Fara, battle-hardened from years of hard-won victories. To now submit themselves to another’s training as if their own hadn’t been good enough ... it was humiliating.

Even
more so for the fact that it was necessary. At least each man bore it well. It told much of their character that whatever their personal feelings, they were not about to disobey their chief’s command.

“There’s a seat for you right here,
myn fagra
,” Einarr called, and waved her over to one of the largest boulders with a smooth, flat top. His ruggedly handsome face beamed with pride, and it was clear that he was looking forward to showing off his skill and being admired by his intended.

“Are ye certain,
sir, that ye wish me to watch this lesson?” she teased as she arranged herself on the boulder. “I might learn a thing or two, and then ye’d best sleep wi’ one eye open.”

Her wit earned appreciative laughter from the men in the circle.
Even Torsten could not help but smile. Nor could he help that his gaze lingered on her even as she caught him watching her.

When she smiled back,
a secretive, warm, private smile, he could not help that his insides melted like ice beneath the desert sun.

“Now then,
men,” Einarr began, “We have spent much time learning the way of the Viking in battle. You now all know what he will likely be thinking, and the most likely ways he will attack. And not only do you know the weapons he will use, but you also know different ways he will use them, ja?

“What I will show you today, men, is a valuable lesson. For
not all Vikings are as large and as strong as I.” When his men threw up a general cry of protest, he added, “It is true. There are some among us who are, shall we say,
smaller
in stature? My brother, for example.”

Laughter
erupted around the ring, and Torsten, bearing the offense with good humour, bowed grandly.

“He is our size,” observed one of the Gallachs.

“Ja, exactly:
smaller
in stature for a Viking,” answered one of the Norse.

“Enough fun making,” Einarr called over the din. When the men quieted, he continued
. “Make no mistake. He may be small for a Viking, but he is just as deadly. Warriors like my brother must be approached differently. For they have had all the training of a Viking, but have had to—” Einarr paused to find the word he wanted in Gaelic, “—
compensate
for his lack of strength. At this point, I think it better to show you what I mean. Torsten, in the ring.”

Casting a reproving look at his brother,
Torsten obliged. From the other side of the ring he caught Norah’s laughing gaze, the corners of her lovely mouth upturned with mirth. Confronted with her presence as he was now, he couldn’t fathom the reason he’d dreaded seeing her again. Indeed he could not fathom why he’d stayed away in the first place.

He had worried
, when Einarr mentioned training, that she would be a distraction, that he would be rendered powerless under the spell which she seemed to hold over him.

It turned out, though, that the opposite was
the case: she
strengthened
the warrior in him. His desire for her increased his desire to fight, to protect. And perhaps he, too, wanted her to admire his skill.

Accepting the sword that
a Gallach held out for him, he gripped the handle, testing the weight of the blade. Then he felt its balance by swinging it about his body, the instrument an extension of himself. The power of his own force surged through him, and he grew heady with it, confident of his purpose here.

On Fara.

With her.

He
settled into a ready stance, his sword resting casually at his side. Einarr grinned, for he was not fooled by his brother’s relaxed posture nor his non-committal expression. He knew Torsten’s muscles and his mind were both as tense as rigging. Prepared and deadly.

He called to the group:
“You will notice, men, that when your Viking opponent is smaller, like Torsten here, he will attack in the Viking way
only
when he knows it will make an impact. Vikings, as you know, attack with power. They will use their ... their
...
Muspelheim!
What is the word?
Rikri
?”

“Superior,” one of the Norse suggested.

“Ja, their
superior
might to make the most damage in as short a time as possible. But when he cannot match your strength, he will find clever ways to turn your strength against you—”

B
efore he’d fully uttered the last word he lunged at Torsten, bringing the full, crushing weight of his body down through the swing of his blade. Had his opponent not expected it, he would have found himself cleaved from shoulder to hip.

But of course,
his opponent
had
expected it.

As Einarr made his opening strike,
Torsten whirled out of the path of the descending blade. Then, as the momentum of Einarr’s swing pulled his torso forward, Torsten wrenched his own blade upwards, counter-aiming to slice his brother’s exposed flank—a move which Einarr had in turn anticipated. With surprising agility for one of his size, he halted his trajectory and redirected it. Torsten’s blade sliced through the mist which was kicked up by their dangerous dance.

Norah sat rigid through the performance.
Seeing Torsten in the midst of a battle, even an orchestrated one as this was, sent her spiralling into a panic. Ancient memories of him from another battle reared themselves in her mind. Each swipe of Einarr’s blade was the swipe of another warrior’s sword. A warrior encased in gleaming metal, with a plume of red horsehair fanned at the crest of his helmet.

It was only when they paused in their demonstration, neither harmed, that
she realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled loudly, and uncurled her fingers which clutched the edge of the boulder.

“You are slow today, brother,” Einarr jested.

“Why should I be quick when my opponent moves like an old woman?”

“True,” Einarr conceded. “
We usually spar without our shirts. Take yours off that the men may see a real fight.” With a wink he shed his leather vest and lifted off his linen tunic. Unclothed, he was even more fearsome. Bands of muscle wrapped his arms and rippled over his abdomen, across his shoulders and down his back. Battles scars criss-crossed his skin, the ridges a clear warning to any that might go up against him.

More than a few flinches could be seen from the Gallach side of the ring.

“You’re showing off,” Torsten muttered in Norse.

Einarr grinned, not denying the charge. “Be not shy,” he said. “Norah does not mind, do you
fifla
?”

“I dinna,” she replied
casually. “After all, ‘tis no’ as though I havena seen it before.”

Torsten flushed,
hearing the double meaning in her off-handed statement. She’d seen it before ... seen
him
before.

He glanced
sideways at her, uneasy; she gazed back, unwavering, her eyebrows lifted in a sensuous challenge.

“See
? Off with it,” Einarr demanded at his brother’s hesitation.

Groaning,
Torsten pulled his tunic over his head with much less flourish than Einarr had, exposing his own well-muscled torso. He was more deeply tanned than his brother, his years spent beneath the baking sun of exotic lands had turned him a deep gold. His skin glowed beneath the shafts of weak sunlight which managed to penetrate the cloud overhead.