Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series (25 page)

This time he allowed the currents to drive him close in to her. Extending his arm, he spread his fingers.

“
Grab on to me!” he shouted above the uproar of the river.

At once Deira flung herself toward him and gripped hold of his arm. At the same time he blocked her from coming nearer, bracing his outspread hand against her chest and preventing her from seizing him about his neck or head.

“Hang on,” he called again.

Lyting began to turn onto his side so he could work his way toward shore. He saw Deira
’s eyes widen, then felt the sudden acceleration of the currents as they were sucked into a whirlpool.

Deira
’s fingers began to slip down his arm as the vortex spun them round and ever downward with incredible force. Lyting strove to draw forth his free arm and grab her, but he felt as though a great anchor weighted him in place. He vied against the unseen force that held him, and with every last shred of strength, he reached to grip hold of Deira. Just as his fingers brushed hers, she let go.

»«

Ailinn clung to the side of the ship, watching as Lyting and Deira disappear from sight. At the same time, Skallagrim and Hakon rowed furiously for shore, having progressed far deeper than normal into hazardous currents. The ship tossed and plunged upon the tempestuous river. Ailinn barely noticed. Her eyes remained fixed to the distance, searching the empty waters where last she saw Lyting and Deira.

»«

Lyting spun downward, deep beneath the whirling waters, then felt the undertow grip him, as though two giant hands clamped about his legs. It dragged him a rapid distance and released him abruptly. Lyting labored toward the surface, growing short on breath. Breaking through, he gasped for air, his chest aching.

Pushing the wet hair from his eyes, he glanced hastily about for Deira. Not finding her, he scanned the area once more. He spied her dark head just as the rapids convulsed and dashed her against a huge boulder. She appeared already limp when she struck the rock,
mayhap unconscious. But now he saw that her eyes were closed and her head lolling as she slipped beneath the waters.

Lyting
’s heart slammed against his ribs. With a fresh burst of energy he battled the river to reach the boulder. He hoped against hope that the rock trapped and held her there, and that she hadn’t already been dragged farther downriver by the undercurrents.

Gaining on his mark, Lyting made a quick surface dive and searched desperately for Deira. Minutes later he exploded to the surface and gulped the air. Again he dived and hunted the area. And again he erupted from the waters, his lungs screaming for air. The currents
warred against his every effort, dragging him downriver against his will.

Lyting began to bear the penalties for his exertions, finding it difficult to breathe and his muscles turning to lead with exhaustion.

Reluctantly he relinquished his search and allowed the current to carry him as he made his way obliquely toward shore. Pain centered in his chest with each inhalation, yet he ignored the discomfort, lost to thought. He had failed. Deira was gone.

»«

After grounding the ship, Skallagrim leapt ashore and hastened downriver along the banks. Others quickly joined him in search of Lyting.

Ailinn started to follow, but Hakon restrained her, trammeling her arm. Ailinn wrested free, then planted her feet firmly on the shore and waited. And waited more.

An eternity passed, along with a thousand agonies migrating through her soul. At long last the men returned. Skallagrim and Arnór bore Lyting between them, each holding him up beneath an arm. His head sagged forward, but she saw that his legs moved and he attempted to keep pace with the others. Her heart swelled. He was alive.

Desperate for sign of Deira, Ailinn cast her gaze
among the others but did not find her there.

A cold dread sliced through her.

She silenced her thoughts and held firm rein of them, wishing yet not wishing to ask the question she knew she must. She looked once more to Lyting. As though he felt the pull of her gaze, he lifted his face and raised solemn eyes to hers.

“
Ailinn . . .              I am sorry. . . .”

Ailinn wavered, stumbling back a pace. Stunned, she looked out upon the river, then back again. Her eyes pleaded with Lyting to tell her that Deira lived. That she waited for them
somewhere downriver. That they hadn’t lost her. But as their gazes held, she knew the truth. Deira was dead.

Tears clogged Ailinn
’s throat and stung the back of her eyes. Turning, her gaze drew to Rhiannon. Rhiannon. Even now her look gave challenge. Anger collided with anguish, welling up to erupt, full-force, from the pit of Ailinn’s being.

“
‘Twas your doing that wrought this sorrow. Deira’s death hangs on your soul, Rhiannon. If you have one!”

Rhiannon bristled, her nostrils flaring.
“Deira was a little fool. Had she listened to my — ”

Ailinn shrieked her fury and sprang for Rhiannon, felling her to the ground. Over and over they rolled, scratching and kicking, yanking fistfuls of hair.

Lyting loosed himself from those who supported him as Ailinn and Rhiannon pitched on the bank in a swirl of gowns, clawing and tearing at each other, challenging even Gelandri with their shrilling.

Hakon joined him, and together they hauled the two warring females apart. Ailinn twisted beneath Lyting
’s grip, striving to get at Rhiannon. But he held her solidly against his chest and, despite her struggles, would not let her go.

Ailinn
continued to try to win free, then suddenly the high pitch of her fury plummeted to the raw chasm of unspeakable sorrow. Her anger flowed out of her. Awash with grief, her knees gave way, and she became as fluid as water. Lyting sank to the ground with her. As they knelt together, she bent to the earth and braced herself, her dark red hair spilling forward and shrouding her face. Without word, Lyting eased his grip of her.

Tears burned Ailinn
’s eyes. Seizing up fistfuls of dirt, she raised clenched hands to Heaven, then released the soil in a fine stream and began to keen for Deira. Again, she caught up the soil, and released it, lamenting her stepcousin, lamenting all the days that had gone before, lamenting all that was lost. Then the torrent of tears came.

And came.

“Deira . . . Deira . . . Deira . . .” she choked out in misery.

E
motion overwhelmed Ailinn, carrying her back to that distant morning in Clonmel when the dragonships blackened the River Suir. Her heart could no longer contain the anguish, and now it rushed forth and racked her through and through.

Time slipped into a void as Ailinn spent her grief. At long last she fell silent, tears yet
coursing over her cheeks, and she slowly became aware that Lyting still knelt beside her.

Ailinn lifted her face toward the heavens, her eyes
hot with tears, her voice strained.

“
‘Twas a fine spring morn when last I arose to greet an Irish dawn. Then all did blossom so beautifully to life — the dew clung upon the rose and the birds sang in the hedgerow.” Ailinn’s voice roughened. “But that day did die before the sun could reach its height. Now the petals have all fallen, and my heart is filled with thorns.”

Ailinn closed her hand over her heart, and, bowing her head, she spoke no more.

Lyting gazed solemnly ahead, plying his might to the oars, a welcome exertion, for the sheer physicality of the labor purchased him a calm that escaped him otherwise.

Ailinn. His concern welled. He first feared, after Deira
’s death, that Ailinn might descend into an abyss of despair, similar to the one that had entrapped her stepcousin. But Ailinn’s emotions ran high for a full day passing, scaling from anger to outrage, then descending to the depths of sorrow and soul-wringing grief, and finally mounting again to a burning defiance for all who had robbed her of those she had most cherished in life. Then late yestereve Ailinn withdrew into a shell of silence.

Since then her features possessed a new sharpness, and Lyting noted that whenever she regarded the Norsemen of the convoy,
‘twas with looks of icy disdain. Yet, her eyes smoldered with marked hostility whenever they alighted upon Rhiannon.

Skallagrim, heedful of Ailinn
’s moods, kept the two women separated, as now — Ailinn to the fore, Rhiannon to the rear, the chieftain sitting midship, his bulk dividing them. Lyting could feel Ailinn’s presence directly behind him, though she made not a sound.

Mayhap
Ailinn’s ire served her to the best advantage, Lyting reasoned, for as long as she directed her choler outwardly, ‘twould likely keep her from slipping into a downward spiral of melancholy. Lyting fixed his attention to the distance and his thoughts to Byzantium. They could not arrive at the gates of Miklagárd soon enough.

»«

Lyting heard Aïfor before he saw it. When the rapids came into view, ‘twas not the boiling, frothing waters and boulder-choked course that drew his eyes, but the narrow granite gorge compressing the great Dnieper between its high walls.

“
‘Ferocious,’ “ his kinsmen called it. How many memorial stones had he counted along the journey since Gotland, raised to those who had perished here? An ill portent?

Lyting spurned the thought lest he court a fate most dire into reality. His trust rested in God. Yet, though he embraced the cross fully, as he looked to the mist rising cloudlike between the scabrous ravine,
‘twas the image of Fenrir Wolf that sprang to mind, the beast’s jaws ready to devour any so bold as to venture there.

The convoy would not. But the passage overland held its own perils.
‘Twould require the entire day to make the portage around Aïfor — the morning alone to walk the captives and goods to the new departure point downriver. For that reason they had camped nearby last night, so that they might embark early, just after the break of dawn. Lyting spied the rugged shoreline, disliking the potential coverage offered by the many boulders and clusterings of trees there. The tall grasses on the plain would also afford opportunity to those of a mean set of mind this day.

As they rowed toward shore, Lyting briefly glimpsed Ailinn. He would not burden her by look or word with the foreboding he felt deep in his bone. Training his eyes ahead
, he braced himself for the trial of Aïfor.

»«

Ailinn waited while those of the guard vaulted from the ships and dispersed to search the surrounding area.

She knew from the procedure at past portages that these men belonged to an initial force that would remain behind with the ships. A second guard would escort the slaves and goods downriver. Thankfully, at this portage, Lyting was to be among the latter.

The detachment reappeared moments later, signaling for the fleet to proceed. The guardsmen then took up positions at regular intervals, forming a partition, their shields and axes at the ready, while the ships were off-loaded.

Ailinn rose, expecting Skallagrim to aid her ashore. Instead,
‘twas Lyting who waited to assist her.

His hands spanned her waist before she could gather a thought, and he lifted her weightless from the craft. As her body shifted against him, her hands instinctively went to his shoulders, and in so doing, brushed his bright hair with her fingertips.

Ailinn gazed upon the wound healing over his left brow, and the bruise marking his cheek, wrought in his struggle to save Deira. Her heart caught. For Lyting.

As he set her to the ground, she felt an urgency to speak to him, to express her gratitude for his selfless efforts to save her stepcousin, but he moved apart to help Rhiannon, and, instead, she found herself turning away.

“Ailinn. ‘Tis time.” Lyting’s voice fell soft behind her a moment later.

She knew he
must shackle her. Enduring Rhiannon’s presence, Ailinn lifted her cuffed arm for him. Rhiannon returned her gaze no less stonily.

Lyting vented a breath as he brought forth the familiar linkage.
“I am loathe to chain you, Ailinn. Believe that. Yet, it remains your best protection, as I have told you in the past. Should we come under attack, prostrate yourself on the ground at once and press close to the other women. Likely we will come under a hail of spears and arrows at the first. As long as the men of the convoy hold the victory, no harm from the tribesmen should befall you.”

Lyting affixed the chain to hers and Rhiannon
’s wrist irons, then led them to the rear of one of the files of women. With a second, longer chain he attached it, first to Rhiannon’s cuff, and then to the ankle iron of the last woman in the line. Ailinn suspected he might have done so to spare her, herself, from having to bear the chain’s encumbrance.

“
Remember all I have told you.” Lyting’s blue eyes grazed hers.

Again, Ailinn wished to speak to him, but he turned on his heel and returned to the ship to arm himself.

A small wave of panic broke through Ailinn as his features disappeared beneath his helmet and he took up his shield. At first she could not identify the source of her alarm. Then she realized, for all she had lost, she yet feared to lose more. She feared for Lyting.

“
Dia dhuit,”
she whispered. “God be with you.”

»«

The hours passed slowly, uneventfully, each man taut with readiness, keen to every sound, every bird’s cry, every breeze that sighed through the grasses.

Early along the passage, Lyting regretted not bringing his bow and a quiver full of arrows, wishing to meet the tribesmen on their own terms.
‘Twas their tactic to keep to a distance, launching their arrows and javelins before moving in for close combat. Then ‘twould be mainly a contest between their curving, single-edged sabers and the Norsemen’s axes and double-edged broadswords.

But the nomads
of the Steppe wielded two other novelties, deadly metal-headed clubs and ropes with their ends tied into what the Franks called “laces” — nooses to snare their prey.

The sea of shimmering grasses swayed
with the breeze. Unseen birds called out in trills and “wheets” and many a “ki-ki-ki.” Their notes were lost for a time to the thunderous roar of Aïfor as the convoy progressed on foot around it. Just past the rapids two black-necked cranes burst into flight from coverage, startling everyone as they bolted upward and winged away. But nothing more dramatic transpired, and at length they reached their destination.

Mayhap
God afforded them a respite this day, Lyting thought as he removed his helmet and wiped his brow. Still, in the hours to come, the convoy would be at its most vulnerable. The guard must divide itself again, leaving a watch to protect the captives and goods, while the rest returned to rejoin the others and transport the boats. His own lot fell with those making the return, as did Hakon’s. Skallagrim, however, would remain here.

Lyting refreshed himself with a cool draught of water, then
looked to Ailinn where she settled herself now among the other women. He despised leaving her. She glanced up at him of a sudden, as she so often did, as though she could tangibly feel the pull of his gaze.

Tracing her features to heart
’s memory — unsure of what he read in her eyes — he rehelmeted himself and departed with the others.

»«

Dire portents bristled along Lyting’s spine the entire journey back to the ships. But the force arrived without incident and found all aright. The men of the first guard were fairly bored for their idleness, having met with no greater excitement than the appearance of a stocky little water vole from its burrow on the bank.

After a brief respite they set
themselves to the task of transporting the boats. Agreeing upon a rotation of turns for carrying the craft and keeping the watch, they commenced their rigors.

The sun shone brilliant overhead against a sweep of blue sky as endless as the plain. The men shouldering the boats quickly grew hot beneath their toils, while those among the guard were tested anew as the sun
’s glare began to play tricks of light over the rippling grasses.

Dark spots moved over the golden plain. Cloud shadows, Lyting told himself. Surely, horsemen could not conceal themselves there.

His apprehensions lingered as the spots continued to appear and disappear through the wavering grasses. Still, the birds sang heartily and even the insects buzzed noisily, as if to proclaim all was well.

»«

The hours passed slowly, unremarkably. As Lyting shouldered the boat with Hakon and two others, he estimated they should soon reach the embarkment point.

Ailinn
’s lovely face flowed to mind, and he felt a renewing rush of energy. He prayed she fared well and grew anxious to see her with his own eyes.

Likewise, he was eager to be rid of the boat and don his mail shirt once more. It had been necessary to remove the ringed corselet, lest the weight of the boat drive the metal links
straight into his flesh. It lay at hand, just inside the craft, along with his bow, arrows, and shield. Though he wore a padded, leather tunic, he felt nude without the mail. ‘Twas only a brief distance now, he told himself, and centered his thoughts on Ailinn.

He would speak with her this eve, comfort her however
needed. She might reject his efforts, he realized. But he could not change the blood that flowed in his veins. By birth he was and ever would be Norse.

Lyting
’s thoughts snapped back to the present. Unsure what had netted him there, he admonished himself for having allowed his attention to drift.

His ear strained. For sound. All had frozen in unnatural silence.

Lyting steeled. He began to look to the guard when his vision blurred, a javelin thudding into the side of the boat, directly before his eyes. The shaft shivered with the impact as a clamor arose off to his left — a wail of horn followed by fierce outcries and howlings akin to those of wolves.

“
Petchenegs!” someone shouted.

Lyting and Hakon dropped to their knees with the boat, arrows hissing about their heads, several finding their home in the wood. Lyting flattened himself to the ground and quickly shifted around the end of the ship to the op
posite side. Hakon joined him seconds later.

Coming up into a low crouch, Lyting waited for the rain of arrows and spears to lessen, then snatched for his shield inside the ship. Covering himself, he retrieved his bow and quiver.

Notching an arrow, he eased back to the end of the ship. The assault overhead abated, and a horn wailed a second time. With that a trilling went up among the Petchenegs, and they advanced on the Norsemen.

Hakon leaned against the boat and freed his ax from his belt.
“This is how we deal with Petchenegs, monk.” He flashed the ax’s smiling blade. Hakon then flung himself from the protection of the craft and joined the fight.

Lyting
’s eye drew to a Petcheneg arrow that had fallen fallow of its mark nearby.

“
Mete for mete,” he reaffirmed his intent to reciprocate in kind, using their own techniques to advantage and then some of his own.

Grabbing a fistful of arrows, Lyting bolted from coverage and stabbed them into the ground next to where he knelt. Renocking his arrow, he drew on the string, marked an approaching horseman, and released. The shaft burred the distance and found its home. Before the man hit the ground, Lyting let fly another arrow and another, continuing in rapid
succession until he had exhausted his supply and felled numerous horsemen among their onrushing front.

A shout of elation went up among the Norse. Invigorated, they surged forward to engage the foe, their axes whirring and hewing.

Lyting cast his bow into the boat and grabbed for his shield. Turning back, he caught sight of two Petchenegs as they spurred their horses forward, targeting him, anger chiseled in their faces.

Lyting loosed his sword from its scabbard as the first descended, snatching up a lace and whirling it overhead. Lyting dodged, but the horseman proved agile. Like a raven, he swooped down
— black-haired and swarthy, his hard eyes gleaming like pebbles of jet.

The lace caught Lyting high about the shoulders as he sought to duck it. Immediately he gripped hold of the outstretched rope and yanked the tribesman from his horse. The man rolled, reaching for his club, but Lyting gave him no quarter and ran him straight through.

The second horseman closed in, his sword raised and his teeth bared, his eyes filled with fury. Lyting pivoted to confront him, sweeping up his broadsword to block the downward stroke of the tribesman’s saber. Steel bit steel, refracting the sun with a blinding flash of light.