Viking Fire

by Andrea R. Cooper

  She lifted her chin and resisted the urge to pluck the twigs and leaves from her hair. Perhaps her appearance caused her handmaid’s amusement. “What are you doing here? You should be at the keep, preparing the heated oil to pour on our enemies.”

  Elva stood, unclasping her hands. The same instant, Kaireen’s horse unlocked and began to graze.

  “I am where I am meant to be for the moment,” Elva answered.

  Kaireen opened her mouth to speak, but her handmaid continued.

  “And where do you think you are going? Not to battle.” She tsked. “Captured or killed if you go in now.”

  Kaireen clenched her fists at her side. “Bram, a-and my family need me.” His name tumbled from her lips. Was she to be a widow before she became a bride?

  Elva clapped her hands together and Kaireen jumped. “You fell for the lad. It’s etched across your heart, for all who can see to see.” She chuckled.

  Kaireen stomped toward her horse. “I have no time for your foolishness,” she called back. Many people whipped their servants, but Kaireen never had; however, this situation gave ample thought now.

  Approaching her mare, the animal skirted around her. She whirled around as the horse pranced to the other side of the silver log near Elva. Realizing her mouth was agape, she clamped it shut.

  Elva stepped forward. “If you wish to save him,” she took another step, “you must do exactly as I instruct.”

  Uneasiness crept across Kaireen. The wind stirred. Around them a fog crept through the elm trees. It drifted across the ground. The white mist covered the earth. The elm trees rustled and were swallowed by the fog.

  Elva stood less than a foot from Kaireen. Yet she barely saw the color of her handmaid’s grey livery.

  Her pale skin disappeared into the fog as if her handmaid was never there. Elva stepped forward and clutched Kaireen’s arm. She spoke of her plan and what her mistress must do.

  Kaireen shifted, listening to the rantings of a madwoman.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Feoras smirked at his brother’s back. Their men tore through the Liannon clan. Revenge fueled their swords.

  In front of him, Bearach slew two of Liannon’s clansmen. Their blood spewed in an arc. Bearach roared as though he were a berserker. Then he bound for another man who attacked one of his sons.

  Feoras frowned. Best if Bearach’s sons died in battle with their father. If they managed to survive, their death would be arranged later. They were more stupid than their father.

  The clanging of metal swords and shields vibrated through the air. His men breached the outer walls and filtered in through the gateway.

  Left of the gateway’s column tower, women lifted a steaming cauldron. As the O’Neill’s passed, the women aimed the hot oil and drenched men below.

  The screams of horses and men drowned out Bearach’s warning bellow as he hacked through the crowd of Liannon a foot away.

  Scalding oil fried the men’s skin raw. In crackling heat, skin burst and the sizzling of flesh echoed with the stench of burning bodies. Fiery arrows shot from the slits in the walls igniting the oil as they passed the gate.

  Feoras kicked his horse into a run. With his shield he dodged swords and arrows. Past the gate tower, he set his horse to a gallop. His destiny would protect him from the burning oils. Seconds later, he passed the gate tower and then heard the crash of two boulders drop behind him. “For the death of Laird O’Neill and the reign of the new laird!” he called to his clansmen and raised his sword high.

  His men repeated his words in a shout. Following Feoras, they stormed ahead to the keep.

  Laird Liannon had placed a majority of his soldiers to defend the gateway. It was not enough to defeat Feoras. He and a few men had breached it.

  When Feoras captured Kaireen, he would force the Liannon clan to bow.

  Besides, Feoras smiled as he sliced a peasant who raised an axe at him, the laird and his wife would die soon after Kaireen.

  No peace would be made with the Liannon clan. The death of Laird O’Neill dissolved the pact. All those in authority and their families would die. The servants and peasants would be given the option of pledging fidelity of slavery to the O’Neill’s and would live if they did so.

  The O’Neill’s would keep fighting until Feoras yanked their necks to stop. Previously, Bearach, blinded by rage, promised to deliver the guilty ones from the Liannon clan.

  Feoras wished he could have witnessed the look on his brother’s face when he saw their father’s sword protruding from the old man’s chest.

  A pregnant woman screamed before he realized his horse had trampled her. He shrugged, one less Liannon bastard to feed when he became ruler of these lands.

  He straightened in his saddle. Today, he would make his mother proud of him.

  Today, he rescued her from her life of servitude and restored her to the laird’s side as she was meant. The O’Neills were punished because of tossing her away, but the Liannons were to be crushed beneath his heel for making her a servant. They knew she was the former wife of the Laird O’Neill and yet they treated her like a slave.

  Bearach would argue her return, but it was why he would die nobly in this battle.

  Soon, when they were alone with his mother, Feoras’ sword would drive into his brother’s guts. He would take in Bearach’s last breath and capture his strength.

  Vultures circled the carcasses of O’Neill and Liannon clans. From inside the keep, children and women wailed as though knowing banshees joined them while death hovered near.

  An arrow rang from the east wall and Feoras lifted his shield to deflect the shot. Thirty men fought next to him, cutting down anyone in their path. He tasted the copper taint of blood on his tongue as blood soaked the ground around them. The taste of it and power invigorated him.

  His clansmen would tell all he breached the keep first. Those who opposed him must hold him worthy of laird after Bearach was killed.

  At least, he would offer to hold the throne until Bearach’s sons were older and more carefully trained. If they lasted that long.

  The gates of the keep stood locked.

  “Aim the grappling hooks!” Feoras shouted.

  All rushed to obey. They tossed the iron hooks at the top of the gates. The men threw the lines several times until all the hooks dug into the wood frame. Then his men tied the lines to their horses’ saddles.

  “Heave!” Feoras circled his horse around for a better view.

  The men kneed their mounts forward. The horses’ nostrils flared and muscled coats sweated from the strain.

  Feoras tossed his hook among the others. To rip open the gates, he forced his horse along with the others. Pieces of wood splintered, erupting from the barricade. Grappling hooks fell with hunks of wood.

  Again the men threw their hooks, and they sank deeper. Feoras urged the men forward. Soon the gates would break. As if in answer to his thoughts, the gates groaned as though a sleeping giant awakened.

  Feoras whipped his horse with the blunt of his sword and the animal lurched forward. He shouted for the men to push their horses farther.

  The men nodded, wiping the sweat from their brows.

  Then the gates burst open, sending planks of wood and hooks flinging through the air.

  Feoras cut the rope holding his grappling hook and jerked his mount around.

  Horseless, O’Neill men gathered the grappling hooks and then followed behind the others to the gate.

  Feoras and his men poured through the fallen gate. He wondered which room housed his mother’s quarters. Surely she watched his arrival from a safe window. His smile lit his dark mood until movement in front of him caught his eye.

  Greeting them in the keep’s courtyard waited Bram the foreigner, and forty of Liannon’s men.

  Clever, Feoras thought and twisted his reins around his fist. The leather creaked as he pulled the straps tight.

  Or the Lochlann got lucky. Either way it would be a slaughter for them. Liannons mu
st not know Feoras was invincible. His mother had told him of this foreigner who was called Bram.

  Bram’s mare whinnied. As if for reassurance he patted the horse, and Feoras longed to say the horse had more sense than its rider.

  Silence lingered as the men glared at each other. Feoras grinned and Bram lifted an eyebrow.

  But Bram stole the silence and rushed forward, shouted for the attack.

  Feoras’ face heated. How dare the foreigner jump ahead of him. “Fight!” He gritted his teeth and kicked his horse into a gallop.

  Perhaps he would give this Bram’s head as a trophy to his mother. Or let his clansmen rip the man apart like jackals. It would be easy enough to convince his men, Bram was the guilty one who killed their laird at the orders of Kaireen.

  Men blurred in blood and sword. He shouted an unintelligible word as he braced for Bram’s attack. Yells and the sound of galloping horses choked the air.

  Bram’s sword clashed against his shield as he countered the blow. Yet, as if unconcerned his blade had not drawn blood, Bram laughed, spinning his sword.

  Furious, Feoras swiped his blade downward. He would not let this foreigner beat him. “Jarus,” he called. Where was that damn man?

  He knew he would not last long if he had to fight the Lochlann, so he planned to use Jarus to help shorten the odds.

  His mother would be so proud of this strategy. Everyone has a purpose, she told him. And his was to be laird and leader, whatever it took.

  The Lochlann would pay for his arrogance.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The enemy swarmed around Bram. He gave shout and the Liannon clansmen flanked his sides.

  Feoras’ brow furrowed. He swept Bram’s sword back with his. “Now, do it now!” he shouted.

  A man behind Feoras jumped from his horse and then rushed forward. He slashed through men.

  The little man crept behind him, but Bram spared little attention for the man as Feoras slashed at him nonstop. Obviously, they thought to use this Jarus as a distraction.

  But Bram would not turn his back on the enemy before him. The man was one of the leaders of this attack. If he defeated him, perhaps the others would listen to reason.

  But this man’s eyes were narrowed as if he planned something. Never turn your back on a cornered rat, he thought. Fitting, for this man’s pointed nose and beady eyes reminded him of rats.

  Bram heard shouts through the battle of their laird murdered.

  “Kill the Norseman.”

  “Vengeance for our Laird.”

  He countered a blow with his sword.

  He kicked aside an O’Neill before the man slashed his sword. Then, his horse screamed and buckled beneath him.

  The little man, Jarus stood behind him and his fallen horse, bloody dagger in his hand. The man had hamstrung their horses before Bram realized it.

  “Get him!” Bram cursed. “He’s maiming the horses.”

  Jarus dodged a blade and crept toward another mount.

  Bram leapt off his wounded horse. Horse wails answered him and he knew the injury was permanent. He forced his blade, into the main artery in the neck, ending the animal’s suffering. “Form a shield-wall,” he yelled, but the others were too far away.

  The enemy swung like a blind man, as though attempting to distract him while his comrade slashed into other horse’s legs.

  And the Irish talked of the Lochlanns as barbarians. Bram thought. Not long ago, these same clansmen rejoiced in the joint defense of the shoreline.

  Now, they come after us with murder in their hearts. He knew the sword Kaireen had brought back had gone missing.

  And he heard Bearach roar that the same sword had killed his father. He demanded justice. Tears streamed down Bearach’s face, coating his dark whiskers.

  But this man before him, Bearach’s brother, his pale eyes gloated at his brother’s words. Bram whirled around, his sword searching for blood.

  • • •

  Feoras backpedaled, seeing the determination on Bram’s face. His teeth bared. Blond hair framed his head and shoulders as a mane, giving the impression of a wild beast set on killing.

  A head or two taller than the others, Bram was an easy mark. The muscles in his legs and arms bulged underneath his tunic and chainmail.

  Feoras knew that in a struggle of strength, with no weapons he would lose to Bram. But he must not be defeated, could not be. His mother watched from somewhere.

  His heart felt stabbed at the thought of her disappointment if he failed. No. He would not fail. If he must he would take all to the cliffs with him, dashing bodies against the rocks.

  Feoras pushed one of his clansmen in front of him towards Bram. Stinging sweat crept into his eyes. “Kill the Lochlann!” he screamed. “He bragged to me he murdered our laird.”

  Frenzy pulsed in the air among the O’Neill clansmen.

  Bram stopped for a moment and then shook his head.

  Men poured through the gates, echoing the cry of ‘kill the Lochlann’. They piled on top of him. They kicked and punched anything moving or resembled Bram’s yellow tunic splattered with blood.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Kaireen hung on as her chestnut-colored mare raced to the shore. She cursed. Uneasiness bubbled in her stomach.

  When she thought her breath would cease from fear, she tried to turn her mare about, but to no avail.

  She dreaded what awaited her upon her lands. Part of her hoped Elva was mistaken, the other knew this was her clan’s last chance for peace. Perhaps her only hope to save Bram.

  She passed the circle of trees, remembering her conversation with Bram about fairies…of his kiss here within her homestead. Her tongue tingled at the thought, and caught the saltwater in the air.

  Outside her home—their home after they married—wandered giants. Elva spoke truth. Thirty Lochlanns towered around her home.

  One chopped firewood, another chased chickens back into a coop. Others folded themselves across the porch. A dozen more carried a dragon ship on their shoulders.

  A ship painted with blue and white swirls. On the bow a red dragon head with gold eyes stared at her.

  Her horse skidded to a stop and then sidestepped at the sight of the dragon’s head moving straight towards them.

  So far, her handmaid’s hunches proved right, if her ranting could be called hunches. She hoped the pattern continued.

  Doubt snatched her breath away. What if these were raiders? They would sail away with her, leaving Bram to die. Or worse, she thought, he may believe she abandoned him.

  In turn, each man looked at her and then nudged the man next to him. Contagious silence shifted around the men until all stood watching her.

  The dragon ship was set against a grassy knoll.

  Sweat rolled down her back. The friar robes itched her skin, but she dared not move. The rope belt across her middle became too constricting. She forced her breaths.

  “Are you men,” she cringed, hearing her voice squeak, she straightened her shoulders, “friends or enemies of Bram?”

  They stared at her and then each other. One of the giants loomed closer. His red hair was like burning embers caught the sunlight.

  Her horse skittered and he snatched the reins. “Who is you?” He spoke in broken Gaelic and Norse. “Friend or foe of Bram?”

  “Wi—er, friend,” she corrected. How easily the word wife wanted to tumble from her lips. Curse Elva thrice for this nonsense.

  He grinned, which Kaireen could not tell if it was from happiness or cunning. Then he hauled her to him and she shrieked.

  Before she drew another breath to scream, he gave her a hug and she thought her bones were bruised.

  After he released her, others took his place. Each hugged her until the last one hugged her tighter than the first.

  She shook her head and then pushed against him. Like trying to knock down an oak tree. “Listen. Bram needs your help.”

  They looked at her puzzled.

  “Fight. Bram
needs you to fight with him.” She waved her arms, pretending to wield a sword.

  The man tossed her back on her horse. She grunted as her backside ached from the landing. She repositioned herself on her horse so as not to fall. Hearing leaves crunch in the distance, she glanced ahead.

  From the fog, Elva appeared on a spotted black horse. She circled round Kaireen, her lips forming a taught line. “As many as I thought.” She nodded her head.

  Her linen head covering was gone and her grey hair flowed down her back. She appeared to Kaireen both ancient and young.

  “I did as you requested. Now what?” She clenched the reins in her fists, refusing to scratch at the monk’s robe. “It would take them a day or more to run to aid on foot. And the closest river flows away from my father’s lands.”

  Elva smiled peering into the distance, to the circle of trees on the hill above them. “Ahh, here they come now. They must have stopped for drink longer than I wanted.”

  Kaireen stared at her handmaid. The woman had gone mad.

  Surely she did not expect the fairy folk to fly them to the keep? If this was her handmaid’s plan all was lost.

  Any moment the banshee’s keen warning of her family’s death would pierce the silence. Instead, a thundering sounded from the hilltop.

  Through the mist and crescendo, horses stampeded. Kaireen gaped. Together as though they had one mind, horses raced. All wore saddles and reins. They stopped as one, a foot from Elva.

  Elva sat on her spotted mare, her eyes twinkled. She waved the men to the horses. “One for each of you.”

  Her handmaid sounded like a horse was handpicked for each of the men; as though horses ready for battle appeared all the time.

  The men scampered onto the mounts.

  Elva nudged her mare and the others followed her lead, but Kaireen did not see or hear any commands from her handmaid to make the beast follow. Did the beasts read minds, then?

  “Wait not there with your mouth open for flies,” she said. “The sands of time spill away.”

  Elva raced ahead. Her livery and spotted black horse cut away the fog opening a path for the others to follow.