Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  “Poison?” Fiona shaped the word with dry lips, and, for a moment, she could not think of what he spoke. Then the memory came back to her. “Ja, I mean, Nei. I did not take it. I could not bear the thought of going meekly to my death.” She fumbled among the furs and retrieved the knife. “They left Knorri’s ceremonial dagger on his belt. I was going to use it on the men when they came to lie with me.”

  Dag exhaled softly, and some of the tension in his face eased. “No man will ever lie with you but me, I promise you.” He cast a dismayed look at Knorri’s corpse.

  Giddy with relief, Fiona let loose a small chortle. “The old jarl is not bad company, excepting he smells a bit. I trow I would rather share a tent with him than Brodir.”

  Dag’s eyes gleamed with something like amusement, then he grasped her arm. “Can you walk?”

  “Of course.”

  “Keep close to me. We’ll creep around the back of the tent and go over the side.

  Fiona nodded and got to her knees. Crawling to the tent entrance, she followed Dag outside. It grew dark, and Fiona shivered in the evening chill. Dag looked at her elaborate but impractical attire. He pulled his own fur tunic over his head and handed it to her. “Put this on.”

  Fiona obeyed, inhaling deeply Dag’s warm, male scent as she pulled the garment over her head. Harsh, excited voices carried across the beach, making Fiona’s heartbeat quicken. At any moment, Sigurd might give the order for the men to draw lots to couple with her. Indeed, that was likely what they argued about. She heard Brodir’s guttural voice raised in anger, then Sigurd’s rumbling answer.

  She followed Dag to the far side of the ship and watched him climb down and brace himself on the planks supporting the hull. He held out his arms and caught her as she slipped over the side. He scrambled nimbly down the timbers, still carrying her, then set her on her feet.

  “Fiona!” Breaca’s gasp of relief made Fiona turn. Wordlessly, the women hugged each other.

  Dag interrupted their embrace with a whispered warning. “We must hurry!”

  Breathlessly, Fiona released Breaca and took Dag’s hand. Her bare feet flew over the cold, hard beach as if they had wings. Once they reached the cover of underbrush screening the harbor, Dag paused. Fiona waited beside him, aware that he listened to Sigurd and Brodir argue. The Norse words rose and fell on Fiona’s ears, but she could not quite catch their meaning. She touched Dag’s shoulder imploringly. “Why do we wait?”

  “Sigurd has decided to forego the bedding ritual.” Dag’s voice sounded shaky and relieved. “Mayhap he finally realizes what evil he does.”

  “He will still send the Angel of Death to the tent to kill me. When he does, she will discover I am gone. Come!” Fiona urged desperately.

  Dag took her hand and led her swiftly through the trees and among the deserted buildings of the steading. He paused to stare at the gutted longhouse, then hurried on. Behind the cattle byre waited two horses Fiona had never seen before.

  “Where did you—” she began.

  Dag did not wait for her to finish, but lifted her up on one of the animal’s broad back. “The horses belong to Ellisil, a sword brother of mine. Can you ride?”

  Fiona nodded. “Where are you going?” she asked when he made no move to mount the other horse.

  “I must talk to Sigurd. I must convince him not to burn the ship. It is my nephews’ future he squanders with this absurd act of mourning.” He looked up at Fiona, his eyes intense and commanding. “Ride, Fiona. Ride as if the demons of your dreams followed you. There is a shieling beyond these hills—a summer dwelling for the herdsmen. You remember it?”

  Fiona nodded, recalling that they had passed it on the way to the Thing.

  “Wait there. I will meet you.”

  “When?”

  Dag gestured helplessly. “I’ll take no more time than I have to. If Sigurd persists in his stubbornness, I’ll leave him to his folly. But I have to try. I can’t bear to see the whole steading suffer because my brother’s wits are disordered.”

  “But what if...”

  “Nei, he won’t detain me. Even once he knows I have set you free, Sigurd will not lay hands on me or order other men to take me prisoner.”

  “How can you be certain? You said yourself that Sigurd’s wits are disordered!” Fiona reached out and clutched Dag’s tunic.

  Dag disengaged her fingers and brought them to his lips. “I vow I will not desert you, Fiona. Upon my honor as a warrior, I will meet you at the shieling.”

  Tears filled Fiona’s eyes. She curled her fingers around Dag’s strong jaw and stroked his whisker-roughened cheek. Damn his honor and his sense of responsibility to his people! She could not bear to lose him now.

  “Dag, please...”

  Her entreaty whirled away on the wind as Dag slapped the horse’s flank and the beast jerked forward. “Ride,” Dag ordered harshly.

  Clinging to the horse’s mane, Fiona twisted her body so she could catch one last look at her lover. The startled horse gained speed, and staying on its back required all Fiona’s attention.

  At last the animal slowed and she was able to retrieve the dangling reins. She allowed herself one miserable glance behind her, then urged her mount in the direction Dag had pointed.

  Dag warily approached the gathering on the beach. Despite his confident words to Fiona, he was not certain what his brother would do when he saw him. He could not imagine Sigurd taking him captive, but then he had hardly imagined his brother planning to kill Fiona and burn the ship, either.

  Dag paused as he made out the eerie, torchlit scene ahead of him. Sigurd stood by himself, scowling. Across from Sigurd, Ellisil and the steading smith, Veland, restrained a furious Brodir. It was obvious that Brodir felt provoked to violence by Sigurd’s decree. Dag felt a stab of hope.

  Moving into the torchlight, he called his brother’s name. The crowd of men and women went silent. Sigurd recognized him and stepped forward. “Brother,” he said.

  Dag nodded curtly but made no move to approach. “I mourn our loss as much as you do, brother, but I cannot agree with your plan to destroy all that Jarl Knorri Sorlisson built over his proud and honorable lifetime.” He motioned to the ship. “Are you so vain that you must shout your grief to the world with this outrageous display? ‘Look at me, I am Sigurd Thorsson. I am such a great jarl; I will burn my only ship to prove I can soon build another!’ “

  Dag saw a muscle twitch in his brother’s jaw, but it was Brodir who broke the frosty silence. “Don’t listen to him, Sigurd. The Irish witch has filled his mind with lies. You must kill her... now... before she destroys the rest of us!”

  “The woman is gone.” Dag gestured again toward the ship. “Search and see. Naught but the body of our revered jarl lies on the deck of the Storm Maiden.

  A hush settled over the beach, then a huge, ugly woman stepped forward. “You cheated me!” she accused Sigurd. “You brought me here for an execution and made me wait and wait. Now the victim is gone. I will curse you for your foolishness!”

  The crowd backed away. She must be the Angel of Death, Dag thought. A twinge of fear swept across his mind as he wondered if she had any real power, then he banished his foreboding. “Go,” he ordered her. “You are not needed here.”

  Her grotesque features contorted with hate and rage. “I will curse you as well!” she sputtered. Slumping to her knees, she began to screech strange, blood-chilling words.

  Dag hesitated, dread prickling along his spine. Then anger swiftly overtook his anxiety. This foul, twisted creature had meant to kill Fiona! He stepped forward and pointed at the woman. “Where are her handmaidens?”

  Two young, unattractive women silently appeared in the torchlight.

  “Take her from our sight,” Dag commanded. “She has no power here. She is naught but an evil, old creature, jealous of all youth and beauty.”

  The two women looked at him hesitantly. He met their stares with cold, ruthless command. Fear and awe crept over their faces, and t
hey went to the wise woman and hurriedly helped her to her feet and led her away.

  The crowd was utterly still. Dag faced at his brother and was startled to see an awed look on Sigurd’s face.

  “So, the boy has become a man at last,” Sigurd said. “Do you come to challenge me as jarl, brother?”

  Dag took a deep breath. “Nei, brother. I intend to build my own steading, in Ireland.”

  Sigurd’s smile vanished. “You will not swear to me as oathman?”

  “Nei.”

  Sigurd stared at him, his mouth working. Finally, he said, “Come and share a horn of ale with me. Tell me of your plans.” He gestured toward the steading. “My longhouse is no more, but we will find a warm hearth to sit beside.”

  Dag hesitated, thinking of Fiona, fleeing blindly into the darkness. He could not be certain she would be able to find the shieling on her own.

  Eliisil’s voice came to him from behind the other men. “I will go after the woman, Dag. I will see that she is safe.”

  Dag met Eliisil’s eyes. Dared he trust the other man to see to Fiona’s safety? His heart urged him to forget Sigurd and his kin and go after Fiona. His mind reminded him of his duty. Ellisil might not be able to convince Sigurd to forgo torching the ship, but Dag felt he had a good chance of it. Even though he meant to leave them, he owed his people, and he would respect himself less if he failed to aid them in this crisis.

  “Go after her,” he said to Ellisil. “She rides to a shieling beyond the eastern ridge.” Then to Sigurd he said, “I would be pleased to drink at your hearth, jarl.”

  Chapter 31

  Fiona reined in her mount and surveyed the hillside, straining her eyes in the deepening twilight. She had some idea where the shieling stood, but feared to miss it in the dark. If she did, she might ride in circles all night among these frost-covered hills.

  A wolf howled in the distance, and fear prickled down her spine. She had been saved from rape and certain death, but her future was by no means assured. Once she reached the shieling, she must wait there for Dag, hoping Sigurd did not decide to detain his brother.

  Fiona sighed. Despite her frustration, she understood why Dag had remained behind. He was the only one who could reason with Sigurd, the only one who could sort out the disaster which had befallen Engvakkirsted.

  But what if Sigurd took Dag prisoner and prevented him from leaving? A tremor of fear made her stiffen on her mount, and the horse started at her sudden movement. Fiona eased her grip on the reins and spoke soothing words. As she leaned forward on the animal’s neck, a shape—lighter than the surrounding landscape—caught her eye. The shieling!

  Fiona heaved a sigh of relief. She had almost missed the small building, situated as it was in a hollow. She urged the mare toward the shelter. Another wolf howled, closer this time. The horse snorted and tossed her head in alarm.

  Fiona calmed the horse, then guided her mount near the small timber structure and dismounted. She winced as the sharp rocks of the hillside dug into her bare feet and gingerly led her horse to the shieling. There was a lean-to built next to it. Fiona settled the horse into the flimsy shelter, then opened the door to the main building.

  Pitch darkness met her eyes. Shivering, she felt her way into the room. She stumbled over the fire pit and banged her knee on a raised platform at one side of the chamber. Her outstretched hands encountered musty furs and blankets on the platform. At least she had a place to sleep. Now for some food.

  A thorough search of the rest of the dwelling yielded utensils and implements for cooking, but no food stores. Fiona gritted her teeth at her growling stomach and climbed onto the bedshelf. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

  It was no use. She had not eaten anything since the forenoon hence, and her hunger would not let her rest. What she would not give for a piece of fish or bread! A sudden thought came to her, and she sat up so quickly she hit her head on the sloping ceiling.

  Dag would not have set off without provisions—there must be a supply pack on the horse. Barely controlling her excitement, she climbed off the bedshelf and proceeded cautiously to the door. Outside, it felt even colder, and Fiona shivered as she entered the lean-to. The horse knickered a greeting and allowed her to feel her way along its shaggy neck. Her hands found the pack behind the saddle and frantically searched.

  Success! Not only had Dag thought to bring bread and some dried meat, there was a full skin of water as well. Fiona clutched the precious food stores to her chest and moved past the horse. As she reached the doorway, the mare whinnied wildly. Fiona froze, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Something was out there!

  Shifting the food to her left arm, she used her right hand to search for a weapon. She touched the side of the lean-to, testing the ancient, spintered wood. Finding a loose board, she broke off with a creaking sound. Splinters dug into Fiona’s fingers as she hefted the makeshift club, and her heart thundered in her chest. Was Dag out there? Or some unknown enemy? She called Dag’s name, then waited. The only answer was the saw of wind through the lean-to cracks.

  Fiona swallowed. Should she risk making her way to the shieling or remain with the horse? She thought of her exhaustion, the bone-numbing chill of the wind. Nay, she could not bear to spend the night here. There was no place to lie down, lest the horse step on her. She would have to make a dash for it.

  Still clutching her weapon, she inched through the lean-to door and crept out into the darkness. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, and she could scarce see the shape of her own hand before her. She took two steps, paused, and listened. A rustling sound in the underbrush sent her heart thudding into her throat. She looked up helplessly at the sky, begging the clouds to shift. Slowly they did, and a half-moon peeped out, illuminating the landscape around her.

  She took another step, and froze as she saw two pairs of yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. Blessed Bridget—wolves! Fiona’s mind raced as she tried to sort out a plan. If she gave in to her panic, she would die. Gripping the club, she considered lunging at the wolves and trying to frighten them away. She might spook them a little, but she doubted she would make it to shelter. Then she thought of the food. Fumbling in the saddle pack with one hand, she found the chunk of dried meat. She waved it in the air, hoping the wolves would catch the scent of it. A low growl came from one of the predators. She threw the meat toward the glowing eyes and dashed toward the shieling without looking behind.

  Reaching the rickety door, she dropped the club and tore inside, then slammed the door shut and barred it behind her. She leaned against the door, breathing hard. Outside, she could hear the snarling of the wolves as they fought over the meat. It would not occupy them long. Fiona thought of the mare in the lean-to and anguish filled her. The horse could fight off two predators, but if more arrived, drawn by the scent of food...

  She shook off the disturbing thought. Surely Dag would come soon. With trembling hands, she fumbled in the pack and found the waterskin. She drank deeply, then began to eat.

  “Tell me of your plans for this Irish trip.” Sigurd’s voice was calm as he settled his bulk on a bench by the fire in the smith’s turfhouse.

  Dag gazed thoughtfully into his beaker of ale. Now that he was alone with his brother, he did not know how to begin. The funeral party was still gathered on the beach, anticipating the torching of the ship, and Fiona and Ellisil waited for him in the hills. He raised his eyes to Sigurd’s. “I would rather speak of the raid and the fire.”

  An anguished look crossed his brother’s face. “I should not have left them,” Sigurd said sorrowfully.

  “Surely you assigned someone to guard the longhouse while you were gone.”

  Sigurd nodded. “Brodir and Utgard. But whoever led the raid easily disarmed them. They were both struck over the head from behind. Utgard was found tied up in the woods the next day.”

  “And Brodir?”

  “Was able to wrest off his bonds. He was nearly the first one to the fire... after the woman.” Sigu
rd’s gaze met Dag’s, his eyes bitter. “Brodir said she was dancing around and shrieking to the heavens when he found her, as if casting a spell.”

  “You think Fiona set the fire?” Dag asked incredulously. “How can you believe such a thing?”

  “She hates us.”

  “Fiona may hate Brodir, but she does not wish ill upon any of the rest of our people. And she would never kill women and children.”

  Sigurd’s jaw grew tight. “She has destroyed everything, just as Brodir said she would. Because of her, you sail to Ireland, abandoning your kin, your home.”

  With sudden comprehension, Dag realized why Sigurd had condemned Fiona to die. He did not really believe she had set the fire, nor did he condemn her because she was a threat to Norse law and convention. Sigurd hated Fiona because he blamed her for damaging the bond between them as brothers.

  “Sigurd...” he began gently. “It would have come to this someday even if I had not captured Fiona. I must move out of your shadow and seek out my own lands, my own destiny.”

  “I would have helped you.” Sigurd’s voice was anguished. “I would have given you the use of the Storm Maiden for your journey. But you did not ask me...”

  “Do you not see, brother? Some things a man must do on his own. If I risk Skirnir’s ship, it is because he believes in me. If you give me yours, it is because I am your kin. ‘Tis not the same.”

  Sigurd sighed and was silent.

  “Do you still mean to burn the ship?” Dag asked after a time. If he could not make his brother understand his plans, he would at least pursue his other goal of saving the Storm Maiden.

  Sigurd’s features twisted with grief. “I owe Knorri a worthy funeral. He was like a father to me... and I... I failed him.”

  Dag took a deep breath, searching for the right words. Always before, it had been Sigurd who had soothed him and made him see reason. Now, the roles were reversed. “But did not Knorri die a hero?” he asked. “He saved the women and children and much of the treasure—was that not a deed worthy enough to send his spirit to Valhalla?”