by Shana Ab
The trail grew a little easier, following a smoother part of the land, flatter and more stable to walk on. Soon it ended in a rounded meadow, shelter amid the trees, a spent campfire plainly visible.
The men approached it with swords drawn and Lauren followed suit, pulling out her broadsword, walking cautiously forward. Something about the setting didn't feel right. She couldn't say what—it was a strong sense of apprehension, nothing she could articulate, so she kept silent, examining the landscape as closely as she could.
The light was turning color, less purple, more pink, a stronger glow that still held plenty of shadows in the woods around them, plenty of chances for the enemy to watch and not be seen. Lauren edged farther into the meadow, going over to where Arion stood next to the campfire. It was filled with bones, charred and discarded—the missing sheep, she knew. He kneeled and touched the ashes.
“Stone cold.” He looked up at the guide.“You found no sign of where they might have gone?”
“It was too dark before,” said the man.“But now …”
“Yes—now.” Arion stood up, searching the ground. As he looked, others followed his lead, stepping carefully around the site, swords still raised.
But there was nothing. At least, nothing that Lauren could see. Admittedly, she was not the best tracker, but she knew enough to understand that finding the men who had made that fire was not going to be an easy thing. They had covered themselves well—no obvious paths, no bent twigs, no marks in the dirt, no freshly scuffled stones. Yet no one stopped looking, and the horizon was gradually growing brighter to the east.
The feeling of apprehension did not ease, but truly there seemed no cause for it. Men were scattered to every corner of this field, and no one could claim to find anything unusual. A few ventured slightly into the woods, but again, no discoveries. Arion refused to give up, however, and his men followed his command silently. Some of the Scots looked to Lauren, waiting for her reaction, so she nodded to indicate that she agreed with the earl, although privately she thought the path was far too cold to follow.
A heavy oppression hung around them all, growing thicker with every passing minute. The sun rose higher, warming the sky if not the air.
A single bird began a song of quick, shrill notes.
“I'm done with this farce,” announced Rhodric, sounding disgusted, on the other side of the meadow from Lauren. He straightened up from where he had been crouching, a scowl on his face. “There are no Northmen here. Mayhap there never were.”
“What do you mean?” asked one of the earl's men.
“I mean,” said Rhodric, in a clear and carrying voice, “that there never were any Vikings here, English. That your fine and fancy lordship over there most likely stole our sheep, and made this fire himself to draw us out here, to leave our village unprotected. We're on du Morgan land now. Don't think I didn't notice.”
“Rhodric,” warned Lauren, beginning to cross the grass to him.
“Don't you defend him to me!” Rhodric rounded on her. “You've been supporting him from the beginning, and it sickens me, Lauren MacRae! Your father would be mortified right now at the disgrace of your loyalties!”
She stopped, stunned amid the sunlight and the venom of his attack.
“That's enough,” said Arion, walking slowly and deliberately closer to Rhodric. “If you wish to challenge me, boy, then you talk to me. Otherwise, leave Lauren out of this.”
“He calls her by her given name,” shouted Rhodric to the others, raising his sword.“As if she were his whore, and not the daughter of Hebron, who would cleave him in two for it!”
An ugly muttering began to rise from the men.
“Rhodric!” Lauren pushed her way past the others until she was in front of him.“What are you doing?” she demanded, furious.“How dare you say such things?”
“How dare I?” echoed Rhodric, laughing.“How dare I? How dare you, Lauren MacRae? How dare you fall to the side of the English? How dare you forsake all you know that's right and proper, and forget your father and your home for this du Morgan, who would kill us in an instant if he thought he could?”
“You're crazed!” Anger and bitterness carried her a few steps closer to him.“Hold your tongue, before you make even more of an ass out of yourself !”
The muttering of before was becoming more distinct, names and words becoming clearer, terms of insult and distrust and unrest.
“You're naught but a woman, weak and gullible,” said Rhodric down to her, with scathing contempt. “You'd sell your body to this devil for the price of the souls of your own clan!”
And then he pushed her away from him.
It wasn't that hard a push, but it was enough to catch her off guard, to send her falling back into the grass, trying to hold on to her sword and her dignity at the same time, which was impossible. It happened almost slowly, a strange fall, with plenty of time to feel the full impact, to hear the distortion of the sudden silence around her. She landed with a bruising jolt; the force of it jarred her sword loose from her hand and emptied all the air from her lungs. She rolled backward, knocking her head against the ground, seeing bursts of orange light on the edges of her vision in a brief, fiery dance.
Lauren blinked and took a deep gasp of air. When she opened her eyes again, time had done a trick and speeded up, frightening and swift, and Arion had tossed his sword to the ground and charged at Rhodric. The two of them went flying in a tangle of oaths and smashing fists. Others swarmed between her and them—more fights, more hitting and cursing and all the tension of the past few weeks exploding into fury. The entire meadow became a tumult of violence.
She lifted herself up and gazed around her, perplexed and still winded, barely managing to get out of the way of two men tumbling past her, beating each other bloody. There was a dull roar coming from everywhere and nowhere, a war sound, but instead of sword striking sword it was flesh striking flesh, as it seemed that one and all had abandoned their blades and their wits in favor of pummeling each other.
Lauren stood, swaying, looking around at the writhing mass of them, appalled.
A scream came from one side of the meadow—a sound that made her swing around instantly, groping for her fallen sword. She knew that sound, and with the floating sense of moving through a dream, knew what was about to happen.
From the woods poured a storm of Vikings, a truly terrible sight, and Lauren screamed in response, a wordless warning to all the men around her, who continued to battle one another, blind to the onslaught coming toward them.
She found her sword in the grass and began to run toward the invaders, still screaming, matching their own sound, and by now some of her clan and the English had broken off, scrambling up to follow her. But they were slow, all of them too slow, and the invaders swept over and around them, still giving their awful call, striking ruthlessly at everyone in their path.
She met one of them and blocked a blow that would have fallen on the back of a downed man, turning the Northman's attention to her, his eyes widening and then narrowing as he took her in. He offered her a fearsome smile, showing a row of yellowed teeth. His sword came back up and he swung it around to her. Lauren blocked it again, the force of it quaking through her, but she barely felt it at all. She felt light and fleet together; she felt empty and focused at once. All that mattered was that this man be stopped. She must be the one to stop him.
He was taller and less agile than she, but he was also stronger, and his sword was heavier. Each blow he gave her sent a buzzing numbness up her hands, made her invent new twists and turns to incorporate the power of it into her movements, trying to work with the force as she had been taught, not against it. He moved clumsily—she managed a glancing blow along his ribs, causing him to grunt and step back in surprise. He squinted at her again, judging her anew. Lauren felt her lips curl back in a savage smile, and then he was upon her once more.
Around them were new outbreaks of battle, her clan and the du Morgans united again to fend off this thr
eat. But that was a distant recognition in her. Lauren had no time to be grateful that her group was no longer fighting among themselves. The Viking was steadily pushing her back into the woods, the way he had come, and now it was all she could to do fend him off. She nearly managed another blow on him but he moved in time, and lunged at her. She jumped over a small boulder protruding from the brambles around them and heard the Northman's sword go singing as it hit the stone. There was an opening in his defenses; she darted in but the Viking moved away from her, anticipating it, laughing.
Lauren had to step over a root to evade the next thrust, but she lost her balance and staggered against the trunk of a tree. Now the Northman managed to get close enough to rip her tartan, sending a long flap of it falling down to her waist.
The Viking paused, staring at her, and she realized that he had cut her tunic beneath as well, tearing it apart to reveal a triangle of her skin just above her left breast, pale white and streaked now with red—a thin smear of blood.
They looked at each other, and she could mark the instant the change in him took place. It was nothing obvious, but Lauren knew with full certainty that the invader had just altered his intent with her—she read it in his eyes and then in his smile, cold and leering.
Lauren pushed herself off the tree trunk and swung wildly at him, missing but not caring because it made him back away from her, and it took the leer from his face. She swung again, coming closer, and the Viking said something to her and raised his sword.
In the distance she heard her name being called, but the voice was faded and held no promise of aid. The man in front of her now wasn't trying to strike at her any longer, only deflected her blows easily, almost calmly walking her farther back into the woods.
Her sword had become a burden of weight, her breath was short and pained, but she didn't stop, and she didn't hesitate, because she knew that the moment she fumbled, he would be upon her … and then he would win.
The woods were thick, and maneuvering around all the brush and trees was growing more difficult. She kept having to give quick, frantic glances around her to see where she was stepping and still he did not stop, only kept walking to her, that smile back in place, his own strength obviously untapped.
The men calling her name had not stopped, and Lauren thought that perhaps they were even coming closer, but she knew—and so did the Viking—that they would not find them in time.
She tried one last, desperate thrust, aiming for the exposed stomach of the man when he dropped one of his arms, and she realized too late that it was a hoax, meant to lure her to do exactly what she did. She fell in too close and the Northman simply grabbed her wrists, dropping his sword to painfully squeeze her fragile bones there, forcing her hands to open. Her broadsword fell to the soft dirt. The Viking yanked her up close to him, releasing one of her hands to capture her hair at the base of her neck.
Lauren took her free hand and swung at him, connecting with his jaw beneath his beard, rocking them both backward. But it was not enough force, and he recovered, shaking his head, laughing again. His grip on her had not loosened at all.
He said something new, and his breath was rotting fish, and his beard was dirty and scratchy, and the tightness of his hold on her hair was making her eyes tear.
The invader twisted the arm he still held behind her back, and now he was so close that she could not help but be pressed up against him. She tried to kick him but he lifted her up until her feet were off the forest floor and she had no purchase at all, her head forced far backward with his grip. The canopy of trees was green and gold and scarlet above her, a slur of colors through her tears. Lauren cried out and gave a mighty twist in his arms, almost succeeding in gaining her freedom, but the man tightened his grip until she couldn't breathe. The world grew dim and muted.
Something happened. She heard faint sounds in the back of her mind, grotesque noises that made no sense to her, rumbling, deep. They changed with the intake of her breath, fading away to nothing. Lauren realized she was turned around now, staring ahead at the dusky lines of the trees around her, and there was something large and warm behind her, and something cold and sharp at her throat.
She was half standing, half falling against the Viking, and he had an arm around her chest, hard. His other hand held the edge of his sword against her neck. His breathing was harsh in her ear.
Ahead of her were men coming past the shadowed lines of the tree trunks, all of them staring at her. She knew these men … her clansmen, swords out, the unmistakable red of blood decorating the blades. And the other men, she knew them as well. They were du Morgans, but their expressions were identical to her family's—wrath and caution mixed together. Standing before them all was one figure, large and dark, slowly edging closer. He was the one saying her name.
“Can you understand me, Lauren?” Arion spoke in a low monotone.“Lauren? Are you hurt?”
“No,” she whispered, and the hold on her grew tighter. The Viking shouted words that made no sense, but it was clear from his voice that he was close to ruin, and he knew it. He dragged her back, away from Arion and the rest, and Arion lifted his hands to show them empty, not moving.
“We've got to rush him,” said someone, and Lauren saw that it was Rhodric, sweaty and covered in dirt, his sword held ready.
No, Lauren tried to say, but the sound would not come out.
“No,” said the Earl of Morgan, not looking around at anyone else, only at the man behind her.“We can't take that chance. He could kill her before we got there.”
“He's going to kill her anyway if we don't move,” hissed Rhodric.
“Stay back,” ordered Arion, such a biting command that even Rhodric subsided.
“He's taking her to the cliff,” cautioned a new voice—Fuller.
“I know,” said the earl. He took one careful step toward Lauren and the Viking, hands still up. The breathing in her ear grew louder, but the man did not move away.
“All we want is the girl,” Arion said, reasonable. “Release her, and you will live.”
“He doesn't understand you!” Rhodric spoke through clenched teeth.
“Perhaps he does,” Arion replied, very calm.“He can understand my meaning, at any rate.” He took another step toward them.
The Viking shouted out a garbled string of sounds, bellowing in her ear, and pulled Lauren back again, four huge steps, prompting Arion to halt once more, his face dispassionate, his eyes piercing.
“Sweet Jesu,” said someone. “He'll do it. He'll kill them both. Look at him.”
She couldn't understand what that meant until she angled her gaze downward and saw, strangely, the sky beneath her. But it wasn't truly the sky, just the reflection of it, clear blue threading through the canyon right below her. They were at the edge of a very steep drop. Far, far down was the river she had glimpsed earlier this morning, catching heaven and showing it off through the rocks.
If the Viking took another step back, they would both go falling to their deaths, long before they even reached the river.
She quickly looked back up at Arion and found him fixed on her.
“I'm all right,” Lauren said, which surprised even her, because she was most certainly not all right, but she had needed to take away the look on Arion's face. She couldn't bear to see the veiled panic there, the tight fear for her.
So she did the only thing she could, which was to remove her hand from around her waist, where she had palmed her dirk, and shove it back behind her, stabbing the Viking with a quick and brutal blow, pushing the metal in as far as it would go.
The man jumped, and she felt the sting of the blade at her throat along with his sudden roar of fury, but he had moved away from her enough that she could turn and jerk out of his grip, an ungainly sideways step. The Viking grabbed at her again, now wavering against the sky, but he missed, cartwheeling backward, falling away, still yelling.
Lauren caught herself and stood motionless, holding her arms out for balance, perched on the very end
of the ledge of dirt that had kept her from falling as well.
She didn't dare even to breathe, but it had worked! She looked to Arion and found him staring at her, as still as she was, and everyone else. But there was no joy on his face, like what was beating through her. There was panic again. In one abrupt move, he lunged for her— too late.
Lauren felt the ground beneath her feet crumble away, astonished, and then there was nothing there at all, and she went plunging down to the end of the world.
Chapter Nine
HE WAS HAVING A DREAM of sunny places, open fields and warm skies, and the clouds were pearls and the trees had leaves of sparkling emeralds. Swans floated by in lapis-blue ponds, with onyx eyes and smiling beaks of gold. The sun was a rounded cabochon of topaz, glowing with light.
Lauren felt safe and comfortable here, despite the fantastic surroundings. She slept in a meadow of soft grass and heather. She drank nectar from flowers with long, elegant stems.
Arion was here. He offered her the nectar, said her name in whisper tones, touched her face and smiled at her as she looked up at him.
What a vivid dream, the nicest one she had ever had. Lauren settled back into the welcoming grass—smelling of cleanness, sweet and fresh—and closed her eyes again, deciding to nap beneath the bright sun.
Time passed. She didn't know how long. Long enough so that the sky faded away and became a canopy of cloth above her, and the grass became a blanket wrapped around her, with furs by her head.
Only the sun and the swans and the clouds and the trees stayed the same: topaz and onyx, pearls and emeralds, all carefully sewn into a tapestry that hung nearby, a brilliant pastoral scene that fooled the eye with its detailed richness.
It gradually came to Lauren that she was lying in a bed that was not her own, in a room that was not her own. When she turned her head to see why this might be, a terrible stab of lightning exploded though her, blinding her, nearly killing her, and she moaned with the pain of it.