Viking's Prize (3 page)

Within the chapel it was darker even than it had
first appeared, but having spent so many hours within its cobbled walls,
Elienor had no need of candle to light the vestibule. Letting her memory guide
her, she snatched up the wooden bar and placed it within the stout metal rings
on either side of the heavy door, locking the two of them securely within.

“My lady?” Stefan protested, this time with an
edge of desperation to his voice. He was clearly growing impatient, yet having
no choice, Elienor continued to ignore him. Taking him by the hand once more,
she led him to a place beyond the crossing, well into the chancel, and finally
behind the altar. There she shoved him with all her might onto his haunches.
She shoved again when he resisted until he fell back upon his lean little rump.

“Bon dieul” Stefan exploded. “Enough, I say! Tell
me what goes here! Why do you bar the door when you know I must—”

From the donjon, shouts of ambush abruptly could
be heard, and after giving Elienor an accusing glance, Stefan bolted for the
door.

Elienor seized him by the wrist. “Nay! You cannot!
’Tis done! ’Tis done, I tell you!”

“My lady! I beg you release me! ’Tis my duty you
would deny me!” Shouts of the wounded and dying escalated. “Release me, I say!”

“Nay!” The scraping of metal upon stone could be
distinguished beyond the chapel doors. “Nay!”

They heard a bloodcurdling scream. Elienor could
picture it all so vividly, the savage Northmen with their axes raised high into
the air. There was little use in closing her eyes, for the vision originated
from within, from some accursed second eye within her soul.

“Set me free!” Stefan demanded furiously. Again he
shouted, “’Tis my duty you would deny me!” With a final twist, he liberated
himself and raced toward the door, his long legs awkward as he ran.

“Stefan! Nay, oh, nay!”

He could not go! She would not allow it!

Desperately, Elienor groped about in the darkness,
seeking the means to stop him. Her hand closed upon the sacred reliquary, a
small copper chest that sheltered a sliver of the Christ’s cross, and she knew
at once what she must do.

“Father, forgive me,” she whispered fervently, and
then she bolted across the nave after Stefan, striking the chest down upon his
head.

Caught in the process of sliding the bar from the
ring, Stefan made some strangled sound and released it. Though she could not
see him fall for the darkness, she heard him as he crumpled to the wooden
floor, unconscious. The wooden bar fell from his grasp, slamming against the
door as it began to slide cacophonously from the other ring. Without a moment
to spare, Elienor seized it, securing it once more.

CHAPTER
3

The
skali
, or hall, was dark, save for the feeble
glow cast by a single torch guttering further up the stairwell.

Alarik’s eyes scanned the shadows, noting with
disdain the slain enemy scattered about his feet. What little resistance they
put forth, these pathetic French! With a grunt of disgust, he gave the signal
for his men to disperse and make use of whatever could be found, be it ale or
wench, beast or gems.

He’d never doubted they would prevail, but it had
been much too simple a victory, and he decided that tonight his men deserved
whatever spoils they desired, for he knew they were not appeased. By the gates
of Hel, neither was he, for the count he’d come to crush had been conspicuously
absent from the fray.

Shouts of revelry followed Alarik as he wandered
away in search of the missing count, but the terrified howl of a man found
hidden beneath a table in the gloomy light of the
skali
drew him back, and he turned to
watch, leaning a shoulder against the arched entryway.

Before him, Sigurd Thorgoodson scampered up the
steps to retrieve the torch flitting there and then returned like a maelstrom
of fire, sweeping his way around the hall, lighting torches as he passed. He
flew by each so quickly that it seemed he lit them with the sparks spilling in
his wake.

Alarik understood the haste.

This last kill they would savor fully, terrifying
the hefty man with their unappeased blood lust, rendering him senseless with
fright. Then, they would offer the poor fool a battle axe. Viking men had
little liking for killing the defenseless, for there was no glory to be gotten
from that manner of execution. To fight in the face of danger showed one’s
valor. And if by chance a Viking fell in the enemy’s stead, then from Asgard
would come, donned in shining armor, riding steeds of white, the maidens from
Valholl, the hall of the slain. Heads held high, solemn and deep in thought,
the Valkyrs rode—choosers of the slain—and down they would come to
the field of battle to swoop up the souls of the dead to join Odin in his great
corps, the Einherjar. There, only the bravest served.

It was the Viking creed, his father’s legacy, but
no longer his own.

His men encircled the prey, successfully foiling
any attempt at escape. Finished with the task of lighting the scattered
torches, Sigurd, teeth bared, and growling, elbowed his way back through the
pack. Using the pitch torch as his weapon, he lit the man’s hair from behind,
garnering chuckles and laughter from the others. The Frenchman yowled in pain,
and Sigurd at once slapped out the small flame he’d begun, howling hysterically
at his own cleverness.

Alarik’s brow lifted in droll amusement. Sigurd,
ever the jester, was as loyal as they came, but his humor was sadly
lacking—though evidently flamehaired Hrolf Kaetilson didn’t think so.
Red-Hrolf was clutching his belly and howling at the top of his lungs. At once,
Ivar Longbeard joined Sigurd in terrorizing the man, taking firm hold of his
own long russet whiskers and tugging wildly, looking every bit the berserker.
And seeing Long Beard ravage the hair of his face, Lars the Fair Head followed
suit.

Bjorn, Alarik’s younger brother, nut-faced from
the sun and too comely for his own good, immediately began the chant, “Die!
Die! Die!”

The others followed his lead, their voices in the
night sounding like a ballad to a Viking’s ear.

Suddenly, Sigurd threw an axe at the man’s feet
and then waited for the fool to grasp it. Sensing his fate, the man stood
arrested, paralyzed with fright.

To goad the man into lifting up the axe, Sigurd
removed and discarded his armor and then his clothing, taunting him all the
while, until he was finally nude as the day he was begot.

“Look at me, Fransk!” Sigurd goaded in disjointed
French. “No breastplate! No shield! Still I will crush you ’neath my boots!”

Hoots of laughter greeted his claim.

“Hah! One blade behind my back!” With a flourish,
Sigurd concealed his sword behind his back, and added a lewd pelvic thrust,
then turned to collect grins of approval from the rest.

Despite himself, Alarik chuckled, though he shook
his head.

The Frenchman sought his gaze.

Alarik’s flesh prickled as the man stared without
blinking. His own eyes narrowed as he moved nearer. The man shook violently,
though his gaze never wavered, and one by one, his men followed the Frenchman’s
gaze to where Alarik stood behind them, and quieted.

‘Tell me French dung,” Alarik demanded, once there
was silence, “where is your murdering count?”

The sound of his footfalls echoed against the
stone walls.

The man’s gaze skidded away, then back.

Alarik halted before him, allowing a moment longer
for his reply. When it was apparent he would not speak, Alarik asked once more,
“Your count?” His hand tightened around Dragvendil’s hilt.

It was a long moment before the man was able to
still his quaking long enough to respond, but when he did, he spat upon the
ground before Alarik’s boots.

Alarik kept his composure, for there was only one
man whose blood he ached to spill this night. This one he would leave to his
men. “Stupid bastard!” he said. “I would have given you a clean death.”

He motioned for his men to carry on. “Do with the
fool as you will.”

The revelry recommenced at once with hoots and
laughter, and Sigurd, tired of waiting for the man to pick the axe up, feinted for
it. Only then did the Frenchman move to take the weapon, understanding that it
was his sole salvation.

Sigurd’s claim had not been mere boast, Alarik
knew. His men were the finest—the best warriors to be found in all of the
North Land. The Frenchman had not a breath of a chance and he knew it. As it
was, the man’s fate was sealed the very moment his stout fingers closed about
the axe’s handle.

Alarik turned from the melee, entering what
appeared to be the
eldhus
, or kitchen, while behind him an anguished cry spewed forth.
The gruesome sound was followed by the merry roar of laughter. It was over, yet
despite his feeling of justification, Alarik was not satisfied—not whilst
the gutless count lived.

Behind the
eldhus
was an alley leading to a small Christian
kirken
, or
church. His mother had been Christian, he mused, as he scrutinized the large
ornate doors before him. Fingering the woodwork, he pondered what it was that
drew his brother to it, as well, and shook his head over the mystery of it
all—so many wars fought over what?

A muffled sound came from within, and he
stiffened. Something clattered against the door, and he jerked away. Eager for
a confrontation with the count, he anticipated the opening of the door, his
sword arm raised and poised to strike. But the only sound he could discern was
a slight shuffling... as though someone were dragging an injured leg across the
floor.

The count?

Determined not to be robbed of satisfaction,
Alarik tried the door, and finding it barred, swore his displeasure. He could
well picture the spineless bastard hiding like a coward within his forsaken
chapel—more than willing to let his men fight his battle without him.

For his perfidy, Alarik vowed, the man would
surely die this night, as cruel a death as he could manage!

“Coward!” he snarled at the door, and with a cry,
he lifted his broad axe from the loop in his belt and raised it high. He
brought the gleaming silver inlaid blade crashing down upon the door,
shattering it easily with the force of his blow.

At the terrible sound, Elienor bolted from her
knees and seized Stefan’s arms. She tugged with all her might. She had to get
him behind the altar! Had to hide him!

When the thundering crack of a battle-axe met with
the wood of the chapel door a second time, she panicked. Instinctively, she
threw herself over Stefan, her heart thumping madly as the barrier between them
and the Viking cracked and splintered away. She squeezed her eyes shut, and
tried to block out the voice of terror in her mind.

Her heart leapt into her throat as heavy footsteps
tromped across the hallowed sanctuary, echoing over the ageless crypt that lay
beneath. Stifling the urge to cry out in fear, she clutched Stefan.

She dared not move.

When finally the footsteps ceased before her, she
did not perceive it, for her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

CHAPTER
4

The
moon’s glow filtered in behind him—enough to light a goodly portion of
the
kirken
,
but Alarik’s enormous shadow kept the figure before him cloaked in darkness. He
stepped aside, and exposed, not one, but two shapes lying still at his feet.

He
cocked his head in curiosity, lifting a brow at the odd positioning of their
bodies.

Were
they lovers, then, preferring death by their own hands rather than meet with
his blade?