Redeeming Her Viking Warrior

Sissa gathered the few items she needed into a pack, flung two of the warmest furs she could find over her shoulders, then made her way back through the trees to where she’d found the injured man. The snow had already stopped, but she didn’t hold out much hope of finding him still alive. If the amount of blood on the ground around his body was any indication, he’d be a corpse by the time she returned, but if he wasn’t...well then, she’d do what she could to save him, whether he wanted her to or not. There had been a curious expression on his face when she’d nudged her spear against his throat—just a gentle push to see if he was still alive—almost ambivalence, as if he were ready to die. But she was a healer, not a killer, and she’d seen more than enough death already.

He was sprawled exactly where she’d left him, his head propped against the roots of an oak tree. From a distance, he certainly looked dead, but as she leaned over she could just make out the slight flutter of a pulse in his jaw. She laid her pack aside and pressed two fingers against his jaw. Weak, but still beating. The neck beneath was lean and muscular, like all the rest of him, she noticed. There didn’t seem to be a hint of fat anywhere on his body, especially his face where his prominent cheekbones stood out like sharp blades. She slid her hand upwards and pressed her palm against his cheek. The skin was cold—unsurprisingly, when he was half-buried in a layer of snow—but his skin had a waxy pallor, too. Between his injury and the weather it was impossible to guess which would kill him first. She’d have to remove his damp clothes somehow, but for now...

Frowning, she pulled one of the furs from her shoulder and draped it over his legs and chest before turning her attention to the wound itself. By the look of it he’d torn a strip from the hem of his under-tunic and tied it around the top of his arm to try to stop the flow of blood, but by now the fabric was saturated and useless. She unravelled it carefully and looked closer. There were no signs of infection, which meant that the wound was still fresh—a few hours old at most—and obviously made with a blade. Only a sword or dagger could have sliced so cleanly, though fortunately the gash wasn’t as bad as she’d first feared, being long rather than deep.

The man writhed weakly as she poured water from a flask to wash away the dirt, then rubbed a combination of wild garlic and powdered oak bark over the surface to staunch the bleeding. Next she applied a layer of dried sphagnum moss to act as a poultice, before binding it in place with a piece of cloth. His breathing seemed to become shallower and more laboured as she worked, but she kept her fingers moving, concentrating on the task as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered. Finally, she sat back on her haunches to survey her handiwork. Not bad. He’d survived her ministrations, which was a good sign, but he needed warmth, food and shelter in that order if he was going to survive the night.

She chewed her lip and glanced up at the sky. It was getting dark, the temperature was plummeting and he was far too big for her to drag anywhere. Building a fire, however, seemed like an additional danger. If people were out searching for him—which, given the nature of his injury, seemed likely—then a fire would only draw their attention, but if she didn’t light one then the cold would likely finish him off first. At that moment it struck her as the lesser of two evils.

She reached into her pack for the dry logs she’d brought just in case and built a small fire an arm’s length from where he lay. On the damp ground it took longer than usual, but eventually the flint struck a light. Then, when the flames were hot enough, she removed the fur from his body and considered the rest of him. Most of his clothing consisted of leather and mail which looked reasonably impervious to the elements, but the metal links also looked heavy enough to constrict his breathing and the linen collar around his neck was sodden. Fortunately, his mail was fastened at the front, allowing her to carefully undo the belt buckle and clasps and peel it away to the sides. Next she reached for a knife and carefully cut away his long-sleeved under-tunic, leaving his chest bare, all except for a leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck.

The sight of his naked torso seemed to steal her breath away for a few seconds, making it falter and then emerge again in quick, slightly shaky bursts. As a healer she’d seen plenty of bodies, but this one was different. It was magnificent, sculpted, as if it were hewn from actual rock. His natural build must be lean, she guessed, running her tongue along the seam of her suddenly dry lips, but there were so many muscles it was impossible to be sure. There were muscles in places she’d never even conceived that muscles could be before. The gash on his arm wasn’t the only evidence of recent battles either. There were several long scars across his ribs and a vicious purple bruise on his stomach. She wondered what his last fight had been about and how his opponent had fared. She doubted the combat would have been one-sided. Judging by his well-developed biceps, not to mention the collection of bronze and silver arm rings around them, this man was no stranger to a sword.

The idea made her uncomfortable. He was obviously a warrior, one of that breed of men who thought they could fight their way through life, taking what they wanted by force from those who only wanted to live in peace. Of all men, warriors were the ones she disliked and distrusted the most. So much so that she was almost tempted to get up and leave him to take his chances alone, but she couldn’t. At that moment he was injured and helpless and she was the only one who could save him.

She drew the fur back over his chest and studied his face. The lines of pain and tension that had been around his mouth and forehead seemed to have smoothed out since she’d been tending him, making him look younger and quite forbiddingly handsome—hardly like a warrior at all. She hadn’t seen him among the new settlers before, she was certain—she would have remembered such a striking face, not to mention his mane of thick golden hair—which meant that he must be new to the island. He reminded her of Birger, a boy from her village years ago. He’d been older than she was, seventeen summers to her thirteen, and so good looking that all the girls had flirted and competed for his attention. She’d watched him, too, hoping that some day he might notice her, though he never had, not really. And then he’d lost the ability to notice anything at all, like everyone else in her village. Everyone except for her and Tove, the only survivors.

She reached a hand out to the wolf who trotted forward at once to lick and then rub her nose against it. Her father had found Tove as an emaciated cub and brou

ght her back to the village to nurse and raise as a guard dog. Sissa had done most of the training and in return the animal had become her constant companion and shadow. She wasn’t sure whether Tove saw her as a sister or a mother, but whatever it was they were family. The bond between them had saved her life countless times, beginning with the raid.

A familiar cold sweat broke out on her skin at the memory and she pushed it aside, reaching for a water skin instead. Carefully, she added some herbs and then poured the liquid down the man’s throat, holding his mouth shut as he spluttered. There. She rocked back on her heels, satisfied. That was as much as she could do in the dwindling daylight. In the morning, if he was still alive, she’d build a shelter around him, but for now, it was enough.

She wrapped herself up in the other fur and lay down beside the fire, Tove beside her, Halvar stretched out opposite, aloof but always alert. He was part of her family, too, though she suspected he only tolerated her for his mate’s sake. They’d all wait together and see what the morning would bring.

Behind her, the warrior mumbled in his sleep. The words were barely distinguishable, a scattering of names and epithets, but he sounded anguished—tormented, even. From the sound of it he was thrashing about, too. Was he dreaming of his last battle? Whatever it was, the tone of his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She rolled over to make sure he hadn’t thrown his fur aside and jumped with surprise to find his eyes wide open, boring into hers with a look of such deep-rooted pain and sorrow that she felt her heart clench before they suddenly closed again.

Another shiver, even colder than before, trickled down her spine like melting ice. For one horrible moment she’d felt as though she’d been looking into a mirror.

She exhaled slowly, buried her face into Tove’s fur and wondered if she’d done the right thing by saving his life.

Chapter Three

Was he dead?

Danr dragged his eyelids open, recognising the bumpy feel of the roots behind his head though not the view above. Instead of the grey sky and falling snow he remembered, there was a screen of branches, all packed together with twigs and moss and intertwined to form a kind of arch.

Was he dead? If he was, then he’d failed his brothers. That thought was horrifying enough, but the fact that he could remember everything was even worse—everything he’d done and felt over the past three years. Guilt, failure, self-loathing...all his familiar companions were still there, as devastating and lucid as ever. He tried sitting up to escape them and then fell back again, the world spinning sickeningly around him as his body was racked with shudders. No Valhalla for him, then. Not that he’d expected to deserve that either.

He heard a soft footfall approaching and tilted his head just in time to see the pale-eyed, spectral-looking woman from his dream slip under the archway. Although, it was less of an archway than a tunnel, he realised now, a makeshift shelter shielding his body from the elements and a skilfully made one, too... Had she done it? He clamped his brows together, trying to make sense of the scene. Maybe he wasn’t dead, after all. Or dreaming either. Though for a real woman she had a distinctly uncanny aspect, with a mass of untamed, white-gold hair half-obscuring her face as she crouched beside him. Was she Norse or Gael? She had a spiral-shaped torc around her neck, moulded from bronze and open at the throat, though there were no engravings to provide any clue about who she was...

‘Did you build this?’ He croaked the words out, relieved to find that he could finally speak again.

The woman didn’t even glance at his face, let alone answer. Instead, she simply bent over him, unravelling some kind of linen bandage and removing a piece of what looked like moss from his arm before leaning closer. He tensed, very aware of the warm tingle of her breath on his skin as she examined his wound for a few seconds and then covered it over again.

‘Is it still snowing out there?’ He tried a different question.

Nothing.

‘Who are you?’ He switched from Norse to Gaelic, but not as much as a flicker of recognition or interest crossed her features.

Danr lifted an eyebrow in surprise. Even if she couldn’t understand him, she was obviously aware of his lips moving, but she seemed simply not to care. It was bizarre. Considering the effort she’d apparently put into saving his life, such unresponsive behaviour was...odd.

‘Danr.’ He raised his good arm to his chest and said his name. ‘I’m Da—’

He broke off at the sight of one of the wolves at her back. It had followed her into the tunnel and now looked as if it were considering him as a possible meal. Instinctively, he reached for Bitterblade, but, as he watched, the woman turned and put her hand on the animal’s head, making a low humming sound in the back of her throat before leading it outside again.