Undercurrent (9 page)

Silence. Torolf leaned forward, lifting one thin, white eyebrow. “Are they?”

“
Aye!” Steinn growled the word through clenched teeth.

“
Then Rogaland is vulnerable.” Torolf relaxed against the cushion and impaled Steinn with a pointed glare. “I wager none here desire to forfeit their homes and women to outsiders. This is why I have come. Rogaland must have a strong leader to stave off hungry wolves.”

Steinn pulled himself to full height. “What wolves?”

“
Bloodthirsty wolves, hungry for power.”

“
Such as you?” Steinn clamped his lips but too late. The question hung in the air like an empty noose seeking a neck.

Ragnar’s gut twisted as Torolf stood and descended the dais.
Jesu, have mercy. Steinn does not yet know you. Spare his life. Please.

Men stumbled over themselves to gain distance from Steinn, leaving him to stand alone—alone in a room full of warriors who would not defend him.

Torolf stepped up to him until his broad chest almost flattened Steinn’s nose. “Do you challenge me, little man?”

The guards nearest Ragnar smirked. They’d come with bloodlust, but Ragnar knew the state of Steinn’s soul. If he died now…

Ragnar stepped forward. “I challenge you!”

Jaws dropped and eyes riveted on him as his words rang out. All except for Torolf. He did not turn, and Ragnar saw his shoulders begin to shake. Laughter followed.

This did not bode well.

Jesu, if someone must die here today, let it be me. I am ready.

A shuffle of feet, and now Ragnar stood deserted, his heart thumping in a chest barely knit together. One solid blow would be the end of him.

Torolf pivoted, the swirl of his cape whapping against Steinn. “Ahh, Ragnar.” He approached with a smile. “How could I have forgotten you?”

He drew up close, a head taller, a hand span broader, and a good many stones heavier. Ragnar’s palms grew damp. Torolf’s eyes traveled over him from head to toe and back again. Every pore on Ragnar’s body rained sweat.

Jesu, give me courage. Let my sacrifice not be in vain but to your glory.

Torolf turned back to face the silent men and swept Ragnar to his side with an unrelenting grip around his shoulders. “You have all heard the challenge. Ragnar is the last in Hermod the Black’s bloodline. He has every right to reign in Hermod’s place.

“
The question is, brothers, will you have me”—Torolf released his hold and shoved Ragnar with a slap on his back—“or him?”

Ragnar stumbled but caught himself before his knees buckled. No one looked now. Suddenly the floor seemed to be of great interest. Not even Steinn glanced his way.

“
Who is it to be?” Torolf’s voice commanded an immediate answer, for it hurt the ear.

First a whisper near the door, then an agreement from the left, until finally a kind of mumbled chant arose. “Torolf. Torolf. Torolf.”

Ragnar shuddered. He’d witnessed Torolf’s cruelty in battle, and worse, the dark rituals in which he’d flayed innocent women and children. God, protect them. They didn’t know the evils Torolf would bring.

“
It seems, Ragnar, they will not have you. Why is that?”

Ragnar held his ground, but refused to turn around. If he didn’t engage, maybe Torolf would soon tire of this game, and he’d live to walk away. Please, Jesu.

“
I will tell you why! You are a traitor to our fathers’ beliefs, to all we’ve held sacred for generations. You trade the mighty power of our gods for a weakling God who suffered without a fight. This Christ you serve is for women and cowards.”

Ragnar took a deep breath. “I have heard it said King Trygvasson is returned home, a new believer in Jesu. Does anyone here brand our king as a coward?” He glanced from man to man. Some looked confused, a few stared back in open contempt, but most masked any emotion. “I tell you again, Jesu is the true way. The only way.”

A great wad of spit nailed the back of his head. “Go serve your Jesu elsewhere, Christian. We do not want you.”

Torolf’s boot took out Ragnar’s knees. His outstretched palms broke the fall, but the impact jarred with such force that the sound of Torolf’s laughter receded and a buzzing filled his ears. By God’s grace alone he managed to rise on shaky legs and face his tormentor.

“
I will go, but know this.” He locked eyes with Torolf and beheld such a cavern of darkness, the pit of hell couldn’t have been any deeper or blacker. “God has numbered your days. I will return.”

By the time Cassie’s great escape slowed from a side-cramping run to a steady trot, then eventually changed to an irregular plod, she realized her athletic prowess wouldn’t take her much farther. Besides which, her burning feet couldn’t sizzle more if she walked on coals.

A glance over her shoulder showed a few random butterflies near a patch of wild pink geraniums and a dragonfly or two skittering above the creek she’d followed, but no one else.

Good. As comforting as the man’s presence had been the night before, he attracted some unsavory friends. Getting tangled up in some kind of European hippie gang war didn’t make her top-ten list of things to do while in England. Remembering how close that axe blade came to her skull, she shuddered.

Up ahead, an enormous half-rotted oak spanned the water—a fine perch to soak away pain and stress. A red squirrel scolded as she entered his territory, and some barbed weeds scratched her shins, but she tramped on. The trunk itself was a good three feet tall on its side and too wide to straddle, so she hiked her skirt and hefted herself up. She scooted out little more than a yard from shore and stretched her legs downward, sandals and all.

Cool water flowed up to her ankles, saturating the linen wraps on her feet. She closed her eyes. Soothing tingles traveled up her calves. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to settle the tangled mess her life had become. Lost. Alone. And dare she admit scared? These foreign feelings made her squirm every bit as much as the rough bark biting through the thin fabric of her skirt.

No. She would not own these absurd feelings. She’d march herself right out of this forest, get to the nearest phone, and straighten everything out.

That settled, she blinked open to the bright sunlight and wondered if her eyes played tricks. It seemed like… could it really… yes. Something moved through the scrub from where she’d come—probably the man. And who knew who followed him.

She scooted across the log toward the bank, then pushed off from her perch, snagging the thin gold chain on her wrist. Oh, no. She’d not lose her last valuable piece of jewelry, no matter who came tromping through the woods. Not only was this bracelet her last tangible bond to normal life, it was the last link to her deceased mother—a gift she refused to forsake.

She slid her hand with the grain of the bark until the bracelet cleared the glitch, then hugged her hands to her chest and rolled beneath the fallen trunk. Rushing blood pounded in her ears. Had she been fast enough?

Twigs snapped underfoot, ever louder. She scootched closer to the log and forced her body to become one with it. She did all right. Something tickled at the back of her scalp, then along her neck and over her ear. More than likely a silly little bug. If she turned her head a tad, maybe the thing would redirect itself to the ground.

Ever so carefully, she rotated her face toward the trunk. A rotted hole in the wood, about the size of her fist, shimmied and wriggled as if it lived.

It did. Beetles. A nest of beetles crawled with ebony-shelled backs like a bag of quivering coffee beans, centimeters from her face.

She shot to her feet, but the scream ripping up from deep in her stomach died in her throat, and instead her mouth hung open.

“
Cass-ee.”

Her name hovered in the air long after the bloody man fell face forward into her arms.

EIGHT

Cassie’s knees buckled, and she staggered beneath the weight of the unsteady man. She managed to break his fall, but both landed in a heap on the spongy ground near the log.

The beetle side.

She struggled to get out from beneath him. He groaned, shaking his head as if dazed, and pushed himself up just enough for her to break free. Once on her feet, she whirled to run.

“
Cass-ee.”

So he had understood. But just because he knew her name didn’t mean she was obligated to stay and help him. Or did it? She stilled her feet, hesitating. He had pulled her from the water when he’d known nothing about her. And his presence had been a comfort during the long, dark nights. He’d been somewhat of a gentleman. Mostly. She echoed his groan unintentionally, then turned around.

He inched toward the water’s edge on all fours. As he supported himself to drink, a stream of red flowed from his forearm, now wrapped like her feet. Obviously his escape from the insane axe thrower hadn’t been as clean as hers.

And where was that axe thrower now?

She scanned the green canvas of forest. After this experience, green would never again be her color of choice. At least nothing moved. Not yet.

When she looked back to the man, she found herself being scrutinized every bit as much as she’d searched the woods. His dark eyes had lost their glassy sheen, and his skin was not nearly so pale. He’d moved away from the stream’s edge and reclined against the trunk, legs sprawled out. His tunic sported a rip at the ribs, and blood splotched his breeches.

What if he bled to death? She should’ve been applying pressure by now, but how much and where exactly? Her stomach flipped. “We need to get you to a hospital or something. Where’s the nearest town?”

A faint smile brightened his face, though he said nothing. Sweat beaded his brow as he stood. He wobbled a little, then mastered his balance by squaring his broad shoulders as if at attention. With an angle of his head and sweep of his uninjured arm, he indicated another hike—in the direction from where he’d come.

She shook her head and pointed opposite. “Ja?”

He smirked and stepped over the log, but she didn’t miss the stiffness in his movement. That wound troubled the big oaf more than he’d admit. If he fainted now, how would she ever get him to help?

“
Hey, listen.” She raced in front of him, forcing him to stop. “You can’t go back there, and I won’t.”

He only raised his brows.

Cassie looked heavenward. How to make him understand? Exaggerating her movements, she gestured toward where they’d left Axe Man. In slow motion, she ran her index finger across her throat accompanied by a guttural sound effect.

His eyes widened, then he laughed, long and hard. A flock of crows in the nearby treetops took flight at the rude outburst.

Her concern vanished as quickly as the birds. “Are you crazy? I’m trying to help you. Fine! Go back to your little turf war and good riddance. I hope you bleed to death.” She sidestepped him and marched off in the opposite direction.

He called her name and a host of words more, but she didn’t care. She’d traipse through the wilderness until she found a town if she had to go all the way to Iceland. Iceland? No, she meant Timbuktu. Apparently she was the one going crazy. But—

She stopped and listened, cocking her head to catch more than just the man’s deep tone. Closing her eyes, she let loose her mind to file through the ancient Germanic dialects she’d studied for her Masters. Definitely Icelandic, yet twisted somehow. And Icelanders spoke a form of ancient Norwegian.

Old Norse? No way. A dead language. Only stuffy, bow-tied Viking saga interpreters and internet language junkies knew much about Old Norse. Even she knew only a handful of words. Still…

She turned around. “Nafn?”

His smile faded.

“
What is your name?” She’d probably butchered the ‘what is’ part, but he clearly understood the rest.

“
I am Alarik.” He said a lot more, most of which she couldn’t understand except for random words, but definitely in Old Norse.

This dude was an authentic medieval Viking? The size of his biceps alone might make that believable, but adding in the archaic tongue lent him more validity.

No way. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and held it there with one hand, clearing her vision and hopefully her train of thought. Maybe he simply came from some secluded Norwegian village that wouldn’t give up their mother language. Too weird. She angled her head, straining to hear more.

His voice rose, and he did some gesturing of his own. He bent over as if to pick up a bag and heft it over his shoulder. So that’s why he wanted to go back. He’d forgotten his—

He winced and pressed his hand against his ribs. When he pulled it away, blood covered his palm. Great. Even though she’d said it, she couldn’t very well leave this Alarik fellow to bleed to death. Once more she lifted her eyes heavenward. This isn’t fair, God! You should be getting me out of this mess, not complicating it. Life should not be this insane for a good Christian girl.

Guilt lodged in her conscience with aim more accurate than Axe Man. Church, prayer, Bible study—why should she expect God to carry out His ‘shoulds’ when she rarely fulfilled hers?

Ragnar sat on a boulder near the water’s edge and lifted his face to the rising sun. A cool breeze set adrift the loose hair about his shoulders. He wished it would as easily blow away his guilt over having Magnus load all the provisions onto the faering. It pained him that he couldn’t help, but it wouldn’t do to strain his wounds before their journey could begin.