“Aye, I’ve heard,” Fiona answered absently.
“You should not be so careless about leaving the palisade,” Dermot continued. “You might have been carried off or killed.”
Irritation gnawed at Fiona’s distress. Now freckle-faced boys barely out of their mother’s lap saw fit to warn her of the Viking menace!
“Fiona was never outside the fortress,” Duvessa informed her brother. She jerked around and gave Fiona a sharp look. “Which reminds me—where were you all day? I vow I did look everywhere for you.”
Fiona couldn’t hide the flush she felt creep up her neck. If her foster sister knew the shameful things she had done—and with one of those accursed Vikings no less! “I... I was down in the souterrain,” she answered hesitantly. “Vevina told me I might find some apples there left from the fall crop.”
“Apples! You spent all day in a stinking, spider-infested hole looking for apples? I don’t believe it!”
Fiona opened her mouth to defend her lie. She was cut off by Dermot’s shocked exclamation. “The souterrain! But that’s where they put the Viking prisoner! Did you see him, Fiona? Does he still live?”
“I saw nothing,” Fiona answered sharply. “He must be dead, for I heard nothing either. If they put him in the end chamber, I would never know it. I didn’t go that far.”
Fiona averted her face from Duvessa’s probing, thoughtful look and cursed herself for her foolishness. Even if the Vikings didn’t raid Dunsheauna, she would have to live forever with the knowledge that she had saved the life of one of the murdering monsters. It was traitorous, appalling.
“I’m going for the bread,” Duvessa said.
Fiona took a seat at one of the board tables and placed her hands in her lap so no one would notice how they trembled. She had to get away, to return to the souterrain and make certain the prisoner remained secure.
Looking up, she saw Dermot take a seat across from her. Her sense of guilt intensified. Did he guess I aided the Viking?
Fiona shivered. She should take her knife and kill the prisoner now. No one would ever have to know what she had done.
Nay! a voice inside her protested. If you cause the Viking’s death, the guilt you bear will be unendurable. Fiona twisted her hands in her lap. The man had stroked her breast and whispered endearments to her in his delirium. Killing him was beyond her. But she must make certain he didn’t escape. At the first opportunity, she must slip away and visit the souterrain again.
Duvessa returned with the bread and honey. Fiona stared at it, unable to eat.
“What’s wrong?” Duvessa asked. “Do you fear for your father and the other men?”
Fiona nodded.
“They will have the advantage of surprise,” Duvessa reassured her. “And they are brave warriors all. The Vikings will not get the better of them.”
Fiona closed her eyes. If only she could believe her foster sister’s words.
Fiona lay on her bed in the bower, feigning sleep. Her father and the other men still had not returned. Fiona felt cold all over, but she would not squirm and risk waking Duvessa. She cast a wary glance at her foster sister. Duvessa appeared to be asleep, but Fiona didn’t trust her. There had been a canny look in Duvessa’s eyes when she’d suggested they seek their beds. Fiona would not put it past Duvessa to pretend to be asleep, then follow her as soon as she left the bower. Patience, she told herself, you must wait a little longer.
From the bower window, open to the breeze, the night sounds of the fortress echoed softly. Fiona tensed, again thinking of her father and his war band patrolling the forest beyond the shelter of the palisade. Would dragonships sail up the river this night? Would they arrive with hordes of Vikings—all as huge and strongly-built as the one in the souterrain?
Fear for Donall made her stomach clench. She didn’t want her father to be hurt or killed. He was a good man and, for the most part, a fond and loving sire. The troubles between them had begun only recently.
Looking back, Fiona could see how much he had changed after her mother’s death, becoming so caught up in his own grief that he no longer cared for anyone else. He was brutal about enforcing his authority, to the point that Fiona had heard grumbling among his soldiers. She had also been outraged by his suddenly autocratic attitude. No longer did he discuss things with her; he ordered her to do his will. The conflict between them had culminated with his plan to wed her to Sivney Longbeard, and she had seen it as further evidence of his disregard for her feelings.
Fiona bit down on her lower lip. Although she still despised the thought of marrying Sivney, at last she could see her father’s motivations. He was afraid for her, for all of them.
“Oh, Da, I was wrong,” she whispered to herself. ‘I should not have tried to thwart your will. I should have helped you think of another plan to bring us warriors.”
Fiona’s mind reviewed the neighboring chieftains, trying to think of one who could strengthen Dunsheauna’s defenses, yet not repel her as a husband. She sighed. It was difficult to face the thought of marrying men who were neither young nor handsome. The image of the Viking with his strong, well-made body and compelling face gnawed at her.
Fiona shook off the thought. He was probably a cruel, stupid beast, and besides, he was her enemy. There could be no future between them. She must not forget her duty to make certain he remained imprisoned.
Duvessa muttered something in her sleep. Fiona waited until her foster sister’s breathing deepened again, then rose from their bed and crept to the doorway. The night air felt cool on her skin as she slipped out the entrance of the women’s dwelling. She wore only her thin linen shift, since dressing would take time and risk waking Duvessa.
She hurried through the fortress, her footfalls light and rapid on the damp grass. Under her breath, she prayed the rest of the fortress slept as soundly as Duvessa. It amazed Fiona that the other women were not panicked with fear as she was. To them, the idea of a Viking attack must still seem unreal. They trusted Donall and the other men to protect them.
Reaching the souterrain entrance, Fiona glanced around, then lifted the timber door and started down the stairs. At the bottom, she found the torch and lit it.
The interior of the souterrain seemed utterly quiet. She crept forward, dreading what she would find. What if the Viking had roused? Could she bear to look into his eyes, then turn away and leave him to die?
He’s your enemy! Fiona reminded herself. If he came upon you outside the souterrain, he would rape and murder you.
But what if he had gotten free of his shackles already? Fiona’s heart hammered in her chest at the thought. Would the Viking consider sparing her because she had aided him earlier? Or would he kill her on the spot? Her broken body might be found days from now when they thought to search the souterrain.
Fiona tightened her grip on the torch. If she had to, she would use it as a weapon. She would not die meekly.
The doorway of the last chamber loomed ahead. Despite the chill in the tunnel, Fiona felt sweat bead her forehead. In a moment, she would know the Viking’s fate—and mayhap her own.
The light from the torch flickered and wavered, casting wild shadows against the rough stone walls. The chamber was empty!
Fiona stood frozen. Panic gripped her as she wondered if the Viking waited in another part of the souterrain. Could she have missed him? She had passed a half-dozen nooks and niches where someone could hide in the shadows. She must search them. She could not climb the stairs to the outside world without knowing for certain if the prisoner had escaped.
She cautiously retraced her steps, shining the torch into every turn of the tunnel, every corner of the four main storage chambers. Nothing. The Viking was gone.
Fiona took a deep breath. He was outside now, somewhere. He had no clothing, but he would not be overly cold on this summer night. From what she’d heard of them, some Viking warriors even did battle naked. Berserkers they were called, men so mad with battle lust that they entered combat naked and sexuall
y aroused.
Fiona’s throat closed up at the thought, and she hurried up the souterrain stairway as fast as her legs would take her. Reaching the outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air. Her heart had almost begun to slow when a harsh cry rang out behind her.
Chapter 5
The sound rose in ragged crescendo, then died with a horrible gurgling moan. Although she had never witnessed such a thing, Fiona imagined a man having his throat cut and drowning in his own blood. She swallowed hard, and her eyes raked the darkness as she sought to gauge the source of the sound. It seemed to have come from the perimeter of the palisade. Had they been attacked? Why had no alarm been raised?
Another tremor of foreboding raced down her spine as she turned away from the souterrain. She must make certain the men remaining in the fortress knew of the danger.
She ran toward the main entrance of the palisade, reaching it in time to see the sentry scrambling to close the heavy timber gate. A man doubled over nearby, retching in the dirt. When he finally raised his wild-eyed, bloodied face, Fiona recognized Dubhag, one of the youngest of her father’s men. He stared at her, speechless and stricken.
Fiona gave a choked cry. Dubhag stumbled toward her, like a wraith come up from the underworld. “Fiona... lass... I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do... dozens of Vikings.”
“My father?” Fiona breathed.
Dubhag shook his head, his youthful features raw with grief. “I’m sorry, Fiona. ‘Twas a slaughter. They only allowed me to live so I might come and warn the rest of you.”
“Warn us?” Fiona’s body felt cold, her senses dull. This could not be happening. It must be a dream, a terrible dream.
“The Vikings mean to kill every living soul in Dunsheauna. There is no escape.... They taunted me... told me to come and warn everyone that ‘Death walks on the nightwind tonight.’ “
Dubhag’s face contorted, and he bent over and began to retch again. Fiona opened her mouth to cry out her father’s name in grief. Then she smelled fire, and her scream died on her lips. Duvessa, Dermot—she must get them to safety!
She whirled away from Dubhag and the sentry, who had also smelled the smoke. He began screaming “Fire! Fire!” at the top of his lungs.
Fiona’s unbound hair whipped behind her as she jerked her shift up to her thighs for speed. Never had she run so fast, but it seemed to take hours for her to reach the women’s house. She plunged into the doorway and nearly trampled the group of women waiting near the entrance, their eyes wide and frightened, their faces pale. Some of them held crying babes and sleepy children.
Fiona ignored everyone else and sought out Duvessa. “It’s a raid,” she gasped. “We must find Dermot and seek shelter.”
“Where? Where will we be safe?” Nessa, an older woman who had served Fiona’s mother in her day, clutched Fiona’s arm, her eyes wild with terror.
“The souterrain,” Fiona answered firmly. “If we can get inside before the killing starts and the fires spread, we might survive.”
“Fire?”
Fiona met Duvessa’s horrified gaze and nodded. “The Viking bastards—they mean to burn us alive.”
The room suddenly erupted with screams and crying.
“Silence!” Fiona shouted. As the woman quieted, she turned determined eyes on them. “If we panic, there is no hope for us. Duvessa and I will get Dermot and the other boys. The rest of you, hurry to the souterrain. We will meet you there.”
“But it’s naught but a dank hole in the ground!” one of the younger women, Ismey, wailed.
“Dark, cool, underground—the perfect place to wait out a fire,” Fiona answered, her voice sharp. “Now, all of you—go!”
Fiona’s courage ebbed as she and Duvessa neared the building where the soldiers slept. Her spirits sank utterly as they entered and found the place deserted.
“Too late,” Duvessa whispered. “Dermot would go with the men. He would die as the warrior he will never live to be.”
“Nay!” Fiona answered, her voice harsh with frustration. “I will find him!” She turned to Duvessa, eyes blazing. “Go to the souterrain with the others. I will find Dermot and meet you there.”
“Fiona, please!” Duvessa begged. “Save yourself. You are the last of the line of the Deasunachta. You must not go to your death because of my brother. ‘Tis too great a sacrifice!”
Fiona shook her head, tears filling her eyes. She had failed her father, but she would not fail everyone she cared about. If there were a chance to rescue her foster brother, she must take it.
“Go,” she insisted, giving Duvessa a shove out the doorway. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” Duvessa gave her one last agonized look, then took off in a fleet-footed run. Fiona muttered, “Don’t fret for me, sister. Tonight I am too angry for any mortal man to kill.”
Dark shadows flitted past her. A shriek of pain sounded in the distance. Fiona crouched in the doorway of the feasthall and tightened her sweaty fingers on the handle of the dagger she had taken from the men’s lodge. So far, she’d seen no sign of Dermot or any of the Irish defenders. She had no idea if they’d already been captured and killed or had managed to escape the fortress.
Either way, she was ready to admit defeat and join the other women in the souterrain. She wondered if she had waited too long. Vikings swarmed the settlement, carrying torches, setting fire to the buildings one by one. She was trapped here in the feasthall. It was only a matter of time before they set it ablaze. Then she would have to run, out into the darkness, like a desperate hart driven before the hounds.
She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself, to prepare herself for one last dash through the maze of supply buildings and shops that lay between her and the souterrain door. Reaching down, she grabbed a handful of dirt from the floor and smeared it over her white shift, then smudged her face as well. She was small and agile. If she could avoid the blaze of firelight, she might not be detected.
With one last gulp of air, she began to run. She dodged and swerved, grateful that she knew the dark pathways so well. Twice she had to duck back into the shadows while a Viking passed by, but each time the man went on as if he had seen nothing. The gods were with her tonight, Fiona thought grimly. Or mayhap she was already dead and did not know it. She might be a wraith, gliding soundless, invisible past her enemies.
Her hand flexed on the hilt of the blade she held as another Viking warrior moved past her. How she wished she had the strength to take one of them down, to stab one of the Norse devils in the back and watch him die like the filthy pig he was.
The man vanished into the shadows. As soon as he was gone, Fiona stepped from her hiding place and began to run. Her lungs ached from the acrid smoke and her body shook with fear, but she was so close, she would not lose courage now. The souterrain entrance lay a few paces ahead beyond the granary. Thank the saints, the Vikings had not yet fired the grain supply.
Fiona slowed as she reached the back of the granary. She peered around it, her eyes straining to see the wooden door in the earthworks that marked the souterrain entrance. She sucked in her breath in dismay. A huge Viking stood between her and the doorway. His back was to her, but she could make out the glint of his helmet as it reflected the blaze of the fires, the appalling breadth of his back and shoulders, the corded muscles of his massive arms. Compared to him, even the Viking captive would seem small.
Fiona set her jaw. No matter that he was a giant, she must distract him. He was much too close to the souterrain entrance. Even if it were too late for her to seek shelter herself, she could not risk his discovering the women and children hiding in the tunnels beneath the earthworks of the palisade.
Picking up a rock, she threw it far to the left of the Viking. He whirled and took a few hesitant steps in that direction. His massive, helmeted head jerked this way and that as he tried to ascertain the direction the rock had come from. Fiona crept back behind the granary wall.
When she again dared to look, the Viking had moved away from
the souterrain entrance. Fiona took a deep breath and began to inch steathily toward the doorway, her eyes still on the Viking. She had covered half the distance when the man turned toward her. Fiona froze. If she made a dash for the souterrain door, the warrior would pursue her and discover the hiding place. If she ran in the other direction, he would be on her in seconds.
Fiona gripped her knife in trembling fingers. If she were going to die, she would not die fleeing but fighting.
The Viking approached her with an easy, casual stride. Fiona flexed her legs and shifted her weight from one foot to the other, mimicking the movements of the warriors she had watched in combat games.
When he was only inches away, Fiona lunged. With lightning swiftness, the Viking’s hand closed around her wrist and jerked her hard against his bulky chest. The breath left Fiona’s body in a gasp as the knife slipped from her numb fingers.
Fury burned through her. She gritted her teeth and began to thrash against the Viking, kicking and clawing. The man gave a deep, rumbling laugh, and his free hand reached for her shift and tore it down the front.
Tears of fear and rage burned Fiona’s eyes. The Viking meant to ravish her, and she was helpless to stop him. She went still, trying to think. He would have to put her down to mount her. Then she would have another chance. If only she hadn’t dropped the knife.
The Viking grabbed her other wrist and lifted her far off the ground so she dangled close to his leering face but far enough from his body that she could not kick him. His guttural, mocking voice rang in her ears, and she guessed he was assessing her body beneath the thin, torn shift.
She gritted her teeth, struggling against a rising tide of humiliation and terror. Never would she weep or give in to helpless despair. She would fight him again as soon as he put her down.
A deep voice sounded to the Viking’s left, and he relaxed his grip, seemingly startled. Seeing her chance, Fiona managed to give a weak kick in the direction of his groin. Her captor grunted, but didn’t release her. The stranger’s voice came again, harsh and commanding. The Viking’s only answer was another grunt.
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