Lord of Hawkfell Island

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Epilogue

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

LORD OF HAWKFELL ISLAND

 

A
Jove
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
1993
by
Catherine Coulter

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-1415-2

 

A
JOVE
BOOK®

Jove
Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Jove
and the “
J
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: May, 2002

Titles by Catherine Coulter

 

THE EDGE
THE COVE
THE MAZE
THE TARGET
BEYOND EDEN
IMPULSE
FALSE PRETENSES
MAD JACK
ROSEHAVEN
THE WILD BARON
THE WYNDHAM LEGACY
THE NIGHTINGALE LEGACY
THE VALENTINE LEGACY
LORD OF HAWKFELL ISLAND
LORD OF RAVEN'S PEAK
LORD OF FALCON RIDGE
THE SHERBROOKE BRIDE
THE HELLION BRIDE
THE HEIRESS BRIDE

 

Write me and tell me how you liked
Lord of Hawkfell Island
at
P.O. Box 17,
Mill Valley, CA 94942
or email me at
[email protected].

To My Grandmother Schatz—

 

She taught me to read when I
was three years old and told
me “Tricker” stories.
She was one great lady, blessed
with a beautiful soprano voice, a
wonderful imagination, and she loved me
bunches.

The halt can ride, the handless can herd,
the deaf can fight with spirit;
A blind man is better than a corpse on a pyre—
A corpse is no good to anyone.

 

—The Hávamál is a ninth century
compilation of earlier poems
consisting of sayings attributed
to Ódin.

H
E PLACED HIS
finger to his lips as he turned to his two men. They'd crossed the plank over the deep ravine as quietly as they could, though the need for their absolute silence wasn't necessary now for lightning streaked through the night sky and with it came the booming thunder, louder and more powerful than the gods' own battles. The utter whiteness in the sky, then the shaking of the earth was as steady as the torrential rain that blanketed the sky and the earth, coming down so thickly it was difficult to see two feet ahead. But he knew exactly what he was doing. Everything was going as planned. He gave a small salute to Hafter and Sculla behind him, and he smiled, a fearsome smile.

Einar was within the fortress, he had to be. Rorik had been told that he was by his own man inside the fortress. The message Aslak had sent was only a week old. Aye, Einar had to be here, even though that witch had yelled to him from the fortress ramparts that he was in Dublin, at the king's compound, aye, that damned witch who was probably his whore, who
was lying, trying to protect him.

He and his men reached the small rear door, thick and stout, able to withstand a battering ram for a very long time, but it would be open, for Aslak had sworn it would be.

It was. He eased open the door, then turned slightly to wave his men to move in closer behind him. They moved silently, pressing close.

He hunkered down, his knife drawn, and eased through the opening. Suddenly, behind him he heard a man shout, “Take him! He has nowhere to go! Don't kill him!”

Rorik lurched back to see three men coming across the wide plank still spread across the ravine, swords drawn.

He was seized with madness and blood lust. In front of him were a dozen men, armed and ready, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't retreat, not now, even though he knew he alone could kill the three men who'd crossed the ravine. No, he must go forward. One of the men in front of him was Einar, a man he'd never seen. He yelled his name, calling him a coward, a murderer, taunting him to come and fight him.

“Einar! Einar!”

The garrison warriors remained together, pressing closely, drawing nearer, their shields and swords raised. He growled his fury. He shrieked his rage to the sky. They were hiding him; they were protecting Einar.

Rorik raised his sword over his head, and like a
berserker
lunged into the mass of men. His blood pounded madly through him. His brain saw only the frenzy of killing. He hacked his way wildly through the warriors that surrounded him. Einar must be here. He was hiding, using his men as a shield to protect him, but
Rorik would find him. Aye, and he'd send his sword through his throat. He heard a scream of pain, then another and another. He paid no heed.

“Einar!”

Again, he heard that same man shout from behind him, “Don't kill him!”

Suddenly, he was grabbed by a dozen hands and jerked down to his knees on the muddy ground. He struck out with his sword, dropped his shield, and used his knife, carving a slice from one man's leg. The hands eased in that instant, and he was up, his knife in one hand, his blood-covered sword in the other. He yelled at them, cursing, his eyes demon-red in the thick sheeting rain, deadened to anything save his mad lust for revenge. Thunder shook the earth beneath their feet, and the men jumped back. Then they formed a circle around him, always moving, first to the right, then to the left, adjusting as he shifted his position, always balancing on the balls of his feet. He yelled at them, calling them cowards and worse, sons of whores.

Gunleik, the garrison commander, stood a bit behind the circle of men, studying the warrior. His two men were already prisoners, both of them wounded, but not gravely, and that through happenstance. Both men were brave and strong, one of them nearly seven feet tall, and he'd fallen like an oak tree when Ivar had struck him over the head with the blunt side of an axe. The other had gone down when he'd slipped in the mud and four men had held him down, cuffing him with his sword handle. But this man with his wild eyes and his cunning, this man wouldn't give up, nor would he be tricked with guile, but still, Gunleik refused to kill him.

Four of his own men were down, screaming in pain. He yelled out again, “Keep back! Don't kill him!”

But his men were angry. They wanted the man's blood. He couldn't let this continue. His men would kill the warrior soon and he wouldn't be able to stop it.

He drew his knife from his belt. Slowly, with great deliberation, he raised it and calmly aimed. When the warrior turned to face him, the knife flew from his fingers, a silver blur in the heavy rain. It struck him high in the fleshy part of his right shoulder. It hadn't struck bone, for it wasn't meant to, just thick muscle, which was bad enough.

Rorik heaved and jerked backward with the force of the blow.

He shuddered, but didn't fall.

He screamed and lunged at another man, but he was slower now, his mortality finally eroding his warrior's resolve, weakening the iron hold he had on his body.

He stumbled, then regained his balance, standing within the center of the circle now, still slashing his sword in a wide arc around him.

“Move away from him!” Gunleik shouted. “Nay, Emund, keep back! I order you, don't kill him!” It couldn't last much longer now. He was a man, after all, he was mortal. His eyes would blur from the pain, his powerful arm would numb, his guts would cramp, and he would fall.

Rorik felt no pain, only a sharp cold that seemed to surge through his shoulder. He didn't understand it, but it didn't bother him—yet. Oddly, he felt strangely apart from himself for a few moments. Suddenly a woman broke through the circle of men. She stared at him, at the knife stuck through his shoulder, its handle glistening in the rain, but still Rorik stood straight and swung his sword in a powerful arc, the knife in his other hand just as deadly to those who ventured close. She looked as if she were terrified. But if she was, why
was she here? Why was she staring at him? Why was she coming closer?

He watched her as she slipped between two men and came to the fore. He realized it was the same woman who had lied to him, the black-haired witch, Einar's whore.

“Mirana! Get back!”

It was the man's voice, the man who'd thrown his knife into his flesh, the man who'd yelled at the warriors not to kill him, but Rorik saw that she paid the man no heed. Slowly, her hand outstretched, she walked toward him. One man tried to stop her, but she shook off his hand, paying him no attention. Was she mad? Did she believe him on the point of death? Did she believe him no longer man enough to kill?

Rorik stared at her, a witch, aye, she must be an Irish witch, her thick hair black as a man's dead heart, plastered against her head, making her face a death mask, and she had no fear of him, nothing showed in her white rain-streaked face. He stared at her outstretched hand, as white as her face. She was come to take him to Valhalla. She was a Valkyrie then. Nay, that couldn't be right. A Valkyrie was all white and blond and solid, not slight and skinny like this girl. She was mortal, she had to be—all that black hair streaming down her shoulders, over her breasts, aye, she was mortal and his enemy. He could kill her if he could but reach her.

He slowed, still staring at her, unable to look away from her, for something about her drew him, held him. He looked at her mouth, blue with cold, and heard the words she spoke, but he didn't understand them. No, all he felt was a deadening weakness that was twisting through him, and he was caught within it, as an insect would be in a spider's web. It was slowing him,
holding him still now, and he hated it, knowing that it was crushing his very soul. It was defeating him, destroying what made Rorik Haraldsson a man and warrior, and alive. He couldn't breathe. He knew a knife was in his shoulder, he saw the silver of its blade sunk nearly to its hilt into his flesh, the whiteness of its bone handle. Weakness swept over him, pulled at his arms, gripped him hard, made his legs weak as a woman's.

The witch with the soft gentle voice said, “Put down the sword. You are injured. None will harm you. I swear it. Give me the sword.” And she held her hands out to him, so small her hands, the wrists so slight he could break them easily, very easily.

He frowned at her for she was still there, standing in front of him, unheeding of the rain, unheeding of the fact that he could cleave her apart. Those damned hands of hers still stretched toward him. He wanted to kill her. He wanted her white throat between his hands.

“Come, put down the sword.”

He shook his head, took a step toward her, his sword raised. Then, very slowly, he sank to his knees. He stared at the muddy ground and felt the cold of the pounding rain and the air settle onto his body like a heavy shroud. He fell forward on his face then lurched to his side. He felt the coldness of the sucking mud to his very soul. It was the relentless cold of failure. He'd failed, there was naught else to do but die.