Éire’s Captive Moon (20 page)

“
Ja
, Agnarr. But my blade is sharp, and you’ve only the practice sword.” He didn’t wish to hurt the battle leader.

Agnarr chuckled, motioning with his weapons. “Come. Show me how you’ll attack Vigaldr!” Agnarr gripped the wooden hilt of the practice sword and adjusted the balance of the bossless shield. Erik paused for a moment, as if unsure. Agnarr decided to hurry him on.

With a roar, he lunged toward his youthful opponent. “Now, boy! Now! Defend yourself!”

Shock clear on his freckled face, Erik grimaced and tried to do just that. He lashed out with the axe in just the right manner—with abandon. Agnarr watched the metallic fury of the weapon rain down in a series of blows upon his shield. Though his left arm was jarred, Agnarr soon edged his sword in under the axe and with a mighty heave, ripped it from Erik’s grasp.

Weaponless, the young man backed away, seeking something to use in his own defense. Agnarr showed no obvious mercy, chasing him about the square, sword thrusting forward on the attack, shield moving as well, for it would normally have an iron tip at its center.

When he was close enough, Agnarr caught Erik behind the knee with the edge of his sword, making the young man fall. “Ah!” he shouted as a bead of sweat hit the corner of his eye. “I have you now.”

“I yield!” Erik cried, propping himself up on his elbows on the beaten earth.

“I can do better,” one hopeful warrior proclaimed.

Agnarr grinned, turning slowly to find his new challenger. “Can you?” he asked, his voice soft now. He had hoped someone would say that. He had another lesson to teach these young men who must defend their home.

The warriors-in-training laughed, some with nerves, others with good humor. “
Ja
! Let Snorri try!”

Agnarr inhaled deeply, stretching his arms and letting his weapons fall to the ground. “What say you to taking the sword, Snorri? I’ve heard that your father has one for battle. Have you mastered its use?” Swords were costly; axes were much more common as a weapon. Agnarr planned on showing the young men just how effective an axe could be, under the right management.

Snorri all but swaggered into the area cleared by the other young men. “He has promised me his sword, yes. But,” he continued, with obviously feigned humility, “I know I have to learn how to use it.”

Agnarr nodded, smiling at the ground as he went to his own weapon pile to retrieve his personal axe. “Of course. Well, then. You may take that practice sword there, and I will use my axe.”

“No shield?” Snorri unwisely taunted.

“No shield. Look to your own, lad.” To the others, he called, “Watch and learn, men. The axe is a mighty weapon.”

Without further word or warning, Agnarr attacked.

Sparing no thought for his own well-being, though he fought the wooden practice swords as if they were battle-worthy steel, he hacked and slashed with the axe, going for Snorri’s head, shield, arms, and body as often as he could.

In the hand of a berserker, the axe was the deadliest of weapons, but Agnarr was no berserker. He had not sworn sole allegiance to Odin, for one. He did not make a conscious effort to wear a shirt made from a bear’s skin or fur, for another. Nor did he enter battle bare-chested. Agnarr was a tried warrior, but he did not claim the berserker status. He merely went as fast and as furiously as possible to wreak havoc on the other man’s shield and body, stopping just short of a fatal or serious blow, though Snorri would carry heavy bruises and a slice or two for his lesson.

Snorri had to cast aside his shield as it fell in splinters from his hand. He tried to maneuver the wooden sword around the lightning-fast blur of Agnarr’s axe. Surprise, anger, and vengeance creased his forehead as he tossed the useless wooden sword aside. “I yield!”

Breathing in great, heaving gulps, Agnarr grinned and wiped the sweat and dust from his face with his forearm. “So I see.” Shifting the axe to his left hand, he extended his right to Snorri. “Ready to learn?”

“
Ja
,” the young man begrudgingly acceded.

“
Ja
!” the others shouted, enthusiastic at the show of strength and stamina.

“So we begin,” Agnarr declared. “Choose a sparring partner and your weapon.”

As the young men did so, Agnarr looked around for someone who could get him some water. He was in desperate need of a drink.

A slim, feminine shape caught his eye. “Magda,” he called, striding close to her. “Good day.” One had to be polite with one’s betrothed, his mother had taught him long years ago.

Magda curled her nose a little, as if she’d smelled something bad. Agnarr ignored it. A warrior could not smell like a flower. She then smiled a little. “You are leading them then? I’m proud of you.” He nodded. Her smile faded. “I wish you were as effective with your
leman
,” she spat. “The woman will not obey me.”

Agnarr drew back, his mind racing. The last time the healer and Magda had met, as far as he knew, was four days past, and Eir had given not the slightest heed to his betrothed, for she was mending his indoor shoes. Then he recollected the red spots on Eir’s face. Had Magda been responsible?

“You’ve seen her, then? Did she disobey you?”

“She was trying to wreck your boats!” Magda declared, eyes narrowed. “I saw her. She cursed me—yes, she did! Her own countryman, Bran, says she’s a witch. I believe it. I heard her!”

Agnarr knew his healer’s anger had never truly cooled, but he did not believe she was a witch, regardless of the rumors that might spread. He chose to use humor to deflect Magda’s wrath. “Oh, so you’ve learned to speak the tongue of my
trell
then?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! You dare take her part! How could you!” Injured tears welled up in her dark eyes. “I just want you to make her listen to me, Agnarr. That’s all. She shouldn’t have the right to speak to me that way.”

“What did she say?” he inquired, wishing for that water, but not wanting to ask her for it now.

“I told you, she cursed me. Bran says she’s versed in all the black magic and that she can make a man die without a weapon.” Her tone softened. “I just worry for you. If she were my slave, I wouldn’t have to worry . . .”

So that was her wish? Agnarr shook his head. “No, Magda. She is mine.”

The young woman frowned briefly, but then adjusted her expression to a smile. “When we are wed, I will see to it that she does not harm anyone.”

“I hardly need your protection from a
trell
, but I thank you for your concern. Now, be off with you, Elsdottir.”

Magda curtsied to him briefly before turning her back and walking quickly to her own home.

Satisfied, Agnarr decided to ignore his thirst. The men needed training. “Now,” he began, “with an axe, men, you learn not to concern yourself with your own safety. A warrior who dies in battle goes to Valhalla! A place of honor will await you.” He then proceeded to demonstrate proper tactics for attacking with the axe.

But in the back of his mind, he held the image of his healer’s face. He would inquire later what had happened.

The salt of the ocean tickled Cowan’s nostrils as the longboat moved close to shore near Orkney. The rugged rocks jutted proudly from the water as the sun set to the west, casting long shadows on the waves. Cowan felt his body tighten. He was close to home.

“Kingson, come.” Cowan rose to his feet, long since used to the sway of the deck. They were on another trading mission, and he had been accompanying Tuirgeis to each port. He had been called often to translate.

But the cost in humanity was excruciating to Branieucc’s son. Slaves had been captured, too, and all Cowan could do was try to make their captivity less harsh, stepping in to speak for the captives when he could.

Here, though, there were already
vikingr
—raiding men—living on the farthest reaches of Caledonia. The Orkney Islands were rough, breeding tough men and women who were making a life for themselves here. Tuirgeis was welcomed by others who had settled from
Nordweg
, men who had actually
jested
about the name,
vikingr
, given to them by the Franks.

Cowan followed Tuirgeis off the boat, wading through rocky shallows to reach dry land. Greetings were exchanged, slaves were brought out for inspection, and Cowan gritted his teeth against the need to speak out against this.

Caution had been ingrained upon him by his master, and he had decided that the Lord God had a purpose here. Cowan was trying to be obedient.

Yet . . . 

As the sun touched the ocean’s waves and the fires sent meat to spitting over the flames, Cowan thought longingly of home. Of the laughter in his family, the friends of his childhood, the scholars, too, that he had joined far to the south and over another great ocean. It would be so easy, he thought, to escape now. So easy. He could navigate the waters to Éire without difficulty; he had done so before. So easy to take a small craft and push it into the lapping waves. So easy to leave.

Tuirgeis clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Run fast and far, Kingson,” the leader reminded him, a cold humor reflected in his eyes. “Run fast and far.”

Cowan met the gaze, not flinching. Tuirgeis was not able to pull his thoughts from his head, surely, but the man was an astute judge of people. That much Cowan had learned in the time he’d been sailing with him. Winter’s cold breath was already blowing over the land, and it would soon be time to stop trading for the long, dark time.

Tuirgeis moved closer to the fire with the village leaders, and Cowan watched him go.
I can’t leave,
he realized with a visible wince.
I can’t.

Something drew him back to
Nordweg
. Dropping his head from the darkened horizon, Cowan puffed out a breath. Not something.
Someone
. A pale healer with hair like spun moonlight and with a temper like the sea in a storm.

Oh God, can’t I be free of her? What is it? Why do you keep her before me? I just want to go home and ready my people against more of the vikingr. That’s all.

The lie sat heavily in his gut as he pulled his blanket and cloak tightly about him and closed his eyes. She’d be pregnant before he returned, he told himself.
Then, perhaps, my foolish thoughts will die a natural death.

It was a vain hope, and it brought no comfort.

Chapter 15

“Did Magda hit you?” Agnarr asked his healer that evening. “Did Elsdottir have cause to strike you?”

Eir glared at him as she peeled roots from some flowers. “
Ja
. She said I wanted to break your
skipniu
.”

Agnarr covered his mouth to hide a smile at the spark in Eir’s face. To get his humor under control, he rose to his feet and paced to the fire, where his mother was roasting a goat. There was still a young lamb they could roast, but Gerda wanted a special occasion to butcher the lamb. That was understandable.

Bjørn and Arknell, his brothers, were drinking heavily, the sweet fragrance of the mead wafting to Agnarr from the other side of his home. He felt like joining them, but refrained; he wanted a clear head to deal with two troublesome females.

“And were you trying to break the longboat?” he asked, turning back to his
trell
.

His surgeon just looked at him, impassivity a blanket on her face.

“You should not try to damage our ships, Eir,” he cautioned, stepping closer to her. She continued to break up her flowers, separating them into little piles of flower parts. Petals, roots, stems, leaves. Agnarr had not a clue as to the varied uses his healer had for such things, but he trusted her healing judgment implicitly. He motioned for her to give him her full attention. She paused and he went on. “I do not know how they did things where you were born,” he said, seeing a fleeting look of pain and thinking he understood it, “but here, slaves have no rights. None. I would not see you slain over something so trivial. You are too valuable to me.”

She angled one brow at him, but said nothing.

Agnarr was tired of her silence and snow-blank expressions. “Enough! Do not attempt to break anything of ours again. Understood?”

“
Ja
.”

“Magda also said you had cursed her in your own language. You must cease speaking in the tongue of the Islanders.”

With a hardened expression, she answered him back in that precise language, more fluid syllables that he did not understand.