Éire’s Captive Moon (24 page)

He left her, and went to join his brothers. Bjørn was near a second fire, with Erik and other young men. He was trying to relax the younger warriors.

“Erik has already seen battle. What is the most important thing you’ll remember for this battle, Olafson?”

Agnarr held in his smile as Erik answered, “I will not hit anything with my head.”

Puzzled chuckles skimmed the group as the fire flickered in a friendly manner. Agnarr caught the young man’s eye and nodded. “That’s a good thing to remember, Erik. And you’ll remember, I’m sure, to use a shield whenever possible.”

“
Ja
!” the red-haired man shouted. “I will!”

Agnarr beckoned to Bjørn, and the men stepped outside the companionable circle provided by the fire’s light. “Shall we take a look?” he asked casually.

Bjørn shrugged, as if the matter was of no great importance. “Why not?”

Agnarr armed himself with
Mjøllnir
and a new shield. He was already wearing a heavy, tanned leather vest, which should fend off anything that came at him from a distance. Heavy trousers covered his legs, but his head was bare. Tomorrow, during the battle proper, he would wear another helm. He hefted the sword proudly, thinking of its history.

Halvard had heard the story from his grandsire. The story of how Thor himself had flung lightning to the iron rock, changing it, making it the new metal, steel, so that all foes would fall before such strength.
Mjøllnir
, it had been named, since the ore had been touched by Thor himself.

Bjørn took a spear in one hand, a throwing axe in the other. “Ready, brother?” he asked.

Agnarr nodded, and the two of them skirted the shadows against the walls and between fires to reach the North Gate to their village. Snow was still dusting from the sky, but it melted upon reaching the ground, so the grass and dirt outside of the village fence was uncovered. The men paced the path, over the rise, and found a niche in shadow so that their silhouettes would not be visible against the background of firelight from the village. The warriors on watch would not see them either. The watchmen could, Agnarr supposed, have been used to scout, too, but he trusted only his own eyes in such an endeavor.

Bjørn settled in on the dry grass, grunting lightly as he shifted his weapon and shield. Agnarr lowered himself as well, keeping his attention on the encampment in the distance. “So,” he said softly. “What do you see?”

Bjørn jerked his head in the direction of Vigaldr’s men. “They’re confident, for one. They’re making no effort to hide their whereabouts. If we’re quiet, I can hear them from here.”

Agnarr heeded Bjørn’s words. Bjørn had the ears of a wolf and the eyes of an eagle. In their family, Arknell was the shepherd, knowledgeable in the ways of the herds and farms. Bjørn was a keen hunter. Agnarr was the warrior. It was how it had always been, though both his brothers would be great leaders, Agnarr was sure, in the battle that would come to them with the dawn.

Agnarr listened then, to get as much of an understanding of his enemy as he could. He closed his eyes, knowing Bjørn was watching, and willed himself to hear Vigaldr’s camp. Song floated to him, the vague edges of rowdy laughter. Confident, indeed, as Bjørn had said.

The men waited, but no further sign of movement was to be had from the enemy as full dark enveloped the land. Soon, Agnarr knew, dark would indeed envelope the land for most of the day. Already the winter nights were longer by far than the winter’s sunlight hours.

Rubbing the chill from his bones, Agnarr rose to his feet, gathered his sword and shield, and indicated Bjørn should join him. “Nothing more to be learned here, brother. You should rest before the battle.”

Heavy steps crunched the grass under their feet. Bjørn sounded as if he were smirking when he spoke. “And you, brother? You plan on resting?”

Agnarr breathed out a laugh. “No. Not much, anyway. But some, yes. I wouldn’t want to let down the men and the village. Tomorrow, I put you in charge of our mother.”

“But you are eldest of us, Agnarr,” Bjørn responded, his tone now serious. “Why me?”

“I plan on being in the front rank tomorrow, Bjørn. My
wyrd
will not be denied.”

“Halvard will welcome you to Valhalla if it is your time to go there, Agnarr.”

“
Ja
,” Agnarr said roughly. “I know.”

Back in the village, Bjørn went to a fire-ring to reinforce himself with mead, and Agnarr went in search of his
leman
. He found her in his home, standing over the central cook-fire, boiling something aromatic. No one else was about, as Arknell and his mother had business of their own this night before a battle.

Agnarr felt his business was here. He shrugged off his cloak and let it fall to the floor before he reached Eir. She didn’t turn, but spoke to the cauldron that was touching the flames.

“So you’ve scouted the enemy?” she said with apparent ease. “You think to win tomorrow?” She watched the bubbling mixture and spared him not a glance.

That galled the warrior, so he compelled her to turn by grasping her arm. “How did you know? Are you indeed the witch that the monk accuses you to be?”

She jerked her arm from his fingers and glared up at him. The pot continued to boil, but the healer was now paying attention to
him
. “It is only sense, Agnarr. Grant me some intelligence!” She made a growling sound, deep in her throat that reached right inside Agnarr and grabbed him by the gut. “You are a battlechief, you trust no one save your family, and you have a battle to fight. Do you think I don’t understand you?”

She smiled then, a challenging expression that made a jest of the insults they had hurled at one another earlier in the day. Eir of the Green Island might be a witch, Agnarr thought, his nose catching the faint hint of mint that accompanied her. She might use her herbs to prevent her own quickening. She may well have scarred the monk for life, but for the moment, Agnarr could not make himself care.

Without warning, he pulled her to him firmly, so that that temper of hers wouldn’t enable her to get away this time. Not that she often tried to escape his attentions these nights, but she did not participate.

She stood impassively in his arms. He gentled his mouth’s assault on hers, reaching with one hand to cup her head while the other caressed her through the heavy linen dress she wore. He did not notice a difference in his touch, but she apparently did.

She tugged her head away. “What are you doing?” she rasped, sounding breathless. “What are you doing to me?”

He was chagrined to find how that particular response fueled his desire for her, but he felt passion rise inside of him, not violence. “I am tired of your cold reception, Eir. I want fire.”

“Why?” She didn’t move, though, from his arms. Neither did she glare at him. Her face, in contrast to its usual hard lines, had crinkled in some deep confusion, shown by the orange light of the cook-fire.

Why? He did not know. Did it have to do with the way she and Kingson had spoken together on the walk back to the village that afternoon? Or was it the coming of his own wedding to Elsdottir? He could not answer himself, so he did not answer the healer.

Instead, he picked her up and carried her urgently to his bench bed, flinging aside the furs she beat every morning and evening to clear them of vermin.

“Agnarr,” she said, her eyes wide in the flickering light. “I don’t understand this change in you.”

“Neither do I,” he growled, impatience rising within him as he at last freed her legs and his own from their trappings of cloth. “Close your mouth, Eir, and let . . . me . . . in!”

With a smooth, powerful thrust, he joined with her.

The fire died, unbanked. Agnarr heard his healer rise, wrap herself in a fur, and sit quietly at the edge of the bed. Mindful of the others in the
langhús
, he sat up with her and whispered, “Your herbs, are they ruined?”

“I will find use for them.” She looked to the ceiling, where the sky showed the darkness that preceded the first pink light of dawn. “Every herb that grows has a use, for good or ill,” she went on, as if to herself.

“You are ready to work your magic?” he asked.

She turned sharply, her hair lashing at him. “It is not magic. Just skill. Believe me.”

He grunted. He did not believe her. She did have an effect over him. She also had qualities in and of herself that defied explanation. How did her skin escape burning by the sun? Fair as she was, she should have been red half the summer. She never had skinned her hands, even when she tripped on the rocky ground during her time with him. No scratches from briars either. And the time the ram butted her in a fit of temper, she bore no hurt.

Only people could wound her, apparently. And their weapons.

“Be available,” he commanded. “Be prepared. We will have need of your skills today.”

Surprisingly, she smiled slightly. “Erik has promised not to take another spear.”

He laughed quietly. “He has learned, you see. Others have not. Be on your guard. You will stay in Els’s house, with the older women. The children will be here, with Magda Elsdottir. In Els’s house, you will be ready to sew us back together as needed.”

The healer nodded slowly. “I will. And I will bring one of your spears.”

“No!” he barked, unsettled by that.

She hissed in obvious anger. “I will not be left defenseless.” From across the house, his mother muttered in her sleep. Eir stood and pulled the fur more tightly about herself, and continued, her voice hushed. “I hit your helm from you.”

“Oh, and you would do the same again?” he asked, pushing to his feet as well, not minding the chill air. “Is that what you wish, Eir?”

Her face was a pale oval against the darkness of the fireless dwelling. “I will not strike you with iron,
vikingr
,” she spat, the warmth of their time during the night hours forgotten. “You have my word.”

It was enough. “Good. Now, kindle the fire.” He bellowed to waken his brothers, turning to throw a tunic on before opening the front door to his home. The fires still burned near the fence, and the warriors were out in the cold.

“Agnarr!” Erik’s young voice reached him in the nearly frigid air. “They’re coming!”

Gripping his talisman, Agnarr nodded and offered up a prayer to Thor that he would be triumphant that day.

Chapter 18

Charis shuddered deep inside herself as the first sounds of battle reached her. Shouts, taunts, the crackling of fire just inside the wooden fence that surrounded the northern edge of Balestrand . . . it all sounded far too much like the raid that these same Northmen had made upon Ragor, her home
rath
.

“Charis?” The whispering of her name reached her from the open door of the house of Els and his family. Cowan was there, his eating knife in one hand, and a warrior’s castoff shield in another.

Curious, for she had not seen him there before, she crossed the swept floor to Kingson. “What are you doing here?”

“Tuirgeis told me to guard the surgeons and wounded, so here I am.”

She eyed his questionable “weaponry” with annoyance.

“He could have given you a proper spear, or even an axe.”

“Eir!” The healer spun on her heel to see Gerda approaching. Agnarr’s mother was frowning. “You are not to speak in your barbarian manner. Use proper speech, as my son directed you.” The older woman gestured sharply to the side bed bench that was the current home to all of Charis’s healing herbs and linens. “Make sure you are ready.” The other women who were to help were hunkered around the fire, building up the flame and keeping water hot for poultices and teas.

The healer puffed out a defiant breath, but did as she was bidden, sparing a glance for Cowan, who turned again to watch the battle.

She nimbly sorted her herbs, ointments, and preparations but her mind was outside with the warriors. She was in a dilemma. Did she hope for the success or failure of Agnarr and his men? On one hand, it would be wonderful not to be subject to him any longer. To be free . . . but would she be truly free? That was a problem. Would she be able to escape, were Agnarr to be killed by one of the invading army? Winter was all but smothering the village now, and travel would be difficult, if not impossible.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the battle screams of men intoxicated with the essence of war. She reached for her cloak and drew it about her shoulders, intending to stand outside the door and watch the fighting, to better prepare herself for casualties.