Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (23 page)

Drostan’s dark eyes widened behind his blue war paint. He yanked his horse and Elisead’s around, giving Alaric his first full glimpse of her since he’d said goodbye forever.

Her hands were bound to her horse, her eyes rounded with fear. Dirt marred her skin and tunic. Her hair was wild and filled with twigs and leaves.

By all the gods, Drostan would pay.

His window of surprise now closed, Alaric bellowed a battle cry, drawing his sword. He ignored the stab of pain in his chest from the motion of pulling the blade free. It didn’t matter now if he lived or died, as long as he could make Elisead safe.

Drostan spurred his horse on, but just as Alaric was about to close on him, he yanked on Elisead’s mare’s reins, pulling her in front of him like a shield.

Alaric jerked back his sword just as it would have descended on Elisead. She screamed, but tied as she was to the saddle, she was unable to move out of the way.

With the telltale hiss of metal against leather, Drostan unsheathed his own sword.

“I thought I killed you, Northman,” he said.

Elisead’s eyes seemed to focus on him for the first time. She cried out wordlessly again, her desperation rending him.

“You can’t get rid of us quite so easily,” Alaric shot back. He began circling, but Drostan continually repositioned Elisead’s horse so that she was between the two men.

“You prove yourself a coward yet again by hiding behind a woman,” Alaric snarled, darting his head to keep his eyes on Drostan.

Drostan’s face darkened. A flicker of movement caught Alaric’s attention. His gaze fluttered to Elisead. She was working her wrists against the rope that bound them. The rope had already turned blood-red from her efforts, but she kept pulling.

“But you have already chosen the path of dishonor,” Alaric said, his gaze returning to Drostan. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d rather ally with a snake like Domnall than shake the hand of an honorable Northman.”

How much longer would Elisead need to free herself? How much longer could Alaric keep Drostan occupied before his opportunity to strike ran out?

Drostan bared his teeth at Alaric’s words. “I’ll make sure you’re dead this time.”

A faint pop was all the warning Alaric had. Elisead suddenly flung herself from her saddle, landing in a pile at her horse’s hooves. She sprang to her knees and slapped the mare’s flank as hard as she could.

The animal reared in fright. For a long, terrible instant, it appeared as though Elisead would be crushed under the mare’s hooves. But at the last second, she rolled out of the way. The mare bolted, yanking its reins free of Drostan’s hand and giving Alaric a clear target at last.

“Go!” Alaric barked at Elisead, never taking his eyes off Drostan as he lunged for him.

Barely in time, Drostan blocked the blow with his sword. But Alaric grabbed a fistful of the man’s tunic and dragged him from his horse’s back.

Drostan fell in a heap at Alaric’s feet. Alaric rammed the tip of his sword downward, but Drostan rolled out of the way. He came up standing, his sword poised in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alaric saw Elisead scrambling away from the river and the two men. She could take one of the horses and get safely back to the fortress, he thought with a flood of relief. Still, the need for Drostan’s blood surged within him.

He launched himself at Drostan once more, blade flashing in the sun. Drostan blocked and the two were locked together, swords straining against each other. Drostan began to circle, pushing Alaric with him. Then with a mighty surge, Drostan shoved Alaric backward.

Alaric’s boots slipped against the mist-dampened stones and he landed on his back.

The blinding flash of metal was his only warning.

On instinct alone, he threw up his blade, just barely catching Drostan’s sword before it cleaved his head in two. Drostan pushed down with all his might, leaning his weight against his sword. It inched closer to Alaric. His grunt of exertion turned into a bellow of rage as he fought to fend off Drostan’s sword, but still his enemy gained another inch, then another.

Alaric’s hands trembled on his hilt. Drostan’s blade was now hovering just over his face.

Drostan lifted a booted foot and rammed his heel into Alaric’s chest—directly on his still-bleeding danger wound. Alaric roared in pain, his vision dimming around the edges. As waves of agony washed over him, he could feel his strength flickering. His sword slipped a hair’s breadth in his grip.

Suddenly Elisead flung herself onto Drostan’s back with a scream, her arms tightening around his neck. Drostan growled in rage as she tried to pull him back. With one hand, he ripped her from around his neck and hurled her aside.

It was all the opening Alaric needed. Drawing on the last threads of strength he possessed, he thrust Drostan’s sword away with his blade and rolled to his knees. Drostan stumbled back, his sword pulling him sideways and exposing his middle.

Like lightning, Alaric grabbed the dagger he’d tucked into his belt at Rúnin’s insistence—Drostan’s dagger. With a lunge, he buried the dagger in Drostan’s unprotected side.

Though the tip was bent back, Alaric drove with such force that the dagger pierced Drostan’s flesh and rammed in to the hilt.

Drostan staggered, his sword dropping from his hands. He turned dark, disbelieving eyes on Alaric.

“Nay,” he hissed. He fell to his knees, then slumped to the ground.

“I’ll not make the same mistake you did,” Alaric said lowly. He crouched over Drostan, watching the eyes of the man who’d tried to take everything from him.

Drostan sputtered and coughed. Blood came to his lips. At last, after several shuddering exhales, his breathing stopped. Slowly, the light faded behind his still-open eyes.

“Keep your traitor’s dagger,” Alaric said, standing over Drostan’s now-motionless form.

It was over. At least for Drostan.

The fog of bloodlust receded, to be replaced with utter fear as his eyes landed on Elisead’s crumpled form nearby.

“Elisead!”

He sprinted toward her, fearing the worst. She looked so small and frail lying where Drostan had thrown her to the rocks. But just before he slid onto the ground next to her, she stirred.

He reached out to her but was afraid that if he pulled her to him, he’d hurt her further.

“Elisead, are you all right? Speak, my love.”

She pushed herself into a seated position. Though he saw no blood, his heart still hammered with panic.

“Aye,” she said, her voice shaken. She reached for him, her trembling fingers touching his face. “You are alive.”

“Ja,” he breathed, leaning into the hand on his cheek. “I would defy death to protect you.”

“And Drostan is—”

“He will never hurt you again.”

“He thought to marry me, to take control of my people and drive you away with Domnall’s army.”

“But he is either in your God’s underworld or Hel’s realm—whichever one, he is paying the debt of a coward and traitor.”

She nodded, her bottom lip trembling. “I thought…I thought I would never see you again. I thought all hope was lost.”

This time he couldn’t resist dragging her into his embrace. But he was careful not to squeeze her as hard as he longed to. She shook silently in his arms, but he knew the shuddering exhale that fanned his neck was a sigh of relief. At last, the nightmare was over.

A loud whistle sounded from across the river, causing Alaric’s head to snap up. He leapt to his feet, putting himself between the noise and Elisead.

Domnall must have grown weary waiting for Drostan farther upriver. The man now rode back toward the falls, his eyes locked on Alaric. He reined his horse to a halt on the far side of the river, eyeing the scene before him. Drostan lay dead, the horses were scattered, and Alaric stood protectively over Elisead.

“Are you fool enough to try to ford this river and face me?” Alaric shouted over the noise of the waterfall.

Domnall considered him again for a long moment.

“Drostan told me to meet him here when he drove us away from your camp,” he said at last. “It seems as though he had some grand plan to bring me back into the fold.”

“He killed Maelcon and thought to drive out my people,” Alaric said flatly. “He failed. Would you like to try your hand against me and my Northmen again?”

Domnall sneered, baring his teeth, but then he took on an air of indifference. “Maelcon’s petty fights never interested me,” he said with a wave of his hand toward Drostan’s body. “I want naught to do with you filthy Northmen. You can keep the bitch as well.”

Now it was Alaric’s turn to bear his teeth in a low growl. But he knew what Domnall was doing—he was trying to save face while escaping Alaric and the Northmen’s wrath.

“Very well,” Alaric said evenly. “Then I suggest you and your father keep to your lands, and we’ll keep to ours. There is no need for further contact between us.”

Domnall fluttered his hand as if he was granting Alaric a reprieve. Without another word, he reined his horse around and rode back toward where his men had gathered behind him. With a sharp gesture of his hand, Domnall and his small army began moving away from the river.

Alaric stood watching for a long time, until the sun was hot overhead and Domnall and his men were just specks far off in the hills to the southwest. At last, he turned and helped Elisead to her feet.

He tucked her under his arm and they hobbled down the slope toward the tree line, where the horses stood cautiously. He didn’t look back at Drostan, whose body was for the ravens now.

He carefully placed her on her mare’s back and took Maelcon’s war steed. After a bit of searching, they found the old nag chewing contentedly on the underbrush not far away.

As they pointed their horses back toward the northeast, Alaric stilled her hands on the reins and leaned toward her. Their lips met in a kiss that communicated more than words ever could.

He loved her and would protect her all of his days.

With the sun shining down on them, they spurred their horses into motion.

Toward home.

“The Northmen are coming!”

Alaric’s head snapped up from his morning meal of porridge, cream, and berries.

He darted a glance at Elisead, who sat next to him at the table on the raised dais. She had a berry halfway to her mouth, but she’d frozen at the sudden appearance of one of the wall guards.

But instead of terror at the words, the great hall erupted into merriment. Alaric rose, but Madrena, who sat on his other side, was faster. She had leapt from the dais and was halfway to the great hall’s double doors before Alaric could help Elisead rise.

Elisead maneuvered carefully down the dais’s steps, never letting go of Alaric’s arm. She had begun to have trouble with her balance now that her belly was rounding with their babe. But Alaric didn’t mind the excuse to be ever at her side, her arm tucked under his.

The two followed in Madrena’s wake through the double doors and across the yard, which was filled with sunlight and activity. The fortress’s gates were open, and Pict villagers and Northlanders streamed in and out freely as they went about their daily tasks.

He was once again attentive as he led Elisead up the rough-hewn stone stairs to the top of the wall. Madrena already stood next to the guard who’d burst into the great hall with the news. The guard was pointing off toward the bay. Since the sky was vibrant blue, with nary a cloud to obscure the view, Alaric immediately spotted them.

Two ships, long and shallow of keel.

Their sails, striped red and white in Eirik’s distinctive pattern, stood out clearly in the morning sun. They had already entered the bay and were making their way toward the mouth of the river.

Madrena whooped in excitement and dashed from the wall.

Alaric turned and directed his attention to where many villagers, Pict and Northmen, gazed up at him from the yard in eager anticipation.

“In honor of our guests, tonight we shall feast!” Alaric boomed.

The gathered crowd cheered in excitement. Several people dashed away to prepare the copious amounts of food and drink that would be needed to satisfy so many more Northmen. Luckily, the growing season already promised to be bountiful. The land under the care of their united people was thriving.

“Shall we greet them here, or at the water?” Alaric said softly to Elisead.

Her amber eyes flashed with that forest spirit he loved so much. “I would greatly enjoy a walk through the woods.”

“Very well,” he said, guiding her back down the stairs. With each step, his heart squeezed in anticipation. After nigh a year of hard work, Alaric would finally be able to present his successes to his Jarl.

They strolled through the gates and past the village. When they reached the woods separating the fortress from the bay, Elisead’s eyes danced and a wide smile stole over her face.

He carefully guided them around the old site where the Northmen’s bodies had been burned so many years ago. Alaric had ordered the remains of the bones destroyed and the sand churned. He’d also removed the stone with the runes, which still disturbed Elisead. She’d breathed a sigh of relief to know that at least in the case of that particular stone, her work had been erased.

By the time they reached the shoreline where Alaric’s old camp had stood, the two ships were only a stone’s throw away. Madrena stood in the bay waters up to her knees, nigh shaking with impatience.

“This is where I first laid eyes on you,” Elisead said, drawing them to a halt at the tree line.

“And I thank all the gods every day that a wild forest spirit was haunting these woods that morn,” he said, drawing her even closer.

She laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder.

The camp had long ago been broken down and the materials stored away in the fortress, but evidence still remained of his presence on these shores nigh a year ago. The fire pit was still black with ash, and the ground was still tamped down and clear of underbrush.

How long ago those days seemed to Alaric, when he held Elisead as a hostage, and when he was still a stranger to this land, which was now his home.

Madrena’s shriek of joy interrupted his musings. The Northmen were beginning to leap from their ships into the shallows. Alaric spotted Rúnin, a dark head among many blond and red ones, just as he hoisted himself over the gunwale of the smaller of the two ships.

Practically before Rúnin had gained his footing in the water, Madrena launched herself at him. The two collided in a hard embrace. They stumbled, then fell backward into the shallows, still bound together.

Alaric chuckled. It had only been a little more than a fortnight since Rúnin had left, taking a small crew and one of Alaric’s two ships to give word to Jarl Eirik that all was well at their settlement. Though Alaric had insisted that the voyage not take place until the seas were reliably calm, Madrena had been prickly as the thistles that grew so abundantly in these lands to be separated from her mate.

At last the two rose from the water, to the amusement of the other Northmen leaping from the ships and pulling them toward the shoreline.

“I trust it was a safe voyage?” Alaric said as Rúnin and Madrena strode, dripping wet, onto the sand next to him.

“Ja,” Rúnin said. “Aegir the sea god smiled on us. And Feitr had already set out for his home village without issue by the time we left Dalgaard.”

Alaric nodded, satisfied. He’d now completed his promise to Feitr to allow him to return home. The former slave could have a new start back in the Northlands as a free man.

“Hail!” Eirik’s booming voice drew Alaric’s attention to the longships once more.

Eirik, as hearty as ever, hoisted himself into the water, then turned to carefully lift Laurel, who held their young son Thorin in her arms, down from the ship. Laurel set Thorin down in the shallowest waters, and the boy, so much bigger at a winter and a half than Alaric had last seen him, immediately began splashing and squealing with joy.

“Hail, Jarl!” Alaric called in response. Eirik strode toward him, a grin plastered on his face.

Just in time, Alaric released Elisead to receive Eirik’s fierce bear hug.

“It is good to see you,” Eirik said, pounding Alaric on the back.

“And you must be Chieftainess Elisead,” Laurel said as she approached, holding a squirming Thorin in her arms.

Elisead went to curtsy to Laurel, but Laurel placed Thorin in Eirik’s hands and caught Elisead up in a hug instead.

“If you have captured Alaric’s heart, you must be a truly special woman,” Laurel said into Elisead’s ear even as she shot a wink at Alaric.

Laurel stood back and took in the gentle swell of Elisead’s stomach. “And you,” she said to the babe who grew within, “you are the link between our peoples, just like Thorin.”

“Aye,” Elisead said, her voice suddenly choked with tears. “It is an honor to meet you and to welcome you to our home.”

“Let us show you all that we’ve accomplished in the last year,” Alaric said.

Just as he was turning to guide them toward the fortress, he noticed that Laurel had turned and was looking out at the water. In the bright morning sun, tears shone in her eyes.

“Are you well?” Alaric asked, coming to Laurel’s side.

“Aye,” she said with a smile. “I just…I never thought I would set foot on this land again.”

“Alaric tells me you are from Northumbria,” Elisead said, approaching Laurel. “It is less than a sennight’s journey south of here on horseback if you wish to visit your home once again.”

“Nay,” Laurel replied, shifting her gaze toward Eirik. “Dalgaard is my home now. I simply never expected to again see the sun rising over the North Sea instead of setting into it.” She laughed and wiped her eyes. Naught but happiness remained there when she removed her hands.

As the two crews worked to drag the longships onto the sandy shore and unload the chests holding their personal effects, Alaric put his arm around Elisead again and led Eirik and Laurel, who scooped up Thorin once more, toward the fortress. Rúnin and Madrena trailed behind them, their heads pressed together and their arms interlocked.

They made their way through the forest edging the river. As the river ducked behind the hill upon which the fortress stood, they reached the clearing where the village sat.

“Oh! What is this?” Laurel stopped abruptly right where the tree line ended and the village appeared.

Her dark brown eyes were locked on the large stone which had once been meant as Elisead’s bride gift to Domnall. After she’d wed Alaric, she took her time in carving it the way she wanted to—the way she felt it was always meant to be.

Laurel circled the stone, which stood upright in the ground even taller than Alaric. It had taken a dozen of Alaric’s strongest men to lift the slab and place it into the hole he’d dug. But it had been worth it, for now the stone stood proudly at the village’s foot.

“I made that,” Elisead said, smiling shyly.

Both Laurel and Eirik pinned her with wide-eyed stares.

“I…I carve stones,” Elisead went on. “This one represents the entrance to the village. Here—” Elisead circled to where Laurel stood, “—here is the cross, since my people and I are Christians.”

Laurel nodded, her eyes clouding with emotion for a moment as she gazed at the intricately carved cross, which took up almost the entire back side of the stone.

“And on this side,” Elisead said, walking around the stone. “This was to be me, as the Virgin Mary, traveling to my betrothed.” She touched first the woman riding sidesaddle, then the mirror and comb symbols. “Now I suppose it is me when I traveled into Alaric’s camp while he negotiated with my father.” Her eyes flickered to Alaric for a moment, then back to the stone.

“These are my people.” She pointed to the rows of men standing below the woman. “And these are Alaric’s.” Her finger traveled down to where she’d added the Northland longship, its rectangular sails seeming to flutter in an imaginary breeze. “And this is the land that binds us together,” she said, running her fingertips along the border, which was filled with vines, leaves, and animals in motion.

An awed silence stole over their group as they all gazed at the beautiful stone.

At last, Laurel darted a glance at Alaric. “A truly special woman, indeed,” she said, her eyes twinkling. Then she turned back to Elisead. “You’ll have to explain how you create such fine details, Chieftainess.”

“Please, just call me Elisead,” she replied, her cheeks pinkening in a blush.

Laurel’s dark brows drew together. “But Rúnin said that among your people, women can inherit the role of leader. I wouldn’t want to disrespect you by not using your title. Did Rúnin misunderstand?”

“Nay,” Elisead said quickly. “He was correct about my people, I just…”

Sensing her shyness, Alaric jumped in. “Elisead isn’t accustomed to the use of formalities.”

She shot him a grateful look, for the title once held by her father still brought up painful memories of his death. “We are both the leaders of the people here,” she said, holding Alaric’s gaze.

It was true, for at first there had been lingering tension between the Northlanders and the Pict warriors who’d served under Maelcon—and Drostan.

But there was always plenty of work to do, and united in the common goals of farming, building huts, making cloth and tools, and all the other tasks necessary to thriving on the land, the two peoples had grown at first accepting, and then downright friendly with each other. Both Picts and Northlanders alike respected Alaric and Elisead as their leaders. The announcement of the impending birth of their first child had only knitted their peoples together tighter.

“Very well, Elisead,” Laurel said warmly. “But I still insist that you tell me how you carve like that. The animals are nigh leaping from the stone!”

“Aye, I will,” Elisead said, a soft smile growing to match Laurel’s.

Alaric motioned for them to continue on to the village.

“The number of huts has doubled in the last year,” he said as they walked through the collection of buildings. “The Picts showed our men how to make them in this style, which is suited to the winters as well as the summers here.”

“How was your first winter away from the Northlands?” Eirik asked as he admired the tightly thatched rooves and wattle and daub walls.

Alaric snorted. “Child’s play,” he said. Elisead swatted his shoulder, but her amber eyes were merry. “Compared to the Northlands, the winters are mild here. We never completely lost the sun. And the growing season is longer though not quite as intense as in Dalgaard.”

Eirik nodded, stroking the blond stubble that had accumulated over the sennight’s journey across the North Sea.

“The fields are beyond the village to the northwest,” Alaric said, motioning. “We’ve expanded those as well to support all our people. Barley and rye grow well here, just as in the Northlands. Many things are the same, actually.”

Just then, several of Alaric’s original crew began to stream out of the open fortress gates. They all bore wide smiles to behold their Jarl and his wife. As they each bowed to Eirik and Laurel, Eirik drew several of them up into a hearty hug.