Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  The other man moved closer but was still out of Fiona’s line of vision. When he spoke this time, there was no mistaking his anger. As the Viking responded, sudden awareness dawned on Fiona. The two men were arguing over her, no doubt over who would have the privilege of raping her first.

  Sheer outrage made Fiona’s body go rigid. Then she screamed her fury and twisted violently in the giant Viking’s grip. He spoke sharply and shook her. When she continued to struggle, he let go of one of her wrists and used his free hand to strike her on the side of the head.

  Fiona’s vision dissolved into piercing, savage stars.

  * * *

  “If you’ve killed her...” Dag’s voice trailed off in teeth-clenched anger. “I told you, she saved my life. I don’t want to see her hurt!”

  “The little bitch came at me with a knife,” Sigurd Thorsson answered in an irritated voice. “I wasn’t going to hand her over until I was certain she wouldn’t cause you trouble. After all, you’re still as sickly as a puking dog. Here...” He thrust the limp woman toward his brother. “Have your Irish witch. She’s too fierce for my taste anyway.”

  Dag suppressed a groan as he grabbed the unconscious woman around the waist and heaved her over his left shoulder. Sigurd was right. He still felt shaky and woozy. Damn the Irish for leaving him to die. If it had not been for the woman, he would be a rotting corpse by now.

  A feeling of mingled resentment and gratitude swept over him. The maiden had saved his life, and he owed her hers. But what in Thor’s name was he going to do with her?

  Dag adjusted his burden and began to walk through the fortress. Around him, fire raged, sending up billows of smoke into the midnight sky. A horse’s whinny of fear caught his attention. Dag turned toward the sound, frowning. Sigurd had told him that the Irish nobility used horses to pull their wicker-work carts. The local chieftain must be wealthy enough to afford such luxuries.

  The horse screamed again. Dag’s limbs went rigid. He hated to see animals suffer. Mayhap if the animals were only penned, not enclosed in a stable, there was a chance he could free them so they could flee to safety. He walked swiftly toward the sound, panting with the weight of the woman.

  At the eastern edge of the palisade, he found three horses milling around in a small pen. The shed next to the pen was ablaze, and the flying sparks and the smell of smoke had panicked the horses. Dag quickly found the pen gate and jerked it open. The animals ignored the opening and continued their frantic circling. Cursing, Dag slid the woman off his shoulder and onto the ground. Then he charged into the pen, waving his arms and shouting. The terrified animals veered away from him. Making his way to the back of the pen, he was able to drive them toward the opening, and they finally ran through the gate.

  Dag leaned against the timbers of the pen, gasping from exertion and the smoke eating into his lungs. He could do nothing else to aid the fleeing animals. They would have to escape through the palisade gate or run through a gap in the burning walls, else they would die from the smoke. At least now, they had a chance.

  A man’s scream in the distance made Dag jerk around, and a sudden twinge of guilt went through him. He had sought to save the Irish chieftain’s horses, but no man or woman would survive this night’s work. Anyone found inside the palisade would be slaughtered, then tossed into the flames. As much as he told himself the Irish deserved their fate, a part of Dag could not help pitying them. His gaze turned to the woman lying senseless on the ground. The people dying around them were her kin. What would she think of him when she woke?

  Shaking off the thought, Dag retrieved the woman and began to make his way toward the fortress entrance. When he reached it, he saw that the timber gate was gone, utterly consumed. As he moved through the gaping opening in the fiery ring of the burning palisade, a man caught him roughly by the arm. “What goes here?” the man growled. “Sigurd said we take no prisoners.”

  Dag turned and met the coarse-featured, filthy countenance of the warrior Brodir. “I owe this woman a blood debt. I would have perished in the Irish chieftain’s prison if not for her aid.”

  Brodir furrowed his leathery brow and his deep-set eyes glinted with malice. “A man can’t owe a blood debt to a woman. You mean to take her for a slave, and Sigurd has forbidden it. He says we have no room or supplies in the ship for captives.”

  Dag’s temper flared. If only he had both hands free and were uninjured, he would challenge Brodir for his insolence! But he was weak and tired, and the ship lay some distance away. Instead, he said, “Seek out Sigurd if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you he has made a gift of the woman’s life to me.”

  Brodir’s mouth twisted resentfully, but he moved out of Dag’s path.

  The fresh air cleared Dag’s aching lungs and helped revive him as he began the journey through the darkness to the ship, called Storm Maiden. His broken rib still pained him and his injured arm throbbed. Thank the gods that the woman was so small and light or he could never endure her weight on his bruised shoulder. He considered putting her down and leaving her in the damp grass. Nei, he would carry her a little farther; he did not want to risk her being found by one of the other men. The sight of his brother handling her still filled him with wrath.

  The recollection of the woman’s gentle touch also remained bright and sharp in his mind. She had given him his life. Despite Brodir’s words, he knew he owed her protection.

  He shuddered as a skein of mist floated across his path. With the heat and light of the fortress behind him, it seemed he entered the fairy realm. The very air of this isle felt alive, like a clammy hand against his skin. Near the river, the mist thickened, and Dag’s pulse accelerated. He still feared the spirits haunting this place. And tonight he walked alone, injured, his own spirit weak. He would be easy prey for a wraith or phantom.

  With superstitious dread, he clutched the Irish maiden’s body more closely against his chest. The feel of her flesh warm against his own helped ease his fear. Although not a true fairy, she was of this place. Mayhap her presence would keep him safe.

  The moon moved from behind a cloud. Ahead, he caught a glimpse of the curved prow of the Storm Maiden rising from the river. Dag sighed with relief. This was the world he belonged to—the realm of wood, water, metal, and men, not the strange, misty pathways of this spirit-plagued isle.

  Two men had been left behind to guard the ship. As Dag approached, one of them shouted a challenge: “Who goes?”

  Dag relaxed further at the sound of Rorig’s familiar voice. “ ‘Tis Dag,” he answered. “I left as the fortress burned to ashes and the Irish curs lay in the death straw.”

  “Sigurd?”

  “He comes soon. He and the others are gathering what booty they can claim from the licking flames.”

  The other sentry stepped forward. “What do you carry? I heard Sigurd say ‘no captives.’ “

  Dag grimaced. Would he have to defend his right to keep the Irishwoman to each of his brother’s men? As exhausted as he felt, it seemed a daunting task. Why had he not left the woman before he reached the river? He had saved her life. What more did he owe her?

  “This woman kept me alive during my imprisonment. Sigurd has agreed to spare her life in return.”

  “That he spares her life doesn’t mean he will allow you to take her back to Engvakkirsted. Sigurd warned all of us that this was not a slave run. We must be satisfied with jewels and gold and naught else.”

  Angered by Kalf’s arrogant answer, Dag stepped toward the ship. The woman was his, and he would do with her as he wished!

  “Hold!” Kalf moved to block his advance. “We guard the ship, and I say you cannot bring her aboard.”

  Dag’s fingers itched for the axe at his belt, but he could not reach it with the woman slung over his shoulder. Releasing his grip of the woman’s thighs, he let her slide down his body. When he had settled her limp form on the ground, he pulled out his war axe and brandished it.

  “You seek combat with me, Kalf?”

&
nbsp; The warrior took a step backwards. “You’re injured, Dag. Sigurd would not wish to return and find me fighting with his wounded brother.”

  “Neither would Sigurd wish to return and find you bleeding in the river mud, but it matters not to me.” Dag shrugged in nonchalance, although the motion pained him dearly. “If you would keep me off the ship, you must dodge Blooddrinker’s fiery kiss.”

  Kalf took the measure of the axe’s gleaming blade, then stepped aside. Dag reslung his axe in his belt and stooped to pick up the woman. Pain screamed down his body and his knees nearly buckled, but he managed to heave her over his shoulder once again. He suppressed a groan and began wading out to the ship. By the time he reached it, his breath came in gasps and sweat poured down his forehead.

  He dropped the woman over the side, none too gently, then dragged his trembling body in after her. The sway of the ship soothed him, but he still felt sick onto death. For a moment he lay there, breathing heavily, then he began searching the hold where the supplies were stored, hunting for a skin of water. Finding one, he unstoppered it and gulped the contents down. He let out a deep sigh and lay back in the gently rocking craft.

  He closed his eyes, halfway to oblivion. As he sank toward sleep, the image of the fairy woman floated before his eyes. He saw her as she had first come to him, her midnight hair swirling around her hips, her skin golden in the torchlight, her face both uncertain and proud.

  With a sigh, he rose from his resting place. Groping in the darkness, he finally located the woman’s limp form. He felt for her pulse. The tension in his body eased as he found it. His hand explored further and found the swelling lump on the side of her head. His brother had a heavy hand; the woman would have a fierce headache on the morrow.

  His fingers touched her face, and he recalled the delicacy of her features. She was like a bird, an exotic lovely bird. His hand slipped further down, caressing her slender throat. Her skin was so soft. He could not resist the lure of her silken warmth. Holding his breath, he allowed his fingers to glide beneath the woman’s ruined clothing. His hand closed over a full, lush breast.

  The Goddess Freya, but she was beautiful! He could not see her, but his fingers experienced her perfection. What would it be like to lie with her, to feel her fine-boned softness yielding beneath him? The thought made Dag’s head swim and his body throb with desire.

  A second later, he pulled his hand away. Fool! That was the danger of women. Their beauty made a man blind to their other flaws. Did he not know that they were all vain, petty and incapable of loyalty? And this woman, she was no different. She had aided him—her enemy. No matter that she’d saved his life, he could not help but suspect her motives.

  Dag frowned as he recalled the woman’s rich attire the first time she’d come to him. Why would a fairborn woman seek to couple with a prisoner? Unless she meant to defy the man she belonged to.

  A sense of disgust crept over him, and he eased farther away from the woman, glad the darkness hid her extraordinary charms.

  Chapter 6

  Fiona woke to shards of light piercing her skull like a band of nails around her forehead. She lifted her head and fought back the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her, then touched her hand to her throbbing temple. She must have bumped herself there—or been struck. With sudden, awful clarity, she remembered the huge Viking. She opened her eyes and suppressed a scream as a vision out of a nightmare swam into view.

  Vikings! She was surrounded by Vikings! A dozen of them crowded her vision, their huge, sweaty shoulders flexing as they rowed, the sun gleaming on their fair hair. Beyond them, a ship’s prow rose high above the horizon. Fiona shrank back into the corner where she lay among wooden chests and bulging sacks. She was a helpless prisoner on one of the Vikings’ monster-headed ships!

  Cold terror filled her body, blotting out the pain of her head. There was no escape. They had kept her alive so they might ravish her repeatedly. The image of a dozen naked, grinning Vikings coming toward her made Fiona’s limbs go rigid. Better to jump off the side of the ship and sink into the sea. She gained control of her trembling body and rose, determined to seek out death by drowning before her nerve gave out.

  She had barely taken two shaky steps when she heard a man’s voice behind her. She turned, responding to something familiar in the guttural tones, and her gaze met cold, gleaming blue eyes.

  Fiona’s heart twisted in her chest in recognition. It was the Viking from the souterrain! He watched her, his face as unfeeling and impassive as when he’d lain unconscious, but his eyes blazing with intense emotion. Although she tried, she could not read any sense into the turmoil of his gaze.

  She put a hand to her head, abruptly aware of how shaky and sick she felt. Her vision dipped and swayed as though the ship itself had tilted upside down. She sat down where she stood, her legs useless. The blue-eyed Viking took a step toward her, and a look of concern crossed his face. Then it was gone, and he glared down at her. Fiona felt too sick to care. Her head throbbed as if it were being pounded, and her stomach felt none too steady.

  Rough hands pulled her up, and she felt a skin being pressed to her lips. She drank greedily and her disorientation eased. When she could see clearly, those wintery-blue eyes again gazed into hers. The Viking’s left arm cradled her shoulders, and she could feel the strength of his muscles and the warmth of his body. The sensation evoked a pang of memory. A few days ago, she had held this man’s head as he drank. A few days ago, she had caressed his sleek shoulders and marveled at the muscled heat of his chest.

  Tears filled Fiona’s eyes. Now everything was changed. Because of this man, her father was dead, her kinsmen and loved ones murdered. She had been a fool to succor him. Better that she had let him die in his dank prison.

  The Viking seemed to guess her bitterness, for he released her. She fell back limply onto the bottom of the ship. The impact made Fiona’s head throb anew, and she closed her eyes, seeking the comfort of oblivion.

  When she next awoke, her first sight was of a bright, red- and-white-striped sail billowing out from the tall mast of the ship. Fiona sat up and saw that the Vikings around her no longer rowed. Most of them slept, curled up awkwardly between the large, heavy chests that lined the deck; a few men remained alert, busy adjusting the sail. Deciding that she was not in immediate danger of ravishment, Fiona stood unsteadily. Someone had thought to cover her with a cloak, and she picked it up and wrapped it around herself, hiding her torn shift.

  Her gaze took in the long narrow ship crowded with her enemies. Panic started to set in again; she fought it. She had survived, so far relatively unscathed. It would be senseless to throw her life away.

  She turned. Behind her, in the stern, stood the bronze-haired Viking from the souterrain. He appeared to be steering the ship by means of a rudder mounted at the rear of the hull. He did not see Fiona but stared off toward the starboard side. She followed his gaze and felt a sick ache in her belly. In the distance, a blue-green shape floated on the horizon. Eire—her homeland, her people. Would she ever see Duvessa again? And what of her aunt? Had Siobhan—hidden away in her little hut in the woods—survived the Viking attack?

  For a moment, grief struck Fiona another blow and she had the urge to leap over the side of the ship to drown her pain in the depths of the gleaming blue waves. Then her reason reasserted itself, that and a cold hard anger. If she died, there would be no one to avenge her father’s death. No one to make the Vikings pay for the destruction they had so casually wrought.

  Fiona braced herself against the wicked sway of the ship and made a vow. “Da,” she whispered, “I shall avenge you. Somehow I will make up for what I have done.”

  Tears streamed down Fiona’s cheeks. She brushed them away. She could not afford the luxury of self-pitying sorrow; from now on, she must concentrate on survival.

  She glanced back at the Viking at the rudder. His very existence infuriated her. She had cared for him and saved his life, and he had repaid her by killing her ki
n and burning her home, then taking her prisoner. For such treachery and betrayal, he deserved to die a gruesome death.

  Fiona sighed. She could not kill him herself, especially weakened as she was. Her head still ached. Her limbs were stiff. Worst of all, she had a terrible need to relieve herself. It was a petty problem, but on a ship full of lecherous Vikings, real enough.

  Her eyes perused the craft, searching for some sort of shelter. There was a leather tent near the bow of the ship, although it was too small for even her to stand up in. Fiona guessed that it must be the sleeping area of one of the Vikings or it might be used to protect valuable goods from the weather.

  She gauged the distance to the tent, wondering if she could make her way there without attracting the notice of her captors. If there were a jar or vessel inside, she might use it in private, then empty it over the side of the ship.

  She took a step, but as the ship swayed, she lost her balance and found herself smack on her bottom. She grimaced at the sting of solid timber against her flesh, then tried once more to rise. Bracing herself against the roll of the vessel, she took several more wobbly steps. With her eyes focused on the pitching ship bottom, she did not see the man step in front of her until his bare, sweaty chest loomed inches away from her face. She raised her eyes and stared into the leering countenance of an unknown Viking.

  The man responded to her horrified gaze with a harsh laugh then lunged for her. Fiona shrieked and stepped backwards, losing her balance. As she was tossed to the ship’s bottom once again, her captor grabbed at her clothes, tearing off the cloak and very nearly yanking off her shift as well. Fiona clutched the ruined garment to her body, closed her eyes, and screamed again.

  She heard harsh, angry voices, then the smack of a fist against bare skin. When she finally summoned the courage to open her eyes, she saw two men standing over her—the bronze-haired Viking and, next to him, the gigantic fiend who had attacked her in her father’s fortress. She looked from one to the other, speechless with mingled terror and relief.