Curse of the Lost Isle Special Edition

by Vijaya Schartz

  Pressine caught Ceinwyn staring at the Edling with a smitten smile. How could she find him attractive? Of course, he had the charisma of a future king, and the girl could not possibly suspect his dark side. Mattacks looked very much like Elinas must have at his age.

  A sigh from the crowd brought Pressine’s attention back to Conan. The hooded soldier lifted the long leather whip. It cracked in the air once, catching the attention of any distracted onlooker. Pressine held her breath. The whip rose and fell, smarting flesh with a sickening sound.

  Conan’s muscles tensed but no cry escaped him. An angry red welt marred the fair skin of the prince’s bare back.

  As she could not see the boy’s face, Pressine extended her senses to see him in her mind. She could feel his great pain and knew the lad bit his lips. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he suffered in silence. Again, the whip lashed viciously. Pressine counted, five, six, seven.

  The ordeal was over quickly and the crowd returned to more pressing occupations. When the hooded soldier untied Conan, Pressine rushed to support the young prince and, with the help of Morgane and Ceinwyn, laid him face down on the stone bench, in the shade. The lad did not protest.

  From the basket she had prepared, Pressine took out a sponge and dipped it in a bowl of water and vinegar to wash away the blood. Conan jerked at the sting but did not cry out. Then Morgane applied a salve, and Ceinwyn bandaged the wounds. When Conan sat up, Pressine gave him a brew of willow bark to drink.

  "I think I know what happened," Pressine told the boy as he sipped the bitter brew without recrimination. "I am sorry you had to go through this."

  Conan smiled faintly. "It's over now," he said, pale as a sheet. "Will I have scars?"

  "I hope not." The very thought horrified Pressine. "The salve should take care of that."

  "Too bad." Conan grinned. "Scars are manly."

  * * *

  That afternoon, Mattacks observed at a distance a small party of women around a tiny balefire. He could not believe the witches were burning the bird on a pyre and praying for it. Then he remembered his mother, burned to ashes like a heathen. He had not been home to prevent it.

  According to the church, women had no soul. Still, Mattacks wanted his mother to have a Christian burial, so she could be resurrected at the end of times. He also wished he had a grave stone to commemorate her existence. His father would pay dearly for this offense.

  But first, Mattacks had a wedding to prevent, and only four days to do it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the morning of Ragnar’s funeral, cold sunshine bathed the fortified Viking camp of Arstinchar. Gwenvael rejoiced at Bodvar’s good spirits, as they walked side by side, the Viking prince with his left arm in a leather sling.

  Gwenvael noticed Asa, Ragnar’s chosen death wife, leaving a longhouse with a retinue and several guards.

  "What is she doing?" Whatever it was, she didn’t seem to enjoy it.

  "She visits the thirteen warriors who meant the most to her lord, so they can honor him a last time through her." The wink of the single eye and the sensuous smile in Bodvar’s blond beard told a lot about the nature of the honoring.

  Gwenvael chuckled with embarrassment. "So, as his brother, you must be among the thirteen."

  "Of course, I am." Bodvar laughed good heartedly. "And so are you."

  "Me?" Shocked, Gwenvael did not comprehend. "I am not a warrior, and I did not know Ragnar that well."

  "It is considered good luck to have a foreigner for the thirteenth lover," Bodvar explained, with enthusiasm. "To celebrate the strangeness of the thirteenth and last moon of the year. As the only free non-Viking in Arstinchar, you are the ideal thirteenth."

  Gwenvael wanted to protest. But in matters of traditions, he had observed, it was wiser to conform. Viking laws could condemn a man to death at the slightest infraction, so he remained quiet.

  An hour later, Gwenvael and Bodvar waited in their longhouse, sipping mead on the platform bench of the central room. Gwenvael expected some protests from Cliona at this unusual duty of honoring the death bride. But the slave of many years, long familiar with Viking customs, expressed neither surprise nor objection. Not even jealousy.

  When the death bride arrived with her entourage of women and warriors, the young girl bowed to Bodvar and followed him into his room. Meanwhile, the house slaves, Cliona included, served mead to the attendants waiting in the central room.

  Gwenvael tried to ignore the grunts of pleasure or pain coming through the wall, wondering how Bodvar could manage. Hell, it was difficult enough to perform under such pressure, let alone with only one good arm. Gwenvael accepted yet another swig of the offered mead to muster his courage.

  "Soon, you will drink like a true Viking!" The guard laughed and his friends joined in good-hearted approval.

  After the sounds had died in the adjacent room, Asa came out alone, face flushed, her blonde hair in disarray. Straightening her white dress, she smiled timidly, her misty blue eyes small pools of despair.

  Gwenvael could almost read her thoughts. Each lover brought her closer to death. She had already visited twelve, and Gwenvael was the last. By the holy relics, how could he possibly bed her now?

  The frail lass gazed into his eyes. "I have come to do battle with you, my lord," she said in a controlled voice.

  Gwenvael recognized the ritual phrase. Many Vikings, when talking about bedding a woman, used the same expression. Some said it was because the women fought, scratched, and bit like Berserkers under the spell of lovemaking.

  But this death bride looked very tame indeed. With the most comforting smile he could manage, Gwenvael led Asa to his room, opposite Bodvar’s. A glance at Cliona as he closed the leather curtain told him nothing of her feelings.

  Without a word, the lass promptly removed her dress and lay on the fur pallet, exposing her tiny breasts, protruding ribs, and slim hairless body. She looked very different from Cliona, yet beautiful in her youth and vulnerability.

  "Do not hurry on my account." Gwenvael sat next to her and lifted a strand of blond hair from her face. "I want to give you as much time as you like."

  Tears swelled at the rim of her wide blue eyes as she sat up. "Thank you." She buried her face in his chest. "I am so scared."

  Gwenvael drew her into his arms. How he wanted to protect her from such a grim fate. But he knew no one could. He thought about converting her to Christianity, but there was no time to explain such abstract concepts. It would only spread doubt in her mind and rob her of her only immediate comfort, the certainty of the reward from the gods she believed in.

  "We do not have to do battle if you do not want to." Gwenvael caressed her hair.

  "But I want to." She gripped his tunic. "Anything to occupy my mind and forget what comes next." She pressed her open mouth to his lips in a wanton kiss.

  Aroused by the girl’s desperation, Gwenvael answered in kind, but he controlled his ardor to concentrate on giving her pleasure. Remembering the many techniques he had learned from Cliona, he caressed her small breasts, the sensitive skin under her arms, the inside of her thighs, creating a greater need that would heighten her release.

  Asa moaned, arching under his hands, and ripped open the front of his tunic to scratch the muscles of his chest. Gwenvael had to exert supreme control not to take her then. Enjoying her exalted state, he brought it to a paroxysm and had her screaming for release, but still he would not take her.

  Holding her tight under him, hands probing, lips kissing, and teeth biting in strategic places, he overwhelmed her and felt her respond, her sensations heightened by the knowledge of her imminent death. Without taking off his clothes, he kept pleasuring her relentlessly.

  Finally, Asa’s surprisingly strong hands jerked the string of his trews and pulled them down. Gwenvael’s painful erection could not be denied any longer. In a desperate thrust, he entered her silky vault, provoking another flurry of screams.

  Nails scratched his back and buttocks, teeth bit
his hard nipples, but he did not relent. Holding his release, he kept plowing vigorously. Three times he felt the flood of her pleasure heat, before gratifying himself. But still it was not enough.

  Upon Asa’s urging, Gwenvael resumed his thrust. This time he found it easier to hold back while performing with the level of intensity to match the girl’s need. Catching his second wind, Gwenvael brought her to four more releases before allowing his own.

  Falling back upon the fleece, Asa sighed and smiled contentedly. "I shall tell my prince that you honored him well." She kissed his hand.

  Gwenvael noticed the blue lines of exhaustion under her eyes as she closed them briefly. What a shame to kill such a lass. He wished for the power to change things, but he knew he could not. He caressed her cheek and kissed her brow. Casually, he let his right thumb trace the sign of the cross on her forehead.

  God all forgiving, please accept this innocent lamb into the heavens. Gwenvael hoped the Almighty would accept these unconventional last rites. Then he set about retrieving clothes he did not remember shedding.

  "I am ready for the potion now," Asa said seriously. "This is all I want to remember."

  "The potion?" Gwenvael shivered. "You are not going to kill yourself, are you?" That would be a deadly sin.

  "No... I do not have that kind of courage." Asa smiled sadly. "The potion from the Angel of Death will only numb my mind and make it easier to die."

  But even that fact did not lighten Gwenvael’s heavy heart.

  * * *

  The Nagelfar buzzed with flies, and the breeze moved the flaps of the funeral tent erected on the aft deck. As an official witness, Gwenvael watched the approaching cortege, trying to ignore the stench of slaughter house. On the lower deck, quartered horses and sacrificed sheep, goats, and pigs lay in a gruesome pile.

  Supported by two sturdy warriors, Asa staggered as she crossed the assembled crowd and ascended the gangplank. Her half closed eyes and lolling head told Gwenvael the potion had done its work. Framed by Bodvar and Sigurd, the commander of the new fleet, Gwenvael stared helplessly as the warriors set the lass on the couch, next to the decomposing prince.

  A white veil enveloped Ragnar’s face, alive from the constant crawling of maggots. Asa did not seem to mind. The Angel of Death arranged the white flimsy dress along the richly attired cadaver in yellow silk and fine leather boots. A sword had been fastened to the prince’s hand.

  When the crone pulled a dagger from the folds of her dress, Gwenvael held his breath. He remembered Asa, clawing at him and screaming her passion, just a few minutes ago. Why extinguish such a delightful woman?

  Tears flowed down his cheeks and he let them drop to the rich Persian rug. Someday, he would put an end to these barbaric customs and replace them with Christian love. But it would take time.

  With a horrible scream, the Angel of Death drove the dagger between Asa’s ribs while a warrior strangled the lass from behind with a thin seal rope. Despite his grief, Gwenvael forced himself to watch. The death bride tensed slightly then relaxed and lay peaceful as an angel of God. Forgive me, Asa, for not being able to save you. Holding back sobs, Gwenvael prayed for the repose of her soul.

  While officiates and witnesses left the ship, Gwenvael and Bodvar helped the chosen warriors unfurl the sail. It flapped and caught the wind. They secured sail and rudder, splashed a barrel of lamp oil on the deck, then disembarked. After throwing aside the plank, they removed the blocks of wood that stabilized the Nagelfar on dry sand. Then the thirteen warriors, Gwenvael included, pushed the Drakkar out to sea.

  As the boat floated in shallow water, Bodvar handed Gwenvael a flaming torch. "You should throw it in... For good luck."

  Nodding, Gwenvael accepted the torch. He wanted this morbid spectacle to be over. Closing his eyes, he threw the flaming brand over the rail.

  Black smoke rose, and the sound of cracking wood filled the air. Quickly the fire spread to the tent on the aft deck. As the stench of burning flesh pervaded the beach, Gwenvael struggled to overcome his revulsion.

  A breeze caught the sail and the Nagelfar picked up speed. Soon, billows of smoke rose to the clear sky. Fed by the wind, the flames grew taller and licked the frame of the funeral tent. And the longship sailed away, like a fiery dragon, smoking and belching angry fire.

  Overflowing with grief, Gwenvael prayed for the dead and for the living. Dear God, have mercy on their souls.

  * * *

  That night, the level of rejoicing reached its climax in the Viking chieftain’s hall. Bodvar presided, drinking heavily of nabid, the special beer reserved for funerals. No herring or haddock that night, but chewy horsemeat, sweet reindeer, and even bear. Gwenvael enjoyed the food, slowly getting used to the Viking way of boiling or steaming the meat rather than roasting it.

  Well into the feasting, cheeks ruddy from strong beer, eye patch slightly askew, Bodvar rose clumsily, compensating for his restrained left arm. He demanded silence by banging the handle of his battle axe on the wooden floor. Having obtained a relative degree of quiet, he spoke in a booming voice.

  "Tonight, we celebrate more than my brother’s journey to Valhalla." Bodvar’s single eye surveyed the generals and their female slaves. "The friend who saved my life twice and found Ragnar’s body has asked me a favor that goes against our customs."

  A murmur of protest greeted the announcement.

  "Cliona, you Briton wench," Bodvar called gruffly.

  A warm glow on her face, Cliona glanced at Gwenvael questioningly then rose to obey her prince.

  "I shall miss you, but the time has come to part." Bodvar shoved her down. "Kneel, slave!"

  Cliona obeyed the strange order.

  "Someone bring me a chopping block."

  A warrior promptly brought a sturdy piece of wood, streaked with blood from the ceremonial offerings. He set it in front of Cliona.

  The small hair on Gwenvael’s nape suddenly rose in alarm. Would Bodvar rather kill Cliona than free her?

  Bodvar motioned to Sigurd who nodded and took Bodvar’s battle axe. "I would do this myself, but I might miss." Bodvar motioned to his bound arm.

  The comment brought a raucous laugh from the warriors.

  Sigurd positioned Cliona’s red head for execution.

  Gwenvael’s blood went cold. He felt paralyzed. Please, God, not her!

  Moving her slave necklet to one side, Sigurd pushed her long hair away from her milky neck, then hefted the weapon, measuring the blow.

  Gwenvael would have fainted, if not for the beer horn someone handed him. He took it with a trembling hand. In the silent hall, time stood still as Sigurd raised the axe. The blow fell with a dry thud and a clink of metal.

  Gwenvael screamed, his scream drowned in the cheer of the warriors around him.

  Cliona rose slowly, leaving on the wooden platform her bondage necklet severed by the axe. Tears filled her eyes as she gazed at Gwenvael, then she bowed to all the men and women in the hall.

  Cliona dropped a light kiss on Bodvar’s blond beard, to the hoots of the other Vikings. "Thank you my prince."

  Gwenvael exulted, the blood in his veins running cold and hot. He raised his drinking horn then drained it.

  When Bodvar called his name, Gwenvael rose on unsteady feet and joined Cliona’s side.

  Taking both their hands in his huge paw, Bodvar declared, "Since it is your wish, and the wish of such a loyal friend cannot be ignored, I hereby marry you, Gwenvael and Cliona, both members of my household."

  Upon a sign from Bodvar, two Vikings volunteered their drinking horns for the couple. Someone took Gwenvael’s empty one and replaced it with a full horn. Following Bodvar’s directions, each lover drank first from separate cups, then switched and drank again. Finally, linking their arms, they finished both cups under the benevolent gaze of the chieftains, who hailed when they finished.

  Heart pummeling his chest, Gwenvael dug into the fold of his tunic, fishing for the gold bracelet he had kept for just the right moment. "Your
wedding bracelet," he announced, sliding the coiled golden serpent on Cliona’s bare arm, high above the elbow.

  Bodvar motioned to a slave who brought a bundle and presented it to Cliona. She opened it, revealing a new dress. Not the slaves’ coarse brown wool, but a fine garment of bright emerald green to match her eyes.

  "Now," Bodvar declared to the assembly, "as a free and married woman, you owe Cliona the respect you give to your own wives. May I remind you that the law dictates to hang by the neck he who forces a free woman in a Viking camp."

  A murmur of agreement ran among the revelers.

  "But if she requests your loving services, of course, you should do your best to keep her satisfied. Soldiers’ wives can get lonely, and all we want is their happiness." Bodvar drained his drinking horn.

  "I have a wife at home, too." Bodvar’s voice took on a nostalgic tone, probably due to the mead. "I hope the many bastards she conceived in my absence grow fat on the plunder I send her."

  The warriors cheered.

  Bodvar stopped a serving slave. "Now, bring more food and more mead. By Thor, this is a funeral! Everyone should celebrate!"

  Such strange customs. Gwenvael had a lot of work ahead to bring Christianity to the Vikings. He only hoped the sins of these barbarians would not compromise or tarnish his immortal soul.

  As the Vikings returned to their jolly feasting, Gwenvael locked Cliona in a tight embrace, listening to both hearts beating like two hammers on the same anvil. Here, at the northernmost tip of Scott territory, in the Viking enclave of Arstinchar, he had found the happiness he never dared hope for. He’d found the opportunity to serve the Christian god, the freedom to love and live, and start a family with this wonderful wife.