Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  “Quiet,” Jorand ordered. “Sound travels over water, in case you’ve forgotten. Are you trying to give away our position?”

  More than anything he wanted to shut Kolgrim up. Jorand was grateful to be away from Dublin again. He didn’t feel at home among his own people anymore, and he feared Thorkill would sense it. But being trapped in a longship with Kolgrim was even worse. Listening to the man’s lewd tales of cruelty made Jorand’s gut curdle. How had he ever fallen in with this lot?

  Before he left Dublin with Thorkill, Jorand arranged to award all his property to Solveig, including his boat, as settlement in the dissolution of their marriage. As he suspected, she wasn’t long in replacing him. The knowledge didn’t pain him in the slightest.

  He was more concerned about the success of his current scheme. He wished fervently there’d been more time to plan, some way to know if Bjorn’s part in his plot had borne fruit. The day after Jorand and Brenna left Dublin, Bjorn was to snatch Father Armaugh and sail him to Ulaid. Jorand figured the Irish would never believe a Northman who warned them of an impending raid, so the priest would have to do it. But would the Ulaid trust a priest who ministered to Northmen?

  Through Armaugh, Jorand had given the Irish everything they needed to mount an assault on Thorkill’s raiders, including their present location. He scanned the craggy mainland, looking for any sign of archers. From the sea, the Northmen were totally hidden, but from the cliff face, they were vulnerable as a naked babe. If Moira’s husband and his men were there, the battle would be over before it began.

  Would the Irish go along with Jorand’s scheme? Or had they imprisoned or killed his friends and proceeded with the queen’s yearly pilgrimage as planned?

  Jorand found himself praying often, though not for himself. He promised Brenna he’d return to Donegal, but he realized now that was wishful thinking. He fully expected to die in the upcoming fight. It would be fitting for a traitor and oath-breaker. He deserved no less than death for his treachery. But he still prayed for Brenna.

  May she come safe to Donegal, and may she find happiness, even if it be without me.

  And surprisingly enough, he found himself praying to her Christian God. He was sure the Norse gods would take a dim view of him since he was even now betraying Thorkill and the men who went viking with him. But Brenna’s Christ was denied by one of his friends, and yet He forgave the man.

  If any god would listen to the prayers of a traitor, surely Brenna’s would.

  The waves lapping against the side of the longship and the cries of night birds were such a constant he failed to hear them anymore. Suddenly, his ears pricked to a new sound.

  Feminine laughter. A silvery peal floated over the water.

  Moira.

  The distant outline of an ungainly Irish craft appeared around a spit of land, sail billowed in the fresh breeze. The flapping fabric glared white in the moonlight.

  So they’d come just the same. The damned stiff-necked Irish had sent defenseless women into harm even after being warned of the danger.

  Then he heard another voice, lower in pitch, but musical and soothing nonetheless. Though he couldn’t make out her words, the timbre was unmistakable.

  Brenna.

  Panic curled in his belly like an adder poised to strike. What was she doing here? She should be safe in her father’s keep by now.

  “Put your backs to it, men,” Thorkill roared. “The virgins are here. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  Jorand’s mind whirled at this new development. He gripped an oar, wondering how to keep Brenna out of the coming melee.

  Twelve oars lifted in unison and sliced the dark waves, setting the longship bounding toward the hapless Irish vessel. Thorkill ran up the broad sail, and the dragonship quickened its pace over the choppy waves, like a living predator hastening to devour its prey.

  “Row faster, damn you!” Thorkill bellowed.

  A woman’s scream pierced Jorand’s ear. He couldn’t tell whether it was Brenna or not.

  Christ, how am I to save her?

  The daughters of Erin had spotted the longship, but there was no way for the Irish coracle to outrun them, even if the monks hadn’t foolishly lowered their sail. It was as if they wanted the Northmen to close the distance as quickly as possible.

  Beside him on the opposite oar, Kolgrim grunted with the effort of each stroke. He suspected Kolgrim was already stiff with the need to dominate and destroy.

  Jorand glanced back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Brenna standing in the prow of the Irish craft, a thin glint of metal in her hand. She was armed with a knife. And she’d positioned herself in front of her sister. Still protecting Moira, as she’d done when he’d first met her.

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  Trust my Brenna to be prepared to do a man hurt.

  The longship pulled even with the Irish vessel and Thorkill tossed a grappling hook across the narrow distance. The wicked-looking hook snagged the side of the craft, which dipped dangerously into the waves, caught as surely as a harpooned whale. At Thorkill’s bellowed order, the rowers stood their oars on end, preparing to ship them.

  Jorand pivoted on his seat and sized up the situation. Just a few more arm-lengths. As soon as the longship was close enough, he’d leap across the waves and plant himself in front of Brenna and Moira at the prow to defend them against all comers.

  Damn the Irish for a stubborn, ignorant race! Jorand thought, furious at Fearghus of Ulaid for sending the women to St. Patrick’s after his warning, for not mounting the assault he’d recommended. He couldn’t do anything to help the pious virgins on board the hide-covered coracle, but he’d sell his life dearly trying to protect his wife and her sister.

  Then suddenly the virgins threw off their cloaks and Jorand’s eyes widened at the image of bewhiskered warriors with arrows nocked on the string. A hail of fletched death buzzed around him. He was shocked by a dull thud, then a sharp sting to his side. A long shaft quivered in his bicep, pinioning the arm against his chest. He tried to move it and felt the burn of rending flesh as the arrowhead grated against a rib. At this close range, the force of the shot sent the arrow through his arm and then on through the hardened leather encasing his torso as well.

  “No!” He heard Brenna wail. “Not him. He wasn’t to be touched. Ye promised.”

  Beside Jorand, a berserkr scream tore loose from Kolgrim’s throat and the man vaulted over him. Obviously unhurt by the first volley, Kolgrim launched himself at the Irish before they could raise another arrow.

  Jorand stood in the swaying longship. The Irish surprise had been effective. More than half the raiders lay dead or grievously wounded. He felt like a goose on a spit himself. But no matter what, he had to fight. He’d defend Brenna with his last breath.

  He ground his teeth together and reached over to snap off the shaft where it protruded from his left arm. He took as deep a breath as he could with the embedded point still poised to graze his lung and raised his skewered arm up suddenly, raking the arrow’s shaft through his flesh. A flash of light burst in his brain as the arrowhead shifted and burrowed deeper, but at least his arm was free.

  He looked over at Brenna, still frozen in place. Her face was silvery white in the moonlight. She screamed.

  He gritted his teeth as he broke off the last ten finger-widths of the arrow’s length where it entered his rib cage, leaving the point where it had lodged. Then he drew out his sword with a metallic rasp, roared his defiance, and leaped onto the Irish vessel.

  Everything was a blur of flailing arms and an unnaturally slow dance of death as time expanded and contracted around him. He was acutely aware of a host of tiny details—the coppery scent of blood on the wind, the cold water lapping at his ankles as the Irish boat groaned under the extra weight of the raiders, the piteous bleating of an Irishman who held his own entrails in his hands.

  When faced with an Irish defender, Jorand tried to do no m
ore than meet his blade as he hacked his way toward Brenna. He dipped and whirled, parrying their slashing blows, as he knocked them out of his way.

  But suddenly Jorand found himself face to face with Thorkill. “Defend yourself,” Jorand shouted as his blade flashed toward Solveig’s father.

  Thorkill’s face registered shock, but reaction was swift. He bared his teeth and turned the full fury of his broadsword on Jorand. Between the hail of blows Jorand was barely able to parry, the master of Dublin growled out, “I will take this woman and this island. Why are you trying to stop me?”

  “There’ll be no taking tonight.” He had no breath for more words as Thorkill rained a storm of blows on him. Jorand met his blade at each stroke and managed to turn it, even though the force of the assault rattled up his forearms and jolted his shoulders.

  Luck was with him in some sense, Jorand realized dimly. If not for the cramped confines of the Irish craft, Thorkill would have been able to swing his broadsword wider and with more power. As it was, Jorand was barely able to fend off the attack of the larger man.

  Darkness gathered at the edges of Jorand’s vision. He forced himself to draw a deep breath to keep the blackness at bay. He seemed to move in slow motion as he struggled to keep his footing. Behind him, he heard a man scream, not knowing or caring if it was a Northman or one of the Irish defenders. The air was heavy with blood and bile and the stench of fear. A sliver of moonlight caught on Thorkill’s upraised blade and Jorand saw his chance.

  He buried his sword up to the hilt in his father-in-law’s midsection.

  Thorkill’s eyes widened in surprise, then faded into an unseeing gaze. Jorand yanked at his sword, but couldn’t free it from his foe’s flesh.

  “I knew it!” Kolgrim hissed from behind Thorkill. “A traitor at the last.”

  Jorand jumped sideways in time to dodge his enemy’s slashing blow. He scrambled past Kolgrim toward the prow, the hide-bottom boat underfoot slick with water and blood. Fortunately, Kolgrim’s broken arm made him slower.

  “Brenna.” He’d finally reached her, but he was unarmed with no way to defend her. He could only place his body between her and Kolgrim and pray he didn’t live long enough to see her end. “I’m sorry, love.”

  “No need. I regret nothing, husband.” Her lips trembled in a crooked smile as she handed him her dirk.

  It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  “Thank Christ for small mercies,” Jorand muttered as he grabbed the knife from her. Then he turned back to meet Kolgrim’s steady advance.

  Over Kolgrim’s head, Jorand could see the fight was still in question with tight little knots of hand-to-hand struggle. Northmen disappeared under gang assaults by the wiry Irish. Men of Ulaid were hacked piecemeal by a two-handed broadsword when a Northman found room to wield his weapon. But Kolgrim alone threatened Brenna and her sister.

  “Thorkill isn’t here to stop me from killing you this time,” Jorand said, blood pounding through his veins in the frenzy of battle lust.

  “I’ll finish you, Jorand. And then I’ll do your woman.” He snarled as he whipped his sword in a slashing horizontal stroke.

  Jorand leaped back from the glittering blade, feeling Brenna’s warmth behind him. He couldn’t dodge one of Kolgrim’s blows again without shoving the women into the dark sea.

  Malice dripped in Kolgrim’s tone. “She’ll beg me for death before I let her go, by Odin’s lost eye, I swear it.”

  Kolgrim’s sword flashed at him. It was as long as his arm, making the little blade Jorand wielded of no use at all except as a buffer to catch and turn the other man’s blow. At some point, Jorand knew he’d miscalculate and be struck down. Brenna would be defenseless.

  Kolgrim’s next slice broke Jorand’s Irish dirk off at the haft. The length of the blade disappeared into the ankle-deep bloody water in the coracle’s hull.

  Kolgrim bared his teeth and tossed him a wolf’s laugh. “You’ve broken your oath to Thorkill. You don’t deserve a battle-death. Jormungand will rend your flesh before daylight. I’ll let the sea finish its work.”

  Kolgrim’s sword whistled toward Jorand and this time it struck him. But it was the flat of the blade, not its edge that connected with his temple. Brenna’s scream pierced his ear. The blow sent him over the edge of the bobbing coracle and into the dark Irish Sea.

  The cold water jolted him, nearly making him expel all the air in his lungs. Silence closed around him like a heavy blanket. Moonlight filtered down through the murky sea for only the height of a man. He clawed his way back to the surface.

  When he breached and dragged in a lungful of salty air, the sight in the coracle made him wish Kolgrim had used the sharp edge of his blade instead of the flat.

  Brenna was on her knees before his enemy. Head down, she pulled her brat from her shoulders in abject submission. Moira clutched the prow behind her.

  God, no. Jorand was powerless to save her. The water sucked at him, trying to drag him down. He almost let it.

  “Come to me, my little Irish slut,” Kolgrim taunted. “I enjoy watching you beg, but as long as you’re on your knees, you may as well make yourself useful.” He grasped his own crotch and laughed raucously.

  Brenna rose to her feet, the brat dripping in her hand. “Aye, I’ll come to ye,” Jorand heard her say. “And I’ll be very useful.”

  Slowly Brenna walked toward Kolgrim. She stopped before him, disarming him with a tremulous smile. Jorand caught sight of a sudden flash of metal concealed in her brat.

  Brenna hadn’t knelt before Kolgrim, pleading for mercy, Jorand realized. She’d been searching for the knife. She’d found the dirk’s broken blade where it dropped in the shallow bilge and wrapped it in her short cape to keep from cutting her own fingers on the sharp edges.

  “I’ll be useful to send ye to Hell.” Brenna thrust the blade into Kolgrim’s chest. Then she leaped back out of his reach.

  Kolgrim gasped in shock, the whites of his eyes showing all around. He staggered toward the women, but lost his balance, teetered for a moment, then fell headlong into the waves.

  Jorand roared and plowed the water toward Kolgrim. If it was the last thing he did, he’d make sure of Kolgrim’s end. He grabbed his enemy and the two men disappeared into the deep.

  Locked in a death grip, Jorand and Kolgrim sank together into blackness so deep, neither could see the other’s face.

  Kolgrim turned and rolled, struggling to free himself. Jorand knew if his enemy could put enough distance between them, Kolgrim would be able to use his sword, if he still held it. Jorand found the end of the dirk sticking out between Kolgrim’s ribs, and shoved the dagger in farther. The arrowhead in his own rib cage shifted and his mind wavered uncertainly.

  An explosion of bubbles rushed past his face. Kolgrim exhaled, but still clung to Jorand, tight as a barnacle, his movements frantic. Jorand shoved the knife in once more, this time striking true. Kolgrim’s flailing ceased.

  Jorand let the body go, feeling it float away from him.

  A bit of hoarded breath escaped his nostrils. The blackness disoriented him completely. He and Kolgrim had rolled and twisted so many times together, he had no clue which way led to the world of light and air and which way to the sea’s depths.

  He peeled out of his heavy boots, hoping natural buoyancy would bring him to the surface before his breath ran out. He had no sense of movement, either up or down. His ears ached, pounding in time with his quickening heartbeat.

  He felt a tickle of bubbles sneak from the corners of his mouth and he tried to follow the direction of the precious drops of air as they tickled past his cheek. Little by little, his last breath leaked from him, and his lungs screamed for more.

  He fought the urge to inhale.

  There! Light ahead. It seemed to envelop him, wrapping him in warmth and shooting out of his toes and fingertips in rays of peace. The nagging pain in his ribs subsided and he felt strangely calm.

  Dying isn’t so bad, after all. />
  Chapter Thirty-six

  Moira paced the small chamber but Brenna sat motionless, hugging her grief tight as a worn shawl. She watched wordlessly as Father Armaugh dipped his thumb in oil and smudged the sign of the cross on Jorand’s still forehead. The priest removed his stole, kissed it reverently, and secreted the sign of his office in one of his capacious sleeves. He laid a thin hand on Brenna’s shoulder.

  “Your husband has had the blessing of Extreme Unction, my child. Be at peace,” he said softly.

  “Is there nothing more to be done?”

  “There is but one thing ye can do.” Armaugh sketched a benediction in the air before her. “Ye must leave Jorand in the arms of God.”

  The priest closed the door behind himself as he left Brenna to keep a silent vigil at her husband’s side.

  The battle between Thorkill’s raiders and the Irish warriors disguised as virgins was over by the time Brenna saw Jorand’s body rise in the moonlit waves beside the swaying ship. After Moira’s guards managed to retrieve him, one of them thumped Jorand’s back repeatedly, trying to drain the salty water from his lungs. Brenna felt a thready heartbeat beneath his breastbone and his chest rose and fell of its own accord, but his open eyes were unseeing. The rest of the fallen Norse were abandoned to the untender mercies of the sea, but at Moira’s order, Jorand was bundled in a cloak and brought to the monastery on St. Patrick’s island.

  Even when Armaugh dug the arrow’s tip from his side, Jorand didn’t twitch a muscle.

  Brenna took one of his hands and pressed it between hers. His fingers hung limp and cold as she clasped them. She traced the thin scar running across his palm, the token of their handfast. He’d wanted to remember her always. Brenna planted a soft kiss on the scar.