Skallagrim and Jorunn argued back and forth. Finally Skallagrim issued several terse-sounding words in Norse, then stood, gestured to Lyting and then the harp. As he did, Deira shrank away and dragged at her hair, her agitation returning.
Lyting shifted to a kneeling position before Ailinn, his hands braced atop his thighs. He released a long breath.
“I regret that you must cease playing, Ailinn. Jorunn and some of the others fear your music will carry far upon the breeze and alert the tribesmen of our presence here.”
Her lips rounded softly. “Oh.”
Ailinn gave over the harp to him, then dropped her lashes, feeling the keen bite of disappointment. “Mais, oui. The tribesmen. I did not think — ”
“Ailinn,” his voice gentled. “Skallagrim would not have allowed you the harp if he thought to draw the tribesmen. It seems to me, if Jorunn were truly so concerned, she would have hushed her daughters’ shrill laughter earlier. ‘Twas enough to stir their dead.”
He smiled, sending shivers through Ailinn. Her spirits brightened. He’d not been deceived by their wiles after all.
His look grew more serious. “The women are but jealous and stir others to complain. Pay them no heed. Yours is the gift of angels and could entrance a man for a lifetime. They fear you and, therefore, deny you your music. But you will sing upon your harp again, I promise you.”
Lyting rose and presented the instrument to Skallagrim, just as Hakon returned from his watch.
“Your watch, monk.” Hakon tossed his helmet to the ground before his tent and jerked open the lacings on his platelet-sewn tunic.
Lyting ignored the barb and went to don his mail shirt and helmet. He next girt his sword, drew on his great gray mantle and took up his shield. Casting one brief, last glance to Ailinn, he departed.
Lyting felt her gaze follow him as he made his way to the camp’s perimeter. Drawing up the hood of his cloak, he covered his bright hair and melted into the night.
»«
Hours later, his vigil complete, Lyting picked a path around low-burning fires, sleeping bodies, and scattered tents.
Arriving at the site he shared with Skallagrim and Hakon, he discovered that Ailinn and her stepcousins were not in sight.
He bit back the vow that sat on his tongue. For Ailinn he did not fear. Skallagrim stated earlier that he would keep her in his tent this night for added protection. But as to Deira and Rhiannon, he suspected that Hakon had either shared them with others or had kept them both for himself to sate his own appetites.
Lyting’s lips sealed to a line. How he longed to reach the Imperial city and set everything aright.
Fatigue lapped at him like an endless tide that stole a little part of him each time it hurried back out to sea. Depleted, and with only a few hours remaining before dawn, he divested himself of his shield, helmet and mail, retrieved his pallet where it waited by the chieftain’s tent, and spread it before the fire. Freeing his sword from its scabbard, he placed the length of steel alongside his mean bed.
Wrapping himself in his mantle, Lyting lay down and quickly fell into a light slumber. There, he drifted upon the topmost layer of sleep — a nether region that lay between repose and wakefulness.
His inner ear pricked, a movement detected.
The rustle of cloth. A footfall.
He surfaced.
Lyting’s breath stilled, his ears straining. Again it came. The soft padding of footsteps, approaching . . .
Lyting rolled. Catching up his sword, he came to his knees and leveled the blade straight for the heart of his assailant.
Rhiannon froze in place. She clutched a sheet to her breast, her eyes shifting from the point of the steel to Lyting.
Spying the partially open curtain on Hakon’s tent, Lyting realized that she had slipped from inside. Evidentially Hakon had fallen asleep after spending himself on her.
Rhiannon raised her chin. A smile spread slowly over her lips. She shook out her wealth of ebony hair, sending it cascading down her back, leaving her creamy neck and shoulders bare to his view.
In the semidarkness Rhiannon’s eyes appeared as black as her tresses — two smoldering pools, huge and inviting. She released the cloth, allowing it to whisper from her fingers and puddle at her feet.
Rhiannon stood unblushingly naked before Lyting, presenting her lush contours for him to savor fully. A fire kindled in her eyes, and her ripe body seemed filled with waiting.
Lyting tightened his grip about the swordhilt, his arm remaining staunch as a rock, his blade aimed between her naked breasts.
Undeterred, Rhiannon lifted her hands and traced them over her breasts. She trailed them downward, drawing his eyes to the tautness of her stomach and abdomen, the curve of her hips, the beginning of her thighs, and, finally, the promise that lay between.
Rhiannon then opened her arms and raised them to Lyting, offering herself unreservedly to him. She disregarded the blade he leveled at her and took a step forward, clearly expecting him to lower the weapon.
He did not.
Rhiannon barely caught herself, the swordpoint pricking her skin and drawing a drop of blood. She wrenched her eyes to his.
Revolted by Rhiannon’s wiles, Lyting rose to his feet. He dipped his sword only long enough to snare her linen on the blade point and tender it back to her so she might cover herself. Even in so doing, he continued to center his blade directly at her heart.
Anger slashed an ugly path across Rhiannon’s features, but Lyting maintained his silence. Hakon suddenly appeared at the opening of the tent, having risen naked from his bed. Regarding the two, he barked a laugh.
“Come, my high-bred slut. This one will not appease your appetites. But as you can see, I’m ready for you.”
Hakon crossed the distance and hauled her against him, his firm shaft pressing against her belly. He seized a kiss from her lips, despite her infuriated protest and pummeling hands.
Hakon only laughed. Sparing a single glance to Lyting, he hoisted Rhiannon in his arms and carried her back inside his tent.
»«
The rude jarring of the ship awakened Ailinn from her rest. She pushed upward and peered from beneath her lashes.
The waters ran swift and urgent about them, foaming and breaking as they rushed toward the third rapid — Gelandri, “Yeller,” as Lyting called it.
Ailinn opened her eyes fully, hearing Gelandri’s clamor echo off the steep granite wall of the west bank. A fine mist hovered in the distance where the currents convulsed over and about huge boulders, roiling and roaring, following the river’s treacherous descent.
Never had she seen the like. Eire possessed nothing to compare to the cataracts of the Dnieper. Earlier, Lyting warned that the rapids grew ever fiercer ahead, where gorges constricted the great river and, farther on, where the torrents took a significant bend.
She glanced ahead to where the chieftain and Lyting strained at the oars, their backs facing her. To the rear of the ship sat Hakon.
Deira’s movements drew her attention. The girl rocked back and forth, highly distracted, gripping the folded girdle to her chest and dragging her fingers fitfully through her hair.
Rhiannon bent to Deira’s ear, the din of Gelandri rivaling her voice. Whatever she spoke clearly disturbed Deira. The girl’s face looked pinched, her expression almost pained. Her eyes darted constantly about.
Deira’s unrest became Ailinn’s unease. Rhiannon had grown exceptionally dark-tempered and vexatious these last days, her tongue cutting to the point of cruelty. But whatever fueled her morose mood, she must cease her destructive remarks and leave Deira be.
Ailinn leaned across and plucked Rhiannon’s sleeve. Gratefully iron chains no longer hampered her arm, for Skallagrim continued to allow the three of them to remain unfettered while upon the river.
“Rhiannon,” Ailinn called out, but her stepcousin did not hear — or simply paid her no heed. “Rhiannon,” she repeated, raising her voice. “Deira looks unwell. Leave her rest atime
.”
“Indeed. She does need her rest, as most of us do, but not for the portage alone.” Rhiannon breezed a glance to Hakon and back. “See how the gleam postures in his eye? He thinks forward to tonight. To Deira and — ”
“Be silent, Rhiannon,” Ailinn snapped, despising her waspishness.
“I speak but the truth. Look at him,” she sneered. “Look at them all. Adventurers. ‘Tis why they hazard this voyage — for the prospect of battle, wealth beyond avarice, and for us — a horde of women they can ravish at will and then dispose of to bring yet more riches.”
“Cease this, Rhiannon.” Ailinn’s anger erupted.
“You would like that.” A fire burned in Rhiannon’s eyes. “Of course, ‘tis different for you, the ‘virgin’ of Clonmel. And even for Deira, too, whom you are ever so anxious to coddle. Hakon reserves her solely to himself of late. He’ll not sell her or release her in Constantinople. Why do you give her false expectations? ‘Tis a low, mean thing to hold forth hope where there is none.”
“Shut up, Rhiannon! You have a serpent’s tongue. I understand your wish to strike at me, but not Deira. She does you no harm, yet you torment her. Leave her alone, or be warned. I am at an end with words.”
“Stop! Stop!” Deira hunched forward, covering her ears, and rocked forcefully.
“But you must hear me in this, Cousin.” Rhiannon forced Deira’s hands away from her head, her fingers tangling in the cincture that Deira still gripped. “I speak no falsehoods, but plain truth, so that you might prepare and strengthen yourself for what is to come.”
Deira pulled from Rhiannon’s hold and hugged herself tight, tears streaming over her cheeks as she continued to rock.
“You’re destroying her, can’t you see?” Ailinn seized Rhiannon’s arm, but she wrenched free.
Skallagrim looked back, and Hakon growled several words that might have been a charge for them to cease. Rhiannon disregarded them both, drawing energy from the clash with Ailinn and from her control of the moment. She turned again to Deira.
“Each of us bears her own cross, Cousin. You must find a way to suffer yours and endure the course of time, for you will never be rid of Hakon until the day he tires of you. Then he will either keep you to pleasure his friends, or he will sell you in the marketplace as he did Lia.”
“Deira, do not listen,” Ailinn called above the increasing roar of the waters.
“Do listen, and listen well,” Rhiannon persisted, her eyes flashing. “You are Hakon’s slave, and you best think more of pleasing him than displeasing him, lest he reject you and condemn you to a worse fate.”
Deira shook her head in fierce denial. Choked with tears, she pressed the girdle to her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
Rhiannon’s gaze fell to the girdle, her temper flaring. “I told you before to stop clutching that! Murieann is dead. She cannot help you any more than anyone else can. Leave the girdle be!”
Rhiannon tore the cincture from Deira’s hands, but Deira grappled for it and snared its end. Again, Rhiannon yanked it stoutly. Ripping the cording from her cousin’s fingers, she pitched it into the river.
“Ni he . . . a . . . . . . . . . a!” Deira thrust to her feet and lunged for the girdle. With arms outstretched she toppled overboard and into the churning waters.
“Deira!” Ailinn shrieked and began to rise, the boat tipping dangerously back and forth beneath her feet. Skallagrim rounded and forced her back down.
Lyting twisted and looked back from his place. Following Ailinn’s gaze, he spotted Deira as her head appeared above the water’s surface. She gasped for air, gulping great mouthfuls of water, and fought the currents as they bore her away.
Without pause Lyting let go the oars and shoved the boots from his feet. Keeping his eyes fixed on Deira, he rose and took a forward leap into the river, feet first, his body angled slightly forward, and his arms raised sideward to slow his entry and prevent his totally submerging.
Frigid waters sheathed Lyting. At once he pressed his arms downward and brought his legs together, fighting the sinking motion, striving to keep his face above water and his sight upon Deira. At a near distance she thrashed against the coursing river and inadvertently slowed her furtherance.
Lyting allowed the force of the current to carry him forward. Its vigor increased steadily, sweeping him along. As he gained on Deira, he waited for the suitable moment, then began taking powerful strokes to cut across the currents, striving to reach her.
Deira continued to flail, panic-ridden. Lyting knew he need approach her with care lest she drown them both. He battled the water until he came within several arm’s lengths of her. Making a quick vertical dive beneath the surface, he approached her from underneath. Coming up, he grasped her about the knees, one hand in front, one in back, and turned her away from him. He then began to rise, working his way up her legs, hips and waist. Just as he prepared to surface and secure her against him, the brawling river surged, hurtling them forward into a cragged boulder and jolting them apart.
Stunned momentarily, Lyting drifted with the current, then sighted Deira nearby. The rapids carried them together, the turbulence growing worse as they moved toward the heart of the rapids.
Again, he fought the currents, straining to reach her. He readied to attempt the maneuver again, determined this time to grip her beneath the arms and lock his hold on her. Before he could initiate his dive, the waters heaved him forward, into Deira’s reach.
Frantic, she lunged for Lyting’s head, smiting him with her iron wrist cuff and cutting him above the brow. Lyting took a quick breath of air and tucked his chin to protect his throat from her crushing embrace. Her hold proved inordinately strong. He would need submerge the both of them and force her to release her grip.
Before Lyting could draw her under, Deira scrambled upward, trying to climb atop him, onto his shoulders. Frenzied, she shoved him beneath the waves, kicking his jaw and cheek. With no recourse, Lyting swam out from beneath her and surfaced beyond her reach.
They continued to move with the raging currents together, but she appeared to be tiring. Her head slipped under the water, then she struggled upward, coughing and sputtering what she drank. Lyting fought his way back and straight toward her, deciding on a different, more direct approach.
This time he allowed the currents to drive him close in to her. Extending his arm, he spread his fingers.
“Grab on to me!” he shouted above the uproar of the river.
At once Deira flung herself toward him and gripped hold of his arm. At the same time he blocked her from coming nearer, bracing his outspread hand against her chest and preventing her from seizing him about his neck or head.
“Hang on,” he called again.
Lyting began to turn onto his side so he could work his way toward shore. He saw Deira’s eyes widen, then felt the sudden acceleration of the currents as they were sucked into a whirlpool.
Deira’s fingers began to slip down his arm as the vortex spun them round and ever downward with incredible force. Lyting strove to draw forth his free arm and grab her, but he felt as though a great anchor weighted him in place. He vied against the unseen force that held him, and with every last shred of strength, he reached to grip hold of Deira. Just as his fingers brushed hers, she let go.
»«
Ailinn clung to the side of the ship, watching as Lyting and Deira disappear from sight. At the same time, Skallagrim and Hakon rowed furiously for shore, having progressed far deeper than normal into hazardous currents. The ship tossed and plunged upon the tempestuous river. Ailinn barely noticed. Her eyes remained fixed to the distance, searching the empty waters where last she saw Lyting and Deira.
»«
Lyting spun downward, deep beneath the whirling waters, then felt the undertow grip him, as though two giant hands clamped about his legs. It dragged him a rapid distance and released him abruptly. Lyting labored toward the surface, growing short on breath. Breaking through, he gasped for air, his chest aching.
Lyting’s heart slammed against his ribs. With a fresh burst of energy he battled the river to reach the boulder. He hoped against hope that the rock trapped and held her there, and that she hadn’t already been dragged farther downriver by the undercurrents.
Gaining on his mark, Lyting made a quick surface dive and searched desperately for Deira. Minutes later he exploded to the surface and gulped the air. Again he dived and hunted the area. And again he erupted from the waters, his lungs screaming for air. The currents warred against his every effort, dragging him downriver against his will.
Lyting began to bear the penalties for his exertions, finding it difficult to breathe and his muscles turning to lead with exhaustion.
Reluctantly he relinquished his search and allowed the current to carry him as he made his way obliquely toward shore. Pain centered in his chest with each inhalation, yet he ignored the discomfort, lost to thought. He had failed. Deira was gone.
»«
After grounding the ship, Skallagrim leapt ashore and hastened downriver along the banks. Others quickly joined him in search of Lyting.
Ailinn started to follow, but Hakon restrained her, trammeling her arm. Ailinn wrested free, then planted her feet firmly on the shore and waited. And waited more.
An eternity passed, along with a thousand agonies migrating through her soul. At long last the men returned. Skallagrim and Arnór bore Lyting between them, each holding him up beneath an arm. His head sagged forward, but she saw that his legs moved and he attempted to keep pace with the others. Her heart swelled. He was alive.
Desperate for sign of Deira, Ailinn cast her gaze among the others but did not find her there.
A cold dread sliced through her.
She silenced her thoughts and held firm rein of them, wishing yet not wishing to ask the question she knew she must. She looked once more to Lyting. As though he felt the pull of her gaze, he lifted his face and raised solemn eyes to hers.
Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series Page 20