Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (20 page)

“Speak, Alwin. The others have offered the benefits of their undoubted wisdom. You may as well do the same.”

“Litha wath weeping. You hurt her. That ith why the fleeth.”

The garbled words sliced, as would a blade.

“This land is also known for its thieves.”

Turold again. Why could the man not be silent? He would ask for other’s thoughts if he wanted them.

“These roads are among the most heavily traversed in the land. There is much prey upon the travelers. Such men would make good sport with a woman alone.”

“Enough!” Brandr got to his feet, uncomfortably aware sufficient time had passed she should have returned. “I will find her, though it is likely she simply waits, pouting, in the dark. If she has run, she will regret it.”

He started up the side of the hollow. He was at the rim when a frantic, terrified scream ripped the silence of the night into shards that pierced his heart.

Lissa!

Pushing bodily discomfort aside, he leapt down the mound, Frækn already in hand. At the base, he vaulted the rill and tore into the forest in the direction from which the cry had come, peripherally aware the others followed.

“Brandr! Brandr!”

She needed him. She called for him. Unmanly fear for her tore at his gut. From up ahead came the sound of course laughter, and jeering masculine voices. A woman’s pleading cry was raised, and a man’s voice bellowed in rage and then cursed steadily.

Brandr slowed as he drew nigh, battle training taking over at sight of a flickering flame through the trees. He paused to take take stock of the situation and listen. There! In a clearing. A camp. Lissa’s voice, begging someone for mercy. Another woman screamed, her tone bordering hysteria. His wrath flipped from fire to ice in the space of a breath.

Sindre and Turold appeared, one at each elbow.

“Flank my position. Wait for my signal.”

He crept forward until he could clearly view the site through his swollen eyelids. A ragtag group of men, certainly outlaws—he counted nine of them—held three captives. On the opposite side of the camp Lissa struggled, fighting wildly, against a man large and strong. The man grunted now and again, as she managed to kick or scratch him, but she could not break free.

The cursing came from a man tied to a tree. His expression was frenzied and his muscles bulged with the effort to break free of his bonds. Two of the thieves held the screaming woman to the ground, one of them trying to push her skirts up around her waist. Obscene suggestions of what the two men should do came from those who watched. Taunts, aimed at the bound man, filled the open space, along with leering threats that Lissa would be next.

Brandr had seen enough. He stepped to the edge of the clearing. As he reached it, Lissa bite the wrist of the man restraining her.

The outlaw screeched. He flipped her in his hold and backhanded her. She dropped, landing facedown on the forest floor, and did not get up.

Scalding rivers of red haze gushed into Brandr’s mind. A great clamor filled his ears. He howled his wrath, a primal roar signaling death, and leapt into their midst. To either side, Sindre and Turold charged to the call, their own cries resounding through the trees. Almost before the echoes ended, half the outlaws were dead.

Brandr fought his way through two more to get to the man who had held Lissa. The outlaw was larger than he had first seemed. In his left hand, he gripped a Saxon langseax. In his right, as if it were a child’s toy, he hefted a massive axe, bigger, and with a longer reach than Sindre’s Frithr. He grinned and stepped away from Lissa’s crumpled form, taking battle stance.

Brandr circled him. His mind had cleared. He never took his gaze from the man’s eyes. The others had been pitiful fighters, their weapons dull and barely serviceable. This one was a warrior. Já, a powerful, experienced fighter. Brandr welcomed the challenge. The honor-less
nidingr
had laid hands on Lissa. No mercy would be granted.

The other made the first move, a feint with the axe to Brandr’s right to open his left flank, while the hand with the langseax sought to pierce his heart. He blocked the first while sidestepping the latter, angled a slash from the side the man barely avoided, and skipped out of reach. He bent to grab a cloak lying on the ground and gathered it in his left hand. The outlaw laughed.

They faced each other.

“What game is this, cub? Do you seek to fight, or play the night away?”

The fool sought to goad him. He smiled.

“Come closer, cub, and I will teach you a new step in this dance.”

Brandr responded with a fast, hard jab that led to a flurry of blows and swings. The fight did not last long. The outlaw was good, but he was better, and the other was over-confident. The man lunged and brought down his axe in an overhead swing meant to cleave Brandr’s head, but Brandr threw out the cloak to tangle the axe, and jerked it aside. In the same moment, he ducked and stabbed from below and Frækn struck home.

He waited until the light of life faded from the outlaw’s eyes and then glanced around. None of the thieves still lived. He was the focus of all eyes except the ones he most wanted to see open and aware. Sindre beamed approval. Turold nodded in a gesture of respect.

The captive male—whose woman attempted, without success, to release him from the ropes binding him to the tree—said, “Leóf, we are in your debt. You saved….” He shook his head. “I cannot offer great enough thanks.”

Brandr threw his sax to the woman, then knelt beside Lissa. He ran his hands in gentle question over her form, seeking damage besides the marks that marred her lovely face. Finding naught, he turned her over and lifted her head into his lap with the care he reserved for his baby sister. Blood trickled from a split lip that was beginning to swell, and he thought it likely her eye would soon take on a vivid hue, but unless the blow had done injury he could not see, she would be well. He brushed a lock of short gold hair off her forehead.

A damp square of linen was shoved into his hand. “You and your companions are becoming quite a colorful bunch, my friend,” Turold said as he knelt on Lissa’s other side. “Black, blue and purple, with green and yellow to come…and that list does not count your clothing.”

Sindre guffawed and slapped Brandr’s shoulder so hard he nigh fell over, forcing from him a groan. The fight had not aided his abused body. Now it was over, every bruise throbbed, while his ribs spasmed in counterpoint.

His uncle stalked around the camp, searching the thieves’ belongings. He shoved a dead outlaw out of the way with his foot and picked up the axe that fell from his hand.

“These men were no fighters,” he said, “though this one had a good weapon. See here.” In a move so fast Brandr would have missed it had he blinked, Sindre threw the axe, burying the blade deep in a tree trunk. “Já, fine weapon. I will keep it.”

He retrieved the killing tool, cleaned it and tucked it into his belt beside Frithr.

Brandr wiped Lissa’s face clean of tiny bits of moss, leaf litter and blood. “Lissa?” His concern growing at her lack of response, he gently patted her cheek. “Lissa!”

“I believe she will be well.” The woman they had rescued knelt beside Turold. She handed Brandr his sax. Beyond her, the man she had cut loose helped Sindre. “I was closer to the brute who hit her than were you,” she said, “and though I fought those who held me, I saw what he did. His blow was powerful, but I think he did not wish to cause her serious harm. She will be disoriented when she wakes, and in some pain. She may sleep through the night.”

Turold rose. “If you wish to return with her to our camp, I will insure things here are settled.”

Brandr raised his eyes to Turold’s face. He nodded, lifted his burden into his arms and stalked into the night without further word.

∞∞§∞∞

My head hurts.

Voices. A woman.

Soft laughter. Male. Familiar rumbling timbre, moving away until it was no longer heard.

Sindre!
What has happened?

“Lissa?”

Brandr’s deep voice. Something cool and damp against her forehead. Scent of healing herbs, of rain and musty corners.

Ah. I remember. That terrible man hit me. Brandr came. That other woman, she laughs, so all is well.

Gingerly, she tested the simple action of opening her eyes. It worked, but only for the left one. The other felt glued shut. Her jaw and mouth felt twice their size, but when she gave a cautious, experimental lick to her lips, they seemed less swollen than she thought.

Blue fire gazed down at her through eyelids as black as her own must be. “Lissa?”

“You came.” It was difficult to form the words, but more because of groggy thought than a sore face.

“Já.”

“I was not certain you would.”

Something akin to self-disgust vied for supremacy in the azure depths. “If you think I will ever let you go, you are mistaken.”

The words were uttered with a soft finality.

“Of course. I am your thrall.”

“Já.”

A pinprick of hurt stung her heart. It should not, for he had given her no reason to believe he cared for aught but her usefulness. But the hand that bathed her face with the knitbone scented cloth moved with tender care. That touch—and the look in his eyes—spoke more loudly than his pride would allow him to say. Her trust in him remained as battered as she felt, but perhaps it could, with time, be redeemed.

Her one good eye took in their surroundings. She lay, warm and safe between furs, on a pallet in a timber-framed cottage so small it would be crowded with all of them inside at the same time. Soggy morning daylight drifted through an entrance that seemed to be missing a door, revealing overgrown forest nearby, made hazy by the rain. It enclosed them in a world of gray mist.

“Where are we?”

“An abandoned cottage, a short distance from the mound. We returned there, but it started to rain in the night. Oswulf told of coming across this place before they were taken by the thieves.” He glanced at the ceiling where water dripped from several leaks. “It lacks comforts, but provides shelter.”

“Oswulf?”

“The husband of the other woman we rescued.”

Some little distance away, a quiet female voice spoke. “That is right. Now stir again.”

Alwin’s youthful voice answered. “This is better than mine.”

His lisp had disappeared. Good. That meant the swelling of his face receded.

The woman’s laughter tinkled softly. “But you are willing to learn. That says much of your care for your mother. She would be proud of you.”

“Awww. It is only stew.”

“Nay. It is more. One day, you will know.” A pause. “Leóf, is she awake?”

“Já.”

Abruptly, a female figure appeared, a cup in her hand. “Drink this.”

Brandr slipped an arm beneath Lissa’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position.

She took the cup. Steeped willow bark, woody and bitter, offered warmth in the wet chill and soothed her sore mouth. “I would thank you, but I do not know how you are called.”

“I am Bryda, wife to Oswulf.”

“Then my thanks, Bryda.”

The woman returned to the small fire and her cooking.

Brandr moved away. He did not look at her. “You will be well. I will leave you now.”

“Wait. Will you first explain what happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“I was angry. I left. I ran into those men. They were going to hurt the woman…Bryda. I called to you. That man hit me. I remember naught more.”

“They will never hurt anyone again.”

She shuddered at the indifference in his tone, but said, “I am glad. They were not good men.”

“It was decided we should remain here for this day, perhaps longer. It is still early. Sindre and Turold hunt. You should rest now.”

She wanted to protest. There was much to which she should be tending, but the willow bark was taking effect.

He eased her down and tucked the warmth of the fur more closely around her. The lid of her good eye closed of its own will.

“Brandr?”

“Já?”

“You came.”

Gentle fingers stroked her undamaged cheek. “Always, lítill blóm. Sleep.”

“Brandr? Does that name truly mean ‘sour face’?”

If he answered, she did not hear it.

∞∞§∞∞

The rain made the road treacherous for the horses. Talon held his company to a safe pace, though everything within him urged that he set the beasts to a gallop. He did not, for heedless haste was not his way. It was enough to ease the urgency of his soul that instead of taking shelter, as his men would have preferred, they continued at a steady, if sloshing pace along the ancient road from Searesbyrig. They would still reach Basingum well before the others. There, he would use the coin provided by his friend to hire fighting men. He would extend a net along the path of the
Nordmanna
so wide and tight a vole could not pass without his knowledge. Rain dripped from the hood of his oiled cloak, but he paid it no mind. Soon, his Lissa would be safe within his care, and those who had taken her from him would find their way to Valhalla.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“So the thegn had Oswulf whipped, though all knew his accusation against my husband was naught but a lie. Oswulf’s stripes became putrid. He was very ill for many days, and could not work. The thegn forbade any to aid us. I despaired, and feared my husband would die, despite what efforts I could make. But one morn, he opened his eyes and smiled, and I knew he would live.

“It angered the thegn, so when Oswulf could not work, he used it as excuse to turn us from our home and take all that was ours, such as it was. He forced us to leave with empty hands, and naught to sustain us. We had nowhere to go.”

Lissa, lying on her side on the pallet, took in the fair beauty of the woman who sat across the fire, skinning the new batch of hares Sindre had brought to the cottage after noontide. He had left them at the door, along with a wild goose and a string of fish, and disappeared again. She admired the ease with which Bryda accomplished the task, but the woman had not ceased work all day, cooking and doing what cleaning could be managed in the dilapidated house. She felt as if she shirked her own duties, but Brandr had ordered her to stay abed.