Odin's Shadow (Sons Of Odin Book 1) (9th Century Viking Romance) (5 page)

Chapter 6

Selia had never been on a moving ship before. Being a non-swimmer, she had a natural aversion to the open sea, and she gripped the side of the dragonship with both hands as the prow cut through the water with surprising speed. The wind whipped her hair around her face and she longed to braid it, but couldn't bring herself to let go of the side long enough to do so.

Alrik had the men erect a small tent for Selia for her to be able to relieve herself in privacy, as they wouldn't stop until nightfall. She could climb in there now, to rest and try to get the knots out of her hair, but Ulfrik had warned her that since she wasn't accustomed to being on a ship she might sicken if she stayed in the tent too long. So she kept her eyes fixed on the horizon as he had suggested.

The vessel contained no hull for transporting goods as her father's ship had. Instead, each man possessed a large sea chest which served both as a seat for rowing as well as a place to store his weapons and personal cache of treasures. Before they left, Alrik had rummaged through his own chest and pulled out a cloak for Selia. It was made of felted wool in a beautiful deep blue, lined with white fox fur and trimmed with bands of silk brocade. He fastened it around her shoulders and seemed pleased with how it looked on her. Selia had pushed down another flash of jealousy as she thanked him. Who had the cloak been meant for? Some other woman he was courting at home, or his daughter?

Alrik gave her firm instructions to stay as far away from the men as possible. Selia wasn’t sure if he simply wanted her out from under their feet, or sought to guard her from them. If it was the latter, he needn't bother; the men seemed in awe of her and looked away quickly if she met their gaze. Not one of them spoke to Alrik about his new wife. Odd, after the good-natured ribbing of the night before.

He stood at the helm of the dragonship, arms crossed, deep in conversation with Ulfrik and the bald man, Olaf. Selia studied the brothers as the wind blew their hair back. Ulfrik's beard was short, cropped close to his face, and his jaw was slightly wider than Alrik's. She had noticed a small scar through one of Ulfrik’s eyebrows, cutting it in two. His nose was narrower, his frame a bit leaner than his brother’s. Other than that they looked remarkably alike.

The difference was in their presentation. Alrik stood with bold self-assurance, his size intensifying his immense physical presence rather than causing it. He walked with a swagger and spoke with the conviction of one who expected to be obeyed. And the ship of Finngalls deferred to him without question.

Even Ulfrik, his brother and equal, seemed not to dare defy him. He had obviously been against Alrik's marriage, had recognized Selia’s fear and unwillingness, but in the end had not tried to prevent it. Indeed, he had restrained her from running and had all but handed her over to his brother despite his own misgivings. And then Selia, only a few hours later, had blithely confided a secret to the man that could have dangerous consequences.

She should have known better than to drink strong ale on an empty stomach. With her eyes on her new husband, she pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. Alrik was either a very important man or simply
thought
he was, but regardless might not be pleased to learn he had married a peasant. He was so volatile, so unpredictable. Keeping him happy would be wise.

But she needed to be able to converse with him. Whenever he spoke to her, she took in the words she knew, placed them in context with his tone and facial expression, then made a guess as to his meaning. But what if she guessed incorrectly? She didn’t want to do anything to bring his wrath upon her. And even more frustrating than not understanding much of what he said, was not having the words to explain herself to him.

Above the wind, she heard the Finngalls calling out to each other and she understood one word out of every three or four. She had to learn the language as quickly as possible. To do that she would need Ulfrik's help. Although a few of the other men also spoke Irish, he seemed to be the most fluent. He had already shown her a bit of kindness, and he didn't stare at her the way other men did.

Surely he would be willing to teach her. Whether or not her husband would allow it was the more important question. She would have to tread very carefully to ensure Alrik wouldn't think she had an ulterior interest in his brother.

Selia made her way toward them. She squeezed past the two horses that pawed at the deck with nervous hooves, keeping her gaze lowered as she passed the men. Ulfrik saw her first and motioned to Alrik, who turned as she approached.

His scowl looked like a thundercloud. "Didn't I tell you to stay out of the way?"

Selia ignored her impulse to run back to her tent. Instead she looked Alrik directly in the eye and forced herself to smile. It worked, surprisingly enough; his face relaxed and he chuckled. Eithne had been right about that after all.

Selia turned to Ulfrik. "Tell him I want to be a good wife to him, so I need to learn Norse. Ask him if it would be all right if you taught me."

Alrik smirked down at Selia as his brother translated. "You don't have to speak to be a good wife, little one."

Ulfrik appeared hesitant to translate this, but she understood Alrik's meaning from the way he was looking at her. She flushed. But then Alrik waved his hand, effectively dismissing them. "Teach her, brother. Just stay where I can see you."

Selia spent the remainder of the day with Ulfrik, on the deck in front of her little tent. Wary of his brother's jealousy, Ulfrik sat as far from her as he could while still being able to hear her over the wind.

He was a good choice of teachers, patient with her even when she lost focus, and Selia liked his dry sense of humor. She found she enjoyed his company. But it was impossible to tell if Ulfrik enjoyed the lessons himself or if he was indifferent, since he revealed very little emotion on his face. So unlike his brother.

The hours flew by as Selia willed herself to soak up every word he spoke. They had begun with simple things but moved on quickly to more complex thoughts and difficult sentence structures. It was as though Ulfrik also understood the urgency of her request to improve her Norse.

However, the more tired she became, the more her mind wandered away from the lessons, and for the third time she found herself snapping back to attention. Had he noticed? Feigning a headache, she closed her eyes for a moment and rubbed her temples. When she opened them again Ulfrik was watching her.

"We should stop for today," he said in Irish.

She shook her head. "Speak Norse to me," she reminded him. “I must learn.”

"Selia . . . how is it that you spoke some Norse already? You did not live close enough to Dubhlinn to have heard much of it."

"Ainnileas taught me. My brother," she explained. He had been a terrible teacher, nothing like Ulfrik. "He would go to Dubhlinn with our father and whenever he learned a new word he would teach me."

"But I spoke to your brother. I'm sure he did not know as much Norse as you do."

Selia made a face. "That's because he doesn't remember anything. I would make him tell me as soon as he came home because he would forget by the next day."

"But you would not?"

"No," she said in Norse. "I remember all."

"'Everything,’" he corrected. "'I remember everything.'" Ulfrik studied her as he continued in Irish. "What language was your brother speaking to you the night we came to your house? It did not sound like anything I have ever heard."

"That isn't a real language—Ainnileas and I made it up when we were children."

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing." Selia gazed out at the horizon. She liked Ulfrik, but had again said too much. He seemed to have a way of drawing things out of her. "He said goodbye."

He scrutinized her as though he knew she was lying. She changed the subject, switching back to her stilted Norse.

"And you, Ulfrik? Why you speak Irish and Alrik not?" Other than a few commands, and words related to trading, Alrik's grasp of the language seemed very limited.

"I guess I pay attention more than he does."

"What means, 'pay attention?'"

"To listen, to give focus to something. As you're doing now."

She nodded. "Ulfrik. What means 'trifle?'"

"Trifle?"

"Yes. 'Don't trifle with me, child.' It means lie?"

"In a way, I suppose." He looked out at the water. "Alrik said that to you?"

"Yes. I would not trifle." The accusation still smarted. "He thinks . . ." she trailed off, not knowing the correct Norse words, and finished in Irish. "He thought I was trying to trick him into marrying me."

Ulfrik did not seem surprised at this.

"You think I trifle?"

"No. And he married you anyway, didn't he?"

Selia was unconvinced. Her gaze wandered over to where her husband stood in conversation with several of his men. Alrik clapped a large hand on a man's shoulder, laughing, and her breath caught in her throat at the sudden flash of white teeth. It would be much easier to despise him if he wasn't so handsome.

She knew very little about her husband, but what she had learned so far was frightening. He was arrogant, moody; possessive. He had no respect for any opinion other than his own, and seemed to think of Selia as a prize or a plaything, not a person. Not a wife. And worst of all, he was a murderer-he had killed a priest in cold blood, without any apparent remorse, and laughed about it with his men.

Niall was a strict but gentle father who had protected her from the wickedness of men. Not even for a king's ransom would he have considered a man such as Alrik Ragnarson for his daughter. Why then, when she looked at her husband, did her body grow warm and her belly squirm with excitement? She had found pleasure in his touch this morning. She desired him even now.

That bothered her more than the rest of it, more than being taken from her family, more even than the murder of Father Coinneach. That was the worst; despite her knowledge of what kind of man Alrik was, she
wanted
him. What sort of wickedness must then reside in her own soul?

Her father and Eithne had been right to keep her secluded at home. There was something truly wrong with her.

Something perhaps out of her control.

Chapter 7

As the light changed and the shadow of the mast lengthened across the deck of the ship, Ulfrik informed Selia they would soon stop for the night. Her stomach had been rumbling with hunger for quite some time. But a moment later a shout arose from one of the men who pointed out to sea with excitement. There was another ship on the water.

The energy of the crew changed immediately as they all looked to Alrik in anticipation of his orders. His gaze scanned the ship for a moment. Apparently satisfied, he nodded, giving the order to pursue.

A fierce shout arose in unison from the men, a terrifying battle cry, and Selia cringed at the sound. Ulfrik turned to her, his cheeks as flushed with excitement as the rest of them. So he was capable of emotion after all.

"When we reach the ship, you must stay in your tent. Don't look out. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and he left her to join the others.

The men turned the sail to pursue the ship, then everyone threw open their sea chests to pull out their battle raiment. Most of the men donned only a simple leather helmet and a thick tunic that appeared to be padded. Alrik, Ulfrik, and Olaf, however, had metal helmets with eyeholes and a nose guard, as well as mail tunics.

Alrik turned to look at Selia, just once, and she took a step backward at the sight of him—a Finngall warlord in full battle array, with his sword at his hip and his axe over his shoulder, preparing to plunder a ship and most likely murder its crew.

She had a momentary sense of recognition, as though remembering a dream. An icy wave of fear shot through her body and she felt an overwhelming urge to run away. But there was nowhere to go other than overboard.

They were approaching the other ship at a shocking speed. It was fat and solid, a direct contrast to Alrik's lean, predatory dragonship. Most likely a merchant vessel such as the one her father owned, the crew of that ship would be sailors, not warriors, and completely unprepared to fight the fierce Vikingers.

She was wrong. Sailors or not, the men from the merchant ship were not going to sit and wait for the dragonship to overtake them. One of the Finngalls cried out—a word she didn't know—and they all looked upward and raised their shields. She looked up as well and saw what appeared to be dozens of sticks flying through the air. Why would the sailors be throwing sticks at them?

Arrows.
She crouched down and covered her head. Seconds later she felt an arm go around her just before she heard the sound of something thumping against wood, directly above her body.

Selia opened her eyes. A shield blocked her from the arrows, and she recognized the forearm around her waist as Alrik's. He picked her up and deposited her in the stern of the ship, with the rail at her back.

The look on his face bespoke fury as he gave his men orders to ready their bows. They notched their arrows, awaiting Alrik's signal. He called it out, and the Finngalls let their arrows fly to rain down upon the merchant ship.

Alrik turned back to Selia, his eyes glittering behind his helmet, as she shrank against the side of the ship. He cursed as he set the massive shield in front of her.

When she made no move to reach for it, he grabbed her arm, nearly pulling it out of its socket. "Hold this, and do not move from here." Then he left her.

The shield was made of a thick slab of painted wood, with a metal band around the perimeter. It was too heavy for her to carry—she couldn't have moved from the spot even if she wanted to. There were two arrows sticking out of the shield on the other side, and she tried to pull one out with which to defend herself if necessary. But they were sunk deeply into the wood. Those arrows would have killed her if Alrik hadn't blocked them. But now that she had his shield, he had nothing to protect himself.

Should she even care if he died? His death would free her, after all.

She cowered behind the shield as another volley of arrows rained down upon the deck. The ship lurched against a wave, causing a loose arrow to roll close to Selia. She grabbed it, but found she couldn't hold the shield upright with only one hand. She wedged the arrow between her knees where she could reach it quickly if she had to.

The dragonship pitched again, harder this time, and she nearly lost her grip on the shield. She peered over the top and saw they were alongside the merchant ship. The Finngalls had thrown grappling hooks onto the larger ship to board it.

The merchant ship sat higher in the water, and she spotted several of its crew members above. They had dark hair and dusky complexions, and were speaking a language she had never heard before. But the fear in their voices was unmistakable. One of them made eye contact with her, then shouted something to the others. She ducked back behind the shield with her heart pounding in her ears.

There was an explosion of noise and movement as the battle began. The very air seemed to shake with the clanging of metal and the thudding of shields, along with the grunts, curses, and screaming of men. The screams were the worst—although Selia refused to look at the carnage, her imagination provided the horrible image of men being run through with a sword or hacked to pieces with an axe. Her trembling hands caused the shield to rattle against the deck of the ship.

Through her haze of fear she thought she heard Alrik call her name, and the urgency in his voice coaxed her to again peek over the edge of the shield. He was on the other ship, swinging his axe like a madman. Selia felt the bile rise in her throat as he brought the axe down on the shoulder of a dark-headed man, nearly cleaving him in two. The man's body crumpled onto the deck. Alrik put his foot on the man's chest and freed the weapon with a sickening jerk, then dashed to the side of the ship and threw his leg over to clamber down.

"
Run,
" he yelled. She was confused for a moment until she saw one of the men from the merchant ship had already climbed over and stalked toward her with determination, gripping a dagger in his hand.

She screamed, dropping the shield, and ran as fast as she could in her husband’s direction. He was back on the dragonship, and she was only a dozen steps away from him when someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her off her feet. She was still carrying the arrow, and she stabbed blindly with it, feeling an unexpected sense of satisfaction as the point made contact with the man's thigh. He yelled at her, jerking the arrow from her hand, and threw it onto the deck of the ship.

The blade of the dagger pricked against her throat, and she stopped struggling. Her captor called out to Alrik in a threatening voice. The man probably did not intend to kill her, but instead to hold her hostage as a way to free his ship and the remaining lives of his crew. Unless he panicked and pressed too hard with the dagger. Selia held still, barely breathing.

Alrik stopped mid-stride with the axe over his head. "Do not move," he said to her. His voice sounded ragged, as though his fury made it difficult to speak. The pressure of the dagger bit deeper into her flesh, and she knew she couldn't move even if she wanted to. The sailor spoke to Alrik again, louder this time, and there was fear in his voice.

Alrik nodded at the man, then bent as if to lay his axe on the deck. The tension of the blade against Selia's throat eased somewhat. Then with a movement so quick Selia would have missed it if she had blinked, Alrik pulled something from his boot and threw it at them.

There was a rush of wind, then the awful sound of metal sinking into flesh, just above her head. The man's body shuddered behind her. He staggered backward a few steps before he collapsed onto the deck of the ship, dragging her with him.

Alrik reached them in three long strides. He pulled her free, forcing her head back to peer down at her throat. "Are you hurt?"

Selia shook her head. She saw the man out of the corner of her eye, lying on the deck with a dagger protruding from his face. He was still alive, making a gurgling noise she knew she would never be able to extract from her memory. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and cover her ears until the battle was over.

But Alrik wiped at her neck, rubbing a droplet of blood between his fingers where the blade had nicked her, and bellowed with incoherent fury as he grabbed his axe. He ran for the dying man, then with one brutal swing chopped off his head. He held the severed head up by the hair and roared, causing the Finngalls—still fighting on the merchant ship—to shriek out their battle cry.

Blood spurted from the headless body as the dead man's hand twitched against the deck of the ship. The foul stink of his blood and excrement filled Selia's nostrils.

Her field of vision narrowed and faded to black, with the war cry of thirty Vikingers ringing in her head.

She awoke to a scraping sound, long and persistent, vibrating the floorboards of the ship beneath her. Judging by the voices and laughter outside, the battle seemed to be over. Had she fainted? She had never fainted in her life, but perhaps witnessing one’s husband lop a man’s head off was a legitimate reason to do so.

Would she ever become accustomed to the violence of these Finngalls?

She peeked outside her tent and saw the men loading numerous large vats from the merchant ship onto the dragonship. The Finngalls had rigged up ropes to lower the unwieldy vats onto the ship, where several men waited to roll and push them into the middle. One of the ropes slipped, causing the vat they were lowering to hit the deck with a thud. The horses, already skittish from the smells of battle, reared away as the vat cracked open, spilling its blood-red contents over the planks of the ship. A vision of the foreigner's spurting blood arose in Selia's mind, and she averted her gaze with a shudder.

Wine. The merchant ship had been carrying wine. Those men had left their wives and families to trade their goods in Ireland, but instead had found a brutal death at the hands of Alrik's band of Finngalls. The families of the foreigners would be awaiting the return of their loved ones, as she herself had waited for Niall's return from a long voyage. But these men would never make it home. Their final resting place would be at the bottom of the sea, and no one would ever learn of their fate.

Selia watched as Alrik supervised the transfer of cargo from one ship to the other. He was covered with blood—the front of his mail shirt was slick with it, his face and beard spattered with it, and even the ends of his hair appeared to have been dipped in red. There was blood everywhere, the men slipping in it; part of the reason they were having so much trouble with the vats.

She counted to determine how many had fallen to the foreign sailors' weapons. Then, unbelievingly, she counted again. All of the Finngalls had survived. Although a few of them had a bandage here and there, no one appeared to have more than a superficial wound.

No wonder her people lived in dread of the Finngalls' return each year. The crew of the merchant ship had been well armed and prepared to defend themselves against attack. They had outnumbered the Finngalls two to one. Yet they had died, every one of them, and all of Alrik's men had lived. Clearly the Finngalls were not only physically larger and stronger than other men, but were also much more skilled in battle. How could a village hope to ever defend itself from such invaders?

And she was married to the leader of this war band. A man who could frighten her beyond belief, yet the next moment look at her in a way that made her lose all reason. He had saved her life twice today, once from the arrows and once from the man with the dagger. Yet he had been the one who had put her life in danger in the first place by ordering his men to attack the merchant ship.

Should she be angry with Alrik, or grateful?

Selia wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. Alrik noticed the movement and met her gaze. His lips curved in a flinty smile. He was on the far end of the ship, but even from that distance she could sense his restless energy, could feel his desire for her. She stared at her blood-covered husband, and a sudden, unexpected surge of heat coursed through her body, as though answering his call. It felt like the very flames of hell.

They beached the ship in another deserted cove. The men knew what to do with very little direction from Alrik; several went in search of firewood while another unpacked dried meat from the ship. While one man busied himself with the makings of a fire, another cleaned a string of fish they had caught earlier that afternoon. Others took buckets of seawater and scrubbed the blood from the deck of the ship. It all seemed very efficient to Selia, more accustomed to men who were helpless when it came to basic housekeeping tasks.

Alrik had perched her on a large boulder away from the men, with orders not to move from the spot. She felt rather like a dog, sitting obediently and waiting for its master, but did as she was told. He would occasionally glance up from what he was doing as if to assure himself she was still there, and each time a surge of excitement would course through her veins.

Was that the human equivalent of wagging her tail?

Then Alrik and his men stripped off their clothes, and dove into the sea. They bobbed up, laughing and splashing each other in the moonlight, more like playful little boys than grown men. But the smoky fire of the merchant ship burning in the distance behind them was a harsh reminder that these boys were deadly.

Many of the men, Alrik included, had curious dark drawings on their torsos. Were they tattoos? Some of the men were nearly covered with the markings but she could only see one on Alrik, a small mark on his chest. She would have to look at it later when they were alone.

The men washed themselves, scrubbed the blood from their clothes, and finally climbed back onto the ship to lay their clothing out to dry. Selia averted her gaze. Did that mean she would be surrounded by a group of nearly-naked men tonight, wrapped only in their cloaks? But the Finngalls pulled out a change of clothes, clean and dry, from their sea chests. These men were prepared for the possibility of being drenched in blood on occasion.

Scrubbed clean, Alrik returned to her carrying two cups of wine. Selia was a bit ashamed at how much she enjoyed the way the tight muscles of his thighs moved under his breeches as he walked. He had a glint in his eye as he handed her a cup, and she blushed.