Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“Lord, ’tis I, Aslak. We must be away now for Einar arrives on the morrow. I heard Gunleik speaking of it, but he didn’t sound pleased. We must go now. Are you strong enough for it?”

“Aye,” he said. “Where are Sculla and Hafter?”

“In the storage shed just outside the longhouse. We will escape through that rear door.”

“The witch, Mirana, where is she?”

“Sleeping in her own chamber. Her brother grants her privacy.”

“I want her.”

Aslak paled. “It is too risky, my lord. Far too risky. There are others to use as hostage, but not Einar’s own sister. She is no mealymouthed weakling to gasp and faint. Nay, my lord, she would yell and fight until you had to kill her. She would bring you low, my lord.”

“I want her,” he said again. “No more arguments. She is the best hostage we could take. Give me clothes and fetch rope so that I may tie her hands and feet. If you can, get my weapons and my helmet. Go quickly.”

Aslak returned within minutes, his hands filled with weaponry and rope. “Here, my lord Rorik. We must hurry. Your men who are waiting below on the beach, I fear they will believe you dead and leave us. Einar will delight in killing both of us. Already Gunleik is questioning all of us to see who the traitor is. It is but a matter of time until I am discovered. Gunleik is no fool.”

“We will leave shortly,” Rorik said as he strapped on his wide leather belt and slipped his sword into its sheath. “Quit your plaints. As for my men, they would await me on the beach until the day of the world’s death.”

He dressed, gritting his teeth against the grinding pain in his shoulder. At least the bandage fit tightly, thanks to the damned witch and her strong hands. “Now,” he said, “I will get her. Keep watch.”

Mirana was deeply asleep one moment; the next moment she was wide awake and she knew he was there, in that brief instant, standing over her. But how was it possible? He was so very ill, so very weak. It had to be another, but it wasn’t, she knew it was he, Rorik Haraldsson. But she felt his breath on her cheek. She recognized his scent. She opened her mouth, felt the stark pain of his fist against her jaw. She was unconscious, her head lolling on her bed.

Rorik saw she was wearing only a light linen shift. This small chamber wasn’t a dark pit as was Einar’s and for that he was grateful. He quietly opened the trunk at the foot of her box bed and rifled about until he found a gown. He jerked it over her head, smoothing it down over her hips. There were leather shoes and he quickly slipped them on her feet and tied the leather cross straps. Aslak came into the small chamber and handed him the rope. He tied her hands behind her, her ankles together. He stuffed one of her shifts into her mouth then tied it securely about her head with another shift. He wrapped her in her wool blanket and hefted her over his shoulder. The pain nearly brought him to his knees.

“So much for her conceit,” he said under his breath, his teeth gritted against the pain, and he said it again, and he remained upright and he carried her.

They were quiet as the now dead coals in the fire pit. Smoke still hung thick in the air and Rorik felt it curdle in his throat. He wanted to cough. He nearly crossed his eyes with the effort to keep quiet. He didn’t want to die here in the middle of this longhouse all because of a cough. A man jerked upright, stared at them, then grunted, and fell again onto his back. Rorik didn’t see Gunleik, the man who’d sent the knife through his shoulder. He would like to kill him. But he would like to thank him before he did kill him. He and the witch had kept him alive—for Einar to torture—but still Rorik had lived and because of them. Because of them he was now escaping.

When Aslak managed to pull the cross bar up on the double-thick oak doors, Rorik’s heart was pounding so loud he feared the enemy would hear it. In those few moments, he wasn’t even aware of any pain in his shoulder. All his concentration was on escape. On not coughing. On holding the woman steady on his shoulder.

They were outside the longhouse. There were still the dogs and the other animals to get past and the half-dozen or so guards.

Suddenly, a man was standing directly in their path, his mouth open, gaping in disbelief at them. He opened his mouth at the same time Rorik dropped Mirana. Rorik was on him in the next instant, his hands around his throat, squeezing until the man’s eyes bulged and his tongue burst from his mouth. He released him and watched him gasp and heave on the ground at his feet. He pulled his sword from its sheath. He leaned down and struck the man’s head with the smooth handle.

“Kill him, my lord!”

“I have no need of a stranger’s blood on my hands,” Rorik said. “He did not fight me. He does not deserve to die.” He hefted Mirana over his shoulder again, settled her to his comfort, then motioned for Aslak to continue. He took two steps before he felt dizzy with the pain from his shoulder. He paused a moment, shaking his head, forcing himself to block off the pain. He breathed deeply and slowly and soon the pain was manageable. His father had taught him this. His father had also taught him that vengeance was more important than his life, that to live without seeking vengeance reduced a man to pitiable nothingness.

They reached the small shed where his two men were being held prisoner. There were two guards lolling on the ground in front of the shed, both of them sleeping soundly, their snores filling the night air. They were wrapped in wool blankets, their swords and knives at their sides.

Rorik again dropped Mirana to the ground. He struck each man’s head, then sheathed his sword once more.

Sculla and Hafter were in better condition then he was. They weren’t surprised to see him and that made h

im feel better. They’d trusted him to save them and he had. His small band, the still unconscious woman over his shoulder, left through the rear door of the fortress. The plank was still over the ravine, thank the gods, for Rorik had forgotten about it.

Rorik Haraldsson and his thirty men and the one woman were rowing toward the open Irish Sea within ten minutes.

Rorik looked back at Clontarf, at Einar Thorsson’s fortress. He’d lost this time. Next time he wouldn’t. There would be vengeance. For now, he had her, the witch, the woman who’d dared stick her damned knife into his throat.

He looked down at her when he laid her onto the ship’s planking next to his feet. She was still unconscious, still bundled in the wool blanket. Her hair was black as a Christian’s sins, tangled wildly about her face. Her face shone white as the snow in the Vestfold in the deep of winter under a pale moon. Her coloring was different, intriguing, the white flesh with her black hair and eyes so green they looked like wet moss, not like the light sky-blue of so many of his countrymen. He wondered what race her mother had belonged to. It didn’t matter now. She was his prisoner and he would use her as he wished. From her he would learn everything he needed to know about Einar. If she refused him anything, he would kill her.

The night was cool and clear, the sea calm, a half-moon shining overhead, no clouds to mar the purity of the sky. In three days, the seas and the gods willing, they would be home.

Home to Hawkfell Island.

Einar would know his name for he didn’t doubt that she’d told everyone he was Rorik Haraldsson. But still, Einar wouldn’t know where to find him. It had taken Rorik two years to find Einar.