A Promise Kept

by Mallery Malone

  Settling his hands upon his hips, lest he fit action to thought and take her beautiful head from her shoulders, he summoned the iron calm that had served him for years. “What do you accuse me of?”

  The earthen chamber fell silent, save for the muffled sputter of the torch and the Viking’s own tortured breathing. Conor could see perspiration beading on her forehead and lip, and her nostrils flaring with each labored breath. He knew resolve alone kept her upright.

  “I will use whatever means necessary to gain the answers I seek,” he told her in a voice chilling in its softness. “I will have answers.”

  The mercenary refused to answer him. Conor could do naught but stare at her. How comely she looked, glaring in pure Viking defiance. He wondered if she knew how her breasts pushed against the delicate fabric of her shift when she breathed.

  “Where are my belongings?” she demanded. “And my—my companions?”

  “The pain makes you rude, Angel,” he admonished her. “Your weapons are locked away safe. Most of your garments are ruined, but more will be procured for you. If you need them.”

  So, she was to be left with nothing. Erika knew then that she would die. She could accept that. It had always been the destination at the end of the path she had chosen. But by Odin, she would take this despicable cretin with her when she left this world!

  Despicable or not, her adversary was not unpleasant to look upon. She thought the men in her homeland were giants, but this man matched the size of many a Viking warrior. There was an air of masculine grace and prowess about him that was unmistakable. Just looking at him caused something to thrum deep inside her. Those gray eyes bored into her own, digging beneath her surface.

  The pain made her more than rude. It made her fanciful as well. Blinking to clear her thoughts, she demanded, “Will you tell me the fate of my companions?” Her jaw clenched as she jerked her eyes away from him to stare at the wall. She would not ask again.

  She heard him take a foundering breath. Would he tell her? “The elder Northman is dead,” he said bluntly. “The younger man still clings to life, but my healer is not optimistic.”

  Larangar. She wanted to shriek at the grief that welled inside her. Another two days, and her close-kin would have been on a ship bound for Anglia. She clung to the belief that he had found his way to Valhalla and was even now drinking with their fathers. She could not bear it if he was denied. Then his blood would be on her hands, as surely as if she’d felled him herself.

  Pushing the anguish away, Erika summoned anger as her shield. Weakness spread through her with each breath. If she wanted to vanquish this ignoble cur, she would have to do it now.

  “You wish to know what I accuse you of,” she said heavily. “I accuse you of being a thief and a coward and a murderer!”

  “What?” His roar of outrage could flatten the stoutest of men. Even Erika was not immune to it. Her legs crumpled beneath her, and she collapsed nerveless onto the coarse straw.

  “You would feign ignorance of your heinous deeds?” she demanded, wheezing as stars danced on the periphery of her vision. Her arm pressed against her side in a futile effort to staunch the pain that throbbed with every heartbeat. “You—you murdered the women and children of that village for nothing more than fish, pelts and a few pieces of silver!”

  “How dare you accuse me of raiding my own village?”

  “I have seen Irish as well as Viking attack villages and monasteries,” she answered, gasping. “Your protest means little to me. Devil or no, I will kill you. You will pay for what you have done.”

  She pushed him too far. Infuriated, Conor swooped down on her, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her upright. It was no small accomplishment—though slight of build, the Viking had weight to match her height. He brought her close until a mere breath separated them.

  “What I have done?” he echoed, his anger blazing like a summer squall. “You are the one who will pay for what you have done!”

  She stared at him with eyes as hard as the amethysts they favored. “Threatening wounded women—that is so like a coward,” she sneered. “Is that how you earned your name?”

  “Woman, you try my patience!”

  “What will you do? Kill a defenseless woman? Surely you have more honor than that, Devil?”

  Unthinking, Conor backed her against the wall. “What would you know of honor, Angel of Death?” he asked, his voice brutal with rage. “You and your Gaill-Gaedhel attacked one of my villages while most of its men were away. Women, old men and children had to defend their selves and their homes against a band of ravening outlaws that you led.”

  The amethyst eyes widened with shock. “Who are you?”

  “I am Conor mac Ferghal, chieftain of Dunlough. That village is part of my tuath, and its people of my tribe.”

  “That village...belongs to you?” she whispered, her voice numb.

  Conor was thunderstruck. “You admit to raiding my village?” he roared, giving her a savage shake. “I should kill you now!”

  If possible, she became even paler. Her eyes became glazed even as she stared at him. When she spoke, her tone was soft, breathless, but the words were like daggers. “You lie...men call you Devil. Only a man with such a name would hurt those pathetic souls.”

  Forgetting her grievous wounds, he gave her another vicious rattle. “You are the one responsible for the deaths of my people. You are the one who will pay. Do you understand me?”

  Her only answer was a moan. Conor watched in horror as the Viking’s eyes fluttered shut and she went limp in his grip.

  Chapter Four

  Erika jerked her eyes open and attempted to surge to her feet, her hand automatically reaching for her sword. Pain slammed into her like fists, pummeling her senses. The breath fled her lungs like a startled bird, taking a moan with it.

  “Ease, lady, ease.”

  Fingers pressed against her shoulders, pushing her back to the sparse straw. It was a measure of her weakness that she did not, could not, fight the gentle touch. Raising her eyes, she sought the owner of those hands.

  A tall, slender, dark-haired woman, no more than twenty, gazed at her with brilliant green eyes and a concerned expression. Erika had no idea who the woman was, but her voice and touch were familiar. Healing, comforting. A healer.

  She held a cup of water to Erika’s lips. “You must be thirsty,” the strange woman said in halting Norse.

  Erika was surprised almost to the point of tears to hear her native tongue. She drank in the refreshing liquid, letting its coolness revitalize her. “Go raibh maith agat,” she said in Gaelic. “Thank you.”

  The woman set the cup on the ground beside her. “I am Gwynna. What is your name?”

  Erika almost refrained from answering, but there was no harm in telling the healer her name. “I am Erika, also called Silverhair. Where am I?”

  Emerald eyes bored into her. “Dunlough, in Connacht. You do not remember?”

  Struggling to shake the effects of the nightmare and the pain, Erika closed her eyes. “I remember a tiny village, littered with burning homes and broken bodies,” she whispered. “I could not ride by without giving aid—”

  “You were trying to help them?” The healer sounded astonished by that fact.

  “Yes. How could I not? My brother and I always help wherever we can...”

  Her hands clutched at the other woman’s arms as memories crashed against her senses. “Olan! Tell me, what has happened to him!”

  “Olan?”

  Erika nodded. “He is my twin brother. Hair near as pale as mine, but eyes of blue.” The ebony-haired woman grew still, and Erika feared the worst. “He is dead, gone from me.”

  “His wounds were grievous, but he lives,” the healer hastened to assure her. Startlingly enough, color suffused her cheeks. “Each day brings him further into the land of the living.”

  Joy welled inside Erika at the other woman’s words. But with the joy also came fear. “I must go to him,” she said, strugg
ling to rise. “The Devil will come for me—”

  Darkness danced before her eyes. The healer easily pushed her back against the blanket, chains and all. “When you are stronger, you may see him,” Erika was told. “But only when he is out of danger.”

  Shaking her head, and wincing even at that effort, Erika subsided. “Olan is not out of danger, and neither am I. The Devil is going to kill me.”

  “If Conor wanted to kill you, you would be dead now.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I am his sister.”

  Shock raced through Erika. “You are sister to the Devil of Dunlough? B-but he is a raider and you are a healer! How can you be sister to such a man?”

  Gwynna smiled. “Conor has been called many things, but he is not a raider. He is ruler of these lands, including the village. If he raids, it is against Ulster, to the north.”

  “Oh, no.” Chains rattled as Erika covered her face with her hands. “He truly is a jarl?”

  “That means ruler, doesn’t it?” Gwynna asked. “Yes, Conor is ruler in Dunlough.”

  Erika groaned, despair gripping her. “Sweet Freyja! I promised the villagers that I would bring them the head of their enemy.

  “I was going to bring them the Devil’s head!”

  “SHE THINKS I RAIDED my own village!”

  In a fit of temper, Conor threw his tankard against the nearest wall. Wolfhounds, soldiers and servants scrambled to freedom. Only Gwynna remained with him in the great hall, her arms crossed as she observed him. She knew his temper was never directed at the innocent.

  Of course, he didn’t believe the Angel—Erika—was innocent. In his eyes, she was but another woman out for his blood.

  Gwynna would never admit it to him, but she feared for her brother. He was a warrior, true, and his fighting skills legendary. There had been a gentler side to him once, one that made him smile easy and laugh often.

  That was before Aislingh betrayed him.

  Shivering despite the fire, Gwynna remembered that night, just over a year ago. Conor’s bellow of pain had roused the entire dun. She had met Ardan at the door of Conor’s bedchamber. Inside, they’d found Conor’s wife, writhing on the floor, a blade protruding from her stomach. Conor stood on the other side of the chamber, holding his bleeding face in his hands. He had spurned aid until Aislingh was cared for. She’d died cursing him. He refused to tell them what had transpired. But he didn’t have to.

  Everyone knew that redheaded babes did not run in the ruling family’s line. Most of Dunlough’s people had auburn, sable or midnight hair—no one had tresses the color of fire, not even the babe’s mother.

  As Gwynna mended her brother’s face that night, she had looked into his eyes and seen the emptiness in them. Aislingh had carved more than Conor’s skin out of him.

  There were other things, things that the siblings never talked about, that had forged Conor into the man he had become. Things like the deaths of their older brother and his sons, which had thrust Conor into an unwanted position of leadership. Dunlough needed that man, it was true, but Gwynna despaired of ever seeing her brother free of care again.

  “Erika did believe you to be the one responsible for the ravaging at the village,” she finally said. “I disabused her of that notion.”

  Conor ceased trampling the rushes into the smooth earthen floor and swiveled toward her. “Erika?”

  “Erika Silverhair is what she calls herself,” Gwynna replied. “That is her given name. And yes, the wounded Viking is her brother, Olan Strong-wolf.”

  Surprised out of his temper, her brother retrieved his tankard. “How were you able to get information from her?” he demanded, sitting at one of the tables.

  Crossing to the door that led to the kitchens, Gwynna called for ale, bread and cheese. She joined her brother at the table. “For one thing, I did not attempt to rupture the wound in her side,” she informed him with a touch of asperity.

  It was the closest she ever came to chastising him. One side of his mouth twitched, the closest he ever came to a true smile. “Forgive me, sister, but the Angel sore tested my patience. What else did you learn from her? Did she confess her sins?”

  Gwynna shook her head. She waited until the returning servant set down her platter and left before continuing. “Erika was distressed to learn that you rule Dunlough. She told me that she promised the villagers that she’d bring them back the head of the man who had wronged them. She intended to bring them yours.”

  Laughter exploded out of him, but not the kind Gwynna wanted to hear. “She promised the villagers my head? Why would herself do a foolish thing like that?”

  “Because she is who she says, and she does indeed ride about our fair island protecting those unable to protect themselves.”

  A snort answered her. “You expect me to believe that the Angel and her war band just happened to be nearby when someone attacked our village? And somehow, the true raiders managed to escape us both?” Conor shook his head. “No, that is too much to credit, Gwyn. I must have more than the Angel’s word.”

  “The tales are true.”

  The siblings turned as one to see Ardan enter the hall, followed by an old woman, a younger woman and a small boy.

  Conor stood. The women bowed, then cowered behind Ardan. The boy gazed at him with unabashed curiosity. Conor focused his attention on his friend, noticing his fatigue. “Sit down before you fall down.”

  Ardan refused, rubbing the side of his face with a beefy hand. “The story I have to tell keeps me upright.”

  He pulled the women in front of him. “This is Múireann and her son Gil, and this is Eithne. I would have them tell you in their own words what happened that day in the village.”

  Conor gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile but felt more like a grimace. “I would be honored, Good-mother, if you would tell me what befell the village.”

  The old woman bestowed him a tremulous smile. “It was like a nightmare, my lord, sure it was. Our men had put out to sea hours before, leaving us defenseless. The thieves came out of nowhere, it seemed. They were only there to terrify us.”

  Conor grew still. “Why do you think that?”

  “They didn’t go into our homes, they just set ’em afire. They trampled our cattle and young. I prayed for deliverance, for any God to hear. It was only when I called upon Danu that I was answered.”

  The old woman glanced around, as if unsure if her blasphemy would earn her trouble. When Conor urged her to continue, she said, “A fog had gathered around our village, thick as wool. Deep in its heart we could hear the sound of pounding hooves, like a great number of warriors charging. Then the fog parted, and out she rode, like one of the sidhe.”

  Conor did not have to ask who “she” was. Even if he wanted to, the woman, in true Gaelic fashion, warmed to her tale and would brook no interruption. “She was a terrible vision, a specter dressed all in white, astride a giant pale beast that breathed smoke. With a cry that chilled the hearts of the evil, she thundered into the village, laying waste to the raiders with powerful swings of her mighty sword. Unable to withstand so great an opponent, the cowards turned tail and ran.”

  “Which direction?”

  “To the north.” The answer came from the younger woman.

  Folding his arms across his chest, Conor shared a look with Ardan. If the tale were true, it would prove that the Angel was savior and not destroyer. The true culprits could very well be Ulstermen.

  He had to be sure. “Describe the person who helped you.”

  Again, the younger woman answered. “I am sure she was Viking.”

  “And you are sure the Viking was female?”

  “Yes, all the others wore beards and loose hair. This Viking was beardless, and had long, pale-colored hair in a decorated plait that hung to her waist. But then she took off her helmet, and I was certain.”

  The old woman, not to be outdone, picked up the thread of the tale. “She must have been sent by the gods, my lord. Never b
efore have I seen beauty such as hers. And her eyes, they were the color of rainclouds at sunset. She fairly glowed with inner fire as she promised to return with the heads of those who had wronged us.”

  The younger woman stepped forward again, capturing Conor’s attention. “My lord, the lady did help us. If she had not appeared when she did, more of us would be dead.”

  Thanking them, Conor called for a servant to take them to the kitchens to be fed before they were escorted back home. When they were gone, he moved to the hearth, hoping the flames would order his thoughts.

  Amethyst, not red, was the color he saw.

  It was difficult to keep the woman from intruding upon his thoughts. Erika Silverhair. Erika meant “forever strong” in her language. It suited her. He had never known a woman so vibrant and alive with untapped energy and passion. How defiant she had been despite the obvious pain she endured. How unbowed, despite the fact that she faced death and he was her only salvation.

  How she fired his blood.

  Heat surged through him, but the fire from the hearth was not the culprit. He walked to the table, reaching for the ale. “What else can you tell me about our guest, Ardan?”

  The other man settled onto the bench opposite Gwynna. “I happened upon a wandering bard at a bruidean on the southeast road. He wove an incredible tale of the Angel of Death.”

  He paused, refilling his tankard. “She killed a man with her hair.”

  Gwynna gasped. Even Conor had to raise an eyebrow at that. “I did not credit you for a jester, old friend.”

  Ardan set his drink down. “The bard swears he saw it with his own eyes. A man was attacking a child who was refusing him at the top of her lungs. It was said that the Angel took down her braid and looped it around the man’s neck in the blink of an eye. Jerked him right off his feet. He died facedown in the dust in the middle of the lane. No one lifted a finger against her. In fact, she was feasted.

  “There are other stories, all the same. When she attacks, it’s to defend those too weak to defend themselves. She and her brother take hires from merchants and nobles who need extra protection. At the start of each hire, she has to challenge their best with whatever weapon they choose, to first draw of blood. From what I heard, she’s never lost a challenge. And all her kills have been honorable.”