Erinsong (40 page)

Beside him on the opposite
oar, Kolgrim grunted
with the effort of
each stroke. He suspected Kolgrim
was
already stiff with the need to dominate and destroy.

Jorand glanced back over
his shoulder and caught
a glimpse of
Brenna standing in the prow of the Irish
craft, a thin glint of metal in her hand. She was
armed
with a knife. And she’d positioned
herself in front of her sister. Still protecting Moira, as she’d
done when he’d first met her.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, a
smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Trust my Brenna to be prepared to do a man
hurt.

The longship pulled even with the Irish
vessel and Thorkill tossed a grappling hook across the narrow
distance. The wicked-looking hook snagged the side of the craft,
which dipped dangerously into the waves, caught as surely as a
harpooned whale. At Thorkill’s bellowed order, the rowers stood
their oars on end, preparing to ship them.

Jorand pivoted on his seat and sized up the
situation. Just a few more arm-lengths. As soon as the longship
was close enough, he’d leap across the waves and plant himself in
front of Brenna and Moira at the prow to defend them against all
comers.

Damn the Irish for a
stubborn, ignorant race!
Jorand thought,
furious at Fearghus of Ulaid for sending the women to St. Patrick’s
after his warning, for not mounting the assault he’d recommended.
He couldn’t do anything to help the pious virgins on board the
hide-covered coracle, but he’d sell his life dearly trying to
protect his wife and her sister.

Then suddenly the virgins
threw off their cloaks and Jorand’s eyes widened at the image of
bewhiskered warriors with arrows nocked on the string. A hail of
fletched death buzzed around him. He was shocked by a dull thud,
then a sharp sting to his side. A long shaft quivered in his bicep,
pinioning the arm against his chest. He tried to move it and felt
the burn of rending flesh as the arrowhead grated against a rib. At
this close range, the force of the shot sent the arrow through his
arm and then on through the hard
ened
leather encasing his torso as well.

“No!” He heard Brenna wail.
“Not him. He wasn’t
to be touched. Ye
promised.”

Beside Jorand, a
berserkr
scream tore
loose from
Kolgrim’s throat and the man
vaulted over him. Ob
viously unhurt by the
first volley, Kolgrim launched
himself at
the Irish before they could raise another arrow.

Jorand stood in the swaying
longship. The Irish surprise had been effective. More than half
the
raiders lay dead or grievously
wounded. He felt like
a goose on a spit
himself. But no matter what, he had
to
fight. He’d defend Brenna with his last breath.

He ground his teeth
together and reached over to snap off the shaft where it protruded
from his left arm. He took as deep a breath as he could with the
embedded point still poised to graze his lung and raised
his skewered arm up suddenly, raking the arrow’s
shaft through
his flesh. A flash of light
burst in his brain as the arrowhead shifted and burrowed deeper,
but at least
his arm was free.

He looked over at Brenna,
still frozen in place. Her
face was
silvery white in the moonlight. She screamed.

He gritted his teeth as he
broke off the last ten
finger-widths of
the arrow’s length where it entered his
rib cage, leaving the point where it had lodged. Then
he drew out his sword with a metallic rasp,
roared his
defiance, and leaped onto the
Irish vessel.

Everything was a blur of
flailing arms and an un
naturally slow
dance of death as time expanded and
contracted around him. He was acutely aware of a host of tiny
details—the coppery scent of blood on the wind, the cold water
lapping at his ankles as the Irish boat groaned under the extra
weight of the
raiders, the piteous
bleating of an Irishman who held
his own
entrails in his hands.

When faced with an Irish
defender, Jorand tried to do no more than meet his blade as he
hacked his way toward Brenna. He dipped and whirled,
parry
ing their slashing blows, as he
knocked them out of
his way.

But suddenly Jorand found
himself face to face with Thorkill. “Defend yourself,” Jorand
shouted as
his blade flashed toward
Solveig’s father.

Thorkill’s face registered
shock, but reaction was swift. He bared his teeth and turned the
full fury of
his broadsword on Jorand.
Between the hail of blows Jorand was barely able to parry, the
master of Dublin
growled out, “I will take
this woman and this island.
Why are you
trying to stop me?”

“There’ll be no taking
tonight.” He had no breath for more words as Thorkill rained a
storm of
blows on him. Jorand met his
blade at each stroke and managed to turn it, even though the force
of the assault rattled up his forearms and jolted his
shoulders.

Luck was with him in some
sense, Jorand realized
dimly. If not for
the cramped confines of the Irish craft, Thorkill would have been
able to swing his broadsword wider and with more power. As it was,
Jorand was barely able to fend off the attack of the larger
man.

Darkness gathered at the
edges of Jorand’s vision.
He forced
himself to draw a deep breath to keep the
blackness at bay. He seemed to move in slow motion
as he struggled to keep his footing. Behind him,
he
heard a man scream, not knowing or
caring if it was a
Northman or one of the
Irish defenders. The air was heavy with blood and bile and the
stench of fear. A
sliver of moonlight
caught on Thorkill’s upraised blade and Jorand saw his
chance.

He buried his sword up to
the hilt in his father-in-
law’s
midsection.

Thorkill’s eyes widened in surprise, then
faded into an unseeing gaze. Jorand yanked at his sword, but
couldn’t free it from his foe’s flesh.

“I knew it!” Kolgrim hissed
from behind Thorkill.
“A traitor at the
last.”

Jorand jumped sideways in time to dodge his
enemy’s slashing blow. He scrambled past Kolgrim toward the prow,
the hide-bottom boat underfoot slick with water and blood.
Fortunately, Kolgrim’s broken arm made him slower.

“Brenna.” He’d finally
reached her, but he was un
armed with no
way to defend her. He could only
place his
body between her and Kolgrim and pray he
didn’t live long enough to see her end. “I’m sorry,
love.”

“No need. I regret nothing,
husband.” Her lips trem
bled in a crooked
smile as she handed him her dirk.

It wasn’t much, but it was better than
nothing.

“Thank Christ for small
mercies,” Jorand muttered
as he grabbed
the knife from her. Then he turned
back to
meet Kolgrim’s steady advance.

Over Kolgrim’s head, Jorand
could see the fight
was still in question
with tight little knots of hand-to-
hand
struggle. Northmen disappeared under gang
assaults by the wiry Irish. Men of Ulaid were hacked
piecemeal by a two-handed broadsword when
a
Northman found room to wield his weapon.
But Kol
grim alone threatened Brenna and
her sister.

“
Thorkill isn’t here to stop me from killing you this
time,” Jorand said, blood pounding through his
veins in the frenzy of battle lust.

“I’ll finish you, Jorand. And then I’ll do
your woman.” He snarled as he whipped his sword in a slashing
horizontal stroke.

Jorand leaped back from the
glittering blade, feeling Brenna’s warmth behind him. He couldn’t
dodge
one of Kolgrim’s blows again without
shoving the women into the dark sea.

Malice dripped in Kolgrim’s tone. “She’ll beg
me for death before I let her go, by Odin’s lost eye, I swear
it.”

Kolgrim’s sword flashed at
him. It was as long as his arm, making the little blade Jorand
wielded of
no use at all except as a
buffer to catch and turn the
other man’s
blow. At some point, Jorand knew he’d miscalculate and be struck
down. Brenna would be defenseless.

Kolgrim’s next slice broke
Jorand’s Irish dirk off at the haft. The length of the blade
disappeared into the
ankle-deep bloody
water in the coracle’s hull.

Kolgrim bared his teeth and tossed him a
wolf’s laugh. “You’ve broken your oath to Thorkill. You don’t
deserve a battle-death. Jormungand will rend your flesh before
daylight. I’ll let the sea finish its work.”

Kolgrim’s sword whistled
toward Jorand and this
time it struck him.
But it was the flat of the blade, not its
edge that connected with his temple. Brenna’s scream
pierced his ear. The blow sent him over the edge
of
the bobbing coracle and into the dark
Irish Sea.

The cold water jolted him,
nearly making him ex
pel all the air in
his lungs. Silence closed around him
like
a heavy blanket. Moonlight filtered down through
the murky sea for only the height of a man. He
clawed his way back to the surface.

When he breached and
dragged in a lungful of
salty air, the
sight in the coracle made him wish Kol
grim
had used the sharp edge of his blade instead of
the flat.

Brenna was on her knees
before his enemy. Head down, she pulled her
brat
from her shoulders in
ab
ject submission. Moira clutched the
prow behind her.

God, no.
Jorand was powerless to save her. The
wa
ter sucked at him, trying to drag him
down. He almost let it.

“Come to me, my little
Irish slut,” Kolgrim taunted.
“I
enjoy watching you beg, but as long as you’re
on
your knees, you may as well make
yourself useful.” He grasped his own crotch and laughed
raucously.

Brenna rose to her feet, the brat dripping in
her hand. “Aye, I’ll come to ye,” Jorand heard her say. “And I’ll
be very useful.”

Slowly Brenna walked toward
Kolgrim. She
stopped before him, disarming
him with a tremulous smile. Jorand caught sight of a sudden flash
of metal
concealed in her
brat.

Brenna hadn’t knelt before
Kolgrim, pleading for mercy, Jorand realized. She’d been searching
for the
knife. She’d found the dirk’s
broken blade where it dropped in the shallow bilge and wrapped it
in her short cape to keep from cutting her own fingers on the sharp
edges.

“I’ll be useful to send ye
to Hell.” Brenna thrust the
blade into
Kolgrim’s chest. Then she leaped back out
of his reach.

Kolgrim gasped in shock,
the whites of his eyes
showing all around.
He staggered toward the women,
but lost
his balance, teetered for a moment, then fell headlong into the
waves.

Jorand roared and plowed
the water toward Kol
grim. If it was the
last thing he did, he’d make sure of
Kolgrim’s end. He grabbed his enemy and the two men
disappeared into the deep.

Locked in a death grip,
Jorand and Kolgrim sank
together into
blackness so deep, neither could see the
other’s face.

Kolgrim turned and rolled,
struggling to free him
self. Jorand knew
if his enemy could put enough dis
tance
between them, Kolgrim would be able to use his sword, if he still
held it. Jorand found the end of the dirk sticking out between
Kolgrim’s ribs, and shoved the dagger in farther. The arrowhead in
his own rib cage shifted and his mind wavered
uncertainly.

An explosion of bubbles
rushed past his face. Kolgrim exhaled, but still clung to Jorand,
tight as a bar
nacle, his movements
frantic. Jorand shoved the
knife in once
more, this time striking true. Kolgrim’s
flailing ceased.

Jorand let the body go, feeling it float away
from him.

A bit of hoarded breath escaped his nostrils.
The blackness disoriented him completely. He and Kolgrim had
rolled and twisted so many times together, he had no clue which way
led to the world of light and air and which way to the sea’s
depths.

He peeled out of his heavy boots, hoping
natural buoyancy would bring him to the surface before his breath
ran out. He had no sense of movement, either up or down. His ears
ached, pounding in time with his quickening heartbeat.

He felt a tickle of bubbles
sneak from the corners of
his mouth and he
tried to follow the direction of the
precious drops of air as they tickled past his cheek. Little
by little, his last breath leaked from him, and his lungs screamed
for more.