The Blue Viking

by Sandra Hill

  But alas, all their efforts, successful as they'd been, had not been enough.

  "Despite it all, we did good, didn't we?" Rurik asked Stigand now, though he already knew the answer.

  "Yea, we did. These Scots are a tough breed, I'll give them that."

  "It was a good plan, Rurik," Bolthor interjected from Rurik's other side. "Everyone worked together, even the young ones with slingshots in the trees. But the numbers were against us from the start."

  "Well, it appears as if all of us will be drinking mead this day in Valhalla," Rurik told his comrades, who nodded. Not a tear was there in any of their eyes. Death was a fate every Viking expected because of his violent life. All of the men joined their right hands together in one communal fist and raised it high in the air, shouting "To Thor!"

  Rurik's men went off to give directions to the Campbell clansmen who remained… directions for the final segment of this battle. No doubt, most of them would be going to their deaths this day, but they would be going down with dignity… and they would be taking a considerable number of MacNabs with them.

  Off in the distance, the MacNabs, red hair shining in the sunlight, could already be seen assembling for the final clash, which would settle the fate of the Campbells once and for all. Rurik sighed audibly. He was only sorry that he had been unable to be the champion Maire sought… her knight in shining armor.

  Well, Rurik had one last task before he entered the fray. Turning, he motioned Maire forth. She had been standing far back, up behind some boulders, where he had ordered her to stay. He would have much preferred that she remain in the keep, but she had refused, knowing her son was out here.

  "Is there no hope then?" she asked worriedly, rushing into his arms. He tried to hold her at arm's length, not wanting to soil her with the blood that stained his garments, but she would have none of that.

  He drew off his leather helmet with its nose guard and kissed her softly, probably for the last time. "Not unless there is a miracle, and I see no sign of that."

  "What will happen now?"

  "I want you to gather all the children and young boys. Go back to your castle and assemble only the essentials. Waste no time, Maire… do you hear me?

  It's important that you not be there when Duncan arrives."

  "When… when Duncan arrives?" she stammered, terror in her green eyes.

  The implications of this lost battle had still not seeped into Maire's brain. Perhaps that was for the best. But she must obey his orders nonetheless.

  'Take every horse, mule, or means of transport and leave the Highlands immediately. Head toward the borders. With luck, you will run into Jostein and Eirik and his troops along the way. But, if you do not, head directly for Ravenshire in Northumbria. You will be given refuge there."

  Tears were streaming down Maire's face. But Rurik hardened himself not to notice. It was critical that she obey him immediately.

  "Is there naught that could save the day?" she asked on a sob.

  He shook his head. "Only the sight of a hundred or so warriors on the horizon, riding fierce destriers, swords aready, under the raven banner."

  Wistfully, they both turned to the south where a long plateau was visible above the ravine. Then they both gasped.

  "Holy Thor!"

  "Holy Mother of God!"

  It was not a troop of soldiers.

  There were no war horses, or weapons glinting in the sun.

  And there was no sign of the raven… though there did seem to be crows… lots of crows.

  "What… is… that?" she asked breathlessly.

  "Have you been praying?"

  "Of course I've been praying," she snapped. "Why?"

  "Well, it appears as if a plague of crows has come to overtake the battlefield. Like in your Christian Bible."

  "I hardly think crows are the same as locusts," she replied dryly. "And you hardly resemble Moses… or how I imagine Moses would look."

  "Those aren't crows," Toste said, hurrying up to join them. "They're witches."

  "Witches!" they all exclaimed. Bolthor, Stigand, Vagn, Old John, Murdoc, Callum, and several others had joined their incredulous group.

  Narrowing their eyes, they peered at the horizon as the figures got larger and larger. Sure enough, they were witches… in every shape and size. All in black. Straggly gray hair predominated, but there were younger witches, as well… some of them were even comely. Toste and Vagn were already taking note of those, he could tell. Crystal amulets glinted in the sun. Many carried gnarled staffs to perform their magic; some held brooms in their hands… whether to fly away, or whisk clean the battlefield, Rurik couldn't begin to guess. And there was a herd of black cats, as well.

  "St. Columba's Chin! I do not know for sure, but I swear those are all the witches in Scotland," Old John declared with amazement.

  Everyone turned to Maire.

  "Wh-what? Why is everyone gawking at me? It's not my doing."

  "Did you cast a spell for this?" Rurik asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  "Well, not exactly," she replied. "I did perform a ritual several nights ago… remember all the candles?"

  He nodded.

  "But I did not ask for this," she said, sweeping an arm out to encompass the horde of witches. "All I asked was that Cailleach come back. One witch. That's all."

  Rurik groaned. Another of Maire's spells gone awry. But he could not be angry with her now. Mayhap she had inadvertently handed them the means to victory.

  "Cailleach?" Stigand inquired. And what a comical picture he made, standing with a bloody long-handled ax in one hand, a bloody sword in the other, war braids sticking out in disarray, and a dumbfounded look on his face.

  "That's Maire's mentor witch."

  "Which one would that be?" Bolthor wanted to know, scanning the advancing crowd of screeching witches.

  "How the hell would I know?" Rurik snapped.

  Everyone glanced at Maire again.

  She shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know. They all look the same from here."

  Rurik could already see the dreamy verse-mood expression passing over Bolthor's face. It said, silently, though loud and clear just the same, "Saga coming."

  If Rurik and his men were staring, gape-mouthed with astonishment, the MacNabs were frozen in place, no doubt wetting their braies with fright. Then they attempted to flee for their lives.

  At a quick signal from Rurik, he and his men moved forward in an aggressive assault. In a matter of minutes, the MacNabs were pinned in by Vikings and Campbells on one side and witches on the other. With much cursing and some struggling, but only one more death, the MacNab clan soon surrendered.

  Maire looked at Rurik then.

  And he looked at her.

  They both smiled.

  He had told her just a short time ago that the only thing that could save the day was a miracle.

  It was a miracle.

  It was over.

  Finally.

  All of it.

  And no one was happier than Rurik, who sat alone an hour later on a boulder contemplating the empty, bloodstained battlefield, which had earned its name this day… Devil's Gorge. Well, empty except for the lone body of the MacNab, which he'd ordered left behind, exposed to the vultures and animals of prey to feed on… a most appropriate end for the vermin he had been. Soon Rurik would travel to the loch on the other side of the knoll and wash off the red weapon-dew soaking his tunic and braies. And he would clean his sword, which still carried the life fluids of his prime enemy of the day—Duncan MacNab.

  Duncan was by now prowling the depths of the earth on his nine-day journey to the lowest level of all the nine worlds, Niflheim, Land of the Dead. Ruled by Hel, Queen of the Dead. Niflheim was said to be a gloomy place of ice, snow, and eternal darkness. Surely a perfect place for the evil Duncan to pay for all his misdeeds.

  Or perchance he was strolling through the fires of the Christian hell, with Satan's pitchfork poking his seared skin.

  Rurik shrugg
ed with indifference. Either way Duncan was now paying for his mortal sins… just as the miscreant had paid with his life under Rurik's wrath.

  And pay Duncan had… with his life, in the heat of battle, engaged in one-on-one combat with Rurik… which was as it should have been.

  Rurik had known Duncan was a nithing, a less-than-nothing of a man, when he had first viewed Maire hanging in a cage above her ramparts. True men did not attack women in such a way. His opinion had been reinforced when he'd learned how Duncan intended to force Maire into marriage and a presumed early death after that. Even his needless torture and killing of dumb animals had been an indication of Duncan's tainted personality.

  So, from the beginning, Rurik had decided that he himself would inflict punishment on the evil villain. When Old John had tentatively broached the possibility of mercy for the old laird, Rurik hadn't hesitated in his refusal. That kind of man would never give up. He would come back with a vengeance greater than before.

  Therefore it had been Rurik who stepped forward to challenge the MacNab in that final battle, and they'd both known it was a fight to the death. Thank the gods, Rurik had been the victor.

  To Duncan's credit, he had not pleaded for mercy or screamed in agony when the Raven came to take him to the Other Side. A groan at the final thrust of Rurik's blade and the clenching of his fists had been his only concession to what he had to have known was impending doom, then a stiffening of his body before the final death tremors had overtaken him.

  Punishment to the remaining MacNabs had followed soon after. Two dozen of the fiercest soldiers, all red-haired, had been dispatched to a secure holding barn on Maire's estate. On the morrow, they would be escorted on the long trek to Jorvik in Britain, where they would be sent as slave gifts on long-ships to King Olaf of Norway. 'Twas not the worst fate. If these men were good workers, they could secure their freedom in time, and even return to the Highlands, if that was their choice, though many slaves grew to like the Viking way of life, and took blond-haired Norse women to wife.

  Finally, Rurik had made a tentative pact with Douglas MacNab, a twenty-year-old nephew of Duncan… already the father of three young daughters. Douglas was also red-haired, and something about all this red hair was starting to trouble Rurik, though he could not fathom why. He'd put that puzzle aside for the time being. The final terms would have to be decided by Maire, but Douglas appeared willing to live in peace with the Campbells and make reparations for years of abuse.

  So, all is settled, Rurik thought now as he pondered the empty battlefield. My mission here is done.

  His blue mark could be removed, even as soon as tonight, with the help of the other witches. Surely, one of them would know how.

  What then?

  Ah, that was the question, and also the reason why Rurik sat staring dolefully at the scene that should be filling him with triumph. He should be off celebrating, filled with glee. Instead, a crushing weight pressed down on him. And deep down, he sensed the reason why.

  Now that his work was completed here in Scotland, he had a wedding to attend.

  And it was not to Maire.

  Not that he wanted to marry Maire.

  Really.

  Even if he wanted to, he couldn't.

  And he didn't want to.

  Really.

  Why, then, did it feel as if a fist had reached inside his chest and was squeezing his heart?

  Why, then, did he keep recalling her words to him yestereve, "I love you"?

  Why, then, did he wonder what news Wee-Jamie wanted to disclose to him when he'd said, "I have somethin' important to tell ye"?

  Why, then, did fear overwhelm him… fear that he was about to lose the most important thing in his life?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eight hours later…

  Chaos reigned at Beinne Breigha.

  But it was chaos of the best, most marvelous kind, in Maire's opinion. She stood in the doorway of her great hall, which gave her an equal view of activities both inside and outside the keep.

  Bagpipe music had been blaring sweetly for some time now. Well, some of it was sweet, when it came from the expert mouth and fingers of Murdoc. And some was not so sweet, when it came from Murdoc's apprentice-in-training, Bolthor.

  Everywhere could be heard sounds of levity. Giggles. Chuckles. Belly laughs. There was so much joy that Maire could scarce contain her own gaiety. In fact, she suspected she wore a continual, silly grin on her face.

  Females, young and old, garbed in their best arisaids, danced at will and occasionally burst into Highland songs as they helped set the trestle tables for the largest celebratory feast ever seen by her Campbell clan. "Is there aught more beauteous than a comely lass with a smile on her face?" Old John was heard to remark on more than one occasion.

  Even in the worst of times, Beinne Breagha boasted an abundance of nature's blessings, whether from land or water. If ever they'd appeared to be poor of victuals, it was not for lack of food, but more for lack of time or people to prepare fine fare. Already the boards groaned with fishes of a dozen different varieties… baked, boiled, jellied, pickled, minced, and smoked. A mass of eels still slithered in their scullery barrel awaiting the perfect moment to be boiled and added to the leek and curdled cream sauce. And not to be ignored at this special event was the Scottish favorite, smoked craigellache, or salmon.

  Even the standard fare seemed uncommon today: tupney pies; cock-a-leekie soup; blood sausages or black pudding; potted headcheese made of boiled shin meat and marrow bone; vegetables, including the infernal neeps; and of course, haggis.

  To satisfy the sweet cravings of young and old, there were preserved fruits; cook's famous currant and hazelnut pudding; uisge-beatha-laden cream custard, known as crannachan; and Scotch shortbread. Honey still in the combs sat on high shelves in the kitchen, away from sticky-fingered children, to be slathered on oat cakes or bannocks in the course of the feast.

  Males, young and old, dressed in their best pladds, stole kisses and made assignations for later as they passed to and fro from the great hall to the courtyard where a huge red deer stag was being roasted on a spit, rotated by children who took turns at the honored task. To supplement the red meat and fish were hams fresh from the smoke huts and chickens stuffed with chestnuts and boiled eggs. Later in the evening, once the wee 'uns had fallen asleep on their mothers' laps from pure exhaustion, the scullery maids would carry out a silver bowl, passed from generation to generation, containing the Campbell flummery. The base of the frothy concoction was soaked cereal, the liquid of which set to a clear jelly, flavored with rosewater and topped with cream and honey and its own distinctive ingredient… uisge-beatha. Definitely an adult drink.

  The most chaotic thing about this whole chaotic scene was that there were witches here, witches there, witches essentially everywhere. Ugly witches. Beautiful witches. Dour and sweet. Although there were a few young witches, most of them seemed ancient. Some of these were white of hair, toothless, and hairy-warted, with dried-apple faces, but others were softly aged with wise, all-knowing eyes. Though they varied in physical appearance, they all had one thing in common… cackling. Even the prettiest of them let loose with a decided cackle now and again. Mayhap that was why Maire had never become a very good witch; she'd never been able to cackle.

  The way Cailleach was cackling right now.

  "Ye've made a fine mess of things this time," her mentor proclaimed as she opened her arms for Maire's enthusiastic embrace. 'Tsk-tsk-tsk!"

  "I didn't mean to call up all the witches in Scotland." Maire replied defensively. She pulled back to get a better look at her beloved teacher. It was alarming to see how much Cailleach had aged in the past five years. Or had the witch always resembled an old hag?

  Cailleach waved a bony hand dismissively. " 'Tis not that mess I be referrin' to, dearie." She pointed to the exercise yards where Rurik was helping some men set up targets and other equipment for the games to be held on the morrow…archery, wheel throwing, wrestling,
triple jumping, and horse racing. Although Rurik had already been to the loch to bathe with the other men, and his hair was fancy-braided on the sides with amber beads, he had stripped off his tunic and was working bare-chested now, with his black braies hanging low on his hips.

  Maire's heart lurched and her blood thickened with desire at just the image of Rurik's ridged abdomen and the thin mat of hair that ran down in an enticing vee toward his…

  Her thoughts broke off at that juncture on hearing yet another cackle.

  "That be the mess I am referring to, girl."

  "Rurik?" she asked with surprise.

  "If Rurik be the name of the too-pretty Viking with the wicked eyes glancing this way, then, aye, that be the selfsame mess I see ye embroiled in."

  Maire looked toward the exercise yards again. Sure enough, Rurik's wicked eyes were directed toward her. And she could swear, though the distance was considerable, that he winked a sensual promise her way.

  Maire felt her face heat up under Cailleach's all-discerning scrutiny.

  "So, that's the way the wind be blowing," Cailleach said with another cackle. " 'Twould seem the mess is even worse than I thought. A Viking, though. I canna fash where yer good sense has gone."

  "What's wrong with a Viking?"

  "Not a thing. Not a thing… if all ye want from him is a strong fighting arm… or a virile bed partner. But methinks ye want much more."

  "And if I do?" She raised her chin defiantly.

  "If ye do," Cailleach repeated her words back at her, "then I foresee teardrops ahead. Dinna know that Norsemen are rovers? They mislike settling in one spot fer long."

  "Mayhap this one is different," Maire argued, as much to counter Cailleach's contentions as to assuage her own doubts.

  "Mayhap. Mayhap," Cailleach acquiesced. But then she asked the question that had been niggling at Maire's conscience all afternoon, "What will the Viking do when he discovers he has a son?"