Undercurrent (33 page)

The pale blue sky went on forever with no shadow of cloud. It looked as endless as this day felt. It couldn’t be much past noon, but she’d lived a lifetime in these hours. Love, engagement, loss, the swirling emotions spun her heart around like the undercurrent that brought her here in the first place.

“
Cassie?” Bryn hollered from below, an impatient edge to his voice. It probably annoyed him, being left behind to play the part of nursemaid. No sense in finding out. She crossed to the ladder.

As soon as her leather sole touched the first rung, Mr. Scary One Leg stood at attention, the bow now gripped in his hand. Something must’ve caught his eye. Curiosity prodded her to return and take a peek. Bryn called for her a second time and prudence screamed for her to descend as commanded.

Her feline instincts won. She scrambled back to her corner and squinted in the direction that held Scary One Leg’s attention. Dirt clods in the field, dead grassy bumps of a pasture, a wall of pines…nothing moved except the tree branches.

“
Open the gate!” One Leg’s barking order startled her. She searched the outlying area, still seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

The platform rattled beneath her feet as Bryn gained the ladder. “What is it?”

One Leg nodded, and Bryn followed with his eyes. He frowned, then turned to Cassie. “Stay here.”

Planting both hands on the rail, she leaned forward and focused until her eyes burned. The only movement she detected was Bryn barreling out the gate and sprinting across the field. He ran toward the tree line, though not in the direction Ragnar had led the men. The pasture slowed him some, but he kept running. Finally, he vanished into the maze of pines.

Cassie watched, then watched some more. The longer he was gone, the stronger fear grew deep in her stomach, spreading upward to her throat. Scary One Leg had not armed his bow with an arrow, but neither did he set it down. Was that good or bad? Taking a breath for courage, she asked, “What’s happening?”

He neither looked at her nor spoke. In fact, he totally ignored her.

“
Hey, I said—”

His big arm shot out, and she flinched. She narrowed her eyes where he pointed.

Nothing.

Then…a shadow, no, a shape, too animated to be a tree trunk, moved near the edge of the woods. She blinked a few times then refocused. Bryn emerged from the trees, carrying something. He didn’t run anymore. It looked like he carried a big sack. No. A body?

After he crossed the pasture and entered the field, Cassie didn’t squint anymore. He did carry a body—a woman’s.

She scrambled from rail to ladder and descended. Though she’d already broken Bryn’s command to stay put, she dared not go out the gate. She’d wait by the bottom of the ladder. It was technically part of the platform anyway.

As Bryn entered, she hurried toward him. Signy lay as a rag doll in his arms, head lolled on his shoulder, eyes closed, one swollen and purple. A dark red stain soaked through the fabric of her skirt.

Guilt smacked Cassie for the twinge of gloating she suddenly harbored over Signy’s apparent payback. No one deserved to get beat up that badly, no matter what they’d done. Compassion traveled at the tail of the guilt wave, overruling Cassie’s disgust, and she laid a hand on Bryn’s arm. “Is she going to be all right?”

Bryn shook his head. “Who can say?”

He jerked up his head at the pounding of feet dashing toward them from the village. A pack of boys too young to fight ran as if a monster chased them. Fear etched into their wide eyes and blanched faces, and Cassie tightened her grip on Bryn’s bicep.

“
Bryn! Bryn!” Their voices raised a deafening cacophony. “We have been upriver. Longships! Many and many more. They are sailing toward Rogaland.”

THIRTY-TWO

Icy water ran cool and sweet down Ragnar’s throat. He dipped his hands once more, cupping another mouthful, then stood refreshed and flicked the water from his fingers. They’d covered a lot of ground this day, more than he’d hoped. Yet if he continued to push the men too hard, fatigue could hinder their progress overall. With sunlight waning, this would be a good place to make camp.

While the men around him continued to drink or refill their skins, he cocked his head. A sound, faint and distant enough to escape most, caught his attention. Next to him, Kier rose with deliberate action, then shifted his eyes to meet Ragnar’s. Together they reached for their swords.

The scrape of their blades leaving the sheaths set off a quiet warning to those nearest, and soon every warrior stood silent, weapons drawn. No one spoke. Fir branches creaked in the wind. The shallow stream bubbled over rocks.

And the approach of hoofbeats grew in volume.

The skaldborg, those sworn to his defense, closed in around Ragnar—alert and on edge, rife with the gamey odor of fresh perspiration. Other warriors fanned out into a larger ring. Why would Torolf choose to strike with the gloaming soon to set in?

A volley of shouts sounded, then swords re-entered their leather cases, and warriors stepped aside. Two of Rogaland’s scouts cantered through the war band and reined to a halt in front of Ragnar. They slid easily enough from their short, northland mounts. One stepped up to him while the other busied himself at a third horse tethered behind.

“
Hail, Jarl Ragnar.” The man struck his breast and bobbed his head once. “We found Abjörn’s mount galloping a good two, almost three rast from here.” The scout’s words came between heavy breaths.

Indeed, just thinking of riding that far ahead and back again made Ragnar’s lungs ache. “Where is Abjörn?”

“
Here.” The other scout threw a canvas bag through the air.

It plopped in the dirt at Ragnar’s boots, and he squatted to examine it. The stench gagged him. Obviously Abjörn had seen some kind of skirmish, for this bag bore dark blood stains. Ragnar unleashed the rope drawstring, spread the opening, and peered in.

Then shot to his feet.

He wiped a hand across his mouth, trying desperately to still the trembling in his fingers. Looking from scout to scout, he noticed each pressed together tight lips. So they’d seen as well, but no need to further disgrace Abjörn’s remains. “Bury it.”

Ragnar rubbed his shoulder, working out an overtense muscle. Torolf’s bloody warning and all his years of threats wore on him more than he cared to admit. Something else, though, weighed heavier, deeper, in his spirit. Dark. Black. A sense that the gates of hell itself would soon open.

He nodded toward Kier and several others of his war council, and they huddled close. “Torolf is near. He will strike tonight.”

One man spit, nailing the ground audibly. Another laughed, brittle and disdainful. All disagreed.

Kier spoke. “No one fights at night.”

Ragnar met each of their gazes in turn. “I feel it.”

Though none would outright defy him, most hinted at his having been around Magnus too long, or that his belief in Jesu may have affected his reasoning.

“
If we prepare for battle and none takes place, what have we lost? But if we do not prepare…” He glanced over his shoulder, where the scouts mounded dirt atop the bag, then looked back.

The man on his left, Barni, folded his arms and blew out a long breath. “If Torolf strikes tonight, between our small numbers and this treacherous land, we will not see the sun of tomorrow.”

Ragnar heaved a great sigh at the truth in Barni’s words. They’d be slaughtered and bagged like the scout. A horrific image of Cassie viewing his remains stabbed him in the gut. He looked heavenward, but dark branches seemingly thwarted his silent prayer for help.

Thwarted? He blinked. Nay. Mayhap therein lay the answer to his prayer. Thanks be to Jesu. It would be a small chance, but a chance nonetheless. For the first time since leaving the village, he smiled.

Ignoring the queer expressions on those around him, he delegated as fast as he could speak. “To the east, there is a rise in this stand of wood. Once there, Barni, see that horses are tied at even spaces in a circle ten steinkast around. Dagvid, you gather a group of men to climb the trees above them. Far enough inward to keep from spooking the horses, I want a ring of fires, solid enough that the flames touch and with plenty of wood to last the night. Fuldarr, you will assign men to fight aground inside the fire wall, then take another contingent of men to the trees above them.”

Dagvid and Fuldarr growled their protest. Barni snorted, but Ragnar continued. “Torolf expects our party to be small. We will exceed his expectations, breeding overconfidence. At the enemy’s approach, our horses will shy. Thus alerted, the men above will allow them to pass. Once they are through the fire and while still dazed from its effect, the ground forces will strike. When Torolf sends in more men, it will seem as if the heavens rain down warriors in Rogaland’s defense, ja?”

Dubious looks, one smirk, a few nods of agreement, but mostly silence met his plan. He lifted his chin. “Speak now if any can offer better.”

Dagvid opened his mouth then as soon shut it.

Ragnar folded his arms. “Then go. Now!”

The circle broke up. Only Kier remained, his dark eyes searching Ragnar’s. “You gave me no post.”

“
Ja. There are two things I would ask of you.” Ragnar averted his gaze for a moment, inhaling to expand the tightness in his chest. Those could be Alarik’s brown eyes looking at him. Oh, how he missed his cousin. Would this ache never cease? As men about him set to the task at hand, he shook his head and looked back at Kier. “I ask the honor that you fight at my side.”

The grim lines at Kier’s mouth softened. “And?”

Ragnar shifted his weight. The same muscle in his shoulder cramped again, and he uncrossed his arms to knead it once more. He hated what he was about to ask, yet it must be arranged. His heart constricted as painfully as his shoulder. “I ask you to care for Cassie should I fall.”

Stirring a bubbling pot of stew over the stone-lined hearth, Cassie leaned in for a sniff. A meaty scent mingled with rosemary and onion. She swallowed, then cast a covert glance around the longhouse. In the far corner, two old women sat spinning wool, a content toddler playing with big clumps of fluff at their feet. The only other occupant lay sleeping in a boxbed directly behind her—and Signy hadn’t woken all day.

No one would see.

Lifting out the long-handled wooden spoon, she waited until steam tendrils stopped curling up from her sample. She brought it to her lips and muffled a slurp. The broth, rich in root vegetable flavor, wrapped a comfort-food blanket around her tastebuds. And a little comfort was sure something she could use right about now. Though it had only been a day since Ragnar left, she missed him with a depth and intensity that shocked her.

She set the spoon on the stone edge, careful to balance it on the side farthest from the glowing coals. A succession of yawns overtook her as she stood. Even without the added emotional fatigue of missing Ragnar, the day wore on her by virtue of its length. Way before dawn, the village clamored to life with the same nervous energy as when Ragnar’s war party departed. All the swarthy, frightening men the longboats deposited on Rogaland’s shores had thankfully been known and familiar to Bryn and the village. Even better, once provisioned and with a few hours of sleep, they marched off to join the other fighting men.

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Cassie scrunched her eyes shut, then slowly released the tension. The headache building behind her eyes lessened somewhat until a creepy feeling spidered along her backbone as if someone burned a stare through her dress fabric. She whirled.

Fully awake, Signy sat at the edge of her bed, studying Cassie with eyes bluer than tide pools. Her linen shift blended with her fair skin, giving her an ethereal quality. Though bruises tinted her face yellowish green in places, her beauty demanded attention, as did her voice. “You are Ragnar’s woman.”

More of a statement than a question, still Cassie answered. “Yes.”

Signy merely nodded, then propped her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders rose and fell as she pressed her fingers into her forehead. The proud woman who’d captured Alarik’s sole devotion crumpled like a discarded wad of paper.

What had happened to her? Cassie opened her mouth as phrases of consolation came to mind, but they all seemed cheap in light of the obvious pain this woman suffered. So she stood there, mouth agape, saying nothing. Awkward silence stretched the seconds to unbearable lengths. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she took a step toward the bed. “Is there anything I can do?”

Lowering her hands to the bed frame, Signy lifted her face. Tears glistened in her eyes and streaked a wet trail down her cheeks. “You are a believer in Ragnar’s Jesu.”

Cassie met her challenge. “Yes, I am a believer.”

Signy brushed each cheek with the back of her fingers and sat straighter, taking a deep breath. “Then seek your God. Without help from the unseen, the men of Rogaland will not stand against Torolf. I have tasted his fury. It is bitter.” A tremor shook through her, and she broke eye contact. With one hand, she absently rubbed her abdomen.

“
It is death.”

THIRTY-THREE

As soon as Ragnar’s chin met his chest, he jerked up his head and sucked in a breath. This late into the night—nay, ’twould soon be dawn’s break—he was not the only one dulled by fatigue. The warriors around him either nodded off or stared with glazed eyes at nothing in particular. Magnus snored outright. Hopefully his men in the trees fared better, or the ground would be littered with bodies that fell without ever having met an enemy’s weapon.