by Darby, Brit
With Dragons She Walks
by
Brit Darby
Copyright © 2013 Brit Darby
Kindle Edition
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Legend
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
About Brit Darby
Legend
Deep within, the Dragons exist.
Hot blood mingles, heat embraces.
Two hearts melt, steady and strong.
Fire consumes, power inflames.
Wings take flight, faltering steps vanquish.
They dance, perform silent melodies.
In ways of old, challenges overcome.
Fierceness possesses, might unfolds.
Dragons whisper, their songs she hears.
Like minstrels warning, of future uncast.
Her will theirs, her soul complete.
In absolute trust, with Dragons she walks.
Prologue
Northumbria - 892
CAILIN STUDIED THE ROOM. Within seconds she spotted Lachlan, her twin brother.
She smiled at his attempt to hide. His arm and leg stuck awkwardly out from behind the heavy curtains, like a beacon of light pointing him out. Even when he was more creative with his hiding place, Cailin always knew where he hid; she knew what he was thinking and feeling much of the time. Her connection to Lachlan went beyond the mirror image his face reflected. Yet, she also understood there was a difference between them, a difference she couldn’t explain.
With a deep sigh, Cailin continued playing along. “Oh, I wonder where he is. Lanny, where are you?” She turned in circles and heard a muffled giggle behind the curtains.
There was no challenge in the simple game, but Lachlan loved it. He begged to play it over and over. More than anything, she loved her brother. So she endured the boredom, trying not to suggest they do something she would enjoy — like playing with the toy wooden sword left neglected in the chest.
Father carved the miniature sword for Lachlan for their eighth birthday this year, but he was scared of it. He happily traded the sword for the rag doll Mother made for Cailin. They only swapped toys when others were not around. They knew the grown-ups would not approve.
As badly as Cailin wanted to play swordfight now, she wouldn’t ask Lachlan. It was always the same when they played her games, he ended up in tears. She hated when he cried. Almost as much as she hated the other children who laughed at him.
Cailin tagged Lachlan’s arm and called out, “Your turn.” He peeked out from the curtains, looking surprised she had found him.
He smiled wide, his violet-colored eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll close my eyes and you go hide, Linny. I bet I’ll find you quicker this time.”
Cailin skipped off. “I bet you don’t,” she challenged, with a quick glance back to check he wasn’t peeking. She heard their mother’s voice just outside the nursery door — it must be bedtime.
Just as the door swung open, Cailin hurried into the small adjoining bedchamber where she slept. She slid beneath her bed. It was fun to hide from Mother so she could stay up later.
She saw her brother through the door from her hiding place. Lachlan stopped counting and uncovered his eyes, but he didn’t move. He was staring at something in the doorway. Cailin felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
“Please, no.” Mother’s voice was strained, a frightened plea. “You can’t.”
Cailin saw her auburn-haired mother back into the room, spreading her skirts protectively, as if shielding Lachlan.
A tall, muscular man stepped through the doorway. Cailin had never seen him before. His clothing was strange. He looked dressed for battle, not like the local villagers.
A broad, double-edged sword hung across one shoulder, the hilt catching the flickering candlelight. A knife dangled from a leather sheath on his belt. An axe with a large curved blade swung back and forth and clanked with each stride he took towards Mother. This man was neither serf nor lord; he was a warrior.
Cailin stared, fearful yet fascinated. She knew the long shirt he wore was metal; it clinked when he moved. His crimson cloak was held in place by an intricate gold pin at his shoulder. He wore a helmet, nose and cheek pieces covering most of his face. He took it off and tucked it under one big arm.
Long, blond braids fell past his shoulders and a pale beard covered his jaw and chin. Cailin remembered seeing men dressed like this before, when the village held the harvest faire. They came bringing furs, amber, and ivory to trade. Mother had called them Vikings. She had warned Cailin and Lachlan to stay far away from them.
“H-how did you find me?” Mother stammered.
He did not answer her question. “Give me my son.”
The man spoke English too, but his accent was strange.
“No,” Mother cried, pulling Lachlan against her. She hugged him tightly against her side. He was frightened. He snapped out of his daze and started to cry. When the big man stepped closer, Lachlan wailed louder.
“Keep the boy quiet,” the man barked.
Mother smothered Lachlan’s sobbing with her hand. “You cannot take my child. I will not let you.”
“I’ll have the boy, woman.”
“Why?” Mother continued to back away from him, pulling Lachlan with her. The stranger lifted a hand in warning and she stopped. “It’s been eight years. Why now?”
“I need a son. It is my right, he is my seed.”
Cailin absorbed the words they spoke. This news caused her no surprise. Somehow, deep down, she sensed the man she called Father until his death a year ago was not the one who sired her and Lachlan.
“He’ll lack for nothing. I’m a rich man now, a jarl, a merchant.”
Mother grimaced. “You’re a murderer and a violator of women.”
The stranger scowled at her insult, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve no need for fara í viking any more. The old ways are fading and I, too, am growing old. I’ve great wealth now, and I need a son to pass it on to before I die. Get his things.”
“No.”
Mother’s whisper was defiant. With raw courage she faced the huge warrior who towered over her, yet she trembled so Cailin heard her teeth rattling even from the other room.
“Do it, woman,” he said as he grabbed Mother’s arm, “or by Thor’s bones, my men will slaughter every man, woman, and child in this village.”
Mother stared at him, weighing the threat. The
n she nodded. “At least let me pack him some warm clothes.”
He grunted and let her go. “Hurry.”
Mother pulled Lachlan with her into the bedchamber, shutting the door partially behind her. It blocked the man’s view as Cailin rolled out from beneath the bed and stood. Mother looked surprised to see her, then relieved.
“Cailin,” Mother whispered beneath Lachlan’s sobbing. “You are my brave one, my strong one. I must ask something of you.”
“Yes, Mother.” Cailin’s heart pounded fiercely. She sought the tear-filled green eyes she knew so well, as Mother knelt and framed her face in her hands.
Mother drew Lachlan beside Cailin. “Take your brother and climb out the window, as you two do in your games. Run as fast as you can to the village for help. Do not stop; do not look back. Do not let go of Lachlan’s hand. You must keep him safe.”
Cailin did not hesitate. She took Lachlan’s hand in hers. “We’re going to play some more, Lanny; we’re both going to hide from Mother this time.”
He stopped blubbering at the promise of his favorite game. “You must keep quiet,” Cailin whispered to him. “Whoever is quietest wins a special prize. Now, let’s go.”
Mother helped Cailin ease open the window just far enough for them to wriggle out. Together they lowered Lachlan down first. He crouched in the high grass outside, staring up at them with huge eyes in the moonlight. Cailin pressed a finger to her lips to remind him to be quiet. As she swung one leg over the sill, the door slammed back against the wall.
The Viking strode into the room, bellowing with fury. Cailin looked back and saw Mother turn and face him, her frame slight in his ominous shadow.
“Run,” she screamed at Cailin, but her warning was short lived. A giant fist shot out and felled her. Mother crumpled to the ground, red skirts pooling about her like blood.
Fear spurred Cailin on and she climbed over the sill to jump after Lachlan.
Big hands grabbed her and dragged her back inside. “I’m losing patience, boy,” the Viking barked, tossing her to the floor. “Now get dressed, we must go.”
Cailin realized he did not know she was not Lachlan. She and her twin wore matching nightclothes, and her hair was only slightly longer. Everyone had trouble telling them apart when they dressed alike. She knelt by the woman lying unconscious on the floor. “Mother, are you all right?”
There was no reply but she heard Lachlan’s faint whimpering outside. At once Cailin knew what she had to do.
She scrambled to her feet, went and pulled on some of Lachlan’s clothes and boots.
Impatient, the Viking picked her up and turned to leave. He clutched her under one arm and his helmet under the other. Gruffly he said, “Was but a tap on the chin, boy. Moira will be fine when she wakens.”
Cailin had no choice but to believe him as he carried her from the room. When her mother was no longer in sight, sadness and loss filled her heart. Despite everything, she could not still her curiosity and twisted about to look up at the man to ask, “Where are we going?”
He glanced down at her, looking surprised. She defiantly stared back into his ice-blue eyes.
“Home, boy.”
“My name’s not ‘boy,’ it’s Lachlan,” she lied, hoping he believed her.
“We’re going home, Lachlan. Home to Hedeby.”
His long strides carried her quickly out the door into the darkness, down twisting stairs in the corner turret and out into the bailey. Cailin looked back as the tower keep was left behind, the black maw of night swallowing them. Then she saw him. Edwin, her own uncle and the village priest, standing there watching as a stranger carried her away.
SHE STARTED TO CALL out to Uncle Edwin for help. But something froze the words in her throat. The priest looked furtive, glancing about as if to see who else might be watching. He made no attempt to stop the Viking or help her; he merely stepped back into the shadows as if to disguise his presence, his black cassock swirling in the wind. Cailin’s confusion gave way to instinct. Uncle Edwin betrayed us, she thought.
Cailin knew Uncle Edwin disliked her and Lachlan. She remembered his words about twins during one homily at Mass: “Evil, unnatural soul-sharing.” Now she recalled other angry words she overheard between him and Mother. Many times Uncle Edwin tried to persuade Mother to give their property to the Church since Father’s death. She refused, reminding him it was Lachlan’s inheritance.
Uncle Edwin’s motives were obvious: he wanted Lachlan out of his way. Bringing the Church such a large, profitable estate was sure to earn him a long-coveted bishopric. Land equaled power, Cailin knew that.
She remembered asking Mother about her uncle’s persistent attempts to claim Tynemoor, both the village and the keep of the same name. Mother shrugged off her worry.
“Edwin will never get Tynemoor, Cailin. Your father made sure of it before he died.”
“Couldn’t he seize it anyway, in the name of Rome?” Cailin asked. She had heard of such things. The Church was very powerful.
Mother shook her head. “Edwin is only a village priest. Tynemoor is held in trust by the MacGregors now until Lachlan comes of age. Your father did not trust Edwin and rightly so. He is a greedy man despite his pious airs. If anyone tries to take the keep or the village by force, or anything suspicious happens to us, my people will raise arms. Your uncle knows it. Even he is not foolish enough to cross the MacGregors.”
Well, for now, his plans were thwarted. Lachlan was still heir apparent. Uncle Edwin could not steal everything, at least not yet and not so easily. That gave Cailin some small satisfaction.
She still worried about Lachlan. He was often timid, frightened, but even more so without her. Her twin depended on her. Now his life depended on her ability to allay this Viking’s suspicions. She knew her gentle, sweet brother would not survive this journey, or the brutal warrior who thought nothing of snatching a child into the night.
More than anything, though, she wondered what lay ahead. A twinge of guilt struck her. Somehow, she felt more excited than afraid.
THE VIKING’S LONG STRIDES took them quickly from the castle grounds and down to the rocky shoreline. Cailin couldn’t stop her questions. “How are we getting to Hedeby?”
“On my ship,” he said, never slowing his gait.
“A longship, with a great Dragon’s head?”
He glanced down at her, again surprised. “Yes,” he muttered. “How did you know?”
Cailin chewed her bottom lip. Perhaps she had said too much. “I see it,” she cried out, drawing his attention away from her in the nick of time.
Never had she seen such a thing — except in her dreams. Cailin dreamed she would leave one day aboard a strange ship with a Dragon’s head. When she told Mother about her dream, she remembered Mother had turned pale and seemed upset. It made sense now.
The Viking’s narrowed eyes still studied her. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Afraid?” Cailin’s chin went up. “I’m never afraid.”
“Good. You’re my son then. I had doubts when you were bawling and hanging on your mother’s skirts. It’s as if you were a different boy now, Lachlan.” He laughed for the first time, loud and long.
They rowed out to the big ship in a smaller boat, and then the Viking made her climb a rope ladder and handed her over to the watch of another man who stood on deck. Other crewmen scurried about making preparations to leave Brittany’s shores. The hearty laughter of the man who said he was her real father rang out above the din of noises. He was clearly the leader of these men, and bragged to the others that his son spawned from a Celt’s loins was never afraid.
Cailin regretted her boasting. “Well,” she amended, scuffing her boot on the ship’s deck as his tough-looking crew looked her over, “I’m almost never afraid.”
“No matter, son. I’m just relieved I don’t have to coddle you all the way home. Can’t stand a sniveling child.” The Viking tousled Cailin’s hair in a rough show of affection.
The ship move
d swiftly out to sea, like a sleek caterpillar whose legs dipped into the dark sea in rhythm to crawl across to a new land. Cailin watched the shoreline disappear, and a pang of guilt clutched her, remembering her mother lying unconscious and Lachlan whimpering with fear.
Someone tugged on her sleeve. Startled, Cailin turned and faced an old woman who was not much taller than her.
Pale eyes, the color of stones washed nearly colorless by weather, studied her. Gray streaked a head of dark hair, neatly twisted into two long braids that framed a weathered face. The woman looked ancient to Cailin, and her bony fingers painfully poked her in the ribs.
“Owww,” Cailin protested.
“Come, sit with me,” the old woman ordered in the tongue Cailin understood. Then she sought cover in the makeshift tent set up in the middle of the ship’s deck. She never even looked back to see if Cailin followed, it was assumed she would. So she did.
“There,” the old woman pointed with her stick-like finger, then lowered herself onto the deck floor piled with furs.
Once they had settled themselves, she once again stared at Cailin, pale eyes boring into her. Stubbornly, Cailin refused to glance away from the piercing stare, but she fidgeted uncomfortably in the furs.
The crone’s lips pursed, the wrinkles in her cheeks deepening into folds of leathered skin. Then, without speaking, she scooped up a pile of polished rocks; beautiful stones marked with strange markings and colored red. She chanted, and though the words were strange to Cailin, it sounded like a prayer. The woman cupped the stones before her, as if offering them up to some unknown being. She finished and tossed the stones onto a leather skin and exclaimed, “Urd! Verthandi! Skuld!”
The hag gazed for a long time at the scattered rocks then moved one as if to see it better. She cackled, a dry hack spewing from worn-out lungs. The cackle turned into laughter, like the caw of a raven drifting above the constant swishing of the oars.
The Viking was drawn by the sound and he came and peeked beneath the tent. He saw the stones scattered upon the floor and sobered. “What do the runes say, Hulda?”