Authors: Allie MacKay
He wanted this Norseman’s soul.
There were fine rings of thick silver on the man’s large, mail-sleeved arms.
“I keep a chest o’ those.” Magnus flicked his wrist, using Vengeance’s tip to point at the Viking’s arm rings. “I take them off dead men and tonight I’ll be tossing yours in with the others.
“Except”—he implied delight—“the two or three I’ll wear in my feast hall this e’en.”
The Viking lunged, bellowing his rage. Magnus sidestepped him with ease, scything Vengeance to counter the man’s vicious blow. But the sword’s blade glanced off the heavy mail of the Viking’s sleeve, the failed strike only serving to enrage the man more. He whirled on Magnus, hacking wildly, his bloodied ax blade cutting air when Magnus spun, then swept Vengeance in a great, whistling arc. And this time, his blade sliced into the vulnerable gap beneath the Norseman’s raised arm, the powerful cut cleaving deep, splintering bone and sending a fountain of red to brighten the length of Magnus’s sword and splash across his chest.
“Vengeance!”
Magnus yelled his battle cry as he yanked free his blade. The huge Norseman toppled, falling face-first onto the sand.
Magnus wheeled away, eager to slay his next Magnus wheeled away, eager to slay his next challenger.
“I’ll give you vengeance.”
The taunt came from another tall, mail-coated Norseman. Blond as the slain axman’s, this Viking’s wheat-colored hair spilled free to his waist, and the battered faceplate of his helmet shone red in the firelight. Ten or more gold rings glittered on each arm, proclaiming his status. As did his jeweled belt buckle and the gem-studded clasps adorning the thick plaits of his proudly braided beard.
“You’re the dead man, Viking.” Magnus wasn’t impressed.
The Norseman didn’t care. “If the fates so will it.” He shrugged, unconcerned. “I think it’s you who’ll miss the morrow’s sunrise.”
“Shall we see?” Magnus was keen.
“Tell Odin that it was Harald Skull-Splitter who sent you into his company.” The Viking grinned, whipping his sword in a flashing figure-of-eight flourish. “I keep him well amused.”
“Then he will be pleased to meet you at last.” Magnus twirled Vengeance in an equally bold display.
“Perhaps”—he flicked his gaze to the three burning ships, guessing that this man was the warlord who owned them—“he’ll like you so much that he’ll replace your fired boats in Valhalla.”
“I’ll build new boats from the riches I’ll be taking from your lands, Viking Slayer.” He spoke Magnus’s byname as a slur. “After I dine on your liver and then whore your women in your bed.”
Harald Skull-Splitter’s men stopped fighting long enough to jeer. Magnus’s warriors snarled, their outraged protests heating air already scorching hot from the flames of the Norsemen’s burning dragon boats.
Together, their own fighting momentarily forgotten, Magnus’s men and the Viking warriors formed a circle, ringing Magnus and Harald Skull-Splitter. Each man edged near, drawn by the lure of a fierce and deadly combat of arms, a battle that promised a spectacle of blood sure to please the most jaded warrior.
“A boon for you, Skull-Splitter, in honor of your bravery ... and in small recompense for the loss of three fine ships.” Magnus glanced at the ring of men, searching the Norsemen’s faces. “Which man lives to carry my message to Sigurd Sword Breaker? You decide. Now, while you still have breath to utter a name.”
Harald Skull-Splitter spat on the sand. “There’ll be no need.”
“I insist.” Magnus moved with eye-blurring speed, the tip of Vengeance jabbing beneath the Viking warlord’s chin before the man could blink. “Choose a survivor.”
Harald Skull-Splitter set his mouth in a tight hard line, his face showing no emotion. But his gaze did flash to a young well-armored warrior. Blond, good-looking, and the least burly of the Northmen, he still had the freshness of youth about him. And, surprisingly, an air of innocence that shone bright in his startling blue eyes.
“You.” Magnus jerked his head at the youth. “Who are you?”
“I am Arnor Song-Bringer.” The young warrior stepped forward.
“A good name—as your leader has lost his tongue.” Magnus kept his sword tip at Skull-Splitter’s chin. “You have broken his quiet.”
Several of Magnus’s warriors sniggered.
The other Vikings remained silent, anger rolling off them.
“The name is because my birth ended my mother’s silence.” The youth’s voice was clear, proud. “She lost my father and my brothers before I was born and vowed in her sorrow to never speak again. When I came, she sang to me, forgetting the oath in her gladness.”
Magnus frowned, feeling oddly chastised.
Skull-Splitter took advantage, knocking Vengeance away from his jaw. “Arnor is Sigurd Sword Breaker’s nephew.”
Magnus eyed the youth sharply. His blood chilled and he was sure that Vengeance’s blade vibrated, demanding to bite deep into the youth’s flesh.
Whipping Vengeance back up to point at Skull-Splitter’s belly, Magnus snarled. His rage seethed and he tasted hot bile as his world took on the shimmering red haze that always came with killing.
He shot another fierce glance at the youth.
Arnor glared at him, defiant.
“Who he is, or”—Magnus turned back to Skull-Splitter, his scowl deepening—“how he received his name, doesn’t matter. Only that he will be left alive to carry my warning to Sword Breaker and every other Viking warlord who dares to eye this coast.”
“You’ve just spoken your last words.” Harald Skull-Splitter attacked then, leaping forward in savage anger, his sword a flash of silver that struck Vengeance so hard Magnus reeled, almost losing his footing.
He recovered swiftly and roared a challenge as he lunged forward. He swung Vengeance with a fury, the vicious arc catching Skull-Splitter in the side.
Vengeance’s blade screamed across the tight steel rings of the Norseman’s mail coat, bruising but drawing no blood.
Skull-Splitter laughed and slashed down furiously with his own blade, trying to slice through Magnus’s arm. Magnus blocked the blow with Vengeance’s broad side, thrusting the Viking backward with such force he should have crashed to his knees. Instead, he spun around, his own blade swinging in another death-bringing stroke. Except Magnus wasn’t yet ready to die. He was eager to kill, so he whirled, slashing Vengeance in an even mightier arc. This time the blade sliced through the Norseman’s mailed sleeve, cutting straight into muscle and bone. Blood sprayed onto the sand and Skull-Splitter’s sword dropped from his limp fingers.
Magnus grinned, not surprised when his foe growled and used his left hand to pluck his huge Norse war ax from its jeweled belt ring.
“I’ve taken worse scratches from the women I bed,” Skull-Splitter sneered, ignoring his bloodied arm and raising his bright ax blade.
“You’ve had your last whore. Save”—Magnus eyed the long-handled ax, unconcerned—“any toothless hags Odin might share with you.”
Magnus lunged then, aiming deadly, but Skull-Splitter leapt aside and the sword glanced harmlessly across the Norseman’s massive steel-clad shoulder.
Eyes blazing, the Viking charged, lifting his good arm to rain ax blows and hacks at Magnus’s head and arms.
“Donata’s curse is on you, MacBride.” Skull-Splitter hissed the words as he brought his ax slashing down, missing Magnus’s shoulder by a hairbreadth. He hacked again, wildly. “You’re wasting breath trying to kill me because you’re already a dead man.”
“Nae, that’s you.” Magnus narrowed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the chill that swept him on the Viking’s words. Furious, he flicked Vengeance with blinding speed, taking two fingers from his foe’s ax hand.
Skull-Splitter howled, his remaining fingers still gripping his ax. “You’ll not fell me,” he jeered, coming at Magnus again.
“I’m slaying you now.” Magnus sidestepped the blow with ease. “Hold on to your ax if you wish to dine with Odin this e’en.”
“Cur!” Skull-Splitter tried to rally.
But the sand beneath his feet was growing slick with his spilled blood and the force in his left arm wasn’t as powerful as the might of his useless sword arm. He kept fighting, snarling fiercely as Magnus continued to spin and lunge, avoiding the Viking’s ax swings and dealing his own vicious strikes with Vengeance.
Roaring now, the Viking slammed down his ax in a fierce swipe that could’ve cleaved an ox in two equal halves. But Magnus was prepared and on Skull-Splitter’s downswing, he rammed Vengeance forward in a terrible two-handed thrust, piercing mail and leather jerkin to sink the sword’s blade deep in the Norseman’s gut.
Magnus’s men cheered and raised their own reddened blades, renewing the fight with the other Vikings even before Magnus could yank Vengeance from Skull-Splitter’s belly. The Nordic warlord twitched on the sand, his bloodied fingers groping for his ax hilt.
He didn’t moan, but his eyes met Magnus’s, pleading for that mercy.
Northmen dreaded nothing more than dying without a weapon in their hand. If they did, the way to Valhalla and the glories of Odin’s feasting hall was barred to them. Instead they fell straight to Niflheim, the Norse hell where such ill-fated men shivered in endless cold and dark while Nidhogg, the Corpse-Tearer, a huge scaly-backed dragon, gnawed on their bones as they wailed and writhed in eternal agony.
Magnus relished the thought.
Skull-Splitter’s eyes were beginning to glaze, the plea in them fading.
The man had fought hard. He’d been fierce, braver than many men Magnus knew.
He deserved to die well.
His eyelids fluttered, drifting shut.
“God’s curse!” Magnus ignored the fighting around him and bent, snatching up the Viking warlord’s ax and thrusting the weapon into the man’s hand. He dropped to one knee beside the bastard, curling his trembling fingers around the hilt and holding them there until Skull-Splitter gave a last gurgling sigh, shuddered, and fell still.
The Norseman’s soul had fled.
And—Magnus stood—Skull-Splitter would already be taking his place at Odin’s table. No doubt reaching for a brimming horn of ale and grinning broadly at the plump, half-naked beauties eager to wriggle onto his lap. Life for Harald Skull-Splitter just became paradise.
Magnus was still cursed.
The Vikings’ taunts filled his mind again, clear as the clashing of swords and axes, the grunts, shouts, and curses of the men fighting across the red-streaming sand. A chill tore through him and he dragged his sleeve over his brow, wiping away blood and sweat.
He could almost feel darkness swirling around him, drawing nearer and searching for him.
He looked for Arnor Song-Bringer.
Then—at last—the killing slowed and the insults, screams, and yells lessened, the battle drawing to an end. Only Magnus’s warriors stood on the sullied, smoke-hazed strand. But one Viking yet lived, just as he’d ordered. Calum and another older warrior held the youth at the tide line, Frodi sitting guard before them.
“Ewan!” Magnus glanced at his friend, and then nodded toward the end of the cove where a small two-man skiff was beached near a pile of drying seaweed.
“Ready that boat for Arnor Song-Bringer.”
“With pleasure.” Ewan sheathed his bloodred sword and sprinted along the strand, quickly dragging the little boat to the water’s edge.
Magnus then narrowed his eyes at Sigurd Sword Breaker’s nephew. “Calum and his cousin are about to put you in thon skiff.” Magnus remained where he was, arms folded. The insult would be greater if his men, not him, put the messenger in the boat and shoved him off. “You’ll go naked and stripped of weapons. Nor will you have oars. Your own gods and the sea will determine where to take you. If they’re kind, you’ll reach your northern shores, or a Viking ship, before you die of cold or thirst.
“If you make it to your uncle”—Magnus did come forward now, for Calum and the other warrior had tossed the bare-bottomed Norseman into the skiff and were already shoving the boat into the waves—“tell Sword Breaker what happens to raiders who dare set foot on my shores. If he and his ilk wish to land at the bottom of the sea, their ships’ ashes soiling the strand as at Gairloch, they can come.
“Tell him”—Magnus raised his own foot, kicking the skiff deeper into the surf—“Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer, is waiting. And that I’m eager to feed every last one of you to Corpse-Tearer. I showed mercy to Harald Skull-Splitter. I have none for your uncle or his followers.”
“My uncle doesn’t need your mercy.” Arnor Song-Bringer sat ramrod straight in the tiny boat, his chin raised defiantly. “He shows quarter to no man and will cut out my tongue for delivering your message.”
“But you will.” Magnus lifted his voice above the rising wind.
“I shall.” The young warrior’s blue gaze bit deep into Magnus’s own. “For I am as brave as you, MacBride, and fear no man. Not even—”
The rest of his words were carried away by a gust of whirling smoke from the burning dragon ships. And when the soot-filled air cleared, the little skiff was much farther out to sea, a black speck bobbing wildly in the foaming, red-glinting waves.
Then Arnor Song-Bringer was gone.
He was vanished, off on his way to whatever end the fate spinners planned for him.
Magnus felt a bump against his leg and looked down, seeing Frodi leaning hard into him. “You did well, lad.” He rubbed the dog’s ears, and then took a twist of dried meat from a pouch on his belt, giving Frodi the treat he loved best before sending him to gather the six cattle from wherever they’d wandered beyond the dunes.
The cattle would make a fine gift to the fisherfolk here and at Badachro.
As would the watch Magnus intended to place on the cliffs above both bays. A deterrent should the Norsemen ignore his warning.
He just wished he knew what to do about the warning bells in his head. They rang loudly now. And even this day’s good work couldn’t dispell them. Worst of all, he couldn’t shake the ghastly suspicion that his ill ease had more to do with Margo than with him.
Donata might’ve cursed him. But he shook off her threats as a seabird repels water.
It was Margo who was vulnerable.
Donata would be after Margo’s soul, trying to use her to crush him. Especially if she guessed how deeply Magnus was coming to care for Margo.