The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

  She had to find the courage to follow through. She required something inside of her she didn’t know was there—and to do what needed to be done regardless.

  Part of her hoped that in prayer she’d find God telling her no, she didn’t have to sacrifice herself. But carrying the small measure of hope didn’t do anything to burn away the absolute certainty that she did.

  Chapter Six

  In the Chapel

  Thorvald stepped over a prone body of a man in rough brown robes. He’d been the only one who hadn’t run and, consequently, had been slashed.

  Thorvald grimaced. If he’d been quicker to notice that one of his men had vanished—directly defying his orders—he might have prevented the needless bloodshed. He reached down and poked a finger in the loose skin of the man’s neck. A heartbeat. Not dead. Good.

  Leaving the man where he lay, Thorvald crept into the little room where the local people prayed to their strange, singular god. He breathed in the fragrance. Whatever the faults of their misguidance, at least their god smelled nice.

  One small candle cast a ring of glowing light around a table raised on a dais. The table had been pushed aside. A secret door in the planks had been opened and a figure hunched over with a bag was grabbing things as quickly as he could.

  Ubbi. The rat.

  Thorvald crept slowly behind him. Without warning, he grabbed the man’s free arm, hauling him away. “I told you not to leave the camp and I told you no looting.”

  “These people are predictable.” Ubbi stumbled but pulled away and bent to resume his work. “Always hiding their most valuable possessions in the same place.”

  “Put it back.” Thorvald jerked him back again. The floor creaked where he stepped.

  In his hand, Ubbi clutched a silver cup inlaid with colorful stones. “It’s mine.” The man tried to twist away. Thorvald held fast and reached for the piece of treasure. Ubbi stretched out an arm, holding it beyond his reach.

  The people who made questionable decisions about their god made questionable decisions about their treasure too, ’twas true enough. But that wasn’t the point. “A flea has more integrity than you.”

  Ubbi winced. Thorvald was holding tight. Too tight. Part of him didn’t care. The rotten fiend had disobeyed him.

  “And you, Thorvald Longsword, have the sense of a festering dung pile.”

  It would be shameful if Ubbi thought well of him. “Think as you please. The only thing you must do is obey me. I gave you an order.” He hung heavy emphasis on each slow word, so that the significance might penetrate Ubbi’s dull wits.

  “Look.” Ubbi held up the ill-gotten precious object. “It’s silver. Silver.”

  The beauty of silver was the beauty of the wild sea. A welcome sight. And tempting, certainly.

  But Thorvald no more longed to possess it than he dreamed of plucking the stars from the night sky. Silver did not sing. It did not bring comfort or warmth during a long winter’s night. Nor did it coax perfect, bright green shoots from black earth.

  “Put it back.” He let the man go with a shove for emphasis. “Put it all back. We’re done here.”

  Thorvald went to the table where the candle burned. An enormous…thing sat open in the middle. He’d seen its kind in other places, all the same and all different, too, but still had no word to name it. It was flat and bound together strange sheets that weren’t quite leather, but not quite fabric either. Upon each one were strings of curious shapes and pictures colored in a dazzling array of bright inks. The tiny details were fascinating.

  Whatever the object was, it meant something to these people. They always kept it with their treasures and bound the sheets in flat, square plates of gold and jewels. So much beauty.

  Making no response to Ubbi, he ran his battle-scarred fingers over the painted surface, trying to memorize the colors and feel. It was useless trying to speak. The other man would never understand Thorvald’s captivation. He could stand here all night, mesmerized by the designs. It would be far preferable to waiting for the sun to rise.

  Ubbi, it seemed, wasn’t finished. “It’s silver and it’s ours for the taking. They tried to hide it, but all they ever do with their treasure is secret it away where they always do. They’re… What are you doing?”

  Thorvald was reaching for his sword, ready to bludgeon Ubbi with the pommel and drag him unconscious back to camp. Better than waking the slumbering population.

  From the shadows came a distant and unmistakable sound. A human sound. Slight, but distinct. An inhalation of breath, perhaps. Like a tiny gasp.

  Thorvald immediately went tense. He clamped his hand upon Ubbi’s mouth. “Be still.”

  They both waited, frozen where they stood, listening. Nothing.

  Thorvald scanned the darkness. No hint of movement. That didn’t mean he’d imagined the sound.

  Slowly, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard, took Ubbi’s candle, and began to hunt. Probably one of their holy men hiding. Thorvald sniffed. The air smelled the same as when he’d entered. Perfumed smoke, candles, and…weathered wood. Ubbi, too, to Thorvald’s misfortune. No hint of another person—either the stink of sweat a man leaks in terror or the piss with which he might have soiled himself.

  As Thorvald crept deeper into the darkness, the shadows revealed their secrets. Darkness always seemed unassailable until one stepped inside. Sometimes he found himself drowning in empty pitch. But sometimes he found an unexpected source of light.

  It was that way now, with the candle’s reach deeper than could be seen when standing too near the flame.

  The corners and nooks were all empty. And nobody stood hiding against a pillar.

  Thorvald relaxed and sheathed his sword. Maybe it had been the wind or a groan of wood he’d heard.

  He gave an almost offhanded glance into one final recess—and all his senses jumped to alert. A figure stared out at him. Her face he’d seen but once. A face he’d never forget.

  The princess.

  Her gray eyes were huge with terror. She inhaled a sharp gasp when their gazes met.

  Heat bloomed in his blood, his whole body suddenly aware that this was everything he wanted and he couldn’t make a stinking mess of it. This was his chance. No playing games of negotiation with the people. No more waiting. He could leave with his prize and be done with the whole nasty business.

  Before she could scream, Thorvald’s hand shot out, clamping shut her mouth.

  He had to move quickly, and he did. But he wasn’t in such an addled rush as to be unaware of her. His touch brought her to life. She tensed so hard, she probably could have broken her own bones.

  Then she began to struggle. It was too late—and he had every advantage. She’d been crouched, he’d been standing. She was over the average height of her people, but he was over the average height of his. She was feral with fright. This one chance was a gift from the gods and he wasn’t about to foul it up. Thorvald held her fast, even as she kicked and twisted.

  Ubbi laughed.

  Thorvald glowered. “Shut up, or we’ll never make it out of here. And leave the silver or I’ll throw you into the sea to die. Give me that rope from your bag.”

  Ubbi ran up to them and her leg flailed out, her foot nearly making contact with whatever sorry excuse for manhood Ubbi kept between his legs.

  “Hold her still.” Thorvald regretted the words instantly. The sight of Ubbi touching her made Thorvald want to run his sword through the man’s gullet. The reaction was swift and powerful.

  As quickly as he could, Thorvald—suppressing his instinct to dispatch Ubbi—sliced the rope into two shorter lengths, then tied the princess’s wrists and ankles. With one smooth move, he heaved her over his shoulder. She was no downy bag of feathers. She had heft.

  A sick sense overtook Thorvald in a crashing wave. He was no better than Ubbi. This was what he wanted—the pri
ncess—and they could leave tonight, vanishing like ghosts into the night-black sea. He’d never have to spill blood. Merely following Ubbi when the no-good cretin slunk away from camp in direct opposition of Thorvald’s orders had been enough.

  He should have laughed and rejoiced. The key to unlocking his prison had fallen directly into his hands.

  But the key was no metal thing dangling from a chain. It was a person. Never in his life had he so much as placed an unwanted hand upon a woman’s head. In his view—and in stark contrast to many of his people—forcing unwilling females stripped a man of any right to name himself as such.

  Now he was ripping a woman away from her home and people.

  But there was no other way. He was trapped by the jarl and the witless promise of loyalty he himself had made. He’d given his pledge when he was no more than a frightened boy, true. But he was beholden and beholden he would remain. A vow to a man was a vow to the gods.

  Another promise fueled his determination. This one was bigger than the first because although this was not a vow he’d made to the gods, it was a vow he’d made to himself.

  No matter how he did it and no matter how many winters it took, Thorvald would be free.

  Stepping over the still-prone form of the man outside the door, Thorvald slipped out into the night with the one thing he needed to end his torment once and for all.

  Chapter Seven

  The Nightmare Deepens

  When the demon touched her, no iron-hot sizzle of pure evil leaked through his hands into Alodie’s skin. Though rationally such an event would have been unlikely, a small part of her had expected that very thing. What else did one expect from the touch of a demon?

  The nightmare was deepening. Had she been captured because God knew in his heart she’d never have the courage to give herself over freely? That hadn’t been how she’d felt.

  Alodie never had a chance to say goodbye.

  Perhaps she should view a lack of—what should she call it? Leave taking?—as a blessing. Without attempting a farewell, there was nobody who could talk her out of her scheme. Many people would see the trade as more than fair. Her in exchange for the demons vanishing. If they left without bloodshed and without the loss of their princess, they’d be glad to see the back of her.

  The princess, though…she’d never have allowed anyone to make such a sacrifice for her. Nobody, high or low. Which made the sacrifice all the more worth making.

  Trying to rise above the flood of nauseating terror, Alodie stilled in the demon’s arms as he stole her into the night. The smell of him should have made her gag. It was no more than he deserved. But the scent of leather and the sea on his skin made him more human than he had any right to seem. Curse him.

  She closed her eyes to calm her racing thoughts. She needed rationality. Not panic. Acting out of fear or instinct didn’t guarantee a bad decision, but she’d rather make reasoned choices.

  First, language. She couldn’t let them know she understood most of what they said. Understanding didn’t put her in a position of power, but it might lend a slight advantage.

  Second? Second…

  Her mind was blank.

  Surely there had to be something else. Physically, all she had was what she wore, and that wasn’t much. She was glad of the cloak. That was something. And she had the rope that secured her pouch. If needs be, she could use it to strangle one of the demons.

  How? If he were in a drunken stupor? And what would she do then? One dead would mean nothing to them. But it would mean everything to her.

  If this was the direction of her thoughts, she wasn’t thinking clearly. Aside from the impossibility of every scenario, she could never take a life. Peering through the imaginary surface of what it would mean for her to kill made it all too obvious that at the deepest level, these brutes were men, not true demons. If she killed a demon, she killed a demon. If she killed a man…

  Better not to sacrifice her immortal soul. At the very least, she’d be left the pleasure of thinking of them as demons. She’d have little enough gratification in her life now that it’d taken this turn.

  When they walked through the gates, the situation became all the more real. Her heart, choked by thorny vines, began to bleed. Would this place continue to be her home once she no longer lived there? Her whole body shook uncontrollably. There was no question as to what was coming. But merely pondering what this future might be like and actually being forced into the situation were two very different things.

  At the beach, glowing embers were all that remained of the cooking fires. The men lay in heaps, snoring. Bloody bones lay scattered about the camp, some with strings of meat and other sinew still attached. They’d made a kill. One at least, probably more to feed their numbers. It wasn’t difficult. Plenty of game roamed the woods.

  The woods she would never see again. What sort of animals lived where they would be going? That was, if she lived. Maybe they meant to slaughter her. Did they believe their pagan gods required human sacrifice? The idea made terror-induced bile rise in the back of her throat.

  The leader put her down on the sand, the grains grown cold in the dark night. Stance wide, he stood above her and began to shout. “Get up, we’re leaving. Wake up and get ready.”

  The lank one who’d been with the leader in the chapel—the one he’d stopped from taking what he’d found under the altar—began striking the sleeping men awake with his foot, kicking up the occasional spray of sand as he went.

  The men responded slowly at first, with grunts and snorts and pithy eruptions. The words were bitten out too quickly for her to catch, and probably included terms she had yet to learn, but the tone and edginess suggested they complained. Some things didn’t need exact meaning to be understood.

  “What’s going on?” came from a particularly grizzled specimen. Finally, something she understood in totality.

  The leader gave a rapid response. Alodie strained her ears, but only caught princess and sail. That must have been the gist, for the hellish faces turned to her. The black with which the demons lined their eyes was smudged from sleep.

  She looked up at the big one—the leader—and studied his face. On their way out of the chapel, he’d given a direct order for the items to be left. That meant they had come for the princess.

  Why? What were they going to do to her? She wasn’t valuable. And if they expected to demand a ransom from the king, they were in for an awful shock.

  What would it mean for her when they discovered she was not the princess? That she, in fact, she was not valuable to them? Alodie needed to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Instead, she coughed.

  Another of the demons groused at the man rousing them from slumber and putting them to work, this time at length.

  “There is no more reason to remain.”

  “How about we have a look at their silver? Better to sail with it than without it. What good is a raid without returning with treasure?”

  Out of the darkness, the leader replied in a chilling, deadly calm. Everything about him, even the way he spoke, testified to what sort of creature Alodie would be dealing with. He had absolute control and natural dominance. “You know why we came. And there will be other raids.”

  A few of the demons began tossing wood on the embers to rebuild the flames while the rest packed up camp, rolling blankets and gathering belongings. The men stumbled about as if they hadn’t had the time to sleep off their drink. But they knew their business, and prepared quickly.

  When they released the horses they’d stolen, eerie whinnies cut through the night air. The moon had already set, but the abundant stars cast an otherworldly light on the ships waiting by the waves.

  No. Not ships. Monsters.

  And they were waiting to swallow her to hell.

  In the murky promise of dawn, they were ready. The birds had been singing for some time, ignorant of Alodie’
s ordeal. Or perhaps not. It would be comforting to think they bid her farewell, since she’d had no other. The parting gift she’d been denied from those she’d known.

  The leader plucked her up. Instead of handling her like she were a bag of supplies, his touch was gentle, like he was conscious she was a person who could be hurt. Her stomach fluttered.

  Alodie balked internally. How dare her body betray her by responding in any such measure to the likes of him?

  Gentleness wasn’t the very last thing she wanted from the spawn of Satan’s fetid loins. But it was close. She went weightless with fear, lungs heaving for air as if suddenly there was none. After her brief childhood, she’d never been weak or helpless. Now she was no more than a dried-up leaf, tossed by the winds of fate.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Sickness and pestilence took lives. They were the trials God gifted to His people to purge them of sin or test their faith. This was utterly different. This was unimaginable.

  If God saw all—and that was not a fact she should question—He saw her now. Was this His hand at work? What did He want from her? How had she offended Him that He would punish her so? Her sins weren’t so numerous or grievous as that, were they?

  The leader swung a leg over the hull, stepping on board one of the ships. The wood creaked under his weight.

  The ships had appeared huge when she’d first sighted them. They weren’t. There were a lot of men. Somehow, this little vessel traveled over the sea. They’d come, so the ship must have been able to make the voyage—neither was it the first time demons had appeared on these shores, so their arrival hadn’t been an accident of chance.