Dubh-Linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) (23 page)

  “Brigit!” he shouted.

[A] race of pagans…will carry you into bondage

from your own lands and will offer you up to their own gods.

                                                                    9
^th
Century Irish Prophecy

The thumping brought her around, the thumping and the motion and the pain. Quite a lot of pain. Her body was wracked with it. It was the first thing of which she became aware.

  The next was that she was upside down and having a very hard time breathing. But she still did not know where she was. She opened her eyes. The night was all but black, but there was light enough for her to see feet and legs below her, a muddy plank road. She was draped over a man’s shoulder. Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill was being carried off by Vikings.

  Her head was pounding, her thoughts disorganized, but she could recall the fight now, remembered Almaith cracking one of the bastard’s head open with an iron spit, herself swinging and missing with the ax. She recalled seeing the big fist coming around at the side of her head, the frozen terror of it, her inability to move. And that was it. There was no more.

  She turned her head sideways, left and right. There were four other men that she could see, moving in a tight bunch, moving toward what she believed was the waterfront where the ships were anchored or pulled up on the beach. That was not good.

 
No boats…
she thought vaguely.
Can’t let them get me on a boat…
Once they took her beyond the horizon, there was no telling what fate might befall her. She would never be heard from again. That was the thing about boats.

  She balled her hand into a fist and pounded on the back of her abductor’s thigh, the only place she could reach, but it seemed to have no effect. The blows felt weak and ineffectual. The man carrying her seemed not even to notice.

 
Damn it, damn it…
She could not form a clear thought, with the thumping and jostling and gasping for breath. She let herself go limp, hoping it would make her more difficult to carry, hoping it would make the motion better, give her a chance to think.

  It did not help.

  The man over whose shoulder she was draped yelled something, shouted out into the dark. Brigit could not understand the words, but the tone was very much that of an order, an order, given no doubt, to men aboard a nearby ship. Orders to take up the oars. Orders to carry her off to sea.

  She felt a new surge of panic and started pounding again on the man’s legs, but her effort was no more effective than it had been the first time. She thought she felt the pace of the men quicken a bit. She heard another voice, from off in the distance. The man aboard the ship no doubt, reporting that all was ready.

  But no. The voice was from behind them, from the direction they had come. She strained to hear. Far off, faint, but there. And the voice was one she knew.

  “Brigit! Brigit!”

 
Harald!

 
The man carrying her heard it, too. He stopped short, barked an order to the men around him and they stopped as well. Together they all turned to look back up the plank road over which they had come. Brigit twisted sideways so she could see, too. It was dark, but there was a moon behind the clouds and it gave off light enough that she could see the little band of men coming after her. She could recognize Harald’s broad, powerful form.

  She had come to Dubh-linn with no thought beyond using him for her purposes. She had forgotten how very good looking he was. She had forgotten about his unshakable loyalty and strength. But in the short time that they had been reunited, she had been reminded of all those things, and the unfathomable attraction she had to him, the very thing that had led her into all this trouble. And once again she had been weak, and had welcomed him into her bed.

  Loyalty and strength. That was Harald, at his core. And just then, seeing him charging down the plank road, calling her name, she had never been more grateful for those qualities.

  “Harald! Harald! Here! I’m here!” she shouted and for her effort took a heel blow to the head. She could taste blood in her mouth, but she was willing to risk another kick if it meant increasing her chances of Harald’s rescuing her. She opened her mouth to yell again but the man carrying her spun back toward the river and shouted another order in his ugly, guttural Norse language. He began to run, and the men around him ran, too.

 
No, no, no, no!
Brigit thought. If they reached the ship before Harald reached her then she was lost. If they took her to sea, she did not think she would live to the next sunset.

  Once again she pounded on the man’s legs, but the proximity of rescue was clearing her mind. She abandoned that useless effort and craned her neck to look around. She could see the man running beside her, at least from the waist down. She could see his sword bouncing against his leg as he ran.

 
Sword…
The bastard carrying her must have a sword as well. They all did. She twisted around the other way, an awkward and difficult movement, and half curled her body up at the waist. Her abdominal muscles burned from the effort, but her eyes fell on what she was looking for - the hilt of the man’s sword jutting above his belt.

  The man had been walking fast before, now he was running, and the jarring and bouncing was much worse than it had been. Brigit reached up with her right hand, snatched at the hilt and missed as the man’s footfalls nearly knocked the breath from her. She reached again. It was so close. Inch by inch she moved her hand, tried to hold it steady against the bouncing. She could hear Harald, still calling for her, getting closer.

  And in that instant the man to their left saw what she was about. He shouted, reached for her, and she lunged for the hilt. She felt her fingers wrap around the leather binding and she pulled it toward her. The sheath of the sword flipped forward like some kind of battering ram as Brigit struggled to pull the blade free.

  The man beside her grabbed her arm and tried to pry her fingers from the sword. As he did, the one carrying her realized that something was going on, and he twisted around to see what it was, pulling the sword from the man’s hands. With a twist of her body and a grunt of effort Brigit drew the sword clear of the sheath. The blade thumped on the road as she tried to hold it up at that odd angle. The men had stopped running. They were shouting in their foreign tongue.

  Brigit, still draped over her abductor’s shoulder, could see only the plank road as it swept by and the feet of the man who was carrying her. He was twisting side to side, trying to see what she was doing. Another set of feet appeared, hands reaching for her, and she slashed awkwardly at them. She tried to slash at the feet of the man carrying her, but the sword was too long and the position too awkward and she could do little more than bounce the blade off his leggings.

  Slashing was a failure, so she grabbed the hilt with both hands and drew it up, then stabbed down at his heels as if she was trying to spear a fish. That worked. The point of the blade skipped off his calves and caught his shoe and she rammed it home, feeling the metal lodge in flesh and bone.

  The man howled and turned again and Brigit pulled the sword free and stuck the blade between his legs. She had a thought to swing it up at his crotch, but before she could even try, his legs became tangled with the weapon and he staggered. He tried to catch himself, but between his lacerated foot and the blade between his legs and the weight of Brigit on his shoulder he could not maintain his balance. Brigit felt him going over and she braced herself. She was on his right shoulder, and as luck would have it he came down on his left, so that rather than falling on her, her hip came down on his head as they landed in a heap on the plank road.

  Brigit could feel the edge of the man’s helmet dig into her side as they hit the ground. The man grunted and Brigit rolled off and, miraculously, kept hold of the sword as she scrambled to her feet. She had never had any real training with weapons, as would be expected, save for sparring with wooden swords as a child with her father and the other men at Tara, but she was no stranger to the feel and use of a blade. She held it with two hands to make up for her lack of strength, and backed away slowly from the others.

  She could see confusion in their eyes. The situation was changing fast, and the man who had been leading them was still sprawled out on the road, and barely moving. Then one drew his sword, and then the others did, four swords flashing out and held ready.

  The man to her left took a tentative step toward her, sword leading. With a grunt of pain and exertion Brigit swung her blade in an arc, connecting hard with his and knocking it aside. Then she turned and ran.

  She ran as hard as she could up the plank road. She could see Thorgrim and Harald and the crazy one whose name she could not recall running toward her and she ran toward them. Behind her she heard more shouting in Norse, and then the sound of running men coming toward her. She tried to run harder, but every muscle in her body seemed to be shouting in agony and protest. She felt a hand on her arm, a powerful grip. She tried to swing the sword at him, but she could not reach back with the blade. The fingers tightened in a crushing grip. She shouted, the one word that came to her lips, the only one that might bring any comfort and hope now.

  “Harald!”

  Running was not Harald Thorgrimson’s strength. He was powerfully built, but that also meant heavily built, and the things at which he excelled, such as fighting or building things or rowing, tended to augment his strength of arm and not his speed of foot. He was breathing hard as he raced down the road. He had seen men who seemed to glide as they ran, but he was not one of them. Every footfall jarred his body as he careened down the hill.

  But he could see her now, and that drove him on. Every step he took brought him closer to her. Every step brought the swine who had taken her that much closer to being within the arc of his swinging sword.

  He and Thorgrim were pretty well matched for speed, but Thorgrim was blown from the fight and wounded and was struggling to keep up. Starri Deathless was fast, one of the gliders, and though he was just a few feet ahead, Harald had the distinct impression he was holding back, trying to not entirely outpace his companions.

  Head jarring, heaving for breath, Harald tried to see what was happening. Five men, one carrying Brigit, making for the docks. They had stopped, just for a moment, on hearing the pursuit. But they were running again, and pulling away. Making for a ship, no doubt, and if they were able to get her aboard, get underway, then she would be lost to him.

  Then, suddenly, everything changed. For no reason Harald could see, the fleeing men stopped. Brigit’s hair whipped around in a wild brown tangle as the man holding her twisted left and right. And then they were down, Brigit and the man, a flailing heap on the plank road. And then Brigit was up, a sword in her hand, and running toward him.

  “Harald!”

  The desperation and fear in her voice was a knife to his guts. He was almost there, fifty feet, but now another of the men was grabbing her by the arm and pulling her back.

  “Starri!” Harald shouted as best he could, heaving for breath, “Stop them, I beg you!”

  Starri nodded and shot ahead, bounding down the road with deer-like strides, as Harald had thought he could. Ax and short sword in his hand, he let go with his berserker scream as he closed the distance. Harald could see the men freeze in place, could see swords and shields and axes held ready, the men braced like sailors holding tight as a massive wave rolls down on their ship.

  The man holding Brigit seemed to expect Starri to stop and fight, not an unreasonable thought, but that was not the berserker’s approach at all. Starri came in with his ax making a great circle in front of him, catching the man’s sword and knocking it aside. He launched himself off the road and came at the Dane feet first, seemed to literally climb up the front of the man. Harald saw the man stagger and try to slash upward with his sword, but he was too slow. In a single motion Starri kicked him to the ground and used him as a vault to launch himself at the next man behind. He crashed into the man feet first, but that one had a shield and managed to get it up and take most of the impact of Starri’s flight.