Viking Passion (29 page)

“Erik,” Lenora said, “I want a sword.”

“To do what?” Sven laughed.

“To use it. I killed Hrolf. I may kill you,
for Rodfos’ sake.”

Sven looked surprised at her angry words.

“You won’t have the chance, wench,” he told
her.

Halfdan put his sword into Lenora’s hands.
She grasped it tightly, feeling its great weight tugging at her
muscles.

“I have Bone-biter,” Halfdan said, pulling
his battle-ax from his belt.

“You would let a woman use your sword?” Sven
scoffed.

“Only this woman. I won’t be without a sword
for long. I’ll take yours, once I’ve killed you.”

“You are welcome to try, Halfdan.”

“Please let me go,” Torgard begged, still
straining at his bonds. “Please. I’ll leave here, I won’t bother
anyone, I promise.”

The stream of pleading words was cut off as
Sven casually stabbed Torgard. Sven straightened, stepped back, and
met Halfdan’s battle-ax. He fell without a word. Halfdan picked up
Sven’s sword.

“I told him I’d have another one soon,” he
said cheerfully. “Be careful now, Lenora. Watch your back.”

“I will.”

Sven’s men surged forward, determined to
avenge their fallen leader. There were only four of them, but they
were large and strong, and blood-lust flamed in their eyes.

Lenora stood with her back against a tree.
Erik and Halfdan stood before her, protecting her. Each quickly
brought down a man. They had fought without shields, having packed
their own into the boat, but they now picked up the shields of
Sven’s dead comrades.

Lenora watched, holding her breath, as the
men fought, dodging around trees, ducking blows, retreating only to
return to the attack, shields raised to ward off blows as they
slashed and parried.

Halfdan was wounded. Lenora saw the blood
running down his arm, but he laughed and, dropping his shield,
tossed his sword to his other hand and kept on fighting. In a short
time Sven’s men lay dead.

Lenora began to bandage Halfdan’s arm.

“No time for that now,” Erik panted. “Do it
later. Into the boat, Lenora. Halfdan, help me push it off.”

A familiar harsh laugh floated through the
trees; a bulky body forced its way through the underbrush.

“What’s this? Sven dead? Am I next? If I had
known you were going to be so brave, cripple, I’d have brought more
men with me.”

“I have been waiting for you, Snorri.” Erik
left the boat, which he had been pushing toward the river, and
turned to face his brother. Bjarni stood beside Snorri.

“Where is Freydis?” Snorri demanded.

Erik told him. Lenora noted that Erik did not
mention the disputed hoard of silver. Snorri’s face grew red with
rage as he listened.

“Now, Erik, I am going to feed you to the
eagles at last. As for you, you miserable slut,” he roared at
Lenora, “How dare you pose as my sister? I should have killed you
the first day I saw you.”

Snorri’s battle-ax whirled in his fist as he
took a step toward Lenora. Before he could let it fly, Erik’s sword
sliced across his arm. Snorri dropped the ax and pulled his sword
out of its scabbard with his good hand. Erik lunged at him again.
They fought, snarling and panting, dodging among the trees, until
Lenora lost sight of them in the thick growth.

Meanwhile, Bjarni attacked Halfdan. He hefted
his short-handled spear, a confident smile on his face. Bjarni was
proud of his prowess with this weapon. Lenora had often seen him in
the practice yard at Thorkellshavn, working on the twisting throw
for which he was justly famous.

Halfdan moved forward, sword in hand. Bjarni
let go of the spear with an effortless thrust that spun it through
the air and imbedded it deep in Halfdan’s chest. Halfdan dropped
the sword and crashed backward like a great tree being felled.

Before the spear had left Bjarni’s fingers,
Lenora had begun to run toward him, holding the sword Halfdan had
given her. Bjarni reached for his own sword, but Lenora was too
quick for him. Before Bjarni ‘s blade was free of its scabbard,
Lenora had struck at him, and he went down.

Lenora turned to Halfdan, tears streaming
down her face. She was shaking with grief and rage combined.
Kneeling, she lifted his head onto her lap.

“You are a true friend to avenge me so soon.
And with my own sword.” Incredible as it seemed, Halfdan was
smiling at her, although his voice was weak. “Where is Erik?”

Lenora looked around to see Erik moving
toward them through the underbrush.

“He’s coming now. Halfdan, we have to get
that spear out of you.”

“Not yet. Let me talk to Erik first.”

Erik came to them quickly. He knelt and
clasped Halfdan’s hand.

“Brother,” Halfdan said.

“Brother. I wounded Snorri, but he ran
away.”

“He would. He’ll be back.” Halfdan took a
deep, obviously painful breath. “Don’t cry, Lenora. This is a good
death. My own Valkyrie will come for me soon.”

“Oh, Halfdan.” She could not stop the
tears.

“When you see Freydis, tell her my last
thoughts were of her. Get you safely to Miklagard, Erik. Don’t
worry about a funeral. I don’t need one.

“I’ll raise a rune-stone for you.”

“Carve on it that I died in Gardariki in a
good cause.” Halfdan took another difficult breath.

“Give me my own sword. I want it in my
hands.”

Erik picked it up and laid it in Halfdan’s
cold hand, wrapping his fingers around the hilt.

“Lenora used it well,” Halfdan murmured, his
voice weaker. “She has avenged me. She killed Bjarni.”

“Lenora did? Yes, she would.”

“Now, Brother, pull out the spear and let me
go.”

Erik rose. He placed his hands on the spear
handle and tugged. Halfdan grunted in pain. Erik tugged again.

“Stop it, stop it,” Lenora cried. “You’re
killing him.”

“It has to be done. He’s dying anyway. Better
quickly with us here than leave him to the wolves, or to Snorri and
his men.”

“Try again, Brother.” Halfdan’s voice was
calm. “I would help you, but I’m indisposed.”

Erik looked at Lenora. “Help me,” he
said.

“No, I can’t, I won’t.”

“Lenora,” Halfdan whispered, “do it for me.”
His blue eyes met hers in a painful plea.

Reluctantly, Lenora set her hands over Erik’s
on the spear shaft and together they pulled. And pulled again. As
the spear came out they stumbled backward.

“Freydis…” Halfdan’s last breath whispered
away on the wind. Lenora fell beside him, weeping
uncontrollably.

“Enough of that, Lenora. Come away.”

“We can’t leave him like this.”

“There is nothing we can do for him now. He
wanted us to save ourselves. Come on.” Erik pulled her toward the
boat.

“Why aren’t you crying?” Lenora demanded,
still unable to stop her own tears. “He was your
blood-brother.”

“Norsemen never weep for their dead. You
should know that by now.” Nevertheless, there was a hard, tight
look to Erik’s mouth, as though he was holding back a cry of pain.
He pushed at the boat, and it began to slide into the river.

“Get in,” Erik ordered.

“Wait! Please wait for me.”

At the sound of a woman’s voice, Erik spun
around to face this latest intrusion, sword in his hand once more.
A tall, slender figure in a tattered dress ran between the trees,
her long hair streaming behind her.

“Help me,” she cried. “Don’t let Snorri
capture me again.”

The woman stopped abruptly, looking at the
bodies that lay scattered among the trees. She stepped to one and
nudged it lightly with her foot.

“Sven is dead. I’m glad.” She looked more
closely at Erik. “You are Thorkell’s other son.”

“I am, but I don’t know you.” Erik did not
relax his guarded stance. His eyes flicked behind the woman,
looking for possible attackers, then moved back to her face.

“I am Maura,” she said.

Erik looked perplexed until Lenora
explained.

“I recognize her. She’s an Irish woman Snorri
brought home as slave for Thorkell. Your father later gave her to
Sven.”

“I remember now.”

So did Lenora. Bitter memories came back to
her. This was the woman whose gloriously beautiful, red-haired
presence in Thorkell‘s bed had made Edwina so unhappy. She was no
longer lovely. She was pale and looked half-starved. She lifted one
hand to push back her lank, dirty hair and her sleeve fell away,
revealing bruises on the pasty-white flesh of her bony forearm. She
saw Lenora looking.

“Snorri did that, and Sven did worse,” she
said, looking straight at Erik. “I escaped while they were fighting
you. Wherever you are going, it will be better than remaining with
Snorri. Take me with you.”

“Am I to drag two women with me all the way
to Miklagard?”

“I won’t be any trouble to you,” Maura said
hopefully.

“That’s what Lenora said before we left
Thorkellshavn, and she has been nothing but trouble ever
since.”

“Trouble!” Lenora glared at him, forgetting
for a moment her grief over Halfdan. “I have been more help than
trouble and you know it.”

“Were you help when you had to be rescued
from Attair?”

“That wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh, don’t waste time quarreling,” Maura
begged. “Snorri will return soon. He has more men at his camp. We
must leave here.”

“That is exactly what we are going to do,
once my lazy slave gets herself into my boat.”

Lenora, too angry to respond, climbed over
the side, moving Halfdan’s cauldron to make room to sit down,
barely resisting the urge to heave it at Erik. She would settle
this foolishness about her being his slave again once they were
safely away from Snorri.

Maura tried to get into the boat after her,
but she was too weak. With an annoyed exclamation, Erik picked her
up and dumped her in. He gave the craft one last shove and leapt
aboard as it spun out into the current. He moved to the stern and
took the tiller, steered into the middle of the river where the
current was strongest, and headed south.

“Open the sail,” Erik ordered brusquely. “If
you want to travel with me, you will both have to work.”

The two women strained at the twisted hide
ropes. Maura was too weak and exhausted to be much help, but Lenora
hauled with all her might while the small square sail slowly lifted
and caught the wind. They sailed until after sunset, until the
clear sky was a deep lavender-blue and a nearly full moon rose,
lighting the empty river with silver.

Lenora had expected they would stop when
darkness came, but Erik continued at the tiller. The river’s
current was strong, pulling them southward, past the dark forest
and the pale, ghostly beaches of the islands dotting the river.
There were no sounds but the ripple of the water, punctuated now
and then by a soft command from Erik. He spoke seldom, and Lenora
suspected he was thinking of Halfdan.

It was not until the moon had nearly set that
Erik directed the boat toward a beach on one of the islands and
told them to lower the sail. The women climbed out, stiff and
weary, to help him pull the boat up onto the sand.

“We will be off again at dawn,” Erik said.
“We’ll take turns standing guard, and I don’t want either of you to
fall asleep when it’s your turn. Snorri is sure to come downriver
after us, and we had better watch out for Attair too.”

The mention of Attair reminded Lenora of her
argument with Erik. Somehow she had to convince him she was a free
woman, but for now she was too tired. She collapsed onto the sandy
beach and fell asleep at once, not caring that she had no covering.
It seemed she had only blinked her eyes when Erik was shaking her
shoulder and telling her it was her turn to keep watch.

“Wake me as soon as it is light enough to see
the river,” he instructed.

She sat on the sand in the darkness, leaning
against the side of the boat, listening to the water moving past
the little island.

Erik had told her once that the journey from
Kiev to the sea was the most dangerous part of the voyage to
Miklagard. It took at least forty-two days and sometimes much
longer, with dangerous rapids and violent nomadic tribesmen along
the way. They had no choice; they had to go on, for behind them
were Snorri and Attair, either of whom would soon be at their
heels.

Lenora stretched, moving her stiff shoulders.
She could see the faint glow in the eastern sky that foretold the
dawn. Soon it would be time to wake the others. If only Halfdan
were with them. She wiped away a tear. She must not think of
Halfdan. She would think instead of a subject that ought to bring
her satisfaction.

The retribution for which she had once
yearned with such a violent passion was nearly complete. Hrolf and
Bjarni were slain; of the leaders of the raid that had destroyed
her family only Snorri remained, and she would do anything in her
power to make him pay for the blood he had shed. But there was no
comfort or even relief to be found in that knowledge, and for the
first time she considered the possibility that the cost of
vengeance might be too high.

She had not expected to find friendship among
the Vikings, yet friendship had been given to her. She thought of
honest Thorkell, of Freydis, of Ingvar and Asmund and Tola. She
thought again of Halfdan. Then, finally, inevitably, her thoughts
dwelt upon Erik, upon the child they had conceived together in
tender pleasure, and of the way he had rescued her from Attair.

Laying her head back against the boat she
looked up toward the stars, but she did not see them for the many
tears blinding her. So many dead to claim her tears, so little joy
to be had from revenge, so much pain caused by hatred. She had in
the past year wept too often from rage or bitterness or grief or
frustration. These tears were different. They cleansed her heart,
so that when the soft breeze had dried the last moisture upon her
cheeks she felt renewed and at peace. She looked around, a little
surprised to find herself still sitting in the same place. She felt
as though she had ended a long and difficult journey.