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

by Norris, Màiri

  ∞∞§∞∞

  That night, they made camp at the heart of a little wooded valley Turold said was two days north and east of the town of Heorutforda, which was on the Saxon side of the River Ligean.

  He lay stretched on his back, waiting for…he knew not what. His night had been restless, and mostly sleepless, and his whole being seemed keyed to the need to be up and on his way. Beside him, Lissa was also awake, and just as tense. It was Ótta, the hour before dawn when the night was darkest, but abruptly, he could no longer bear to wait for morn.

  “Lissa,” he whispered, “do you feel it, the need to keep going, that our goal lies just beyond the horizon, waiting?”

  “Like we must reach it, or reach for it, now? That today is the day? Yes, I feel it. We should rise, and go.”

  Her words were barely formed before he was on his feet, pulling her up beside him. The whole company seemed to sense it, because despite the full darkness, they stirred immediately upon his rising. No one spoke, nor made a sound of complaint. As one, they did not wait to break their fast, but gathered their belongings and followed him.

  The urge to hurry, to waste no time was upon them. They pushed on, and on.

  Brandr could almost hear it calling, just in front of him. Lissa’s grip on his hand tightened and he knew she felt it, too. It touched upon their faces almost as if made of that which was solid. It lured them, enticed them, pulled them on, so that by the time they climbed their way out of the valley and worked their way through the forest at the height, they were as close to running as one could get while still stumbling their way through a dark wood. They burst out of the trees as the sun rose and come to a staggering halt.

  Brandr stood on the crest of a lofty hill, his company ranged behind him.

  His first thought was that he was glad he had obeyed his instinct and roused them so early from their slumbers. His second was that he could scarcely believe his eyes. He looked out over the bowl of a vast, sweeping vale that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see in every direction. Across from them, a sizable village nestled in orderly fashion against the southwestern flank of a high, wooded escarpment. Farmhouses speckled the landscape. Trees grew everywhere, and their greenery surrounded the stone structure of a church, comfortable within its walls.

  Neat lines of stone fences separated fields of ripening grain from green pastures where grazed sheep and fat cattle who greeted the morn with soft, contented lows. Birds wheeled and dove for the sheer joy of being alive, filling the sky with their song. The air was fresh and new as the slow sunrise. A soft wind tickled their hair, tugged at their clothes and brought with it the smell of growing things.

  Below them, the eastern foot of the hill still lay in shadow, but the first crystal light of the morn washed across the western slopes and illumined the village beneath skies of rich, unblemished blue. The tolling of the church bell rolled lazily across the valley and up the incline toward them, calling those who would, to worship. The sound called to them, just as surely.

  A powerful sense of homecoming, of welcome, of rightness, suffused Brandr. He felt within himself a welling of peace, a relaxing of the tension that had for so long held him in sway.

  “It is so beautiful, and looks so peaceful, so welcoming.” Awe limned Lissa’s tones. She suddenly grasped his hand, her beautiful golden-brown eyes wide. He knew her excitement, for it filled him, too. “Brandr, I think this is the place.”

  He nodded. “Já. I think you are right.”

  “This is it,” Bryda said from behind him. The others had crowded round. A single glance at their faces told him they agreed.

  They had found it, this place where they belonged, the home to which they had all been drawn. Their long and arduous journey was finally over.

  “Brandr. Look there!” Lissa pointed to the far northern side of the valley, to where a broad stretch of land lay untouched, lush and green, seeming to dream, to wait as if just for them. Her hand trembled within his. “Is it big enough, do you think?”

  He had already noted it, and hope had leapt in his heart. It swept in gentle rolls across fully half of the bowl, watered by a pond fed by a wide, tree-lined brook that edged the whole half, and separated it from the rest of the valley.

  “Já, it is large enough.” The words came out in a distinctly breathless croak. He pointed diagonally, across to the northwestern section, opposite the village. “There is…there is plenty of room for the settlement against that far section there. See, that deep hollow in the contour of the ridge?”

  Behind him rose murmurs of agreement.

  In long ages past, a concavity had been gouged in the rise of the slope. Spacious and open, but sheltered by the wooded arms that enclosed it on either side, it unfolded to a wide flat where stables and outbuildings could be situated, with the grassy pastures beyond.

  Disbelief softened his tone. “It seems impossible, but it does not appear anyone has claimed it.”

  “That is because it waits for you, my son.”

  He whipped around, Frækn already in his hand, aware of the sharp sound of other weapons being drawn, and the rustling of cloth as many turned.

  “You have no need of your weapons. You are expected, and well come.”

  A tall man in the black robes of a monk stood beaming at them. “I have been coming up here,” he said, “to wait for you for many morns, now. I wanted to be the first to greet you when you arrived.” His smile stretched into a grin. “Aye, I know how it must sound, but it is the truth.” His hand lifted and he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the valley. “This is the settlement of Ailwic. You will soon discover that all here eagerly await your arrival. We have known for some time you were coming. The vision said you would bring wealth to the valley and and the village, of which you may all now count yourselves a part.”

  Brandr felt Lissa’s soft fingers on his wrist, above Frækn’s hilt. “Put it away, love. He is right. We have no need of it here.”

  “My name is Albold,” said the monk. “Erwin—that is, the village priest—had the same dream, that shortly after midsummer, a group of people would come from the east, led by Northmen. They would bring prosperity and protection. In the vision, they will build homes on the north side of the valley.” He moved to stand beside Brandr, who could think of not a single word to say. “I do not live here. My home is Quiet Hills, a small abbey southeast of here, where I am abbot. I am here only to insure the fulfillment of the vision. I am sure you are all travel weary and hungry. If you will follow me, I will take you to meet…,” he smiled, his gaze sweeping them all, “your destiny, which is the will of God.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The Half-Month of Hagalaz, the Hunting Moon, called by the Saxons the Month of Hunting with Falcons - Fall - 882

  The Valley of Ailwic in Eastseaxe - Danski Mierce in Guthrum’s Kingdom - Angelcynn

  The air held a distinct chill in this quiet time of year, when the leaves changed to scarlet and gold and the people of the valley prepared for the coming winter. Lissa, warm in a fur-lined cloak over a light green smokkr topping a dark forest green serk, walked hand in hand with Brandr beneath the maple and oak trees lining the bank of the gently burbling stream.

  Brandr glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. “Are you very sad, lítill blóm?”

  She supposed she should be, for this morn, they had said fare wells to dear ones she had grown to love.

  “I am, but it is a good sadness, and I would not hold them here longer, when they were so anxious to go.”

  “Já. Though why anyone would wish to leave this valley, I cannot fathom.”

  She smiled. He looked so handsome in midnight blue trousers and overtunic that matched his eyes. Yet, most pleasing to her was that here, in their valley, he did not feel it necessary to wear his ringshirt and other war gear. Howbeit, he never went anywhere without Frækn, for as Hakon was wont to say, ‘one should never leave home withone one’s weapon, for one can never foresee a fight’.


  “Not everyone is as enamored of our vale as we are, my love, and for that, we should be grateful. It would quickly grow far too crowded if all knew how wonderful it is.” She reached to catch a fiery yellow leaf that drifted down in front of her. So rich was its color it nigh glowed in her hand. “Nicolaus stayed so long his king may think him gone for good, and of course, Karl and Rathulf are needed in Ljotness.”

  Brandr’s eyes slid to meet her gaze. A shadow came and went in the deep azure depths. “I did not speak of this to you before. When word came of Father’s death, I made sacrifice to Thorr in gratitude that Father died in battle, as befits a mighty warrior. He feasts now with the honored dead in Valhóll.”

  She tightened the pressure of her fingers, just enough to let him know she understood the feelings burning in his heart. Óttarr Grimarson had fallen while leading the defense of Ljotness against a sea raid by renegade troops of King Alfred, who believed their king should forcibly take back the lands allotted to Guthrum.

  “Karl will be a good jarl,” she said. “It is what he was born to do.”

  “I know.” A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “And Hakon will now be well come in Ljotness again.” He shook his head. “At least, he will be if he and Turold survive this foolish quest of theirs. Did I not know the both of them so well, I would find it difficult to believe they would hare off to Saxon Mierce in search of some elusive new tale of a golden dragon said to dwell in the north of the land.”

  Laughing aloud, she turned to look out upon the land that was theirs. “I am certain there is no dragon, but if there was, those two would find and slay it, and then compose the most wondrous song to tell of it. Still, I prefer to be here, with you and our people.”

  Life had been more wonderful than she could ever have imagined since coming to the valley. Watching the love grow between Sindre and Siv was pure joy. So much about the big víkingr had changed. He was devoted to his wife and Alwin, and Siv’s firm, caring hand settled him, gentled his wildness, and seemed even to ease the blood lust that had once driven him. If the tranquil, mundane pace of their lives bothered him, he did not show it. He worked like a thrall with Brandr, Oswulf and the master breeder he hired to get the farm going, and spent many an evening giving warrior training to Alwin and several boys from the village.

  Bryda, the babe within her womb growing and kicking, was busy learning from Tofa how to weave. Already, arrangements were being made in surrounding villages to trade Tofa’s lovely work for some of the many things they still needed. Their little settlement was prospering, though it had not been easy.

  “These first months have been hard, but are we not blessed, my husband, as few have ever been?”

  Together, they looked out upon their side of the valley. With the willing hands and open hearts of the people of Ailwic, with whom they had become friends, much had been accomplished. The longhouse that served as a great hall for their community was complete, and many houses were under construction. The first of the barns to be built would be finished well before the cold set in. In the pastures grazed the first of Brandr’s new breeding stock, a pair of magnificent stallions and a score of proud, fine mares. Smoke rose from the smithy, and among the houses, smaller outbuildings took shape. Scattered between them were the outlines of gardens and small animal pens. It was a scene of peace.

  “Já, it is becoming a home,” Brandr said. “But it will continue to be difficult for some time to come.” He looked down at her. “As I have said before, we build more for our children than for ourselves.”

  “It is as it should be.” She took his hand and placed his palm against her belly. “Speaking of children, would you prefer our first child be a son or a daughter?”

  His eyes grew wide, and a burst of delighted laughter broke from him. “Lítill blóm, you are certain?”

  She could not hide her joy. “As certain as can be. It is three months today since we were wed, but you are lusty as your stallions, my love! Father Erwin could not have known at our wedding how quickly would come true his assurances God would bless us with much fruitfulness.”

  Still chuckling, Brandr lifted her fingertips for a kiss. “Lítill blóm, on that morn when we attacked Yriclea, I strongly questioned Thorr’s purpose in leading us there. I asked myself many times, as we journeyed across the land, why the runes had lied about the raid. They promised success, and wealth beyond knowing.” He paused. “Only in recent days have I come to understand the runes were not wrong, and Thorr did not lead in error, for I have gained wealth beyond what I could dream.” He bent to brush a kiss across her lips. “Nor do I speak of material wealth, though that is part of it.” He took her in his arms. “From the moment I knew I could not slay you, I understood I was in trouble, but I could not resist the lure of you any more than water could cease its plummet over a fall. Though I knew it not, I was lost from the first moment I saw your dirty little face and your determination to honor the one you had loved. Where do I end, Lissa, and you begin? It makes no difference, for we are one. With you, I am complete.”

  She lightly stroked his barley-hued plaits and touched the blue marks along the side of his face. “I never expected to find love at all. Talon was my only hope of marriage and a family, but we were as wrong for each other as you and I are right. Still, you were the most unlikely of suitors! Ah, but I love you, Brandr Óttarrson, with all of my heart and soul.”

  Azure fire blazed in his eyes and she felt her body quicken in anticipation. When he held her so gently, and looked at her with such love, she knew his intent. So familiar was his touch, the feel of him beneath her hands, his great strength, and his matchless honor. All these stirred in her a depth of shimmering, pulsing fire, and of rightness, as if the world made no sense without him. Never had the nearness of another so moved her, so enthralled her.

  His head bent to her, and he kissed her with a fervor that first delighted her, then enticed and intoxicated until cascades of riotous pleasure sang through mind and body. He was hers. Her love. Her heart.

  ∞∞§∞∞

  A ray of sunlight shafted through the leaves and touched upon them, illuminating them in radiance as they stood clasped in one another’s arms. Within its bright beam danced thousands of glittering, golden dust motes, bathing them in a fall of yellow fire.

  EPILOG

  Talon of Andeferas was cold as he rode through the bright autumn hues of the dales and downs, going home to Ricel, but his heart was light and he smiled at the man riding beside him.

  Dalmas, his second marshal, tried hard not to let his eyebrows rise, but still they twitched upwards.

  Talon’s smile became open mirth, and Dalmas stopped pretending. He grinned at his captain, and behind him, the little group of men who had for so long followed him broke into good-natured chuckles.

  “It is a fine day when I find you a happy man, my friend,” Dalmas said, “though the news I brought could not have pleased you.”

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Dalmas, is that not so, Wat?”

  “Aye, captain, it is so,” the tracker agreed from his other side, his own face split in a contented grin.

  Dalmas looked a question.

  “All has ended well, has it not? The northern thegn is dead, a victim of his own greed. I find it gratifying, Dalmas, not to say just, that he was killed in a fight with yet another tribe who tried to take Yriclea from him.

  “You have also said he ordered the raid because his people outgrew their village and needed more room. He wanted a coastal holding, for the fishing, so he sent his hearth companions to destroy Yriclea in preparation for rebuilding it for his own use.”

  “Aye, that is what we learned.”

  “And now they are there, in Yriclea, with half their population, rebuilding the village, making it larger and with better fortifications against incursion from both other tribes and the Northmen. Tell me, Dalmas, see you any way to take back the village? Though we are many, and brave, have we here enough men to accomplish the task?”


  “Nay, Leóf. It would require a great many more than we have, perhaps even a king’s force.”

  “Just so. The man who dishonored Thegn Wolnoth is dead. Those who destroyed Yriclea now occupy it and rebuild it in force. There are none of our people left who wish us to reclaim it. Is there then, any further need for vengeance?”

  Dalmas’ grin, which had widened with each statement, now nigh split his face. “It would seem not, Leóf.”

  “Then let us turn our faces to our new home, my friend.”

  He set his face toward the rising sun, and urged his horse to a canter. Ricel awaited, and he would not disappoint her.

  THE END

  I invite you to enjoy the following excerpt from The Broken Heart, Book Two of Beppie Harrison’s Hearts trilogy, set in the beautiful “Green Isle”, Ireland.

  Claire, twin sister to Lady Anne [from Book One, The Divided Heart], has longed as passionately for England as Anne clung to her beloved Ireland. Beautiful, charming and docile, Claire is chosen as wife by the heir to a dukedom and settles down with him on the magnificent family estate. But what can she do when tragedy wipes out her expectations, and she must find her own way through the tangle of Irish reality and her English dreams?

  Suffolk, England – 1811

  She had never been this happy.

  Lady Caroline Robinson, Countess of Ross, pressed her heels lightly against her horse’s side. Admittedly Caroline was no fearless rider, but the obliging mare her husband had insisted she ride today would have been more suitable for a child or a delicate old lady. The horse lacked a single competitive bone in her body. This was the third time Caroline had made an attempt to catch up to Henry, riding swiftly ahead. Her husband—how she liked the sound of those words.

  How long had they been married? Not yet six months. His blond hair flew loose, just as it looked when she ran her fingers through it in their great bed. That would be at night, of course. This was the morning of a sunny autumn day, the only clouds white puffy ones that floated far away toward the horizon. The tall grasses and dry leaves added some fragrance to the air as the three of them rode across the field, Henry in front as always. Behind him came his brother, Lord Eustace, and a great deal to the rear, Caroline.