by Hazel Hunter
Stunned, she pressed her palm over it. “I forgot that I have a tattoo on my face?”
“’Twas no’ made with ink. It cannae be seen.” Tormod eased her hand away. “I but felt the marks when you pressed your cheek against me, on the ride from the forest. Such skinwork is powerful magic among the Viking. That you wear it may mean you are a shieldmaiden—a female warrior—but you have no battle scars.”
She resisted the urge to look under her own tunic. But at the thought that he would have seen all of her when he took off her clothes, her cheeks flushed with heat. He pointedly looked at the floor and cleared his throat.
She looked around the room again: the weapons, the décor, the gorgeous man who had rescued her. It was all happening too fast. She lay in a fur-covered bed in a castle, had a tattoo that couldn’t be seen, and had gone invisible. Of all the things that she had to worry about, being seen by Tormod was not one of them.
“What if my memory doesn’t come back?” she asked. “What if we never find out who I am?”
“Then you’ll be the lass you are now, and make a new life.” His gaze grew shuttered as he tucked her hand back under the furs. “’Tis all you can do when everything is stolen from you.”
Tormod put a cup of water and a golden pear within her reach before he belted his tartan over his tunic. He took down an axe from the wall and tucked it in his belt. Then he took one of the swords.
“Sleep now, Jema. I’ll come back in a few hours with a meal for you.”
“Pizza, please,” she said half-heartedly.
She rolled over so she wouldn’t have to watch him go. When she heard the door open and close, she pressed her face into the furs. Breathing in his scent made her feel a little safer, but that wouldn’t help. Turning her head, she stared at his weapons, and clutched the map disc tightly as she let her fear swell.
“Nothing to see here,” she whispered, closing her eyes as her body faded away. “Nothing at all.”
Chapter Five
DEEP BELOW THE surface of the Isle of Staffa, Quintus Seneca walked through the main passage to his command center. The subterranean fortress, which his men had spent a year carving out of the island’s basalt heart, had at last been completed to his satisfaction. No sunlight could penetrate the enormous lair, nor could the enemy easily find it. His troops had become accustomed to sailing at night on black ships to avoid detection. Once he replenished the Ninth Legion’s ranks, he would continue his quest to end the Pritani curse that had transformed him and his men into undead blood-drinkers. He’d also destroy those responsible, the McDonnel Clan, once he found their hidden stronghold.
A blur of red and gray swirled around him and became his prefect, Fenella Ivar, who fell into step beside him. “Fair evening, my lord.”
He didn’t smell any blood on her breath. “You should have fed before reporting for duty. Remember that hunger makes you prone to agitation and aggression.”
She eyed one of the smiling mortal thralls passing them. “Listening to them mewling about how they adore me drives me mad, but you forbid me to rip out their tongues.”
“You’re using the captives from the furthest islands?” he asked.
He had suggested to her that the captives who didn’t speak her tongue would prove less irksome.
She nodded. “Of course.”
Quintus had spent most of the last year personally training Fenella to serve as his second. During their last battle with the highlanders, she had kept him from sharing the fate of her predecessor, the Marquess of Ermindale. He owed his life to the first female member of the Ninth Legion. Her unwavering devotion to him proven, he had set about teaching her to control her vicious impulses, and use her ability to move at inhuman speeds for reasons other than murdering indiscriminately. As a prefect she already commanded the fear-laden respect of every man in the legion.
She also needed to look the part of a command officer, so Quintus had ordered their mortal thralls to make her a Roman uniform tailored to her voluptuous form. He also insisted she wear her fair hair braided and coiled like a crown atop her head. Although they were no longer lovers, she was his most trusted officer now. If he was king of the undead, then she was his queen.
Fenella reported on the latest arrival of replacement troops from their estate in the lowlands, where specially-trained centurions turned enslaved mortals into undead. Once made dependent on blood, the recruits learned to live and fight as Roman soldiers.
“We’ll need more thralls for the newly turned,” he said, “but have them procured from the western mainland. We’ve taken enough females from the outer islands.” He stopped as he saw the eight men waiting in his great hall. All were former slaves turned by Ermindale. “What is this?”
“A scouting party just returned from the mountains. I sent them to look for caves and tunnels we might use as shelters for our raiders and patrols.” Fenella gestured to the optio of the group, who stepped forward and sank down on one knee. He saluted her with an arm across his chest. To him she said, “Report.”
“We found a cave system in the forested region, Prefect, which we mapped. It is large enough to shelter a cohort, but there are no mortal settlements within ten leagues.” The optio offered her a scroll. “The scent of a wounded mortal led us to a protected burial site in the woods where we retrieved this.”
Quintus eyed the strange satchel the optio presented to Fenella. “What happened to the mortal?”
The man grimaced. “The mortal escaped through a gap in the oaks. We tracked the scent to the perimeter road, Tribune, but there it disappeared.”
Fenella scowled at him. “Do you claim that the mortal stopped bleeding in the middle of a road?”
“I cannot say, Prefect.” He looked down at his boots. “It was near dawn, and the men were close to frenzy. I took them back to the caves to feed on a poacher we found in the forest. I discovered the pack when I returned the next night to inspect the burial site.”
Fenella took the pack over to a map table. She turned it around and over before she glanced at Quintus. “Shall I tear it open?”
“Patience, my dear.” He inspected the long strips of tiny, interlocked metal teeth, and then tugged on the thin tags at the center of them until they began to part with a slithering sound.
Inside the satchel were books filled with hand-written notes, drawings so detailed they looked exactly like the objects they depicted, and pages of finely-printed, illustrated paper. Quintus also found several transparent bags with seamed closures, a set of miniature tools tucked and rolled in a cloth, and a cloth purse filled with printed cards and more paper.
“That will be all,” he told the scouting party’s optio, who bowed and left with his troops.
The writing Quintus recognized as very similar to the English alphabet used in Britannia. Aside from a few unknown letters here and there, he could read most of what had been written in the books, including the numbers noted at the top corners of some of the pages. What riveted him was an intricate drawing of a large golden diamond, and the words written beneath it.
“Freyja’s Eye,” he read aloud. “Said to harness the power of the sun. Blamed for sinking a fleet of ships off the coast of Scotland in the second century.”
“Who is Freyja?” Fenella asked, her eyes gleaming with interest. “And how does her eye sink a fleet?”
“Freyja is Norse, if I’m not mistaken,” Quintus replied before closing the book and putting it back in the satchel. “I must examine these. Go and feed, and then come to my library.”
Quintus had commissioned a large, ventilated chamber to house his collection of illuminated manuscripts, most of which his men acquired while raiding abbeys and monasteries. The deceased marquess had done a great deal to make the library an impressive, luxurious space, but since Ermindale’s death Quintus had removed most of the unnecessary furnishings. A chair, a table and enough light to read by were all he truly needed for his work.
All of the manuscripts he kept had to do with the h
istory of the Caledonians, and some of the primitive tribes that had occupied Scotland long before the formation of the clans. Of particular interest to him were the Pritani and the druids, and the legends about their magic practices. Quintus knew that the McDonnel Clan had once been Pritani, and had sacrificed themselves to protect the heretical druids, but he still had not learned why.
After unpacking the burial site satchel, Quintus stacked the hand-written books on one side of his table, and the loose pages on the other. From his own shelves he took down a copy of Gylfaginning, an Icelandic manuscript detailing Norse legends. In it he found no mention of the golden diamond, and only a few references to the goddess Freyja herself. From what he had already read Quintus had assumed that Freyja was just a Norse version of Venus, the goddess of love and, through her son, the mother of her people.
The chamber door opened and closed, and Fenella strode in with a tall, fair-haired male thrall in tow. “Kneel down before the tribune, and keep silent,” she told the slave, who eagerly dropped and bowed his head. “Tribune, I believe I may be able to shed some light on Freyja’s Eye.” Quintus eyed the thrall, making Fenella’s lips stretch into a wide and pointy grin. “Not only did I not rip out his tongue, but it appears to speak Norse.”
Quintus handed her the notebook with the image of the diamond. As Fenella inspected it, the male lifted his head and gave Quintus a pleading look. The thrall could not utter a word unless given permission. The compulsion to obey in mortals enthralled by blood exchange had proven absolute.
“You may speak,” Quintus told him.
“My people told stories about the Eye, Master,” the slave said eagerly, his words heavily accented. “’Twas a gift from the goddess Freyja to her lover, a mighty Norse warrior. The Eye could stop the sunrise or sunset, and turn the light into terrible shooting fire. But Freyja’s lover went mad with the power of it, and hid the Eye to keep the goddess from taking it back.”
“I have no use for folk tales,” Quintus said, and noticed Fenella staring at one of the other drawings. “What is it?”
She showed him the image, and pointed to the edge of the illustrated pit. “Look at the tree roots. Mayhap ’twas once an oak grove.” She nodded at the satchel. “Did the owner of the satchel fall into this pit?”
In the past three females connected with the groves had helped the McDonnel Clan to deal crushing defeats to the Ninth Legion. “Where did the lover hide the gem?” Quintus asked the thrall. “In the forest?”
The slave’s eyes filled with tears. “Forgive me, Master, but I dinnae ken.”
“You did very well, lad,” Fenella said and stroked the thrall’s head as she would a dog. “Shall I open a vein for you, Tribune?”
Quintus studied the mortal’s tear-streaked face. “No. I want this one kept alive. He may prove useful again. Take him back to the thrall barracks and bring another for us. And give me an hour before you do. I want to look through these texts.”
Fenella bowed before she hauled the slave to his feet and marched him out of the library.
Sorting through the papers from the satchel, Quintus set aside anything that mentioned the golden diamond, until he found a notebook with sketches of other objects. Under a circle inscribed with runes he read: Rare shamanic map disc from the first century. Found in warrior burial site in Sweden. Led to hoard of gold and silver artifacts. Saga detailing map disc leading to Freyja’s Eye could be valid.
What had the scout said? The scent of a wounded mortal led us to a protected burial site in the woods.
By the time Fenella returned with the thrall Quintus had read enough of the texts to confirm that the owner of the satchel had also been searching for the burial site and a map disc that would lead to the diamond. If Freyja’s Eye existed, and held sway over the sun, he could use the gem to shroud the land in eternal night.
The Legion would have free reign.
“Take that scouting party back out to the burial site,” Quintus told his prefect, and showed her the sketch of the map disc. “Search for this and bring it back to me.”
“As you command, Tribune,” Fenella said and pushed forward a plump, smiling female thrall and followed her until she pressed the mortal’s warm body against Quintus’s hard, cold flesh. She smiled at him, showing her gleaming fangs. “But first, let us feast.”
Chapter Six
TORMOD TOOK A moment to compose himself before he emerged from the guard tower to take his place on the curtain wall. Though he’d managed to smuggle Jema into the stronghold, and hide her in his quarters, he needed to think about how to protect her until she recovered, and her memory returned. What the Hel he was supposed to do with her, he didn’t know. What he did know was that he possessed not a single drop of Pritani or druid blood. Vikings such as he could not activate the grove portals. Whatever had brought Jema to this time had been none of his doing.
Fergus Uthar gave him a sour look as he approached. “You’re late, you lazy bawbag.”
“Aye, just as you were that day week last you spent cuddling the kitchen maid past dark.” He squinted as the sunlight blazed across Loch Sìorraidh, illuminating the surface like the rainbow path to Valhalla. As it should have been for him, after the Romans had murdered him, but instead he was dragged back to life by the facking magic folk. “Was I wanted?”
“Are you ever?” Fergus said and handed him a water skin and the short horn all guards carried to sound an alarm. “Last night the lieutenant also came asking for you. I told her you were hunting.” He saw the way Tormod looked at him and shrugged. “You vanish on this day every year, and always come back surly and empty-handed.”
One man in five among the McDonnels was an Uthar, and Tormod knew them to be just as vigilant as Neacal, their chieftain. “No need to keep watch over me, Fergus. I’ve proven my loyalty time and again.”
“Aye, so much so that you’re missed now when you go hunting.” He casually cuffed his bicep. “Mayhap next year you should bring back a brace of rabbits. ’Twill make your tale seem more convincing. I’m to bed.”
“My thanks,” Tormod said and clasped Fergus’s forearm briefly before he assumed his post.
The spot gave Tormod a wide view of the ridges surrounding the loch and the castle. The Black Cuillin mountains looked as formidable as the stronghold they concealed, and had hemmed his view of the world for as long as he could remember. At times he wondered if his immortality would have him outlasting Skye’s slippery dark stone giants. Someday he might stand and watch the ridges crumble to dust.
He shouldn’t have loved it as he did, but he’d run the length of this island as a boy, and had drawn its jagged contours in the rich garden soil that had served as his first parchment. He’d learned from his father to fish with a long hook, how to ride and even to hunt, although he’d always hated killing the shaggy-hided red deer that lived in the ridges. He much more preferred following the natural paths through the Cuillin, and drawing the trails on birch bark to help navigate them again.
Arn Liefson had never approved of his drawing and wandering, so Tormod had learned to behave as other boys. It helped when he grew as tall and brawny as his sire.
Here on Skye Thora too had been born, his tiny miracle of a sister. Tormod still remembered exactly how his mother had tugged his baby sister free of her own body before handing her to Arn for swaddling. That a bairn could be such a blood-streaked, red-faced screaming little demon had mesmerized Tormod. His parents had been in awe of their daughter as well, but that was due to the large, eye-shaped birthmark in the center of her brow.
The tribe’s shaman, Eryk, had been called to examine Thora, whom he pronounced marked by the Gods. When the infant had been presented to the tribe’s headman he knelt before her and pledged himself her servant. That had set the tone for the rest of Thora’s pampered childhood.
You must protect Thora with your life, my son. His mother had told him that every time she left his sister with him to go and work in the fields with his father. Never forget that th
e Gods have marked her for greatness.
Tormod didn’t mind looking after her once she learned to use the privy and feed herself. He carved wooden poppets and spinning tops for her play, and even fashioned a tiny sword for her to use in mock duels with him. She had a natural grace and quickness that earned him more than one bruise.
“Take me a-raiding, Brother,” Thora would demand as she ran about the cottage waving her little wood blade. “I shall kill all the wicked Pritani that steal our cows.”
Being Thora’s brother only became a liability when the time came for Tormod to undergo his manhood trial. He worked hard to prepare to run the gauntlet and survive the tribe’s three tests of strength, skill and endurance. Among his tribe the wounds inflicted by the rites of passage were revered, and the more a boy suffered, the greater warrior he was considered. The only disgrace came when a boy died of his injuries, which cast shame on his kin.
Tormod had survived with only a dislocated shoulder, but Arn had insisted he mark the wound with the Ægishjálmr.
’Twill inspire paralyzing dread in your enemies, my son, his father said, while defeating the fears in your mind.
He couldn’t tell his father that he felt no fears. Arn would never have believed him. Nor could he admit to his desire to be an explorer instead of a warrior. Men of his tribe did not go raiding, but they fiercely defended their families and land. Tormod had no choice but to train as a warrior, and he specialized in the axe. But unlike many of the Vikings who took it up as a chopping and hacking weapon, Tormod had also learned how to throw it. He could easily hit the knot in a plank of wood at fifty paces.
Now, looking down as the clan’s mortal servants began emerging from the stronghold, he imagined taking Jema back to her future, and staying there with her. He had traveled to her world once to save his best friend, so the marvels there would not be entirely baffling. If he could not keep her safe in his time, the only option might be to journey to hers.