Warrior Untamed

by Mayhue, Melissa

  “If it’s a battle you want,” Hall murmured, dodging to his left as he lifted his arm to deflect the first man’s sword with the flat of his blade. Only a glancing blow. He instantly recovered and twirled his weapon overhead, bringing the edge of his sword crashing down to catch his opponent across the back of his neck.

  The man’s head lolled forward as his horse kept running and Hall gave him no more thought, his attention already intent upon the next two men drawing close.

  To his side, he caught sight of Mathew moving forward. The boy gripped the Sword of the Ancients with both hands, obviously struggling with its weight to hold it out in front of him.

  “Get back,” Hall barked. “Keep low and out of range.”

  The second man attacked, his sword meeting Hall’s with a ring of steel.

  His blade would be dulled after this, but he had little choice. His shield was of no use to him, hanging where he’d tied it, covering his mount’s left flank.

  The boy beside him yelled and fell backward as Hall’s opponent’s horse swung his head in Mathew’s direction. Hall turned in his saddle to see that Mathew was unharmed and, momentarily distracted, very nearly missed blocking the next attack.

  The blow caught him high, driving his blade back toward his head and knocking him from his saddle. He landed in a squat and surged to his feet, collecting his wits as the two closest riders circled, one coming at him from either direction.

  They might be poorly trained, but they were quick learners, having changed their tactic after seeing their companion’s demise.

  “Surrender the thief to us,” one of them ordered, his voice mechanical and without emotion. “Or die with him.”

  “I think not,” Hall countered, and reached out to grasp the leather thong securing his shield. One quick twist and the lashing gave way, dropping the shield into his grasp.

  Let them come now. Two puny men, even on horseback, were hardly a match for Hall O’Donar.

  He roared his challenge as they descended upon him and, lifting his shield high for cover, he slashed up at the closest man. His weapon struck home, slicing into muscle and sinew as the rider screamed and fell from his mount. One downward thrust and only two opponents remained, one headed toward him, one hanging back.

  Once again, based on what they’d seen, they’d changed their battle tactic.

  Hall waited until the last possible second to evade his attacker’s charge, bringing his weapon down in a mighty arc as he twirled out of the warrior’s path. His sword severed flesh and bone below the man’s knee. In response to the mercenary’s screams, his mount reared and unseated him, throwing him to the ground at Hall’s feet. Even wounded as he was, the soldier swung his sword toward Hall like a man possessed, driving Hall backward a step before he lunged in. From the corner of his eye, he noted the last man starting toward him as he made quick work of the soldier on the ground.

  Beside him, Mathew rushed forward, roaring in a pale imitation of Hall’s challenge, his voice cracking, as is the bane of many a young man.

  Before Hall could order the boy back, he felt the air around him thicken and heard an unusual sound he knew to be metal slicing through the solid air.

  The sword in Mathew’s hands, so precariously held, swiped against Hall’s arm, slicing through the cloth of his shirt to graze along the skin of his shoulder.

  Only a scratch and yet it took him to his knees as the pain of a thousand fires consumed his shoulder and a great roaring filled his ears.

  Only a scratch.

  Unable to believe his own eyes, Hall looked up from the thin red line of the wound to the boy.

  Mathew clasped the sword to his chest and clamped one hand over his ears, a look of horror distorting his features. When the boy turned to run, Hall realized the world around him had slowed, stretching out, as if time itself had turned to deep water.

  “Not so brave now, are you, big man?”

  Hall swung his head back around to find the last of Torquil’s men walking toward him.

  “You should have left when we warned you. But, no, you had to involve yerself where you had no business being. And now what do you have to show for yer mischief, eh?”

  Like the rest of his body, Hall’s lips refused to work. He could produce no sound other than a weak grunt.

  “I’ll tell you what you’ve got. You’ve got yerself killed, that’s what. Perhaps in yer next life, you’ll have learned to mind yer own business and do as yer told.”

  Unable to move, Hall prepared himself for what was to come as the warrior drew back his sword, waiting for the sound of metal striking bone to send him to his reward in Valhalla.

  Instead, a whining zing filled his ears, like some giant summer midge headed in his direction. When he managed to lift his gaze, his attacker teetered over him, eyes vacant. A single trail of blood trickled down between his eyes from a spot on his forehead where a large metal point protruded.

  The lifeless body toppled over backward, leaving Hall a clear view of the trail beyond. What he saw set his heart wildly pounding.

  The beautiful Valkyrie charging toward him could mean only one of two things: Either the sword that struck him had been tipped with poison and he was hallucinating or, more likely, he was already dead and the Valkyrie rode to carry him to his just reward in Valhalla.

  Nine

  BOLLOCKS!”

  Brie had spent the better part of the last week fantasizing about how events might play out when she finally caught up with Halldor O’Donar.

  This little scene had been nowhere in any of those fantasies. Halldor on his knees like some helpless puppy, waiting for that great grinning bastard who loomed over him to lop his head off.

  Not on her watch.

  She and her bow had made easy enough work of that one. But Halldor remained on his knees, slumped to the ground.

  No, no, no! If he thought he could simply up and die on her, after she’d gone to all this trouble to find him, he’d better just think again. She was having none of that.

  Brie jumped from her horse the instant she reached him and shoved the body of the man she’d shot to one side before she kneeled to capture Halldor’s cheeks in her hands.

  “O’Donar? Can you hear me?”

  He blinked repeatedly, as if trying to focus his vision, and grunted something she couldn’t understand.

  “Where are you wounded?” she demanded, running her hands over his broad chest and down his arms.

  From the looks of his condition, she didn’t have time for a guessing game, but the only thing she could find was one small scratch high on his arm where his tunic had been sliced open.

  “Answer me, O’Donar! What have they done to you? Where are you hurt?”

  No blood on his clothing, no blood on the ground. Well, none of his blood on the ground, though she couldn’t say as much for his opponents.

  She grabbed his shoulders and shook until he swung his head back and forth, yet still his eyes continued their slow, confused blinking.

  “Not Valkyrie,” he slurred, his voice sounding raw.

  “Valkyrie? Me?” She shook her head, capturing his face with her hands again cupping his cheeks. “Hardly. It’s naught but Brie MacCulloch who sits before you now. Have you forgotten?”

  What in the name of the Seven had those bastards done to him? Her great, strong warrior, reduced to a grunting half-wit.

  “No,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Not Brie.”

  Whether he rejected the idea of her coming to his aid or simply didn’t recognize her, she couldn’t say. She almost hoped it was the latter.

  “Look at me,” she ordered, giving him another gentle shake. “Do you no ken who I am? Surely you canna have forgotten Bridget MacCulloch so soon.”

  This time when his eyes opened, recognition shone in them. “A brainless question, that,” he muttered on a deep sigh. “Help me to my feet.”

  He laid an arm over her shoulder and she struggled to help him stand. How could she have forgotten what
a big man he was? She towered over most men, yet next to this one, she felt almost dainty.

  Together, they managed to get to a large tree where he leaned against the trunk, breathing heavily as if he’d run a great distance.

  She was more than a little winded herself.

  “What’s happened to you, to leave you so weak? I canna find a wound of any consequence upon yer body.”

  “It’s of no matter,” he responded, scanning the area around them. “Did you see which way the lads went?”

  “Lads? I saw none but the men on the ground as I approached. Them and that grinning fool who thought to take yer head.”

  “Ah, yes.” He glanced toward the fallen warrior as something of a smile curved his lips. “Then it would be your arrow that brought him down. It would seem that I am in your debt, my lady.”

  Staring at him, she realized with a shock that his beard was gone, his face clean-shaven and ruddy with cold. And that smile! With no whiskers to conceal it, the expression transformed him in a way that made her breath catch oddly in her chest.

  “You owe me nothing,” she managed at last, clearing her throat to cover her confusion while she looked away to gather her wits. “Consider it my payment for yer help at Tordenet. We’re even now.”

  He grunted and she glanced back up at him, to find him trying to push away from the tree.

  “Stay where you are for a bit. Get yer legs well under you. And while yer about it, perhaps you can answer my questions. What lads were you speaking of, and what has happened to you?”

  He remained where he was, his cheeks drained white from his exertion. “I found Mathew. Seems he’s joined company with another young man. One of rather ill repute, I fear. And as to what’s happened to me . . .” He glanced to the small cut on his shoulder, pulling aside the cloth of his tunic to inspect the wound. “The Sword of the Ancients has happened to me.”

  “Mathew did this to you? He attacked you?” She could not bring herself to imagine sweet, gentle Mathew harming Halldor—or anyone else for that matter.

  “I don’t believe it was his intention. I think he meant to help me fight these men, but the sword was more than he could control.”

  Brie leaned into Hall, brushing aside his hand so that she could better see the wound for herself. It was small, but it appeared red and swollen, as if infection had already set in.

  “We need to do something with this. I dinna think I’ve seen a wound go bad so quickly. And never in one so insignificant as this.”

  Halldor leaned back against the tree, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “A wound from the Sword of the Ancients is hardly insignificant. It’s fatal. It’s betony and yarrow I need now. Agrimony and vervain. Perhaps even a pinch or two of joy-of-the ground.”

  “Herbs?” Brie choked out, Halldor’s calm pronouncement ringing in her ears.

  He had to be wrong. She wouldn’t accept his having been struck with a fatal blow, not even from a weapon as mysterious as the Sword of the Ancients.

  There had to be something she could do to slow the progress of whatever evil the sword had left upon his body.

  “Honey smeared over the opening would do more good than yer weeds. If only we weren’t caught in the dead of winter, I might find an active hive.”

  “If we weren’t caught in the dead of winter, I’d have my herbs.”

  Wishing for the impossible wasn’t going to do a bit of good, so she’d have to make do with what she carried in her provisions. She might not have honey, but she did have the next best thing.

  Brie hurried over to her horse and dug through her pack of supplies to find the flask she sought. Returning to Hall’s side, she pulled out the stopper and poured a bit of the contents onto his wound.

  His eyes flew open and he jerked away from her, sniffing the air. “Mead? I’d be better off to have that inside my body rather than poured upon it. At least drinking it might afford me some relief.”

  “Honey ale,” she corrected, turning her concentration to his shoulder.

  With her tongue pressed against her teeth, she made a tsking noise, and pressed a tentative finger to the wound. The opening seemed to sizzle as if she’d poured the ale into a hot pan.

  One thing was clear to her.

  “This is beyond my abilities.” She waited for his sarcastic response, but none came. Apparently he agreed. “We need to get you back to Castle MacGahan.”

  “Eventually,” he said, pushing away from the tree to stand on his own two feet for the first time. “But first we need to see if our young friend left anything behind. Ah, I see he’s abandoned his fine, fine steed.”

  Hall’s strength might be returning but his good sense had taken its leave. Brie shook her head as Halldor slowly made his way across the opening to the worst example of horseflesh she’d ever seen. Not even old Cook would be seen on such a pitiful excuse for a horse.

  Halldor unlaced the bag tied to the saddle and poked around inside, turning a worried frown in her direction as she reached his side.

  “The sword and the scrolls have escaped our grasp, but not the jewels. All the jewels are here, save for the one I already carry.”

  That was excellent news, but to look at the big man next to her, she’d never have guessed it. “I’d think you’d be happy to retrieve at least part of what you set out to find.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “The jewels serve as a guard upon the sword and the scrolls. A barrier to control their power, like guards around a prison. Without the jewels, there’s no telling what mischief their evil can cause.”

  Explanation enough for his frown.

  He reached for the palfrey’s reins and headed toward his own mount, stumbling halfway there.

  Brie was at his side in an instant, dipping her shoulder once again under his arm, ignoring him when he tried to push her away.

  “There’s no dishonor in accepting assistance from an ally.”

  A trace of his earlier smile reappeared when he looked down at her, bringing with it the odd tightening in her chest.

  “Wise words, little one,” he said at last. “I’ll try to remember them. I’d be grateful for your assistance so that we might be on our way.”

  “Good.” This new, reasonable O’Donar was quite the surprise. “Yer sure you can ride?”

  “I can ride. We’ve wasted more than enough time here.”

  They had indeed. She needed to get him home, where someone could deal with his baffling injury.

  He swung up into his saddle with only one short pause and urged his horse onto the trail, heading west.

  “Hold on,” Brie called as she finished tying the lead for Mathew’s horse behind hers and mounted. “Where do you think yer going? MacGahan lies in the other direction.”

  “Mathew is on foot. If we put ourselves to it and scour the woods, we can catch up with him. Maybe even before nightfall.”

  The old O’Donar had returned. Stubborn, stubborn man.

  Brie grabbed his reins as she reached his side, pulling them from his hands. That, as much as anything, convinced her that his strength had not really returned. And if that tiny cut on his shoulder could rob a man such as Halldor O’Donar of his strength, she could only imagine what else it might do to him if they didn’t seek the help of a healer. His prediction of fatal could well be accurate.

  “There are men from MacGahan on the trail as we speak, headed to this very spot. We’ll no doubt cross their path as we return.”

  “We aren’t going to—”

  “Do you remember saying to me that I should try, for once, to do as I was told without a blighted argument? Well, I’d give that same advice to you now. Yer in no shape to win such an argument. Not with me or anyone else.” Brie tugged on the reins she held to emphasize her point. “Besides, what good would it do you to reach Mathew and the weapon if you’ve got no strength to take it from him? We need to get you back home. To get you to a healer.”

  She knew she’d won when his shoulders slumped and he st
ared into the distance.

  “As you say,” he sighed. “I cannot fight you on this. But I suspect there’s none that can heal what ails me.”

  Brie handed back his reins and pulled her horse up next to his, refusing to accept what he said. By the Seven, she would not give up on him so easily.

  THEY RODE IN the wrong direction.

  It hung in Hall’s craw, gnawing at his guts like a diseased worm. He’d been so close. He could have taken the sword from boy but he’d chosen to protect him first, planning to reason with him after. His failure lay bitter in his mouth.

  “Bah!”

  “What’s that you say?”

  Bridget pulled her horse closer to his and reached out a hand to brush his forehead with her fingertips. He ducked away, too slow in his movements to effectively avoid her touch.

  He needed to think clearly and her touch had the uncomfortable effect of muddling his thoughts.

  “Move away from me if you like, but it does yer argument no good. I can see the fever in the color of your face.”

  As if he needed her to tell him he had a fever. The burn spread out from his arm to consume his whole body, like a dry forest under siege of wildfire.

  “We should have stayed on the sword’s trail,” he muttered, knowing she would hear and take the bait. Anything to distract her from her constant hovering. He could deal with her irritation; it was this tender worry that drove him to distraction.

  “There’s no point in yer wasting yer breath on it, O’Donar. That discussion ended miles back down the road.”

  “I’d reopen it, then. I’m feeling better now.”

  A truth, more or less. Though he had little hope of recovery, he did feel much stronger than he had immediately after his injury.

  “Oh, of course you are.” As if sarcasm hadn’t hung heavily enough in her tone, her accompanying snort clearly carried her opinion. “If yer so much better, then answer me this. Why is it that yer clearly burning with the fever? The way you felt to my touch, we’ll no even need to build ourselves a fire this night. We’ll just heat our meal by holding it close to yer skin.”