Storm Maiden (50 page)

Dag felt a tremor of fear run down his spine
as he gazed into the wise woman’s gray eyes. He could feel the
power of Eire pulling him in like a lodestone drawing iron. He had
feared this moment since the day he set foot on this
spirit-infested isle. Did he have the courage to abandon his former
life and face the future as an Irishman?

He turned to look at Fiona, remembering how
he had once feared her, feared the hunger and longing she aroused
in his soul. He had dreaded that she would trap him here in
fairyland for all eternity—and so she had. But it was not so
terrible a fate; indeed, he had never known such contentment. “This
place has conquered me already,” he answered. “I will devote my
life to defending the land and breeding up sons who will do so
after me.”

A sigh went through the crowd, and Fiona
knew they were pacified, all except Dermot, who bristled with fury
and frustration.

The gathering broke up, the women whispering
together in small groups, the boys lingering near Dag and Ellisil
as they discussed the task of rebuilding that lay ahead of them.
Fiona watched Dermot stalk off into the darkness beyond the
torches.

“There is always one,” Siobhan said, coming
to stand beside Fiona. “One fool who seeks to defy the pattern the
gods have woven.”

“And you believe that the gods will it that
Dag shall rule?”

“If not Dag, then another foreigner. I
predicted this long ago when Aisling wed Donall. I told her that
her husband would bring suffering to her people, that her grandson
would be of foreign blood.”

“But my father ruled here nigh on twenty
years,” Fiona protested. “And the suffering came not because of
Donall, but because of the Vikings.”

“You are still loyal to him.” Siobhan
sighed. “There is much of your mother in you.”

Fiona shook her head. For all that her aunt
could see the future in some ways, she was very blind in others.
Fiona could not see her father’s life as a failure. Nay, she would
not let it be so. She and Dag would rebuild what was destroyed. And
if she bore a son, he would carry Donall’s name into the
future.

“Come inside where it is warm and dry.”
Duvessa appeared beside Fiona. “We have much to talk about.” There
was an odd shyness to her foster sister’s manner. Fiona wondered if
she had changed so much that her own kin no longer felt comfortable
with her.

Before they could reach the hut Duvessa
indicated, Breaca ran up breathlessly. “Ellisil says we are to
bring supplies from the ship. Do you want me to bring you anything,
Fiona?”

“Nay, I need nothing tonight. Do you know
where you and Rorig will sleep?”

“On the ship. Ellisil says it must be
guarded constantly until we have a chance to unload it.”

“See to Rorig then, and sleep well,
Breaca.”

They embraced. Fiona saw Breaca give Duvessa
a curious glance, then the slave girl hurried off.”

“I think we must look very like,” Duvessa
mused as she and Fiona entered a small mud-and-wattle hut. “Does
she act like me as well?”

“Oh, aye,” Fiona answered. “She scolds me
terribly and calls me a fool just as you always did.” Then, seeing
Duvessa’s uneasy look, she added, “I don’t know what I would have
done without her all those months in Norseland. She kept me from
making even worse mistakes than the ones I made.”

Duvessa smiled tentatively. “Was it very
awful, being a Viking prisoner?”

Fiona cocked her head. “Well, it could have
been, but there was a sort of understanding between Dag and me from
the beginning. You see, Dag was the Viking prisoner my father
captured and imprisoned in the souterrain. I tended him and saved
his life. Because of that, he owed me a debt, and he never treated
me cruelly.” She met Duvessa’s eyes, wondering what her foster
sister would think of her now. Would she blame Fiona for aiding
their enemy? Would she hold her responsible for the Viking
raid?”

Duvessa smiled, the skin crinkling merrily
around her blue eyes. “I guessed long ago. You left your things
behind in the souterrain, and I found them before we left our
hiding place. ‘Twas obvious someone had nursed the prisoner and
then freed him.”

“I didn’t free him, although I’d half made
up my mind to do so. He was able to break his shackles and escape.
He found the rest of the Vikings, who were already planning to raid
the palisade. Because of my care, he urged his brother, their
leader, to deal lightly with our people. That’s why they didn’t
fire the grain supply, nor search too hard for the women and
children, nor kill all the livestock.”

Fiona spoke the words carefully, finally
believing them herself. At last, she could let go of her guilt. She
hadn’t caused her father’s death, nor defied her destiny. Indeed,
she believed now that she had been guided to the souterrain to save
Dag’s life because he was her fate.

Duvessa shivered. “I would never have dared
to go down into that hole to face an enemy warrior, even if he were
bound and sorely wounded.”

“ ‘Twas not bravery, but foolhardiness. You
have often said that I act before I think, and ‘tis true. My
impetuous nature caused me a great deal of trouble when I was in
the Norselands.”

“In spite of that, you have found a fair
strong warrior for a husband. I am very relieved that the others
agreed to accept Dag Thorsson as their lord. The words he spoke
were true. We are desperate for men to defend us, to build and
plant crops. Dermot and the other boys try, but they are just
that—boys.”

Fiona marked the wistful look on her
friend’s face and said, “If you could find a man among Dag’s
oathmen that pleased you, would you wed with him?”

“Of course! With my dowry burned in the
raid, I can’t hope for a match with an Irishman, at least not one
of noble blood.”

“Remember that the Norsemen are pagans,”
Fiona warned, “And not all of them as gentle-natured and
considerate as Dag.”

“The silver-haired one who stood at Dag’s
side—what is he called?”

“His name is Ellisil.” Fiona considered. “In
truth, I know him little, although he seems loyal to Dag... and
ambitious. In time, I think, he will leave Dunsheauna and seek land
of his own.”

“He’s not as big as Dag, which reassures me.
And he’s certainly fair to look upon. I have never seen hair of a
such a color—neither white nor gold. It glows like starlight.”

Fiona sat down on one of the crude pallets.
Weary from the journey and the tension of the confrontration, she
had no desire to discuss Eliisil’s appearance. She was more
concerned with whether her people really meant to accept Dag. “I
was surprised to see Siobhan speak as your leader,” she said.
“Never have I seen her take such interest in the affairs of
Dunsheauna.”

“Siobhan was a great help to us after the
raid. When we finally dared leave the souterrain, she was already
busy tending the wounded and giving orders. It was she who directed
us in retrieving the men’s bodies and seeing to their burial. We
had not the labor to dig a cairn to bury them in, so we wrapped
them in what finery we could find and lowered them into the
souterrain and sealed it with stones. I hope that doesn’t distress
you, Fiona. It seemed fitting that the dead lie safe in the place
that sheltered us.”

Fiona thought of the souterrain with its
ancient stone walls, its aura of past mysteries. “You did right, I
think, Duvessa. The souterrain was a tomb ere it was a prison or a
storage chamber. My father will rest peacefully there.”

“Dermot didn’t like it. He thought that we
should have exhausted ourselves digging a barrow. But I tell you,
we didn’t have the strength. There was so much to do if we were to
survive at all—shelters to build, food stores, utensils and bedding
to salvage.”

“If Dermot wished to build a barrow, he
should have done it himself,” Fiona said sharply.

“Dermot and the other boys didn’t even
venture out of the woods until after the burial had taken place.
With the priest dead, there was no one to perform the rites.
Siobhan stepped in. She knew what to do—how to wash and dress the
bodies, the words to say to comfort our spirits. It was almost as
if she had been waiting for this disaster.”

“Mayhaps she was,” Fiona murmured.

Duvessa went on. “Dermot was very angry when
Siobhan took charge. He insisted that he, as oldest male of the
line, should be the leader.”

“But Dermot is not even of my father’s
blood!”

“Yet, as foster son, he might be recognized
as heir.” Seeing Fiona’s startled look, Duvessa continued quickly.
“Myself, I do not accept his claim as valid, even if he is my
brother. The harsh truth is that he is too young to act as
chieftain. ‘Tis almost laughable, except in his eyes.” Her face
grew sorrowful. “I wonder what will become of him now. He cannot
stand against Dag, but I doubt he can be forced to swear allegiance
to a Norseman either.”

Fiona chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. She
was as troubled by Dermot’s attitude as Duvessa. Could Dermot not
see that his cause was futile? Would he dare to challenge Dag? A
boy could not stand against a grown warrior, certainly not one like
Dag. Dermot must be made to see reason. If he would not, Dag must
banish him. A strong leader could not allow a rebellious boy to
gainsay him at every turn.

“I think we should be more concerned with
Sivney Long- beard’s intentions than Dermot’s,” she said, pushing
thoughts of her foster brother aside. “Is it true he has claimed
Dunsheauna for his own?”

Duvessa shook her head. “There has been no
word from Rath Morrig that I know of. I think Dermot’s insistence
that Sivney means to honor the betrothal agreement is merely
wishful thinking.” She sniffed disdainfully. “Now that our wealth
is gone, Dunsheauna is no enticement to a greedy, lazy man like
Sivney. If he claimed the place, he might have to provide gold and
men to rebuild it. Nay, he will wait until we are prosperous once
again before he remembers his agreement with your father.”

Fiona breathed a sigh of relief at these
words. By the time Sivney again cast covetous eyes at their lands,
Dag would have see to it that the place was secure and
well-defended.

She yawned extravagantly. So much had
happened since they’d rowed up the river. It must be near to the
middle of the night by now. “I should find Dag and seek out the
ship,” she said, rising. “We have much to do on the morrow.”

“Nay, you must sleep here,” Duvessa
protested. “There is no need for you to return to the ship.”

“But Dag...”

“You have been with your Viking lover for
months now; please stay the night with me, Fiona. I have been so
lonely.”

Fiona submitted to Duvessa’s entreaty. After
all, she would see Dag on the morrow. Indeed, if she had her way,
she would never sleep apart from him again. “I should at least send
someone to him with word of where I am.”

Duvessa hurried to the doorway. “I’ll see to
it.”

She ducked out for a moment then returned.
But if Duvessa sought to converse more that night, she was sorely
disappointed. By the time her foster sister settled herself on the
pallet beside her, Fiona was too groggy to do more than mumble
goodnight.

The rain had ceased and a thick mist settled
over the hills by the time Dag left the ruined palisade and headed
down the pathway to the cove where the
Wind Raven
was
beached. The night was well nigh half over, and fatigue seemed to
seep into every bone and muscle. He walked gingerly, feeling rather
than seeing his way through the eerie haze of moisture. If not for
the sound of the river, he would have been unable to find his way
at all. As it was, he walked with his hands stretched out in front
of him, fearing that he would crash into a tree and knock himself
senseless.

The sheets of fog shifted, enticing him with
an almost clear view of the pathway then descended again. He cursed
loudly, wondering if he should start back toward the palisade.
Ahead, one of the men standing guard by the ship spoke to another.
He sounded so near, Dag decided to continue on.

He had taken two more steps when a sudden
foreboding came over him, very like the dread he had known his
first night on the isle. His heartbeat quickened and the clammy
dampness of sweat mingled with the moisture already beading his
skin. He wanted to run, to throw himself into the river and escape
the malevolent forces he felt all around him. He moistened his
mouth to call out then stopped himself. He would not yield to this
superstitious panic. A few more paces and he would be at the
ship.

Abruptly, he heard the crack of a branch on
the path behind him. He whirled around and pulled his battle-ax
from his belt with one smooth motion. “Who’s there?” he called.

There was no answer. The hair on his neck
prickled. He waited, scarcely even breathing. When nothing
happened, he turned and took another step. A sharp pain lanced
through his back as the knife went in. Gasping, Dag spun around and
struck out with the ax. An agony-filled scream rent the night as
the weapon met flesh and bone and a spray of warm blood soaked his
hand.

Dag staggered backwards. “Thor’s fury! Who’s
there?”

The only answer was a horrible gurgling
noise. Dag froze. He had killed his attacker, whoever he was, and
the wounded man’s spirit struggled to free itself from his
body.

Dag dropped to his knees and moved toward
the chilling sound. He reached out a trembling hand and followed
the trail of warm blood to its source. He jerked his hand away when
he touched a body then forced himself to reach out again. Finding
an arm, still pliant and warm with life, he traced it upwards, past
the horrible bleeding gash in the man’s throat to his face. An
anguished groan broke from Dag’s throat as his fingers felt the
smooth, slender cheek of his attacker.