Ejnar guffawed. “Bastard!” he said, without animosity. “You’ll bed her yet, will you not? Persistent... bold... I like that... very well, Bjorn, Erik’s son. If the information you’ve borne me today proves worthy, I shall indeed grant you my daughter at long last! What say you to that?”
Elienor heard a grunt and ensuing sigh, and imagined Bjorn relieved.
Was this the betrayal she’d dreamed of?
“If she’ll have you,” Ejnar added.
“She’ll have me!” Bjorn avowed.
Ejnar laughed once more. “’Tis baffling is it not... that a man’s weakness should eternally lie betwixt the legs of a woman? Some day, I warrant, the crafty bitches shall rule all the lands!” And with that declaration, all three roared with laughter. “Come,” Ejnar charged. “Let us hear what you have to say.” And with that, they moved out of hearing distance.
When Hrolf swaggered into view moments later, his eyes were alight with unholy mirth. Snickering, he bent, unlocked the grate excitedly, and swung the cell door wide. “Come out, come out!” he beckoned ominously. “’Tis time at last!” And with that, an anticipatory grin split his red beard and face.
And in that instant, a dark foreboding swept over Elienor, a presentiment more sinister than any she’d ever known.
The time had come, she knew, and the realization chilled her to the bone.
Chapter 32
Alarik was beginning to wonder that mayhap he’d been mistaken.
They’d made the journey to Vendland to meet with Burislav the Pole entirely without incident, and now upon their return there was yet no sign of Ejnar, or Hrolf. His gut twisted with the thought, for it had been weeks now since he’d seen Elienor.
For the first time he considered that he might not see her again.
Nei, but he would find her, by God! If it took the remainder of his days, he would find her.
Altogether they sailed with nearly seventy-one vessels in their entourage, and men enough to crush the life from any army Ejnar could amass upon his own.
And crush him they would.
If they could find him.
Along with sixty of their own well-manned warships, they’d managed to recruit another eleven of the Jomsborg Viking’s. Still, something beleaguered him now...
Something...
Above them, the sun shone bright as the Goldenhawk glided over the waves, its proud hawk’s head soaring majestically before them, but the breeze swept dark clouds directly into their path. The threat of a storm gave rise again to his feeling of foreboding.
About them the air was calm.
Too calm...
Instinct told him something was amiss, and he hadn’t lived so many years by disregarding his intuition.
The gut feeling had begun when first their departure from Vendland had been delayed, but he’d attributed his unease to his agitation over recovering Elienor. Now he found cause to wonder whether it had been a planned conspiracy. Scanning the waters ahead, he spied their escort, the Jomsvikings—they’d granted their ships much too easily, he thought, and his sense of unease intensified.
And now that he considered it... Burislav, too, had handed over the lands Olav had requested much too promptly... with nary a protest...
An hour past, the lead Jomsviking ship had bid them follow, saying that they knew well the safest route through the island sounds... that the water was too shallow in places for the Longserpent and the Goldenhawk to pass through. At the time it had sounded reasonable enough... though now...
His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he inspected Svolth’s chalky coastline rising in the distance. It appeared forsaken and deserted, but something wasn’t right.
Something...
And then he spied them and cursed roundly.
In that instant, the clouds moved over them and the skies darkened forbiddingly as he motioned across the frothy waters to Olav upon the Longserpent.
Before he could speak, from another ship, the Shortserpent, came an anxious shout. “My king! Do you see them?”
An undeterminable number of ships made their way swiftly forward, coming like hungry rats from behind their refuge. Even as they advanced, the Jomsviking ships fell back from their midst.
“Betrayed!” Alarik roared to Olav. “We are betrayed! Lower the sails!” he commanded his men at the top of his lungs. “Secure the ships!”
“But there are so many!” someone bellowed from upon the Crane.
Olav’s gaze snapped about. “Let not my men think of fleeing!” he warned. “Never have I fled in battle! May God reclaim my soul, but we’ll not flee now!” He pivoted to Alarik. “Know you who commands the fleet that sails against us?”
Alarik squinted as the sun burst through the clouds once more, its brightness blinding. He shook his head, turning to Olav, his hand shielding his eyes. “It appears to be Svein Forkbeard with his Danes!”
“Humph! We should have no fear from that quarter! There is no courage in those Danes! Who else dares challenge us this day?”
“The Swedes!” Sigurd bellowed with contempt at Alarik’s back.
“Hah!” Olav scoffed. “Better it would have been for them to stay home and lap their sacrificial bowls than to attack the Longserpent and encounter our weapons!”
“My lord!” someone interjected from upon the Longserpent. “Haconson the jarl sails beside them, as well!”
Olav, his visage dark, turned to regard the man who’d spoken, and then focused once again on the approaching ships. “Now there,” he remarked, brooding suddenly, “we would be wise to keep our guard!” He turned to Alarik, shouting across the water. “Very likely he considers he has a bone to pick with us. We might expect a smart fight with that force. They are as Norse as we!”
Alarik tipped his head, his gaze returning to the approaching bulwark of ships. He’d known Olav would turn people against him with his heavy hand, but he’d never have guessed so many.
They were far outnumbered.
With his foot propped imposingly upon his prow, he shouted brisk commands to his warriors, urging them to make ready their weapons. Men scurried about, lashing ships together, readying themselves for a battle at sea. Alarik merely stood scrutinizing the approaching ships... searching... searching... and then he saw them... Ejnar’s twin skeids, vessels made on specially fine lines and thereby swifter than most other ships, and his gut twisted. A shuddering coursed through him as he gazed at the twin set of striped sails. It was not fright that caused it, for he had no fear of dying should it be his destiny. It was every man’s fate to die someday... rather it was the thought of dying without telling Elienor what was in his heart.
He didn’t want to die without seeing her once more, didn’t want to live without her, and the realization struck him like lightning and thunder... not only did he love her...
He needed her.
The glitter of Olav’s armor caught his eye suddenly as he glanced toward the Longserpent. As Olav had, most of the men had worn their full armor for this treacherous sea voyage, but Olav’s mail was made of a new and thicker weight. No mere arrow could pierce it. A most peculiar presentiment came over him as he watched Olav riding his dragon prow, his magnificent gold helm shining in the sun and his gilded shield and sword held ready in his grasp. Alarik was driven to call out to his kin across the churning water.
Olav turned to face him.
“Take care, mine brother,” Alarik charged.
The smile Olav returned was arrogant. “Nei, mine bror, ’tis you who needs must take care!” His eyes sparkled mischievously, and then suddenly there was no more time for talk.
As the legion of drakken approached, arrows flew—some ignited—and fell like lethal rain from the darkened sky.
Within another moment drakken prows collided fiercely. Grappling hooks were hurled both ways, securing the enemy ships to their own, allowing men easy passage from ship to ship.
The whoosh of arrows was a merciless roar in Elienor’s ears. She’d been bound hast
ily with ropes to the mast. And still Hrolf taunted her.
“I cannot wait to see the bastard’s face when he spies you!” he told her. Reaching high, he ignited the sailcloth above her with the lighted pitch torch he held in his fist. The billowing fabric caught at once, and the flame licked swiftly upward with the sweeping breeze. He laughed hideously. “Now to seek out the bastard!” he informed her, snickering. “And I shall cleave him in two with mine blade as he watches you burn!” He sniggered malevolently. “Tell, me, Fransk witch... will you watch each other die? How poetic an end!” He laughed again. “Tis one for the skalds, I’ll warrant!” And with that he left her, leaping over the gunwale, onto the nearest vessel, forsaking her to the flames.
Elienor watched him make his way from ship to ship, knowing it would be futile to scream out a warning. Over the clamor of war nothing could be heard. And with so many ships surrounding them, she had no inkling where Alarik might be. She could only pray... and continue to manipulate the ropes, for she’d managed to loosen them already...
Jesu—she had to free herself.
This was her nightmare come true!
She had to save him.
Furiously, she worked at the ropes, bruising and chafing her tender wrists with her efforts. But she didn’t care.
She had to warn him!
Or die trying.
When the first ship collided with the Goldenhawk, Alarik knew not to give his opponent time enough to board. In a battle at sea it was common practice to board a vessel, clear it, then take it for one’s own. He took the offensive, and with a fierce battle cry that sent shivers down the spines of many, he leapt aboard the smaller vessel, keeping his eyes upon the striped sails of Ejnar’s skeids that were his destination. When before his eyes one of the ship’s sails caught flame, erupting with the wind, reason fled him entirely. He fought feverishly, with the insanity attributed to the berserkers, whose legendary lust for killing drove them into veritable madness in the heat of battle.
By God, he’d not let either Hrolf or Ejnar perish—not before he was able to discover Elienor’s whereabouts!
And if by chance they’d harmed her... he’d rip the entrails from whomever was directly responsible and feed them to both Ejnar and Hrolf!
Faced with his fury, the first two men to confront him were felled at once. The third, the black-haired leader of the vessel, swung an axe at his head. Alarik dodged it, parrying with his sword. Like thunder, metal clashed against metal, and the mighty force of Alarik’s blow hurled the man backward against the gunwale, his spine cracking with the impact.
Yet another Dane rushed at him.
Alarik moved toward the man with deadly purpose. Dragvendil sliced swiftly to wrest the life from him—there was no mercy to be shown, for if he did so, he’d not survive the day. With a muttered curse, Alarik shook the man free of his weapon, feeling no satisfaction as the Dane tumbled back over the gunwale into the ocean to swim with the beasts of the sea.
By God, he’d not be satisfied until every last Dane and Swede that had sailed against them this day was slain!
Nor would he rest until Elienor was again in his arms and Hrolf’s blood blackened his sword!
Chapter 33
With the last vessel cleared, Alarik made his way one ship closer to his destination. Behind him, blood ran in rivulets. The fighting had been so intense, his mind so centered upon Elienor, that he was completely unaware of the moment the tide turned against them.
At long last, he was near enough to leap the distance unto Ejnar’s burning skeid, but he froze abruptly. At the shock of seeing her, his chest felt as though it would rend in two.
He watched, paralyzed, as Elienor, bound to the burning mast, struggled to free herself. Her violet eyes pleaded with him across the distance. His gut twisted, and for the longest instant, he could not move.
And then he made his way toward her once more.
Though Elienor shouted, Alarik seemed not to hear her. He fought his way toward her, leaping gunwales as though they were nonexistent. She shook her head frantically. “Nay!” she screamed. “Nay!”
With a terrible crack a ship collided against Ejnar’s skeid. Jolted by the impact, Elienor screamed.
Spying Olav clinging to the serpent head upon its prow, her chest constricted painfully. No time—dear God, no time! Even as she burst into hopeless tears, she wriggled one hand free of its bindings, and without a moment to spare, she began at once to release the other.
As she worked the loops, the vision before her transformed to the smoky scene of her nightmares—it was smoke, not mist, she realized with mounting fear.
Fire raged about her.
More horrible a death she could not imagine! Even after having spent so long confined within what amounted to no more than an open grave, Elienor could no longer feel afeared of that particular nightmare any longer. In the last month she’d faced every horror possible... or so she’d thought.
Her chest constricted as sheer panic assailed her.
Aboard the Longserpent, Olav fought savagely. As Elienor watched with bated breath, arrows converged upon his ship. At once his men scattered for the gunwales, shouting and leaping over them into the sea.
As her gaze was drawn again to Alarik, her binding fell free. Her heart twisting, she broke away, screaming that Alarik go, that he leave her and save himself. Desperately, she tried to find a path through the flames, but could not, and she screamed again as arrows and spears flew past her head.
Alarik watched, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes beheld. Even in peril as she was, Elienor screamed, fearing for him, shouting that he leave her.
All about her, Ejnar’s ship was ablaze, burning with Elienor trapped upon it. He’d never reach her in time, nor did she seem to want him to. Helpless to do aught, he watched as the mast splintered and groaned, collapsing sideways upon the Longserpent beside it.
Damn her, he cared not what she wanted.
He’d be damned if he’d simply let her die!
Flames burst and scattered.
In the confusion more men clamored over the Longserpent’s gunwales. Olav himself scaled to the highest point of his dragon prow, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Torn between wanting to aid him and to save Elienor, Alarik chose Elienor, knowing that his brother could hold his own well enough. Elienor could not. It was up to him to help her or watch her be consumed before his very eyes. The fire was spreading too rapidly. He only hoped Olav would last until he was able to return to aid him. Yet even as he made the decision to leap the distance to Ejnar’s skeid, his blood turned cold.
As he watched, Olav raised his shield unto the heavens. “I surrender this battle to you, filthy Danes, for ’tis all but lost to me now!”
Alarik could not believe his ears. Confusion and outrage erupted within him. “Nei, Olav! Nei!” he shouted furiously. In his mind, his brother was taking the coward’s way out “Nei!” he bellowed.
Olav spared him not a glance. His mind set, he continued at the top of his lungs, “I stand, as God is my witness, at no man’s mercy, but at God’s instead! Thus I curse your heathen souls! May you rot in hell!”
Having said that, he finally turned to smile ruefully at Alarik, letting loose his grip upon the dragon head.
As in slow motion, Olav plummeted into the sea, feet first, sheltering his head with his shield to escape the arrows that flew at him.
An explosion of bubbles burst from beneath the shield as he sank and then the shield shifted and slid into the murky water as his mail carried him downward. His crimson mantle snagged free. It billowed on top of the water, a grim, silent marker.
Her heart twisting, Elienor watched as Alarik cast down his precious sword. She knew an instant of inconceivable panic as he peeled off his mail, flinging it wrathfully down upon the deck. He glared down into the water where Olav had vanished mere seconds before, and then, letting out an angry roar, turned to face her once more, his eyes locking with hers across the flames, his ches
t heaving in fury. Elienor could see, even at this distance, the blinding emotion burning within him.
In the next instant, he was running, leaping, hurtling over the churning water toward her.
Just as in her dream.
And in that instant, she heard the unholy laughter, and her eyes followed the sound. As in her dream, she found Hrolf upon yet another ship, with his hand poised in midair. Time stood still as his arm reared backward, then forward, the handle cocked in his tight grasp, the axe aimed...
Directly at Alarik.
In the same instant she saw Hrolf heave the weapon through the air, she watched as another blade was embedded within Hrolf’s back. Sigurd. Elienor could discern the look of thwarted surprise on Hrolf’s face even as he toppled forward into the churning water.
Yet there was no time to feel vindicated, nor even relieved.
God help her, but she knew what she must do. She took a fortifying breath and propelled herself through the flames, screaming, running, and like Alarik, she hurled herself through the air, her skirt ablaze, trying to deflect the blow of the axe from him.
In the instant before they collided in midair, she saw Alarik’s look of stunned surprise, and then they collided, their bodies twisting together violently.
With a hoarse shout, Alarik attempted to catch Elienor to him, failing. In the next instant, an axe handle came from nowhere, striking her aside the head. With a soft gasp of pain, she closed her eyes.
And then they were both within the water.
Saltwater stung his eyes, but he kept them wide, desperate to locate her... her kyrtle... her hair... anything... anything to seize hold of.
The water was bloody.
He twisted wildly within the water, bubbles exploding all about, blinding his vision. His weight carried him down... down, until at last he caught sight, not of Elienor’s, but of Olav’s billowing red-gold hair. Instinctively, he seized a handful and propelled himself back toward the surface to recover Elienor.
Olav had been holding his breath, trying in vain against the weight of his mail to resurface. His lungs near to bursting he clawed at his brynie with a frenzy born of panic.
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