by Darby, Brit
Her laughter stilled, but a crooked smile cracked her face. “The runes tell me that Loki has tricked you.”
His expression darkened. “What do you mean?”
“This child is not your son, Thorvald.”
Cailin felt her heart lurch. How did the old woman know she was not a boy? She looked at the stones, the strange rocks called runes. Somehow they had told her. Was it witchcraft?
The Viking called Thorvald turned his anger on Cailin. “You are the child of Moira of the MacGregors of Alba, are you not?”
“Yes.”
He turned back to Hulda, his words biting. “Your stones have told you wrong. Perhaps age is stealing your powers of Sight.”
Again, she cackled, seemingly unconcerned by his anger. “You are insolent, nephew. I said this child is not your son. I did not say she was not of your loins.”
The news hit Thorvald like a blow to the stomach. Air whooshed from his lungs and he stilled. His eyes widened with incredulity. “She. You said she, Hulda.”
“I did.” Hulda nodded, but offered no further explanation.
Thorvald turned rage-filled eyes on Cailin. She did not shrink away; she hoped no fear showed on her face. She reminded herself she was never afraid. Well, almost never.
“You are not my son Lachlan?” he bellowed.
“No.” She decided it would do no good to lie. What if he challenged her and ordered her stripped and examined — he might well do so. “I am Cailin.”
“A daughter,” he spat, making the word sound dirty. “The priest lied. He said I had a son.”
He yanked her roughly to her feet, enraged. “You and your mother deceived me, you little brat. I shall throw you into the sea for this.”
Hulda stood fast despite her age. “Stop! You cannot, will not do such a thing.”
“I went for my son, Hulda. I have no use for a daughter.”
The old woman’s eyes narrowed on him, and not for the first time Cailin sensed the Viking’s unease. He clearly respected and feared this woman, whoever she was.
Hulda ordered him to put Cailin down. He did so, dropping her just as roughly. Cailin felt tears fill her eyes.
“It is how it should be,” Hulda said. “The runes have spoken.”
“No.” Thorvald folded his big arms across his chest, refused to accept it. “What good is a mere female? It is a son I need.”
“You cannot change what has been done. It’s the will of Odhinn.”
He grimaced. “I’ll take her back then.”
“It’s too late, Thorvald. By now, the alarm has been raised, everyone has been alerted — we will all be killed if you return now. Even you cannot go against the will of the gods.”
Cailin understood something by Thorvald’s reaction. A son was every man’s dream; a daughter of no consequence. A single tear fell from her eye and Cailin angrily wiped it away. No man, not even her real father, would make her cry.
Hulda saw her tear and placed a protective arm about her shoulders. “This dottir you reject will be more of a son to you than your other sons who died. Destiny has brought her to you, Thorvald. Make of it what you will. Do not let your male pride destroy this gift from the gods.”
“Bah,” he bellowed. “Age has begun to addle your mind.” Thorvald threw up his hands and turned away. “I wipe my hands of her, old woman.”
Chapter One
Hedeby, Denmark - 906
CRACK! THE WHIP SCORED a devastating path across Drake Talorcan’s back. Already marked with numerous welts — some old, some new — the fresh laceration cut deep into the swollen, tender flesh. Drake hoped the painful sting would eventually lessen, the scars toughen against the lash.
He was wrong. It hurt like the fires of hell were laid on him.
Drake gritted his teeth, bracing against the pillory for the next strike. Though the autumn day was cool, sweat trickled down his forehead, burning his eyes. He kept a calm demeanor, despite the excruciating pain burning through him. Never would he break, no matter the punishment and degradation he suffered. He would die before submitting.
He knew his rigid countenance and refusal to cower only provoked the man wielding the whip to work harder at his task.
The flogging stopped unexpectedly. Drake glanced over his shoulder and tried to lock gazes with his punisher, but the slaver’s attention was focused elsewhere. Instead of the normal sadistic delight, Drake saw something like embarrassment in the Arab’s eyes. He wondered what could possibly cause such discomfort in the cruel slave trader. Then he saw. Not what, but who.
A tall, willowy woman stood there, watching as Drake stood shackled to the pillory. She commanded everyone’s attention on the docks, including his own. The whip, the Arab, the punishment — Drake forgot everyone and everything at her sudden appearance. She looked young, but her demeanor and stature showed maturity.
He saw her delicately-pleated chemise and intricately embroidered tunic were the finest linen. Her tunic brooches were silver and gold, like the mixture of necklaces adorning her slender neck. Rings and bracelets graced her wrists and hands, her fur cloak held in place with a richly decorated pin set with gemstones.
Her hair was neatly braided in a thick, single rope over her shoulder, but its color caught the sparkle of the sun, revealing deep auburn strands mixed into lighter flaxen blond. An unusual color foiled by her rich outfit. She was a sight to behold.
Her gaze focused on Drake. Despite his direct stare, she did not look away, but held his gaze boldly, casually. Only the slight flush on her cheeks hinted she was even aware of him.
Drake felt his cousin’s nudge, the younger man risking a step closer now that the slaver’s whip had stilled. “À lainn,” Leo said; the Gaelic word for ‘beautiful’ meant for Drake’s ears only. He heard Leo’s deep, wistful sigh. Drake grimaced a smile through gritted teeth, but when the flush on the woman’s cheek deepened, he suspected she might have understood, as well.
“Your punishment seems to have little effect on this man, Ichbar.”
The woman addressed the slaver in Arabic. Drake glanced back at Ichbar and saw her comment made the little man uncomfortable, but he suspected it was more her proud manner and rich garb that caused beads of sweat to pop out on the slaver’s forehead. Here was someone wealthy, someone influential enough to make or break his trade in flesh.
Still panting from the exertion of flogging Drake, Ichbar mopped his sweaty brow with the end of his soiled turban. “This one is nothing but trouble, my lady. I must whip him or he does not obey.”
The woman mulled this over, her gaze breaking from Drake’s for a moment. She walked around him in a circle. When she faced him, he straightened as best he could and heard a soft gasp. He felt the rivulets of blood, dried and fresh both, trickling down his flesh. No doubt the sight of blood distressed her delicate female constitution.
She completed her circle and addressed the slaver with cool authority. “He is for sale?”
“Yes, but I fear it is a hopeless case. Who will want such a malcontent?”
When Drake glanced back over his shoulder, he saw she looked thoughtful. “Perhaps some men are not meant to be owned.”
Her retort surprised Ichbar. His mouth opened as if he might protest such an outrageous opinion, especially coming from a woman. But he slammed it shut, confirming Drake’s idea she was a woman of wealth and position.
“In time, this thrall will learn what he is and behave,” Ichbar muttered.
“With time,” she said, her eyes narrowing on the slaver, “and sufficient punishment?”
Ichbar heard the insult behind the words. Drake saw the Arab’s dark eyes flash, but he said nothing more.
“What is his name?” she asked Ichbar.
“Drake Talorcan.” Drake cleared his dry throat and answered for himself, ignoring the Arab’s scowl when he did so. “At least, that is my true name.”
Only a slightly raised eyebrow revealed she was surprised by his fluent Arabic. She said nothing and the mo
ment dragged on, time suspended, the others gathered around seeming to fade away. He wondered what silenced her; she seemed so confident only moments before.
“Dragon,” she murmured, perhaps meant only for her own ears.
“Aye, that is what I am called,” Drake said. “’Tis the meaning of Drake.”
“Yes, I know.”
Again, their gazes met and held. Suddenly, a haggard old woman pushed through the crowd, and the spell between them shattered. She spoke querulously in Norse.
“Cailin, what keeps you?”
“Nothing,” the younger woman replied, turning away from Drake. With only a cursory last glance back at him, she followed the other woman and disappeared into the crowd.
“Who was she?” Drake asked Ichbar, who still stood, whip in hand, unmoving.
This brought the slaver’s attention back to him — perhaps not a good move on his part.
“No business of yours, slave.”
He moved to strike Drake again, lifting the whip high, but his hand stilled. Doubt plagued the little man as he looked in the direction the beautiful stranger had gone. She was nowhere in sight, yet now he seemed nervous, as if afraid to punish Drake.
For that, Drake was grateful.
CAILIN HURRIED AFTER HULDA. Despite her advanced age and bent back, the old woman seemed to fly through the crowded town. Hulda’s dark blue cloak floated behind her, giving her an ethereal look, as if she glided on air. Her hardwood staff, carved with the sacred runes and capped with a bronze mounting, thumped along the wooden walkways as she progressed through the hoard of people.
Hulda paid no heed to the merchants and their table of wares; fine Chinese silks, Russian furs, and Indian ivory. The fish seller’s fresh catch didn’t even make her pause, nor did the soapstone bowls or glass brought from the East.
Smoke hung heavy over the town, but the tang of salt from the sea mixed with the smoldering air as they moved along the docks. They were filled with workers as each merchant unloaded his knarr of cargo brought back from foreign ports around the world. There were many ships, each distinctive with its colored flags and sails, but Cailin did not see the Dreki Logi.
She tried to suppress her worry, yet the nagging thought was unyielding in its persistence. Why hadn’t Thorvald’s ship returned by now? Her pace slowed as she looked out past the palisade and wondered if her premonition came to pass — danger and betrayal clouded her mind.
“Cailin,” Hulda called again, frustrated at having to continually stop and wait.
Quickening her pace, Cailin caught up again. Hulda’s glance made it clear she was not pleased; she didn’t approve of Cailin lagging, much less stopping and interfering with the slaver.
Cailin’s actions surprised herself as much as Hulda. Still, she had done it, and she wasn’t about to let Hulda’s over protectiveness take away the small bit of satisfaction she felt from stopping the brutal whipping on the docks. A temporary respite, perhaps, but maybe Ichbar might be less inclined to punish the man called Drake so savagely. Ichbar knew she was Jarl Thorvald’s daughter. Her father’s position demanded fear and respect, no less than the man himself.
“Dragon,” Cailin muttered to herself. But though she whispered the word, Hulda stopped dead in her tracks. The familiar puckering of her lips warned Cailin a scolding would follow.
Still, even Hulda’s warning look could not banish the image of the man — the Dragon. The Pict’s height. His broad shoulders. Brooding eyes the color of dark topaz, the golden flecks within their mysterious depths like molten fire. Dark hair, a shade short of black, cropped like a proper thrall’s. And, of course, the tattoos.
Despite the fact the man called Drake was a thrall, she saw his pride. Even shackled to the pillory, he did not cower. No amount of punishment would ever change that, she sensed. Something inside her tightened with premonition. Or was it a warning?
Hulda’s querulous voice brought her back to the present. “Why, dottir? What possessed you to make such a scene?”
“You know how I feel about slavery. Why does one human need to own another?” Cailin asked. She didn’t defend her actions to Hulda, but she couldn’t suppress the sudden rush of emotion as the image in her mind painted a lifetime of cruelty the man would suffer because of his stubbornness, his refusal to submit. “It’s shameful and wrong. I couldn’t stroll by as if nothing was wrong.”
Hulda sighed, took Cailin by the elbow and they walked on. “You’ve a big heart, Cailin. I know slavery upsets you, but you mustn’t interfere in men’s business. It can only bring trouble.”
Cailin’s lip curled and she scoffed. “Men’s business.”
“That’s what I mean, Cailin. No wonder you’ve not found a husband. You are too outspoken, rash. And well past marrying age.” She clucked and her lips puckered again. “That is shameful.”
Hulda’s remark made Cailin stop, sheep bleating behind them as animals wandered freely among the people. She raised her voice above the din to be heard. “I haven’t a husband because there is no decent man here I would consider taking to my bed!”
Hulda snorted. The sound reminded Cailin of the pigs rooting in the streets in search of food, adding to the menagerie of noise. “You’ll be an old crone like me, with no man to warm you on cold winter nights, no children to fill your woman’s heart. It’s not meant for you, my dear. I cannot let you be so foolish.”
“You never married, Hulda. What’s so bad about being independent, with no man to order you about, no children to tie you down?”
“It’s lonely. I’d not recommend it.”
“You have me. Oh, Hulda,” Cailin’s mood sobered. “I hope, despite not being your child, I am as much a daughter to you as you have been a mother to me.”
“Ja,” the old woman admitted in a softer voice, “you are like my own child.”
“I couldn’t have survived if it weren’t for you.”
Hulda looked up at Cailin, her gray eyes full of tears. “Thorvald loves you, Cailin. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
Cailin shrugged. “Does any such man exist, Hulda? One who knows how to show his love, his need, his caring? I think not.”
“Thorvald was once such a man. I remember a man who was kind and giving to his family. But when his wife and three sons died of the fever, he died with them. He turned bitter, and feared loving anyone as he once loved them. It’s best you stop trying to win his heart, child. He hasn’t one to give and it will only bring you sorrow.”
Cailin was thoughtful. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Hulda? Buying Thorvald’s love?”
“Isn’t that the real reason you are having the swords made?”
“I don’t know.” Was it? Cailin wasn’t sure. At first, it was her excuse, a gift for Thorvald for Winternights. But now, the reason seemed totally different, a haunting vision cast in steel for her two hands to wield, not her father’s.
Arm in arm they walked past the tannery, the shoemaker’s, and another fisherman’s stall. There Hulda stopped, patted her hand and said, “I must hurry home now, someone is coming to have their runes read today. Do not dally. Pick out some fresh fish and bring it back for supper, Cailin.”
Cailin promised to do so and as soon as Hulda left, she walked to the artisan’s shop instead. She ducked through the open doorway of the forge, where an ash twig was carefully placed over the sill to ward off evil.
Hammering on an anvil, Erik looked up from his work, a large smile breaking across his craggy face. “Cailin, you came to see my creations. Good. I believe them my finest yet.”
Overjoyed to show off his work, Erik proudly brought the swords over to a table that sat in the middle of the room. Almost lovingly, he laid out the twin steel weapons and removed the silk wrap from each one.
Although Cailin dreamed of the Dragons her whole life, their splendor drew a gasp of surprise when she saw the images come to life before her. Erik crafted them from a drawing Cailin gave him, but never had she imagined they would be so magnificent
.
The intricate gold and silver pattern work in the hilts was a work of art in itself. But the emeralds carefully inlaid into the design of the Dragons flickered like tiny stars of green light, their twin ruby eyes flashed red fire. They came alive. Never had she seen swords so exquisite, and she had seen many over the years from working in trade.
She marveled that instruments of death were so beautiful. Hesitantly, Cailin touched each in turn. She sensed the strength, the grace, the heat. They spoke to her.
Erik picked one sword up and handed it to her. Cailin wrapped her hand around the hilt and stepped back, swinging the blade through the air. Its balance was perfect. Even the steel of the blade was etched with runes and swirled decorations, its edge honed to glossy sharpness. As it sliced through the air, the sword’s song filled her ears — its power touched her heart.
She picked up the second sword in her other hand. Though the blades were equal in size, each Dragon was posed a different way, distinct in its look. Even their wind songs sounded in different keys. With a sword spinning in each hand, she felt the energy surge through her.
The artisan waited, impatiently, for her comment. Carefully, she fit the two swords together, seeing one entwined with the other seamlessly. When joined, they slid into the single scabbard effortlessly. She gently laid it back onto the table and nodded her approval.
“My Dragons are complete.”
Chapter Two
“MAYBE SHE’S SOME SORT of Viking princess,” Leo mused, a wistful tone to his words.
“Maybe your imagination has run away with you.” Drake was growing impatient with his cousin’s constant chatter about the mysterious woman at the market that morning. Bad enough he couldn’t get her image from his mind, but Leo’s innocent pondering made it impossible to be rid of the memory. His mood worsened. He was tired and sore, and even slumping against the wall of their prison made him ache in places he forgot he had.
A sudden thought struck Leo, his brown eyes widening. “Do you think she will come back and buy us?”