Viking's Prize (36 page)

Within
seconds, Hrolf’s repulsive face peered down through the thick bars. He grinned,
a grin that sent a shuddering down her spine. “Well, now... you didn’t believe
I’d forget you?” he asked her, his grin widening at the terror in her
expression.

Another
face appeared, peering down over Hrolf’s shoulder, this one older, more
weathered, though less harsh. Still, the ice-blue eyes spewed as much hatred as
those of Hrolf’s. “You’ve a soft head,” the man muttered, cracking a smile.
“Thought you might never waken.”

Elienor
wished she hadn’t.

“Witch!
If I’d known she’d fare so well,” Hrolf lamented, “I’d have struck her harder!”
He spat down at her. His saliva pelted her face and Elienor cried out, swiping
it away. “I should have cracked your skull wider upon the Goldenhawk, when
first I had occasion!”

“P-Please,”
Elienor appealed, battling hysteria and tears. She reached up to seize the
wooden bars in sheer desperation, appealing to the man at Hrolf’s back.
“Please, please, hold me elsewhere... I...”

Hrolf
smashed her fingers and she cried out in pain, wresting them from beneath his
boot.

Silent tears
coursed down her cheeks.

The man
laughed, clapping Hrolf upon the back. “I’ve no more use for the darkling,” he
said arrogantly. “Mine tastes run fairer than she. Do with her now what you
will, Red. For certain... you two seem to have unfinished matters at hand.”

Hrolf
tossed a look behind him, grunting in agreement, and then he turned to glare
down into the pit. He waited for the man’s footsteps to recede completely
before he whispered, “Indeed we do... indeed we do... for you shall gain me
back mine honor, witch! Mayhap Ejnar wishes nothing more than to eliminate his
daughter’s rival, but I shall not be appeased until you give me Trygvi’s
bastard son into the palm of mine hand!”

Crippling
fear swept over Elienor, though this time not for herself. Unbidden, the image
of Alarik leaping into the churning sea from the Goldenhawk, the gleaming axe
blade hurling through the air at his back, assailed her. In that moment, she
knew how very hopelessly she loved him. “H-He won’t come,” she whispered
miserably. Averting her gaze, she prayed with all her heart that it was the
truth. But even as she prayed... she knew... whether he came for her, or nay...

The
dream would come true.

“Ya,”
Hrolf said. “He will... for you’ve bewitched the fool—though I know not how!
Nevertheless, he will come... and when he does... mine blade will find his
back!” His chuckle was malicious. “Mark mine words for true, you black-haired
witch! And when he’s done with, I shall then deal with you,” he promised
darkly.

Witch.

Elienor’s
heart wrenched, for Hrolf was closer to the truth than he realized. Her own
people had named her so and then had cast her aside for it. Even so, she’d been
fortunate It was all they had done after her mother’s fate. Sweet Jesu above...
her mother... her poor mother had been valiant enough to speak her mind, at
least. And she, Elienor, daughter of her womb, was born and would die naught
more than a coward. Her eyes closed.

How
could she not have warned Alarik? In that moment, she thought of Alva and
Vernay, and all who would suffer without him, and wondered how she could be so
selfish. She wanted to weep. Wanted to scream. Wanted to die. She sat numbly,
hot tears slipping past her lashes. When finally she opened her eyes and
glanced upward again, Hrolf had gone.

CHAPTER
31

After days of relentless searching there was still
no sign of Ejnar’s camp—despite the fact that Alarik had searched hill
and vale for it. He knew without a doubt It was they who held Elienor, for
within the
kirken
they’d discovered Hrolf’s dagger violently skewered through the fine gold
brooch Alva had sworn she’d given Elienor only moments before Elienor’s
disappearance. The infamous dagger had been driven into the brooch’s center
with such force that it had disfigured and severed the delicate filigreed
ornamentation adorning the jewel. Within plain sight, the brooch had been
pegged upon the newly hung door, an arrogant missive to Alarik, for by it Hrolf
declared that he cared not who knew of his perfidy.

Yet, his wordless declaration seemed not to match
his deeds, for the man was becoming a master of evasion, secreting himself more
adeptly than an adder in the woods and striking just as venomously and swiftly.
Since Elienor’s disappearance they’d discovered evidence of sacrifices within
the nearby groves—a message to Olav no doubt, and likely to Alarik as
well, for though no one knew of his inclination, many suspected.

Furthermore, it aided them not at all in their
search that the people seemed to be growing discontent with Olav as their king.
In truth, Alarik was even beginning to suspect that Olav had remained with him
throughout the winter for his own protection, for Alarik’s own people were
proving more loyal than his. And it struck Alarik as ill-boding that the
steadings they’d inquired at were so reluctant to aid them in their quest.
Nevertheless, most had complied, if reluctantly so, and still Ejnar and Hrolf
eluded them. It was for that reason he’d determined to employ their last
recourse.

Bjorn.

His sigh was deep and pensive as he regarded both
his brothers at table with him, for he was well aware that Bjorn had found
Ejnar easily enough when he’d sought him out the first time.

Mayhap now, with a little manipulation on his own
part, the misled fool could draw the Dane out for him.

All else had failed.

The thought of his brother forsaking him sat like
add in his gut, yet even as he hoped his youngest brother would remain
steadfast in this... he prayed Bjorn would conspire to betray him...

One final time.

He wanted Elienor restored to him that
desperately.

Loki take him, he no longer cared that it might seem
a weakness in him. He was damned weary of being strong. He was weary, period.
Too long he’d gone without sleep, or bath, or leisure. By Hella’s curse, if it
meant the return of Elienor... let him be weak. If it meant losing
everything... let him fall. He wanted nothing at all... if he wasn’t with her.

And so it was he proceeded with the discourse he
and Olav had intended for Bjorn to overhear. Leaning forward, he raked tense
fingers over the stubble of his golden beard, and giving Bjorn a covert sideways
glance, he turned to Olav and said a mite too loudly, “I’ve considered your
proposal, mine bror...”

Behind him Bjorn fell silent, concluding the
conversation he carried on with Sigurd. Alarik resisted the temptation to turn
and be certain he was listening.

Perceiving the cause for Alarik’s pause, Olav
nodded discreetly for him to continue. “And?”

“I believe I shall join you in your quest to
retrieve Tyri’s lands from Burislav, after all.”

“What?” Olav exclaimed, taking an irritated tone
as planned. It would serve them both well if Bjorn believed they’d quarreled
over this. “And spare one instant in your search for the Fransk in order that
you might aid your own flesh and blood? To what do I owe this honor, at last?”

“Spare me Olav!” Alarik snapped, his eyes
reverting to Elienor’s ring that still encircled Olav’s neck. No matter that he
tried, he could not forget the accursed thing. “I’ll agree on one condition..”

The silence behind them thickened; even Sigurd
stopped speaking to listen.

The clash of Olav’s brows told Alarik that Olav
sensed his anger was more than feigned. “And that is..

Alarik shuttered his expression, his soul too
chaotic to be glimpsed even by Olav. “That you procure for me from Burislav the
Pole at least ten well-manned vessels so that I might launch mine own attack
upon the Dane... and with him Hrolf Kaetilson. I’ll not rest until my blade
does as well... in his treacherous heart.” He sighed wearily. ‘Tor now it seems
we’ve exhausted every other avenue,” he continued truthfully. “But I intend to
find them eventually... and when I do I want good men at my back.”

Olav’s gaze followed Alarik’s to the ring about
his own neck, and his brow flinched in consideration. “And what of me and
mine?” he asked abruptly, puzzled by Alarik’s unexpected show of vehemence
toward him. It seemed of late, he’d spied that look once too oft. “Will you
want us at your back, as well?”

Alarik waited a moment before replying, weighing
his words. Somehow, the conversation had digressed from that which they’d
rehearsed. When he spoke again his tone was more resigned than angry. “Seems to
me, mine brother... you have your own battle to fight. You have no time for
mine.” Their gazes locked. In the silence of the moment, Alarik swallowed his
resentment, for no matter how infuriated he was with Olav... Olav was his
brother... and more than that... he was his king. “Nevertheless,” he began,
when Olav failed to be soothed, “if you would care to make mine battle your
own... then I will always... always welcome you at my back.” He nodded. “As I,
in faith, hope you would have me at yours?”

Olav returned the nod, satisfied. “Very well,
then... if ’tis possible... I shall procure those men of the Pole for you...
and then I shall add to them mine own. I would be there to see you skewer that
red-haired heathen!” There was a lapse in conversation abruptly, a silence that
was endless, for it seemed every man within the
skali
was intent on their conversation.
“Shall we leave, let us say... within the fortnight?”

Alarik nodded. “Within the fortnight,” he agreed,
and it was then he sensed more than heard Bjorn rising from table. Again, he
didn’t bother to look to be certain. Somehow, he knew. Pain knifed through him.
Closing his eyes, he listened as Bjorn gave his excuses. He felt his brother
brush by his shoulder, and opened his eyes, his gaze remaining upon Bjorn as he
passed by him and made his way through the
skali
, looking more light-hearted than he had
in weeks. A muscle ticked at his jaw, for on the way out, Bjorn stopped briefly
to banter with Ivar Longbeard—nothing significant, the two merely shared
a snicker—in truth, It was as though Bjorn had suddenly been given a new
fate...

And mayhap he had.

Mayhap this day they all had.

“Think you he took the bait?” Olav had bent to
whisper the question at his ear.

Alarik watched a moment longer, until Bjorn
departed at last, and then his gaze returned to the ring Olav wore. He said
quietly, enigmatically, without emotion, “I feel the blade twisting already.”

“Good, then... mayhap you will reclaim the Fransk
before long.”

“Mayhap,” Alarik concurred.

“Alarik?”

Alarik met Olav’s gaze at last. He nodded
sullenly.

“It seemed to me that for an instant... for the
slightest instant... there was sincerity in your anger. Is there aught you
would speak to me of?”

Alarik considered briefly asking of the ring, but
knew he would not. He could not quite bring himself to disclose his weakness
for Elienor to such a length. Suffice it that everyone assumed he liked not
being thwarted, that he liked not being deprived of that which he owned. Why
should any know of the bleakness that had settled into his soul and
heart?—verily, even into his bones!

Still, there was something that concerned him just
as deeply. “Olav... mine, brother...” He swallowed, for It was doubtless the
most difficult thing he’d ever said to his brother. “I know you say you have a
passion for this faith... that for the love of it you would die... but can you
not love it somewhat less... and practice more?”

Olav’s visage twisted suddenly with outrage. “What
say you, Alarik? Do you denounce mine faith?” he raged, his face mottling.

Alarik’s expression did not so much as change.
“Nei, Olav. But if I were to... would you then treat me with the same heavy
hand you lend to the others when they do not fall to your demands?”

Olav’s face reddened. “I’ll not answer such an
impudent question!”

Alarik shook his head. “You cannot sway the people
through force.” His eyes fixed upon his brother, unyielding. “Can you not take
a single backward step?”

“And you! Can you so easily discard the wench?”

Silence.

“Never!” Alarik replied, his eyes sharp as
daggers. “Never.” And It was God’s truth, for even if Bjorn failed to flush
Ejnar and Hrolf out, he’d not stop searching until his dying breath!