Malice Striker (20 page)

“When did you last see her?”

“’Twas busy this aft. I do not recall, my lord.” Her voice wavered and she wrung her hands.

“Lady Hilda and two maids took food to your lodge at midday, my lord,” one of the maids standing behind Dóta offered.

“Aye. She ne’er came back,” another added.

Brökk questioned the two women, but neither had more to tell. He stalked out of the hall and signaled for his horse. Low thunder rumbled across the hills as the promised storm approached. He cursed again. ThMrr’s wrath was not what they needed for a chase across the seas.

“Milord.”

Brökk spun around.

“Here, milord.” The squeaky voice came from mid-thigh. Óttarr, the orphan.

“Not now, boy. Go back to the kitchens.”

“I saw them.”

“Who?”

“The men that took Lady Elspeth’s friend.”

Chapter Ten

Her head ached. Skatha repressed a groan. She opened her eyes.

Darkness.

Absolute darkness.

It had all been a dream.

A cruel, hateful dream.

Tears sprouted and she did not try to block them.

Why did God tease her so?

Had any of it happened?

The Viking? The wedding? The consummation? The bedsport? The pillory? Brökk? It had all seemed so real. His beautiful face with all the scars of honor. The earbob winking at her. The feel of his mouth on hers. Surely she had felt the jagged scar beneath his ribs? Could she have dreamed such a thing?

She would have traded any hope of sight for one more night of bedsport with Brökk. Her stomach coiled into a knot. She sat up and bent over at the waist, bouncing up and down, biting her bottom lip, and working through the piercing spasm. Her mouth tasted like soured milk and, Mother Mary, did her temples throb.

The acute pain lessened. She drew a few deep breaths. The nausea receded. She dug her elbows into the dirt and struggled to sit up. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She clenched her hands and waited for the spinning to stop.

Where was she?

The room didn’t smell familiar. No incense, so not Sumbarten. Not the stables either because she could not scent even a hint of manure or musky horse aroma. Where was Lawri?

Then she remembered. The wolfhound had whelped her pups in the middle of the night in the abbey’s kitchens. She smiled. They were to go herb gathering and she’d woken to find Lawri absent. She and Elspeth had set out to find the dog and discovered the clever hound in front of the hearth. The dog had made a nest of the drying cloths and birthed eleven pups.

Skatha frowned. After making the wolf comfortable and ensuring the pups were hale and healthy, they had set out for the herb garden on the far side of the field in front of the abbey.

She recalled the sun beating down on her back. The comforting scent of the rosemary branches she broke off and collected into a basket. The thunder of hooves. The strong arm catching her about the waist and dragging her atop a massive stallion. Elspeth and Muíríne’s screeches. Dagrún’s outraged bellow.

If ’twas a dream, then she must still be at the abbey, but where?

She knew Sumbarten inside out, every chamber, every piece of furniture, the fragrance unique to each room. And she knew not this one. Gritting her teeth she rolled onto her heels and squatted for a moment to let the giddiness settle, and then gingerly stood.

Long had she operated in the darkness and ’tween Lady Gráinne’s advice and many sore bruises, Skatha had developed a method of exploring new spaces. First, determine the width and length of the room. With outstretched hands, she walked toe to heel until her palms met…wood. Five steps. She edged along the wall until she encountered a corner.

Using the same stride, she measured from corner to corner on one side and then the other. Fifteen steps by nine. There must be a door. She traversed the outline of the chamber and found the door in the middle of the last wall.

No handle.

She shoved the panel, but it would not budge.

Leaning her shoulder into the wood, she tried to ram it open, but only succeeded in wedging a splinter into her flesh. She plucked the sliver from her skin and walked the perimeter of the room again, this time holding her arms up high and feeling for windows. Nary a one.

She blinked.

Was that a flame flickering through the loose seams of the logs that constructed the walls of the hut? Her heart beat so loudly she did not hear the low murmur of voices until her nose pressed the seam.

She squinted at the dancing light. A flame? A moving torch.

All at once, her knees buckled. She dug her fingers into the wood.

She saw.

She
saw
.

Afraid ’twas some sort of trick, Skatha shuttered her eyes and slowly opened first one, then the other. Holding her breath, she set her head to the wall and squinted again. A flame on a torch. A man’s hand. Hairy knuckles.

She saw!

Then it had not been a dream. She wanted to dance, to skip, to shout aloud the words,
I…can…see
.

So enthralled was she that the direction the torch moved in did not register until the voices were so close she understood the conversation.

A man and a woman approached.

They conversed in Gaelic.

Gaelic? Was she in Scotland and not the Norse lands?

A stiff breeze whistled through the seams in the wall.

She caught only a word here and there, but the woman’s voice was familiar.

They were coming to the hut. Skatha scooted five steps back against the wall, and then counted four and a half steps to the middle of the room. Hopefully ’twas the spot where she had awoken and where they’d left her.

The voices were closer.

Any moment they would enter the hut.

Her hands shook as she lay down and propped her elbow over her eyes, trying to relax enough to mimic a state of insensibility. She counted her breaths: one, two, three, in, one, two, three, out.

The bar on the outside of the door rattled.

A man cursed.

Not a voice she remembered.

A grating creak warned her they were opening the door. Every muscle in her body knitted, but she exhaled slowly and tried to lessen her tension. Glad she was of her arm blocking her eyes for the light of the torch was like midday sun after the absolute darkness of the hut. Skatha concentrated on breathing evenly.

“She has the curves of a boy.”

The lady’s voice was soft and musical, but she sneered the words. Skatha fought to stop her forehead from creasing. She knew that voice, but from where?

“True, she is slender, but comely. The caliph will use her well. ’Tis a pity her maidenhead is not intact. He would pay thrice what he is now for her.”

Caliph? She had not seen nor heard the Arab trader who had come to Bita Veðr. Was he the one who had taken her? How? The last thing she remembered was Lady Hilda bringing them…the food…

The evil woman had tampered with the food. She must have added a sleeping draught to the stew, for it had been highly seasoned. To disguise the taste of the herb no doubt.

Did Arabs speak Gaelic like a native Scotsman?

“I vow I wish I could be there when the mighty Jarl Brökk returns to Bita Veðr to find it razed to the ground and his treasure chests empty.”

“Mayhap he will not return.” A note of amusement crept into the man’s tone. “Mayhap he and the Arab will sink each other’s ships.”

The woman laughed. A witch’s cackle if there ever was one.

Reflexively Skatha’s hands fisted. Why did the woman’s laugh make Skatha’s ire soar? Forcing a calm she did not feel, Skatha relaxed her fingers.

“Tell me you have arranged such a fitting end for my dearest husband.”

Skatha clenched her jaw and gritted her teeth to prevent a gasp escaping her lips. Husband? Brökk? Etta? Nay. But ’tis must be. Who else, aside from her, could call Brökk husband?

“Aye. I promised the Arab’s first mate Death Blow if he sinks Malice Striker. He will do it in the same fjord where you died, dearling.”

Baron Loudon? What madness this? Was he not in Scotland holding Hjørdis captive?

“’Tis the sweetest nectar, this revenge. Malice Striker and Death Blow in one fell swoop. Vengeance Hammer when we return to Castle Stillhaig after delivering the woman and the child to the Caliph’s son in Genoa. Mayhap we can persuade him to make sport of the child’s maidenhead.”

Skatha’s nostrils flared and her temper soared. ’Twas all she could do not to leap to her feet, fly at Loudon, and scratch his eyes out. As for Etta, she would cheerfully strangle the life out of that monster of a woman.

The ground beneath her rumbled ever so slightly.

Hooves thundered in their direction.

She risked a quick peek, but could only see to the man’s waist and the woman’s ribs. The shadows cast their features into obscurity as the torch’s light moved to the left.

“Did you hear that?” Etta asked.

“You are too anxious, dearling. Soon we will have all your heart desires. Wealth to fund Malcolm’s rebellion against the fool, Kenneth, and enough coin to buy me a kingdom once Kenneth is defeated.”

“To buy us a kingdom. I will be your queen.” Etta’s tone had an edge.

“Of course, dearling. You were born to be a queen.” The silken sweetness in Loudon’s voice curdled Skatha’s stomach.

“Hear you not that? Listen. ’Tis like a low thunder.”

“Did you not see the sky this morn? ’Twas red as Hades. The reason we moved this night. The storm will catch Malice Striker and Death Blow in the open seas—”

The rumbling burst into a thunderous roar.

Nay ’twas a Viking roar.

Skatha could not, for the life of her, stop her mouth from curving into a grin.

“’Tis him. Brökk. I would know his voice in hell itself,” Etta declared. “We must get the child. She is the only one he cares for.”

“What of Kenneth’s bastard, Skatha?”

“He is almost upon us, you fool! Forget her.”

The light from the torch disappeared, and the sound of running footsteps was drowned by that of swords clanging. Skatha edged her elbow back, gazed through half-hooded eyes around the hut and glimpsed naught but shadows. She rolled over, jumped to her feet, and ran out of the hut. The smell of smoke attacked her nostrils and the strident cacophony of battle resonated. Shouts, bellows, metal upon metal, horses neighing and snorting, all echoed into a discordant, tumultuous pandemonium.

Flames spewed and hissed, flaring past the crown of a grove of pines directly ahead of her. The crackling and snapping of branches added to the dissonance. Skatha ran toward the blaze. As she neared the fire, the smoke thickened to a dense fog and stung her eyes. She halted at the edge of a clearing and glimpsed a slash of white weaving between the trees opposite a circle of burning huts.

’Twas a gown on a small child.

Hjørdis.

The blood sang in her veins.

Breaking into a sprint, she focused on the garment and pumped her arms and legs faster and faster. Her lungs burned, but she gritted her teeth and increased her pace, lengthening her stride. ’Twas Hjørdis ahead, she knew it in her heart. She came upon a felled tree trunk and had no choice but to leap o’er the thick, rotting wood. To her surprise she went high above the ground, nigh flying like a dove and landed in front of the racing sprite. She twirled around and held up a hand. “You are Hjørdis, beloved sister of Brökk, Konáll, and Dráddør.”

The girl skidded to a halt, blue eyes wider than a startled doe’s. “Aye.”

“I am wife to Brökk.”

“Nay. He wed the witch, Etta.”

“He wed me not days ago.”

“Etta lives.”

“I know. She and Loudon are hunting for you. Come.” Skatha held out her hand. “We will escape together.”

For a long moment the girl stared at Skatha’s outstretched hand and then met her gaze. She cocked her head. “’Tis over.”

“What is over?”

“The battle. Loudon is dead.”

“’Tis your goddess talent that tells you so?”

“Aye. Methinks you are goddess-born too. No mortal could jump the length and height you just did.”

“I am.”

“Then I will trust you, lady.” She gripped her tattered skirts and curtseyed. “I am Hjørdis, daughter of Fiona and the god ThMrr.”

Skatha could not repress the smile tugging at her mouth. She returned the curtsey. “I am Skatha, daughter of Skaði and King Kenneth of Scotland.”

“Are we far from Bita Veðr, Lady Skatha?” Hjørdis set her hand inside Skatha’s.

“I think not. Are you cert the battle is o’er?” She took a step in the direction from which they had come.

“I saw Loudon’s death mask. I am glad he is dead. He was an evil man. He holds my brother, Dráddør, prisoner in a filthy castle in Scotland. ’Twas naught but grime and foul odors.”

“Are you well, Hjørdis? Your brothers worry about your spirit.”

She snorted. “If only they had listened to me. I told Brökk Etta was a witch but he was so besotted he did not believe me. I shall relish telling him I told you so.”

Skatha pressed her lips together. The girl had the confidence and maturity of a woman thrice her summers. Brökk was right—his sister was wise beyond her years.

“Etta still lives?” Skatha blurted the question and immediately regretted asking. ’Twas a sin indeed to wish the woman dead, but she did.

“I see only the death masks of warriors.” Hjørdis shrugged. “Howbeit, ’twould be best for all if she was killed.”

Skatha knew she should murmur some wisdom about not wishing ill on a person, but could not utter the false words. They picked their way o’er broken branches and felled trees.

“How is it that you come to be here?”

“We tried to escape, Dráddør, Earl Tighe, and myself, but someone betrayed us to the baron. Earl Tighe escaped, but the baron caught me and my brother. He put Dráddør in the dungeons, and then he and Etta took me aboard a ship. We journeyed for a sennight. I scratched a mark on a plank of wood each night. The ship dropped anchor in a bay I did not recognize and that foreign friend of the baron brought us to a stone manse.”

The Arab captain? “Foreign friend?”