Intimate Enemies

by Shana Ab

  “Oh dear, she's going to faint,” said someone, very distant.

  Lauren swallowed and fought it, moving away from them all. “I'm all right! I'm only a bit tired, nothing more.”

  “Of course you are,” comforted Vanora, and guided her over to a chair. “We'll get you right out of this gown, and then you'll go back to your chamber for a good, long nap. All this excitement can be so wearing, I know. And you, poor lass, not yet healed from all that's happened, I'm sure….”

  Lauren let them minister to her again, focusing on the gray outside, trying to stay calm amid it.

  HE WORE AN OLD CLOAK, gray like everything else about her now, thick and with a tattered hem. It had been one of her favorites of them all, perhaps because Da had given it to her, or because it was so sturdy and warm. For some reason she had put it away for more than a few seasons. But now it was perfect again, and the hood of it not only kept her own heat close to her but aided in her anonymity.

  Not that she was hiding. She had no need to hide. Indeed, it would have been impossible anyway. She had to be seen to claim her horse from the stables, and one of the lads there helped her to saddle her mare with nothing but solemn stares. She thanked him briskly, then trotted out to the gate of Keir.

  The gatekeeper nodded to her, and ordered the gate lowered so that she could pass. That had been her greatest fear, that she might be forcibly kept here, that they might actually mean to make her a sort of pampered prisoner.

  But all the man said was, “Where you off to, lass?”

  “Black Beach,” she replied, which was the truth. She was not actually running away. She just needed to feel the air on her face and taste the ocean wind again. She needed to be as alone as she could, to sift through her thoughts. But she would be back.

  “Don't stay too long,” instructed the man. “Snow's coming, and the day is short.”

  “Aye,” replied Lauren, and spurred her mount on.

  Black Beach was aptly named; although the sand remained the same color as all the rest on Shot, a mellow gold, it had a variety of large and jagged boulders rising from that sand, black as pitch, odd shapes and chunks that made riding it a hazard at best, impossible at worst.

  So she dismounted, letting the mare walk beside her, and lifted her head so that her hood was pushed back by the wind and she could see the beauty all around her.

  Keir was not very distant, a magnificent shadow over the woods behind her.

  This beach was long and wildly crooked, the boulders that heaved everywhere making it that much more challenging to find a clear path in the sand. The mare was having difficulty, so Lauren led her over to a bush and tied the reins to a branch, making certain that her steed would have shelter from the constant wind.

  The mare bent her head and began to nose around at some dried strands of grass that had grown nearby. Lauren walked back out to the beach.

  There was a storm coming, she could see it now eating up a corner of the sky, vicious black clouds from the gray. It was moving remarkably swiftly toward Shot, sweeping closer over a heavy ocean mist that lingered offshore. Indeed, as Lauren paused at the edge of the water, she could almost mark the distance being closed, counting out the seconds as the storm grew, and grew.

  It would be a cold one. She felt that already, she heard it in the howl of the wind and the angry crash of the surf before her. It seemed to suit her mood, however, so she did not turn back toward Keir. She walked on.

  As a girl she had played games amid these black boulders with the other children of the clan, hiding games, climbing games, races. The largest of the rocks had names: Auld Blackie, Big Lad, Fiona's Gown, Giant's Head….

  A spray of water caught her by surprise. The tide was rising rapidly, spurred on by the wind. It came again, catching her up to her ankles this time, and Lauren jumped away from it, clutching her cloak and gown up to her knees. She was not fast enough, and the water tugged at her with icy fingers, then fell away.

  Time to go back.

  She didn't want to. She was freezing and now wet on top of it, her eyes tearing and her nose and lips almost numb. But she didn't want to go back just yet.

  Lauren had a sense of being in a moment of decision, of standing on top of a hill and looking back from where she had come, and forward to where she was to go. Here on this zigzagged beach she realized why it was she had braved the bitter weather. She was saying good-bye to it all, to Arion and her clan and the place that had always been her home.

  Snow began to fall, light and delicate despite the wind, stark white against the black boulders surrounding her.

  She was walking through a tunnel made by two tremendous rocks that tilted against each other, marking a natural turn in the beach, from facing south to facing west. These two rocks—dubbed Turning Point by some long-ago MacRae—formed an arch that was about as tall as a man and twice as long. For a few seconds, as Lauren entered it and became encompassed by the stone, the wind stopped, the snow ceased. It was utterly silent.

  She paused and closed her eyes, feeling relief that at last she was able to hide, to become invisible to everything else in the world, even the elements.

  Then she took a step out of the tunnel, and looked out onto calamity.

  Men were on the beach before her, moving through the drifting snow. Many, many men, an army of men, pulling boats up to shore, splashing through the waves, wielding axes and broadswords and quivers of arrows. The wind turned and brought her their voices, gibberish, low and secretive. Row upon row of longships sliced through the mist and the waves, the black sky behind them speckled with white, and before Lauren could even think to turn and run for help, she was spotted.

  One of the Vikings pointed to her and gave a shout. She didn't wait for the others to look. She whirled around and slid in the sand, kicking it up behind her, pushing off the tunnel walls in her haste.

  She was running so fast that the boulders were a true danger, but she could not slow down. She had to make it back to Keir. She had to warn them.

  The snow blinded her, cold wetness in her eyes. Her foot struck a rock and she fell hard onto the sand, breathing in the grit, but Lauren launched herself back up and took off again. She could hear her pursuer behind her now—heavy, running steps. When she dared to risk a look at him he was much closer than she had thought, his teeth bared in a grimace, massive and bearded and gaining so fast.

  Her mare was standing alert where she had been left, looking at Lauren with alarmed brown eyes as she scrambled up the mild slope to the brush. Her speed spooked the mare, which yanked at the reins and whinnied in distress as Lauren tried frantically to untie them.

  They were knotted too tightly now; the mare had not calmed. The man was closer, so close, almost upon her….

  Lauren took out her dirk and cut the leather straps with trembling hands, freeing the mare. Then she was knocked down to the sand, and the dirk went flying. Her horse galloped away.

  She rolled instinctively, bringing her hands up to defend herself, but the Northman was much larger, capturing her easily, nearly crushing her with his weight. She managed to jab at his throat to make him cough, but that was all—then he had both of her wrists locked in one of his hands. He struck her across the jaw with the other one.

  She saw bright blue light that dissolved to darkness, amazingly painless. And then the weight on her vanished, leaving only the wind to tug at her cape, howling in her ears.

  What had happened? She must have fainted, or it had never been real at all, no Viking, no invasion—

  Someone called her name, curt and cut off, and Lauren lifted herself out of the sand to see Arion struggling with the man who had hit her, blood on both of their faces, sand flying around them as they rolled and fought.

  Arion yelled her name again and she got to her knees, disoriented. She saw his head turn to see her rise; it seemed to give him a renewed fury. His attention fell back to the Northman, a force of untamed power that could not be stopped. The other man was weakening, his face shining re
d with blood, his eyes puffed and split. Arion was growing stronger, if that was possible, and with one final blow the Viking fell away, dead or merely unconscious, Lauren didn't know.

  Arion clambered to his feet and ran to her, pulling her up with a quick yank, and Lauren went into his arms and lifted her head as though it was the one thing she had been waiting her whole life to do.

  His kiss was bloodied and hard, quick and filled with salt and sand. He leaned back and kissed her forehead next, holding her to him tightly, and she was holding him just as close.

  “Did he hurt you?” Arion asked, still breathing hard.

  Lauren shook her head, a crazed mixture of joy and fright racing through her.

  “You've got to get out of here.” He pushed her away, the look on his face severe.“Run back to Keir.”

  “No,” she said, though she knew he was right.“I won't leave you!”

  “Get out of here!” Arion gave her a little shove toward the woods, back the way her mare had run.“There aren't enough of us here to win this battle, Lauren! We're going to need your help! You've got to get to Keir!”

  She wanted to argue; she wanted to take his hand and pull him away from the violence with her, but she knew that both of these wants in her were wrong.

  “Go,” he said, much gentler. Snowflakes began to grace his hair, his shoulders, in feathery layers.“Please, Lauren— go. I need you to be safe.”

  Then his eyes moved past her, to the Turning Point, and Lauren saw the change in him. It made her turn around and take in what it was that made the green of his eyes so dark and resigned.

  “Damn,” she heard him say.

  The Vikings were pounding through the black stone tunnel, running straight toward them.

  Chapter Twelve

  COULDN'T BELIEVE THEIR BAD fortune.

  His patrol had been near the border of the island on his orders, some foolish whim of his to bring him as close to Lauren MacRae as he could without igniting a new war between the families.

  But instead of discovering Lauren on patrol, they had seen the Viking longships, a great line of them appearing all at once, cutting through the thick ocean mists to land on Shot.

  He had done what he could. He had sent his swiftest man back to Elguire, to gather his army, and the rest of his patrol had marked the passage of the Northmen in almost prosaic silence, following the ships as they made their way closer to shore, even when it meant they had to cross onto MacRae land to keep the Vikings in sight.

  There was never any doubt that there were not enough men on his patrol to take on the many who had to be manning those ships. It would be only time, really, that would tell him the odds of the battle. He could not allow the invaders to gain too much ground on Shot, and at some point he would be forced to confront them. But how soon before Elguire sent help? And would the patrol from Keir see the ships as well?

  Ye t none of his men wavered, and none suggested retreat until their numbers were stronger. In each face Ari had seen the same stoic determination as that which filled him. When the Vikings landed, they would engage them in battle, until either every one of them was dead or help had arrived.

  No one wanted it to be a slaughter, however. To waste lives on an unplanned attack would be foolish. So they had watched and followed, guessing where the invaders might land, deciding that the obscure beach with the black boulders studding it would be the most likely place—merely because it was so unlikely for a sane man to try to land a boat there.

  It was hidden and sheltered from the view of both Elguire and even Keir, yes, but it was also a gauntlet of peril for any wooden craft, razor-sharp rocks residing just beneath the water.

  And sure enough, it was there that the rowboats from the longships headed. It was there that they dragged their crafts to shore, infesting a place where they would not so easily be seen from the woods or another shore.

  Arion and his men tried to count the Northmen as they drew close to the beach, since once on Shot the numbers became confused as men scurried in and out of the rocks.

  Ari gave up counting at two hundred. And, God curse it, there were more ships coming.

  He watched with grim humor as it finally began to snow.

  Arion had gathered his group together, seriously rethinking their suicidal attack, when Fuller wordlessly took his arm and pointed back to the beach.

  Ari turned, sharp eyed, and what he saw there made his heart lurch up into his throat.

  A woman stood framed between two huge stones, her hair loose and blowing against the black of them in a beckoning copper wave, the snow a slanting curtain of white before her. But for her hair she was perfectly motionless, staring at the invaders, surprise and wonder on her face.

  Dear God, it was Lauren. And she was about to die.

  One of the Vikings gave a shout and pointed to her. Ari saw her at last gather her wits and turn to bolt. But he knew she didn't have a chance.

  He was running to her without thought. He was breaking past the last of the bush and scrub, racing to get to her before the man chasing her did. Some part of him at least remembered stealth, which was probably what saved him. He didn't leave the bushes until the last minute, not giving the Norsemen a chance to see him until he was beyond them, and far from where he had left his own group. It was the warrior part of him, no doubt, that took over when his rational thoughts went blank, went running around in looping circles that had just one phrase repeated, over and over: save her, save her, save her….

  Ari had fought before, and well enough to live through this. He was not going to succumb to death now. Not before he reached Lauren.

  And it was the warrior in him that had quelled the threat to her, that had pulled the filthy Viking off her, rage and fury scoring through him.

  He thought he had won. He thought he had done it, he had managed to save her.

  But now he saw that all he had done was delay their deaths, because the line of men screaming for them across the beach would absolutely kill them both. The woods were too far to reach in time, and there was no one nearby to aid them.

  Arion picked up his shield from where it had fallen in the fight with the Viking, then pushed Lauren behind him, readying his sword. He heard her breathing, quick and shallow, and then she was down on her knees in the sand, sifting through it for something. He didn't dare look away from the men to see what she was doing. Then she was back beside him, a glint of sharp silver in her hand—a dirk, her only defense.

  At least he had kissed her once more. At least that.

  “I love you,” he said to her, and from the corner of his eye he saw her look up at him, startled.

  “What?” she asked, but there was no time for him to answer. The first of the men was there, and he was already swinging his sword.

  It was war, a familiar monster to Arion, and he knew the steps by heart, the advance and the retreat, the cunning and the brutality. He was fighting three at once, and then four, and then five, and still he was managing to keep Lauren behind his shield, away from them. Part of him noticed that she was holding her dirk aloft, ready to strike, but it was a distant recognition. The battle was his world now.

  A blow to his arm, barely felt. Screams and words that made no sense, and then another blow, this one to his shoulder, and another, to his ribs. Lauren was busy now as well—in spite of his best efforts, a Northman had gotten around him to her, and she was fighting like a wildcat, making the invader hesitate, so quick with her dirk that Arion couldn't even follow her movements.

  But they would get to her, and to him. It was just a matter of time.

  From the woods came a new call, one he knew well: the sound of his own men from the patrol, breaking past the line of trees, running toward him and the rest of the invaders, forcing their attention to shift to face this new threat.

  Tw o of his five attackers fell off, one with a deep gash down his front that Ari had managed to inflict, and then one more was gone, drawn away into the conflict with his men. That left two for Arion�
�the one who still fought him, and one who fought Lauren.

  Ari heard her cry out and then she stumbled against him; she had been hurt, and he felt it split through him as if it were his own flesh. He gave an agonized shout and quickly killed the man before him, then leaped aside and took down her assailant, a rushing lethal blow that was over before he realized it had begun. The man fell to the sand with a heavy, muffled sound.

  Ari reached for Lauren, trying to hold her, to bring her to him.

  “Where is it?” he shouted over the noise, his sword dipped in bright scarlet.“Where did he wound you?”

  Her arm was bleeding, almost the identical location where he had been cut, but on her how it weakened him. How it made him hurt for her.

  “What was it you said, before?” she shouted back to him now, cradling her arm.

  A man came tumbling into Arion and they both went falling to the ground, clashing blades, his shield flying away, useless. Arion finished it as quickly as he could but it still wasn't quick enough. When he looked up again, Lauren was battling another Northman. She had picked up the axe of one of the felled around her and was swinging it with skilled concentration, her hair flowing with the storm wind. The man in front of her was dodging her, looking to grab the axe. Lauren managed to strike him once, near the arm. He edged away but came back, still trying to disarm her, to find a chance to stab her.

  Arion rose to his feet and was immediately hit by another man, and then another. He lost sight of Lauren in the flurry of snow and sand.

  There was no feeling in his left arm. He didn't bother to look down to see what had happened. He could still grip his sword, and that was all that mattered. The men before him were tenacious and fierce, but Ari knew he had the natural edge.

  All they wanted was the land.

  But Arion had much more at stake. He had Lauren, and that was everything.

  It gave him the strength to kill them both, messy and cruel or quick and merciful, it made no difference to him. Let them all die. He was going to save Lauren.