Love's Fury (Viking's Fury #1) (3 page)

“Don’t you have a drop of mercy in your soul?” she asked.

“Mercy?” His brows knit together as if he didn’t know what she meant. “I’ll ask the questions.”

Silvia bit down on her tongue to keep herself from cursing him again. Resisting was hopeless. She glanced down at the dirt-caked toes of her shoes. “Stop dragging me,
please
.”

“Stop fighting.” He relinquished his hold on her dress.

She straightened her gown, frowning at the large tear near her shoulder. “Why are we going back to the church?”

Konal’s mouth thinned. “To witness the executions of the men who committed treason.”

Silvia gasped as terror squeezed her chest. “You’d force me to watch after all the unspeakable cruelty I’ve already endured? Have you no heart? Not a shred of compassion for a woman whose father has been taken away from her?”

“Woman,” he uttered, “if you knew my true nature, you’d understand how much I’ve held back already.”

She believed him.

“I’ve permitted you to live this long for only one reason.”

Aware of his meaning, she didn’t press him any further.

“You’ll walk with me to the courtyard in silence. Accept your bitter portion of responsibility for the assault your former king led against Prince Ivarr. When the executions are over, we will return to your cottage, gather your belongings, and leave. Understand?”

Inwardly, she’d never agree to anything he demanded, but she nodded.

Before they reached the courtyard, the unmistakable sound of weeping and wailing assaulted her ears. Silvia halted. Unshed tears burned her eyes. She couldn’t go on, didn’t want to see the bloodshed. Konal squeezed her arm and forced her to keep moving. She swallowed a scream when they approached the yard. Dozens of bodies swung from the trees.

The overwhelming stench of death nearly made her faint. Of all the unholy methods of torture and execution, she’d never conceived of so many men being killed at the same time. Her heart ached as she forced herself to look away, only to find Prince Ivarr standing in the forefront. She imagined ripping his sword from his hip and gutting him from neck to navel.

Saxon women and children were huddled together to her right—the mothers, wives, sons, and daughters of the deceased. To her left, the Danes celebrated, drinking wine, beating their swords against their shields, and praising their bloodthirsty leader. She backed away, wanting to put as much distance between her and the occupiers as she could. The safest place to wait was next to the only heathen who showed any restraint, Konal.

Surely all the rebels had been executed. Why the soldiers were still assembled she didn’t know. Silvia waited for Ivarr to disperse them. Instead, he raised his hands, signaling for attention. Her unsteady gaze shot over Ivarr’s shoulder. The Danes’ fierce countenances were forever imprinted in her mind. Godless, lawless fiends. She’d seen death a hundred times today, yet the prince’s face frightened her more. Something flickered in his eyes as he turned away.

Three soldiers, dragging a chained man in their wake, entered the square.

“Have I not been generous?” Ivarr asked. “See how my leniency has been repaid. I entrusted this city to an honorable man—a Saxon—good King Ecgberht—only to be besieged the day I return after spending a year in the field. You Saxons worship a god who proclaims peace and goodwill toward men. What goodwill have you shown me?”

Silence.

“This man,” Ivarr continued, pointing at the prisoner now kneeling at his feet, “is no ambassador of peace. He’s a murdering tyrant whose subjects abandoned him. In my absence, he incited a rebellion, joined forces with enemies of my late father, who he cast into a pit of snakes to die like an animal.”

His accusations awakened the throng. “
Ragnar, Ragnar, Ragnar
…”

A chill spiraled down Silvia’s spine. He spoke truthfully. Aelle was a despot ruler, never endorsed by the Church, and never a friend to the commoners. Until today. He’d made peace with his enemies and launched an offensive on behalf of the people—on behalf of God.

“I hear the cries of the slaughtered, thousands of souls whose blood is on Aelle’s hands, not mine. The only goodwill I’ll give you this day is the end of my sword.” He backhanded the former king so hard, he fell sideways. “Allfather demands justice. I demand vengeance.”

Ivarr unsheathed his weapon, gripped the handle between both hands, raised his arms vertically above his head, and then drove the blade into the earth. “Place him on all fours.”

“No!” Silvia shook her head in disbelief. She understood Ivarr’s bloodlust. But not this way. Not blood eagle. They’d cut his ribs along the spine, breaking them so they resembled bloody wings, then extract his lungs through his back. She faced Konal. “He is your friend. Stop him.” Her body trembled uncontrollably. “I beg you, milord. Do this one thing for me and I will submit to your every demand.” She fell to her knees, staring up at him. “Please.”

His features darkened. “I cannot interfere.”

“I’m offering to serve you unquestioningly—I’ll willingly become your slave.”

“You assign too much value to yourself, girl.”

“Do I?” She raised her chin. “Then why did you follow me?”

“I did what I had to do.”

She barely had time to think about his reply before Aelle shrieked. Dreading what she’d see if she turned, Silvia stood up, still facing Konal. “I ask—” Another nightmarish howl came. “Dear God.” She swung around. No words could describe the sight. None. Aelle’s pain became hers—it stabbed her heart. She staggered forward a few steps. “I suspect not even your gods could favor this torment,” she called over her shoulder.

Something akin to rage boiled up inside her. If she didn’t have the courage to ask for mercy on behalf of a fellow Christian, no matter how despised he’d been, then what was left to live for? God judges hearts, not men.

“You’ll die half the man you were born…” Ivarr promised.

She stopped several yards away, her mouth opened, then closed. She couldn’t find her voice to scream, or tear her glance away from the bones protruding from Aelle’s mutilated body. The world began to spin. She started to sweat profusely, then clutched at her chest as she lost her footing. “Not now…”

Everything went dark.

S
omething didn’t feel
right. Warmth and silence aren’t what Silvia expected when she opened her eyes. Nor did she foresee waking up in the comfort of her room. Two candles burned low on the stand in the corner of her bedchamber. The vessel she placed fresh flowers in yesterday had been moved to the large table near her bedside along with a cup of wine and a plate of bread. Was she dreaming? Of course the pulsing pain in the back of her skull provided what proof she needed that she wasn’t. She had, indeed, survived. Watched her father fall, been claimed by Konal, and witnessed the deaths of too many Saxons to count.

She groaned as she sat up and then kicked the thick fur off her body.

Someone had removed her tattered gown and replaced it with a clean chemise. Konal? The man who scarred her country with fire and war? The man who forced her to watch King Aelle die? The cold-hearted bastard who told her she could no longer think or speak without his permission? She laughed out loud. Where was he? Her father slept on a pallet in the main room belowstairs. The thought of Konal’s body touching the same coverlets her father used angered her.

She slid out of bed, then cautiously crept downstairs. Konal was sprawled on a chair with his feet propped against the hearth. She smelled stew and eyed the roaring fire. The food was likely made from the rations the priests gave her father. Payment for his invaluable services. She glared at Konal. He looked so peaceful and
vulnerable
. Even warriors required sleep. She’d fantasized about this moment, but never expected it to come so soon.

Sharp utensils were kept in a drawer in the kitchen. If she could sneak past him and get a knife—she’d slit his throat. Her need for blood surprised her. Would she belong to the devil if she killed him? It didn’t matter. Hades had come to her dressed as a Viking. And she had every right to defend herself and avenge her father’s death.

Once in the kitchen, she chose the knife her father had used to cut meat. She admired the sleek metal blade, planning to stick it between his ribs. But murder went against everything she’d been taught, and though her heart had been hardened against the Danes, she still wrestled with her conscience. In order to follow through, she needed to forget the benedictions the priests had taught her. Abandon Christ’s message.

She approached Konal from behind. He slept so deeply, assuring his death would be swift and painless.

Edging around the chair, she held the knife flush against her thigh. She should be disgusted by him, but instead, she pitied his vile existence. Beasts stalked and killed their prey, driven by instinct. What if the Vikings were no better—didn’t understand what they did was an abomination to God. Her mouth went dry. Cruelty dwelt inside him and she was sure his hands would never aid the cause of goodness and charity. There was nothing worth sparing. Nothing. She raised her hand above her head and her gaze dropped from his face to his chest. His heart—she’d stab him in the heart.

*

As the blade
came down, Konal pried it from her hand.

“Piercing a man in his sleep is the same as stabbing him in the back.” Although he’d been watching her the whole time, he wanted to see if she’d actually do it. He gritted his teeth. He’d never sleep with both eyes closed again if she were around.

“What do you know of honor?” She lunged, wrapping her tiny hands around his wrist. When he raised his arm, her feet left the ground. “Give me the knife. Let me kill you.”

His jaw relaxed as he pondered her words. “Not today.” He yanked his hand free and the knife clattered to the floor. Scrambling to get to it before he did, Konal tackled her, pinning her down. He wrestled her hands behind her back. “Yield.”

“I … I can’t breathe with you on top of me.”

He laughed bitterly. “If you can speak, you can breathe.”

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?” She kicked her feet.

A question he refused to answer. Instead, he turned her over. Now their faces were inches apart. Her heart thundered against his chest and fear flashed across her face. Those eyes—Odin curse them—were too hypnotizing to look away from.

He should wield his power over her by bedding her so she’d never forget her place again. She’d assaulted him more times than he cared to remember. What punishment should he give? How could he convince her to obey without physically breaking her? Any other woman would have tasted his wrath. But there was something about this wench that intrigued him.

Someone knocked on the door, and before Konal could say anything, it opened.

“I know you haven’t bedded a woman in a long while, but don’t you have to take your breeches off to fuck?” a familiar voice barbed.

The insult grated his nerves, but he turned far enough to catch a glimpse of his cousin standing in the doorway. Silvia bucked. “Enough,” he commanded, glowering at her. He rolled off her, stood, then raked his fingers through his hair. She scooted away, still hunched on the ground. “Get up.”

“Do you need help?” his cousin asked.

“Shut up, Hallam.” The wench had embarrassed him already. He turned his attention back to her. “Do you yield?”

She stared up at him, chin raised defiantly. He’d wait one heartbeat longer for her to answer properly before he hoisted her off the floor. “My patience is waning—speak.”

Hallam chuckled. “Maybe if you stop growling like a bear and give the girl a moment to collect herself…” his cousin started. “She’s earned the admiration of a few Danes—nothing to be overly proud of if you ask me.”

“Admiration?” Konal’s lips thinned with annoyance. “For what?”

“For blaspheming the prince.”

Leave it to a bloody Dane to approve of their leader being cursed. Backward thinking fools. “I wonder what he would have done if she kicked him in the bollocks,” Konal shot back, remembering his own pain.

“What you were attempting,
without
braies.”

Konal held back a bitter laugh. It bothered him to think the Danes admired anything he owned. He eyeballed Silvia again. Though she hadn’t responded, she remained quiet on the floor. He focused on his cousin. “Why are you here?”

“Do I need a reason to visit my kinsman?”

Konal’s brows shot up. “The last time you darkened my door, I lost a wager.”

“I remember.” Hallam shrugged nonchalantly. “All the more reason for you to celebrate.” He pulled a scroll from his cloak. “Prince Ivarr sends his blessings—your discharge papers.”

Freedom stared him in the face.

Konal waved his cousin inside. “There’s wine and stew.”

Hallam followed him to the hearth, throwing questioning looks at the girl. “Where shall I sit? The floor looks exceedingly comfortable.”

Konal scoffed. “You’ll sit on the chair.” He pointed. “And you,” he addressed Silvia. “Serve us,
now
.” When she didn’t move, he dropped his hands to his sides, frustrated at her continued disobedience. She wasn’t acting the way she was supposed to. “So help me,” he bellowed. “If I have to move from this spot, I’ll use your body in ways you never imagined possible.”