Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (8 page)

They had been a day too late. Upon arrival, he had immediately sent a man to check the safe place in the hollow oak while, heart heavy, he set about the duty of dealing with the aftermath of the attack. He sent two men to the outlying farms to check on the ceorls. Their reports when they returned had not surprised him. The ceorls had fared no better than the village. The thegn, his wife and Hemart had been given proper burial, but the rest were too many. Like the burned bodies of the Northmen they found—a mystery, that—they were given the ancient fare well of a funeral pyre.

Wat was certain the attack had occurred early that morn, because the fires in the village had time to die down by their arrival. Remembering Hemart’s body nigh the gates, thick with arrows, Talon mastered the silent wrath that had hounded him since his patrol had come upon the devastation. At this point, anger served no good purpose. Naught could bring back those who were dead. He needed to think, and the first question that demanded an answer was what role the víkingrs had played in the destruction that lay before him.

When Wat told him of the signs of the Northmen’s presence, he was astonished. Though he had heard of scattered raids by the Danes in the four years since the signing of the Wedmore agreement between kings Alfred and Guthrum, none had come nigh Yriclea. Wat had been able to piece together little of the puzzle, but a handful of facts were clear. The war band had driven off the Northmen at the same time they devastated the village, but for reasons unknown, two of the víkingrs had remained behind. They had burned the bodies of several of their companions, who must have died in the raid.

Wat thought the burial of Lady Eadgida took place after the noontide, but how late, he could not say. It was likely the two Danes had interrupted that effort, for it had been left unfinished. Then they left, using the bolt-hole, and they took with them Lissa, one of Yriclea’s women, whom he loved and one day hoped to marry, though how she had evaded the slaughter Wat could not guess.

Only four souls had known of the existence of the escape route—Thegn Wolnoth, Lady Eadgida, himself and Lissa. Only Lissa could have taken the Danes through it.

His fist smacked into his open palm. If only he had paid more attention. So busy had he been, and so heavy his heart, that full dark had fallen before he realized the soldier he ordered to check the safe place had not returned. He went to find out why, and found him lying, bound and gagged, beside the great oak.

The Danes must have waited there. They had disarmed his man and left, though why they had not killed him was a matter to discover when he caught up with them. It was likely they had been gone for some time. It was too dark to track them until morn.

He wondered which group had taken that cursed gold, though Wat, who had to be told of the treasure, believed the Northmen had it. The tracker said something about the boot prints of one of the two Danes being easily recognizable because it was much larger than any others. He had found one such print, very clear, in the dust on the floor beside the hole where the treasure had been uncovered. It was not proof—the Danes may simply have paused at the spot to wonder what had been unearthed before entering the passage.

“Leóf?” Dalmas stood beside him with a cup of ale.

He accepted the quiet offering. “My thanks, and Dalmas? You are second marshal, now.”

Dalmas came to attention and saluted. “I am honored. Have you further orders?”

“Get some rest.”

He heard the weary smile in the man’s voice. “Aye. May I suggest you do the same, my friend? The morrow will be long and difficult.”

As Dalmas returned to the fire, he considered the spontaneous decision to choose him as second. It was the least difficult he had made all day. Dalmas was steady, loyal and knew how to follow orders. He needed such a man at his right hand.

Two choices lay before him now. Pursue the war band and complete his original mission, or chase the Northmen and try to recover Lissa. His heart had no doubts as to which he should choose. For long he had thought of the gentle-hearted companion to the thegn’s wife as his, though he knew she did not love him with the same devotion he offered her.

But there was also the gold. It was his responsibility to recover it. Thegn Wolnoth’s brother was an ealdorman who lived nigh Lundenwic. Returning the gold to the brother would earn him a good position within the man’s household, providing him with something of great value to offer Lissa.

There also burned within him a raging need for vengeance against the unknown thegn who had heaped shame upon him, killing his lord and friends, and destroying his home. The víkingrs might have begun the attack, as Wat believed, but the northern warriors had finished it.

How to know which group to follow?

A sudden gust of wind played across the broken rubble in front of him, lighting orange glows among the ruins where embers still smoldered. He had until morning light to make his decision.

CHAPTER SIX

“I am hungry, woman! Rise and prepare food.”

The growling demand from Sindre was accompanied by a sharp slap to the general area of her bottom. Lissa yelped and sat straight, staring around in wild confusion before she remembered. As she struggled to free herself from the sleep sack that entangled her limbs, she wondered which one of the men had put her in the thing. A moment’s thought answered the question. Brandr, of course. Sindre would not have cared. She was grateful. Judging by the chill in the air, she had needed it during the night. She looked around. No one was in sight but the big víkingr. Where was Brandr?

“I said, get up! Did you not hear me, thrall?”

She hid a frown. How could she not? The whole of the kingdom could hear that roar.

Strong hands grasped her from behind and lifted her to her feet. Brandr’s dark, quiet tones affirmed his uncle’s command. “Preparing food is one of your duties, Lissa, but you may go first to the stream yonder to wash and relieve yourself.”

The hot blood rose at the personal nature of his words, but he turned away without further comment and started to rummage through the things that had been transported in the sleep sack, which he called
húdfat
. Strange name to call the baggage containing one’s personal belongings. But then, everything about these Northmen was different, Sindre especially. Brandr was powerful and solidly built, his shoulders so wide when she stood close, she could see little beyond them. He was also taller than most men she knew.

But Sindre was like no other. Not a giant exactly, but at almost a head taller than Brandr, with a chest like one of the thegn’s ale caskets, it was no great wonder she might think him one.

His garb was outlandish. Baggy crimson pants stopped below his knee, emphasizing his height. A purple tunic covered a ring-shirt over a padded green under-tunic. His shaggy hair, white as chalk, fell to his shoulders, restrained by an intricately braided leather band around his forehead. He, like Brandr, wore an arm ring, but of bronze, and a double-strand necklace of multi-colored glass beads. A thick mustache and a white beard, long and plaited, concealed most of his lower face. A handsome man, despite heathen black markings and battle scars, he was perhaps five and ten years older than Brandr.

Different than the younger man, his spirit was darker, colder, with a primitive love for dealing death and a thirst for blood. He terrified her.

Brandr took a small item from among the things in the sleep sack and handed it to her, drawing her from somber thoughts. “You will need a comb.”

Her own comb was in her sash, but the gesture was appreciated, and she accepted it. Crafted of bone, it was carved with runes. “I thank you.”

“Do not tarry. We must eat and be away.”

She nodded and stumbled in the direction he had pointed, groaning at the stiffness of her body. The cold ground offered unhappy contrast to the soft pallet to which she was accustomed.

As ordered, she made short work of her grooming, such as it was, and hurried back to camp. At its outer edge, she stopped as if a tree had suddenly dropped into her path.

Brandr waited, bare to the waist.

Saint’s bones! He is…he is…I want….

Words failed. Thoughts failed. All she could do was stare, while everything inside urged that she go to him and run her hands over skin as sun-dark as his face. That she slide her fingers through the scattering of light hair covering that skin, and familiarize herself, intimately, with the hard, battle-sculpted contours of his arms, his shoulders, his chest. The broad expanse of his torso was only lightly crisscrossed with minor scars, testament to his skill in battle…or to exceptional luck. Perhaps both. Two pendants hung together from his neck, one of silver and bronze, the other pure silver. These were what she had touched earlier, when she had outlined them in the dark with her fingertips.

He saw her, beckoned her over, and pointed to the seeping slash in his side. “Stitch it.”

When she did not move, his brows came together. “What do you wait for? Come!”

Her gaze rose from his nude torso to meld with his. A blush took her, like no other she could remember. She felt it crawl, like a current of heat from her chest to her hairline, in counterpoint to the rapid thudding of her heart.

His scowl deepened. A heartbeat later, his eyes widened, ever so slightly, and his expression grew…predatory. Awareness blazed, as if those too-knowing eyes read her wanton thoughts. As if the unfamiliar, perplexing need she could not control flowed out from her to encompass him, entice him. His head tilted, as if in acknowledgement.

He knows!

How it was possible, she could not think. The heat deepened, scorching from inside out. Distressed, she managed to break the connection.

“I am waiting.”

Her feet carried her to his side. Stitching the wound did not take long, though she had to fight to curb the trembling of her fingers. If he flinched at the piercing and pulling of his flesh, she never saw it. Once, she glanced at his face, only to find the azure gaze watched her with a steady, unblinking regard. She could not stop a quiver, and bit her lip hard in an effort to steady the reaction. When she tied off the last stitch, re-applied the herbal salve and the bandage, he rubbed at her bruised mouth with his thumb.

“You did well.” Gentleness edged his tone.

The simple compliment confounded her as the sensitized skin responded to his touch. She backed away. How could he seem so unthreatening, when but a few hours earlier he had been a heartbeat from killing her? She did not understand this man. Even less could she fathom the misplaced attraction she felt for him, especially when she still feared him.

Naught of it made sense. Through the previous night as she followed in his steps she had wished, more than once, she could truly stay with him. That made the least sense at all. He saw her as naught but a possession, to be used at his whim. Did she not need to find her own place, a new home, far from víkingrs…and Talon?

Why did I not explain to him, from the start, my hope he would help me find a new place to live? Perhaps if I had done so, he would not have deemed it necessary to name me his thrall. Now, he expects me to travel to his home and live with him.

New heat rose in her face at the thought. She shook it off.

He thinks what he has done cannot be altered, but it is only words. It means naught. I made no agreement, no promises.

She did not like to deceive him, but his decision to make a thrall of her did not sit well. She knew the feel of slavery. Hers had not been a burdensome servitude, but it was still bondage, and she was unwilling to go again beneath that yoke. Even as he placed the makeshift collar of ownership around her neck, she firmed her own plans.

She would leave him, and find a new home. She had skills of value to offer a new thegn. Her lady had taught her much of healing, and she was an accomplished embroiderer and seamstress. She needed only a chance to slip away to find another village where she might be welcomed. It was dangerous, but perhaps not so much as staying. The greatest difficulty lay in escaping not only the víkingrs, but Talon as well. She could do it. Within the sash about her hips was all she needed to survive. She
would
go.

Why then do I not wish to leave him? Oh, I am a fool.

The cold meal finished, she helped to break camp. The hours passed as they traveled farther south, while the inner argument continued to rage. Go, or stay? Her mind berated her wayward emotions. The rebuke became almost a litany, for her heart continued its absurd and foolish desire to abandon her decision and remain with Brandr. Folly beyond reckoning it was, to yield her freedom to the life of a drudge, for no other reason than to stay nigh him. What if he decided later to sell her to someone else, as she had heard oft happened? It would be disastrous. Was she truly so lacking in wit, then?

And what of Talon? That he followed, she was certain. She should have told Brandr of him right away. She convinced herself it was but a small deception. After all, they planned to meet up with the other Northmen on the morrow and sail away, long before the first marshal could catch up to them.

The day was grueling. She tired quickly, and with the fatigue came the weeping, slow tears that trickled in continuous rills or silent sobs that made it hurt to breathe, only to merge once again into the free flowing streams. Her sleeve soon grew as wet as her face, for she had no cloth to wipe away the moisture. She kept her eyes on the ground, not wanting to trip and fall, or give Sindre reason to complain further.

If he knew of her misery, Brandr paid no heed. He led them at a pace increasingly difficult to maintain as he hurried them through a river ford and moved deeper into the trees, away from the open, to avoid being seen by fishing boats close to shore.

There was little time and less breath for conversation, but twice during the day, he stopped to point out to Sindre an increasing number of Saxon warships patrolling the waters.