Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (3 page)

Muscles tense, teeth clenched and his fist so tightly clamped over Karl’s pendant the edges cut into his skin, he
willed
them to row faster.

With a dull roar that echoed across the water, the Stethi canted to port. Seawater poured over the side, drowning the stern deck and rowing-places. Moments later, with a final rolling hiss and a wild froth of water and wispy fog, the stern tail slithered into the realm of Ægir, followed rapidly by the prow. He could swear the eye of the drake flashed in rage before it winked out. The mast disappeared in a bubbling spume.

His gaze returned to the Andskoti and the Hauss, the ship he had commanded. Tiny figures moved among those who rowed. His shoulders slumped as he whispered a fare-you-well.

As suddenly at it had streamed apart, the fog rolled back to obscure his sight and they were gone. Almost, he cried out to them not to leave him behind, but he ruthlessly squashed the notion. He could hear them no longer, but even if he could, he would not risk a shout that could draw unwanted attention.

He did not know how long he stood, staring into the nothingness, his heart heavy. It was a very, very long way home.

With a deep sigh of finality, he splashed ashore. Raising the hems of his ring-shirt and under-tunic, he twisted slightly to look at his wound. A little longer than the length of his palm, it still bled. The flesh around it was already darkening, but as he had thought, it was not a fatal cut. He would get to the relative safety of the trees on the cliff top and wrap it. Slipping Karl’s pendant around his neck, he tucked it, alongside his own silver and bronze wolf’s head medallion, beneath his ring-shirt, next to his heart. Then he bent to the húdfat at his feet, unloosed the ties and unrolled it. Stored inside, along with his fire-striker and striking stone, an oiled cloak and one change of clothing, and his packet of personal grooming items, they had left him food, weapon oil, and a hefty bag of silver dirhams—knowing Karl, probably most of what they had onboard the Andskotti. Riches, indeed! With care and luck, he could survive for months with these things.

He threw one last glance in the direction of the drekars. They were away, yet he was alone as never before, in an unfamiliar and hostile land, with naught but his weapons and the contents of his húdfat. Even the faint sounds of battle up at the settlement had ceased. The rage and hope that had strengthened him drained away, leaving him exhausted and feeling feeble as a child. Breath-stealing pain throbbed through his side and head. The shifting, shadowy white moisture engulfed him in desolate silence. Shouldering the provisions, he turned to climb back up the slope to seek the safety of the forest, but the mist distorted everything and disoriented him.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Only moments earlier, he had caught a glimpse of the sky, blue and clear through the fog. He wondered how clouds could have rolled in so swiftly to obscure the light, for though it was still morn, it was growing dark.

It seemed to take day-marks to thread his way among the fishing boats, hauled up onto the sand. As he clambered around fallen rubble at the base of the cliff, he trailed the fingers of his right hand along the rock face. It was his only means of making sure he moved in the right direction. He reached level ground and turned east, but stopped to take stock of his situation, for confusion blanketed his thoughts. He
knew
it was still morn. Why then did the day grow black as if night approached?

He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and it came away glistening red. He blinked at evidence of a wound he had not been aware of receiving. No wonder his head hurt. From below on his right came the soft susurration of waves lapping the beach. That meant the shadowed tree line was in front of him.

Já, the trees. That was where he meant to go. He took several steps, then frowned as his feet refused to keep moving. The mists closed over him, and the mystifying darkness engulfed him as he tumbled forward.

CHAPTER TWO

“Ho! Awaken, little Músa! We should be on our way, and I have no wish to carry you the distance to Ljotness. The scavengers gather, and we would be better to leave them to their feast.”

Brandr woke to the blithe voice of his uncle. Someone, presumably that same relative, shook his shoulder. He forced his eyes open, but the light of evening dazzled him and stabbed shards of pain into his skull. He closed them again. He felt as if his bones would shatter if he moved.

“Up, Brandr, no more sleep!”

Odinn One-Eye!

A groan tore its way from his gut as Sindre hauled him to his feet with less than gentle hands. The action reminded him sharply of that other wound in his side.

He hoped his uncle’s tender ministrations had not started it bleeding again. It would be a nuisance. He opened his mouth to curse him, but another bout of dizziness set him to swaying on unsteady limbs.

Wishing for a bowl of icy water to dunk his head, he made a face instead, contorting and stretching the muscles in an effort to banish the remnants of the mush that blanketed his thoughts. Something was wrong with his vision, too. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to clear it, and looked around. Thorr’s chariot! It was not long till nightfall. He had collapsed in the open, only a few feet from the tree line, and had slept through the entire day. Ravens fluttered from branch to branch, their caws vying with the shrieks of gulls. Noisy miklimunnrs. Feckless they were, and fitting companions to Odinn, though maybe their presence was a sign the gods smiled upon him again after the defeat of the morn. He shrugged. He would take what he could get of their favor.

Still, even with Sindre’s presence at his side, he felt exposed. He was also hungry enough to eat a stag. The very thought of a haunch of roasted deer started the saliva flowing, easing his dry mouth—which meant he would certainly live. A dying man did not hunger.

“You are right, we should….” He stopped abruptly to stare at the grinning countenance of his uncle. The uncle who was
supposed
to have sailed with the others. The weight on his heart lightened.

Not alone.

He said the only thing he could think of. “What are you doing here?”

Sindre’s whiskers twitched. His smile widened and he chuckled. He grabbed a hank of Brandr’s hair and with an affectionate tug, shook his head back and forth a few times as if seeking to slosh his brain back into place. It did not help.

“I wondered when you would notice.” He used his forefinger to tap his head. “That insignificant bump on your skull rattled you more than it should have.” His tone was as irreverent as always, but in the ice blue gaze, lighter his own, that closely watched him, relief lingered. “You should have worn your helmet.”

Brandr scowled, then wished he had not. It hurt. “You never do.”

“Ah, but my head is harder than yours. How do you feel, lad?”

“I will live.” That his uncle had been concerned for his life meant the blow to the head must have been worse than he knew. Já. He should have worn his helmet instead of leaving it behind on the ship. At least he had worn his padded undertunic and mail, which had probably saved his life. Most of the others had left theirs on the drekars because of the warmth of the day.

“Have you food?” He looked down at himself. His sword lay at Sindre’s feet, but his mail and his axe were missing. “And where is my ring-shirt?”

His mail was the most valuable thing he owned, save for Frækn.

Sindre delved inside his tunic and brought out a packet that smelled of smoked fish. “Cheese, too,” he said, handing it over. He watched as Brandr devoured the fare. “I removed the ring-shirt so I could give that paltry scratch in your side some tender care. It is with our húdfats in a safe place, though my sleep sack was waterlogged from floating behind me as I swam ashore, and it dries in the sun. Can you walk without falling over your feet? We should search the settlement before we leave. It is a long way home and the war band might have left behind something useful.” His eyes lit. “Like hidden silver exposed by the fire.”

At his words, a puff of breeze from inland brushed by Brandr. It carried with it an acrid smell. He frowned again, only just noticing the pungent reek of death and burning that hung thick upon the air. The attacking war band had fired the village. He doubted there would be anything left to salvage, and said so.

“Good,” Sindre said. “You begin to think again. Follow me, Músa.” He started toward the village. “You should know. The Saxons finished their purpose here quickly, and left. I searched the dead. Eight among our men now reside in Valhóll. I gathered their bodies and made a proper funeral pyre.”

“It is good. They feast with Odinn. Who were they?”

Sindre named them off.

“Brave warriors, all.”

His uncle was right. His head was beginning to clear. He looked ahead, but there was naught of humanity in sight except for his uncle and the smoldering ruins. Twisting to glance at the sea behind them, he winced as the movement pulled at the muscles surrounding the wound on his side.

Why had Sindre not gone with the others?

He repeated his first question. “Why are you here?”

“The Stethi sank.”

Brandr halted. “What?”

Fuzzy memories clamored through his aching head and suddenly came into focus. Já. He remembered now, watching the ship go under. The Stethi was the drekar Sindre had commanded.

Sindre peered back at him. “Did you happen to notice the gift we left you on the shore? We found him trying to chop a hole in the Hauss. We stopped him. What we did not know was that he had already removed a good-sized chunk of the hull of the Stethi, just above the water line, packed it with mud and moss, then threw a skin over it and shoved one of the chests in front of it. As soon as we began rowing into the open sea, the mud washed away. By the time we discovered where the leak was coming from, we had already shipped too much water. We could not bail fast enough. We gathered as many of the supplies as we could and when the ship started to go under, we dived for the Hauss and the Andskoti, except I decided to make a little detour. You know I cannot resist a good adventure, and I thought you might appreciate company on the way home.”

By the time he had finished the tale, Brandr was holding his side while he roared with laughter. Such a ridiculous turn of events could happen only to Sindre. Gasping, he hurried to catch up. “And Karl? He will live?”

“When we got to the beach we removed the axe and let the seawater cleanse the wound. Olaf slapped some of that foul mess he carries around on it, and bound it up. Karl will feel a twinge or two for a few days, but I expect it will heal. I bound your side, in case you have not noticed.”

“I did.”

They were nearly halfway around what was left of the east side of Yriclea’s timber palisade, when a new sound had them both pulling a weapon. Brandr caught Sindre’s gaze. They had believed none still lived but themselves.

“I will go.” If the low mewling was what he believed it to be, Brandr preferred to be the one to first confront its source. He stalked along the base of a section of the palisade that had not burned with the rest, its height offering cover. He peered around the corner.

A lone female of medium height dug at a shallow hole in the ground nigh the wreckage of the gates. Her clothing was badly rumpled, and she looked as if she had dumped one of her own shovelfuls of earth over her head, for dirt dimmed the gold of her hair, smudged her face and dusted her shoulders. Here and there, smears of ash added to the dishevelment. An ugly red streak on her wrist evidenced a burn.

She wept steadily, the tears forming muddy tracks down her cheeks. To one side lay a slender form wrapped for burial in bloodied, smoke-stained linen. The girl had naught but a broken-handled wooden shovel to work with, and though her efforts had met with little success, determination hardened her watery expression. He had seen that depth of fierce resolve more than once, usually on the face of his brother Hakon. She would finish digging the grave if it brought about her own death.

His lips firmed. Her efforts might not kill her, but he would. A warrior’s honor did not forbid compassion, even toward a captive. She was without protection. Left alone, the best she could hope for was death by starvation, if the predators did not find her first. He saw no need to allow her to suffer. He would approach and speak gently to her, and when her fears were eased, snap her neck before she knew to be afraid.

His keen gaze searched in all directions, but he neither saw nor sensed any other presence but hers, and that of Sindre behind him. His uncle would have only one use for an unwanted female before killing her, one he did not wish the girl to endure.

He threw a whisper over his shoulder. “Wait.”

He moved into the open and strode toward her. She did not at first notice him. All her attention was given to the work at her feet, and the soft keening of her sorrow masked his approach. He stopped a few feet from her and set his face in the pleasant lines that never failed to entice the women back home. He waited.

Even through the cloud of dirt, she was lovely, though her whole mien carried the bruised, exhausted look oft displayed by those unaccustomed to slaughter and violence. Marked as a thrall by the short, thick length of her hair, she wore a simple brown cyrtel, but the fabric was of a fine, soft weave, costly and well made. No mere drudge worker this, but a house slave highly valued by her owner. The thin summer gown did little to hide the rounded, pleasing curves of her form and he repressed an unwanted surge of desire. He did not rape, not even slaves.

Some sense must have alerted her, for she lifted her gaze. She went silent, and as still as the quick, painless death he would grant her. Terror briefly twisted her expression, but she did not scream, nor did she faint or run. She stared back at him through tear-washed eyes, their black centers huge and ringed with golden brown. An unexpected intelligence took his measure. She sniffed, and one hand rose to wipe at the tears.