The Emerald Isle Trilogy Boxed Set

by Vincent, Renee

  “We have company,” he whispered so very lightly. “Stay here.”

  Naturally, Mara sat up to object, but he pushed her back down preventing her from talking, this time with the fervency of his nearing face. He brought himself so close that his lips touched her cheek as he spoke in a heated whisper. “Lie still!”

  “But—”

  “They know not that I am with you! Let them think that!”

  “What will you do?”

  Dægan grabbed her trembling hand and placed the dagger within it, but didn’t answer her. He unsheathed his sword in the very slowest of ways and quietly backed up with the same careful stealth, putting his finger to his lips one last time before the shadows of the cavern swallowed him whole.

  Panic gripped her. She couldn’t breathe. Disturbing images of many ill-gotten foreigners fully clad in armor and helmets, bearing bloody swords and mighty battle-axes flashed before her, draining the blood from her body like a sieve.

  The rustling came again, but closer now as if it were just outside the opening. Her heart slammed to a stop. Her eyes searched the darkness, trying to see through the teeming rain. It was useless. She felt helpless and vulnerable, much like a sitting duck awaiting the arrow.

  Suddenly, two men emerged, their swords drawn, their steps cautious. They were dripping wet from head to toe, their warm breath emitting into the cool air like dragon’s fire. Quickly, she hid the dagger underneath the cloak and waited as Dægan had told her.

  It was evident now that they believed her to be alone, for they lowered their weapons and stalked toward the fire. “Well, well,” one said resignedly. “You are a hard little wench to track down.”

  Mara sat deathly still, looking from one to the other.

  “She’s in here!” the man called over his shoulder, his voice echoing against the damp rock walls.

  At that instant, Dægan came out from beside them, fatally slashing across the one man’s back and turning about to take on the other. The second man barely got his sword raised before Dægan thrust his blade so deep into the man’s stomach that it exited out his back. Dægan held poised, his jaw set, his forearms extended, until the man slid from the blade and fell to the ground. Dægan glanced sympathetically at Mara before slipping back into the shadows.

  With all this taking place only meters away, Dægan’s horse had become nervous, stomping and shifting about. Mara jumped up to calm it, stroking its muzzle and neck, when into the cavern ran three more men.

  They stopped in their tracks, finding their comrades dead at their feet and only Mara in the firelight, her little weapon in hand. Their eyes were wide in astonishment and in their next breaths they turned angry and callous.

  “You want to play rough, aye?”

  She turned to face them, keeping one hand on the horse’s back, preparing to see yet another brutal attack, only this time Dægan came from the opposite side of the cavern.

  He slew again the first unsuspecting victim with ease and ducked to avoid the coming of a high sword at his head. As he stood up, he spun and cut the second man deeply across the thighs, making ready to take on the third. He let the Northman initiate the duel, their irons loudly clanging in the night, until Dægan forced the man’s sword tip into the ground and stepped on it, coming up swiftly to cut the unguarded throat. The Northman dropped like a sack of wheat, his legs bent beneath him, but Dægan did not stop there. He revisited the wounded man who still lay upon the ground groaning, and double fisted the hilt above his head, staking his sword into his foe’s chest.

  Being totally awestruck with watching Dægan eliminate each man one by one, Mara nearly failed to notice two others who were about to strike Dægan from behind. She reacted quickly and threw her dagger into the closest man before she even realized what she’d done.

  Only wounded in the shoulder, he dropped to his knees, clutching the knife and pulling it out. The man beside him bravely shielded his friend and stood with his sword primed for the imminent fight ahead, not a single shred of fear entering his mind. As he waited, he watched Dægan heartlessly rip the broad blade from his friend’s body and turn to face him, the light from the fire revealing Dægan’s stone-cold eyes.

  The man took a step back, and not out of fright, but in bewilderment, as if Dægan himself were a ghost in the flesh. He mumbled something and rubbed his eyes fiercely, hoping to see something different—someone else besides the man with the familiar face.

  ****

  Dægan pressed forward, measuring the man frozen in his boots. He double grasped his sword, opening and closing his fingers in succession on the tang to adjust his grip. The act nearly sent the two men out of their own skins, and like bugs beneath a raised rock, they tripped over themselves to get away, scurrying back into the night rain.

  He followed them to the edge of the cavern, peering out just in time to see them mount and ride off, yelling and cursing at each other in argument. He remained there for quite some time, not wanting to underestimate the possibility of their persistence, if not to let his own heart settle and the rush of adrenaline pass.

  He had been in battles before, too many for his liking, but it had been a long time since he last killed another. Being a merchant, there was not much need for drawing his father’s sword, except to intimidate the occasional wayward thief from his fully loaded ships. The sound of its unsheathing was usually enough to send any man running, but this day was different. There was no forewarning given, no compromise, no point of return, and no mercy in his brandished weapon. Only a warrior’s vehemence, given conceivably by the thunder god himself, that knew no end until every last man had fallen.

  Dægan exhaled in length, as if to actually rid the spirit of the berserker from his body. It was a feeling of immense power and immortality, but one he’d rather do without as he typically did not take pride in this quiet aftermath. He turned to Mara, still standing in the company of his trusted steed. “Where did you learn to throw a knife like that?”

  Mara finally sighed as if she were holding her breath the entire time. “Um…my…my father.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “And I suppose he taught you how to break a man’s nose as well.”

  Mara rushed to Dægan’s side, looking him up and down. “You are hurt!”

  He glanced himself once over, surprised to see that his upper thigh had been sliced open. “Naught but a flesh wound.”

  Mara didn’t seem to care for his lighthearted humor and tried to hold back a current of sobs. But amid her efforts, some tears escaped her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, studying her angst-ridden face.

  “Nay, I am not all right,” she replied shakily. “You could have been killed!”

  Dægan attempted to make light of the situation and wrapped his free arm around her. “Not likely with you on my side.”

  He half expected her to slither from his reach, but she didn’t. She stayed where he had drawn her, and her willing body felt good in his embrace. Natural. Like the small of her back was made just for the crook of his arm.

  “You are shaking,” he stated, sheathing his sword. “Come by the fire and warm yourself. Come, now.”

  He directed her far beyond the clutter of the fallen men and made sure to shelter her well within the concave space beneath his shoulder, hiding the gruesome sight from her eyes.

  She sat where he deemed so and stared about the dancing flames, still in shock of the carnage. “Did you know those men?”

  Dægan circled the fire and fetched his bear cloak from the ground, draping it around her shoulders. “Aside from assuming they were the men we encountered on the banks of the River Shannon, I cannot say I know them at all.”

  “But did you see how they looked at you? ‘Twas as if they knew you or—had seen you before.”

  “I know,” he agreed as he sat beside her. “I saw it in their eyes as well. But I tell you in truth, I knew them not.”

  He tried to pull the bear skin cloak tighter around her shoulders to keep out
the cold of the night and the chill of death around her, but his adjustment beside her only prompted a concern for his bleeding wound.

  Blood had already seeped into the hem of his kirtle, a red so dark it looked black in the shadows of the cavern. It trailed a wide path down toward his knee and because of the way he sat, it also started to ooze around his outer thigh.

  “You are bleeding,” Mara commented earnestly. “A lot…”

  But before Dægan could argue differently, she took the hem of her gown and dabbed clean the blood that ran from his leg, gingerly at first as if she were nervous to even touch him, but more fixedly as the blood disappeared. Soon, she was employing the use of both hands.

  He watched her, her hands especially, as they touched his bare skin, that sensitive area on the inside of his thigh. He knew it was often times an erogenous place on a woman, but until he felt the slender fingers of Mara’s kind nursing, he had no idea it existed equally for a man.

  “You wear not breeches like the other men.”

  “Nay, I do not. In Hladir, ‘tis a necessity, for the winds are cold enough to turn a man’s skin black. But here, the weather is more tolerable, and I have grown accustomed to the way the men of the Erin dress. I prefer it, actually.”

  By the time he finished his explanation, she had become more absorbed in cleaning his wound. Her left hand slid around and gripped the muscle of his leg while the other went precariously high, just short of grazing him, which sent his heart to skip.

  He couldn’t take any more and gathered her hands in his. “Mara, please.”

  She glanced up at him. Her eyes of polished emerald were lustrous in their gaze, even though there was a layer of near-falling tears striving to obscure them. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you stopped me,” she said solemnly.

  “Only because I have more than recovered,” he allotted kindly. “Thank you.”

  Normally, the look he gave her in combination with clasping her hands would have been enough to hold her attention, at least keep her from straying to look at the men lying haphazardly about the ground behind her. But it was as if nothing he said or did could keep her from reliving the night. She was elsewhere. In a whole other world, fighting her own inner battles.

  This time, he pulled her face toward his, prohibited her from anymore wayward glances. “Look not upon them. Your eyes needn’t see what wickedness I have done.” He drew her closer and cradled her head into his shoulder. “When the rain dies down, I shall remove them from here. Just sleep. I will stay awake and keep watch. By my guess, they will not be back without the help of reinforcements and by that time, we shall be long gone. At first light, rain or shine, we will be gone.”

  ****

  Domaldr barely finished breaking his fast with stale bread and dried meat hardly fit for a human, when he heard the sudden rush of horses nearing and sliding to a halt outside his temporary encampment. He looked up from his scraps, hearing the sound of Soren’s voice, and hoped his men would have better news than that of his pitiful meal. What was left in his hand, he tossed across the room, and picked up his cup to drink avidly, filling his empty stomach with sour mead.

  Soren and Thorbjörn entered, their faces beset with urgency. They remained subservient as they stood abreast, waiting for permission to speak.

  “Well?” Domaldr queried impatiently. “Did you find her?”

  “Aye, m’lord. We did but—”

  Domaldr threw his men a look that ricocheted within the tent. “But what?”

  “She was not alone. There was a man with her.”

  Domaldr rolled his eyes. “A man. I assume you dealt with the matter swiftly.”

  “I assure you, we tried, but he was not just any man—”

  Again, Domaldr cut Soren off. “A man is a man, is a man! And there were seven of you! Tell me you two are not what is left!”

  Soren bowed in reticence. “We were no match for him. His ability with the sword proved he was no stranger to war.”

  Domaldr scrutinized over the appearance of his men. They were soaked to the skin by the all-night rain, ashen in color as they had been without food or warmth. And aside from the meager wound in Thorbjörn’s shoulder, they were relatively unscathed. “By the looks of you both, you put up not the fight I would have expected of two well armed men.”

  “My lord, we would have…but…he looked exactly like you!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This man was you! Granted, he was dressed differently, without the cover of breeches, and what kirtle he sported, was of a finer wool with the trouble of embroidery all over it. But save the manner of his clothing, he was your twin!”

  The image of a twin smacked Domaldr square in the face. Unbeknownst to anyone else, he was the product of a double birth, but he hadn’t seen that brother in more than eighteen years, for he had left his family without the blessing of a kind farewell. He was the third son to be born, Gustaf being first, an elder brother of six years, then Dægan of about two minutes. Two years later, came another brother, making him the overlooked middle son. With that misfortune and knowing full well that any of his father’s wealth was to be first passed to the oldest, and divvied up between the rest, came a resentment that only grew as he aged—until one day, he’d had his fill. His father had brought home an exquisite sword, hand-crafted by the Halfdan Highleg’s blacksmith himself, of gold and silver inlay, bejeweled with rubies and masterful patterns of filigree. It was this sword that had brought Domaldr’s festering blister to burst.

  That night, he gathered a select few of his friends, took his father’s ship, and stole away into the night, escaping the shadow of his ever gifted, identical brother.

  But even as Domaldr pondered the possibility of his men’s encounter, he still doubted that the man they described could be the warrior they claimed, for the brother he knew and left behind was nothing more than a merchant.

  “‘Tis true, I have a twin. And I discount not the fact that he could be here, for he is a traveler and seaman. But for him to slaughter five of my men in skill is quite a tale, Soren.”

  “I speak not of a tall-tale, but of a man proficient with his weapon. There was no doubt he and that sword were one.”

  Domaldr frowned in hearing the fulsome words coming from his own friend. It was as if he were standing amid his father’s supporters in Hladir, their praises falling like rain upon the beloved Dægan all over again. “Enough of him! Tell me more of the sword he wielded.”

  “A jarl’s sword,” Soren described. “Of gold and silver, and precious stones… There is none like it.”

  “Do you recall the color of the stones?” Domaldr asked, still not ready to accept the man as his own twin. “What was their color?”

  Thorbjörn piped up. “They were as red as blood.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Thorbjörn hung his head. “Aye. I was wounded and as Soren stood in front of me, I was able to get my fill of the man, more so than I actually cared to. I remember his eyes, the way he looked at me as he pulled his sword from Oskar’s chest, the reflection of the fire on his blade, and the tiny red stones on the hilt matching the color of the blood that ran from his leg.”

  “So, he is injured, you say?” Domaldr asked, a small upsurge of glee bubbling inside him.

  “Aye.”

  Domaldr smiled, but all too briefly. He was no closer to resolving the predicament he was in, with the girl still at large and his blasted brother now in the picture. He stalked toward the table and poured himself a full stein of mead, drinking ardently before slamming it down. “Where did you find them?” he barked.

  “In a cavern, m’lord. South of here.”

  “Good. Amass the men and take me there.”

  “But m’lord,” Soren intervened. “We cannot possibly find it again. The rain has washed away their tracks.”

  “But you found them before!”

  “We only found them because we saw the lig
ht of their fire. Had it not been for that, we would still be searching.”

  Domaldr threw his stein and growled. “I want that girl! And I want my brother to pay through the nose for what he has done!”

  ****

  Breandán watched Domaldr storm through the camp like a maddened bull on the charge. He knew the reason for the man’s anger, for he’d heard it easily through the cheap, thin wool of the tent. He also knew that the girl Domaldr wanted in his charge was the fancy-free daughter of the Connacht king. Breandán had often come across her many times while hunting, frittering away her time on a white stallion. And since he had been hauled in with that very horse, it confirmed her identity without a doubt.

  Breandán thought about the girl at length, worrying about her. She was a brave soul, but even he knew bravery would not help an innocent, defenseless woman when it came to the merciless Northmen. If she wasn’t found, she was as a good as dead.

  He felt his stomach turn within that horrible thought and purposely directed his mind on things more helpful to her rescue. It would take more than courage to bring her back as he’d have to also delude Domaldr and countless others in the process. But at this point, he had nothing to lose and even more to gain.

  He may have been only a farmer’s son, a mere vassal to the clan lord who served her father. But this little adventure could help Breandán on many accounts. He could get the respect he so wished from his fellow clansman. He could help to improve the life of his father, and he could attain the love he craved from the dark-haired lass, just by bringing her home. And how hard could that be for a hunter whose very living was to track the hidden?

  No more difficult than tracking the cunning fox.

  As Domaldr returned, a swarm of men followed him. Breandán yelled out, gaining the sour Northman’s attention, and stood despite the ropes around his ankles and wrists. “If you want to find that brother of yours, I can help you.”

  Domaldr abruptly stopped just before entering his tent. He turned around, stroking his chin as he looked at the viable group of men before him, hungry for battle as they were fully armored in chain mail and conical helmets. And then at Breandán, the single bluntly spoken prisoner, with only muscled arms to boast in his favor.