Storm Maiden (45 page)

Dag met Eliisil’s eyes. Dared he trust the
other man to see to Fiona’s safety? His heart urged him to forget
Sigurd and his kin and go after Fiona. His mind reminded him of his
duty. Ellisil might not be able to convince Sigurd to forgo
torching the ship, but Dag felt he had a good chance of it. Even
though he meant to leave them, he owed his people, and he would
respect himself less if he failed to aid them in this crisis.

“Go after her,” he said to Ellisil. “She
rides to a
shieling
beyond the eastern ridge.” Then to
Sigurd he said, “I would be pleased to drink at your hearth,
jarl.”

Fiona reined in her mount and surveyed the
hillside, straining her eyes in the deepening twilight. She had
some idea where the
shieling
stood, but feared to miss it in
the dark. If she did, she might ride in circles all night among
these frost-covered hills.

A wolf howled in the distance, and fear
prickled down her spine. She had been saved from rape and certain
death, but her future was by no means assured. Once she reached the
shieling,
she must wait there for Dag, hoping Sigurd did not
decide to detain his brother.

Fiona sighed. Despite her frustration, she
understood why Dag had remained behind. He was the only one who
could reason with Sigurd, the only one who could sort out the
disaster which had befallen Engvakkirsted.

But what if Sigurd took Dag prisoner and
prevented him from leaving? A tremor of fear made her stiffen on
her mount, and the horse started at her sudden movement. Fiona
eased her grip on the reins and spoke soothing words. As she leaned
forward on the animal’s neck, a shape—lighter than the surrounding
landscape—caught her eye. The
shieling!

Fiona heaved a sigh of relief. She had
almost missed the small building, situated as it was in a hollow.
She urged the mare toward the shelter. Another wolf howled, closer
this time. The horse snorted and tossed her head in alarm.

Fiona calmed the horse, then guided her
mount near the small timber structure and dismounted. She winced as
the sharp rocks of the hillside dug into her bare feet and gingerly
led her horse to the
shieling.
There was a lean-to built
next to it. Fiona settled the horse into the flimsy shelter, then
opened the door to the main building.

Pitch darkness met her eyes. Shivering, she
felt her way into the room. She stumbled over the fire pit and
banged her knee on a raised platform at one side of the chamber.
Her outstretched hands encountered musty furs and blankets on the
platform. At least she had a place to sleep. Now for some food.

A thorough search of the rest of the
dwelling yielded utensils and implements for cooking, but no food
stores. Fiona gritted her teeth at her growling stomach and climbed
onto the bedshelf. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

It was no use. She had not eaten anything
since the forenoon hence, and her hunger would not let her rest.
What she would not give for a piece of fish or bread! A sudden
thought came to her, and she sat up so quickly she hit her head on
the sloping ceiling.

Dag would not have set off without
provisions—there must be a supply pack on the horse. Barely
controlling her excitement, she climbed off the bedshelf and
proceeded cautiously to the door. Outside, it felt even colder, and
Fiona shivered as she entered the lean-to. The horse knickered a
greeting and allowed her to feel her way along its shaggy neck. Her
hands found the pack behind the saddle and frantically
searched.

Success! Not only had Dag thought to bring
bread and some dried meat, there was a full skin of water as well.
Fiona clutched the precious food stores to her chest and moved past
the horse. As she reached the doorway, the mare whinnied wildly.
Fiona froze, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck.
Something was out there!

Shifting the food to her left arm, she used
her right hand to search for a weapon. She touched the side of the
lean-to, testing the ancient, spintered wood. Finding a loose
board, she broke off with a creaking sound. Splinters dug into
Fiona’s fingers as she hefted the makeshift club, and her heart
thundered in her chest. Was Dag out there? Or some unknown enemy?
She called Dag’s name, then waited. The only answer was the saw of
wind through the lean-to cracks.

Fiona swallowed. Should she risk making her
way to the
shieling
or remain with the horse? She thought of
her exhaustion, the bone-numbing chill of the wind. Nay, she could
not bear to spend the night here. There was no place to lie down,
lest the horse step on her. She would have to make a dash for
it.

Still clutching her weapon, she inched
through the lean-to door and crept out into the darkness. The moon
had slipped behind a cloud, and she could scarce see the shape of
her own hand before her. She took two steps, paused, and listened.
A rustling sound in the underbrush sent her heart thudding into her
throat. She looked up helplessly at the sky, begging the clouds to
shift. Slowly they did, and a half-moon peeped out, illuminating
the landscape around her.

She took another step, and froze as she saw
two pairs of yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. Blessed
Bridget—wolves! Fiona’s mind raced as she tried to sort out a plan.
If she gave in to her panic, she would die. Gripping the club, she
considered lunging at the wolves and trying to frighten them away.
She might spook them a little, but she doubted she would make it to
shelter. Then she thought of the food. Fumbling in the saddle pack
with one hand, she found the chunk of dried meat. She waved it in
the air, hoping the wolves would catch the scent of it. A low growl
came from one of the predators. She threw the meat toward the
glowing eyes and dashed toward the
shieling
without looking
behind.

Reaching the rickety door, she dropped the
club and tore inside, then slammed the door shut and barred it
behind her. She leaned against the door, breathing hard. Outside,
she could hear the snarling of the wolves as they fought over the
meat. It would not occupy them long. Fiona thought of the mare in
the lean-to and anguish filled her. The horse could fight off two
predators, but if more arrived, drawn by the scent of food...

She shook off the disturbing thought. Surely
Dag would come soon. With trembling hands, she fumbled in the pack
and found the waterskin. She drank deeply, then began to eat.

“Tell me of your plans for this Irish trip.”
Sigurd’s voice was calm as he settled his bulk on a bench by the
fire in the smith’s turfhouse.

Dag gazed thoughtfully into his beaker of
ale. Now that he was alone with his brother, he did not know how to
begin. The funeral party was still gathered on the beach,
anticipating the torching of the ship, and Fiona and Ellisil waited
for him in the hills. He raised his eyes to Sigurd’s. “I would
rather speak of the raid and the fire.”

An anguished look crossed his brother’s
face. “I should not have left them,” Sigurd said sorrowfully.

“Surely you assigned someone to guard the
longhouse while you were gone.”

Sigurd nodded. “Brodir and Utgard. But
whoever led the raid easily disarmed them. They were both struck
over the head from behind. Utgard was found tied up in the woods
the next day.”

“And Brodir?”

“Was able to wrest off his bonds. He was
nearly the first one to the fire... after the woman.” Sigurd’s gaze
met Dag’s, his eyes bitter. “Brodir said she was dancing around and
shrieking to the heavens when he found her, as if casting a
spell.”

“You think Fiona set the fire?” Dag asked
incredulously. “How can you believe such a thing?”

“She hates us.”

“Fiona may hate Brodir, but she does not
wish ill upon any of the rest of our people. And she would never
kill women and children.”

Sigurd’s jaw grew tight. “She has destroyed
everything, just as Brodir said she would. Because of her, you sail
to Ireland, abandoning your kin, your home.”

With sudden comprehension, Dag realized why
Sigurd had condemned Fiona to die. He did not really believe she
had set the fire, nor did he condemn her because she was a threat
to Norse law and convention. Sigurd hated Fiona because he blamed
her for damaging the bond between them as brothers.

“Sigurd...” he began gently. “It would have
come to this someday even if I had not captured Fiona. I must move
out of your shadow and seek out my own lands, my own destiny.”

“I would have helped you.” Sigurd’s voice
was anguished. “I would have given you the use of the
Storm
Maiden
for your journey. But you did not ask me...”

“Do you not see, brother? Some things a man
must do on his own. If I risk Skirnir’s ship, it is because he
believes in me. If you give me yours, it is because I am your kin.
‘Tis not the same.”

Sigurd sighed and was silent.

“Do you still mean to burn the ship?” Dag
asked after a time. If he could not make his brother understand his
plans, he would at least pursue his other goal of saving the
Storm Maiden.

Sigurd’s features twisted with grief. “I owe
Knorri a worthy funeral. He was like a father to me... and I... I
failed him.”

Dag took a deep breath, searching for the
right words. Always before, it had been Sigurd who had soothed
him
and made him see reason. Now, the roles were reversed.
“But did not Knorri die a hero?” he asked. “He saved the women and
children and much of the treasure—was that not a deed worthy enough
to send his spirit to Valhalla?”

Sigurd did not answer. Dag took another
breath and continued. “After his valiant struggle to save your
sons, I can’t think that Knorri would want you to beggar them by
burning the
Storm Maiden.
Without the ship, you will have no
means to go raiding. Without plunder, it will be difficult to
purchase the skilled labor you need to rebuild the longhouse.”

“I am finished with raiding,” Sigurd said
harshly. “I have not the heart for it.”

Dag nodded. Because of Fiona, he had learned
to view raids through the victims’ eyes. Sigurd, through his own
tragedy, had experienced that sickening awareness as well. “But
what of trading?” he asked. “You’ll need a ship to take your goods
to market at Hedeby.”

“We can build another ship.”

“When? Next sunseason you will be busy
rebuilding the longhouse. Can you go a whole turn of the seasons
without trading?”

“I’ll pay another jarl to carry my goods to
market.”

“With what? I trow, it will take near all
your wealth to rebuild the longhouse and furnish it once
again.”

Sigurd was silent, his broad jaw set like a
stubborn child’s. “I have announced my intentions,” he finally
said. “I will not go back upon my word. ‘Tis bad enough that you
freed the woman so I cannot punish her. Now you ask me to break
another of my vows.”

“ ‘Tis not a sign of weakness to admit you
erred. Except for Brodir, I think your oathmen will be relieved to
learn that you do not mean to burn the ship.”

Sigurd’s look was swift and sharp. “You talk
like a follower of that damned White Christ. Because of the woman’s
influence, you forget true Viking ways!”

“Ah, true Viking ways—what do you mean by
that, brother?” Dag’s voice rose in the low-ceilinged dwelling. “Do
you mean mindless bloodshed? Raids that beget more raids? EJarbaric
funeral rites that impoverish the living?
Ja,
brother, I
have turned from those things, but it is not the woman’s doing. I
simply no longer wish to indulge in such stupidity!”

Dag held his breath as blood fired Sigurd’s
face and his blue eyes blazed. He had gone too far. He had insulted
his brother gravely.

Sigurd clenched his huge hands into fists.
Then he relaxed them and threw back his massive head and laughed.
“Thor’s fury, but you are changed, brother. Where is that puny,
freckle- faced boy I used to tease?” He poked Dag in the shoulder
and laughed again, making the small timber dwelling nearly tremble
with his mirthful outburst.

Dag exhaled and smiled with relief. His
brother had not changed so much after all; beneath his burden of
guilt and grief, Sigurd could still find humor in life.

They finished their ale, talking finally of
Dag’s plans, then together they walked down to where the mourners
waited. The women were dry-eyed now, pale and exhausted; a few held
sleeping children. Nearby, the grim, silent warriors kept watch
over the ship.

Sigurd stepped into the crowd. His deep
voice boomed out, echoing across the torchlit beach. “Since the
woman is gone, there is no reason to burn the ship. We will make a
funeral pyre of the wood we have gathered and send Knorri to
Valhalla with his weapons and armor. With his brave heart, he will
need naught else to secure his place in the hall of heroes.”

A soft gasp rippled through the crowd, and
Dag guessed it to be an expression of relief as well as surprise.
Although their grief for the old jarl was genuine, the people of
Engvakkirsted were undoubtedly concerned about their future without
a ship. Except Brodir—how disappointed he must be that the woman
had escaped her gruesome fate.

Dag looked around, suddenly realizing
Brodir’s absence. A chill moved down his spine. He reminded himself
that he had sent Ellisil after Fiona; his sword brother would
protect her. The thought brought him little peace of mind. Brodir
seemed capable of anything.

“Sigurd,” Dag called out, interrupting his
brother as he led the other men in moving the oil-soaked timbers
away from the ship. “I’m sorry, Sigurd, but I must leave. The woman
awaits me.”

A look of bitterness crossed Sigurd’s face,
but all he said was, “You will come back, brother—before you leave
for Ireland?”