Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“Mirana!”

He grabbed her to him, saw that she was all right, and quickly gave her to Hafter. He went in a dead run toward Gurd, who had now turned to the setting sun in the west, and he was still standing there, just staring off into the sky, so still he was, and the blood continued to stream down his face, dripping onto his feet and onto the ground.

“Gurd!”

He turned very slowly and watched Rorik run toward him.

“I’m sorry, Rorik, but I had to do it,” Gurd said. “I had to kill her. She’s below on the rocks. I wanted to strangle her, but it had to look an accident. Aye, Rorik, she’s on the rocks below and she’s dead. ’Tis justice, for she murdered my Asta. Aye, ’tis done now.”

Rorik stared at the man he’d known all his life. He was standing there so quietly, his great hands limp and open at his sides.

“Gurd, this makes no sense.”

Gurd raised his head and stared at Rorik. Then he looked beyond and saw Mirana. His eyes widened. “How is she there?” he said. “She is dead. I threw her over the cliff. I heard her scream. I heard her bones crush against those rocks.”

Then Gurd yelled, a soul-curdling yell that filled the air. In the next instant, he ran at Rorik, his massive arms going around Rorik’s chest, squeezing him, harder and harder yet, crushing him. He lifted Rorik, his face against Rorik’s throat, for Rorik was the taller, but he hadn’t Gurd’s massive strength.

“Rorik!”

It was Hafter and Sculla who were on Gurd, each gripping an arm, pulling with all their strength. It did no good.

Rorik felt blackness filling him, felt it mask the awful pain from his ribs, knew his back would break, yet at the same time, he felt calm and detached from the man whose ribs were being crushed. He grabbed Gurd’s head between his hands, gritted his teeth against the intense pain, and pressed with all his might. It did no good. Rorik drew back his hands, and with his last cogent thought, he fisted them, drew his arms back as far as he could, then drove fists against Gurd’s ears.

Gurd screamed. His a

rms fell away and he staggered, yelling, crying now, and he took Hafter and Sculla to the ground with him. Blood flowed from both ears, mingling wildly with the blood from his head. Rorik stood over him, his ribs on fire, light-headed from lack of breath. He heaved and groaned and stood there, staring down at the man who had very nearly killed Mirana and him.

He saw Mirana coming slowly toward him, her eyes on Gurd, who lay on the ground, howling and bawling like a child. Hafter and Sculla backed away from him, and it was in that instant that Gurd flung himself away from them, fell again to his knees, then forward onto his face, and rolled over the edge of the cliff.

He made no sound. They heard nothing over the crashing sound of the waves against the rocks below.

Rorik drew her against him. He kissed her and pulled her away.

Epilogue

THE SKALD TAMAK, famous for his melodious kennings and his wondrous speaking voice, arrived at Hawkfell Island at the beginning of a winter storm, a storm that presaged such ferocity that Lord Rorik had ordered even the cows, sheep, chickens, and the three goats brought into the longhouse for safety after he’d looked at the roof of the stable. The longboats and two warships were dragged beyond the narrow beach to the higher ground and covered with thick oak branches.

The longhouse was filled with the warmth from the fire pit, a pale blue haze of smoke, and smelled of the rich hot flatbread just removed from the hot embers.

Tamak accepted a cup of rich mead from Entti, smiled at her too hopefully, bringing her husband, Hafter, closer, his eyes narrowed. Tamak, not a stupid man, then turned swiftly to the lord of Hawkfell Island, and said, “Lord Rorik, I am not here by happenstance. ’Tis the king himself who has sent me to recount to you all that has happened.”

He saw the lord’s wife grip her husband’s hand and turned to smile down at her when she said, “Which king?”

Tamak shook his head, cleared his throat, drank more of the mead, regarded his audience for a long moment, preparing them and himself, then began to speak.

His voice filled the longhouse. He spoke of Magnificent Sitric, an old man barely clinging to life who defied death itself and all the gods of the afterlife and emerged the victor, renewing himself, claiming once again a young man’s vigor and strength and shortened years. Aye, and this proud Sitric would rule now for more decades than could be comprehended by a mortal’s mind. He had seen men as babes and he would watch them die as old men. And he would go on still.

The king was ably assisted in his miraculous renewal by his brave wizard, Hormuze, who himself had bargained with Odin All-Father, failed, then challenged Odin to a contest of logic. Hormuze had won, for Odin became tangled in the wizard’s words and thus lost the skein of his thoughts, and old King Sitric thus wedded Mirana, daughter of Audun. She was also changed with him during the long magical hours of their wedding night, her name no longer Mirana, but Naphta, and she grew taller, it was said by some, but her beautiful black hair remained long and darkly glistening, covered with a soft veil of diaphanous silk. Her eyes had changed, too, it was said by some, from green to a vibrant blue, so clear and light they reflected the heavens and all the mysteries of the beyond.

’Twas said that the coming together of the old king and the one young virgin Hormuze had himself selected was the act that set the magic into motion, that the wizard Hormuze presided over them all during that night, and when the sun rose, and all the king’s warriors were there waiting, the king came to them reborn and young again and wondrous handsome, but the resemblance was there to the old king, all recognized that, and they saw, too, that the old wizard Hormuze smiled upon the young king and queen and granted them long life, and he disappeared then, simply vanished into the pearl light of dawn, into the soft shadows that still clung to the earth before the harsh shining of the sun, melting into the clouds as if he were as insubstantial as they. And the warriors and the people were awed and silent, and then they all went forth to tell of the miracle that had occurred at Clontarf that night.

Tamak spoke briefly of the disappearance of the master of Clontarf, one Einar Thorsson, whose spirit, it was said by some, was seen in the reflection of the wizard Hormuze when he himself vanished that early morning.

Tamak then spoke at great length of the just and honorable king, wise in the ways of men far beyond his years, and of his queen, whose lustrous black hair changed yet again, becoming silver as the vivid lights of dawn as they lit the darkest corners of the earth, and that her silver hair was the king’s pride and desire, hair so long and radiant that men were brought to tears by the sight of it.

He spoke of the queen’s belly, now swelling with the first of the king’s promised sons. He sang of the queen’s soft voice and her gentle manner that made all love her, the king most of all, and a small girl who had been the daughter of the old wizard Hormuze, left in the care of the king and queen, and beloved by them.

He spoke reverently of Odin All-Father, content now that he had lost to the wizard Hormuze, and how he blessed this king and queen and all the sons who would be born of their magical union.