The chuckle rumbled up from deep in his chest and out into the open, beyond his ability to stop it. Damn, but the woman lightened his spirit, even when she was angry.
“You think any of this is funny? This is not funny. It’s damned deadly serious.”
Perhaps most of all when she was angry.
“You’re correct. Our situation is no laughing matter.” He allowed a moment to pass before he circled back to the conversation she wouldn’t like. “But neither can we continue to ignore that which is most important. We must have the sword and the scrolls. We cannot allow them to fall into the wrong hands. And while we bicker, they travel farther away from us with each step we take.”
She shook her head, stubbornly refusing to look over at him. “No. I’ll hear none of it. Any moment now, we’ll cross paths with Patrick and Jamesy and all the others. We’ll tell them what happened and they can go after the sword. We’ve a more important challenge ahead of us. You put yer mind to yer healing.”
The men from Castle MacGahan were not nearly so close as Bridget hoped. He’d been listening for them to no avail for quite some time. Them and the other party of riders Torquil had sent out.
“By the time they could reach the sword, it might well be too late.” He breathed deeply before forcing himself to confess his darkest distress. “How can I make you understand, Bridget? I need to go after it myself. It was within my reach and I let it escape me. How am I to go forward, knowing that?”
Beside him, Bridget jerked on her reins, stopping her horse to turn a powerful glare in his direction.
“You go forward exactly as I have. Do you think yer the only one to carry regrets on yer shoulders? I not only allowed the sword to slip through my fingers, I missed the opportunity to kill the Beast who owns it. Twice.”
“That’s different.” She’d had no way of knowing what the sword—or Torquil, for that matter—was capable of. And when she’d tried to kill him, she’d very nearly ended up dead herself.
“Different? And exactly how is my failure any different from yers?” she ranted, holding up a hand to silence him before he could answer, anger flashing in her eyes. “No. Dinna you even bother to answer that. I’ll hear no more from that bucket of cold slop you men are determined to serve me.”
She’d completely misunderstood him, but there was no reining her in now.
“Here’s the way I see our predicament, O’Donar. We could turn around and follow the sword and wait for you to die along the way. But since I’m no willing to drag yer sorry dead arse back to Castle MacGahan, that’s no going to happen. So that leaves us with only two viable choices. We can continue in this direction and hope to find help before you keel over, or I can go after the sword and you can continue on without me. You choose.”
Let her go back to confront Mathew and the inevitable reinforcements Torquil would send to reclaim the weapon? Never. The fact that she was right made his options no less bitter to swallow.
“Presented as such, I can see I have no choice at all.”
“And about damned time you realized that, too.”
With a jerk to her reins, Bridget set her animal in motion and he followed suit. His only hope lay in a small band of men supposedly heading in their direction.
He tilted his head, straining to hear far into the distance, praying that if he did hear riders it would be the men from MacGahan, and not those Torquil had sent.
There was no band of riders within his hearing, but something else lay ahead of them. A familiar tinkling sound he recognized immediately.
By Hela! Even approaching his end, he couldn’t escape the damned Fae.
Ten
AARGH!”
Torquil covered his eyes and stumbled away from the fireplace, gasping for air. There were few things he disliked more than being in a mortal’s psyche at the moment of death. It was a disorienting jolt like no other.
“So close,” he moaned, sagging into the nearest chair.
His sword had been there in the clearing, almost within his reach. He’d seen it with his own two eyes. Rather, he’d seen it through the guardsman’s eyes.
The scrolls must have been there, too. If not for the big warrior, he would have had them all.
There was something familiar about the big man, as if he’d seen him before. No doubt he and Torquil had crossed paths at some point before Fenrir had taken full control of this body’s consciousness.
What had happened to his foolish guardsman, anyway? He’d watched through the man’s eyes as his companions had been cut down. He’d seen the big warrior drop to his knees and the youth wielding his sword run away. He’d felt his guardsman’s gleeful anticipation as the fool prepared to take the big man’s head.
And then, without warning, a blinding flash of light and intense pain, followed by the all-consuming darkness of death, had driven him from the man’s mind.
Foolish, careless mortal. He had allowed himself to be so consumed by his own plans, he’d forgotten to watch for what others might be planning.
Torquil sighed, rubbing his fingers against his eyes to clear his vision. He had long known these pathetic beings were incompetent. It was for that reason he had sent more than one hunting party.
As soon as this weak body he inhabited recovered from the experience, he would seek out one of the others. It was the only way for him to direct their progress in securing the treasures. Without them, and the jewels to control them, his freedom, his very existence, was in danger.
Eleven
SOMEONE’S COMING!”
Relief jolted through Brie’s chest as she stared down the path. At last they’d found someone, even though it wasn’t her brother’s party, as she’d hoped. She leaned forward in her saddle, straining to see who approached them. “Is that . . . ?”
“It’s the Tinklers,” Halldor answered flatly, sounding resigned.
Even better, to her way of thinking. She understood that many people looked down on the Tinklers and considered them little better than thieves and whores, but she’d assumed Halldor was more open-minded and less judgmental than that. It bothered her more than she would have expected to realize that she might have been so mistaken about his character.
The Tinklers had been good to her. And they seemed to know more about the oddities of her world than anyone she’d ever met. So in spite of Halldor’s bad attitude, if anyone would be able to help him, Brie had not one doubt that it would be Editha Faas.
“Hurry,” she ordered, urging her mount to a trot to more quickly close the distance between them.
“Welcome back to us!” William Faas called, drawing his wagon to a stop only seconds before his wife, Editha, hopped to the ground.
The Tinkler ran past Brie as if she didn’t exist.
“Come down from there and show me what’s happened to you,” she ordered as she stopped beside Halldor’s horse.
Brie turned to study her companion more closely. Had something in the way he carried himself on the horse given away his distress? There was nothing she could see, but in all honesty she didn’t really care how the woman knew Halldor had been injured. She cared only about curing what ailed him.
“It’s only a small wound,” she offered as Halldor climbed down off his horse. “But it’s gone to infection wickedly fast.”
Halldor dropped the fur he wore at his feet and kneeled in front of the Tinkler woman so that she could examine the wound for herself.
Editha’s expression spoke of things Brie suspected she didn’t want to hear.
“Wicked is an apt description,” Editha murmured, poking at the wound while Halldor gritted his teeth. “I’ve seen its like only once before, and I know yer circumstances are not the same. What manner of thing has done this to you?”
When Halldor didn’t answer quickly enough, Brie spoke up. “The weapon is called the Sword of the Ancients. But it passes my understanding how it could affect him so badly, since its blade barely grazed his skin.”
A tiny scratch of a cut. A woun
d that should have all but healed itself by now.
Editha looked up, a momentary flash of surprise on her face before she masked the emotion. “Is this true?” she asked Halldor. “The Sword of the Ancients?”
He nodded, his gaze fixed upon the Tinkler’s.
“How is it possible for the sword to have . . .” Editha’s voice trailed off as both she and Halldor continued to stare at one another. “I see. I should have known. How, then, is it that yer still alive?”
“You should have known what?” Brie asked. “What’s going on here?”
Both of them ignored her.
“I suspect it has to do with the jewels I carry.”
Brie moved closer in an effort to hear the conversation, her patience wearing thin with the quiet back-and-forth. The Tinkler needed to do something for Halldor and she needed to do it quickly.
“Can you no help him, Editha? Surely you have a poultice or a salve to heal a wound such as this.”
The Tinklers were known far and wide for the herbs and tinctures they supplied to which no others had access. It couldn’t be possible that they didn’t have something to help Halldor. Brie simply wouldn’t accept that.
“It is an ancient seid, a very old dark magic, that afflicts our warrior friend. Its power is too strong by far for my healing skills.” Editha slowly shook her head. “The best I can hope to do is to delay the inevitable. He needs a far more powerful healer than I. One born to the talent. And he needs her soon, by the looks of the wound.”
“There is one who might help him at MacQuarrie Keep.” William spoke from behind Brie, having approached silently.
“No.” Editha responded with finality. “He canna go there for help. She’s no yet ready for such a step. Besides, her destiny is already written. I think only Orabilis can help him now.”
At last, they were saying something Brie understood. “The witch of Rowan Cottage? Should I take him there?”
“No!” Halldor shook his head like a wounded bull about to charge. “Bridget cannot be allowed anywhere near Tordenet again. You know it’s a death sentence for her if she falls into Torquil’s hands.”
For once, Brie agreed with Halldor. Anywhere near Tordenet was the last place she’d choose to go until she had recovered the sword. Then she’d be ready to take her revenge on the monster who had murdered her father. Unfortunately, it sounded as if the choice was not hers to make.
“Torquil and his intent for me are of little importance. If that’s the only place to seek healing for O’Donar, then that’s where we’ll go.”
“No,” Halldor said again, attempting to rise to his feet, but Editha held him where he was with one delicate hand to his wounded shoulder.
“In that case, I’ll do what I can to help him get there. Bring me water and bandages,” the Tinkler ordered, and her husband hurried back toward their wagon. “And you, Halldor O’Donar, I’d have those jewels of which you spoke.”
“Wait!” Brie could hardly believe her ears. According to Halldor, the jewels were as necessary to their quest as the sword itself. He’d told her the jewels must be reunited with the sword to rein in its power. Giving them to the Tinklers was out of the question. “There must be some other payment you’d accept.”
“Bah! Dinna you be so foolish, lassie.” Editha’s eyebrows knit together into a straight, dark, disapproving line. “I’ve no desire for payment. I need the gems to bind the evil within his wound.”
“Oh.”
Brie’s face flamed with her embarrassment as she silently berated herself for sinking to all the closed-minded judgment she’d heaped at Halldor’s feet such a short time ago. She was every bit as bad as he was. Worse, in fact, because she’d convinced herself that she had no prejudices, and yet, at the very first opportunity, she had jumped to the wrong conclusion about the people who had risked so much to help her when she needed their help.
More proof, as if she required it, that her father had been right. Her lack of patience and hasty judgment made her her own worst enemy.
“Bridget!”
Brie’s head snapped up, her attention refocused on the scene before her.
“I need you out here with us, lass, no drawn deep inside yer own thoughts. Listen to me well. Should the bandage need redressing before you reach Rowan Cottage, there’ll be none but you to do it, aye? You must pay attention to the proper way.”
Brie nodded and sank to her knees next to the Tinkler. Though why the woman seemed to think dressing a wound was so complicated was beyond her understanding. A bandage was a bandage.
“Watch carefully,” Editha instructed, pointing to the ground in front of her, where a long strip of folded linen lay with the jewels tucked in between the layers of the cloth.
“You’ll line the stones up, just so,” she said, working through the linen to straighten the stones next to one another like little soldiers standing at attention. “You’ll want to make sure you dinna touch them with yer bare hands. You must ensure that the five of them are kept close together at all times with the linen drawn over them. To do otherwise could give Fenrir a clear view of everything around the jewels.”
“Fenrir?”
“The Beast that inhabits Torquil’s body. An ancient being of immense evil.”
A shudder crawled down Brie’s spine and she drew back a little, uncomfortable with her nearness to the stones. She’d known they were powerful, but she’d had no idea just how powerful they actually were. Neither had she understood how direct their connection to the Beast could be.
“You’ll want to make sure the center stone is directly over the wound,” Editha continued. “Come. Watch.”
As Brie leaned in close, she could feel the heat rolling off Halldor’s fevered skin. The wound had puckered, the skin red and heated. Small gray bubbles formed along the line of the opening, tumbling out over one another like ants escaping a hill, battling for their release from the confines of his skin.
Editha laid the cloth over the wound and Halldor sucked air into his lungs as if he fought off some great pain.
Unable to stop herself, Brie reached for his hand, holding on as his grip tightened around her fingers.
“And you tie it, just so. You see? Twice around and tie it again. You can do this, yes? Yes.” Editha answered her own question, nodding to herself as she rose to her feet and brushed her hands off on the long folds of her brightly colored skirt.
Halldor squeezed Brie’s hand and then released his hold, pushing himself up to stand and offering a hand to assist Brie. Already the normal skin tone had returned to his face and he seemed steadier on his feet.
“Excellent work, my lady Tinkler.” He bowed his head respectfully before turning to catch up his horse’s reins. “I feel well enough to return to our hunt for—”
“Three days at most,” Editha cut in. “Time to reach Rowan Cottage if you hurry, but nothing more.”
“Reclaiming the sword is more important than what might happen to me.”
“No!” Brie’s cry overshadowed the Tinkler’s.
“You are wrong, Halldor O’Donar.” Editha pointed a finger in his direction, her voice taking on a musical quality Brie hadn’t heard before. “You must live. Perhaps you forget that you are indebted to me—and not even death frees you from a debt owed the Fae.”
The Fae? Brie had no time to consider Editha’s startling revelation or Halldor’s apparent lack of surprise at the Tinkler’s words.
He ran his free hand down over his mouth and chin as if he’d forgotten his beard was no longer there. “Even if I go along as you say, the protections set at Rowan Cottage will prevent my entry. We both know that.”
“Bridget will gain your entry,” Editha responded. “Trust in her.”
The Tinkler was correct—Halldor should trust her. By the Seven, nothing would keep her from getting him the help he needed. Not Torquil, not this creature Fenrir, and certainly not the big, stubborn warrior standing beside her.
Twelve
THE DIFFERENCE IN
how his shoulder felt since the Tinkler had bandaged him was amazing. Hall could still feel the evil seething just under the skin, but not as pronounced as it had been before. His strength had returned, though he accepted this to be a temporary state of well-being. The evil would win out as the Tinkler had warned, of that he had no doubt.
None of Asgard’s bloodline could hope to survive an encounter with the business end of the Sword of the Ancients.
He would do his best to reach Rowan Cottage as Editha Faas had instructed. Considering his debt to her, his honor demanded it. But knowing as he now did that Orabilis was not a witch but a powerful Faerie healer, he had little hope of making it through her defenses to obtain her help. No matter what Bridget said, if Orabilis had designed those defenses to keep out the descendents of Asgard, there was no way he was getting past.
A sideward glance brought Bridget’s profile into view. She rode tall in her saddle, back straight, eyes focused into the distance. A whole range of adjectives flooded his mind every time he looked at the woman.
Strong. Determined. Proud. Beautiful.
A ridiculous thought, that last one. Her beauty was of no matter to him. Even if he weren’t doomed by his encounter with the Sword of the Ancients, no woman in the whole of this world would be interested in tying her fate to a man like him. A being like him. He was bound in service to an ancient god, his whole life at the mercy of Thor’s every whim.
Bridget brushed a stray curl from her face and a spear of regret stabbed through Hall’s heart.
Funny, how traveling the world in defense of Mortals who called on Thor for help had never rankled before. Maybe it was only his own mortality that made it feel like such a burden now.
“What?” she asked, turning to catch him staring at her.
“Nothing.” She arched an eyebrow and he was forced to come up with a better response. “Fine, then. I was only wondering how much longer you might last before we have to stop for the night.”
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