Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (21 page)

Unease had filled Elisead the moment Alaric had stepped from her chamber, but there was naught she could do now. That didn’t stop her from pacing restlessly, though.

She had no idea how much time had passed, but it seemed to stretch as her instincts warned her—of what, she could not tell. Some indefinable presence whispered to her that something was wrong.

Suddenly there was a heavy thump outside her chamber door. She jumped nigh out of her skin and had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry of surprise. With trembling fingers, she reached for the handle. But before she grasped it, the door flew open.

Drostan’s large frame filled the doorway. Elisead exhaled sharply, relief flooding her to see her father’s most trusted man.

“Drostan, what—”

But then she noticed that he wore the blue paint her people used as they entered battle. Alaric had warned of a dangerous confrontation, but not a battle that warranted war paint. Her gaze trailed from his dyed features to what he held in his hand. A bloodied dagger dripped in his grip.

There hadn’t been time to scream.

He lunged at her. With one arm, he bound her in his grasp and lifted her clear off her feet even as she struggled against him. But then he pressed the dagger to her throat, stilling her.

“What are you doing?” she panted, trying to twist away from the blade at her neck.

“We are going to see your father,” he said calmly.

He carried her through the door and toward her father’s chamber. As they entered the corridor, she caught a glimpse of Alaric’s stubborn but loyal warrior Olaf slumped and bleeding on the floor.

Elisead sucked in a breath and prepared to scream as loud as she could. But the dagger pressed again, ever so slightly harder. Her mind swirled as she considered what to do. The rain of blows she’d landed with her heels on Drostan’s shins hadn’t slowed him in the least. The dagger at her neck prevented her from screaming. Would someone come down this corridor anytime soon? There was no reason to—no reason that anyone would save her.

Drostan strode to her father’s chamber and kicked the door open.

Her father spun around from where he stood looking down at his old ornamented sword in the open chest at the foot of his bed. His amber eyes, so like Elisead’s, flashed over them, widening in shock.

“Drostan, what in God’s name are you doing? I trusted—”

That was as far as he got.

Drostan suddenly flung her against the wall. She slammed into it and slid to the floor, her vision blurring for a moment. There was a scuffle, then a heavy thump as the sword Maelcon had set aside after his injury seven years ago hit the ground.

Her father’s scream, which turned into a gurgle, snapped her out of her daze.

He lay on the ground a pace away, a deep red line drawn across his throat. Blood flowed freely as he blinked in stunned disbelief.

Her own scream ripped from her throat, but there was no one in the corridor beyond her father’s chamber to hear it. Before she could scramble to her father’s side, Drostan dragged her to her feet and pressed the dagger against her neck once more.

“Why?” she cried, still fighting against his strength even though it was useless.

Drostan held her upright, facing the door. It was as if he was waiting for someone.

New dread nigh stole her breath away.

Alaric
.

Her heart was rending in two, half for her father, who lay struggling for breath at her feet, and half for Alaric, who would unknowingly walk into Drostan’s trap at any moment.

Her father continued to fight even as the pool of blood slowly expanded around his head. Time stretched horrifically as if she were trapped in a nightmare. Every gurgling inhale Maelcon tried to take lasted a lifetime.

His wide eyes looked up at her, then shifted to Drostan. Another sob ripped from her throat. Dagger be damned. She struggled with all her strength against Drostan’s unmoving arm pinning her.

“Let me go to him!” she screamed. “Let me give him a last moment of comfort.”

“Nay,” Drostan said flatly.

“Why?” She was hysterical now, but she didn’t care.

“Because I will not allow you to engage in needless sentiment,” Drostan said behind her. “I am doing what is best for our people, just as Maelcon taught me. There is no need to make this more than what it is.”

“And what is it?” she grated out, her gaze still locked on her father. The light behind his amber eyes was at last starting to fade. Part of her wished to fall to the ground and beg any god who would listen to bring him back, to undo the long slice across his throat delivered by Drostan. But another part of her knew it was a mercy that he was slipping away now.

“It is a change in leadership for our people, a passing of the mantle.”

Helplessness washed over her, making her feel sick. “You are crazed,” she breathed.

“Nay,
Maelcon
was crazed for thinking it wise to make an alliance with those barbarian Northmen.”

Her father shuddered one last time, and then his eyes, still fixed on her, dimmed.

“Nay!” she screamed. But her ability to fight against Drostan suddenly drained away. Hot tears blinded her and spilled in an unrelenting torrent down her cheeks.

She didn’t know how long she was forced to stand there, dagger at her throat and her father’s body at her feet. And then all of a sudden the door flew open and Alaric was there.

Though hope surged through her at the sight of him, it evaporated as the dagger dug into her flesh. She felt a trickle of her own warm blood running down the column of her neck.

And then Alaric’s hand was moving away from his sword. She wanted to scream at him to kill Drostan, never mind her life. Saving her wasn’t as important as stopping the monster who’d been right in their midst all along.

But the blade kept her silent. All she could do was watch as yet another nightmare unfolded before her.

“Close the door.” Drostan’s voice was even and low. He must truly be mad to be able to remain so calm after murdering a man in cold blood, a man who’d trusted him completely.

Alaric complied without taking his eyes off Elisead.

“Why, Drostan?” Alaric said, his whole body humming with tension. His empty fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes burning with green fire. Even from several paces away, Elisead could see the muscles in his jaw flexing.

Drostan actually snorted, the first indication that he didn’t have ice water for blood.

“I don’t need to explain myself to a filthy Northman.”

“You wear the paint of your people,” Alaric said carefully. “Maelcon said it is how you got the name Pict, for you don the blue dye when you enter battle.”

Was Alaric stalling? A flicker of hope sparked deep in her hollow chest. Did he have a plan? Might this nightmare somehow end at last?

“But you are not entering battle,” Alaric went on. “You have killed your Chief like a coward, not a warrior. And now you threaten a woman, as only weaklings and dishonorable men do. Both my gods and yours see—”

All of a sudden Drostan lunged forward, shifting the dagger from Elisead’s neck. Both she and Drostan collided with Alaric.

Alaric blinked down at her, a sudden gust of air leaving him. Drostan stepped back, dragging Elisead with him.

What she saw made sickness rise in the back of her throat.

Drostan’s dagger protruded from Alaric’s middle, buried to the hilt.

“Nay!” she screamed again, her chest burning and her voice raw.

Alaric raised trembling hands to the dagger and gripped the hilt. With a nauseating jerk, he tried to pull it free, but it remained lodged in place. He coughed, and blood began seeping across his tunic where the blade was buried.

“Keep it,” Drostan said, tilting his head toward the dagger stuck low in Alaric’s chest.

With a vicious shove, Drostan sent Alaric tumbling to the floor alongside Elisead’s father. He landed in the pool of blood spreading from Maelcon’s body.

A blessed numbness stole over Elisead as she stared down at her love dying at her feet next to her father. It was as if her mind knew that she would shatter, never to be whole again, if she could understand the full weight of what was happening. Dimly, she sent up a prayer of thanks for the small mercy of detachment.

Drostan hauled her toward the back of the chamber, where a door was hidden in the paneling. Her father had never been forced to use the secret opening that provided the only other exit or entrance into the great hall besides the large double doors at the front, but when he’d added this wing of private chambers, he’d insisted that it would come in handy one day. A distant bitterness at that thought scuttled across her increasingly numb mind. 

Her determination to fight had been stripped from her, along with the ability to feel the pain that would surely sweep her away forever if she allowed herself to comprehend what was happening.

Alaric’s eyes followed her across the room as he struggled and failed to sit up.

“I love you.” His voice was a raw whisper, but his eyes blazed with the same green fire that had burned her to her very soul.

“I love you, too.”

Before she could say more, Drostan slammed the hidden door closed behind them, cutting her off from Alaric forever.

Her father’s most trusted warrior dragged her to the left through the narrow gap between the wall’s cold stones and the back of the great hall. He slinked along the wall until the great hall’s wooden siding ended. Ahead stood the stables.

Drostan straightened and pulled her to his side.

“Make a move and I’ll strangle you,” he hissed. Casually, he walked into the open space that separated the great hall and the stables, pulling her by the hand. The yard was quiet and dark before them. Moonbeams cast deep shadows in the corners. Naught moved.

Elisead knew there were several guards stationed along the wall, but they were looking outward for a sign of attack, not inward for treachery among their ranks.

Drostan’s hand tightened painfully on her wrist, a warning to remain silent. He’d already killed three men this night—Olaf, Maelcon, and Alaric—and she knew with a removed calmness that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her either.

He pulled her inside the stables and quickly saddled two horses—her father’s war steed and a young mare that Elisead occasionally rode. She preferred to travel under the power of her own two feet, but the animal had been a gift from her father, so she’d kept it.

Drostan guided the two horses by their reins with one hand and hauled her after him with the other. He led them back the way they’d come, through the narrow passage between the back of the great hall and the wall.

At last Elisead’s slow mind comprehended what he was doing.

“You think to slip out of the postern gate.”

He yanked hard on her wrist to silence her, but it seemed to confirm her guess. Sure enough, he halted in front of the narrow door that had been hacked out of the thick stone wall. The postern gate was rarely used, for behind it, the hillside upon which the fortress was built fell away in a jagged, rocky escarpment.

Putting his shoulder to the door, Drostan pushed. To Elisead’s surprise, the door opened smoothly, without even a squeak from the old hinges. He must have planned this escape, she realized dimly, and oiled the hinges ahead of time. How long had he been plotting against her father and Alaric?

She balked at going through the door, for she feared tumbling down the steep slope on the other side with naught but the moon to light her footing. But her slight resistant only seemed to anger Drostan. He bent and hoisted her over his shoulder, then walked through the gate, pulling the horses behind.

Elisead squeezed her eyes shut. If Drostan slipped, or if the horses spooked, she would plummet onto the sharp rocks far below. But amazingly, Drostan began to sidle his way down the cliff. The horses, though picking their footing carefully, followed after his swift tug on their reins.

At long last, they reached the bottom of the escarpment. The river cut a path along the back side of the fortress, leaving a narrow, sandy bank at the bottom of the cliff.

Drostan nigh threw Elisead onto the mare, then mounted her father’s warhorse, still holding both of their reins. The soft sand below the horses’ hooves muffled the noise as Drostan spurred the animals into motion.

Elisead glanced up at the fortress walls towering atop the cliff. No one had raised the alarm. No one knew that her father and Alaric had been killed, and that she’d been taken.

A sob escaped her lips, but the night swallowed the sound.

Maelcon’s blood had cooled.

It seeped into Alaric’s tunic, mingling with his own blood, which was still warm where it oozed around the dagger buried in his chest.

He blinked up at the ceiling. Blessedly, there was no pain. But a blankness had stolen over his mind, chilling him and leaving his thoughts muddled and distant.

Strange. He had always imagined the gods would claim his life in some raid or great battle. Not because his bloodlust ran so hot—nei, but because it seemed like a good way to go, and he’d never spent a great deal of time dwelling on his future.

But in more recent days, he’d had several odd moments where he’d seen a longer life with Elisead flash in his mind, almost as if he was glimpsing the future.

And now he lay on the cold stone floor. With Elisead ripped from him, he was left alone to die in a foreign land.

He’d been told by some men who’d narrowly evaded death that a strange calm came over them in the last moments. But although he felt numb, he was not calm. His mind kept flitting back to Elisead’s frightened eyes. She was strong, ja, but he had no idea what Drostan would do to her. The numbness started to burn away, to be replaced with white-hot rage.

Suddenly he heard footsteps in the corridor. He tried to call out, but his voice was a thin croak.

“Olaf!” It was his sister’s voice, sharp with fear. Relief washed over Alaric as he heard the old giant’s grunt of pain. Olaf was still alive, at least.

Madrena called for help, and soon more boots echoed in the corridor. And then the chamber door opened.

“Oh gods, nei!” Madrena cried. “Do not take my brother!”

“Alaric!”

Both Madrena and Rúnin were at his side at once. Their faces filled his field of vision, the panic and fear in their eyes unmistakable.

“So much…blood,” his sister breathed, looking down at him.

“Maelcon’s,” Alaric rasped.

Madrena’s eyes darted to where Maelcon’s body lay. Then her nigh-colorless eyes refocused on Alaric. With trembling fingers, she reached out and touched the dagger protruding from his chest.

“Tried to get it out, but couldn’t.” He attempted a smile, but from the look of horror on both Madrena and Rúnin’s face, he feared it was more of a grimace. “Help me.”

Madrena and Rúnin exchanged a look. “It will only bring about the end more swiftly, Alaric,” Rúnin said softly.

“Nei,” Alaric said, feeling another surge of anger. His rage was actually clearing his thoughts, making room for him to act. “If it had hit aught important, I would be dead already.” Even his voice was growing stronger.

“Alaric, this is madness,” Madrena said, but she was eyeing him with less resignation now.

He gripped the hilt of the dagger and pulled. That made the pain flare to life in his body for the first time. He grunted. The dagger budged a fraction of an inch. He tried again, but his hand was slick with blood. Rúnin took hold of the dagger’s hilt and braced himself. In one swift yank, the blade came free.

Alaric bellowed as pain flooded into the spot where the dagger had been. Madrena jammed the heel of her hand against the wound to stanch the blood.

“Look at this,” Rúnin said, holding up the dagger. The blade, which had blessedly only been slightly longer than Alaric’s forefinger, was bent back on itself at the tip. “It must have struck your ribs.”

Madrena’s eyes widened. “But how did it miss his lung? Or his innards? Did the blade simply…avoid all his vitals?”

Rúnin shook his head slowly. “I have seen men survive many wounds, but naught quite like that. The gods must be smiling on you, Alaric.”

He didn’t feel particularly blessed as another wave of pain washed over him where Madrena’s hand pressed into the rib bone that had saved his life.

But then the gravity of everything that had happened that night suddenly slammed into Alaric’s chest, nigh stealing his breath.

Drostan was the schemer who’d tried to thwart his negotiations with the Picts. Maelcon was dead. And Drostan had Elisead.

Alaric was not going to die. Not before he destroyed Drostan and freed Elisead.

He jerked to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, but fresh pain claimed him at the movement.

“What are you doing?” Madrena snapped, coming to her feet at his side. He leaned against her, unable to steady himself.

“Drostan killed Maelcon and took Elisead. I’m going after them.”

“The only place you’re going is to Hel’s realm if you don’t see to that wound,” Madrena retorted. “You are not a god, Alaric. Though they may have deigned that you would survive that dagger, you need to be in a healer’s hands now.”

“Nei,” he said, righting himself and rounding on Madrena. “And do not try to stand in my way.”

“You don’t even know where Drostan is taking her!”

That gave him pause. Though the fog was clearing from his mind, pain now replaced it, clouding his thoughts.

“Drostan was likely the one who sent a missive to Domnall telling him to pay a visit to the fortress,” he muttered. “He tried to end negotiations between Maelcon and me, but when that didn’t work, he hoped that Domnall could put a stop to them—either with the threat of breaking their alliance or with Domnall’s retinue of warriors.”

“But Domnall and the remains of his army were driven from here,” Rúnin inserted. Madrena shot him a dark look but remained silent.

“Drostan wishes the Northmen vanquished from this land.”

Alaric’s head snapped up at the sound of Feitr’s voice in the doorway.

“He hates all Northmen. He tried to convince Maelcon to let him beat me to death when they found me in the woods seven years ago, but Maelcon said I would serve as a better example if I were kept as a slave instead.”

Feitr’s pale eyes fell on Maelcon’s body. Hatred, followed quickly by resignation, flickered in his gaze.

“Your master is dead,” Alaric gritted out, pressing his hand into the wound in his chest. “Which means that by the laws of the Northlands, you are free.”

Feitr nodded slowly, though pain still lingered in the icy depths of his eyes.

“I will find a way for you to get home, Feitr, but you must tell me—why does Drostan hate Northmen so much? And where would he take Elisead? What would he do to her?”

Feitr met Alaric’s eyes at last. “His family was in the village when we first arrived. They were slaughtered. I only learned later, when I overheard him trying to convince Maelcon to drive you out of his lands.”

“And Elisead?” Alaric snapped.

“Elisead is Maelcon’s only offspring. In my time here, I have learned that the Picts allow women to be the heirs of their leaders. Generations ago, they used to pass down rulership through women. Now it is rare, but still done.”

Alaric’s heart twisted as realization dawned even before Feitr was done speaking.

“Elisead will become the chieftainess of these people now. Drostan likely wishes to marry her so that he can claim this fortress and the lands for himself.”

“And he thinks he can simply return to the fortress purporting to have married Elisead? Does he imagine that we will simply hand it over to him?” Madrena said, her voice tight with outrage.

“Nei,” Alaric answered. “When he returns to drive us away and claim the fortress, he’ll bring an army with him.” His mind swirled as the pieces fell together at last. “Domnall’s army.”

Before he knew where he was going, Alaric had bolted from Maelcon’s chamber and was sprinting down the corridor toward the great hall. He didn’t slow even as lighting pain jolted through him with each footfall. He drove the heel of his hand into the wound, willing himself onward.

He plowed through the great hall and out into the yard. His gaze flew to the stables. The door had been left carelessly ajar.

Inside, the stables were unusually quiet.

“Alaric!” Madrena shouted as she burst into the stables after him. Rúnin appeared behind him, his hand wrapped around Feitr’s arm.

“Two horses are missing. How in the nine realms did he slip out of these walls with the gates closed?” Alaric demanded.

“He must have used the old postern gate,” Feitr said.

Even before he’d finished speaking, Alaric threw a saddle on the only horse he could find. It was a ragged looking mare whose best days were long behind her. Even still, she was longer of leg that the Northland ponies Alaric was used to.

“Are there no better animals I can use?”

“Nei,” Feitr said. “The Chief only kept three horses, plus a few donkeys. No one ever travels far enough from the safety of the fortress to make it worth caring for such expensive animals as horses. There are mules in the village for pulling a plow, but naught else.”

“Then this old nag will have to do.”

“Alaric!” Madrena’s voice was no longer merely incredulous. Now it held an edge of desperation to it. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Drostan and bring Elisead back before they reach Domnall’s men,” he said, swinging into the saddle. If it had been any other time, he would have laughed at how ridiculous his own words sounded. But desperation meant he’d have to follow even the most ill-conceived of plans.

“By yourself? I’ll not let you go out there alone, especially not injured.” She moved aside for him as he urged the old mare into the yard.

“Unless you plan to run alongside me or ride a donkey, then ja, I’m going alone. A second rider on this old horse will only slow me down. Open the gates!” Alaric barked to the men on the wall.

He spared a glance down at his sister as he reined the horse toward the gates. Her eyes shone with fierce love and worry as she gazed up at him. “You are in charge until I return,” he said. “I expect everything to be in order when I get back.”

Madrena bent and ripped a long strip of wool from the bottom of her overdress. “Laurel, forgive me,” she muttered under her breath as she tore the fine material Laurel had so painstakingly woven for Madrena back in Dalgaard.

She handed the strip of material up to Alaric. “At least bind the wound.”

He quickly wrapped the cloth around his ribcage several times and tied it snug. He met his sister’s gaze once more, but there were no words needed between them. They were both Northland warriors. Neither one of them would ever turn away from a threat to those they loved.

Just then, Rúnin grabbed Alaric’s arm. “Take this.” He handed Alaric the bent dagger, still dark and wet with his own blood.

Alaric hefted the blade in his hand, then tucked it into his belt.

“I’d best give this back to Drostan.”