Come the Morning

by Heather Graham

  “I swear to you, as I gave you my word, that it is good. I have not sent Mellyora away, and I am not hiding her. To what avail? You will gain your riches with or without her, and the death of a few men may be regrettable to you, but it will not change the fact that the king has given you the estate.”

  He was telling the truth, Waryk determined, even if the slightest suspicion still plagued the back of his mind.

  “Ragnar!” Daro called.

  The Viking’s man quickly entered the hall. “Mellyora is missing.”

  “Missing?” Ragnar seemed as perplexed, as if he didn’t comprehend the word.

  “Aye, gone!” Daro said. “Search the camp, find out who has seen her, or any activity, she cannot have simply disappeared.”

  Angus had entered behind Ragnar. Waryk bowed his head just slightly, indicating that Angus and the others should follow the Vikings, and ascertain if the search was real.

  Daro stared at Waryk. “I did not do this,” he said. “Perhaps she heard talking … maybe she awoke when I didn’t know it and heard people saying that I had invited you here. She may have thought that I was simply trading her to you for Anne, though that was a suggestion she had given to me. She’s proud and reckless herself, but she never meant to put me at war with the king. She said that she wanted no bloodshed.”

  Waryk made no comment. He was of the opinion that Mellyora would have loved to see Daro shed a great deal of his blood, slicing and dicing him to pieces.

  “If she ran within your camp, surely your men would have seen her. And from here, where would she go?”

  “I don’t know,” Daro said quietly, and he sounded more concerned than he had before. “It would not be like her to run from me.”

  “Umm,” Waryk murmured.

  But at that moment, Ragnar came into the hall, heavily burdened by the bulk of the bleeding man he carried. Waryk and Daro quickly made way, and Ragnar laid the man down before the fire. He had been run through with a sword, and was bleeding profusely and was barely conscious.

  “It’s Oso, who was guarding the gates,” Ragnar told Daro quickly. “He was attacked earlier.”

  “By whom?” Daro demanded.

  Ragnar shook his head. “He couldn’t say. The men were helmeted, and he was taken so quickly, he didn’t recognize any emblems on the helms, cloaks, or shields, or surcoats.”

  Oso inhaled in great, gasping breaths. He clutched Daro’s arm. “Men … many men. Rode … south. Heard … the crags at the loch. From there … want to reach the … border.”

  The man’s eyes closed. He lay back, ready to die with his message told. Waryk could see the fierce loyalty the man had given Daro.

  “Inga! Staunch his wounds, call for help. Ragnar, guard the camp.” Daro was quickly on his feet. “Laird Waryk, we ride,” he said.

  Waryk was already striding out, whistling for Mercury. Damn her. He didn’t like the fear he felt. Had she gone willingly with a pack of fools pretending to be her uncle’s men?

  Had she known that they were false?

  And had it mattered?

  “Waryk, we’ll find her,” Daro said.

  “Aye,” Waryk said, mounting his horse, his eyes on Daro. “We ride together.”

  “I’ve ordered men to follow—”

  “Aye, but we’ve little time. My men will follow as well, but we’ll ride now, immediately, you, Angus, and I.”

  “Aye, we’ll waste no time.”

  Was she in trouble, or simply creating more mayhem? Waryk didn’t know. But if he got his hands on Mellyora this time, he was going to see to it that she didn’t escape again if it meant chaining her hand and foot and casting her into the deepest dungeon.

  The moon was high in the sky when they finally slowed their wild rush across the hilly countryside. Mellyora saw that they had come to very rocky countryside where great crags and boulders rose above a small, shimmering loch. The cliffs and caverns here, she thought, offered a natural protection against attack and a maze of hiding places.

  “See to the horses,” Mellyora’s rescuer ordered, dismounting from the horse and reaching up to her. “My lady?”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “Get down.” He reached for her despite her protest, bringing her to the ground. Her instinct was to run. There were perhaps twelve men surrounding her. Now was not the time.

  She surveyed her surroundings in the night. Caverns opened to the rocky shore of the loch. Men, and even horses, could disappear within the wild terrain of rock and crevice.

  “Come,” her unknown captor told her, reaching out a hand to her, “there’s a place I know you’ll be safe from the king’s lackey.”

  “Where will I be safe from you?” she asked.

  He smiled. “You don’t know the Norman, do you?”

  “I don’t want a war. Who are you?”

  “Your uncle’s men, my lady.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Come with me.”

  He reached out, grasped her arm, and thrust her forward. She felt her sword against her thigh, covered by the enveloping cloak she’d been forced to wear. She didn’t draw it now; it wasn’t the time.

  He prodded her along the bank of the shore to a rough path that led upward along a rugged crag. In the darkness, it was an eerie place, but she was accustomed to such wild outcroppings; the landscape could be very similar along the ocean where she lived. She knew this kind of crag. The rock could be jagged and then smooth; the formation might be riddled with little caves, some barely large enough for a fox, some wide and never-ending. A cool wind was whipping around her, and the clouds covered the moon. The sense of her own peril filled her, along with dismay that she had been so easily duped into helping with her own abduction.

  “My uncle had nothing to do with this.”

  “Again, I tell you, you didn’t want to marry the Norman lackey.”

  “You are trying to force a war,” she said.

  “There is always a war,” he told her. “Take care, the going is getting rougher. Here, give me your hand. We can move more swiftly—we wouldn’t want you to fall.”

  She pulled back, trying to stare at him, but his head was covered by his helm, and she realized that she would not know him if she were to see him again.

  “No, I’m going no farther. Who are you? What are you trying to do? If my uncle is hurt or held responsible for anything in this, I swear, you’ll die—”

  “Ah, so speaks great Adin’s daughter! But Adin is dead, my lady, and you are a girl, at my mercy.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make mistakes. I am my father’s daughter!”

  She was instantly aware that she should have thought more carefully. He pulled his sword, setting the point of it against her throat.

  “I think, my lady, you will do as I say.”

  What a fool she’d been, believing in a man she’d never seen, and so furtive an escape from her uncle’s camp. Who was he indeed, and did he dare kill her? Was she a pawn he needed for his own game?

  “You’re going to kill me?” she inquired, fighting her fear and speaking contemptuously.

  “If you force me, my lady.”

  “Well, I don’t wish to die, so I’ll move on,” she said impatiently, pushing the sword aside. She gathered the skirt of her gown and swept quickly on, her heart pounding ferociously. The ground was precarious here, but he might not be prepared for the fact that she was as surefooted as a goat and could manage the terrain—given half a chance.

  She quickly kept going, up, searching the cliff. There were numerous trails surrounding it, some going higher, some lower. The rock formation stretched like a trail of giant boulders cast down from the sky. They lay in the shadowed streaks of moonlight like strange white, jagged teardrops.

  “Are you even a Viking?” she asked sharply.

  “Ah, well, yes and no, lady. Viking, Norman, Scotsman, what difference? I am my own man, first and foremost.”

  “You are a coward, stealing a woman, leaving Daro
to take the blame.”

  “What difference does it make? He is betraying you, that is true enough.”

  “How?”

  “Laird Waryk had arrived for you, my lady. That is the truth. Your uncle intended to hand you over in exchange for Anne MacInnish.”

  “He wouldn’t make such a trade. If Waryk had come—”

  “At your uncle’s invitation.”

  “Then there was a reason.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The lion may roar forever. You are one prize he will not be seizing. God knows, lady, he may be dead already. He comes for you in good faith, and you are gone. A Viking trick. Accusations fly, swords are drawn! Perhaps I’ve done you a greater service than you will do me. Ah! I can see it in my mind’s eye, a wondrous picture. The great Waryk arriving with his part of the bargain, Anne, as promised. But alas, the Lady Mellyora is gone—vanished once again. A treachery, played out by Daro! Two such great warriors! Daro the Viking, Waryk, the Scottish king’s great champion. A sword will be pulled in anger, they will each accuse one another of deceit and treachery and … one will lie dead. The Scotsman must surely die, even if he slays your uncle first. Because if he kills Daro, Daro’s men will kill him.”

  She had moved carefully ahead a few feet at a time, feeling more and more sick at heart and desperately worried. She didn’t dare dwell on what might have happened. She had to somehow escape this situation. She was grateful for having spent so much time growing up under her father’s influence. The only time she was completely unarmed was when she was naked. She had taken her sword, and she carried a knife, as well. The Viking hadn’t thought to make any attempt to disarm her.

  “Why have we come here—if they will all be dead and accusing one another?” she asked.

  “Ah, lady, we are away from the camp, but close enough so that we will know the outcome. Eventually, we’ll head to the border. Perhaps, in time, I’ll even take you home. And then again, perhaps Waryk will survive. If so, I will still have you. His prize. The lady of the land. To be bestowed on him for all the services he has rendered—all the deaths he has brought about. So why else would I take you into the cliffs alone? Dear Lady, that I may plunder all your riches—and take what would be Laird Lion’s.”

  She was ahead of him now by several feet, and saw a trail leading downward that crossed onto a second crop of rock. She hurried on up a few steps, allowing him to come nearer, and when she knew he was on a bluff with an edge, she suddenly turned, shoving him fiercely.

  He swore, stunned, and staggered back, his sword clanking and falling against him. She knew she hadn’t done him any real damage, but she had given herself precious moments with which to run.

  She did so.

  Scampering over rocks, cliffs, outcroppings of grass, weed, dirt, and tenacious saplings, she kept moving. Downward first, upward as she saw that the rock just a few feet from her was riddled with dark caverns. She climbed higher, then cried out, pulled back as he seized hold of her cloak. She was captured, pulled inexorably downward. She clung to the rock above her at first; then, realizing that she was losing her hold, she allowed herself to fall. Her weight sent him flying backwards, but he quickly recovered, trying to straddle her. She reached for the knife sheathed at her calf, a small, ornamental weapon her father had given her, but—she prayed—sharp enough to throw him off once again. She had never felt so desperate, so sickened, and so afraid. When he leaned into her, she took careful aim at his side, knowing that she hadn’t the strength to pierce the man’s leather breast armor with her small blade.

  She caught him in the ribs. He bellowed with pain, pulling back. She shoved him, and he rolled, and she was up.

  He staggered to his feet, drawing his sword. She cast aside her cape, and drew her own. For long fierce moments, she fought for her life. He was powerful. She parried his every thrust, but she didn’t know how long her strength or her slim blade would hold out. He raised his weapon for a lethal blow; she saw the movement, and swirled and swung upward, cutting his thigh, ducking his blow. He bellowed, hunching down with the impetus of his own attempted strike.

  She shoved him, and he fell.

  She ran, knowing that she hadn’t the strength left in her arms to keep fighting. She headed swiftly along the rock.

  “Lady, now I cannot tell you the torment I will inflict upon you, you will not begin to know mercy, I swear it. There will be nothing left of your pride and spirit when I finish, by all the gods!” he roared after her, and she was very afraid, knowing that he meant the threat.

  If he caught her again, she’d have to kill him.

  Or die.

  She ran, escaping him for some distance. Then, praying he did not see her, she raced into one of the caverns. The darkness was, at first, overwhelming. She stood dead still, getting her bearings.

  Then she moved more deeply into the shadows.

  They followed the trail of the unknown outlaws to the crags by the loch, and there the trail ended. Waryk dismounted, and saw that someone had tried to erase the tracks by brushing the dirt with a branch. But the work had been hastily, carelessly, done, and he could see that the horses had been ridden toward a cave. He raised a hand for silence from those who followed, and mounted Mercury once again. He nudged the great horse, and they started for the cave. He was nearly there when he heard the high-pitched scream of a berserker battle cry, and suddenly, men on horseback stormed out into the night from the cavern by the water.

  His mace swinging, a huge bearded man bore down on Waryk. He judged his opponent’s speed and strength, and drew his claymore, ducking the blow of the mace and countering with his blade. The man went down on the wet earth. A second man charged him; as they clashed swords, he was aware that Daro and Angus, behind him, had taken on opponents. The enemy outnumbered them greatly; Waryk thought briefly that if he had been tricked, and if Daro turned and fought with the Vikings, he and Angus would be in serious trouble. He couldn’t dwell long on the thought; staying alive was too fierce a preoccupation.

  One after another, the enemy bore down on him. He used only his claymore, swinging right and left with all his might. The man he fought was wearing leather chest armor, but he wore a plate himself beneath his shirt and woolen tartan—he’d never trusted any man far enough to be defenseless. His opponent nearly found his mark, but Mercury was swift and sure, the horse’s dancing steps sweeping Waryk just out of range before his enemy’s great blade could slit his ribs. He nudged Mercury, and the horse’s impetus allowed him to slice through his foe’s leather armor, straight to the heart. The second man fell dead.

  Waryk turned within his saddle to see that Daro was engaged in deadly battle; if he had been a party to this abduction, he was willing to slay his coconspirator. Angus, too, was involved in hand-to-hand combat, but just as Waryk determined to come to the aid of his friend, another man burst forth from the cavern.

  Waryk nudged Mercury carefully, urging him hard to the cavern. Was Mellyora within?

  He didn’t reach the cavern. He clashed with the man just outside. The waters of the loch rose into the cavern and as their horses jostled for position, the cold water of the loch soared and sprayed around them. He thought that Mellyora must be inside. Anxious to reach her and determine if she’d been harmed, he fought with a renewed strength. His opponent fought with battle-ax and sword, but Waryk gave no quarter in return, slashing with a fury. He split the battle-ax, and his opponent threw it to the ground. Their blades next clashed; the ring of steel seemed louder than thunder. His next blow felled the man, catching him in the neck. He caught at his throat from where his life’s blood gushed, and fell into the water. Waryk dismounted from Mercury, rushing into the cave, his sword still ready. “Mellyora!”

  There was no answer, and he wondered wryly if she would come to his call, but though there were more horses in the cavern, there was no sign of Mellyora or any other men.

  He rushed out, seeing that Angus had just slain his opponent and that Daro was bringing his sword down on the man h
e battled.

  “Keep him alive!” Waryk roared, but he had cried out too late, and Daro managed to just slightly deflect his blow. The man fell, and Daro leapt down from his mount as Waryk rushed forward. Together they hunched over the dying man.

  “Where is the Lady Mellyora?” Waryk demanded harshly.

  “Who are you? Where is my niece?” Daro demanded in Norse. The man, aware he was dying, smiled up at him.

  “Join me in Valhalla!” he cried, pulling a knife, and trying to slam it into Daro’s chest.

  Daro caught the man’s wrist, deflecting his blow. The man stared at Waryk. “A prize no more, tarnished gold, taken, alas, me laird … Viking’s daughter, Viking’s prize … she’ll not be yours, Scotsman.”

  “Where is she?” Waryk demanded, catching the man by his hair and lifting his head by it. “Where—”

  The man didn’t reply. He coughed blood, and died.

  Waryk rose, swearing in frustration, and fighting the suspicion that Daro just might have killed the man to keep him from talking. “Waryk, there are more horses than there are dead men,” Angus said, and indicated the cliffs.

  “Aye!” Warykcried. “The cliffs. The caverns in the cliffs.”

  “Shall I start here?” Angus asked.

  “I’ll move to the east,” Daro said.

  “And I to the west,” Waryk agreed.

  “Mellyora!” Daro called, but Waryk caught him suddenly by the arm, and shook his head.

  “But we must find—”

  “We must find her carefully. There are more men out there. We may need to see them, before they see us. They have Mellyora.”

  Daro fell silent, his lips pursed grimly. “Aye, then,” he murmured softly. “We’ll search carefully and quietly, until we find her. And the rest of the traitors within my own camp!”

  “And when we find them—” Waryk said with tight anger.

  “They are dead men,” Daro swore. “They lived in my camp, they broke bread with my men, and then they betrayed me—and seized my niece!”

  “Aye, they are dead men,” Waryk agreed. “But not until we know who they are, and why they have seized Mellyora.”