Loki's Daughters

by Delle Jacobs

  Tanni's eyes blazed with horror and rage. It would be for Selma and the two little girls who had won Tanni's heart. And Elli? He glanced at the fiercely rowing blacksmith and wondered.

  With the sail set, Ronan dashed to the helm. Counting the women, he had a crew of about twenty. About six men had gone with Olav in the woods. With luck, Olav would get the message or would see Hrolgar's ship, for the iron pits were only a few miles from the cove where Hrolgar had most likely landed.

  Could he count on Loki's Daughters to fight the way they had been taught? They were not cowards, but would their arrows cause more harm than good? If they even caught up with Hrolgar.

  If not, they'd follow him all the way back to the Manx Isle.

  The sleek longship broke free of the estuary and slowed as it turned across tide. Ronan swung the sail to catch the wind, and the ship lurched forward, turning north.

  The rowers grunted as they strained over their oars. The oars slapped the water in rapid cadence, matching Egil's booming voice.

  "There. I see them," shouted Tanni.

  Ronan spotted it. The aging grey longship with its faded, striped red sail. Deep hatred surged inside him. "Close to shore, just putting out. Thought they'd get farther than that. Head them off."

  "Damn women must be putting up a fight," Bjorn shouted. He heaved his massive weight into his oar as hard as any other man.

  The sail shifted to catch the wind at its best angle once again, and Ronan set course to cut off Hrolgar's ship before it could reach open sea. The Black Swan was the sleeker, faster ship. It could go up against Hrolgar's old and battered ship and win, any day.

  Ronan stifled a plea to the old gods. They were Christian now. He said his prayer to the Christian God, and hoped his mother was right.

  Closer, closer, closing. Hrolgar had spotted them. He turned his ship, angled to the shore, nearly paralleling their path. Running.

  Closer, closer. He could see Hrolgar on the deck. Hrolgar's longship turned sharply again, cutting back toward shore, against the choppy current and receding tide. The ship bucked, its clinkered planks squealing. Ronan, too, cut against the waves, fighting. The sail swung so far, he thought he'd lose the breeze altogether.

  If he did, so would Hrolgar.

  The battered grey longship reached the breakers, wallowing in the cross-current. Closing in, Ronan's rowers strained as if their lungs would burst.

  "Gut their oars." he shouted. "Ship oars."

  Women moved as fast as men. The Black Swan's oars rose high into the air and inward. Its prow skimmed starboard of Hrolgar's ship, cracking the oars of every raider who didn't think fast enough. Grappling hooks lashed the sides. Thuds mingled with clashing iron and fierce shouts.

  Hrolgar's ship heeled over. One captive sailed overboard, almost poised in the air, before she hit the water face down.

  "Thor's beard!" shouted Bjorn. He leaped to the pirate deck, and dashed across to heave himself into the choppy sea after her.

  Raiders jumped overboard into the surf, swam for shore as Ronan leaped onto the ship, slashing at whatever marauder was too slow to get out of his way. Lashed together, the two ships ground through choppy breakers, bouncing, rolling. Women clung to ropes and slid across the deck. The ships rushed on, pressed by the wind, and slammed against the shingle beach.

  The women remembered their orders. The instant the Black Swan grounded, they took careful aim at the marauders slogging through the surf, and shot. Arrows flew. A second volley launched. Raiders staggered and fell beneath the onslaught.

  Ronan scanned rapidly around, counting captives. Three aboard, one overboard. Only Arienh still missing. So was Hrolgar. On the pebble beach, raiders dashed to high ground, a low dune studded with sea grass, and formed a shielding circle.

  Within the circle, a husky rough-hewn raider, forced Arienh to her knees. Next to them, Hrolgar.

  Hrolgar had but one arm.

  "So that's it," Ronan said, leaping into the surf.

  "What?" Egil asked, trudging beside him, sword held high.

  "Vengeance. The slice I gave him at our last meeting must have cost him his arm."

  "Thought even Hrolgar would realize he's outclassed."

  Ronan shook his head as they advanced. "The women themselves outclass him, but he'd never have the sense to know it. I should've known he'd be back."

  Hrolgar had lost several men. Some of the raiders lacked weapons. With a sharp jerk of his head, his men formed a battle line and marched on the dune, swords and battle axes ready. Ronan's rage leveled into cold resolve as he fixed his concentration on Hrolgar.

  Hrolgar's dark teeth showed in a humorless grin. "Now it's women for archers, nephew?"

  "They are Loki's Daughters, Hrolgar. They are your Hell on earth. Let the woman go."

  Hrolgar's grin widened. "Thought you'd come for her. This one yours? You want her, do you?"

  "Let her go or you're dead, Hrolgar." Ronan tightened his jaw, containing the rage that threatened to boil over.

  "Am I, now? Maybe she's dead, instead. You want it that way, nephew?"

  "Let her go."

  "Oh, aye. For a price."

  Ronan shifted his line of men just below the dune. "What do you want?"

  Hrolgar's grin vanished suddenly. Deadly evil spread over his face.

  "Give me your hand."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Arienh winced at the wrenching pain of her arm twisted behind her back, sharpening the scents of salt and sweat. Waves of oddly colored light blurred her vision.

  Like an alien god rising from the sea, Ronan marched through the surf, the last thing she saw as the raider forced her to her knees.

  The Viking's knife cut the skin at her nape. Blood trickled like sweat around her neck and down her chest. The slightest movement could kill her.

  "Give me your hand," Hrolgar demanded maliciously.

  Think. There has to be something.

  Hrolgar had no shield, no arm to hold one. But her side vision spotted his sword flashing menacingly. He meant to cut off Ronan's hand. In trade for her. Ronan surely would not.

  "No, Ronan, don't." It was Egil's calm voice. She couldn't see him.

  "Let her go first," Ronan replied.

  "No!" she squealed. The knife bit in deeper. Its prick quickly stilled her.

  "Take me for a fool, nephew?"

  "The worst fool. You've made a bad mistake this time. Nor is there any honesty in you. If I give you what you want, you'll kill her, anyway."

  "It's a chance you'll have to take." She could almost hear laughter in the evil growl.

  All she could see of Ronan was his soggy boots in broad stance the tip of his gleaming sword beside him, ready to swing.

  "Nay," he said, his voice calm and cold. "There's no chance to it. But you know me as well as I know you. And you know I'll keep my word. Let her go and I'll give you what you want."

  Nay. Never. He must not. She could not let it happen!

  She dared not move backward or to either side. The dagger would penetrate her skull instantly. Forward, and her arm would rip from its socket. But she could not let this monster cut off Ronan’s hand.

  Shifting her eyes sideways, she spotted the gilded hilt of a dagger that caught the sun from its place in Hrolgar's belt. But she couldn't reach it unless she freed herself. Arienh gathered her remaining strength, took a deep breath. With a fierce yell, she lunged forward, away from her captor, as lightning pain jagged through her shoulder and muscle and tendon tore. The Viking that held her stumbled and dropped his hold. Throwing herself against Hrolgar's legs as she rolled onto her mangled shoulder, she snatched the dagger free from its sheath. She slashed upward. Hrolgar yelled as blood spewed.

  Above her, the world burst into tumult. In the cloud of red and purple pain, legs and iron all jumbled with harsh sounds of the scuffle. Feet pummeled her, stepped on her, tripped and stumbled, and bodies tumbled atop her. Silence dark as pain shot through her head and ebbed to oblivion.


  The instant Arienh dove away from her captor, Ronan leaped. His sword split through the raider who had held her and the marauder crumpled to the sand.

  He swung at Hrolgar. Startled from Arienh's slice across his side, Hrolgar fell away from Ronan's first blow, rolled, and jumped to his feet. The short stump of his left arm swung about as if an arm were still attached, groping for the gash. Fury doubled in his eyes as he lunged with a scream, sword high to slash down.

  Ronan caught the blow on his shield and swept his sword around. Hrolgar dodged. The blades clanged, vibrated from the blow. Hrolgar, eyes darting side to side, swiped again as he retreated over the rise.

  From behind the dune, a hail of arrows flew, catching raiders in the back, chest, face. Olav!

  Olav's men rushed from the cover of trees, slashing with their swords, and arrows flying.

  Distracted and tiring, Hrolgar staggered back and swung again. Ronan blocked and sliced, a lifetime's fury rallying in his blood.

  With a double-handed stroke, his blade caught Hrolgar at the neck. Hrolgar's head flew free from his body and plopped in the soft sand of the dune.

  Silence. Not even a bird peeped.

  Arienh. Where was she?

  A bloody raider's body stretched across her limp figure. Ronan tossed the body aside, and knelt. He lifted Arienh into his arms. "Arienh. Arienh."

  As he rolled her to her back, she mumbled. How badly was she hurt?

  "Come on, love, wake up."

  Her eyes rolled. "Light hurts." She closed her eyes again.

  "Nay, love, wake up."

  Egil bent over her, checking her head and the open cut surrounded with blood-matted hair. "Shallow. Not bad, Ronan. A lump on the head. Most of the blood isn’t hers. I’d say her arm's out of joint. Better to fix it while she's still dazed."

  That would hurt, but Egil was right. "Aye. Olav, help us hold her down. Olav?"

  Egil frowned. "He's run down to the shore where the other women are."

  "Oh." He'd forgotten about them. "They're all right, aren't they?"

  "Aye. Bjorn's not, though."

  Somebody else would have to worry about Bjorn. Tanni, too, was busy, with one of Selma's little cousins crying in his arms.

  With two men holding Arienh firmly, Ronan probed around the dislocated shoulder, determining which way it had to go. He'd never done this before, himself, but he'd seen it done. It was almost like a reverse of the way the joint had come undone. And no matter how kindly he meant to be, it would hurt. Badly.

  With an exasperated sigh, he wrenched the shoulder back into place. When she screamed, tears flooded his eyes. Once again, she fell unconscious. He scooped her into his arms to carry her to the Black Swan.

  On the pebbly beach, the women he had brought comforted the rescued hostages. Men knelt beside the stretched out figure of the blacksmith, who flailed about, raised his head, then slowly sat up, coughing. Elli, her blonde braid dripping and her soaked kirtle clinging to her body, loomed over him, hands on hips.

  "How is he?" Ronan asked.

  "Stupid fool," Elli said, her eyes blazing. "Can't swim, and he dives into the water after me."

  "She had to pull him out," Mildread added.

  Ronan tried to imagine the girl tugging the red-bearded blacksmith's huge body through the water. Another time, he would have laughed. "Bjorn? What did you do that for, Bjorn? You know you can't swim."

  Bjorn hacked and spit out saltwater. "Thought maybe I'd learn quick."

  Bjorn would be all right. Ronan carried Arienh to the Black Swan, feeling her head toss feebly against his chest. When the other women had climbed aboard, he passed Arienh to Mildread and the clutch of women.

  "You did well," he told Mildread. "Without you, we would have lost them."

  She nodded and turned her attention back to Arienh, her brown eyes awash with worry.

  Ronan joined Egil and Olav to release the grapples and set sail. This time, there would be enough men to row.

  "What will we do with Hrolgar's ship?" Egil asked as the Black Swan pitched through the surf to deeper water. "It would make good firewood for our hearths."

  "I want no reminder of him in our village," Ronan retorted.

  There were no jokes today, the way it would be after an ordinary battle. Not even Tanni, who was rarely at a loss for humor. This time Hrolgar had struck too deeply. In his vicious demand for vengeance, he had threatened their very hearts.

  Tanni, his jaw still hard-set, carefully watched Selma and the younger girls as if they might disappear if he looked away. "But every stick of wood burned would be a piece of vengeance," he said. "And think of the trees we would not have to cut down."

  "Then give it to Bjorn to make charcoal for his forge," Ronan said. "That would be fitting enough."

  Bjorn huddled in the far corner of the prow, neither rowing nor complaining, looking pale, his head bowed. Perhaps he was sick from the saltwater he had swallowed.

  With its sail turned, the Black Swan caught the wind. Ronan tacked across deep water until they turned again into the estuary. Repeatedly, Ronan's covert gaze roamed to where Arienh lay, cradled in Mildread's arms, then quickly back to Bjorn. He paused to puzzle over the blacksmith's strange behavior then fixed his concentration back on the sailing ship.

  The men lowered the sail to row against the departing tide and river current, and followed the central channel until they reached the junction with the stream that centered on their valley.

  Their valley. It was theirs. Somehow, he had to meld these two opposing peoples. But he didn't know how to overcome all the hatred of the past. Vikings who were not Vikings, but men who wanted only the good life of the good earth. Fierce Celtic women, Loki's Daughters, who would have made any man proud to lead them, but who despised men who were not of their kind.

  They had done their part exactly as he had commanded. They shot their volley then turned to rescue the captives, leaving the sword fight to the men.

  Only Arienh had been injured. Because of him, because of Hrolgar's vengeful hatred.

  He beached the Black Swan and heeled it over on its side to ease the departure of the women. Arienh's injured arm, tied in a sling, rested across her as he carried her from the ship and up the hill.

  The silent procession trudged up the hill behind him to Arienh's cottage, Egil walking by his side. Standing in the doorway, Birgit watched with her strange green eyes, with the intensity a hawk gives to its prey, as he carried Arienh inside their stone cottage and laid her on her bed. Could she really not see, and yet stare that way? Nay, she had to have some vision. But how much?

  He stepped back away from the bed, leaving the caretaking to Birgit and Elli, with Egil behind him. Egil, he noticed, took great care to avoid Birgit's eyes, and Birgit, who normally stared almost with ferocity, looked anywhere but at Egil.

  Birgit tucked the wool blanket around her sister, who soon dozed from the dose of willow bark and lettuce Birgit gave her. Ronan lingered, Egil behind him, but soon it was obvious they could do nothing and were only in the way. They both sighed and turned toward the gaping door.

  "Birgit, come out for a moment," he asked as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sun.

  Resignation thinned her lips. She nodded and followed them.

  "How much can you see?" he asked, leaving the door ajar so he could see Arienh where she lay.

  She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. Yet in her eyes, hidden beneath fierce Celtic pride, lurked deep humiliation. A curious frown wrinkled her brow and she held out her hand before her until it almost touched him, studying her fingertips as if she was not sure they were there. Again, she looked up, staring in that strange way of hers.

  "I can see you, though poorly, for you are directly in front of me. Your brother stands to your side, but I cannot see him. There are other things which tell me he is there."

  "But how can you weave, if you cannot see?"

  "By touch. I memorize the patterns and count the rows."

  "And
the shooting?"

  "She imitated her sister," Egil said. "I thought it strange at the time. I should have guessed."

  Birgit nodded, and her lower lip thinned. "It was luck. You do not understand, do you?"

  Nay, they did not. Ronan shook his head. "I confess, I do not understand you or your sister, at all."

  "She did it all for me. They all did."

  "But why, Birgit?"

  It was as if she drew back, thrusting up a barrier of pride between them. "They were afraid for me. Many things have been said about men from the north, and we have seen so many evils, it was far easier to believe them, than to take a chance. We have always known Northmen had no compassion for the weak and helpless."

  "The way you believe we eat children," Egil guessed. His voice held a bitter tone Ronan had never heard before.

  What would Egil would do now? He had been infatuated with Birgit from the beginning, but how could he make a wife of a woman who could not see?

  Birgit's gaze roamed far beyond them as if she studied the ash grove beyond the village green, and Ronan realized how few clues she gave to her blindness. "We never believed that," she said, "but there is so much more. We had no way of knowing."

  Egil opened his mouth to speak, but Ronan shook his head. Birgit was of a mind to divulge everything now.

  "I am glad it is done," she said. Ronan's heart lurched at the sad catch in Birgit's voice. "It is best this way. Arienh would not agree, but this time it is best taken from her hands. She would die before giving up.

  "She was so young when our last brother was killed, and she became our father's son, so to speak. She has always taken care of me. Then, in one day, about three years ago, we lost all our men. In our grief and loss, we all would also have laid down and died, but Arienh would not let us."

  "Because she will never give up."

  Birgit sighed with a resigned nod. "Aye, and that is your doing. Since the day you saved her, she has never surrendered, for she learned one can never tell what the next moment will bring.