Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (20 page)

“I want her guarded,” Alaric said to Madrena and Rúnin, who stood waiting for him outside the chamber.

Madrena and Rúnin exchanged a glance. “We will remain here,” Madrena said, squeezing Alaric’s shoulder.

“Nei, I want you at my back when I confront Feitr,” he said. He strode past them and into the great hall, where a few of his men leaned against the walls or sat at the tables that had not yet been brought out for the evening meal.

“Olaf,” Alaric called. The burly man jumped to attention and came to stand before Alaric.

“You have questioned me publicly on this voyage,” Alaric said with ice in his voice.

Olaf stood steady under the criticism, though he bowed his head slightly. “Ja, I have, Captain. And in doing so I shamed myself. I hope that does not tarnish my honor in your eyes,” the red giant said.

“I would entrust you with an important task, but I must know if I can have absolute confidence in you.”

Olaf’s face hardened into eager determination behind his ruddy beard. “Task me with aught. I am more than ready to restore my honor. Let me prove myself to you.”

“I want you to guard Elisead’s chamber,” he replied in a low voice. “Naught will threaten her this night.”

“Ja,” Olaf said, straightening to his full height. “I vow my life on it.”

Alaric pounded the giant on the shoulder. Pride for this man, and for all in his crew, swelled within him. Perhaps he was finally learning how to lead.

Olaf strode toward the narrow hallway at the back of the great hall that led to the private chambers, his head held high with the honor bestowed upon him by his captain.

Just then Maelcon strode into the hall, his face a mask of worry.

One of Maelcon’s guards slipped through the hall’s doors at the same moment.

“You asked me to tell you when Feitr returned from the village, Chief,” the man said. “He has just crossed through the gates.”

“Thank you,” Maelcon said, pulling on his beard anxiously. “You may return to your post now.”

“Northlanders,” Alaric said to his crew. “Do not act rashly. I’ll handle Feitr.” He turned to Maelcon. “Tell your men the same, but instruct them to keep their eyes open for anyone who might make a move to come to Feitr’s aid. We still do not know if any others are working with him.”

Maelcon nodded and strode to the back of the hall, where a few of his men stood waiting for his orders.

“You two,” Alaric said, pivoting to Madrena and Rúnin. “With me.”

The three of them strode out of the hall and into the yard. Alaric fingered the sword on his hip. He likely wouldn’t have to use it—at least not at first. But he longed to draw it, if only to feel its reassuring weight in his hand. For he went into battle now, even if it was just him against Feitr.

The yard was quiet, though Alaric knew Maelcon’s men lined the walls where they stood on watch. It was a strangely calm night, with nary a breeze from the sea to stir the air.

A flash of white snagged Alaric’s eye. Feitr’s ice-blond hair shone silver in the rising moon. He was walking right toward them, his body loose and his strides relaxed.

“Feitr,” Alaric said, forcing his voice to remain even.

He’d already planned out where he wanted to confront the Northland slave. If Feitr somehow had more of Maelcon’s men in his service, Alaric would not be set upon in the yard. Nei, he wanted to be in control of their venue, so that no one could attack him from behind.

Feitr faltered in his steps halfway across the yard. “What is it?” he said, eyeing Alaric, Madrena, and Rúnin. “What do you want?”

“A word about Maelcon’s war steed. You tend to him, do you not? I wish to see the saddle you use.”

Feitr stared at Alaric for a long moment, his hard features cast in shadow with the rising moon behind him. “Ja, this way,” he said at last, turning toward the small stables to his left.

Alaric fell in behind him, gritting his teeth against the desire to attack. He had to be patient for just a few more moments.

They slipped inside the stables, which were darkened, but the slatted wood panel walls permitted a few beams of moonlight to slip within.

As the door closed behind Rúnin, Alaric’s hand darted out like lightning. He grabbed Feitr by the back of the neck and spun him around. With two swift strides, he slammed Feitr into the back wall of the small stables.

Feitr’s pale blue eyes bulged as Alaric’s hand closed around his neck, pinning him to the wall.

“I have a few questions for you,” Alaric said, his voice deadly calm. “And I would appreciate the truth.”

Feitr sputtered and fought against the hand around his throat, but Alaric’s strength and size was superior to his.

“Confess to plotting against me and my men, Maelcon, and Elisead, and you will get a swift death. But I want to know why.”

“Why…?” Feitr croaked. Alaric eased his hand a hair’s breadth to allow Feitr to speak.

“Why I plotted against you?” he said at last, his voice a disbelieving rasp.

“Ja, you have been working to destroy our negotiations. I want to know why. What do you gain?”

Feitr shook his head the small amount he could given Alaric’s hand pinning him. “I have not…”

Despite his attempt to control himself, Alaric squeezed his hand in rage and lifted Feitr clear off his feet by the neck. “You mean to claim that it was not you who cut the donkey’s harness and then handed over a cart that you knew would break away, putting Elisead’s life in danger?”

“Nei!”

“And it wasn’t you who fired a rock at the donkey to spook him?” Alaric reached down with his free hand and yanked out the slingshot tucked in Feitr’s belt. He held it up in front of the man’s face.

“Nei, it wasn’t!”

Alaric narrowed his gaze on Feitr, who continued to struggle in his hold. “And it wasn’t you who tried to break into Madrena’s chamber in the night so as to end negotiations between the Northmen and the Picts?”

“Nei, I swear,” Feitr panted.

Alaric looked down at Feitr’s feet, which dangled and thrashed several inches off the ground. They were caked with mud. Alaric saw red as he returned his gaze to the slave’s bulging blue eyes.

“You have mud on your boots. I’m guessing you’re going to claim that you also weren’t the one who destroyed our barley fields this afternoon, though that would be a lie, just like everything else you’ve said.”

With his free hand, Alaric yanked the seax from his boot and brought it to Feitr’s heart.

“I am innocent!” the man gurgled. “I swear on all of our gods! I swear it on Odin’s breath and Thor’s hammer. I swear on Freyja and will beg Hel to drag me to her realm if I am lying!”

Alaric froze, the dagger’s blade hovering over Feitr’s chest. He did not take such vows lightly, even if they were spoken by a lying schemer. He lowered Feitr so that his feet touched the ground once more, but kept his grip firm enough that he had no chance of escape.

“The mud on my boots is from working in the village. Maelcon sent me there to help some of the villagers repair their thatching. I have been working there all day in the dirt and mud. Ask anyone in the village!”

“And the rest of it?” Alaric asked coldly. “How do you explain yourself?”

Feitr’s pale eyes flew around the small stables in thought. “I am only a slave. Maelcon doesn’t let me keep even the smallest knife to eat with. How could I have possibly cut the donkey’s harness?”

Alaric remained silent, so Feitr went on. “And I am not allowed on the wall. Only soldiers are permitted up there, for the safety and protection of the fortress. How could I have fired a rock at the donkey, as you say I did, without being on the wall?”

“But you did fire a rock at Elisead when she was up in a tree. She told me.”

“Ja, to get her attention and to bring her down.”

“To make her fall?” Alaric’s hand reflexively tightened for a moment on Feitr’s neck.

“Nei,” he rasped. “Why would I want to harm the chieftain’s daughter? What could possibly come to me, besides a terrible and slow death?”

“That is exactly what you’ll get in a moment if you don’t start making more sense,” Alaric snapped, though he withdrew the tip of the seax from Feitr’s chest.

Something wasn’t fitting right. Feitr’s fear was real, but Alaric couldn’t tell if his claims to innocence were as well.

“I care naught for the girl,” Feitr said. “I have barely interacted with her in all these seven years I’ve lived here as a slave. I would never try to harm her, for she is my master’s daughter.”

“And how do you explain the fact that you told me to leave this land—leave while I still could? Was that not a threat, a warning to end negotiations? And when I didn’t heed you, you decided to end my talks with Maelcon yourself.”

It all pointed toward Feitr. Yet for some reason Alaric was growing increasingly uneasy. Some warrior’s instinct screamed at him in the back of his head. But was it telling him not to trust Feitr? Or was the danger actually coming from a different direction?

Feitr shook his head again adamantly. “My words were no threat. They were a plea.”

“Explain yourself,” Alaric bit out.

“Alaric, what are you doing?” Madrena hissed behind him.

He waved for silence with the seax. The stables fell quiet except for the occasional snort or shift of animal flesh from the small handful of stalls on either side of him.

“I…I wished to go home,” Feitr breathed at last. “When I saw you arrive at the fortress, I thought I was saved from this life of slavery at last. But then when you told the Chief that you wished to stay, I feared I would never see my village in the Northlands again. I hoped to convince you to go, to sail home—and take me with you.”

Alaric heard Rúnin exhale slowly behind him.

“But your bitterness, your obvious hatred of Maelcon—I saw it in your eyes when you stood next to my longships.” Even as he spoke, Alaric’s certainty dissolved as he tried to collect the last threads of evidence against Feitr. “You wished to lash out at him, did you not? If not at him directly, then at his daughter?”

Feitr’s face soured. “What slave loves his master? Ja, I hate Maelcon, for he slaughtered my people and made me watch them burn. He enslaved me.” He shook his head again “This land… This land will never be home. They worship the White Christ here, and they spit on many of our ways. And here I am a slave, even though I was fated to be a warrior. But for some reason,
you
wish to stay.”

Alaric could barely comprehend what he was hearing. “Ja, we will stay,” he said, his voice distant in his ears as his mind raced to comprehend all that Feitr had said. “We will make it our home.”

“I knew that to be true by the second time you came to the fortress. You would not be warned off, even in the face of Maelcon and Drostan’s resistance.”

“What did you say?” Alaric snapped, his thoughts suddenly quieting.

Feitr’s eyes widened in confusion. “I knew you’d stay, even though Drostan urged Maelcon not to make an alliance with you.”

Alaric’s mind flew back to all the times he could remember seeing Drostan, Maelcon’s ever-present shadow. The man was clearly a warrior, but Alaric had never really
looked
at him closely.

Drostan had been at Maelcon’s side on the wall when Alaric had first arrived—and when Maelcon had ordered an attack on Alaric’s crew. He’d been there in the yard when the donkey and cart had been led out of the stables. And he would have been within the fortress when someone had tried to enter Madrena’s chamber in the night.

The man had stood by silently during several rounds of negotiations, never giving a hint of his thoughts.

“Feitr,” Alaric said suddenly. “Did Maelcon ever teach you how to write in his language?”

Feitr’s face contorted. “Nei, of course not. I am a slave, not some scholar or holy man.”

“What is it, Alaric?” Madrena demanded urgently. “What are you thinking?”

“The missive sent to Domnall. Maelcon claimed to know naught about it. The man hasn’t always been forthcoming with me, but his face is easy enough to read. I believe he was telling the truth that he had no knowledge of a message informing Domnall of our presence and urging him to come to the fortress.”

“Then who did?” Rúnin asked.

“Drostan,” Alaric breathed. “It all points to Drostan.”

He released Feitr’s neck suddenly. The man fell forward onto the straw-covered ground, coughing and rubbing his throat.

“Take him,” he barked at Madrena and Rúnin. “Bring him into the great hall and watch him.”

“Where are you going?” Madrena called after him as he burst out of the stables.

“To find Drostan.”

Several heads snapped up as Alaric barged into the great hall. He vaguely registered his men’s questioning looks, but he didn’t slow.

Alaric darted toward the back of the hall, where Maelcon’s men had gathered to warily eye the Northmen who occupied their hall. But as Alaric’s gaze scanned the group, his stomach twisted forebodingly.

Neither Maelcon nor Drostan stood among the others.

“Where is your Chief and his right-hand man?” Alaric barked to the group of Pict warriors.

Their eyes widened, some in offence, others in thinly veiled fright. But Alaric didn’t have time to soothe their worries.

“The Chief wanted to retrieve his sword from his chamber. Drostan should be here, but…no one has seen him for several hours,” one man brave enough to speak up said.

The dread knotting his innards turned to stabbing ice.

Without waiting to explain, he dashed toward the opening at the back of the great hall where the corridor leading to the private chambers ran.

Maelcon’s meeting chamber was the first door along the hallway. The door stood ajar and the room was empty. Alaric made his way farther down the corridor.

The dim pathway curved slightly to the right, for the chambers and the corridor itself had clearly been added on to the great hall after it had stood for some time. The wood was younger in this part of the structure. And whoever had added these chambers had been forced to bend them with the curvature of the circular stone wall ringing in the fortress, as there was little room between the wall and the great hall here at the back. Alaric hurried his steps, suddenly feeling trapped in some dark, twisting maze.

As he continued to curve right, a pair of booted feet suddenly appeared ahead. Someone was sprawled on the ground.

Alaric sprinted the last few steps to Elisead’s chamber.

Nei
.

Olaf lay prone on the floor—in front of Elisead’s open chamber door.

Alaric plowed into the chamber, yet it was just as empty and quiet as Maelcon’s meeting room. His eyes darted to every corner of the small space, but Elisead was gone.

He fell to his knees in the corridor at Olaf’s side. The red-headed giant was pale, his eyelids drooping in unconsciousness.

Then Alaric saw the blood. He hadn’t noticed it at first, for it pooled underneath Olaf’s large frame on the stone-covered floor. He turned Olaf slightly and saw a vicious wound in his back.

Hot rage mixed with fear, nigh choking him.

Suddenly, Olaf stirred and groaned. Even a cowardly attack at his back wouldn’t take down this fierce Northland warrior.

“Olaf,” Alaric said, giving his shoulder a shake while trying to be mindful of his injury.

Again, the man groaned. His eyelids lifted partway, and even that small motion seemed to be a struggle.

“Olaf, what happened?” It took all of Alaric’s willpower not to shake the man until he spoke, for doing so would get him naught.

“I…” Olaf’s red beard trembled as he tried to move his mouth. “I failed you.”

“Nei, for you took a blade in the back for me,” Alaric said, his throat threatening to close. “What can you tell me? Who attacked you? Where is Elisead?”

Olaf shook his head weakly, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “Maelcon…”

“What?” Alaric’s head spun with panic. “Maelcon did this?”

“Nei, Maelcon…” Olaf gritted his teeth, his pain obvious. “Maelcon’s chamber.”

Alaric jerked to his feet. He knew Olaf wasn’t referring to Maelcon’s meeting room, for he’d already found it empty. Maelcon’s personal chamber lay just a little farther down the corridor from Elisead’s.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d bolted from Olaf’s side and plunged deeper into the corridor.

“I’ll send for help,” he shouted over his shoulder to Olaf. “Just hold on!”

But the truth was, he refused to lose any time in finding Elisead. If she were safe in her father’s chamber, he would dash back into the great hall and call for the help Olaf needed. But if seeking help for Olaf left Elisead in danger a second longer…

A voice in the back of his head warned him to be cautious. The hairs on his arms rose as alarm bells rang in his mind, but he shoved down his instincts as Maelcon’s door came into view.

The door was ajar. There was not even enough time to draw his sword. Instead, he barreled into the chamber, throwing back the door with his shoulder.

Elisead stood in the middle of the room, her eyes wide with terror.

Behind her stood Drostan, half his face covered in blue paint and one arm wrapped around Elisead’s waist.

And a dagger pressed to her throat.

At Elisead’s feet, Maelcon lay face up in a pool of blood. His throat had been slit and his eyes were wide and unseeing in death.

“I wouldn’t do that if you value her life,” Drostan said quietly from behind Elisead.

Alaric hadn’t even realized it, but his hand had flown to his sword. He’d half-drawn it by the time Drostan’s warning registered.

He froze, the hilt of his sword burning in his hand, the blade begging to be freed completely.

But then Elisead inhaled sharply, and a trickle of blood snaked down her neck at the point where Drostan’s dagger pressed slightly harder.

The room felt like it was spinning wildly around him, with only Elisead’s beautiful, terrified eyes anchoring him.

Slowly, he pried his hand off his hilt and let the sword fall back into its scabbard.