Undercurrent (12 page)

A flick of Alarik’s toe sent the coin skittering away. The lad dashed after it, and Alarik continued on, warrior senses heightened.

An alley gaped like a blackened tooth on one side of the road, distinguishable only by its complete absence of light. Roof overhangs joined to block the star glow and moon shine. Some kind of scuffle echoed from its recesses, likely the mischief the boy had partaken of. The sharp crack of a hand against flesh preceded a pained cry. So Pox liked to play rough.

But with the next cry, he cocked his head. The familiarity of the voice hit home.

He whumped his pack to the ground and stormed into the darkness. Fighting blind would prove a challenge but not an impossibility. Besides which, a good brawl might be just the thing to diffuse the rising tension he’d been trying to ignore all day. His breath quickened all the more as he freed the knife at his right hip with one hand and tightened his grip on the smooth hickory of the throwing axe with the other.

Something soft mashed beneath his boots. The reek of dung and all manner of refuse assaulted his nostrils as he advanced. Pox’s threats and Cassie’s whimpers didn’t lessen, so he crept on unnoticed. When he judged himself to be mere inches from the thrashing couple on the ground, he stopped, weapon lifted high. A swift plunge of his blade would resolve the skirmish, but he must be certain whose life he took. “Leave off!”

“
Wha—”

He thrust the blade downward, years of training lending deadly aim even in the dark. One startled “Oh” that gurgled as it faded indicated his steel had been well met. He pulled his knife from the body and wiped it on the back of the man’s tunic before reholstering the blade and axe in his belt. Then he bent and heaved the carcass aside.

Except for his own heavy breathing, an eerie silence, brittle and unnerving, settled around him like a thick fog. Cold dread seeped into him.

Had he killed her too?

He knelt. Though adjusted now to the blackness, he could not distinguish if his knee sank into a pool of blood or some other foul liquid.

“
Cass-ee?”

Thin arms manacled his neck and her trembling body clung to him. Uncontrolled sobs alternated with gasps for air.

“
Hush. We go now, ja?” He kept his speech simple, but even so, would she understand in her frantic state?

He scooped her up and stomped through the refuse to alley’s end. His pack remained where he’d slung it. The scavenger lad must’ve been spooked indeed by his drawn battleaxe. He might almost chuckle if the woman’s nails weren’t lodged beneath the skin at the nape of his neck.

Reaching up, he loosened her grip. “Cass-ee, sit.” He used a firm voice, as if speaking to one of his elkhounds, then waited to see what effect might result.

Her crying continued, but she slid to the ground. He used the opportunity to retrieve his cloak from the canvas bag, then wrapped it around her shoulders. Like a crab, she disappeared into its depths.

He hefted the pack. “Come.”

Sobs shook her shoulders, and she wouldn’t look up. Worse, she turned aside and emptied her stomach.

He had no wish to further traumatize the woman, but remaining on Jorvik’s streets at night would bring them both more trouble. Would that this woman show the fortitude of his Signy. He turned and walked away. Footsteps pattered in the dirt behind him before he’d gone ten paces. Without missing a step, he let his free hand reach back, and small, cold fingers locked onto his.

Four lanes further and Kopparigata intersected their path. Alarik turned south along the woodsmith’s road, taking deep breaths to clean his lungs from the stench of Tanner’s Lane. He savored the spicy shaved cedar and sweet fir smells left over from cup and bowl craftsmen’s work. Five more market stalls, a timber yard, three more dwellings, and then he stopped.

Before him stood an unremarkable wooden-framed two-story, like scores of other houses on dozens of other streets. But this wasn’t just any house. How many times had his mother traversed this road, crossed that threshold, gazed up at the same thatched roof? He focused on the night sky dappled with stars and stunning moon that would’ve been all too familiar to his mother.

Ragnar would likely say his God held all these circumstances in His hands. Sometimes Alarik almost wished he shared the same faith, just to be certain of something. But reality sniffled at his back and clutched his hand, while a closed door stood between him and his kin.

He filled his lungs and blew the breath out before easing his pack to the ground. Determined to think no more on the matter, he rapped his fist against the weathered oak-slab door. The tight fitting planks rumbled, and the sound echoed overloud.

Alarik lifted his chin and waited.

And waited.

Then he pounded again. “Hail! I come in peace.”

Nothing.

Nay. He hadn’t traveled this far to wait until the break of another day. He would at least be certain of his own blood’s reception before this night was spent.

He shook his hand free from the woman and battered the door with both fists. Either the oak or his bones would shatter before he finished. His tantrum earned the shouts of angry neighbors yelling for him to cease and the wail of a wakened babe.

But no one answered the door.

His hands stung by the time he quit. So did his pride. Defeat never came easy, even one so small as this. He slung his pack over his shoulder and turned to face a wide-eyed Cassie. She didn’t sniffle anymore. His display must have been jarring indeed.

He angled his head and smiled. Had his mother been as disturbed by his father’s behavior on this very same dirt? “Beserkr, ja?”

The door behind him creaked open.

His grin faded.

“
Turn slowly, beserkr, or suffer this blade in thy back.”

Fear lit Cassie’s eyes, and Alarik swallowed hard, then turned.

He stood face-to-face with a man ten years his senior, and as near as he could tell, the looking-glass image of himself.

Twelve sets of glowing yellow eyes glinted the moon’s reflection, all fixed on Torolf. But fear did not feed him. Rather, he thirsted for power. He stood motionless in the clearing at the center of Rogaland’s great forest, the only movement a cool breeze rippling the silver-gray fur wrapped around his naked flesh. He stretched, arms raised, and lifted his face to the night sky. A resounding howl, as none a mere human could conjure, ripped from his throat and traveled into the depths of the black woods surrounding him.

“
Hear me, Týr, your wisdom, your victory, your power be mine. I pledge my heart, my soul, and death to any who dishonor your name. So be it.”

He could not have controlled the wild, jerking movements that contorted each of his muscles if he wanted to. Nay, to the contrary, he embraced each unseen prod and gave in to the insane dance twirling him about. He whirled and leapt until the burning eyes ringing the forest turned into a solid-line blur.

Without warning, he sank to his knees, chest heaving, and salty sweat washed into his open mouth. His heart throbbed until he wondered if the organ might burst through his ribs.

He’d seen stranger things happen.

Locking gazes with the biggest wolf in the pack, Torolf challenged it to approach. The beast’s fangs mirrored the moon’s light as each paw lifted and stepped, lifted and stepped as if soundlessly stalking prey.

Field mice stopped foraging. Creatures near the forest’s edge disappeared. Even the crickets stilled.

Silence reigned.

Still on bent knee, Torolf stretched his arms wide, shrugging the animal skin from his body. Cool air raised bumps on his bare flesh. His lungs rose and sank with each step of the nearing wolf, a rhythm connecting him to the animal. Its low, threatening growl rumbled in his own chest, the bass warning becoming his as well. Breaths, warm with the rank smell of an earlier kill, removed the chill from the air as they licked against his body.

Any second now, his throat could be ripped open and his lifeblood spilled to feed the greedy pack surrounding him. One pace more and—

The wolf froze. Silence again. Unnatural.

Evil.

Both sprang at the same time, flesh meeting fur in a death struggle. Jaws snapped. Teeth punctured. Biting, gripping, relentless…until one lay unmoving.

Spitting the metallic taste from his mouth, Torolf stood, donning his silver-haired cloak. A cacophony broke loose as the pack hailed him the alpha male. But not just any alpha.

The One. Fenrir. Loosed by Týr, freed to bring about destruction. There’d be no stopping him now.

He swiped away the blood dripping from his chin. Eleven pairs of eyes, not nearly as lustrous anymore, scattered in different directions as each wolf loped to its respective lair.

Torolf stalked from the clearing and gained the forest trail leading to the village. A productive night, to be sure. The moon’s rays dared not penetrate the leafy canopy here, but even so, Torolf could make out not only a path, but the pale, gutted carcass dangling from a tree not far ahead.

Steinn’s.

Yes, indeed. Highly productive.

But not finished. Would that Ragnar’s body hung next to Steinn’s. What madness had seized him to let Ragnar walk free? Each time he’d thought to kill the man, it seemed his hand was stayed. A hindrance to be sure, but nothing he wouldn’t overcome should the chance arise again.

He grunted and left the thought behind, trading blood lust for something more sensual. Anticipation of his next conquest fueled his masculine desires. As he entered the village’s confines, he smiled. He let the fur cloak fall to the ground, the night air impotent against his burning skin, then set his face toward the farthest hut.

Signy’s.

He threw back his head and howled, releasing the beast within.

ELEVEN

Cassie froze, uncertainty cloaking her as heavily as the damp night air. With Alarik standing between her and the crazy man hefting a wicked looking dagger, now would probably be the best time for her to exit stage right—but this was no play. Her previous trek had left one man dead and her nearly raped. She swallowed hard, forcing the awful memory down to the bowels of never-think-about-it-again purgatory. Staying with Alarik seemed the safest option…for now.

If he didn’t get himself killed.

Alarik dropped his pack and raised both hands. He spoke long and low, the same placating tone he used with her. Positioned behind his broad back, she couldn’t see the effect of his words.

Until the man advanced.

Cassie scurried back, but Alarik stood his ground, hands still lifted as if he were being held up.

The man circled him, blade gripped tight. A swift slice, one quick stab, and Alarik would be no more. He was either brave or insane, and after spending so much time with him, her conclusion was both.

Why didn’t he defend himself? He’d certainly had no moral qualms about taking out that thug in the alley. If he got himself killed now, who would be her protector? That she even needed a protector angered her further, and she planted her fists on her hips. “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”

Both men turned to look at her, and as the moon’s light illuminated their faces, she gasped. Though years obviously separated them, the resemblance was unnerving. Why would one of Alarik’s relatives threaten him with a knife?

A stream of Old Norse poured out of Alarik, much of which she couldn’t understand, until he spoke of her. Cass-ee this and Cass-ee that. The other man’s eyebrows rose, and his dagger lowered. He clapped Alarik on the back, lifted his pack off the ground, and entered the house. An easy smile brightened Alarik’s face, and his stance visibly relaxed. He turned and followed, leaving Cassie alone. In the dark. On streets as safe as the Bronx.

She snugged the cloak around her shoulders and went after him, pausing inside the doorway to assess her decision. Several oil lamps, carved from stone, hung at intervals from the framed house’s beams, giving off a hazy light and burnt fat stink. In fact, the whole place smelled like a herd of wet sheep.

A woman in a linen nightdress poked at embers in an open hearth at the center of the room, coaxing awake tendrils of flame. One long, loose braid of thick, graying hair spilled over her slender shoulder as she bent. The woman didn’t acknowledge her, nor Alarik for that matter, but neither did she seem to disapprove of their arrival. She simply set about her task as if she’d done it a million times before.

Alarik sat on a raised, bench-like platform sticking out from the wall adjacent to the door. He patted the woven blanket cushioning his seat and nodded at Cassie.

A puff of cold air wrapped around her ankles, urging her to close the door and accept his invitation. Sleeping outside was one thing, where she could easily run away, but here? Enclosed? Caution made her hesitate, until she rifled through her other options. This place would be safer than what she’d experienced in the alley.

Hopefully.

She padded across the packed dirt floor, hard and smooth as cement. Leaving plenty of space between her and Alarik, she hopped up on the bench-cot, much like the replicas at the Viking Centre in York. Too wide to allow her to rest against the wall and dangle her legs over the edge, she opted to tuck her feet beneath her and lean back.