Fin Gall (36 page)

             
Magnus Magnusson!
Morrigan gasped, despite herself, and Magnus looked up sharp, looked right at her. Morrigan tried to make herself more compact, tried to shrink away. Magnus stared at the edge of the wood, but Morrigan was well hidden and Magnus had just been staring into the fire and there was no chance he would see her. Finally he looked away. He said something out loud, as if he was talking to another person, but Morrigan could see only him.

             
Magnus Magnusson...
What on earth was he doing there? The rain and the cold were suddenly forgotten as Morrigan watched this man, this vile man, who did not know she was there.

             
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord...
Morrigan considered that old injunction. Revenge was the province of God, not man.

             
And sometimes I am called upon to be God’s handmaiden,
she thought.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

They will surely feel

my weapons bite their armor

if
rage comes upon me now.

                                    
Gisli Sursson’s Saga

              T

he darkness and the fury fell on Thorgrim like the ever-strengthening rain, covered him completely, seeped into every part of him, until he was swimming in his anger, spitting his hatred.

              He sat alone, cross-legged in the grass, away from the others. He stared off into the darkness, off to where Harald was, his boy, out there somewhere, with strangers doing what they wished with him.

             
His mind was not clear, he could not think, the fury that he often felt as the sun went down now ten times, twenty times greater than ever before.

             
Morrigan was gone. Thorgrim had assumed she was with them, following along as they tracked Harald. She had always come with them before, during the attack on the baggage train, digging up the crown, he had never been able to leave her behind. But this time, when they looked, she was not there.

             
A band of men had gone back to the longship in search of her, but she was not there, either. Her basket was gone, the Crown of the Three Kingdoms was gone, too. There was no sign of her, no indication that she had been attacked, taken by force. She was just gone.

             
Ornolf broke the news to Thorgrim. No one else dared. Thorgrim walked away and sat in the grass. He did not speak. His mind raced. In the morning he would meet Flan. Flan would have Harald. He would have nothing.

             
He could trick Flan. Carry something wrapped in canvas, tell Flann it was the crown. Tell him Morrigan had run off, or they were keeping her hostage. He did not have to fool Flann long, just long enough to grab Harald before Flan slit his throat.

             
He did not think he would get the chance. The Irishman was not fool enough to let that happen. He would stand fifty paces away and make Thorgrim show him the crown before he set Harald free. When Flann saw that Thorgrim was pulling a trick, he would kill Harald then and there. Thorgrim would kill Flann in turn, but that would do Harald no good.

             
From there, Thorgrim’s thoughts devolved into dark and twisted things, following no path, just a senseless fury as he stared out into the dark and felt the rain running down his face.

             
Behind him, by the trees, the men managed to build a fire but Thorgrim would have none of it. He could sense men out in the dark, men on either side, but not close, and he imagined that Ornolf had ordered them there to keep an eye on him, see that he did not do anything stupid.

             
The rain grew harder, until it was coming down in sheets, lashing the ground. The thunder broke overhead, so loud it hurt the ears. The lighting flash illuminated the open field and those men crouched a few perches away, miserable, watching Thorgrim as Thorgrim watched the night.

             
Despite the rain and the thunder and the red-hot fury, Thorgrim realized he must have fallen asleep, because he saw himself running through the woods, running alone, moving fast and silent, his eyes cutting through the darkness. He could not feel the rain anymore. The fury was gone now, completely gone, and in its place a calm sense of purpose, an unwavering resolve to do what he had to do. The taste of blood was in his mouth.

             
He moved across open country, tireless, a hunter on the prowl, senses wolf-sharp. There was a fire some ways off, a small fire in a thicket and he looked there but it was not what he was looking for so he moved on. The ground flew under his feet, he raced over the rolling countryside, the land over which they had taken Harald, his Harald. It was all strange, dream-like, a moving sleep.

             
And then some time later he stopped and he panted for breath as he looked out from the bracken. The Irish camp. A big tent, round with a pointed roof, where this Máel Sechnaill slept in comfort. A hundred men, some huddled around fires, some standing sentry. He had passed pickets on his way into the camp, slipped easily around them in the dark and rain, paused as lightning lit the watching men up like yellow statues. They did not see him.

             
Thorgrim could smell dogs and horses but the wind was with him and the animals could not smell him. No living thing was going to hear him on such a night, not moving as silent as he was.

             
Harald was near. Thorgrim could sense it. His son’s closeness seemed to tremble in his mind, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. But he did not move. He only watched. A hunter was patient. A hunter observed, and a hunter moved only when the moment was right.

              Morrigan was watching as well. Fascinated, wondering how it could have happened that Magnus Magnusson was here, under her eye, and he did not even know it. She watched him fish some small bit of bread from his saddlebag. She heard him offer some to someone lost in the shadows on the other side of the fire, but that person made no reply. Morrigan could see no one. She wondered if there really was someone there, or if Magnus had gone insane.

             
The rain was falling hard now, making a loud noise in the trees and the thunder cracked deafening overhead. In the flashes of lighting Morrigan could see Magnus looking up at the sky, or out at the trees. She could see the palpable fear in his face.

             
You had better be afraid, you heathen dubh-gall pig...
  Morrigan thought. She knew these Norsemen were terrified of trolls and spirits and all the things they thought were lurking in the night. She smiled. The only real threat to Magnus’s life was one he did not even know was there.

             
After a while Magnus added more wood to his fire, building it up to a brighter blaze. He lay down beside the fire, pulling a wet blanket over him. With the blanket stretched between the trees as a roof, he had a modicum of shelter as he closed his eyes. Morrigan wondered about the other person, and why he did not warrant any shelter. A slave, perhaps. She knew Magnus Magnusson did not concern himself with a slave’s comfort.

             
Long after Magnus closed his eyes, Morrigan continued to wait and to watch. The trees above kept the rain off her, mostly. The fire illuminated Magnus’s face enough that she could watch every twitch, every grimace of his fitful sleep.

             
The hours passed slowly, and the fire by Magnus’s face began to grow dim, and Morrigan was ready to move. She shuffled back into the brush a few feet, set her basket in front of her. She lifted out the canvas covered crown and set it aside, then carefully removed the contents of the basket. When she came to the false bottom she opened it up and reached her hand in to the very bottom of the basket.

             
There was not much in there now, and her fingers fell on the small glass bottle tucked in the corner. She had filled it more than a year before, wondering in what circumstance she might ever use it, and on whom. She had long had an idea that she might use it on herself.

             
She pulled the little bottle from the basket, held it as she replaced the other things, this time putting the crown in first and piling the rest on top of it. She took one last look around, was ready to move, when she heard something, out in the dark.

             
She stopped and listened. There was something moving in the trees, some animal. She could not see it, but she could hear it, faintly, and even more than that she had a sense of its presence, as if its spirit radiated out as it moved. Magnus’s horse sensed it too. He made a snorting sound, shifted from foot to foot and tugged a bit on his halter. Morrigan was afraid the animal would wake Magnus, but its sounds of vague alarm did not rise much above the drumming of the rain.

             
Whatever it was, Morrigan could feel it moving past. It was the strangest sensation, like nothing Morrigan had ever experienced before. She waited and listened, crossed herself and mouthed the words to a prayer, but she was not as afraid as she knew she should be. And then whatever it was was gone, off into the dark, a night-creature swallowed up by its element.

             
Morrigan did not move for some time after, until she was certain that whatever had come through the woods had not disturbed Magnus and the other. When she was certain, she stood slowly and stepped with great care through the bracken and into the small clearing in which Magnus lay sleeping.

             
She moved to the left, away from Magnus, circling around. The horse shifted nervously as she approached, but she spoke to it, soft, soothing words, and it calmed the animal. Morrigan continued to circle the little camp until at last in the dim light of the fire she could see the other person, lying like a dead thing, huddled near the trunk of a tree.

             
Morrigan moved closer, easing her weight down with each step. The person was lying on his side, hands behind his back in a very odd position. Two more steps and Morrigan realized that the person’s hands were tied, bound behind their back and the rope tied to the tree under which they slept.

             
This is a fortunate day for you, my friend,
Morrigan thought. She took a step closer, curious as to who this poor soul was. She kept an eye on Magnus’s sleeping back as she moved, but he slept on, undisturbed.

             
Morrigan was only a few feet away from the prisoner when she realized it was a woman, her pale skin just visible in the reflected light of the fire. Some Irish girl captured and bound for the slow death of slavery, Morrigan imagined. She took another step, crouched down by the motionless figure, and nearly shouted out loud with surprise.

             
Brigit? Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill? Princess Brigit?

             
How in the world had she come to this place? Morrigan crossed herself. If she had any doubts about her intentions, they were gone now. Here, as clear as water, was the hand of God guiding her.

             
Morrigan stood quickly, moving now with a renewed determination. She circled back around the clearing. She set her basket down and moved with cautious steps toward the sleeping Norseman, her soft leather shoes silent on the leaf-strewn ground. Five steps and she knelt down next to Magnus, so close she could smell his breath and hear his soft breathing.

             
Morrigan shifted the bottle from her left hand to her right. She held it up to the fire and watched the dark liquid swirl around inside. She pulled the stopper out and said a quick prayer. With her left hand she grabbed Magnus’s nose and squeezed it hard. His eyes and his mouth flew open and Morrigan jammed the bottle, neck down, into his mouth.

             
Magnus’s arms began to flail as he grabbed at his throat and Morrigan leapt out of the way. Choking, gagging, Magnus pulled the bottle from his mouth and leapt to his feet, spitting hard. His sword was in his hand, fury was in his eyes. Fury, confusion, fear.

             
He took a step toward Morrigan and Morrigan stepped away. “You...” Magnus said. He recognized her, but it was not clear if he knew who she was. He began to swing his sword, backhand, ready to deliver a slashing blow, and then his eyes went wide and he made a little choking sound and then he was down on his knees, his sword on the ground, his hands at his throat.