by Ann Boelter
Sigurd looked out over the water. The bottom edge of the sun was already lost. “I miss you, you know. So much. Every day.” He shook his head to fight back the tears that welled in his eyes. “I know. I know. I promised you I’d not be sad, but sometimes it’s too hard. I still feel you with me, but it’s not enough. I long so desperately to touch you, to hold you—to hear you laugh and see you smile. Hearing that man describe the ship to me today as if I didn’t know it, for he knew not who I was, brought everything back so clearly. As he described the golden dragon’s head and the animals on the dragon’s scales, I could see you holding each one of the sketches.” His voice quavered. He paused and closed his eyes. “Apologies. This was to be a happy conversation. A celebration of our success. And even though I miss you so much, I am happy you are free.”
The sun was now a quarter gone.
“The ship is becoming a legend. They say she is everything we dreamed—fast, nimble, strong. Blessed by the gods they say.” He took another deep swallow of his mead. “They also say Jarl gave her to his third in command not his second, a man named Gunnar Frederiksen. I thought that strange, but you probably already knew that, didn’t you? You probably already knew everything I told you today. Hell, you probably even chose her next captain. There was something about his second that you didn’t like, so you swayed Jarl’s decision.” Sigurd nodded as he considered it. “Of course you did. I must admit the thought of you measuring and choosing another man makes me jealous, though in some ways I pity him for what you’ll put him through.” He smiled. “He doesn’t stand a chance against you. And though the reward in the end will be more than worth it, that poor bastard is about to have his life turned upside down.”
Sigurd smiled again and took another long swallow. “I think I shall become a regular at the port to hear of your next adventures—and as I hear them, I’ll come here to share them with you. As much as I dislike going to town and being amongst people, I’ll do it. I can see the huge smile on your face at the thought of me mingling with strangers, making small talk, pressing any who come for information of your travels.” He frowned. “That was also probably your intent, guiding me even from the afterlife. I can hear you right now claiming it’s for my own good. And I’m not saying I agree with you, because I don’t, but I’ll do it anyway. I wonder where you’ll go, what you’ll see....” His voice trailed away.
Sigurd raised his glass as the last glowing red rim of the sun prepared to dip below the horizon. “To your success with this next captain of The Treasure Huntress, Leila. I look forward to hearing all about it.”
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AS GUNNAR SLOGGED through the mud, he was at least thankful for the lull in the driving rain that had plagued them since leaving the Dublin slave merchant’s estate earlier that night. He tried to imagine the hot dry days ahead when he returned to the East—the incessant red dust clogging his nostrils, the sweat chafing under his armor. He would long for this cool Irish damp then. He glanced up at the nearly full moon about to be overtaken by a smaller cloud, then at the more threatening clouds looming behind. The rain may have let up for the moment, but it appeared it was not to last.
“Run!” The unexpected shout and jangle of chains from one of the prisoners behind him jolted Gunnar from his musings. His hand closed on the golden hilt of his sword, just as the small cloud that had previously only flirted with the moon’s perimeter plunged them into total darkness.
Gunnar turned and took a quick assessment of the group of slaves. None were moving. None seemed poised for escape. All remained securely tethered together with their iron neck collars and chains. He glanced at his men who were also trying to identify the recipient of the slave’s sudden warning. Some had weapons drawn. Others had their hands ready on the hilts of their swords. All eyes and ears strained in the darkness, trying to detect any signs of an impending attack.
Gunnar cursed the cloud that prevented him from seeing for whom the warning had been intended. His decision to travel at night, to slip unseen by local raiders, if the rumors about them were true, was working against him. Now it was he and his men who couldn’t see, and they had the added disadvantage of not knowing the terrain.
Lightning flashed overhead, giving a split second of vision before submersing them once again in blackness. Another flash. Then another. The unpredictable bursts bathed the countryside in an otherworldly light, creating unnerving mysterious shadows without providing enough time to discern what was real. Nerves stretched taut, Gunnar awaited the next flash, half expecting it to reveal a hard charging assailant closing in on him. He pulled Maid’s Dream from its sheath.
The suspense was excruciating. If an attack was coming, Gunnar wished they would just bring it. Here, they were in an open spot in the road, easily defended. His men lived to fight, and could readily handle most adversaries, of that he was confident. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to get close to them would soon find that out—and, in doing so, would have lost their advantage of knowing the terrain. Up close, fighting hand-to-hand, they would fight on equal terms, and unless their numbers were so substantial that they could overrun his group, Gunnar was sure of the outcome.
Unless they had archers. If that were the case, this open position, so ideal to take on a foe armed with sword or battle-axe, would provide little protection. Gunnar’s gut tightened at the thought of being showered with clouds of winged death from a faceless opponent, before realizing such a form of attack was unlikely. The rumors at the port had been that the slaves were being stolen. A blanket attack by archers in the darkness could not differentiate between captor and captive; it would kill Northman and Irish slave alike. Still, he found himself listening for the distinctive whir of feather fletching in flight, in time to raise his shield. He hated archers.
He glanced at Rorick who had moved up beside him. His tall, young second’s sword was drawn, and his eyes were wary, but a hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. Gunnar shook his head. Rorick would get his fill of blood soon enough in the rich East, and learn he did not need to seek it out in unnecessary places.
Gunnar returned his full focus to their surroundings, waiting for the cloud to pass. The wind picked up, and he felt several drops of rain, though the most ominous clouds still held off. Ever so slowly, the smaller cloud moved on, and moonlight turned the impenetrable darkness to near day. He could see the form of a woman on the mired road ahead of them, now. She did not appear to be aware of them—must not have heard the slave’s warning for the wind. She stood, slightly stooped over with her back to them, holding up her horse’s left front leg, while she inspected its hoof. The animal was a common farm steed, thick-legged and coarse, and the woman’s hooded cloak was one of simple wool.
The men looked to him for orders, but Gunnar shook his head for them to wait. Had this been an ambush, he would have expected it to be set up in the dark woods ahead. Still, his gut told him something wasn’t right. You didn’t just come across young women alone on the road at night.
“Run, lass!” One of the prisoners screeched his warning again. This time his men were ready, and the man was quickly silenced with a club to the jaw.
The woman released the horse’s foot, straightening as she turned to face them. At first she appeared to be relieved at the prospect of aid, and even took a half step toward them. But as her eyes took in the group of armed men, their round Norse shields unmistakable, then the smaller group of men huddled and chained together between them, she faltered, then stopped. Her body stiffened with alarm. She spun away, yanking on the horse’s reins in a frantic attempt to flee down the road ahead of them.
The horse trailed gamely behind her, but was limping severely on his left front leg; Gunnar knew the animal would not make it far. One of his men chuckled. Another whistled. Then all looked to him for the order to proceed. Gunnar held up his hand, silently signaling them again to hold their p
osition while he scoured the surroundings once more for signs of anything out of the ordinary. After one last hard long look at the empty countryside around them, Gunnar sheathed his sword and retook the lead. The group advanced slowly.
The darkest clouds had still yet to reach them, but the rain fell harder now, and the wind whipped with occasional stronger gusts. Though his men maintained only a slow march, they were steadily gaining on the woman. Every few strides she darted a glance over her shoulder. Each time she saw they were closer, she would tug on the horse’s reins with renewed terror. Mud now caked the bottom of her skirt and her shoes, and the extra bulk and weight began to slow her even more. Gunnar was surprised she hadn’t abandoned the injured animal by now, but people did foolish things when they panicked. He had seen it so many times before.
The road disappeared into a section of dark forest ahead, and for a moment she was lost from view. After another signal to his men to remain vigilant, they followed her. Gunnar’s keenly trained senses took in everything as they entered the trees, his eyes quickly adjusting to the decreased light. Leaves from the taller trees rippled overhead and smaller saplings bent and swayed beside them. Nothing else moved. All animal life, other than them and the woman, was bedded down waiting out the foul weather.
Gunnar cast quick repeated glances at the woman, just long enough to verify she was still there and still frantically pulling at her steed, before returning to scouring the underbrush on either side of the road. After trudging on high alert for what seemed like an eternity, he finally saw signs of the next clearing ahead; the brighter light from the open area was like a beacon. Gunnar began to relax. Their path forward was clear. No blockade, no down or felled tree had appeared to block them. The woman’s behavior hadn’t changed; she was still desperately laboring in front of them in a futile bid for freedom.
As he watched, she slipped and stumbled to her knees. Only her grip on the horse’s reins prevented her from falling headlong into the mud. Using the animal’s front leg to steady herself, she clambered back to her feet, then whirled to face them.
“Stay back!” she shouted as she backed away, floundering in the mire, the horse bobbing obediently beside her.
A great gust of wind blew the hood of her cloak from her head and, for the first time Gunnar could see her face. Pale Irish skin, huge eyes dark with fear and defiance. She was stunning. Without the protection of the hood, the wind soon freed her long dark wavy hair from its restraint. Red highlights glinted in the moonlight—not the fiery red of so many of the Irish, only hints of red like a prized sable fur. Gunnar, shocked by his visceral reaction to her, took a deep steadying breath.
“I mean it! You stay away from me!” she screamed again. Another gust of wind threatened to tear the cloak from her completely. She spun away from them, her arms flailing in an effort to pull the errant cloth back around her body.
Gunnar signaled his men to stop. The excitement that had been building in them as they stalked her was physically palpable now. The chase was at an end. Their prey was at hand. All could feel it. Gunnar waited for her to turn back to them. Waited to see her reaction when she realized it, too. He was close enough now, he would be able to see it in her eyes. She began to turn.
His eagerness to see her face as she recognized escape was lost, made her movements seem in slow motion. His eyes hungrily took in every detail of her as it was revealed—first, the soft curve of her jaw, then her high cheekbone, then the edges of her thick dark eyelashes. Finally, her eyes—the centers so dilated and dark he was unsure of their true color. So fully expecting was he to see her cowed expression, it took several seconds for Gunnar to comprehend what he actually saw. There was no fear, no resignation, no defeat in her eyes. They were, in fact, the opposite—hard and bright with triumph.
Gunnar frowned, confused. The wind whipped at her cloak again, but this time she made no attempt to stop it. As it lifted away from her body and blew back over her shoulders, she raised the loaded crossbow and aimed it directly at the center of his chest.
“You’ll be releasin’ those prisoners now,” she called out, her voice steady and calm. Gone was any trace of the terror that had seemed to grip her only seconds before. In that instant, Gunnar felt, as much as heard, the forest around them come alive with men. He glanced over his right shoulder at the wall of drawn bows and swords, and swore under his breath. At the same time, he couldn’t help but think how his previous commander, Jarl, would laugh at the predicament he’d gotten himself into over a beautiful woman. He had not only forsaken an easily defended position, he had allowed their guard to completely fall away after she lured them into the forest.
“Perhaps you Norse are as hard of hearing as you are ugly,” she said. “I said release the prisoners. Now,” she repeated menacingly.
Her lilting accent was like water running over smooth stones—pleasing to his ears. He watched as the wind pulled a wild lock of her hair and blew it across her neck. It landed at the base of her wet throat and stuck there. Gunnar stared, mesmerized, as a tiny rivulet of water ran from the soaked tress and disappeared under her dress. His eyes continued to follow its imagined journey downwards until his gaze landed once again on the crossbow. The sight of the loaded bolt aimed at his heart snapped him back to reality.
“Rorick, release the prisoners,” Gunnar commanded under his breath, not taking his eyes from the woman.
“But, Sir,” Rorick balked. “We can take them. Look at them. They’re nothing more than a bunch of armed peasants. They’ll be no match for us. We may not even lose a single man.”
“Rorick!” This time Gunnar did tear his eyes from the woman, furious at the interruption and lost seconds of appraisal his second’s insubordination had cost. “Release the prisoners—now,” Gunnar seethed through gritted teeth.
Rorick opened his mouth as if to argue further, then snapped it closed at the look in Gunnar’s eyes. He turned and relayed the order to the other men. Gunnar heard their grumbles as the order was received, then heard the clinking as the collar chains on the slaves were removed.
“Send them forward,” the woman commanded. His men held their ground until Gunnar nodded. The Irish prisoners rushed forward in a wave. Gunnar noted that even as she greeted them and accepted their gratitude, her crossbow never wavered a fraction from its target on his chest. She did not appear to be new to this.
A man appeared on the road behind her, pushing a rickety hand cart. No one moved as he labored toward them, forcing the cart through the mud. Finally he reached them and parked it beside her. She did not acknowledge the man’s arrival, was clearly expecting it. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on Gunnar and his men.
“Now, one at a time, come forward and put your weapons on the cart,” she demanded.
Amidst more grumbling from his men, Gunnar stepped forward and unbuckled the golden sheath that held his sword, Maid’s Dream, from his waist. The bejeweled sword was his most prized possession—an incredible, unique trophy from his most recent Middle Eastern raids. As he laid it on the rough boards, he never took his eyes from her. “This is a valuable and honored family heirloom,” he lied. “I would have it back.”
She smiled a cold hard smile. “Aye, I’m sure that it is. Perhaps one day, we’ll even be lucky enough to return it to the family you stole it from.”
“I think I’ve been most obliging in this negotiation,” Gunnar said, ignoring her barb. “You could at least tell me your name.”
She looked at him with such utter disdain, it made Gunnar almost smile. Her haughtiness was certainly like no peasant girl he’d ever met before. But then again, he’d never met a peasant so bold who would dare to take up arms to attack Northmen—in feeble attempts to defend themselves perhaps, but never to attack.
“You’ll be havin’ no need of my name,” she said. “You will never see me again.”
He wanted her to say more—to say anything, so he could hear her voice and watch her eyes flash, but she only waved him off with the crossbow. After
he and his men were herded back into a group in the center of the road, and the handcart was pulled away, she bent down and removed something from her horse’s left front leg. Tossing it aside, she led the now-sound animal forward a few steps before climbing onto its back and galloping away.
As the armed men surrounding them melted back into the forest, Gunnar went to search for what she had discarded. He found it just off the side of the road in the underbrush. It was a simple device made from two leather straps and a small blunt piece of wood. When attached to the inside of the animal’s leg, it had been unnoticeable, but every time the horse had taken a step, the wood had harmlessly jabbed it, causing it to limp.
Rorick appeared at his side. “Well, I guess that answers the question if the rumors of raiders are true. What now?” he asked.
“Send a small party to retrieve our weapons. Men pulling a loaded handcart in this weather will be easy enough to overtake—if they haven’t abandoned it already. The rest of us will return to The Huntress. Tomorrow we’ll pay a visit to the slave trader to replace the slaves.”
“But we just paid good coin for this lot,” Rorick fumed.
“Who said anything about paying for the next ones?” Gunnar said, his voice grim. “Only one man knew we were moving those slaves tonight. And only one man has much to gain by selling twice their number. I shall have a serious discussion with our Dublin friend and show him what happens to those who double cross us.”
And discover the identity of his beautiful accomplice in the process.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank special people who have made this book and all the ones to follow possible. First I want to thank my mother for instilling in me a passion for reading at a very early age. It opened my mind to the endless possibilities of the world and beyond, and fueled a wild imagination that persists today.