Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (102 page)

“Set me free!” the boy demanded furiously. Again he shouted, “’Tis my duty you would deny me!” With a final twist, he liberated himself and raced for the door, his long legs awkward as he ran.

“Stefan! Nay, oh, nay!”

He could not go. She would not allow it. Desperately, Elienor groped about in the darkness, seeking the means to stop him. Her hand closed upon the sacred reliquary, a small copper chest that sheltered a sliver of the Christ’s cross, and she knew at once what she must do.

“Father, forgive me,” she whispered fervently, and then she bolted across the nave after Stefan, striking the chest down upon his head.

Caught in the process of sliding the bar from the ring, Stefan made some strangled sound and released it. Though she could not see him fall for the darkness, she heard him as he crumpled to the wooden floor, unconscious. The wooden bar fell from his grasp, slamming against the door as it began to slide cacophonously from the other ring. Without a moment to spare, Elienor seized it, securing it once more.

T
he
skali
, or hall, was dark, save for the feeble glow cast by a single torch guttering further up the stairwell.

Alarik’s eyes scanned the shadows, noting with disdain the slain enemy scattered about his feet. What little resistance they put forth, these pathetic French. With a grunt of disgust, he gave the signal for his men to disperse and make use of whatever could be found, be it ale or wench, beast or gems.

He’d never doubted they would prevail, but it had been much too simple a victory, and he decided that tonight his men deserved whatever spoils they desired, for he knew they were not appeased. By the gates of Hel, neither was he, for the count he’d come to crush had been conspicuously absent from the fray.

Shouts of revelry followed Alarik as he wandered away in search of the missing count, but the terrified howl of a man found hidden beneath a table in the gloomy light of the
skali
drew him back, and he turned to watch, leaning a shoulder against the arched entryway.

Before him, Sigurd Thorgoodson scampered up the steps to retrieve the torch burning there and then returned like a maelstrom of fire, sweeping his way around the hall, lighting torches as he passed. He flew by each so quickly that it seemed he lit them with the sparks spilling in his wake.

Alarik understood the haste.

This last kill they would savor fully, terrifying the hefty man with their unappeased blood lust, rendering him senseless with fright. Then, they would offer the poor fool a battle axe for Northmen had little liking for killing the defenseless. There was no glory to be gotten from an execution. To fight in the face of danger showed one’s valor. And if by chance a man fell in the enemy’s stead, then from
Asgard
would come, donned in shining armor, riding steeds of white, the maidens from
Valholl
, the hall of the slain. Heads held high, solemn and deep in thought, the
Valkyrs
rode—choosers of the slain—and down they would come to the field of battle to swoop up the souls of the dead to join Odin in his great corps, the
Einherjar
. There, only the bravest served.

His men encircled the prey, successfully foiling any attempt at escape, and finished with the task of lighting the scattered torches, Sigurd, teeth bared, and growling, elbowed his way back through the pack. Using the pitch torch as his weapon, he lit the man’s hair from behind, garnering laughter from the others. The Frenchman yowled in pain, and Sigurd at once slapped out the small flame he’d begun, howling hysterically at his own cleverness.

Alarik’s brow lifted in droll amusement. Sigurd, ever the jester, was as loyal as they came, but his humor was sadly lacking—though evidently flame-haired Hrolf Kaetilson didn’t think so. Red-Hrolf was clutching his belly and howling at the top of his lungs. At once, Ivar Longbeard joined Sigurd in terrorizing the man, taking firm hold of his own long russet whiskers and tugging wildly, looking every bit the berserker. And seeing Longbeard ravage the hair of his face, Lars the Fair Head followed suit.

Bjorn, Alarik’s younger brother, nut-faced from the sun and too comely for his own good, immediately began the chant, “Die! Die! Die!”

The others followed his lead, their voices in the night sounding like a ballad to a Northman’s ear.

Suddenly, Sigurd threw an axe at the man’s feet and then waited for the fool to grasp it. Sensing his fate, the man stood arrested, paralyzed with fright.

To goad the man into lifting up the axe, Sigurd removed and discarded his armor and then his clothing, taunting him all the while, until he was nude as the day he was begot.

“Look at me, Fransk!” Sigurd goaded in disjointed French. “No breastplate! No shield! Still I shall crush you beneath my boots!”

Hoots of laughter greeted his claim.

“Hah! One blade behind my back!” With a flourish, Sigurd concealed his sword behind his back, and added a lewd pelvic thrust, then turned to collect grins of approval from the rest.

Despite himself, Alarik chuckled, though he shook his head.

The Frenchman sought his gaze, understanding instinctively that he was leader.

Alarik’s flesh prickled as the man stared without blinking. His own eyes narrowed as he moved nearer. The man shook violently, though his gaze never wavered, and one by one, his men followed the Frenchman’s gaze to where Alarik stood behind them, and quieted.

‘Tell me French dung,” Alarik demanded, once there was silence, “where is your murdering count?”

The sound of his own footfalls bounced off the stone walls.

The man’s gaze skidded away, then back.

Alarik halted before him, allowing a moment longer for his reply. When it was apparent he would not speak, Alarik asked once more, “Your count?” His hand tightened around Dragvendil’s hilt.

It was a long moment before the man was able to still his quaking long enough to respond, but when he did, he spat upon the ground before Alarik’s boots.

Alarik kept his composure, for there was only one man whose blood he ached to spill this night. This one he would leave to his men. “Stupid bastard!” he said. “I would have given you a clean death.”

He motioned for his men to carry on. “Do with the fool as you will.”

The revelry recommenced at once with hoots and laughter, and Sigurd, tired of waiting for the man to pick the axe up, feinted for it. Only then did the Frenchman move to take the weapon, understanding that it was his sole salvation.

Sigurd’s claim had not been mere boast, Alarik knew. His men were the finest—the best warriors to be found in all of the North Land. The Frenchman had not a breath of a chance. The man’s fate was sealed the very moment his stout fingers closed about the axe’s handle.

Alarik turned from the melee, entering what appeared to be the
eldhus
, or kitchen, while behind him an anguished cry spewed forth. The gruesome sound was followed by the merry roar of laughter. It was over, yet despite his feeling of justification, Alarik was not satisfied—not whilst the gutless count lived.

Behind the
eldhus
was an alley leading to a small
kirken
, or church. His mother had been Christian, he mused, as he scrutinized the large ornate doors before him. Fingering the woodwork, he pondered what it was that drew his brother to it, as well, and shook his head over the mystery of it all—so many wars fought over what?

A muffled sound came from within, and he stiffened. Something clattered against the door, and he jerked away. Eager for a confrontation with the count, he anticipated the opening of the door, his sword arm raised and poised to strike. But the only sound he could discern was a slight shuffling... as though someone were dragging an injured leg across the floor.

The count?

Determined not to be robbed of satisfaction, Alarik tried the door, and finding it barred, swore his displeasure. He could well picture the spineless bastard hiding like a coward within his forsaken chapel—more than willing to let his men fight his battle without him.

For his perfidy, Alarik vowed, the man would die this night, as cruel a death as he could manage.

“Coward!” he snarled at the door, and with a cry, he lifted his broad axe from the loop in his belt and raised it high. He brought the gleaming silver inlaid blade crashing down upon the door, shattering it easily with the force of his blow.

At the terrible sound, Elienor bolted from her knees and seized Stefan’s arms. She tugged with all her might. She had to get him behind the altar. Had to hide him.

When the thundering crack of a battle-axe met with the wood of the chapel door a second time, she panicked. Instinctively, she threw herself over Stefan, her heart thumping madly as the barrier between them and the Viking cracked and splintered away. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to block out the voice of terror in her mind.

Her heart leapt into her throat as heavy footsteps tromped across the hallowed sanctuary, echoing over the ageless crypt that lay beneath. Stifling the urge to cry out in fear, she clutched Stefan.

She dared not move.

When finally the footsteps ceased before her, she did not perceive it, for her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

T
he moon’s glow filtered in behind him—enough to light a goodly portion of the
kirken
, but Alarik’s enormous shadow kept the figure before him cloaked in darkness. He stepped aside, and exposed, not one, but two shapes lying still at his feet. He cocked his head in curiosity, lifting a brow at the odd positioning of their bodies.

Were they lovers, then, preferring death by their own hands rather than meet with his blade?

Stilling his own breath, he strained to catch some nuance of life, but no sound was immediately discernible.

“Pathetic!” he snarled in Norsk. “May your carcasses rot where you lay!” He pushed the uppermost figure with his boot.

It was then he noticed the thick mane of dark hair that cascaded beneath his boots, and his brows drew together. In his curiosity, he stepped away and stooped to fondle the pool of lustrous strands.

Soft. So soft.

Squatting with one arm resting across his thighs, he lifted the length of hair from the chapel floor. At once he recalled the long-haired woman upon the turret, her hair fluttering in the breeze, and another prickle snaked down his spine. He’d somehow managed to forget her during the fray. Overwhelmed with curiosity now, he slowly wound the silken strands around his fist, and without a trace of gentility, jerked up the head.

He fell backward onto his heels, unable to stifle the sudden catch to his breath at what was revealed to him in the silvery light: Dark hair framed a face more lovely than was conceivable. Skin that was almost translucent in the light of the moon beckoned to his fingers that they would revel in the softness of her creamy flesh. Eyes that were so blue they were almost ethereal met his own without fail, and he nigh toppled from his haunched position to see them focused upon him so intently.

The scowl that touched his face was violent, for his body’s lustful response was immediate and unappreciated under the circumstances.

Those eyes were a maelstrom, a stormy violet blue that glimmered in the darkness with the intensity of blue heat from a torrid flame. He’d thought her dead, but it was more than obvious to him now that she was not—not by any stretch of the imagination, for her eyes were vibrant. His fingers moved to the fragile softness of her cheeks, examining the cool satin flesh.

Elienor swallowed with difficulty at the feather-light touch, though in truth she wasn’t certain whether it was from fear. Her eyes closed as a quiver sped through her.

No one had ever touched her so tenderly.

By the blessed virgin, was it supposed to feel so good to be caressed by one’s enemy?

Or was she simply faithless?

Her eyes flew open once more, and it was then she saw him—truly saw him. That face! Sweet Jesu—that face! She recalled it from her dream and shuddered, though what it was exactly that made her tremble she did not know, for she recalled only the face. Her cry of terror was stifled only by the constriction of her throat, for the tales she’d so oft heard of his kind truly did the man little justice. He was every exaggeration ever told—multiplied a hundredfold.