Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1)

by Norris, Màiri

  He sliced through the rope binding his ankles, the action sending splinters of pain through his sword hand. Motion across the fire alerted him. He froze in the act of rubbing life back into puffy wrists, surprised when his uncle lunged to his feet. Who had freed him?

  He stood, biting back a groan at the stab of agony in his ribs, aware he accomplished the act with far less grace. But then, Sindre had not been beaten. The Saxons apparently, wished to take no chances with the huge warrior in their midst. He had overheard part of a whispered conversation in which the word ‘berserkr’ was clearly voiced in sharp, insistent tones.

  When he was certain he could move without falling over, he met Sindre’s look over the fire and nodded. He raised his hand in a single, horizontal slash at the level of his belly. No killing unless it could not be helped. For once, his uncle did not demur. Wondering where the guard was, he stepped to the side of the Saxon captain.

  The man’s instinct served him well. He came awake and half reared from the ground, ready to fight, but Brandr already had the knife at his throat.

  “Make no sound,” he whispered as he relieved the man of knife and sword.

  Where was the guard?

  He and the captain waited in silence. It was the work of moments for Sindre to render the other three Saxons insensible, divest them of their weapons and bind their feet and hands. Shortly after, the captain was likewise trussed.

  Brandr rose. “Sindre,” he whispered. “The guard!”

  Sindre nodded and made to slip from the camp, but was halted by an amused, unfamiliar voice that made no effort at quiet. “No need to concern yourselves with the sentry. He will not be coming to anyone’s aid.”

  A tall man stepped into the light. He carried a sword but held it at ease. “This night’s work has been most satisfying.”

  “Turold!” The angry Saxon captain spit the word.

  “Aye, I am Turold of Hamwic.” He bowed slightly from his waist. “May I say, I am not particularly pleased to see you again, Captain Preed. I had hoped to leave our first encounter in the past and offer no reason for another. It is unfortunate you chose to make that an impossibility. I felt it my duty you see, to give aid to these fellow travelers who have done you and your lord no more harm than did I.”

  Brandr watched the newcomer warily, wondering where Lissa was. If this man had hurt her in any way, he would kill him, slowly, despite his apparent aid in their release, but he could not ask about her without giving her presence away to the captain.

  The captain started to speak but another voice, this one youthful and annoyed, cut through his words. “Would thomeone mind cutting me loothe? I goth to pee.”

  Brandr bit back a grin at Alwin’s exasperated, swollen-mouthed comment as Sindre bent to do as asked. Had they knocked out one of the boy’s teeth?

  “If you cannot hold it as would a grown man, go, but be quick about it!” Sindre’s words were harsh but the tone left little doubt he, too, was amused. “We leave soon and we will not wait.”

  Alwin lurched to his feet, only to pitch into the Sindre’s arms when his wobbly legs refused to hold him. He mumbled under his breath while Sindre steadied him, then he stomped, groaning the whole time, until the blood flowed again. Pushing away from Sindre’s hold, he hobbled at as fast a pace as he could manage from the clearing into the lightening gloom. Dawn was nigh and the darkness was quickly yielding to the pallid light of a new day.

  “Turold of Hamwic.”

  The man faced Brandr.

  “Your aid this night is well come. But I admit to curiosity.”

  “You wonder why? It is no great secret. Captain Preed’s lord owed to me a debt. I now consider it discharged.”

  Preed growled.

  “The guard should be awake by now,” Turold said. “I believe I will fetch him into camp.” He met Brandr’s gaze. “I also have…baggage I wish to insure remains where I put it.”

  Lissa! Brandr allowed not a twitch as the other’s meaning became clear. He did not yet trust this stranger, but for the moment, he had little choice but to go along.

  He nodded. “We will finish up here.”

  Turold exited the camp as Alwin returned and scrabbled through their belongings, carelessly dumped in a pile on the ground at the edge of the clearing. He drew on his braies, then filled his arms with boots and clothing and passed them around.

  “When you are fully clothed, Alwin,” Brandr said, pulling his tunic over his head, “aid Sindre in gathering our supplies, and those of the Saxons, as well.” He glanced at the captain as he donned his ring shirt. “You will not mind, I am certain, if we help ourselves as payment for the inconvenience you have caused us?”

  The captain glared, but said naught.

  The quiet crunch of footsteps heralded the return of Turold with the groggy guard, who bore a large, reddened lump on his forehead. Turold spoke to Brandr. “As you can see, all of my baggage was safe.”

  Brandr, now fully garbed and armed, nodded. He noted the stranger had what looked suspiciously like musical instruments slung over his shoulder. At the sight, he thought he could guess the nature of the debt the aforementioned lord owed to Turold. Only a dishonorable fool refused to pay a skáld.

  He collected the Saxon weaponry. “We will stash your weapons outside the camp,” he said to Preed. “If you gain your freedom before your friends come looking for you, you will find them if you search long enough.”

  Abruptly, and without a word, Sindre left the camp. He returned a short while later. He did not say where he had gone, or why, but beneath his clothing, his waist was much less trim than before.

  Brandr’s lips curved, ever so slightly. Before the Saxons had come upon them, Sindre, in a rare moment of foresight, had separated the belt containing the gold from the rest of their gear, dropping it out of sight behind a fallen log among the reeds at the riverbank. The Saxons knew naught of it, for which he gave thanks to Odinn, Thorr and Freyr. Had they been aware of the treasure, Captain Preed and his men might simply have killed them outright.

  The task of re-packing was complete—Sindre had not failed to find and pocket the coin purses of each of the Saxons, earning from them murderous glares—and they were ready to depart. Brandr knelt again beside the captain, fingering the man’s bonds. They were secure, but if he worked at it long enough, he could set himself free. “Will others come when you do not return?”

  “Aye.”

  “You should know, Captain Preed, that my companion,” and he jerked his head toward Sindre, “wishes to leave you all dead to insure you do not come after us. I however, will accept your oath as a warrior that neither you, nor your men, will be so foolish. Without that oath, I will leave you to him. It is up to you.”

  He held the man’s gaze. The captain’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “You have it. I would pursue you no farther in any case. Beyond the woods, a short march to the east, you will come to a rise. From there, you will see upon the next hill a line of marker yews. They denote the border of my lord’s holding. Past that, I will not go. But you!” He turned his gaze to Turold. “If you come again to this land, your reception will be not as you wish.”

  A hard note underscored Turold’s answer as he stepped nigh the captain. “When it becomes known your lord is a cheat who refuses to pay honestly earned wages to the scops who entertain his guests, none will come at all to disturb him.”

  Sindre snorted as Brandr’s brow rose. In the growing light, he watched the captain’s face darken. His guess had been correct. The man had at least the decency to flush at the jibe, thus corroborating Turold’s claim.

  He turned away. It was time to find Lissa and get far away from this place.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  It was that peculiar juncture of the dawn when it was neither night nor day, and the light was nigh full, but the sun was not yet arisen over the horizon. The sky glowed a soft white and the lush growth around Lissa tinged the air with green. It was her lady’s favorite time of day, when she had most liked
to walk in the sweet meadows nigh Yriclea, and gather plants to make her healing ointments and potions.

  Lissa forced aside both tears and thoughts of the past. There was no time for grief, and the shaft of sorrow that pierced her soul only increased the edge to her nerves. Turold had assured her Brandr and the others were well, but she needed to see them. Though the time between cutting Brandr loose and the moment Turold reappeared was not long, it seemed as if half a day had passed. Would they never come?

  A rustle in the undergrowth brought her to her feet, her eyes searching. There!

  Brandr was the first to appear. At sight of him, horror leapt and she felt as if something crushed her insides.

  How can he still walk, and as if naught is wrong?

  He had been brutally beaten. Appalled, her gaze took in Sindre and Alwin. The big víkingr appeared little damaged, but Alwin…!

  Oh, those cruel men. Even the youngling! His poor little face—but how different he looks now he is clean!

  Her glance lashed at Turold. “Why did you not tell me? I would have had healing ointment ready.”

  “To what purpose, fair maid? It was better your mind remain free of needless worry.”

  Muttering in exasperation, she shook her head at Turold’s masculine reasoning. She reached out to Brandr as he stopped in front of her, but was reluctant to touch him for fear it would cause him further discomfort. Scrapes, cuts and deep bruises nigh covered what she could see of his skin. Who knew how badly he was hurt beneath mail, shield and clothes? “Come,” she said. “Sit. I will treat your wounds.” Her gaze swept over Alwin and Sindre. “All of you.”

  Brandr offered her a tiny smile that must have hurt his bloodied lips. Azure fire gleamed at her from eyes slitted between swollen lids, already black. For a moment, he simply stood and stared, his gaze roaming her face and form, as if he wished to commit her to memory. When he ran a caress down her cheek with the back of his hand, she gasped and wanted to weep again. It was as she had feared when she cut his bonds. Wrist and fingers were swollen and discolored. The littlest appeared broken. It was his sword hand. He would have difficulty wielding the weapon for a time.

  When did his welfare become so important?

  The others were in better shape, though Sindre appeared the least injured. He looked…well, like Sindre always looked. Impatient. Alwin favored his right leg, and his middle, and had clearly received a blow to the mouth, but he, too, gave her a crooked smile, though he winced in the doing.

  Brandr stirred. “I am grateful for your offer, lítill blóm, but there is no time. We are not as hurt as it may seem. Naught of consequence is broken, and we can walk.” He rubbed his ribs with his undamaged left hand, then lifted the injured one and forcibly spread the fingers wide. His face paled slightly, but the small finger straightened with the others. “You see.” To her ears, his deep voice sounded strained, but the blue eyes smiled. “Naught is broken. We must leave this area at once, and travel swiftly. You may offer the benefit of your healing talents to the others this eve.”

  “At least let me carry your húdfat, Brandr!” Her gaze flicked over Turold, who hefted not only his own baggage but Sindre’s sleep sack, as well. Was he coming with them, then? She was certain she remembered Turold saying he was traveling south. Odd, she thought it, that the big víkingr appeared not to question the scop’s inclusion in their party, though he did watch Turold. Maybe, his inclusion was as well. If they ran into more trouble, she would need his help.

  She turned back to Brandr. “I am rested, and the sleep sack is not heavy.” To stall dispute, she made her tone as matter-of-fact as she could. “I am your thrall. It is my duty. You say we must go quickly. I am aware you are able to carry the sack but for now, there is no need. It will be enough that you,” and her glance took in Sindre and Alwin, “that all of you, bear naught but your own weight for a day or two.”

  Amusement pulled at the dark, puffy corners of his lips. He removed the húdfat, never taking his eyes off her. Though he made no complaint, he could not disguise the tightly controlled movements that spoke of pain. She kept her face free of pity as she settled the sleep sack over her back. Aye. She would have to watch for knitbone as they walked, and hope it might be found along their path. Only a small number of dried leaves had survived the ransacking of her home. Much more would be needed to make enough ointment to care for them all.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  Their little group—and they were a group, now—set out under sunny skies on this sixth day since the raid, but soon after they passed the marker yews, velvety gray clouds started to roll in. The air grew cool and moist with a thin haze that softened the landscape.

  As always Brandr led, but Turold brought up the rear. They trekked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, though occasionally, as if the quiet bothered him, Turold would break out in low-toned song. Deep and mellow, his voice was most pleasant to the ear. She glanced back at him once as he finished a joyous tune and he winked, lighting the moment with laughter to ease her worry.

  Less than two leagues beyond the river, Brandr stopped and waited for them to gather round. He looked terrible, but he spoke clearly, if slowly, through puffy lips. “Our quest thus far has taken us on a course toward the rising sun and only a little to the north. Today, our path must take a more direct route north. Soon, we will enter a region bounded on three sides, as a wedge of cheese, by ancient roads. We draw nigh to the one that forms the base of the wedge. From the great city of Wintanceastre, where lies the cathedral and Alfred’s hall, it runs west, to Searesbyrig. Beyond, it is a journey of some two days to reach yet another route of the ancients, the Lundenwic Way, that pierces the wedge. A day or two after that we will approach the city of Basingum, which we must pass by to the north before turning east again.” He looked straight at Turold. “This is fertile land and there are many people. There will be much movement on the roads and along our path. It will be hard to avoid detection. To continue with us is to court peril that might not otherwise come your way. You have chosen to walk thus far with us, but you may wish to reconsider your direction.”

  Lissa waited as the two took each other’s measure, hoping Turold would choose to accompany them further.

  The scop grinned. “It was my intent to travel south to Eadfordwer and from there, west to Eaxanceaster. Howbeit, I confess to boredom, for while I am a merry fellow, my own company wearies me, and I find it far more pleasant to travel with friends. The direction I go matters not.” His brows rose as he slanted a glance at Sindre. “If there are none who take exception to my presence.”

  A rolling rumble broke from the big víkingr, who had uttered not a word since leaving the camp.

  Lissa shook her head.

  Sindre laughs! What a strange man he is.

  “I do not object,” Sindre said. “If you fight with as much vigor as you bleat that noise you call singing, you may be of some use to us.” His hand dropped to the axe at his waist. “But be warned. If I discover your purpose is less than savory, Frithr will satisfy his thirst with your head.”

  Turold chuckled. “‘Frithr’, you say. Aye, a good name for that which settles disputes.” He pulled his sword from its scabbard. Hilt first, he offered the sword to Sindre. “Your Frithr might meet his match in my Fægennes. She sings her joy the loudest when the blood of enemies runs from her blade.”

  Admiration blazed briefly from Sindre’s eyes as he examined the weapon. “See here, Músa, it is incised with many runes of victory. Our new friend deems himself a well-blooded warrior!” But in true form, he added, “It would make an excellent practice weapon for a youngling.”

  Turold snorted as Sindre handed it to Brandr, who ignored his injuries to arc a few hard swipes through the air. “Já, this is fine blade. The balance is a delight to the hand. I have not oft seen the like, except for my Frækn.” He patted his own sword and returned Turold’s weapon. “You are well come then, to join us, and I would offer my thanks for this morn, as well. I did not relish Captain P
reed’s hospitality.”

  Turold sheathed his blade. “No more did I. Howbeit, you are all much in debt to our fair maid, for I aided you only because of her persuasion. I wished for her company on my journeys, and offered her freedom. She….”

  He got no further. Lissa froze as Brandr uttered a low-voiced growl and snapped to a warring stance, Frækn in hand. He had drawn it so swiftly she had not seen him do it, though she heard the soft sound it made as it cleared the sheath. How his injured hand could grip the weapon with such disregard for the pain it must cause, she could not fathom. He gazed at the scop, some barely restrained emotion blazing in fierce waves from his eyes. “Lissa is mine, my thrall.” The words were uttered in a guttural snarl. “Her life is mine. I own her. Had you taken her, I would have followed and spilled out your heart’s blood at her feet!”

  Terror slashed its way through her veins, strangling her breath. In the space of a heartbeat, the scene had slipped from one of cautious goodwill to armed hostility. Alwin stood motionless, his eyes huge. Brandr’s eyes glittered blue fire through the slits in the swollen flesh. He held the gaze of Turold without blinking. He seemed not to breathe. Savage enmity swirled in the air like autumn leaves twisting in a stiff breeze. Death teetered, precarious, on the keen edge of a blade.

  She did not know what to do to ease the peril, for she could not think what had precipitated this response.

  Turold, too, had assumed a fighting stance. His weapon remained in the scabbard, though his hand gripped the hilt. He had gone utterly still at Brandr’s words, but now he spoke, his tone impassive. “The choice was Lissa’s to make. She chose to stay, for she was unwilling to leave you in Preed’s tender care. Let that be the end of it.”

  In no way did Brandr indicate he heard the quiet statement.

  “Well, Músa?” Sindre sounded bored, but his fist was white-knuckled on the shaft of his axe and she saw the battle-lust light his eyes. “Do we offer his blood to Odinn to slake your jealousy, or decide the thrall is not worth the battle, and be on our way?”