Undercurrent (6 page)

She gasped as he dabbed her feet dry with his tunic. Ugly blisters had ripped open and nettle welts covered her skin. He’d seen lashed backs look better than this. He wrapped each foot then helped her stand. Already she walked with less of a hobble.

The small fire needed to be tended, but he’d not squander daylight on a thrall’s work. He lugged his pack over and motioned for the woman to sit. She fairly collapsed on top of it.

He pointed at the nearby pile of brush wood, then to the flames, and finally at her. “Can you keep it going?”

She frowned.

He grabbed a broken branch and set it onto the fire, then nodded. “Ja?”

She cocked her head and her frown disappeared. Holding his gaze, she reached for a stick and mimicked his action. “Ja.”

Alarik grinned. Convinced that she understood and would do his bidding, he crossed over the creek in search of food. A roe deer would be a feast, but he’d settle for a partridge or two, and if nothing else, squirrel could suffice. Saliva pooled at the back of his mouth, and he licked his lips—then stopped short.

Preoccupied with getting meat, he’d not noticed the wispy fingers of rowan branches reaching toward the sky. Runes carved in a trunk ahead warned him to go no further. Sacred grounds could not be defiled without pain of death—much pain.

He spun around and backtracked, then forked off in a new direction. His own feet complained by the time he gave up on the idea of venison and focused on a covey of grey pigeon. Silently, he loaded his shot into the sling, then whipped into action, loosing the leather thong and releasing a spray of shot. A flutter of wings flapped skyward, leaving two birds on the ground. Light waned as he collected his prizes and headed back to camp.

Two small pigeons would barely quiet the rumbles in his gut, but the woman would likely be pleased. Nearing the creek, he quickened his pace and leapt across the water, then stood still. He should see a cheery fire. He should see a woman glad to have a hot meal. But darkness shadowed his pack and thin streaks of smoke spiraled from a burnt pile of charred wood and ashes.

His senses heightened. Foreboding forced the air from his lungs an instant before a terrified scream sliced through the twilight.

FIVE

Ragnar sighed and stretched his neck from shoulder to shoulder. The large man sitting at a makeshift table next to his pallet moved a token to a different square. A wrong square. Rules of the game obviously meant nothing, even though Ragnar had spent the better part of the afternoon stressing their importance.

Ragnar wagged his finger. “Magnus, you know that play is no good.”

Magnus shook his bushy head and rubbed his thumb ever faster against something he’d been clutching since he’d come into the longhouse. He grunted, slid the offending disc of wood to the corner nearest him, then beamed a crooked smile.

Pain-free as long as he sat still, Ragnar refrained from straining across the length of the board to move the game piece back. Though Magnus had been half-witted from birth, he wasn’t completely stupid. Ragnar returned the grin. “Your victory.”

“
Magnus the victor, Magnus the victor,” the big man sing-songed as he collected the tokens and his rubbing piece into one of many pouches strung to his belt.

The warm day stifled the air, the only relief an occasional fresh waft sweeping in through the opened front door. Dim light and sleepy heat worked their magic to relax the overgrown simpleton, and Ragnar pressed his advantage. “What do the men say? Has a wergild price been set?”

“
Nay.” Magnus fumbled with yet a different pouch attached to his wide belt.

“
Think, Magnus.” Ragnar would’ve leaned forward except for the fear he’d split his gut open anew. “Think on all you’ve heard. A wergild price should have been set by now. Do you understand?”

The giant stopped his rummaging and folded down his lower lip. “Magnus know. Alarik must pay for sending his brother to Valhalla, or his own life will be forfeit.”

“
Ja, of course you know.” Ragnar donned a soothing voice. “But why has Hermod not spoken?”

Both beefy lips sucked in, then blew out a blub-blub-blub before a drawn-out answer could be had. “Magnus think. Magnus think…”

Patience is a virtue—help me be virtuous, Lord. Ragnar nodded encouragement instead of plying more questions.

“
Magnus think Jarl Hermod not so good. Magnus see Hermod wears the faraway eyes.”

Magnus’s hand revisited the game pouch and retrieved the rubbing piece. Alarm sounded in Ragnar’s head. If he did not tread lightly, agitation would withdraw Magnus into his own faraway world, and whatever he knew of Hermod would not be spoken. “You…you know much about many things, ja? Even faraway eyes.”

Rub. Rub. The big thumb worked a smooth rhythm. “Magnus know the look. Something not right in the head.”

Ragnar studied him. What had Magnus seen to say such a thing? “Hermod is jarl of all Rogaland. You know his head is good, or he’d not have such a position of power.”

“
Magnus think…” Rub. Rub. “Magnus think Hermod’s head has been, has been…” Rub. Rub. Rub.

“
What has happened to Hermod’s head? You must tell me what you’ve seen.”

“
Magnus see. Magnus know. Hermod not good.”

Rub-rub-rub-rub.

Ragnar stretched his hand to still the insane rubbing, then cried out from the shock of pain stabbing his torso. His impatience would be the death of him yet. He closed his eyes and sank against a propped cushion, fighting to catch his breath.

The crash of the game board and hot breath in his face startled his lids open.

“
Magnus sorry! Magnus sorry! Here—” He pressed the offending charm into Ragnar’s palm, looming over him with wrinkled brow. “Do not go to Valhalla. Magnus not want you to go. Not you.”

Ragnar inhaled, hoping to draw strength, but mostly gained the smell of yesterday’s stew from the stain on the giant’s tunic. “I’ve told you before. I…will…” He gasped and fought the urge to wince. “Not go to Valhalla, but heaven…” One more breath, and the pain began to fade. “I taught you about Jesu. Remember?”

Crooked teeth appeared, and the huge man lowered to his stool. It wobbled in time to his new chant: “Jesu. Jesu. Jesu.”

Only God knew if Magnus truly understood, but that would have to be enough. Ragnar had explained his faith to the simpleminded warrior more times than he could count. His own thumb trailed a pattern back and forth, back and forth, on the smooth…what?

He unfurled his fingers. An oval of rowan with an intricate pattern knotted around a wolf rested in his palm. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, giving him a shiver.

The piece was a talisman of Fenrir—the wolf-monster spawned of a god and a giant, one that would bring about the end of time. Ragnar took a deep breath. A lifetime of believing in bad omens was one of the more difficult habits to break. “Where did you get this?”

The stool stopped its rhythmic knocking from leg to leg. “Magnus find. Magnus take.”

“
But this is a brooch. A woman’s brooch. Don’t tell me you’ve been forcing women to the storage hut again. You know that’s wrong—”

“
Nay!” The strapping man stood so fast the stool went the way of the game board. “Magnus go to hut and find brooch, but not bring woman. Magnus always try to do what Ragnar say.”

Ragnar stifled a smile. “I know you do. God knows, too. You are an upright man. Now, can you think about when you went and why?”

Watery eyes accompanied the giant’s words, and he trembled. “Magnus see Alarik run from hut when Magnus wake up early to go make water. I hear Ragnar, and I go to him. I see my friend, and I fear he go to Valhalla, I mean heaven, and I cry.”

Ragnar’s heart raced at the thought of what else Magnus might tell him. With great care, he set his hand on the man’s forearm. “You did the right thing. What else did you see?”

“
Much blood on Einar. Too much. So Magnus kneel by friend instead. Ragnar still breathing. Magnus scoop up friend and brooch, too.”

“
Think carefully before you answer.” Ragnar paused to let the words sink in. “Did you see anyone else?”

Scrunching his lids closed, Magnus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back. Again and again. It would’ve been an amusing dance if someone’s life didn’t hang in the balance.

A lilting tune floated in from the open door, and Magnus stopped his swaying. As Signy entered with a wooden bowl of fragrant pottage, he watched her. She hummed a haunting folksong, her skirt swishing in time with her steps.

Ragnar dug his fingers into the oversized arm. “Who did you see?”

Magnus pulled away from the pallet, rubbing absently where Ragnar’s nails left indents, but returned his gaze back to Ragnar. “Magnus know what will happen.”

Ragnar held up his palm toward Signy. She stopped at his request but pursed her lips to show she’d not be put off long.

Though foolish about the everyday ways of man, Magnus had been known to foresee with uncanny accuracy. Most of the villagers paid him no heed, and more often than not, Magnus kept his mouth shut. As far as Ragnar knew, Magnus shared his tender heart only with him. But if God could use even a donkey to speak truth, why not an addlepated man?

“
Tell me what will happen.” Though Magnus fixed his gaze on his face, Ragnar suspected he no longer saw him.

“
Torolf will come.”

The wooden bowl plummeted to the floor; broth and vegetables splattered across the hearth as if Signy had emptied the contents of her stomach. By the look on her face, she might’ve felt better if she had.

Ragnar exhaled long and slow.

Torolf.

Satan would’ve been more welcome.

Cramps knifed below Cassie’s ribs. Blood soaked the linen wraps on her feet. Her calves and thighs burned from exertion, but she pressed on in spite of the pain. Her last scream yet rang in her ears and chafed her throat. She’d do it again if breathing didn’t require so much effort.

Run, girl, run.

If she put all her energy into racing through the scrub brush, maybe she’d forget about what she’d seen. Twilight shadows often twisted one’s imagination into such macabre images as decapitated heads skewered onto wooden posts.

Right? Of course. Shadows. Must have been. But she wouldn’t stick around to explore the theory.

As the world blurred by, she focused on a dark form in the distance. A man’s shape. Please be that man I know. The one who knows me, or—

Her palms ground into sharp rocks a split second before her chin hit the forest floor. She lay there, dazed, staring at a kaleidoscope of white flashes in the dark. She’d imagined a lot of things this endless nightmare of a day, but that tree root had definitely been real.

Maybe she should just quit. Lie here. Give in to the tears of exhaustion and fear stinging her eyes. Slip into oblivion. And when she awoke in the morning, maybe she’d find out this was all some horrible—

The man’s voice carried a message of urgency through the gathering gloom. She didn’t know what he said, but his tone meant move it.

Now.

Gravel and broken twigs cut into her hands as she pushed upward. Her arm muscles trembled, threatening to give out under the weight. She wobbled more than ran but managed to close the distance and collapse against the man she’d spent the day following. He lifted her as a father might sweep up a toddler in his arms. The fabric of his tunic rubbed against her cheek as she jostled with the rhythm of his great stride. She clung to him, hoping his linen shirt protected his skin from the bite of her nails—not that she’d lessen her grip. No way. This was one ride she’d not give up.

Night had arrived by the time he splashed across the shallow creek. He set her down in the same place she’d been before she’d given in to the harebrained idea of following him. She should’ve known he’d come back since he’d left his pack and asked her to keep the fire going. But, no. She’d allowed fear to skew her judgment. Fear that yet hugged her soul even as he unwrapped her arms from around his neck.

Orange sparks soon erupted like miniature fireworks, followed by a tiny red glow. The man blew steady breaths, and soon a small flame burst into life. Amazing how so little light dispelled the darkness. In no time, a cheerful fire took the edge off the damp chill that came with evening.

“
Where were you? Did you see that, uh, what I thought I saw, or—” A fit of coughing choked out her words, and she edged away from the shifting smoke.

By the tilt of the man’s head, she knew he’d listened to her bumbling speech, but his eyes registered no understanding. “Anyways, umm, thanks.”

At a loss for what else to say, she reached for a branch from the woodpile and tossed it onto the flames. “Ja?”

He smiled. “Ja.”

This time she’d take her fire-keeping job seriously. She set about placing more wood onto the blaze. The dancing flames hypnotized, and soon her eyelids grew heavy. Yawn after yawn stretched her jaw, and the hard ground started looking softer. She’d curl up for just a minute. The cool dirt beneath her evened out the fire’s heat toasting her front side, and she drifted off.

Until something poked her in the arm.