She was looking for a weapon. Gunleik felt his back miraculously straighten, only to feel fear for her and for Rorik fill his throat, bringing up bile, thick and sour. By all the gods, did she realize what she was doing?
Mirana knew well what she was doing. She paid no attention to the men coming toward shore behind her. She finally found a thick maple branch, stout, but not too heavy. She swung the club, changed her grip, then whirled about to the beach.
Einar was on his hands and knees in the black sand, frothing water swirling around him, heaving, trying to regain his breath. Rorik was behind him, struggling to stand in the breaking surf, striding now slowly through the water, coming closer and closer. He yelled, “I will kill you now, you damned bastard!”
Einar was on his feet in an instant and running, but no longer at his full strength. He stumbled and went down, only to drag himself up again.
Rorik was breathing hard, but he was running fast, and soon he would catch Einar, she knew it. Mirana was amazed at Rorik’s strength, his determination. But she wasn’t at all surprised that she’d easily beaten them to shore. She hadn’t been exhausted. She’d had her full strength. And she still had it now.
Einar whirled about to see how close his enemy was, then he heard a woman’s laugh. He turned back and saw his half-sister standing in front of him. She had a stout club held in both hands. She was standing like a man, her legs apart, her arms firm, held in front of her, her wrists locked around that damned club.
“By all the gods, how did you get here?”
“I swam here quickly. Just for you, Einar, just for you. I won’t allow you the chance to hurt Rorik. I won’t allow you the chance to escape into the woods. Come here, brother, and let me kill you. Unlike you, I won’t be your tormenter, I won’t make you beg and plead. No, I will kill you quickly and cleanly and then it will be over and all your evil will die with you, and Rorik will be free of you forever.”
Einar laughed. “You think you can kill me, you stupid bitch? I can break you in half with one hand. You are nothing, Mirana, nothing.”
Rorik refused to believe what was right in front of him. No, it was impossible. No woman could have swum that distance so quickly, but she had and there she was, standing in front of Einar, just like a Valkyrie, a thick club in her hands, and he knew such fear he nearly choked on it.
“Mirana,” he shouted. “Get away from him!”
He drew his knife and ran forward. He was nearly spent, he knew it. He was beyond spent, and that was the truth of it. His rage was the only thing that drove him now, and his fear for Mirana. The hours at the oars had drained him, and the wild swim to shore had nearly brought him to his knees. He felt exhaustion pulling on his legs, dragging down his arms, slowing his mind.
“Stay back, Rorik! Einar is a snake, I told you that. He has no honor. Stay back! I won’t allow him to escape, to hide in the woods, to be free of what is due him, to leave you to wonder, always wonder if he lives or is dead. I will end it now.”
“No! Mirana! No!”
Einar charged her, head down, his hands out and over his head to protect himself. Mirana struck him hard, but the blow struck his upper arms, doing him little damage. Kill him, ha, she’d barely bruised him.
Then he was on her, flinging her backward and he came down over her. She kicked upward, but he twisted her wrist viciously, and managed to jerk the club from her. He slammed his fist against her jaw, and sent his knee into her ribs. He was up in an instant, jumping away from her, whirling about readying himself to face Rorik.
She saw black, then shook her head violently to clear it. She felt no pain, nothing but a rage that burned hard and intense, fanning throughout her mind and her body. She saw Einar standing there with the club, waving it at Rorik. She saw him look quickly to the woods to his left and knew he was weighing his chances of escape without fighting.
Rorik ran at Einar, then jumped suddenly, his legs going out, and up high, striking him solidly in his chest. She stared, for she’d never seen a man move like that and so very quickly. It sent Rorik onto his back and he rolled gracefully, coming to his feet again. As for Einar, he was thrown backward, sprawled onto his back, his face turning blue because he couldn’t draw breath into his lungs, but he was up quickly, and now he was running toward the woods.
He just might make it. He was more desperate than he’d ever been in his life. Aye, he just might make it.
She couldn’t allow it. She was after him in an instant, and she was faster. She was filled with strength. Energy poured through her and she ran even faster. She would catch him. She had to catch him. She had to put a stop to this. It had to end, irrevocably. She could hear Rorik breathing heavily behind her, hear his footfalls in the fallen leaves.
She heard Rorik cursing and soon he was nearly beside her, and she veered away. He would stop her instead of catching Einar, because he was afraid for her and he wanted to hold her safe above all. She looked back at him, and knew she must be gaining on Einar.
Suddenly Einar’s arm slammed around her throat, jerking her off her feet, tightening until she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and he yanked her back against his body.
“I have you now, Mirana. Finally, I have you.”
Her fear brought nausea into her throat, but she knew she had to control herself. She wouldn’t let the fear control her. She felt tears sting her eyes, not tears of fear, but tears of rage and frustration, for now Einar had the advantage.
Rorik had stopped dead in his tracks, and there was a look of horror on his face. He didn’t move.
“I have your bitch, Rorik Haraldsson,” Einar called out, such pleasure in his voice that it made her flesh crawl. She held very still, waiting. The tears trickled down her cheeks, and she hoped Einar saw them and laughed and believed her afraid of him. She felt the heaviness of Einar’s breathing against her back.
“Aye,” Einar yelled out even louder now, for he was enjoying himself. He had the upper hand. “Aye, Rorik Haraldsson, she thought herself so above me in skill and cunning, but I know her, much better than you do. Aye, I will tell you something else, I had her before I had to give her over to the old king for the pathetic lecher to sweat over her and maul her. Aye, I stuck my fingers into her, for she’d claimed she wasn’t a virgin, that she’d married you, but I didn’t believe her. I had to make certain, and I felt her and she was ready for my finger, Viking, aye, more than ready. There was no maidenhead, she hadn’t lied about that. She moaned and lifted herself for me. She begged me to take her, Viking, this faithless bitch of yours.
“You wonder why she’s trying desperately to kill me, Rorik Haraldsson? It is because she knew I would tell you that I’d taken her, that she pleaded with me until I freed my rod and drove into her and she shrieked like a whore.”
His arm loosened about her throat. She was ready. She closed her eyes a moment, drawing on what strength she had left. His arm tightened again as he shouted to Rorik, who’d remained obdurately silent, “Nay, don’t come closer, Viking, or I’ll twist off her skinny neck. You will remain here and I will take her with me. When I am tired of her scrawny body, why then, I might return her to you. I will survive, Rorik Haraldsson. I always have and I always will. Did I tell you that I finally remembered your precious wife? What a loud fishwife she was, yelling and screaming and trying to fight as my men held her down and jerked her arms and legs away from her body. But when I took her, she was just like your second wife here, she begged me, and pleaded with me and I took her, again and again, until she was quiet, very quiet. My men had enjoyment with her as well, but not all that much, for I killed her with joy.”
She had to move and she had to do it now. She knew Einar. He would quickly realize that Rorik would not be taunted into foolish action and then he would take her away with him.
She jerked her head down and bit as hard as she could into Einar’s forearm. He screamed, but she didn’t let go. He tried to strangle her, but the pain was too great. He hit her head, but her teeth, strong as
her will, went deeper into his flesh. She felt the bone in his arm. She tasted his blood and wanted to vomit. She knew he couldn’t get enough leverage to strike her with the club. She hung on.
Then Rorik was on him and she released his arm. His blood filled her mouth and she spat it onto the ground. Einar no longer had his club, it had fallen on a pile of leaves. Mirana grabbed it up, readied it, and moved closer to the struggling men.
Einar was fighting for his life, and he knew it. He was crazed, striking Rorik at every chance, most of them glancing blows of little import, howling and groaning at the same time.
Mirana saw the berserker madness in Rorik’s eyes, and knew the end was near.
Still, she moved closer, just in case he needed her, just in case he slipped or fell. She saw his large hands go around Einar’s throat. She watched Rorik hook his foot around Einar’s leg and whip him about to face him. She watched her husband’s eyes grow calm and deadly even as he squeezed the life from the man who’d haunted him for far too long, squeezed even harder as he looked into his face and watched the life fade away. Einar fought it, fought it with all his might, but it wasn’t enough.
Rorik said softly, his face but inches from Einar’s, “This is for my sweet wife and for my two small babes and for all my people you brutalized and murdered. And it is for my parents as well so they will face the future without the horror of you still alive from the past.”
Finally it was over. She watched Rorik release Einar and let him slide to the ground at his feet. He looked down at the man who’d killed so many of the people he’d loved. Then he looked up at her. He wasn’t breathing hard. He looked strong and fit and ready for any number of battles. He looked neither triumphant nor brutal. He looked calm and, strangely, at peace.
He said only, “Thank you, Mirana.”
“For what, my lord?”
He smiled then. “For allowing me to kill him.”
They both looked about at Hafter’s agonized shout.
33
MIRANA WATCHED ENTTI twirl around in her new royal blue woolen cloak in front of her besotted husband. It looked wonderful on her, her shining thick brown hair lying full over her shoulders, spilling over the swirling cloak.
“You look beautiful,” Hafter said to his wife, grabbed her hand and pulled her tightly against him. “I missed you.” He kissed her and laughed. “Aye, I missed you so very much I didn’t allow you to sleep last night. I trust you’ve forgiven me for all my past sins—imagined sins most of them—but you’re a sensitive woman, and thus I will beg your forgiveness yet again. Tell me you enjoy my man’s body now, Entti.”
Entti gave him a fathomless look, saying nothing, merely stroking her fingers over the soft blue wool. After a few moments, he began to fidget. Mirana looked down, trying not to laugh.
“I will suffer you, Hafter,” she said at last. “I vowed to endure you, to care for you even as you become an old man, toothless and withered. And I will bear with you until your sons tell me I have no more need to, on the day they set your shriveled old body afloat on an equally aged longboat and set it afire.”
“Sons? What mean you, sons?”
Entti kissed his chin. “If you continue as you have begun, I will give you more sons than you can count. Is it enough, you great lout?”
“Nay,” he said, “for I would have an equal number of daughters with their mother’s beauty but not her wicked tongue.” Then he frowned down at her. “I do not wish to be toothless and withered.”
“I have sworn to protect you, thus, if you do not wish it to happen, I will not allow it.”
He kissed her again. Mirana laughed aloud, a laugh replete with happiness.
Amma and Old Alna stood behind her, Old Alna cackling as was her wont, about nothing in particular, just cackling, a marvelous sound. Amma, a baby in her arms, was rocking it and making soft cooing sounds. Erna was at the loom, humming softly, not yet smiling, it was too soon, far too soon. Utta was stirring porridge in the huge iron pot suspended over the fire pit. The men were gathering their weapons to hunt on the mainland. Rorik was sitting in his lord’s chair, polishing his sword.
She heard one of the women laugh. She jerked around, joy stirring in her, but it wasn’t Asta. Mirana shook away the sudden tears, and prepared to rise. She looked about, wondering where Gurd was. She’d seen little of him, she realized, since they’d come home the afternoon before.
Kerzog suddenly rose on his hind feet and put his large head on Mirana’s lap. He woofed softly.
“Missed by my lord’s dog,” Mirana said. “It is the final pleasure in my life.”
“Nay, I am your final pleasure,” Rorik said, towering over her. “I am your first and final pleasure.”
“You men,” Entti said. “ ’Tis all you can talk about and think about, your rod and your pleasure.”
“Has Mirana not told you, Entti?”
“Told me what, Lord Rorik?”
“That she uses me, naught else, just uses me, milks me like a cow until it is she who has the pleasure. My pleasure is insignificant to her, of no importance at all. It is true. Tell her it is true, Mirana.”
“I will continue to pat Kerzog until all of you have left the farmstead, then I will tell Entti the truth.”
But Entti was no longer sharing the jest. She was shaking her head as she said to her husband, “I still cannot believe that Sira is a queen. Surely you could have buried her in a prison instead, Mirana. A queen! It quite terrifies me. She deserves to be beaten every day. If only you had shaved her head, even that would have pleased me enough.”
“From my brief acquaintance with Hormuze,” Mirana said, “I believe he will do whatever he believes is required.” She unconsciously rubbed her cheek where he’d struck her, saying, “He is a man with very set views for women and what they should do and what they should say. I doubt he will change. Also, Sira no longer has her beautiful silver hair. It is an ugly dark brown from a mixture of nut meats, and thus, Hormuze will not be distracted. It is better than having her bald, Entti.”
Rorik laughed. “You must understand that there is also a child, Eze, all of eleven years old and very wise in her years, much like little Utta here. She will assist Sira to become a reasonable woman, just as will her formidable father.”
“I wonder when we will learn of their fate,” Mirana said as she stroked Kerzog’s head. The dog nuzzled against her palms and she scratched his head.
“By winter I think,” Rorik said. “Hormuze is right. It is a story the skalds will sing of for years upon years to come, whether he succeeds or he fails.”
Mirana said, “It is passing strange that no Viking holds the throne of Ireland, but rather a man from a foreign land very far south. He told me the name of it, but it was difficult, and I can’t remember it.”
Old Alna hobbled up and said, “My beautiful little Sira, such passion in her, and now she is tortured with ugly hair. She won’t like that, my lord, aye, she’ll rain shrieks and fists down upon this man’s head, this man who will now be king.”
“She will try,” Rorik said, “but I doubt she will succeed.”
“You brought back Mirana,” Amma said, lightly touching her fingertips to Rorik’s forearm. “We have missed her, my lord.”
“I missed her as well, as did Kerzog. Hafter, leave your wife alone. ’Tis time for us to hunt.”
And they were gone, talking and laughing, their jests ringing out as loud as their laughter.
Mirana continued to pat Kerzog, speaking to each of the women in turn, realizing that life here had carried on, the crops had continued to grow beneath the warm summer sun, the slaves had banged glittering silver pans to keep the birds away. The women had salted fish, had weaved and dyed cloth, had baked endless loaves of flatbread over the hot embers of the fire pit, but she, Mirana, wife of Rorik Haraldsson, had still been missed, her absence felt by those she’d left behind, for she was firmly a part of Hawkfell Island now. She belonged.
She looked over at Erna, silent n
ow, her one good hand not moving on the loom. Raki, her husband, had been the warrior to fall overboard and drown. They’d not found his body. It was difficult for all of them to accept, and the grief was there stark and deep in everyone’s thoughts. But it was Erna who had stood stiff and silent, her face white, her withered arm limp against her side, her eyes accepting yet filled with pain. She’d not cried in front of them. She’d not cried with her two sons either, and they’d held themselves just as stiff and proud as their mother, listening to Lord Rorik as he’d told them that he and all the other men of Hawkfell Island could never take Raki’s place, for he had been the bravest of warriors, a man of great skill and cunning, but they would be there, acting in their father’s place, now and forever. And Erna had been pleased and grateful. Mirana could only imagine her grief when she’d been alone.
Then Erna had seen Gunleik bent over with the pain in his back, and she’d tended him faithfully, feeding him panza root ground into a sweet pulp to relax the knotted muscles. Now he was better, sitting near to the fire pit, the lines of pain smoothed from his forehead. Erna had moved from the loom and was now sewing near him, her fingers working quickly, her head down, but Mirana knew she was aware of Gunleik, watchful that he was getting well again.
Gunleik rose then and stood over her. Slowly, she raised her head, her look stark and proud. He handed her a small piece of buttered flatbread. She accepted it with her good hand, and slowly ate it.
Gunleik patted her shoulder and left her alone.
Mirana rose at last to go about her duties. She oversaw the cooking, wrapped a cloth about her head and helped to pack down the earth near the tables in the longhouse, a seemingly endless and very dirty job that required water to be sprinkled on the loose dirt, then packed down by hand, then struck with the heel of the palm.
Her back hurt when it was at last finished. She rose and stretched, patted Kerzog, who then grabbed her sleeve in his mouth and dragged her outside the longhouse. She laughed. Rorik and his men had just returned.
Lord of Hawkfell Island Page 32