Storm Maiden (49 page)

“Fiona.”

She rushed to the side and jumped down into
Dag’s arms. Nearby, Rorig helped Breaca onto land.

Fiona looked down at the squishy ground
beneath her feet. Eire—she had thought never to see it again. She
wanted to bend down and kiss the mud!

Dag’s firm hand on her arm interrupted her
foolish musings. “Come,” he said.

They walked silently through the forest.
Around her, Fiona could feel the tension of the men, the way they
clutched at their sword and ax hilts. Once they left the rush of
the river behind, there was little sound except the faint hiss of
the rain. Fiona and Dag led the way, Dag’s left hand supporting her
elbow. They paused after a bit, listening, and Dag turned toward
her. “Guide us, Fiona. Show us the best way through the woods.”

She led them single file down the pathway
she had taken so many times. When they passed the thicket where her
aunt’s small hut was hidden, she hesitated then went on. Even if
Siobhan still lived there, she didn’t want to frighten her by
bringing a group of warriors to her door. After they saw the
remains of Dunsheauna and knew what had happened there, she would
return to see how her aunt had fared.

The forest thinned, and they ventured out on
the plain below the hill fort. Points of light glinted within the
boundaries of the ruined palisade, indicating that people still
dwelled there; but from this distance, they could not guess how
many or if friend or enemy.

“Fiona and I will go ahead,” Dag announced.
“The rest of you wait here. If we don’t return within a short
while, come after us prepared to fight.”

Ellisil and the others made sounds of
assent, then Fiona felt Dag’s hand on her shoulder, guiding her
forward.

The sight of the blackened timbers of the
palisade wall made Fiona’s stomach tighten, and horrible memories
of torch-carrying Vikings darkened her thoughts. Beside her, she
could sense Dag’s tension. He moved with silent caution, like a cat
stalking prey.

They both started as a white shape loomed
ahead of them. There was a low growl. Fiona’s heart leaped into her
throat then she gave a jubilant laugh. “Tully! It’s Tully!”

The huge hound sniffed her carefully then
went to investigate Dag. “Careful, Dag,” she cautioned. “Tully
doesn’t like strangers.”

Dag reached out his sword hand, palm up, and
spoke in a low, soothing voice. Within moments the hound was
licking his hand and whining in a submissive way.

Fiona could only stare. “How did you do
that? I swear, I’ve never seen Tully greet a man so easily before,
especially one in battle gear.”

“ ‘Tis a way I have with animals. They know
I’m a friend, that I wouldn’t hurt them.”

“Still, it’s amazing.” Fiona shook her head
as the dog came back to her and allowed her to scratch behind his
ears. “Never would Tully allow any man but my father to touch him.
Only women would he tolerate. Look here,” she added as she ran her
hand along the curly fur of the animal’s back. “Someone has groomed
and fed him.” She raised her eyes to the firelights winking in the
darkness ahead of them. “I wish he could speak and tell us who
dwells here now.”

“But since he cannot speak, we must not
tarry,” Dag reminded her. “If we don’t return soon, Ellisil and the
others will come prepared for battle.”

They moved through the fort entrance, noting
both destruction and renewal. Beside the blackened shape of the
burned-out feasthall, a vegetable plot had been planted, and sounds
of domestic animals came to them from the pens at the far edge of
the fort. Smoke issued from the roofholes of several huts which
appeared to be constructed of timbers salvaged from the remains of
other buildings.

Fiona and Dag paused beside one of the huts.
“Make yourself known, Fiona,” Dag said. “That we have come so far
without meeting any guards must mean that only survivors of your
clan live here now.”

Fiona nodded and went to the hide door of
the hovel. She pushed it aside and called out, “Hullo, is anyone
within?”

“Who goes?” called a frightened woman’s
voice.

“ ‘Tis I, Fiona, daughter of your old
chieftain.”

There was silence, then a rustling sound.
Fiona stepped back as a woman appeared in the doorway. “Fiona, is
it really you?”

“Nessa!”

The two women fell upon each other and
embraced exuberantly.

“You live, thank the saints!” the woman
sighed as Fiona released her. “We thought certain the Vikings had
killed you or sold you as a slave.”

Fiona could only nod. Tears streamed down
her face. “Duvessa and the rest of the women—did they survive as
well?”

“Aye, we were quite safe in the souterrain,
as you said we would be. But by the time we dared leave, the fires
had destroyed almost everything. We had a little grain from last
season and what livestock we could round up, but it was near
impossible to plant much this year without the men.” Neesa’s voice
choked slightly, and Fiona remembered that Neesa’s husband had been
one of the men cut down with her father. “The boys tried to do the
work, but they are still too young and none of them were much good
with the plow animals.”

“The boys?” Fiona asked excitedly. “Who else
lives?”

“Your foster brother Dermot as well as
Niall, Achlin, and Murrean. And Dubhag survived his wound, although
his mind is not right yet. The boys hid in the woods, and the
cursed Vikings didn’t take time to hunt them down. They were too
busy stripping the fort of anything of value and burning
everything....” Nessa voice trailed off as she noticed Dag. “Who is
this man with you, Fiona?” she asked, backing away. “Surely you did
you not bring Vikings with you.”

Fiona struggled for words to explain. It had
taken her months to accept that Dag was not her enemy. How to
convince Nessa, who must live in terror of all Norsemen?

“Nessa, this is Dag Thorsson,” she answered
firmly. “Although we have not yet said Christian vows, I honor him
as my husband.”

Nessa’s eyes bulged out, and her mouth
opened and closed like that of a fish out of water. “Your
h-h-husband?” she stuttered.

“Aye.” Fiona turned to Dag. “Meet Nessa,
wife of Brennan, one of my father’s oathmen.”

Dag bowed slightly. “I am honored, lady.
From what I heard of it, your husband met a warrior’s death.”

“He...he speaks Irish!” Nessa’s hands
frantically twisted the skirts of her kirtle.

“Aye, he speaks Irish,” Fiona answered. “I
taught him myself. That way he will be able to communicate after he
takes over his new position of chieftain of the Deasunachta.”

If possible, Nessa’s eyes widened even
further. Fiona, growing impatient, said, “Go, Nessa, gather the
other women. I want to explain my plan to all of you.”

After staring at Dag a moment longer, Nessa
turned and ran.

“I was prepared for warfare, but not this
blind, unreasoning terror,” Fiona said, turning to her companion
with chagrin.

“ ‘Tis not all bad,” Dag assured her. “It
appears they will submit easily, and I can save my men’s strength
for rebuilding rather than fighting.”

“But what of Sivney?” Fiona worried. “I
forgot to ask Nessa if he has come to claim lordship of
Dunsheauna.”

“That he posts no guards to defend the place
speaks clearly of his lack of interest.”

“He may not concern himself with Donall’s
lands now, burned and impoverished as they are, but he will as soon
as he hears Norsemen have come to settle.”

“We will deal with him then. For now, we
concern ourselves with building more shelters and stockpiling food
for the winter. How is the hunting in the forests near here?”

“It has always been good,” she answered
distractedly.

Dag went back to tell his men that they had
met no resistance while Fiona waited for the other survivors to
appear. In time, they came, bearing torches, and Fiona embraced
each of them in turn. There was much weeping, and even more
questions. Fiona refused to answer any but the most basic queries
until Dag came back. Finally, he returned with Ellisil, Aeddan, and
two other Irish thralls who had travelled from Norseland. With the
men flanking her, Fiona began to speak.

She told of her abduction the night of the
raid, of the anger she had felt towards the Vikings for burning the
palisade and killing her father, of her vow to return and avenge
him. Then, she told them of the months she had spent among the
Norse and how she had come to appreciate that they were not so
different from the Irish and how, over time, she had realized it
was better to go on with her life than to dwell on the past and
plot revenge.

“I can’t bring my father back,” she told
them tearfully. “Nor can I bring back your dead kin. But we can
rebuild Dunsheauna and make it something like it once was.”

She glanced around, searching the faces of
people she had known all her life, wondering if they thought her a
traitor. To her own ears, she sounded unconvincing, yet she
believed what she said with all her heart.

Gesturing to the men behind her, she
continued. “I know you may be shocked to learn that I have taken a
Norseman as my husband and that I ask you to accept him as your new
chieftain, but I promise you, on my honor as a princess of the clan
of the Deasunachta, that these are good men, that they come not to
kill and destroy, but to settle and make their homes here.”

There was silence for a time, then young
Dermot came forward. His face looked pinched and thin in the
firelight, but he had grown tall over the sunseason and his blue
eyes blazed with a ferocity that belied his eleven winters. “You
are only a woman, Fiona, with a woman’s weakness. Although I don’t
blame you for submitting to the Norseman, I can’t accept him as my
chieftain. His people and ours are enemies, and thus it will always
be. You may have no heart for vengeance, but I can’t not forget
those who died at these men’s hands.”

Fiona drew breath, considering her response,
but it was Dag who answered. “Consider your princess’s words
carefully, boy, for I will back them up with my sword arm. You may
not wish me as your lord, but I am here and you need me. You
require men to rebuild your fort and plant your fields; but most of
all, you can’t do without warriors. The northern lands swarm with
men greedy for plunder, and it is only a few days journey by
dragonship to the rich shores of your land. Without my men to
defend you, Dunsheauna will soon be ravaged again.

“My brother led the last raid against you,
and he was generous, leaving your grain supply and livestock
untouched. The next Norseman who attacks this fort may not have my
brother’s magnanimous nature. He might well slaughter every living
thing and burn every building and field. Without a strong leader, I
promise you, the future of the Deasunachta is numbered in weeks and
months.”

Dag’s ominous proclamation was greeted with
shudders and furtive whispers, and Fiona knew they remembered that
terrible night when the darkness shone with flames and “death
walked on the night wind.” She held her breath, wondering what
their reaction would be. Did they trust her judgment? Would they
accept Dag, albeit grudgingly?

“You speak fine words,” Dermot retorted.
“Even as you admit that our disastrous weakness is the fault of
your own kin. Why should we trust you, a man whose blood clearly
makes you our enemy?”

Dag shrugged his broad shoulders. “You have
no choice.”

“There is Sivney Longbeard.” Dermot’s smile
was grim. “He promised to rebuild our fort and take us under his
protection.”

“Where is he?” Dag glanced around, as if
searching for the absent Irish chieftain. “I see no bold hero come
to defend you. I see only a group of fearful woman, and boys who
would be men.”

Even by firelight, Fiona could see Dermot’s
face color. She wanted to warn Dag of her foster brother’s pride,
but she feared to interfere with Dag’s authority. The Viking was
magnificent this night, both intimidating and reassuring at the
same time. Fiona had no doubt he would win the women’s acceptance,
but she was less certain of the young men. Dermot, especially, was
an arrogant, stubborn sort.

“Sivney will come,” he now announced
balefully. “He was betrothed to the princess ere she was abducted,
and he still honors that betrothal. Soon he will come to kill you
and take Fiona for his queen!”

Dag shook his head in negation, but Fiona
felt a chill run down her spine. Sivney might well try to do such a
thing.

Suddenly, a woman stepped forward, her long,
dark hair visible in the torchlight. “Siobhan!” Fiona cried.

Her aunt nodded. “Aye, child. I am returned
to my rightful place. When the Christian holy man died in the
fires, the survivors of Dunsheauna remembered me. They recalled my
prophecy of years ago—that Donall’s reign would bring them pain and
suffering.” She moved toward Dag, looking up at the Norse warrior
who towered over her. “Is this the man whose life you saved?” she
asked in a quiet voice meant only for Fiona’s ears.

“It is.”

Siobhan gazed steadily at Dag. “You owe your
life to this woman, Norseman. Do you intend to honor your
debt?”

Dag smiled, displaying both his strong,
white teeth and his formidable charm. “Nay, I owe Fiona for
two
lives. She saved my life again on the journey here.”

Siohban gave a musical laugh. “I like this
warrior,” she said loudly. “He is not so pridefiil as to forget his
debt to a woman. I believe the agreement he offers us is fair.”

“He is our enemy!” Dermot protested, his
youthful voice shrill with outrage.

Siohban turned toward him, her voice
softening, “For a hundred generations, invaders have come to Eire.
They come to plunder and to settle; but in the end, the land itself
conquers them and makes them her own. If Fiona bears a son to this
Viking, he will not be half-Norse and half-Irish, but merely Irish.
That is the power of this place.” She faced Dag again. “Are you
prepared, warrior, to surrender yourself to the spirits of
Eire?”