Must Love Kilts

by Allie Mackay

  It was a joy to feed her.

  But just now, he had others needing nourishment.

  Food to fill bellies and ale to take the edge off the terror of souls who lived from catching herring and eels and not by how fiercely they could wield steel.

  He also hoped that the need to calm and soothe frightened villagers would keep Margo occupied, her mind off the horrors that would unfold on the still-peaceful stretch of lovely red sand.

  Turning his face into the wind, he cast another glance at the empty sea, and then looked again at Ewan. “Do the villagers have enough to eat?”

  “More than we had this morn.” Ewan grinned.

  “They’re all back there.” He nodded to the thick line of broom and whin bushes. “They’re feasting on bread, herring, cheese, and enough ale to have them sleeping through till the morrow. Your lady, too, if she knows what’s good for her.”

  A muscle jerked in Magnus’s jaw, but he didn’t correct Ewan for calling Margo his lady.

  Leastways, he wished a true union with her would be possible. It was one reason he’d been so disappointed when his crew had failed to turn up the Cursing Stone after searching the strand in Gairloch.

  He didn’t just want to toss the enchanted stone into the sea to keep such powers from landing in the hands of dangerous, evil men.

  He also feared the stone’s existence might always present a threat to Margo.

  Something might snatch her from his arms as swiftly as the stone’s magic had helped her appear.

  He frowned, liking none of it.

  For now, he nodded at Ewan. “The villagers are still guarded?”

  “Och, aye.” Ewan sounded amused. “My grandfather told the guards he’d cut off their balls in their sleep if they left their posts.”

  “Calum would.” Magnus stifled a laugh. Sound carried on water. “And”—the humor left his voice—“if a single villager is harmed, I’ll slice off the rest o’ the guardsmen’s bits and make each man eat his own danglers.

  “If aught befalls Margo, they’ll lose more than their danglers.” Magnus set his hand on Vengeance’s hilt.

  “I’ll have their heads.”

  “They know that, lord.”

  “Then pray they stay with Margo and the fisherfolk when it comes to a fight.” Magnus shot another glance at the thicket. The glint of spear heads and mail could just be seen through the broom’s yellow blooms if one knew where to look. “I’ll no’ be having them rushing down to the strand if the battle joy takes them.”

  “They won’t, lord.” Ewan’s gaze was on the sea again, watching.

  A curlew called then, the haunting cry coming from farther along the cliff.

  Magnus’s pulse quickened. “Vikings have been spotted.”

  He shot a look at Ewan. The lad’s hand already hovered near his sword hilt, his fingers twitching. A broad smile was spreading across the younger man’s red-bearded face. Magnus nodded, pleased. Then he glanced at the other warriors, each man behind a rock or hidden by grass. Every one bristled with arms, ready to kill.

  The sea still stretched empty.

  But the prickling at Magnus’s nape told him they were no longer alone.

  And they weren’t.

  Suddenly Magnus could see the enemy. Dark shapes beneath the blackening sky, three dragon ships slid out of the mist, their long oars rising and falling, sending up plumes of bright silver spray. Each ship boasted fearsome beast heads on stern and stem, and the oarsmen beat faster on every smooth, sweeping stroke. The ships rode the flooding tide, coming fast, and were filled with howling, fierce-faced warriors, their helmets and mail glinting in the dim morning light, their swords and battle-axes already drawn.

  “Hold, men.” Magnus spoke only loud enough for his warriors to hear. He threw a glance over his shoulder at the thicket, relief sluicing him when he didn’t see Margo peeking out through the underbrush.

  Turning back to his men, he jerked a nod. “We wait until the ships run ashore and Frodi chases the cattle from the strand.”

  Releasing his grip on Vengeance’s hilt, he flattened his hands against the large, deliberately loosened boulders before him. He splayed his fingers and took a deep breath, willing victory.

  From below came the loud hiss of sheared water, the splashing of oar blades, and the wild shouts of the Norse marauders.

  Fury, hot and seething, scalded Magnus’s blood.

  But he stayed where he was, unmoving. He kept still as stone, out of sight behind the sheltering outcrop. It was a reprieve of heartbeats, for very soon hell would open and the quiet little strand would become a killing place.

  He peered around the outcrop and down to the cove, and for one terrible moment, he imagined Liana running across a similar beach, her innocent eyes wide with terror as she tried to flee the wild-eyed, huge-bearded men chasing her. To his horror, he couldn’t recall her face clearly.

  He saw Margo instead. His mind’s eye conjured her lithe, naked, and terrified, as she raced along the surf, chased by Viking hordes and—his gut twisted—Donata, who rode the wind on a birch switch.

  Magnus shuddered, banishing the image.

  Then nothing else mattered because in that instant the first of the three dragon ships roared onto the shore, its keel crunching into the strand in a wild spray of foam and flying pebbles. The other two boats came as quickly, grinding to the same screeching halt even as mailed, screaming Norsemen leapt down from the prows, swords, axes, and spears in their hands.

  Magnus felt a surge of elation.

  This was the moment he’d been awaiting.

  He flashed a look at Ewan, jerked a swift nod.

  The younger man grinned. Then he set a hand to his lips and made the sharp drumming notes of a great spotted woodpecker. The sound rippled the air, echoing across the hills like drifting smoke rings. It was all the encouragement Magnus’s warriors needed. On the strand, the Vikings didn’t notice the birdcall as they splashed through the surf, shouting taunts and swinging axes.

  But the world around them split wide as Frodi shot onto the strand, barking wildly as he herded the six cattle into the safety of the dunes. Frodi flew across the strand, excitement letting him forget his old bones as he ran faster than he had in years.

  Laughing, the Vikings chased after Frodi and the cattle beasts, oblivious of impending doom. Coming death swept near as Magnus and his men sprang to action, heaving as one to send a barrage of boulders hurtling over the cliff to crash onto the marauders.

  Other men burst from inside the fisher huts, shooting fire arrows into the beached longboats as they ran out onto the sand.

  The arrows streaked into the ships with unerring accuracy, some slamming into hulls, others piercing sails or thudding into the rowing benches. Flames caught swiftly, crackling to life and licking across the planking, blackening the masts and rearing beast heads. The fire grew quickly, sweeping the timbers and leaping high to turn the sky red and fill the cove with clouds of whirling, choking smoke and ash.

  A vile stench filled the air and burned his eyes, but the moans of dying Norsemen—and the rage of those Vikings yet living—was a sweet song in Magnus’s ears as he hastened down the cliff path, Vengeance drawn and ready, his men on his heels.

  Chaos met them.

  Many of the Vikings lay sprawled on the strand, their big mail-clad bodies mangled by the rocks. Most had whipped around and run back to their burning ships, where they dashed about, yelling and scooping up sand and water with their shields, trying to douse the flames. But a few whirled to attack Magnus and his men as they thundered down the cliff track and raced into the confusion.

  “I want blood!” Magnus swung Vengeance, the great sword’s blade clashing against steel, then slicing through the wooden haft of an ax.

  The ax wielder roared, casting aside the useless weapon and reaching to whip out his sword. Before he could, Vengeance whistled through the air, taking off the Norseman’s wrist in a lightning-fast strike.

  Howling, the man s
taggered, then dropped to his knees, clutching the bloodied stump to his chest.

  Magnus stabbed deep with Vengeance’s tip, ending the Viking’s misery with a swift jab to the throat, the force of his thrust almost severing the man’s head.

  “MacBride!” A huge Norseman snarled his name, proving they knew whose coast they’d dared ravage.

  Agile for such a giant, the man danced around Magnus, his war ax swinging, already dripping red.

  “You’ll not fell me! Come try”—the man’s eyes flashed challenge—“and the gulls will feast on your eyes before the blood dries on my blade.” Magnus grinned coldly and reached to yank the leather band from his hair. “Hold tight to your ax, Northman, if you wish to dine in Odin’s hall this e’en!” Still smiling, he tossed his head, letting the loose strands swing about his shoulders. “Word is, there’s an empty chair there, waiting for you.”

  “You’re cursed, MacBride.” The Viking kept dancing, tossing his ax from hand to hand, a gap-toothed grin splitting his bushy blond beard. “Donata’s cast her spell on you, speaking death and misery to you and yours.”

  “I dinnae believe in spells,” Magnus lied, eager to redden his steel on the man’s blood.

  He wanted this Norseman’s soul.

  There were fine rings of thick silver on the man’s large, mail-sleeved arms.

  “I keep a chest o’ those.” Magnus flicked his wrist, using Vengeance’s tip to point at the Viking’s arm rings. “I take them off dead men and tonight I’ll be tossing yours in with the others.

  “Except”—he implied delight—“the two or three I’ll wear in my feast hall this e’en.”

  The Viking lunged, bellowing his rage. Magnus sidestepped him with ease, scything Vengeance to counter the man’s vicious blow. But the sword’s blade glanced off the heavy mail of the Viking’s sleeve, the failed strike only serving to enrage the man more. He whirled on Magnus, hacking wildly, his bloodied ax blade cutting air when Magnus spun, then swept Vengeance in a great, whistling arc. And this time, his blade sliced into the vulnerable gap beneath the Norseman’s raised arm, the powerful cut cleaving deep, splintering bone and sending a fountain of red to brighten the length of Magnus’s sword and splash across his chest.

  “Vengeance!” Magnus yelled his battle cry as he yanked free his blade. The huge Norseman toppled, falling face-first onto the sand.

  Magnus wheeled away, eager to slay his next Magnus wheeled away, eager to slay his next challenger.

  “I’ll give you vengeance.”

  The taunt came from another tall, mail-coated Norseman. Blond as the slain axman’s, this Viking’s wheat-colored hair spilled free to his waist, and the battered faceplate of his helmet shone red in the firelight. Ten or more gold rings glittered on each arm, proclaiming his status. As did his jeweled belt buckle and the gem-studded clasps adorning the thick plaits of his proudly braided beard.

  “You’re the dead man, Viking.” Magnus wasn’t impressed.

  The Norseman didn’t care. “If the fates so will it.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “I think it’s you who’ll miss the morrow’s sunrise.”

  “Shall we see?” Magnus was keen.

  “Tell Odin that it was Harald Skull-Splitter who sent you into his company.” The Viking grinned, whipping his sword in a flashing figure-of-eight flourish. “I keep him well amused.”

  “Then he will be pleased to meet you at last.” Magnus twirled Vengeance in an equally bold display.

  “Perhaps”—he flicked his gaze to the three burning ships, guessing that this man was the warlord who owned them—“he’ll like you so much that he’ll replace your fired boats in Valhalla.”

  “I’ll build new boats from the riches I’ll be taking from your lands, Viking Slayer.” He spoke Magnus’s byname as a slur. “After I dine on your liver and then whore your women in your bed.”

  Harald Skull-Splitter’s men stopped fighting long enough to jeer. Magnus’s warriors snarled, their outraged protests heating air already scorching hot from the flames of the Norsemen’s burning dragon boats.

  Together, their own fighting momentarily forgotten, Magnus’s men and the Viking warriors formed a circle, ringing Magnus and Harald Skull-Splitter. Each man edged near, drawn by the lure of a fierce and deadly combat of arms, a battle that promised a spectacle of blood sure to please the most jaded warrior.

  “A boon for you, Skull-Splitter, in honor of your bravery ... and in small recompense for the loss of three fine ships.” Magnus glanced at the ring of men, searching the Norsemen’s faces. “Which man lives to carry my message to Sigurd Sword Breaker? You decide. Now, while you still have breath to utter a name.”

  Harald Skull-Splitter spat on the sand. “There’ll be no need.”

  “I insist.” Magnus moved with eye-blurring speed, the tip of Vengeance jabbing beneath the Viking warlord’s chin before the man could blink. “Choose a survivor.”

  Harald Skull-Splitter set his mouth in a tight hard line, his face showing no emotion. But his gaze did flash to a young well-armored warrior. Blond, good-looking, and the least burly of the Northmen, he still had the freshness of youth about him. And, surprisingly, an air of innocence that shone bright in his startling blue eyes.

  “You.” Magnus jerked his head at the youth. “Who are you?”

  “I am Arnor Song-Bringer.” The young warrior stepped forward.

  “A good name—as your leader has lost his tongue.” Magnus kept his sword tip at Skull-Splitter’s chin. “You have broken his quiet.”

  Several of Magnus’s warriors sniggered.

  The other Vikings remained silent, anger rolling off them.

  “The name is because my birth ended my mother’s silence.” The youth’s voice was clear, proud. “She lost my father and my brothers before I was born and vowed in her sorrow to never speak again. When I came, she sang to me, forgetting the oath in her gladness.”

  Magnus frowned, feeling oddly chastised.

  Skull-Splitter took advantage, knocking Vengeance away from his jaw. “Arnor is Sigurd Sword Breaker’s nephew.”

  Magnus eyed the youth sharply. His blood chilled and he was sure that Vengeance’s blade vibrated, demanding to bite deep into the youth’s flesh.

  Whipping Vengeance back up to point at Skull-Splitter’s belly, Magnus snarled. His rage seethed and he tasted hot bile as his world took on the shimmering red haze that always came with killing.

  He shot another fierce glance at the youth.

  Arnor glared at him, defiant.

  “Who he is, or”—Magnus turned back to Skull-Splitter, his scowl deepening—“how he received his name, doesn’t matter. Only that he will be left alive to carry my warning to Sword Breaker and every other Viking warlord who dares to eye this coast.”

  “You’ve just spoken your last words.” Harald Skull-Splitter attacked then, leaping forward in savage anger, his sword a flash of silver that struck Vengeance so hard Magnus reeled, almost losing his footing.

  He recovered swiftly and roared a challenge as he lunged forward. He swung Vengeance with a fury, the vicious arc catching Skull-Splitter in the side.

  Vengeance’s blade screamed across the tight steel rings of the Norseman’s mail coat, bruising but drawing no blood.

  Skull-Splitter laughed and slashed down furiously with his own blade, trying to slice through Magnus’s arm. Magnus blocked the blow with Vengeance’s broad side, thrusting the Viking backward with such force he should have crashed to his knees. Instead, he spun around, his own blade swinging in another death-bringing stroke. Except Magnus wasn’t yet ready to die. He was eager to kill, so he whirled, slashing Vengeance in an even mightier arc. This time the blade sliced through the Norseman’s mailed sleeve, cutting straight into muscle and bone. Blood sprayed onto the sand and Skull-Splitter’s sword dropped from his limp fingers.

  Magnus grinned, not surprised when his foe growled and used his left hand to pluck his huge Norse war ax from its jeweled belt ring.

  “I’ve taken
worse scratches from the women I bed,” Skull-Splitter sneered, ignoring his bloodied arm and raising his bright ax blade.

  “You’ve had your last whore. Save”—Magnus eyed the long-handled ax, unconcerned—“any toothless hags Odin might share with you.”

  Magnus lunged then, aiming deadly, but Skull-Splitter leapt aside and the sword glanced harmlessly across the Norseman’s massive steel-clad shoulder.

  Eyes blazing, the Viking charged, lifting his good arm to rain ax blows and hacks at Magnus’s head and arms.

  “Donata’s curse is on you, MacBride.” Skull-Splitter hissed the words as he brought his ax slashing down, missing Magnus’s shoulder by a hairbreadth. He hacked again, wildly. “You’re wasting breath trying to kill me because you’re already a dead man.”

  “Nae, that’s you.” Magnus narrowed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the chill that swept him on the Viking’s words. Furious, he flicked Vengeance with blinding speed, taking two fingers from his foe’s ax hand.

  Skull-Splitter howled, his remaining fingers still gripping his ax. “You’ll not fell me,” he jeered, coming at Magnus again.

  “I’m slaying you now.” Magnus sidestepped the blow with ease. “Hold on to your ax if you wish to dine with Odin this e’en.”

  “Cur!” Skull-Splitter tried to rally.

  But the sand beneath his feet was growing slick with his spilled blood and the force in his left arm wasn’t as powerful as the might of his useless sword arm. He kept fighting, snarling fiercely as Magnus continued to spin and lunge, avoiding the Viking’s ax swings and dealing his own vicious strikes with Vengeance.

  Roaring now, the Viking slammed down his ax in a fierce swipe that could’ve cleaved an ox in two equal halves. But Magnus was prepared and on Skull-Splitter’s downswing, he rammed Vengeance forward in a terrible two-handed thrust, piercing mail and leather jerkin to sink the sword’s blade deep in the Norseman’s gut.

  Magnus’s men cheered and raised their own reddened blades, renewing the fight with the other Vikings even before Magnus could yank Vengeance from Skull-Splitter’s belly. The Nordic warlord twitched on the sand, his bloodied fingers groping for his ax hilt.