Fiona drew breath, considering her response, but it was Dag who answered. “Consider your princess’s words carefully, boy, for I will back them up with my sword arm. You may not wish me as your lord, but I am here and you need me. You require men to rebuild your fort and plant your fields; but most of all, you can’t do without warriors. The northern lands swarm with men greedy for plunder, and it is only a few days journey by dragonship to the rich shores of your land. Without my men to defend you, Dunsheauna will soon be ravaged again.
“My brother led the last raid against you, and he was generous, leaving your grain supply and livestock untouched. The next Norseman who attacks this fort may not have my brother’s magnanimous nature. He might well slaughter every living thing and burn every building and field. Without a strong leader, I promise you, the future of the Deasunachta is numbered in weeks and months.”
Dag’s ominous proclamation was greeted with shudders and furtive whispers, and Fiona knew they remembered that terrible night when the darkness shone with flames and “death walked on the night wind.” She held her breath, wondering what their reaction would be. Did they trust her judgment? Would they accept Dag, albeit grudgingly?
“You speak fine words,” Dermot retorted. “Even as you admit that our disastrous weakness is the fault of your own kin. Why should we trust you, a man whose blood clearly makes you our enemy?”
Dag shrugged his broad shoulders. “You have no choice.”
“There is Sivney Longbeard.” Dermot’s smile was grim. “He promised to rebuild our fort and take us under his protection.”
“Where is he?” Dag glanced around, as if searching for the absent Irish chieftain. “I see no bold hero come to defend you. I see only a group of fearful woman, and boys who would be men.”
Even by firelight, Fiona could see Dermot’s face color. She wanted to warn Dag of her foster brother’s pride, but she feared to interfere with Dag’s authority. The Viking was magnificent this night, both intimidating and reassuring at the same time. Fiona had no doubt he would win the women’s acceptance, but she was less certain of the young men. Dermot, especially, was an arrogant, stubborn sort.
“Sivney will come,” he now announced balefully. “He was betrothed to the princess ere she was abducted, and he still honors that betrothal. Soon he will come to kill you and take Fiona for his queen!”
Dag shook his head in negation, but Fiona felt a chill run down her spine. Sivney might well try to do such a thing.
Suddenly, a woman stepped forward, her long, dark hair visible in the torchlight. “Siobhan!” Fiona cried.
Her aunt nodded. “Aye, child. I am returned to my rightful place. When the Christian holy man died in the fires, the survivors of Dunsheauna remembered me. They recalled my prophecy of years ago—that Donall’s reign would bring them pain and suffering.” She moved toward Dag, looking up at the Norse warrior who towered over her. “Is this the man whose life you saved?” she asked in a quiet voice meant only for Fiona’s ears.
“It is.”
Siobhan gazed steadily at Dag. “You owe your life to this woman, Norseman. Do you intend to honor your debt?”
Dag smiled, displaying both his strong, white teeth and his formidable charm. “Nay, I owe Fiona for two lives. She saved my life again on the journey here.”
Siohban gave a musical laugh. “I like this warrior,” she said loudly. “He is not so pridefiil as to forget his debt to a woman. I believe the agreement he offers us is fair.”
“He is our enemy!” Dermot protested, his youthful voice shrill with outrage.
Siohban turned toward him, her voice softening, “For a hundred generations, invaders have come to Eire. They come to plunder and to settle; but in the end, the land itself conquers them and makes them her own. If Fiona bears a son to this Viking, he will not be half-Norse and half-Irish, but merely Irish. That is the power of this place.” She faced Dag again. “Are you prepared, warrior, to surrender yourself to the spirits of Eire?”
Dag felt a tremor of fear run down his spine as he gazed into the wise woman’s gray eyes. He could feel the power of Eire pulling him in like a lodestone drawing iron. He had feared this moment since the day he set foot on this spirit-infested isle. Did he have the courage to abandon his former life and face the future as an Irishman?
He turned to look at Fiona, remembering how he had once feared her, feared the hunger and longing she aroused in his soul. He had dreaded that she would trap him here in fairyland for all eternity—and so she had. But it was not so terrible a fate; indeed, he had never known such contentment. “This place has conquered me already,” he answered. “I will devote my life to defending the land and breeding up sons who will do so after me.”
A sigh went through the crowd, and Fiona knew they were pacified, all except Dermot, who bristled with fury and frustration.
The gathering broke up, the women whispering together in small groups, the boys lingering near Dag and Ellisil as they discussed the task of rebuilding that lay ahead of them. Fiona watched Dermot stalk off into the darkness beyond the torches.
“There is always one,” Siobhan said, coming to stand beside Fiona. “One fool who seeks to defy the pattern the gods have woven.”
“And you believe that the gods will it that Dag shall rule?”
“If not Dag, then another foreigner. I predicted this long ago when Aisling wed Donall. I told her that her husband would bring suffering to her people, that her grandson would be of foreign blood.”
“But my father ruled here nigh on twenty years,” Fiona protested. “And the suffering came not because of Donall, but because of the Vikings.”
“You are still loyal to him.” Siobhan sighed. “There is much of your mother in you.”
Fiona shook her head. For all that her aunt could see the future in some ways, she was very blind in others. Fiona could not see her father’s life as a failure. Nay, she would not let it be so. She and Dag would rebuild what was destroyed. And if she bore a son, he would carry Donall’s name into the future.
“Come inside where it is warm and dry.” Duvessa appeared beside Fiona. “We have much to talk about.” There was an odd shyness to her foster sister’s manner. Fiona wondered if she had changed so much that her own kin no longer felt comfortable with her.
Before they could reach the hut Duvessa indicated, Breaca ran up breathlessly. “Ellisil says we are to bring supplies from the ship. Do you want me to bring you anything, Fiona?”
“Nay, I need nothing tonight. Do you know where you and Rorig will sleep?”
“On the ship. Ellisil says it must be guarded constantly until we have a chance to unload it.”
“See to Rorig then, and sleep well, Breaca.”
They embraced. Fiona saw Breaca give Duvessa a curious glance, then the slave girl hurried off.”
“I think we must look very like,” Duvessa mused as she and Fiona entered a small mud-and-wattle hut. “Does she act like me as well?”
“Oh, aye,” Fiona answered. “She scolds me terribly and calls me a fool just as you always did.” Then, seeing Duvessa’s uneasy look, she added, “I don’t know what I would have done without her all those months in Norseland. She kept me from making even worse mistakes than the ones I made.”
Duvessa smiled tentatively. “Was it very awful, being a Viking prisoner?”
Fiona cocked her head. “Well, it could have been, but there was a sort of understanding between Dag and me from the beginning. You see, Dag was the Viking prisoner my father captured and imprisoned in the souterrain. I tended him and saved his life. Because of that, he owed me a debt, and he never treated me cruelly.” She met Duvessa’s eyes, wondering what her foster sister would think of her now. Would she blame Fiona for aiding their enemy? Would she hold her responsible for the Viking raid?”
Duvessa smiled, the skin crinkling merrily around her blue eyes. “I guessed long ago. You left your things behind in the souterrain, and I found them before we left our hiding place. ‘Twas
obvious someone had nursed the prisoner and then freed him.”
“I didn’t free him, although I’d half made up my mind to do so. He was able to break his shackles and escape. He found the rest of the Vikings, who were already planning to raid the palisade. Because of my care, he urged his brother, their leader, to deal lightly with our people. That’s why they didn’t fire the grain supply, nor search too hard for the women and children, nor kill all the livestock.”
Fiona spoke the words carefully, finally believing them herself. At last, she could let go of her guilt. She hadn’t caused her father’s death, nor defied her destiny. Indeed, she believed now that she had been guided to the souterrain to save Dag’s life because he was her fate.
Duvessa shivered. “I would never have dared to go down into that hole to face an enemy warrior, even if he were bound and sorely wounded.”
“ ‘Twas not bravery, but foolhardiness. You have often said that I act before I think, and ‘tis true. My impetuous nature caused me a great deal of trouble when I was in the Norselands.”
“In spite of that, you have found a fair strong warrior for a husband. I am very relieved that the others agreed to accept Dag Thorsson as their lord. The words he spoke were true. We are desperate for men to defend us, to build and plant crops. Dermot and the other boys try, but they are just that—boys.”
Fiona marked the wistful look on her friend’s face and said, “If you could find a man among Dag’s oathmen that pleased you, would you wed with him?”
“Of course! With my dowry burned in the raid, I can’t hope for a match with an Irishman, at least not one of noble blood.”
“Remember that the Norsemen are pagans,” Fiona warned, “And not all of them as gentle-natured and considerate as Dag.”
“The silver-haired one who stood at Dag’s side—what is he called?”
“His name is Ellisil.” Fiona considered. “In truth, I know him little, although he seems loyal to Dag... and ambitious. In time, I think, he will leave Dunsheauna and seek land of his own.”
“He’s not as big as Dag, which reassures me. And he’s certainly fair to look upon. I have never seen hair of a such a color—neither white nor gold. It glows like starlight.”
Fiona sat down on one of the crude pallets. Weary from the journey and the tension of the confrontration, she had no desire to discuss Eliisil’s appearance. She was more concerned with whether her people really meant to accept Dag. “I was surprised to see Siobhan speak as your leader,” she said. “Never have I seen her take such interest in the affairs of Dunsheauna.”
“Siobhan was a great help to us after the raid. When we finally dared leave the souterrain, she was already busy tending the wounded and giving orders. It was she who directed us in retrieving the men’s bodies and seeing to their burial. We had not the labor to dig a cairn to bury them in, so we wrapped them in what finery we could find and lowered them into the souterrain and sealed it with stones. I hope that doesn’t distress you, Fiona. It seemed fitting that the dead lie safe in the place that sheltered us.”
Fiona thought of the souterrain with its ancient stone walls, its aura of past mysteries. “You did right, I think, Duvessa. The souterrain was a tomb ere it was a prison or a storage chamber. My father will rest peacefully there.”
“Dermot didn’t like it. He thought that we should have exhausted ourselves digging a barrow. But I tell you, we didn’t have the strength. There was so much to do if we were to survive at all—shelters to build, food stores, utensils and bedding to salvage.”
“If Dermot wished to build a barrow, he should have done it himself,” Fiona said sharply.
“Dermot and the other boys didn’t even venture out of the woods until after the burial had taken place. With the priest dead, there was no one to perform the rites. Siobhan stepped in. She knew what to do—how to wash and dress the bodies, the words to say to comfort our spirits. It was almost as if she had been waiting for this disaster.”
“Mayhaps she was,” Fiona murmured.
Duvessa went on. “Dermot was very angry when Siobhan took charge. He insisted that he, as oldest male of the line, should be the leader.”
“But Dermot is not even of my father’s blood!”
“Yet, as foster son, he might be recognized as heir.” Seeing Fiona’s startled look, Duvessa continued quickly. “Myself, I do not accept his claim as valid, even if he is my brother. The harsh truth is that he is too young to act as chieftain. ‘Tis almost laughable, except in his eyes.” Her face grew sorrowful. “I wonder what will become of him now. He cannot stand against Dag, but I doubt he can be forced to swear allegiance to a Norseman either.”
Fiona chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. She was as troubled by Dermot’s attitude as Duvessa. Could Dermot not see that his cause was futile? Would he dare to challenge Dag? A boy could not stand against a grown warrior, certainly not one like Dag. Dermot must be made to see reason. If he would not, Dag must banish him. A strong leader could not allow a rebellious boy to gainsay him at every turn.
“I think we should be more concerned with Sivney Long- beard’s intentions than Dermot’s,” she said, pushing thoughts of her foster brother aside. “Is it true he has claimed Dunsheauna for his own?”
Duvessa shook her head. “There has been no word from Rath Morrig that I know of. I think Dermot’s insistence that Sivney means to honor the betrothal agreement is merely wishful thinking.” She sniffed disdainfully. “Now that our wealth is gone, Dunsheauna is no enticement to a greedy, lazy man like Sivney. If he claimed the place, he might have to provide gold and men to rebuild it. Nay, he will wait until we are prosperous once again before he remembers his agreement with your father.”
Fiona breathed a sigh of relief at these words. By the time Sivney again cast covetous eyes at their lands, Dag would have see to it that the place was secure and well-defended.
She yawned extravagantly. So much had happened since they’d rowed up the river. It must be near to the middle of the night by now. “I should find Dag and seek out the ship,” she said, rising. “We have much to do on the morrow.”
“Nay, you must sleep here,” Duvessa protested. “There is no need for you to return to the ship.”
“But Dag...”
“You have been with your Viking lover for months now; please stay the night with me, Fiona. I have been so lonely.”
Fiona submitted to Duvessa’s entreaty. After all, she would see Dag on the morrow. Indeed, if she had her way, she would never sleep apart from him again. “I should at least send someone to him with word of where I am.”
Duvessa hurried to the doorway. “I’ll see to it.”
She ducked out for a moment then returned. But if Duvessa sought to converse more that night, she was sorely disappointed. By the time her foster sister settled herself on the pallet beside her, Fiona was too groggy to do more than mumble goodnight.
The rain had ceased and a thick mist settled over the hills by the time Dag left the ruined palisade and headed down the pathway to the cove where the Wind Raven was beached. The night was well nigh half over, and fatigue seemed to seep into every bone and muscle. He walked gingerly, feeling rather than seeing his way through the eerie haze of moisture. If not for the sound of the river, he would have been unable to find his way at all. As it was, he walked with his hands stretched out in front of him, fearing that he would crash into a tree and knock himself senseless.
The sheets of fog shifted, enticing him with an almost clear view of the pathway then descended again. He cursed loudly, wondering if he should start back toward the palisade. Ahead, one of the men standing guard by the ship spoke to another. He sounded so near, Dag decided to continue on.
He had taken two more steps when a sudden foreboding came over him, very like the dread he had known his first night on the isle. His heartbeat quickened and the clammy dampness of sweat mingled with the moisture already beading his skin. He wanted to run, to throw himself into the river and escape the malevolent forces h
e felt all around him. He moistened his mouth to call out then stopped himself. He would not yield to this superstitious panic. A few more paces and he would be at the ship.
Abruptly, he heard the crack of a branch on the path behind him. He whirled around and pulled his battle-ax from his belt with one smooth motion. “Who’s there?” he called.
There was no answer. The hair on his neck prickled. He waited, scarcely even breathing. When nothing happened, he turned and took another step. A sharp pain lanced through his back as the knife went in. Gasping, Dag spun around and struck out with the ax. An agony-filled scream rent the night as the weapon met flesh and bone and a spray of warm blood soaked his hand.
Dag staggered backwards. “Thor’s fury! Who’s there?”
The only answer was a horrible gurgling noise. Dag froze. He had killed his attacker, whoever he was, and the wounded man’s spirit struggled to free itself from his body.
Dag dropped to his knees and moved toward the chilling sound. He reached out a trembling hand and followed the trail of warm blood to its source. He jerked his hand away when he touched a body then forced himself to reach out again. Finding an arm, still pliant and warm with life, he traced it upwards, past the horrible bleeding gash in the man’s throat to his face. An anguished groan broke from Dag’s throat as his fingers felt the smooth, slender cheek of his attacker.
Chapter 35
Dag slumped forward on the wet ground. The knife wound in his shoulder throbbed, but the pain was nothing compared to the torment in his heart. He had killed the boy—Fiona’s foster brother. She would never forgive him.
“Dag?” Eliisil’s voice echoed in the distance.
Dag groaned again, unable to speak.
The sound of footfalls, faint in the damp grass. Someone leaned over him. Ellisil cried out in alarm, “By the hand of Odin! Dag—who did this to you?”
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