Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (38 page)

No bitterness touched her words, only acceptance.

Brandr took a small step forward. “Where are these others, then, these men who would take what is yours without first speaking with the council? How many are they?”

“They are six. You have missed them by less than half a day. They returned across the river to Birbekkr, a settlement of our people some three leagues to the east. They say they will return in three days.”

“And that is when you will be forced to leave.” Sindre’s statement was quieter this time, but no less angry. “Our laws are sacred. What they propose dishonors them. We will stay and fight for you!”

“Nei!” Siv cried the word.

“Sindre!” Brandr slammed Frækn back into its sheath with no little force. He grabbed his unce’s arm and pulled him away from the others. “What is this you say? We cannot stay, not to fight, not to set right a wrong, not even to spend the night. We must be away, now, and be across the river before nightfall.”

Even as the words left his mouth, a powerful sense rushed over him that they had been said before, but that time, it had been Sindre speaking them, Sindre arguing Lissa must be left behind, that she must die. His blood ran as cold as his uncle’s voice.

“You would leave a widow to fend for herself among disreputable men?” Sindre stared him down. “Have we as free men no duty to protect her rights in this matter, when her very kinsmen dishonor her? I would have thought you, of all people, would know the right of that!”

Brandr tilted his head and tried to read what put the heat in Sindre’s eyes, but his uncle was no longer paying attention. His gaze was on the woman.

“You fancy her!”

Sindre’s gaze slammed back to his. “Já! Is that a thing of disgrace, or a misdeed?”

His brows shot up. “Nei, and you are right.” He studied his uncle for a moment. “Howbeit, we will not fight.” He raised his hand at the objection Sindre began to make. “Hear me out. We are four, to their six, and had we not the women and Alwin to think of, I would agree. But look around you.” He gestured to the farmhouse and the field. “Is it worth the fight? The house looks nigh to falling down and the grain seems not healthy in its growth. I say, let the shameful fools have it. We will bring the woman with us,” and here he gave a wry shrug. “What is one more refugee among all the rest we have gathered? I give my oath, Uncle, I will see she is given an honorable place among our people.”

“And if she does not wish to leave?”

Brandr turned and approached Siv, aware Sindre was hard on his heels. “Siv Trygve-wife. What has your own family to say in this matter?”

“I have no family.”

Compassion shot through him. Family was the keystone of their culture. One who was alone, especially a woman, was as good as dead.

He glanced back at the silent farmhouse. “Your children?”

Bleakness leapt into her eyes and was as swiftly gone.

“Your husband’s kin took them?” Anger roared through him at the thought.

“Nei. We had two, born at the same time.”

Had
two. Past tense.

He nodded. “Siv Hróksdottír, hear my words. You have no husband to protect and provide for you, and his kin behave toward you with dishonor. We will fight them for you, if you demand the insult be avenged, but if not, I accept my duty to offer to you a place with my
ætt
. We journey to Ljotness, on the eastern coast. Will you come?”

She stared at him, and then her face softened. For the first time, hope shone in her tired eyes. She turned her gaze to Sindre. “There was never aught here for me. Trygve was not a good man, and his kin are no better.” Her gaze flickered to the house. “There is naught I would take with me, even if what little there was had not been claimed by Olaf. Já, I will come.”

Sindre stepped out from behind him. Brandr’s brows rose again at the look on his uncle’s face. He would swear he wore a look of
joy
, and there was an undeniable tenderness in the way he placed a hand on the small of Siv’s back and began to guide her toward the river.

“Alwin, come!” Sindre winked at the boy and gave him a man-to-man look from the corners of his eyes.

Alwin’s eyes, already big, widened further, before he grinned and hopped over to take Siv’s hand. “Hello, Siv. I am Alwin.”

Siv, looking as if lost for words, nodded. Together, the three trudged toward the river, Sindre’s head bent solicitously close to Siv.

Brandr stared after them, then turned to the others, wondering if his face reflected the same incredulity in their expressions.

Lissa came to take his hand.

“That was strange.” She looked at him, bafflement in her golden eyes. “But then, I suppose together we do make a rather uncommon group. I cannot wait to hear the verse Turold composes out of our adventures.” She laughed. “Come, my love, shall we join them?”

The trio was already halfway to the water. He grabbed her hand, and catching the eye of Turold and then Oswulf, he gestured for them to lead the way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Siv aided them in avoiding Birbekkr, though for a time they followed a brook she said flowed from the settlement. Lined with birches, it babbled its gently winding way beside them until a sharp bend carried it out of sight to the north. They made camp there for the night.

Lissa could not help but smile at the change in Brandr. The simple act of crossing the River Ligean into the land of Guthrum, his king, had invigorated him, and Sindre, too. The light in their eyes grew brighter with every step they took eastward, toward home.

A sudden chill at what awaited them at the house of his parents made her shiver, but she refused to let it dishearten her. Secure in Brandr’s love, she chose to trust he would find a way to settle any dispute.

Also obvious to any with eyes was that Sindre was smitten with the widow. While Siv seemed wary of his gruff attentions, which Lissa thought understandable, neither did she rebuff him. It lightened her heart to watch as the big víkingr’s eyes lost the regret they had for so long carried when he beheld her.

They met few people, but no longer did Brandr rush to hide them when they did. Nor did he lead them on forgotten byways and little-used paths. They walked with bold strides on well-traveled public trails, through hamlets and past farmsteads, and replenished supplies at settlements. One night, at the home of a friendly pig farmer, Brandr paid for all of them to have hot baths. He and Sindre openly spoke their own tongue with Turold and Siv, some of which, after Brandr’s patient instruction, she was beginning to understand.

But if she had thought to meet with looks askance at her and her fellow Saxons, she was mistaken. They met few Northmen, who paid them little heed, but many Saxons.

“Brandr, this land belongs to your king, but I have noticed most of the people we encounter are Saxon.”

“That is because most of my people choose to live further east. There is a large garrison of Guthrum’s troops in Colneceaster, and many of us live around that area, but most live nigh the sea coast or in the north of the kingdom.”

“Those of your people we meet seem to see naught strange in the appearance of Saxons with you. Is it because they believe us slaves?”

“Nei. Many Saxons live in the kingdom, both free and thrall.”

“It is strange to me it should be so. I know of few Northmen in Alfred’s lands.”

“Ah, but then your people have been here almost since beyond memory. We have new come, and while we take what we need, it is a wide land, and we are not opposed to sharing. For the most part, your people and mine have learned to get along here, but it is not so in Alfred’s kingdom. There, we were only recently a conquering army, but now the lands have been divided, and many do not forget. In time, we will all share the whole land, but not this day.”

Four days later, they were still in the midst of a great forest into which they had plunged shortly after crossing the River Ligean, but where the wood on the other side of the river had seemed a place of dark magic, happily left behind, this one held exquisite beauty.

Lissa was enraptured. There was enchantment here, too, but it was of the light. They hopped on convenient stones across babbling brooks where emerald ferns thrived, passed a broken tree trunk upon which a large beetle with jaws like the antlers of a stag sunned itself, and skirted a sunny pond where they took their noontide rest. The forest fair teemed with life, and they caught glimpses of deer and hare, and many birds. All the while, she marveled at the soft shafts of golden light that never failed to illumine their path.

As they entered a tree-clad valley, they came to a crossroads. When Brandr turned them from the narrow, easterly path they followed to a more northerly, and heavily traveled road, she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm. He turned a warm azure gaze upon her that set her heart to singing and her blood to throbbing.

They had not been long on this wider thoroughfare when the ground began to quiver. Before she could think to ask the cause, Brandr threw up a fist to halt them. Turold and Sindre raced to stand on either side.

They waited, gathered in an expansive glade at the top of a rise. The road wound down its long slope to pass between two ancient and giant oaks.

Bryda, who crowded behind Lissa, called to him. “Leóf, what is it?”

He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Listen for it!”

Soon, the quaking beneath their feet was accompanied by the thunderous thud of horse’s hooves, many in number, driving rapidly toward them, the pounding only slightly muffled by the blanket of last season’s fallen leaves.

Brandr turned and began to gesture with broad sweeps of his hands, herding them before him. “Back! Off the road! Into the trees! Go!”

Heart in her mouth, Lissa went, her grip tight on Alwin’s arm, for Sindre, Frithr in hand, was pushing Siv ahead of him, while Turold and Brandr armed themselves with shield and sword. Oswulf took his bow in hand, Bryda hurrying with him.

There was no time to hide. The forest was too open, the bright, golden sunlight too revealing. The best they could do was get out of the way before the horsemen came into view.

Lissa gasped at sight of them. They numbered more than half a score, and one glance at shields and armor revealed they were warriors. Northmen warriors. Big. Fearsome. Menacing.

Saint’s bones, are all Nordmanna giants?

Sindre was immediately by Brandr’s side. “Drengr?”

“Já, since they ride, that is my guess.”

She sidled close, and tried to keep the dread from her voice. “Brandr, what are
‘drengr’?”

He glanced at her, then transferred Frækn to his shield hand just long enough to slip his arm around her waist and hug her. He dropped a kiss on her temple. “A warband. This one, since they are horsed, is most likely on a mission for the king.” He glanced around. “The trees offer some cover, but they will see us. Still, it is best if we stay out of their way. We do not know their purpose, but it is my hope they will spare no time to trouble themselves with simple travelers.”

“Agreed,” Turold said, his tone heartfelt. “I am not certain we make an adequate force to fight them off.”

Sindre laughed and shook his head, his now shaggy white locks gleaming in a beam of sunlight. He stuffed his beard inside the neck of his tunic. “What then, skáld? After all this time, you doubt our prowess? Why, they are but puny king’s men. It is too long since we had a good fight.”

He brandished Frithr and roared a challenge.

Brandr threw him an exasperated glance, but the oncoming troop had already seen them. Without a word or gesture from their leader that Lissa could see, they came to an instant halt between the twin oaks at the base of the rise. The leader of the band urged his mount forward, but stopped a short distance past.

She wondered at his motive, for he made no further move. He seemed to be waiting. Another warrior lightly heeled his horse’s flanks and came up beside him. The two conferred. The leader pulled off his helm. Sunlight flashed from the tiny clasps in the plaits that held back his hair, three braids each side, like Brandr wore, only these were the color of sun-burnished bronze, streaked with gold. His face was that of a young man, but hard and solemn, and he bore a green mark on his right temple and a black one above his left eye. His beard was full, but close-trimmed.

She jumped as Brandr’s sudden roar shook the trees.

“Ho! Snurre!”
He tore off down the slope as one possessed by a
gást
, racing toward the two fighters with Frækn raised.

Stunned, she stared after him, then whirled to grab Sindre’s arm. “Sindre! Go after him. Help him!”

In a desperate effort, she tried to push him after the foolish man she loved, but the big víkingr was unmovable. He was also grinning from ear to ear as if he, too, had taken leave of his senses.

Her gaze sought out Brandr.

He is going to die!

The leader of the troops had dismounted and taken up fighting stance, awaiting Brandr’s approach. Only then, as the two men closed, did she realize he looked a great deal like Brandr, and Sindre, too—enough to be close kin. They were matched in height, but Brandr was heavier.

But if they
were
kin, why did Brandr attack? She glanced about. The others appeared as confused as she. Only Turold’s expression held a speculative look. Then there was no more time to wonder.

The leader screamed something she did not understand and leapt to meet Brandr with a fierce clash of swords.

They fight like madmen! At least the other warriors do not interfere. But what if he kills the leader? Oh, they will kill him!

“Sindre!”

He paid her no mind. His arm was still in her grip. She tried to shake it to gain his attention, but she could no more move it than his big body. “Sindre, please, do they fight a blood feud between kinsmen?”

Sindre, relaxed as if he beheld a mock battle between children, gave a brief shake of his head and never took his eyes from the raging battle. “Nei. Watch.”