Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3

Desire’s Hostage

Viking Lore, Book Three

By

Emma Prince

Desire’s Hostage (Viking Lore, Book 3) Copyright © 2016 by Emma Prince

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact [email protected].

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. (V1.0)

808 A.D.

“Farewell!”

Alaric’s twin sister Madrena leaned out past her ship’s wooden sides, waving furiously at the docks.

Eirik waved back with one hand, the other wrapped protectively around his wife. Laurel held little Thorin in her arms as she, too, waved.

Even from this distance, Alaric could see that tears shimmered in Laurel’s dark eyes. He could only imagine the barrage of emotions she was experiencing as she watched her friends set sail for her former homeland.

“We shall see each other again soon!” Alaric shouted over the ever-increasing span of water. He intentionally spoke in Laurel’s native tongue despite the fact that she’d quickly learned the Northland language upon arrival in Dalgaard.

Laurel grinned widely. “Aye, I know we will!” she called back in her language.

Even before he’d learned that it would be vital to him, Alaric had asked Laurel to teach him her language. Though Alaric had only been charged with leading this voyage since last fall, he’d sensed long ago that a knowledge of the lands to the west would serve him well. That mist-shrouded, green terrain had called to him ever since he’d first laid eyes on it two summers ago. By some whisper of the gods, he knew his fate lay there.

Eirik and Laurel, along with the other villagers from Dalgaard who’d gathered to see the voyagers off, shrank to specks as Alaric and Madrena’s longships drew farther out into the fjord. Still, Alaric let his eyes linger on Dalgaard as it faded.

Home
.

Would he ever see Dalgaard again? Would he ever see Laurel, Eirik, and their son Thorin, whom he thought of as a nephew, again?

He always spoke confidently in front of his crew and even shielded Laurel from the worst of his fears. But when he and Eirik talked quietly within Dalgaard’s longhouse through the long, dark nights of winter and into the spring, they spoke the truth.

Alaric and his crew might never return, for this voyage bristled with dangers of every manner.

Aegir the sea god could frown on them at any point during the sennight-long voyage. They could be sunk, or blown so far off course as to never see land again. And if they did somehow manage to make it to those mysterious lands to the west, battle, disease, or simple starvation could await them.

But he could not let his dark thoughts rule him. The time of his death may be in the hands of the gods, but his fate was his own to make. Yet the new weight of responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders—there was more at stake than his own glory in the eyes of the gods.

At last, Alaric turned his back on the village. The breeze barreling down the length of the fjord whipped his hair around his head. He glanced to his left and found Madrena’s longship skimming past his. Even over the roar of the wind, he could hear her urging on her rowers.

“A race, then?” he shouted over the expanse of water separating their longships.

Madrena snapped her ice-blonde head to him. Her pale gray eyes sparked.

“To the mouth of the fjord!” she called back.

“And the prize?”

She chuckled, but the sound was snatched by the wind. He knew his sister well, though.

“Honor before the gods, of course,” she yelled.

But Alaric didn’t need reminders about honor from Madrena. He was the leader of this voyage. Its success or failure rode on him.

He nodded, but before he could explain Madrena’s game to his crew, his sister’s ship darted forward.

“To the mouth!” Alaric barked to the men already plying their oars with a good deal of effort. He didn’t have to say more, for his men could see for themselves that Madrena was pulling away. A spark of competitiveness instantly ignited within the longship. Alaric’s men threw their weight against their oars, shouting encouragement to each other.

Without hesitating, Alaric took up a seat on his sea chest and snatched an unmanned oar. With practiced ease, he fell into rhythm with the others as they pulled against the dark fjord waters.

It felt good to have the oar’s wood under his hands.

This was something he could control.

His strength, plied against that of Aegir the sea god’s.

His will against the fates that swirled unknowably.

His determination against the mysteries held in the lands to the west.

Alaric’s longship surged alongside Madrena’s. Even as she redoubled her urgings to her crew, they fell behind, spent from their initial burst. As the arching dragon prow on Alaric’s ship plowed into the open waters of the North Sea, he let his triumphant laugh drift on the wind to Madrena.

His sister scowled fiercely, crossing her arms over her chest. Alaric’s crew slumped in victorious satisfaction as Madrena’s ship glided alongside it.

“Unfurl the sails,” Alaric ordered, a merry smile still stretching his face. Both his and Madrena’s crew began stowing the oars and raising the sails, all the while shouting barbs and fresh challenges across the water at each other.

“I think my second in command has learned her lesson,” Alaric said once both ships were prepared to set out into open waters.

Madrena dared to stick her tongue out at Alaric. He could only laugh again.

Without him needing to give the order, Madrena moved to her ship’s stern. He did the same and guided the wooden tiller to the right. When the wind caught their red and white striped sails, they’d be thrust westward, into the unknown.

Alaric drew a deep breath of cool, salty air.

They were off.

The only warning Elisead had was her father’s hands closing tightly around her arms. Then she was yanked to her feet, her carver’s pebbles scattering in the dirt.

Her father spun her so that she faced him. His face was mottled red with anger beneath his gray-copper beard.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times,” he bit out. “You are not to carve unless it is on your bride gift.”

He snatched up one of her hands by the wrist, bringing her fingertips close to his face. At the calluses there, he cursed.

“You are the daughter of a chieftain, not some common mason,” he barked, waggling her fingers in the air between them.

“Masons are not common,” she said, drawing her hand away. “At least not ones who can do this.” She gestured to what she’d been working on, keeping her head level. Though she normally didn’t dare talk back to her father, the crisp air of the summer morning had intoxicated and emboldened her.

In the dappled shade beneath the spreading oaks overhead, she’d found the perfect rock. It jutted tall and proud from the forest floor as if it had already been shaped and smoothed from the quarry. She couldn’t help herself. The rock spoke to her, whispered of its ancient past. She’d begun carving a leaping deer first, then a bird taking flight. With each new design and image, the stone came more alive.

Her father glanced dismissively at her carvings. “What good does it do to etch woodland creatures on a stone no one will ever see?”

She’d heard the like from him before, but it still stung. Explaining how she felt never moved him, so she remained silent, lowering her head.

His hand closed around her arm once more, giving her a little shake. “I’m only trying to protect you,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Carving is meant to elevate God. This,” he gestured behind her to the entwining animals and patterns used by her people for generations, “this smacks of the old ways.”

What he spoke was true, but Elisead didn’t care. “No one knows it is my work.”

“And who else learned to carve stone when that cursed mason came through all those years ago?” her father snapped. “Who else slips away from the fortress into these woods with a pouch full of pebbles and a chisel and hammer?”

“There is no one to enforce the punishment for a trespass into the old ways,” she tried again.

Her father paused at that. Though Christian priests occasionally visited them from Torridon, they were as rare in these remote hills as the skilled masons who traveled the land, leaving their exquisite carvings behind. In fact, the last time a priest had been to their little corner of Pictland, Elisead had already learned the secrets of carving from Una.

“No daughter of a chieftain, and certainly not my only heir, will coarsen her hands on stone,” her father said, planting his feet and crossing his arms.

That was the true reason he’d forbidden her from carving—it always came back to himself. No daughter of Maelcon mac Lorcan, chief to a small but proud clan of Picts, would debase herself with labor. Except for the bride gift she’d been ordered to make.

“And the bride gift?”

She knew the answer, but some small spark of rebellion still burned within her—’twas the forest that made her so bold. She wanted to make him defend himself.

Her father harrumphed. “At least some good can come of your obsession. Your skills should be put to use on that stone, for God and for your future husband, not out here for the spirits.”

He didn’t seem to notice, but he’d just let slip that like so many others, he still believed in the old ways just as much as the new. Her people were slow to change generations’ worth of trust in the ancient spirits, especially when that change came from the outside.

Her heart softened ever so slightly toward her father, who still gripped her arm and glared at her under lowered eyebrows. He was a hard man and had grown even more obstinate since his injury, but what he did, he did for his people. He wanted a good future for her, even if it meant peddling her skills to the son of the King who’d nigh forsaken them.

The old, familiar longing bit into her heart once more. How she yearned to please her father, to gracefully bend to his plans for her. But some unruly seed within her had taken hold from the first, too deep to be uprooted. He wanted her to remain within their fortress, sit quietly in the dim light, and wait for her impending marriage.

But she wanted to run through the forests, to roll in the damp soil and fragrant greenery. And most of all, she wanted to speak to the stones, to draw out their innermost whispers.

“I could make you stop, you know,” her father said, but suddenly he sounded defeated. He’d tried ordering her. He’d tried locking her behind the thick stone walls of the fortress. He’d even tried redirecting all the longing within her toward the stone she was to carve for her future husband.

Naught would work, and they both knew it in that moment.

“Come on, then,” she said, bending to gather the pebbles of various sizes that had spilled earlier. She dropped each one, more precious to her than gold, into a pouch on her leather belt. Silently, her father led her back toward the fortress.

With one last stolen glance over her shoulder, she made a promise to her beloved stone.

I’ll come back, no matter what.

Alaric rubbed the scruff on his jawline. His gaze swept once more over the rocky coastline. Though it was coated in a thin blanket of emerald green moss, the land was rugged and treeless.

He burned to land his longship against that narrow coast and explore—climb every jagged, jutting rock, trot along the cliff-like edge overlooking the North Sea, and proclaim the land his.

But nei, he couldn’t think of his own simmering desire for adventure now.

The responsibility of his task had pulsed continuously in the back of his mind—through the storms, through the surging seas that had threatened to swallow their little crafts, and through the first thrill of spotting land yesterday.

What had looked like a solid landmass had proven to be a series of chain-like islands. Alaric had been eager to explore them, but as his ships had drawn nigh, the distinctive shapes of Northland sails and shallow-hulled longships had materialized.

Eirik had told him the tales of other Northlanders not simply raiding these lands to the west, but actually settling on them over winter.

Now Alaric knew they weren’t just rumors. Other Northmen had reached those islands and had claimed them for themselves. Though Alaric would have paid a dear price to exchange stories with those voyagers, his mission tugged incessantly at him.

Eirik had tasked him with finding a suitable place to make a settlement, which meant that the land had to be good for agriculture. They would need plenty of timber and stone to build dwellings. The last thing Alaric needed was to compete with other Northlanders over what was proving to be a sparse, bare landscape.

“Will we land, brother?”

Madrena’s call drifted on the breeze to where he stood at his ship’s stern, one hand on the tiller. Her ship trailed his as they made their way south down the rugged coast.

“Nei, not yet,” he responded, never taking his eyes from the shoreline.

How different it was from the terrain they’d seen two summers ago. Eirik had managed to convince his uncle, then the Jarl, to form a raiding party to the whispered-about lands to the west. When they’d arrived, they were met with soft, rolling hills, lush grasses, and, further inland, forests as far as the eye could see.

But that was a land called Northumbria, according to Laurel. Alaric and Eirik had decided to aim further north, for Laurel claimed Northumbria was a more populated region. Above it, however, she’d said only a few tribes of half-wild men roamed, a thorn in the Northumbrians’ side, but little trouble for a band of Northland warriors two score strong set on claiming land.

Laurel had clearly never laid eyes on these bare northern reaches. Alaric’s stomach sank like an anchor. He’d seen his ships through storms and sailed past other Northlanders without issue, but those triumphs would be for naught if he couldn’t find arable and forested lands on which to settle.

His hand tightened around the tiller until his knuckles were white. He would not be bested so easily. These rocks would prove impossible for farming, but perhaps if he could go deeper into the land’s heart, beyond this cursed shoreline…

He squinted into the sun as his gaze traveled southward down the coast. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes, he focused on a green-brown mass taking shape ahead.

But the mass jutted out into the sea, and water shimmered on both sides of it.

An inlet.

“There!” he called, pointing.  “We sail there!”

The crew must have picked up on his sudden burst of energy, for several spoke in excited tones as they adjusted the sail’s ropes to capture the wind most advantageously.

As they drew closer to the inlet, Alaric’s heart squeezed with hope. Sure enough, the landmass he’d spotted jutted from the mainland in a peninsula, sheltering the bottom side of a fjord-like bay. The oval of sea water narrowed suddenly on its western side, where dense, shadowy green promised a lush woodland.

With a whistle and a gesture, he motioned for both longships to enter the mouth of the inlet. The waters within were calm and deep, and the longships glided soundlessly over the smooth surface.

At another whistle from Alaric, the ships’ crews lowered the sails and took up their oars. Now the silence was broken by the oars’ rhythmic lapping of the bay’s water.

At last they reached the narrowest point of the inlet, where water flowed from a river into the bay. The river was wide and slow-moving, perfect for a settlement.

A quick glance told Alaric that he could have sent the longships up the river’s soft bends, for their keels were shallow enough to float in water that was barely knee-deep. But the stretch where the river met the sheltered bay was too perfect to pass up. Instead, he guided his ship toward the shore.

As the two longships glided onto the bay’s sandy shoreline right at the river’s tail, Alaric let his eyes drink in the sight before him.

This land was hilly, to be certain, but the jagged ridges of the coastline farther north had smoothed somewhat. Perhaps tucked within these hills were lands flat enough to plow with an ard. Best of all, his initial assessment of the shadowed woods he’d seen from afar had proved good. Just beyond the shoreline, the land was covered in dense forests of oak and pine.

In the shelter of the bay, he wouldn’t have to fear that his ships would be blown away in a storm. And with the river draining into the salty inlet, they’d never lack fresh water.

Though his crew likely wasn’t considering the strategic benefits to this location, as he must, they were nevertheless awed into silence. Tearing his gaze away from the green expanse before him, he glanced at Madrena’s ship, which had come to rest against the shore alongside his own.

Even his twin sister, who had a knife for a tongue and wits to match, stood in slack-jawed amazement at their surroundings.

“This will do,” Alaric said softly under his breath. A sudden and deep swell of pride jolted through him. This land promised a bounty unknown in the Northlands. Here lay his future as leader to these Northland explorers turned settlers.

Alaric launched himself over his ship’s gunwale and landed with a splash in the shallow water. He waded toward the shoreline, eager to be the first of the Northlanders to touch dry earth. Several more splashes sounded behind him as the others made their way after him.

Just then, a flicker of movement in the trees ahead had Alaric jerking his head up.

The shore rose into a small but densely forested hill. A flash of red stood out amongst all the greens and browns.

An animal? The reddish color blurred as it darted away. What strange beasts might inhabit these woods? Laurel hadn’t mentioned any creatures so different from what he’d encountered in the Northlands. And the red blur had moved more like…

The woods were still once more. The splashes of his crew and their excited chatter drowned out any sounds drifting out of the forest.

Unease trickled down Alaric’s spine. Were they being watched? Surely if there were other people living in these parts, they wouldn’t have had time to form an attack.

Alaric nearly impaled his sister when she placed a hand on his shoulder. He quickly shoved his half-drawn sword back into its leather scabbard before he spooked the others, but Madrena’s pale eyes were too sharp.

“What is it?” she said, her posture suddenly matching his. Madrena was one of the most skilled shieldmaidens—nei,
warriors
, male or female—in the crew, and perhaps in all the western Northlands. She’d already reached for the sword belted on her hip, her eyes searching Alaric.

“Naught, I’m sure,” he said levelly, trying to soothe his unease. “A trick of the light. Or an animal. This new land simply has me…on edge.” He kept his voice low so as not to alarm the rest of his crew.

Just then, Rúnin stepped to Madrena’s side. His sister’s mate had just as sharp an eye as Madrena. Though Alaric trusted his sister unquestioningly, he was even more confident that Rúnin would warn them if he sensed another presence in these woods. Rúnin’s long years as an outlaw had forged him into a man who seemed to instinctively know when others were nigh—his life had depended on it.

“All is well,” Alaric said before Rúnin could ask. “I don’t want the men panicking.”

Rúnin’s bright blue eyes narrowed on Alaric slightly, clearly comprehending Alaric’s implication. All might not be well, and they should keep a keen eye pointed toward the woods, but ’twould be best not to raise an alarm just yet.

The crew had busied themselves in pulling both longships more fully onto the narrow beach. Though they were all strong Northland men—plus a strong Northland woman, Eyva, who was training to be a shieldmaiden under Madrena’s guidance—they struggled with the large ships. Each longship could have held twice as many sailors, but Alaric had wanted a small crew, partly to have enough room for all the equipment they’d needed, and partly to keep Eirik’s risk of losing so many able warriors from Dalgaard low.

At last the ships were secured, and the crew eagerly began streaming onto the beach where Alaric, Madrena, and Rúnin stood.

“Let’s head up the river and look for a good place to make camp,” Alaric said lightly to his men. Even still, the others followed his lead as he withdrew his round, painted shield from the side of one of the longships.

The river cut a wide ribbon through the hills on either side. There was enough of a flat, sandy bank to allow the Northlanders to walk two by two with Alaric in the lead. Madrena and Rúnin walked on silent feet behind him, their postures relaxed but their eyes restlessly scanning their surroundings.

At a bend in the river, a wider, sandy expanse spread out between the water and the trees. A scattering of rocks and sticks littered the sand, but those would be cleared away easily enough. Alaric trotted ahead of the others to scout the area, his apprehension at last dissipating. This site might as well have been handed to him by the gods, for he couldn’t imagine another spot more suited to his purpose.

“’Tis perfect!” he shouted over his shoulder to the others. “We’ll gather the tents from the ships and—”

The words died in his mouth as his eyes landed on what he’d thought a moment before were a few scattered rocks and sticks.

His boot crunched down on a skull.

A human skull.

Blackened bones jutted from the sand, which was stained gray long ago by ash.

His abrupt halt must have drawn the attention of the others, for suddenly he was surrounded by Northmen, their weapons unsheathed and their shields held at the ready. Alaric hardly registered their battle-readiness, however. He tore his eyes from the dozens of charred bone fragments and tried to pierce the forest with his gaze.

Leaves and branches rustled, teasing him. The woods were withholding their secrets. Awareness honed his senses, though. His eyes darted with each flicker of movement in the boughs and underbrush.

“Alaric!”

Madrena’s voice was taut with unease. His gaze snapped to where she stood frozen at the edge of the forest. Her sword was drawn, but her eyes were focused on a large stone at waist height.

He sprinted to her side, unsheathing his sword as he went. When he skidded to a halt next to her, his eyes locked on the rock she was staring at.

Upon its weathered surface, two Northland runes had been carved. One was the symbol for man, and the other for ash.

’Twas a crudely rendered message, for runes aligned with different sounds and were not representational. But the meaning, simple as it was, came through clearly.

This was a place of death. Death for Northlanders.

Ice stabbed Alaric’s belly.

He opened his mouth to give an order to his crew to move back to the ships, but a flicker at the edge of his vision once again had him snapping his head around.

Another flash of red.

This time, Alaric didn’t hesitate. He exploded into a sprint toward the figure lurking deeper in the woods.

Noise erupted as Madrena bolted after him, though he didn’t bother waiting for her. Alaric distantly heard her calling to Rúnin and the others over the pounding blood in his ears.

The red blur was indeed a human. A fleeing human. Though the figure moved swiftly and with a familiarity for these woods, Alaric was like an angered bear crashing through the forest. Naught would stop him, he vowed, and he hurdled himself through the trees.

He was drawing closer despite the fleeing figure’s agility. The figure cut suddenly and sharply to the right, darting back toward the river.

He couldn’t have set the trap better himself. He followed, but made a less severe angle. He’d pin the lurking observer between himself and the water. Then he’d have his answers.

Alaric’s legs and lungs burned, but he pushed harder. At last, he struck. He darted more fully to the right, knowing there was nowhere for the runner to go.

Just as he reached the tree line where the river’s sandy bank opened, he skidded to a halt. He felt his jaw slacken in stunned silence as the red blur at last froze and turned to him.

It was a woman.

A beautiful woman.

A terrified woman.