Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (29 page)

The scout also admitted he had later visited the village alehouse and no one had seen or heard of the passing group. Where could they have gone, and why had they avoided the town? Such was the action of those who wished not to be remarked. They had a boy with them of the right approximate age, and one of the women had golden hair. Cloaks gave excellent concealment. Had the Danes taken up disguises, passing themselves off as Saxons? Had they taken a third hostage—the other woman? It was possible.

He slammed his fist into his palm. They should have stopped them, should have searched them. Had they been merely travelers, no harm would have been done to them.

He opened the guest chamber door and called for a messenger. From this day forward, any party of five or less, arriving from west, or south, was to be stopped and searched. The watch in Andeferas, and along the river it straddled, would be intensified, as would the watch on the fords of the last of the three rivers. If Lissa was out there, even in concealment, he would find her.

∞∞§∞∞

Brandr woke, refreshed and invigorated, to bright sunlight, a harmony of birdsong and Lissa’s warm, soft body draped all over him. Her head and bosom rested fully on his chest, while one arm curled around his neck. Her left knee was firmly secured between his legs.

He was doing a little draping, himself. Both of his arms cradled her, and his nose was buried in her loose golden curls. A long, slow grin spread across his face. How she would squeal—and blush and blush—if she knew how wantonly she behaved in her sleep. His chest rose in a deep inhalation of her fragrance, a clean, womanly scent that made him think of sun-drenched meadows. She must have scrubbed her skin with some flower or herb when she bathed.

The thought prompted uncomfortable stirrings. He glanced around. No one else was awake. He hated to disturb her slumber, and certainly would prefer to remain in this delightful position long enough to give it the attention it deserved, but it was time to leave this place. Wondering why Turold had failed to awaken him, he closed his eyes, and opened his warrior’s senses to their surroundings. If trouble lurked anywhere nigh, he felt it not.

Pressing a kiss to the vulnerable arch of Lissa’s cheek, he gently slid away, allowing her slumbering form to come to rest on the floor. He stood and stretched, growling a little at the stiffness resulting from a night spent on hard ground. His ribs twinged, but he ignored the pain. They healed, and that was all that mattered.

“Lissa.” He shook her until she was fully aware. “Wake everyone up, Sindre and Oswulf first. I am going to find out why Turold did not wake me for the watch.”

She frowned and sat up, endearingly disheveled. “Is there trouble?”

“I think not, but the morning is more advanced than I like, already half gone. We should have left much earlier. We will not reach this day’s destination until late.

He helped her stand, and with a final admonition to make haste, left her shaking out her skirts.

The truant skáld waited for him on the far side of the pond, and spoke first. “Before you say anything, Brandr, I had good reason for not waking you and Sindre. You both needed rest far more than we. Neither of you had slept for two days. Sindre’s foot required a respite from walking if he expects to keep up, and you still recover from Preed’s tender ministrations. You are our leader. If we face a fight this day, we need you clear-headed.”

His brows rose. “You expect me to argue?”

Turold grinned. “Not after that speech. I rehearsed it for an hour before you came out.”

“Ordlokarr.”

The grin became soft laughter. “I am a scop. What would you expect but that I would carefully choose my words?”

“Come and break your fast. We leave shortly.”

Relieved to find the swelling of Sindre’s ankle much reduced and his uncle able to put weight on the foot, he laughed with Alwin as they watched him hop around the clearing to get accustomed to the walking staff. Sindre’s antics proved his uncle would not noticeably slow them down.

The day had moved close to evening before he held up a fist to halt them. “The town of Andeferas lies to our left. A short distance ahead of us, according to Turold’s recollection, flows the second of the three rivers we must cross before reaching Basingum.” He did not mention he was convinced they had, by chance, already missed one ambush at the first crossing. If there was to be another, it would likely be in this place. “Andeferas is large enough to boast a bridge in town, and a ferry west of it, rather than a ford. I have purposely guided us east of both, in hopes of avoiding trouble. Wait here.”

As he crept forward alone to see what lay ahead, he passed through a spider web. Chuckles followed him as he grunted, and batted around his head, then rubbed the sticky stuff off his hands. His footsteps slowed. Through the trees in front of him loomed the weathered walls of a mill. Men moved in and around the building, as if in search. The roar of the water rushing through the millrace was loud, drowning out sound.

For us? How can they know we are here? Perhaps it is but a precaution…unless the one called Talon has suspicions about yestre day’s passage of the road and the river.

The nape of his neck prickled.

Turold was suddenly beside him, hand on his shoulder, his whisper urgent. “Back, Brandr! Back!”

Without waiting to ask why, he pulled Frækn and allowed the skáld to pull him into the deeper shelter of the trees.

Turold, Fægennes in hand, was furious. “They know, or suspect, we are here. I saw two of them. They skulk through the trees like cowards, but they have bows, the arrows already nocked.”

His own anger lashed. “The fools risk hitting the women and Alwin!”

“Aye. Sindre and Oswulf are moving them farther east, but there is only so far to take them before we run into the main river. We should retreat, Brandr. If they corner us in the confluence….”

“Já. But I fear no matter where we try to cross, we will run into more of them. The first marshal seems to have every crossing covered. We cannot underestimate his cunning.”

“What if we wait until night? There is rain in the air. Clouds move in. They would give us cover.”

“Agreed. We will fall back and find a safe place to wait.”

He was turning to follow Turold when screams broke out.

Turold cursed. “That is the direction the others went. They have been found.”

“But we have not! We may yet win this day.”

Need drove them, but stealth won out as they slipped through the trees, moving toward the shouts. They halted when a flash of movement ahead of them betrayed a lookout.

“Wait here.” He sheathed Frækn, pulled his sax and worked his way around and behind the guard. Moments later, the man lay dead at his feet.

He waved Turold forward. “There is likely another lookout on the opposite side of the clearing.”

“Aye, I will deal with him. Look there!” Turold pointed to the scene that played out in a clearing before them. “There are only a few.”

Sindre and Oswulf stood their ground with the women and Alwin between them. The húdfats and other baggage had been dumped on the ground around them, as if to provide traps for the feet of the eight men who surrounded them. Oswulf brandished the woodman’s axe from the cottage and a hadseax, but he was no warrior and looked more determined than capable. Bryda, her face pale, stood behind her husband with her arms wrapped protectively around her belly. Alwin, his gaze fixed on Sindre, hefted a palm-sized rock. Sindre’s creative curses filled the air as the eight began to close in. His uncle held Frithr at the ready but leaned heavily on his walking staff, keeping his foot off the ground as if completely unable to put weight on it.

Brandr suppressed a grin. Sindre feigned a worse injury than he had. Once the fighting began, his uncle would fight as if there were none at all.

Then Lissa turned more fully in his direction. His heart clenched in sudden pity. She stood tense, and pale as thistle down, her jaw clenched so hard her lips were pinched white.

She remembers Yriclea.

She held her arms stiffly at her sides, her hands clenched, every line of her body braced in stark rejection of the coming bloodshed. Horror blazed from her golden eyes as she stared at one of the attackers, not the leader, but a small, lean individual with dark hair and weathered skin. He held out his hand to her as if in supplication.

She knows him, fears for his life! Is this Talon? Nei, not the first marshal. Talon would command the others.

He abruptly wished, for her sake, it would not be necessary to kill, but knew the futility of the desire even before he thought it. These men would not allow otherwise.

Their leader loudly demanded that Sindre and Oswulf lay down their arms.

Brandr frowned. “Where are the men with the bows? These eight cannot be all there are.”

“I see no others, nor do I feel any close by. The two with the bows are not here. They were moving toward the village.” He raised a brow in question. “Do we attack, or wait for a better chance?”

“We cannot let them take our people into town. We will make a stand here, but we will have to overcome them quickly, else more may come than we can defeat—and Turold, that man there, the short, dark one?”

“Aye?”

“Do not kill him unless he gives you no choice. He is one of Lissa’s people.”

A flash of understanding crossed the skáld’s expression and he nodded, a feral glee shining in his eyes. “I will find and dispatch the other guard. Yell when you are ready. Lead on, O warrior!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Brandr sheathed his sax and slid his shield over his arm. He pulled his axe from his belt as he prowled toward the clearing. Turold moved away to his right.

He focused on catching Sindre’s attention. His uncle’s head swiveled, trying to eye the five warriors who approached him. Sindre’s gaze suddenly locked with his, acknowledged him without a blink and moved on.

The leader of the attacking band, one of those facing Sindre, shouted. “Take them!”

Not waiting for Turold, Brandr threw the axe, bringing down one of five, then raised his voice in a fierce war cry, followed moments later by Turold’s yell. Unsheathing Frækn, he charged into the clearing, making for the leader, who broke formation to meet him head on. Another went for Turold.

The distraction gave Sindre all the aid he needed against the two who were left. He brought up the walking staff in a stunning, arcing blow that shattered one opponent’s shield, then swung his axe. The man fell. He thrust the stick into Alwin’s hand and traded axe blows with the second.

After that, Brandr was too busy fighting to notice much else. He also had two to deal with at once, but glimpses of the others in his peripheral vision assured him even Oswulf held his own.

He had just killed the leader and engaged the other, when he saw Sindre’s danger. His uncle had drawn one of the attackers away from the women. The man was a skilled fighter and had maneuvered Sindre so his back was unprotected, vulnerable to another combatant who came at him from behind, sword raised for a killing blow. He cried out a warning, but fighting for his life, had time for no more.

Then there was naught but his enemy, the battle, and the fierce determination to win. He dodged a thrust, too close for comfort, and returned to land a mighty blow against his adversary’s head with the flat of his sword. The man went down and died, Frækn piercing his throat.

He looked around and saw that seven of the attackers were on the ground. The surviving man—Lissa’s acquaintance—abruptly fled. He threw a hard, speculative glance at her before disappearing into the trees in the direction of the town. That he went for help, there could be no doubt. Turold started after him, but Brandr called him back.

Sindre stood undamaged, his face stretched by the familiar battle grin. At his feet lay three of the dead, one of whom was the one who had meant to kill him while his back was turned. Alwin stood staring at the dead man, looking pale, but grimly satisfied. The rock he had held was on the ground beside the man, dark streaks attesting to the youngling’s excellent aim. Turold’s kill lay at the edge of the clearing, and Oswulf had somehow accounted for his attacker with the knife he had held.

He moved quickly to Lissa. “You are unhurt?”

“I…yes.” She searched him with haunted eyes. “And you?”

“I am fine. Bryda, you are well?”

“Aye, leóf.”

“There are tales to be told of this battle, but not now. The one who got away will seek help, but it will take time. We cannot be here when they come. Grab the baggage.” He pointed opposite the way they had originally fled, in the direction of the village. “We will go that way. When they find the dead here, it is my hope they will think we still make for the main river. If we double back and move west of Andeferas, we may throw them off. Turold, take the lead. I have heard this village boasts two watermills, one east, and one west. I have seen the first. Make for the latter. We will seek a hiding place there and then cross in the night, using the mill as cover.”

Lissa grabbed his hand and shook her head. “No, Brandr! The man who got away was Wat, Talon’s tracker. He will find us. Even if we manage to cross this night, unseen, he will follow easily on the morrow. We cannot outrun them.”

He glanced at the countenances that watched him with such confidence, feeling the burden of leadership as never before. With a tracker after them, there was nowhere they could hide they would not be found, but perhaps it made their choices simpler. He grinned and took Lissa’s face in his hands. “Then what would you have me do, Lissa Brandr-thrall? We are surrounded. If this Wat can track us, as you say, where do we go?”

“It will make no difference. He will follow. We must go into the river, the big one the other three flow into. He cannot track the water!”

“But it is not deep enough, nor does it flow fast enough to carry us swiftly along, and we cannot be certain of obtaining boats.” He glanced up at what he could see of the sky beyond the tree canopy. Clouds, black and puffed with rain, rolled and scudded. The gloom of evening was deep, but not yet such as to veil their escape. They needed time. “If it matters not which way we go, then we want a place to hide until it grows dark enough we cannot be seen. We will decide then which direction is best.