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

“I am Alaric Hamarsson,” came the voice again. “Of the Northland village of Dalgaard.”

That confirmed it—no matter that he spoke the Northumbrian tongue, he was not of this land.

“How dare you trample across my land and threaten my people thus, Alaric Hamarsson?” Maelcon bit out.

A deep laugh drifted over the wall, burning Elisead’s ears.

“I have yet to threaten anyone, Maelcon mac Lorcan,” he called. “I had hoped only to talk.”

Drostan snatched Maelcon’s elbow and spoke lowly in his ear. “Why haven’t we attacked yet, Chief? The longer these Northman stand talking, the more time they have to enact whatever scheme they’ve come up with.”

“Perhaps a few of my people can enter your fine fortress and discuss the future,” the Northman’s voice said levelly.

“’Tis a trap!” Drostan hissed. “We must strike now before they do.”

Her father considered for a tense moment as Alaric waited for a response. “The archers,” Maelcon said at last under his breath.

Dread knotted Elisead’s stomach. A battle was about to erupt nigh at her feet, and there was no telling who would survive.

Drostan turned and gave a low whistle. Several warriors who had gathered in the yard below them hustled to mount the stairs. They nocked arrows and partially drew back their bowstrings as they moved into position along the wall, crouched low like Elisead.

Drostan suddenly threw a fist into the air. As one, the archers straightened.

“Shield wall!” someone shouted from below, a mere breath before the air was filled with the sound of thwacking bowstrings and whirring arrows.

Elisead bit her knuckle on a scream as the sickening thunks of the arrows hitting solid matter rang in her ears. But distantly she registered that there were no howls of pain from the Northmen below and the arrow strikes made a hollow, reverberating sound.

“Again!” her father shouted, his voice tight with frustration. The archers unleashed another hail of arrows, but again there were no screams of agony.

Once the archers had spent their second round of arrows, an eerie silence hung in the air. Elisead glanced up at her father, who was frowning as he looked down upon the Northmen at the base of the wall.

Another low chuckle drifted up from below. The fine hairs on Elisead’s arms stirred as the dark sound seemed to lance right through her. She gripped the top of the wall’s lip and risked raising her head above it.

In the grassy expanse between the wall’s base and the downward slope of the hill upon which the fortress sat, the Northmen had transformed into a tight ball of shields. They looked like some primeval creature, their painted, round shields stacked together like scales. The shields bristled with dozens of arrows, but there were no fallen bodies on the ground.

“Thank you for providing us with such a fine collection of arrows,” that same silky, deep voice said. “You’ve saved us the trouble of having to whittle and fletch our own.”

Drostan’s hands turned into fists where they rested on the top of the wall’s lip. He ground them into the rough stone until blood oozed from his knuckles. Maelcon cursed under his breath, but Elisead was familiar enough with his oaths that she knew this one wasn’t borne of pure anger. Nay, it was spiked with fear.

“Now, to return to the subject of discussing our future.” A slit appeared in the wall of shields. The face of the golden leader appeared. A small smile played around his mouth, but his eyes were hard.

“We could open the gates and attack them straight on,” Drostan said, barely loud enough for Elisead to catch his words. “Face them sword to sword in combat.”

“They outnumber us,” Maelcon hissed. “And you know better than anyone what happened last time, even when we matched them in number.”

“You would genuinely consider letting them within the walls?”

At Drostan’s urgent whisper, Elisead shuddered with memory. She’d already seen what Northmen were capable of when they’d set upon the half-full village seven years ago. What would these ones do if given access to the fortress, which was filled with innocent villagers?

Elisead ducked behind the wall once more, her gaze now searching the yard below. Her eyes fell on Feitr, who lurked in the shadow of the great hall. His white-blond hair was braided back from his face in the Northland style, as he’d worn it every day in his captivity since he was taken as a slave seven years ago.

The flood of memory brought on by the sight of Feitr stung Elisead’s eyes. For the second time that day, she struggled against the stench of burning flesh that rose unbidden to her nose.

It had been considered a mercy for Maelcon to take Feitr, then just a lad barely older than Elisead, as a slave instead of simply killing him. Slavery was a common enough fate for an enemy’s survivors. But Feitr’s icy eyes and pale, braided hair was a constant reminder of the Northland devils—his presence never failed to send chills of unease through Elisead.

Elisead’s attention snapped from Feitr to Drostan and her father.

“You cannot think to simply attack, Drostan.”

The hardened warrior clenched his teeth as her father’s words, no doubt seeing insult in them. Though Drostan was indeed mighty and skilled, Elisead’s thoughts ran with her father’s. Would it not be suicide to open the gates and send their men, outnumbered as they were, into battle with these invaders?

“There are two ways this can go,” the male voice from below cut in. “If we had wished to take your fortress, we would have done so already.”

’Twas a bold boast, and from their expressions, both Maelcon and Drostan found it farfetched.

“Is that so?” her father shouted in response.

“Ja, that is so.” Now Elisead was certain the man was losing his patience. “Shall I tell you how?”

Without waiting for a response, the golden leader went on. “We’d have our choice, of course. Most obviously, we could simply wait you out, though I like that option least of all because I notice the river runs behind this hillside. If you are smart, and I am granting that you are, you would have dug a well within your walls so that you’d at least have fresh water for however long a siege lasted.”

Drostan snorted, his eyes narrowed on the speaker below, but Maelcon remained unmoved.

“I hate waiting, so another option would be to advance behind our shields even if you chose to keep firing upon us. There are enough of us to provide cover from your arrow fire while the others lift that grille you have lowered in front of your gate.”

Could they truly do that? From her father’s tightening mouth, she had to assume so. The grille was solid iron, and even with the pulley system they had, it took several of her father’s men to ratchet it up. But these Northmen were terrifyingly large and no doubt strong.

“The route I am favoring at the moment, however, would be to have some of us use our shields to launch the others up to the top of the wall,” the one called Alaric said casually. “It is really quite easy. We’ve done it before, in fact, in the Northlands. You might imagine that you’d be able to pick us off one at a time as we arrived on the wall, but what if ten of us were launched at once? Or fifteen? I count ten archers on the wall currently, and perhaps you have more warriors behind them, but judging by the size of your village, I doubt you have more than a dozen or so families here, which means only a score or so of warriors in addition to your archers.”

A wave of fear and helplessness washed over Elisead. How could they possibly hope to survive? These Northmen were not only the most dangerous warriors known in the world, but they were clever, too? How could he have guessed with such accuracy just how strong their force was?

A long silence stretched as her father stood motionless, looking down on his attackers.

“You said you wish only to talk. What is it you want to discuss?”

“The future—yours and ours. I have a feeling they are intertwined.”

“You hope to steal our future, is that what you mean?” Maelcon bit out.

What could these Northmen invaders want if not to raid, loot, rape, and murder until there was naught left of Elisead’s home and people?

“Nei, that is not why we are here. As I said, we can discuss this further within the walls.”

“I beg of you, Chief, do not trust these Northmen,” Drostan whispered, but Maelcon had already resigned himself to his choice, judging by his slow exhale.

“Very well,” Maelcon said, suddenly sounding weary. “But only you will be allowed in.”

The silence that followed was only broken by the soft whispers of the Northmen below. Now they spoke a rolling, guttural language that must be their own. The whispers rose, and discord filled several voices, but Elisead quickly picked out the deep, smooth voice of the leader, Alaric. He snapped something, which seemed to settle the conversation, and all fell quiet again.

“Two others will accompany me,” the golden leader said. His demand brokered no negotiation. “The others will move back down the hill while you admit us. If we do not return to them by the time the sun approaches the horizon, they will attack.”

“You’ll leave your weapons and shields behind,” Maelcon responded.

“Very well.”

Truly, these Northmen had no fear. They would walk unarmed into the fort, surrounded by warriors ready to kill them? They must have trusted that the rest of their small army would finish the job if harm befell them. They clearly weren’t afraid of death. That thought sent another shiver down Elisead’s spine

The air filled with clanging, and she dared to peek over the wall once more. Three enormous warriors were separating themselves from the wall of shields. The golden leader handed his shield and sword to one of his men and even unstrapped a long dagger from his boot. A dark-haired giant next to him was doing the same.

As Elisead’s eyes shifted to the third warrior, she inhaled sharply.

A woman.

With her pale blonde hair braided away from her face and flowing down her back, she looked like a goddess from the old ways. But she bristled with weapons of every variety and size. In fact, it took her the longest to disarm herself.

At last, the three strode forward and away from the safety of their shields and companions. With a gesture from the leader, the others began to retreat down the hill, but they still faced the wall in case the three warriors were set upon.

“Get into the great hall,” her father suddenly snapped at her.

Without hesitation, she bolted for the stairs and hurried toward the hall’s double doors. Behind her, she heard the groan of the iron grille once more, but this time it was being ratcheted up to allow the Northlanders entrance.

She dared one look behind her as she slipped into the great hall.

As the wooden gates widened, the golden-headed Northman strode boldly through, flanked on either side by the dark-haired man and the woman warrior.

Something tightened in her belly. Had she imagined it, or had his green eyes landed on her just as the great hall’s doors closed behind her?

Alaric set his face in the easy almost-smile he so often wore. He forced his body to remain loose and relaxed as he crossed through the fortress’s wooden gates, but his insides clenched as he took in the greeting they received.

The wall was lined with archers, all of whom had arrows pointed at them as they strode into the fortress’s yard. Almost as soon as they had crossed under the iron grille meant to protect the wooden gates, it was let down with a ground-shaking thud. Several more warriors, swords and spears aimed at them, stood waiting.

Before him sat a wooden structure not unlike a Northland longhouse. The long, high-ceilinged building had a wooden roof, though, rather than thatching.

As his eyes took in this building in the middle of the fortress, he saw that same telltale flash of red. The woman from the woods was slipping inside.

Alaric’s stomach unknotted ever so slightly. She’d made it back safely. For some reason that knowledge was a relief.

He didn’t have time to consider the woman’s fate, however, for just then Maelcon mac Lorcan spoke from behind them.

“We could simply kill you now. At least then your force would be down three warriors.”

Alaric turned and shrugged with practiced ease, though he didn’t relish the thought of dying without a weapon in hand.

“You could. But then you’d never know why we are here and what we want from you.”

He’d already made his strength clear by detailing the several ways he could lay waste to this stronghold. Now he’d try to appeal to this man’s curiosity, for clearly he didn’t know what to make of Alaric and the other Northlanders.

The chieftain grunted, but the man at his side, clearly a warrior, crossed his arms over his chest and assessed the three of them. Alaric felt Madrena stiffen at his side, but she knew better than to make a move in that moment.

“You wished to talk, so let us talk,” Maelcon said at last.

“It is customary where we are from to welcome visitors with food, drink, and a comfortable seat,” Alaric said levelly.

He thought the tall, dark-haired man at the chieftain’s side might lose his eyes, for they bulged in indignation at Alaric’s bold words.

“You are not our guests,” the chieftain said tightly. “You came uninvited and threaten us with your very presence.”

“As I said before,” Alaric responded with studied calmness. “I have not threatened you, nor will I—unless you choose to make things difficult.”

The chieftain seemed to finally run out of patience for their cautious meeting. “Are you not Northmen?” he barked. “And do not Northmen come to our lands to raid and slaughter?”

The chieftain’s warriors tensed at their leader’s flaring temper, and also no doubt at the reminder of what Northlanders did best. By Odin, Alaric had an uphill battle in front of him to convince these people to let him settle here. But he had to try. The heft of responsibility sat squarely on his shoulders.

“As I said, I am Alaric. This is my second in command, Madrena. She also happens to be my twin sister.”

The introduction seemed to catch everyone off-guard enough to ease the tension for a moment, so Alaric went on.

“And this is Rúnin, Madrena’s mate and a trusted warrior under my command. We have been sailing for more than a sennight, so we ask forgiveness for not being as clean as we’d prefer on entering your home.”

Several jaws slackened at that.

“We appreciate any hospitality you are willing to extend, for I am sure we have much to discuss. Though if you would prefer to stand here all day, very well.”

Alaric squinted up into the midmorning sun as if calculating how long they’d be standing under it. He’d learned long ago that catching people unawares with humor or politeness often worked just as well as a show of strength.

And this latest attempt proved him right once again. The chieftain grunted for a second time, but at last he gestured toward the building.

Though he hated to turn his back on all those archers, let alone Maelcon and the warrior standing at his side, Alaric forced his feet to pivot and made his way toward the long wooden structure. He opened one of the large doors and motioned for Maelcon to lead the way, giving him the honor of crossing the threshold first.

In the structure’s dim interior, Alaric was met with the terrified stares of several dozen villagers. They shied away from him, Madrena, and Rúnin like frightened sheep stuck in a pen. Maelcon didn’t seem concerned, though, so Alaric strode on behind him.

The chieftain guided them to a large wooden table surrounded by chairs that sat atop an elevated platform. Again, Alaric was struck by how this village, its people, and its longhouse were not so different from Dalgaard. He’d have to stress that point when trying to explain his plan to Maelcon.

They all sat, and Maelcon gave an order to one of the villagers in a strange tongue. So, Northumbrian wasn’t the only language these people used. Alaric’s gaze trailed after the man Maelcon had spoken to, tensing for some sort of trap, but then the man returned with several cups of ale.

As they settled themselves at the table and took the ale from the villager, Maelcon raised his cup and ceremonially poured some of the contents into Alaric’s. Alaric did the same, showing all who watched that he and their chief drank the same liquid—no poison would be laced there.

“You speak the Northumbrian tongue well,” Maelcon said, raising the cup to his bearded face and taking a long sip.

“Thank you. I was taught by a Northumbrian woman who was captured by my Jarl two summers ago.”

That seemed to send tension back into the already wary chief, so Alaric went on. “But I take it we are not in Northumbria, for you have your own language as well.”

“Nay, you are not in Northumbria.”

“Then what do you call this land?”

“You are in the heart of Pictland,” Maelcon said, watching as Alaric took a long drink from his cup.

“And what do you call yourselves?”

Maelcon shifted his gaze to the villagers gathered in the hall, and Alaric’s eyes followed. They looked on, some still unabashedly terrified, while others, like the warriors who’d filtered in quietly, bore expressions filled with suspicion or hostility.

“Outsiders call us the Picts—the Painted Ones, for it is our way to paint ourselves before going into battle.”

Alaric scanned the warriors once more. They must not have had time to prepare for the Northlanders’ arrival, for none were painted. “And what do you call yourselves?”

“We are the People of the Ancestors, descendants of the Ancient Ones—but to you we are Picts.”

Alaric rubbed the sennight’s worth of stubble on his jawline. Maelcon certainly wasn’t going to make this easy. He’d best lay forth his purpose before he lost this sliver of opportunity.

“Let me speak plainly,” he said. “As I have assured you, we are not here to raid or raze your lands and people. We are here to settle, to make this our new home. Though I had initially sought an uninhabited area for my people, I am coming to consider the benefits of joining a village of locals—Picts, you say—and combining our peoples.”

Alaric was rewarded for his declaration with an audible gasp from those gathered, and the swinging jaw of Maelcon mac Lorcan.

The chieftain sputtered for words for several long moments. At last he managed to regain his wits—mostly. “You…you are settling here?”

“Ja. I was sent by my Jarl to find a suitable plot of land on which to build a settlement. Others will likely be joining us next summer, and perhaps more after that. Those who have arrived with me will build huts, work the land, and raise animals.”

“And…and you want to…
combine
our peoples?” The chieftain was beginning to redden behind his rust-and-gray beard.

“This is a fine fortress you have here. It would take us years of hard work—work better put toward farming and defending against outsiders—to build one for ourselves,” Alaric said calmly.

Madrena was growing impatient by his side. She tapped her foot and rolled her eyes in annoyance as Maelcon struggled and sputtered over what Alaric was saying. Her preferred approach was to demand what she wanted—usually at sword-point. But Alaric wouldn’t simply threaten these people into becoming his allies. Nei, that would never work. He had to remain composed as he and Maelcon worked through this plan—’twas what a true leader would do.

“You know this land and how to work it,” Alaric went on. “You also know the dangers of this place. You know whom to trust among your neighbors—and whom not to.”

“And you simply want me to surrender my fortress, my village, my farmlands, and my knowledge to you?” Maelcon’s knuckles were growing white where he gripped his wooden ale cup.

“Nei, not surrender them. I wish for you to…see the benefit in aligning yourself with my people,” Alaric said carefully.

“And what benefit is there to me?” the chieftain bit out.

“Think on it. Have you had problems with raids in the past?” Alaric’s mind instantly skittered to the pile of burnt bones and the crudely rendered warning etching in runes—death to Northmen.

He gritted his teeth against the urge to demand an explanation from Maelcon. Now wasn’t the time. His goal was to open negotiations, not remind everyone present of their divisions.

Maelcon set his cup down and brushed his beard absently. “I see your line of thinking,” he said at last, his voice grudging. “So you offer your protection for the privilege of our lands and fortress?”

“Now you are understanding,” Alaric said, flashing an easy smile.

“And how do I know that you will not simply destroy us if I give you the chance?” Maelcon said, his temper flashing to life once more. “Or that you will not renege on your agreement? Or that you are lying as you speak?”

Alaric kept the smile on his lips, but turned it wolfish. By Thor, he was walking a knife’s edge. If he came out all threats and bluster, he’d call forth Maelcon’s instant defensiveness—and risk an all-out war with the people he was trying to align himself with. But if he approached the wary chief with charm and promises of mutual benefit, Maelcon might not realize that he had no choice in the matter. Alaric had to flex his might just enough so that Maelcon knew how things would be, but not so fiercely as to scare the chieftain away.

“Let me make a suggestion,” Alaric said, leaning back in his chair disarmingly. “These negotiations have opened promisingly. No blood was spilled. No insults given. I think we are beginning to understand each other.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Maelcon nodded.

“Then I propose we continue these negotiations in the coming sennights—and fortnights, if necessary.”

At another wary bob of the head from Maelcon, Alaric went on.

“In my land, it is customary to exchange hostages during an extended negotiation to ensure…mutual cooperation.”

Maelcon tensed slightly but spoke, albeit cautiously. “It is the same in these lands. Though normally the hostage must be someone of great import.”

“I offer myself.”

The tall, dark-haired warrior who’d been at Maelcon’s side earlier stepped forward from the crowd of villagers and warriors below the dais. In one easy leap, he hoisted himself onto the dais, which made him tower over Alaric, sitting as he was.

“I am Drostan, Chief Maelcon’s best warrior and trusted advisor. I will be your hostage.”

Alaric considered the man for a long moment, then shifted his gaze back to Maelcon. The chieftain’s bushy gray eyebrows were drawn down over bright amber eyes. Eyes so much like…

A sweep of red hair caught the corner of Alaric’s vision. He turned to spy tucked amongst the other villagers the flame-haired woman whom he’d cornered by the river. Her liquid amber eyes were riveted on him, wide though less frightened than before.

He glanced back at Maelcon, and something clicked into place in the recesses of his mind.

He pointed at the girl, and skittish villagers fell away until only air remained between the end of his finger and the auburn-headed forest spirit.

“Nei. I want
her
.”