Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  His gaze locked on a portion of the wood. Movement. Shadows. Gliding behind the screen of trees.

  Lyting called out a warning to the others. They laid into the oars with all their might, pulling and pushing as though Fenrir Wolf gnashed at the keel and Hel set the waters afire.

  The first of the pirate ships emerged from the palisade of pines, its bow shining of metal. At once it pointed its iron-clad bow ahead of the Little Auk’s and began to advance.

  Good, Lyting thought. It had taken the bait. ‘Twas a matter of course, when posturing one’s ship to ram another’s, to aim thusly for the opponent’s bow. Allowing for distance and “way,” the speed, of both ships, the attacking vessel could expect to close upon the other straight on the beam and strike it broadside, midship.

  Lyting vowed, however, that this day nothing would be a matter of course.

  Before he could scan the size of the oncoming force, a second ship appeared joining the first, directing its fortified bow toward the Little Auk with obvious intent.

  Lyting strained at the oar, unable to mark what other craft might be issuing forth from the shelter of land, or how great their numbers aboard.

  As his muscles knotted and stretched, he imagined the pirates to be grinning wide beneath their whiskers and helmets. The Little Auk must appear a small fish, easily swallowed with time to feast on the rest. He hoped they believed that and would continue to follow the Little Auk a stretch longer, widening the gap between the other ships of the convoy, purchasing for them a critical space of time.

  Despite her size, the Little Auk owned significant advantage. Not only did she enjoy a hull lighter than most, but the expanse of her sails measured near the same as those of the larger ships. Comparably, she possessed greater sail power, even in reduced winds such as these.

  Now, as if to prove her worth — and in contrast to her namesake — the Little Auk surged ahead, skimming the waters fleet as a gull. The pirates pressed after them in fervent pursuit, but as the smaller vessel steadily gained in distance, they slowed, then veered off, having no wish to participate in a stern chase. What first appeared an easy catch was too little a prize to trouble with greatly. Turning back on the merchant ships that lagged behind, they allowed the Little Auk to slip away.

  Lyting knew a mixture of elation and relief as they achieved their first goal, winning past the pirates through the crosswind leg and now sailing free of the shallows into open waters. A shout of triumph went up onboard.

  Lyting’s heart drummed, his blood pounding in his veins. Time was precious, the real victory yet to be attained. If the sea dogs believed the Little Auk did but run before the menace of their jaws, ‘twas their mistake and one that would cost them.

  His energies surging, Lyting secured his oar and bounded to his feet. He shouted for Ragnar to do the same and join him. Hakon and Orm he instructed to remain at their positions.

  Grabbing up one of the spare oars and some line, he proceeded to lash one end of the oar to the foot of the mast and the other to the windward clew — the lower, outside corner on the bottom side of the sail — thus rigging a beam to stretch the sail and entrap the wind.

  Lyting then ran aft. Taking hold of the sheets, he eased the windward line forward while taking up the slack on the leeward. Simultaneously he called for Skallagrim to come closer to the wind and bring the wind on the beam. As the chieftain complied, the sail snapped full and the ship lurched ahead.

  To the pirates, Lyting realized, ‘twould appear the Little Auk made good her escape, fleeing northeast. But, he held no thought of abandoning the convoy.

  As the Little Auk skipped across the water, building in velocity, Lyting worked apace. He needed to quickly alter her course and bring her swiftly about. The rudder alone did not command enough force to pivot the ship on his command.

  Seizing up another of the surplus oars, Lyting moved to the end of the ship and physically lashed it to the stern post, creating a “sweep-oar,” an ancient technology, used through ages past.

  With the sweep-oar rigged to augment the rudder, Lyting ordered for Skallagrim to hold his course and for Ragnar to slash the line binding the first oar to the sail’s windward clew. He then directed Ragnar to reverse the oar, swinging it over and strapping it to the opposite, larboard, clew — the other end still being affixed to the mast.

  In combination with Ragnar’s actions, Lyting gripped hold of the sweep oar and gave it a massive pull, putting momentum through the turn, swinging the bow away from the wind, and wearing the ship.

  The craft “heeled,” and the women scrabbled for the high side. At first the maneuver began as a smooth, slow sweep, then accelerated into a fast spin as Lyting brought the wind across the stern.

  With the rudder hard over, Skallagrim trimmed the sheets from his position at the helm while Lyting finished bringing the Little Auk about, on the opposite beam.

  Again, the sail snapped full and the ship shot ahead with high momentum, No auk this, nor gull, either, but a hawk — falcon swift — sweeping down on her prey, marking forward of the pirate’s bow.

  »«

  Ailinn’s eyes rounded as the ship sprinted across the waters and closed fast upon the enemy. For all the world it appeared that they would ram the first of the vessels straight on.

  Several slavewomen cried out, terrified, and tore at their hair. Ailinn fought down her own panic and gripped Deira tight.

  As the expanse between the ships narrowed briskly, one woman clawed and clambered her way over the others, screaming hysterically. Her terror became Deira’s, and Ailinn struggled to hold her stepcousin back.

  The woman fought on, heedless that her chains whipped and bruised those about her, determined only to gain the side of the ship. Ailinn feared she would throw herself over the railing. Feared, because one length of chain bound them all.

  Impulsively Rhiannon seized the frenzied woman by the hair, yanked her back on her heels, and slapped her down. Ailinn and Rhiannon exchanged glances, and for once Ailinn gave thanks for her stepcousin’s brash spirit.

  Hearts in their throats, Ailinn and Rhiannon watched the distance diminish and braced themselves for the impending collision.

  »«

  The Little Auk raced on the crosswind, bearing southwest, in fierce pursuit of the two pirate ships.

  Hakon and Orm labored at the oars. Ragnar hastily dipped the arrows’ linen-wrapped tips in seal oil and laid them in readiness on a cover of oxhide. Lyting flamed the coals with bits of kindling, careful not to smoke the fire, lest the pirates be wise to their intent. He then rose apace and resumed his position at the sweep-oar.

  Unrelenting, the Little Auk drove in for the assault. Ahead, the pirates grew wary and broke off their run on the second of the merchant ships. As they began to bear away, the ship to the fore forced the one to the rear back up toward the island with them and too close to the wind.

  The Little Auk pressed on, unflinching, without slackening her speed.

  The pirates retreated further, hurriedly now, withdrawing landward. But in so doing, they were compelled to bring the wind on their beam, forfeiting half of their momentum nearly at once and with it their maneuverability. Without benefit of Lyting’s contrivance to harness the wind, their sails began to luff.

  Lyting saw the white expand in the pirates’ eyes as the Little Auk descended, aiming to ram the foremost ship. At the last moment, he hard muscled the sweep-oar and swerved the ship round to approach the pirate’s craft on a parallel course, feinting he would break off their oars.

  The women’s cries reached his ears, but he shut them out and shouted for Hakon and Orm to trail oars and assist him and Ragnar.

  Rapidly the men snatched up their bows, flamed the arrows, and lobbed a volley into the pirates’ sail. As Skallagrim brought the Little Auk alongside the pirate ship, they discharged another round of the fiery missiles and still another and another.

  The pirates fell to disorder, some trying to regain “way,” others hurriedly bringing for
th their own spears, arrows, and bows.

  Skallagrim held the Little Auk’s course steady, while the crew rained fire into the pirate sail and felled several of the enemy before they could let loose their own deadly shafts.

  Then, standing in the eye of the storm, Lyting flamed an arrow, notched it in place, and drew the string to his ear. With full concentration and disciplined calm, he dead-eyed the halyard — the line holding the spar and sail to the mast — and launched the shaft. The arrow blazed across the distance and severed the halyard straight through.

  The timbered arm and burning sail clattered downward, collapsing in a fiery heap upon the deck. Flames spread hungrily and with unexpected rapidity, licking high at one end where they fed on a volatile substance — spilled jars of oil, Lyting guessed — setting the wood decking afire.

  The Little Auk pulled clear of the burning ship and its frantic crew and moved into range of the second ship, positioned ahead and offshore of the first.

  Without wasting a moment or motion, Lyting strung another arrow, anchored his aim on one of the trimming sheets that secured the pirate’s sail, and shot out the leeward line. The sail flapped uselessly in the wind, and the ship immediately lost all “way.” Hakon, Orm, and Ragnar followed with a hail of fiery arrows, lobbing them into the remaining half of the sail and setting it aflame.

  With the mast torched overhead, their retreat obstructed by the fiery ship to the fore, and naught but oars to power and maneuver their own vessel, the pirates were left no choice but to make a hasty run cross-channel, toward the shoal waters, and attend to their damages.

  Meanwhile, the first three of the merchant ships to have followed the Little Auk into the gulf slipped past the tumult and completed the end of the “dogleg” — the crosswind trek. Turning on the down wind, they began to traverse the great expanse of the gulf.

  Lyting scanned the waters. The last two vessels of the convoy were beset in the narrows by yet another two pirate ships — the only other ones in sight — the robbers’ original strength apparently totaling four.

  He quickly adjusted the sheets anew, then joined the others at the oars. Deftly Skallagrim closed in on the first of the two ships.

  Seeing their rapid approach and having witnessed the Little Auk’s path of destruction, the pirates ceased their attack on the merchant ships and sought to escape.

  Breaking off her assault, the Little Auk swung in to assure the vessels were unscathed and to companion them across the waters. Moments later she glided free of the shallows for a second time and turned to catch the downwind dead astern. Her sails filling, she stole across the Gulf of Riga and headed for the mouth of the Dvina.

  Lyting stood at the stern and looked back at the burning hulks of the sea robbers.

  About him the men spoke exuberantly of their conquest, recounting the details with relish, still exhilarated and flushed with success. The women at the mast appeared pale by contrast, no doubt striving to calm their pounding hearts.

  As his breathing returned to normal, Lyting broke away his gaze and sought the Irish maid. To his surprise, he found her golden-brown eyes fixed upon him.

  Just then Skallagrim gave over the tiller to Ragnar, stood and stretched, and came to stand beside Lyting, enormously pleased.

  “No longer can we call this ship the Little Auk,” the chieftain proclaimed in full, spirited tones, claiming the attention of all. “She is far too fierce to bear so gentle a name. Henceforth, she shall be known as the Little Valkyrie.

  “And you my friend” — he turned and struck a hand to Lyting’s back — “you have rightfully earned title this day as Sjórefurinn. The ‘Sea Fox.’ “

  Chapter 9

  Ailinn remained spellbound, unable to draw her eyes from the silver warrior.

  Who was this man? her heart demanded. Some legend come to life? Some champion reborn of ages past? Such raw, bold courage. Such mastery and daring. Who was this man? This shining lord of the North?

  Ailinn’s heart continued to thrum in her breast as she compelled her eyes to the wreckage smoldering in the distance, utterly astounded to have survived the tumult.

  ‘Twas Norsemen who had attacked them. Of that, she was sure. They manned distinctive, shallow-draught ships and wore the familiar conical helmets, their beards and locks flowing in pale gold and vibrant red rivulets beneath.

  Norse preyed upon Norse. The thought ran through her. Why should that surprise her? Ailinn wondered. Did not the Irish prey upon Irish? She disliked any comparison, yet ‘twas truth. Irish swords had long been raised against their own — long before and with little pause since the Norsemen first plundered their shores.

  Ailinn’s eyes drew to the star-bright Dane. He challenged all she would believe of his harsh-hewn race. This day he had saved them all, and not one life did he draw. Yet, she held no doubt, put to the moment, he would do what he must.

  A thought whispered through her. If he bore an interest in her, if he truly desired to possess her, then it mattered little what lot the chieftain cast for her. The silver warrior was a man capable of forging his will into reality.

  Ailinn took hold of herself. Idle thoughts, she reproved. But thoughts she could scarce constrain. Would his regard of her change should Rhiannon succeed and reveal their true identities? How they had exchanged places scant moments before their capture, and that ‘twas Rhiannon, not herself, who was both bride and Eóganacht princess?

  Rhiannon little concealed her fascination or hunger for the warrior. Erelong, she would make her move to grasp every advantage.

  »«

  At length the Little Valkyrie approached the far coast, where amber gleamed on white powdery shores and majestic pines reached tall and straight to the heavens, a thousand masts of a vast forested fleet.

  The crews of the convoy remained vigilant as they entered the Dvina, watchful for signs of the Baltic tribesmen who might lay in wait for them. Shortly- they closed upon what first appeared a small, vacant village, but which proved to be an extensive complex of storage sheds — Norse structures — reminders of their kinsmen’s ongoing aggressions in this region.

  The day grew warm, but the men forbore their protective corslets and kept bows and blades close to hand. As the merchant ships progressed along the Dvina, the forests thickened further with spruce and pine. Grasses and poa lined the river, brightened with pale blues, purples, and yellows of flowering shrubs. Recent flooding left water glistening in patches on low-lying meadows.

  Lyting looked to the sky, bright and clear. The uncommonly hot sun caused him increasing discomfort beneath his chain mail and padded, woolen tunic. Thus far, there had been no sign of tribesmen. ‘Twould seem they were occupied otherwise. The river flowed wide and peaceful, and he noted that the others had visibly relaxed. Without further thought Lyting stepped to the barrel of water situated at the bow, grasped hold of his linkage of mail, and hauled it off, over his head.

  »«

  Ailinn’s eyes swept to the white Dane as his iron-ringed corslet dropped to the decking. Between a breath and a heartbeat, he yanked apart the lacings overlaying his chest and stripped away his tunic. Ailinn swallowed as she viewed him from the side, his body a composite of hard planes and sculpted muscle. Sunlight glanced off the silver chain and ornament he wore about his neck. An amulet, she guessed.

  Bending to the barrel beside him, he splashed his face liberally with water, then straightened to full height and laved more over his chest and arms. Ailinn sucked a breath as her gaze fixed on the multitude of scars covering his back — one more alarming than all the rest, a vicious-looking gash, vestige of some gruesome assault.

  She stared aghast. What brutality could have befallen him? What grim battle did he war in to sustain such grievous wounds, all wrought upon his back? A spark of anger flamed to life in Ailinn. Only a cur would smite another from behind. Considering his numerous scars, an entire pack must have set upon him.

  Ailinn skimmed back through her memories to the day Thora took her to wash c
lothes at the river — the day she beheld the handsome Dane in no more than a loincloth. She did not recall seeing scars upon his body then. The distance between them had been greater, true, but his back had not been her focus of interest at the time. Rather, ‘twas his lighthearted sport with the children that so arrested her.

  Questions crowded her mind. Undoubtedly, the man was a battle-hardened warrior, both upon land and sea. But was he fierce-hearted as well?

  He belonged to a fearsome race, she reminded. Conditioned and molded from birth, mentally and physically, according to the customs and precepts of the North. No matter how well he showed himself this day, how valorous before her eyes, within his chest beat the heart of a Norseman.

  Norseman. Enemy. The two words traveled through her, oddly dispiriting, yet reluctant to pair. At whatever cost he gained his scars, surely he wrested that victory. Had he not survived to tell of it and win again this day?

  A heaviness weighed Ailinn’s spirit as she looked to the tall Dane and the pale slashes branding his back. Somberly she recognized that a man could be devoted to his family and possess a great love of children and still be a killer and barbarian as well. One did not preclude the other.

  Her feelings tangled in a hopeless knot at the base of her stomach. She looked to Deira. The girl sat gently rocking herself back and forth, all the while stroking the braided cord of her mother’s girdle against her cheek. Ailinn feared she had dealt her stepcousin a disservice in giving the piece over to her. But Deira had fretted so for the cincture, Ailinn cold not deny her.

  At first the girdle appeared to comfort her, but now Ailinn feared Deira grew obsessed with it. ‘Twas a constant reminder of the horrors they had endured. Silently Ailinn cursed the pagan hands that brought them to this hour.

  The silver warrior shifted his stance, and she realized that he turned toward her. Instinctively Ailinn returned her gaze to him, though her last thoughts continued to grate upon her. As she lifted her eyes, sunlight flashed off his amulet.