Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (30 page)

“Howbeit, it is already too dark for tracking. We will flee to the east mill. It is nigh. The building was searched before the fight. It may now be safe. I think they will not expect us to move closer to the village. During the night, we will ford the river. If Thorr is with us, it will rain, and blot out our tracks. They will be forced to waste time deciding their next course.”

Lissa swallowed. “And if they decide correctly?”

“One problem at a time, if you please, litill blóm!” He smiled at her to soften the rebuke.

Shouts sounded in the far distance.

Sindre growled low in his throat. “They come!”

“Sindre, follow me. Turold, bring up the rear.” Keeping Lissa’s hand in a tight grip, he started at a lope in the direction of the mill. Menace whispered in the air, but none challenged them.

They stopped at the edge of the millhouse clearing. Only when he was certain they were alone did he lead them to the doorway.

Hammer of Thorr!

It was locked. He had not expected this, though perhaps he should have when he noticed the searchers, who must have secured the building when they left. He checked the large, window-like portals that were propped open during the mill’s operation to allow light and cross-ventilation. No access, there—they were barred from within. He looked around, his mind racing, seeking a different choice of cover.

“What is it, Músa?” Sindre leaned over his shoulder. “Ah, I see. We cannot get inside. Well then, we cross the river now.”

“Nei. It is still too light.”

Turold came close and bent to take a close look at the impediment to their plan. “I have a better idea.” He grinned. “It behooves a scop to learn many skills besides how to sing and write poetry.”

From somewhere within his tunic he removed a small, odd-shaped iron tool. After a few moments of concentration and the small sounds of metal scraping metal, the big lock popped open. He opened the door and made a gesture inviting them to enter.

Brandr shook his head. “I see a difficulty with your solution, skáld. If they come to check, they will see the lock has been removed.”

“Not if I replace it. I will hide over there, behind those empty grain casks. It is unlikely they will look further, when they see the lock remains in place. When it is time, I will release you.”

“I do not like this,” Sindre said. “We would be as animals in a cage. Defense would be difficult.”

Brandr raised a brow. “Have you another plan to offer?”

“Nei. I did not say I would not go in, only that I dislike it.”

Brandr waved them all inside and followed, then exchanged a last glance with Turold. “Wait for the rain.”

The sound of the lock catching made his jaw clench and his heart lurch. He liked being confined no more than Sindre.

It was utterly black inside the building. It took a bit of groping and stumbling around before his small flock was settled in relative comfort. In the process, he lost track of his thrall.

“Lissa, where are you?”

“Here, Brandr. Follow my voice. The floor is clear between us.” She crooned a tune, sweet and low.

He found his way to her side, leaned Frækn against the wall and groped downward along the wallboards to find her head. She turned to him as he sprawled beside her, nigh crawling into his lap. Guilty pleasure infused him, body and soul, at the warmth of her soft curves in his arms. It seemed battle was required to break through her resistance and cause
her
to seek
his
embrace. He wanted her there of her own desire, and could not bring himself to regret the events just past, for she clung to him in her need. Still, knowing it hurt her, he should shy from fighting when possible, do all in his power to avoid it—in truth, he already had—but battle or not, she
belonged
in his arms. His hunter’s soul knew it, if she did not.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, the heat of her breath caressing his flesh. It sent sparks of fire skittering to deep places. He ruthlessly suppressed them.

“If death and dire peril had not driven us to this pass,” she said, “I would feel like a child playing a foolish game of hiding and seeking.”

Sindre’s snort and Alwin’s snigger were loud in the darkness.

Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. Alwin sounded more and more like his uncle, though he was not so sure that was altogether a good thing. There was much he did not wish for the youngling to learn from Sindre. Still, he had no regrets at bringing the child along. Not once had he slowed or hindered their way, and he was holding up well; but then, at his age, their journey was more a grand adventure than a perilous endeavor. He felt safe in the company of warriors.

He had proven a deft hand at the chores he was given, and now it appeared he had a fine aim with a rock! The youngling had saved Sindre’s life with his throw. He was a good child, too, neither timid nor given to whining, nor was he slothful. If aught, he could be too bold. If his actions this eve were indication, when the time came, he would take well to Sindre’s warrior training, though he was two winters past the age when that instruction should have begun.

Bryda suddenly spoke up from the darkness. “I fear I am not so brave as you, Lissa. I am frightened, more than when we were forced from our home.”

“But we have been led well, have we not, my love?” Confidence filled Oswulf’s voice. “We are safe here.”

“I am not brave.” Lissa whispered the words, her breath warm against his neck. “Hold me, Brandr.”

His body tightened at her plea and a wholly possessive triumph surged through his veins. She needed him! He lifted her fully onto his lap. She cuddled like a child. Some of his elation leached away at the tears that scalded his skin. Her whole body shuddered. She uttered a silent gasp as sobs raged. Someday, she would come to terms with the slaughter of her people, but tonight, their loss was still too fresh.

“Shhh, lítill blóm, it will be all right.” He gently stroked her hair until the fierce spasms eased. She gave a little hiccup and slumped against him. Freyja’s tears, but he liked that she leaned on him, that she wanted, nei pleaded, for the comfort only he could give.

He shifted slightly against the hard floor, trying to change his position without disturbing her. His backside was going numb.

Without moving, she said, “Are you uncomfortable? I can sit by myself.”

“Nei! Nei, I am fine. Go to sleep.” He raised his voice so the others could hear. “Those who can should sleep. Once we leave here, we will not stop again until we have put leagues between us and those who search for us.”

He chose not to mention that other searchers, on the far side of the river, would also be on the lookout for them. Those could be evaded easily enough in the dark and the rain, but the first marshal would be after them at first light. The morrow would likely bring more of the ‘adventure’ Alwin craved. He only hoped he was strong enough—and wise enough—to bring them all through it, alive and whole.

∞∞§∞∞

Safe in Brandr’s arms, Lissa dozed, only waking fully when men approached the mill. They made no effort to keep their voices low. Tension spiked through the darkness inside the mill as one of searchers rattled the lock. Brandr lifted an arm from around her and she knew he silently took up Frækn. She tensed, prepared to throw herself out of his way should the man unlock the door. She prayed for the safety of Turold in his hiding place, and for all of them. The voice outside called that all was secure. The searchers moved on and the night became still. Only then did she breathe again, and relax in the arms of the one who held her heart in his unpredictable care as surely as he held her body in his arms.

Time passed. The storm came. Wind shook the mill so they almost did not hear the second rattle of the lock. “We have to hurry,” Turold said as he opened the door. “They have not gone far. Quickly!”

Brandr helped her settle the húdfat on her back, then turned her to face him. His hands felt their way up to frame her face. He touched his lips to hers. “I am sorry, litíll blóm. I would bear this load for you were it not necessary I remain unencumbered.”

She forced a smile into her voice. “I know.” She covered his hands with her own, wishing she could see the look in his beautiful eyes. “Worry not. I am strong. I will do what I must, as will you.”

Her hand once again secure in his grip, she stepped through the door and was encompassed by the torrent. Turold reset the lock. Brandr led them in a stumbling procession upriver. Though the night was not so black as it had been inside the mill, and she did not feel so blind, the rain was heavy enough he ordered them all to clasp hands at the riverbank and form a line to cross.

“Should one of us lose our footing,” he said in explanation, “and go down in the water, we could too easily become separated.”

Shivering as would a newborn kitten without its mother’s warmth, and grateful for Brandr’s unbreakable hold on her wrist, Lissa clambered up the far bank. His cloak, still about her shoulders, was sodden, offering little protection except from the wind. Between the steady fall of rain and the uneasy fording, she felt wet clear to the marrow.

As they set off into the night, she could not remember being so utterly wretched, but the discomfort of her body was naught compared to the misery of her heart. Brandr, the man she loved, could have died this day, because of
her
. Sindre also, and Oswulf. It came as a surprise that should the big víkingr be lost, she would truly grieve. When first they met, she had been so afraid of him, but no longer. He felt almost like…family.

But to lose Brandr! So swiftly, so suddenly could life be snuffed out, and that, when least expected. A great quaking, quite apart from the external chill, rent her soul. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and never, ever let go, and with that thought, came a resolution. No longer would she keep her love to herself, or hold it close to keep her heart safe. At first chance, she would speak of it.

She thought of the men who
had
died, believing they were setting her free. Had they wives, or children who depended on them, family who would miss them? It hurt to think of it. Wat, a lifelong friend, had almost fallen with them. She had seen the bewilderment in his eyes when she refused to come with him. He had not understood.

What of the morrow, and the next day? Would Talon, also a true and loyal friend, be the next to die because of her stubborn pride, her selfish desire to live life as she wished? Why had she been so foolish, so obstinately set on grasping more than what was needful? Had not her lady taught her better, shown her by example that the needs of others were as important as her own? She had deliberately ignored the precepts taught to her throughout her life, and chosen a grasping road. Now, the man she loved and good men, friends, were endangered because of her. She could not bear it. The handful of men with Talon was all that was left of her people. She could not—
would not
—lead them to their doom.

But how? How could more death be avoided? Fresh tears joined the steady stream of rain flowing down her cheeks, but with a sharp gesture, she dashed them aside. Regret would not help her now. She needed to think, to form a plan. Brandr would never willingly release her to Talon. This she accepted, as she understood the sun would rise come the morn. If she somehow managed to break free of him in the stormy darkness and find her way to the village—to Talon—it would not be enough. He would follow. He would come for her, and he would not stop until Talon was dead, or he was. Neither, would she allow. There had to be another way.

The night dragged on, endless. The tempest did not ease, nor did the storm in her soul. Exhausted, chilled to the core and sick to her heart, she staggered along in Brandr’s wake, over low hills and along the floor of valleys until she was numb. A part of her mind wondered at his endurance, at the sheer strength of his determination. How in the name of the saints did he know where they went? She felt blind, yet he led them through the gloom as if he guided them by daylight, bright and clear. She prayed Turold kept Alwin in hand, that none of the others had become separated.

The wind slowly died, and the rain slackened, but did not cease entirely. They came to the third river, though how Brandr kept from tumbling headlong into it in the darkness, she could not guess. Only then, when all of them were gathered round, were her fears of separation proved groundless. Turold and Sindre had kept them together.

She heard Turold speak quietly to Brandr.

When he finished, Brandr raised his voice. “We will cross here. You are all cold and weary, as am I, but we cannot stop. It is imperative we get far ahead of those who search, before seeking safe shelter.” He paused. His voice was heavy when it came again from the darkness. “Turold remembers a cottage, not far ahead. It used to be the home of a man who was a friend. If it still belongs to that man, it will be a place to get warm, and to rest, but only for those who choose not to continue. Turold, you and Alwin, with Oswulf and Bryda, have no need to suffer hardship or risk illness because of the rest of us. It is not for you our enemies search. I offer you the choice of remaining at the cottage. I will leave silver, enough to sustain you until you find a place of your own. What say you?”

Silence fell among them, but not for long.

“I w-w-will not l-l-leave Master S-s-sindre!” Alwin’s teeth chattered, but his small voice was adamant. It also came from higher than it should.

“You will do as you are told, thrall!” Sindre’s voice came from the same spot as had Alwin’s.

She suddenly realized the big víkingr carried the boy. The first smile in what seemed like an age touched her lips. Sindre must care more for Alwin than she knew, to bear the child’s weight with his injured ankle.

“Nor will I leave you, though I will lead the way to the cottage for any who chooses.” This declaration came from Turold.

Oswulf and Bryda quietly argued. Oswulf uttered an audible sigh. “For the sake of Bryda and the child, leóf, I would stay at the cottage, but she refuses. She says we gave to you our oath, and naught can be allowed to break it, for it is all we have left that is truly our own.” A thread of pride and wry laughter wove through his voice. “She
is
a strong and robust woman, as she declares. She is also stubborn, and says if Lissa can manage, so can she.”