Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (26 page)

Sindre, uncharacteristically quiet, also went out, saying he wished to keep watch.

“Then take the first watch,” Brandr said. “I will send Turold to join you when he has finished his task.”

He wondered at his uncle’s unusual behavior. In another man, he might find it cause for worry, but while Sindre had many faults, disloyalty was not among them.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. He sent them all to an early bed, reminding them the morn would herald a long and weary day.

∞∞§∞∞

Lissa woke to Brandr’s hand shaking her awake. “Rise, thrall, and prepare food.”

Before she could respond, he was gone. She groaned and rolled over, wishing only to curl deeper into the furs. A hard, dull ache throbbed low in her belly. She heard movement nearby and opened her eyes to see Bryda rising, as well. Sindre still snored in his corner, Alwin stretched beside him. Turold mumbled something unintelligible as he stood up and stumbled outside. Trying to shake off the lethargy that plagued her, she crawled from the pallet, straightened her skirts and rolled the fur.

“I will help you when I return,” Bryda said. She was pale, and held a hand over her mouth as she rushed out.

She followed the woman into a dawn as gray and dreary as she felt. Bryda had not made it far. She stood heaving at the back of the cottage, one hand braced on the corner.

“Bryda, I will prepare a drink to ease your distress, though I have few of the leaves left.”

“Nay, do not concern yourself. It will pass now.”

“I must boil willow for myself. It would be no trouble to heat what you need.”

Bryda offered a sickly smile. “If that be so, I would drink some, and gladly.”

They went together back into the cottage, and set about their task. After a hasty breaking of the fast, the hudfats and other baggage were repacked. Their loads were redistributed and shared among Alwin, Lissa, Bryda and Oswulf, who now also carried in his belt the woodcutting axe. Brandr, Sindre and Turold remained unencumbered to keep watch and if necessary, fight.

The sun had but cleared the horizon when Brandr took the lead in this ninth day of their journey. Lissa stared wearily at the sky as they skirted the great mound. It seemed her clothes had only just dried, but the roiling clouds looked set to soak them all, once more, to the skin. Despite the cup of boiled willow bark she had drunk that morn, the ache in her belly got worse. Thoroughly miserable, she slogged on.

She was in line behind Brandr, at his insistence. He led them northeast through the easiest paths he could find, but his pace was swift, too brisk for talking. As if the previous days of rain had been a signal to the gods, the weather continued overcast and chill, with intermittent showers turning partially firmed ground back into mud.

They covered nigh two leagues before Brandr let them rest, but not for long. She thought the respite too short and said so, when he came to stand beside her. “Brandr, we need more time to catch our breath.”

“I think it is you that needs time, Lissa Brandr-thrall. Bryda does not seem to find our pace too difficult.” He looked more closely at her face. “Something is wrong. What is it?”

She could not stop the flush that warmed her skin. “Naught.”

“Thralls who lie to their masters have their tongues removed. Give me the truth. Are you ill, or hurt in some way you have not mentioned?”

“Brandr, it is naught. Truly. Ask no more.”

“Anything that affects your ability to keep up is my concern. You will tell me where you are hurt!”

She huffed. “I am not ‘damaged’. If you must know, it is my woman’s time.”

His face blanked.

“Need we halt while you…do something about it?”

“No.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then turned on his heel and strode off. “Everyone, up!”

He was almost out of sight before the rest of them got to their feet.

Shortly after midday, they came to a road that wound alongside another wide, shallow river. Brandr was muttering long before they got there.

They had left the woodlands and were passing through open downlands with little cover for leagues around, and he was worried. He halted them before they topped a hill with a long, gentle downslope that overlooked the river road. From the other side came the noises and calls of many travelers. With Sindre, he climbed the rest of the way on his belly.

After only a few moments, they crawled back down. “The road is a short distance away,” he said. “But a long line of troops, both horsed and on foot, traverses it, heading west.” He paused. “They have many fine warhorses. I have never seen so many in one place.”

His non sequitur caught Lissa’s attention. It was not the first time he had displayed an unusual interest in the great beasts, but he said no more of them as he held a hurried council with Sindre, Turold and Oswulf.

She sensed the tension in him as he called them all together. “These are troops of King Alfred. It would be best for us all if they do not discover our presence. We have decided to separate. Sindre and I will move east along the crown of this hill until we are far enough away no one would guess we travel together. You will all be safer if you are not found with us.”

She stood frozen, unable to believe his words. “Brandr, I do not like this! We should stay together. Turold and Oswulf will vouch for you. Please, do not do this.”

He stepped close and ran a finger down her cheek. “Turold will lead you back to yonder grove until the troops have passed and he deems it safe. There are bushes behind which you can shelter. As for us, should we be discovered by a patrol, we will say we are merchants, and that we were shipwrecked and seek only to return home.” He glanced at Sindre, who fingered the head of his axe and looked pleased by the possibility of meeting up with soldiers. “It is close enough to the truth.”

He pulled a leather bag from a fold in his tunic. It clinked as he took her hand and closed her fingers over it. “Keep this out of sight should you meet with others.”

His gaze swept over her. He suddenly pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if…as if he knew it would be the last time. She felt dazed. It was as though the sun had darkened and gone cold, or that winter had crept in while no one looked, to steal all the light and warmth from the day. It felt as if she was losing him, as she had lost all the others she had ever loved.

She shivered. “Brandr!”

He took the cloak from his shoulders and swept it around her.

She tried to refuse it. “No! You will need it. Please, Brandr.”

“Shhh, lítill blóm. All will be well, but if the worst should come to pass and we are taken or killed, go wherever seems best to you. Stay as far from the soldiers as possible. It is not safe for you and Bryda to be among them.” He set her from him. “Beyond the river, in the far distance, there is a village. It lies along a line of many trees. There is a place where a stand of oaks grows taller than all the rest. Stop among them and wait for us. We will meet up with you there.”

He set her from him. As he turned away, Turold stuck out his hand and the two warriors clasped wrists.

How alike they are, in honor and courage!

No words were spoken, but much was said in that single, long glance. She looked at Sindre, who watched the exchange. For once, no mockery touched his features. As if he felt her perusal, his hard, somber gaze met hers. For the space of a long breath, she felt the world around her shift.

Merciful saints!

His jaw clenched and he walked away, angling up the hill on an easterly bearing.

Brandr nodded to her, once. “Go with Thorr!”

She watched him catch up to Sindre. He did not look back. They took naught with them but their weapons and the gold around Sindre’s waist, which none but they and she, yet knew of.

She wanted to run after Brandr, to beg him not to leave her. Emotions clamored. The cold within her deepened.

Turold came beside her. “It is time to go.”

She blinked, suddenly aware water dripped from her hair to slide in icy rivulets down her face. When had it started raining again?

Turold pulled the hood of the cloak up over her head. “Lissa, come!”

The víkingrs were almost out of sight. She looked around to see Alwin, Oswulf and Bryda were already retracing their path, toward the grove. Alwin clutched Sindre’s great cloak about himself. Sindre had made a belt for him, and hitched up the hem, but he still hopped along, trying not to trip over it. His antics would have made her laugh had the moment not been so dire.

Neither of them has protection from the rain. They gave up their cloaks to us.

Turold touched her arm. “Do not worry. They will be safe. You will see them again. You must have faith, and believe that.”

She nodded. He caught her hand and they hurried after the others.

Until the sky began to grow dark, they huddled among the green growth beneath the trees in the grove. Alwin, shivering as hard as she despite Sindre’s cape, cuddled close to her side. Turold sat with his back to a tree, his head on his knees. In a gesture reminiscent of the víkingrs, he had insisted Bryda take his cloak for the babe’s sake, and she lay in Oswulf’s arms. As if all feared unfriendly ears, no one spoke.

Lissa thought of what she had seen in Sindre’s eyes.

He wants me. I saw it blaze. It is why he acts with me like a badger with a sore paw. But what of Brandr? I care so much for him, and I know he also desires me, yet still I know not his intent. He calls me ‘sour face’, then places himself in danger to protect me, and Sindre goes willingly with him. What a strange thing it is, that we three should be at cross-purposes in this way. Oh, please, keep him safe. I need him desperately. I do not know what I will do should he not return.

The rain slowed and stopped. Turold lifted his head, his eyes unfocused, as if he listened. He rose. “It’s time.”

They crept once more to the top of the hill and peered over. The scene was empty of life. Only the road, churned into a morass of mud, and a few pieces of discarded gear gave evidence a large column of troops had recently passed that way.

Her gaze turned east, but there was no sign of the víkingrs. Were they safe, or had a patrol found them?

Turold hurried them over the brow of the hill and down, his shifting gaze watchful as he led them across the road.

They removed their boots at the bank of the river. Halfway across, she slipped when her bare foot encountered rock covered with river moss. The hood of her cloak shifted and nearly slipped off her head, but she caught it and pulled it close again, shivering.

The river waters are less chill than the sense of being spied upon. Who watches us?

Her heart pounded a rapid tattoo, but they were not challenged as they pushed through the tall reeds at the riverbank. As soon as they were out of sight, Turold set them to a pace just short of running. It was clear he too, felt the hidden spies. Gloaming was upon them by the time they reached the stand of oaks where they were to wait for Brandr and Sindre.

“Lissa, perhaps you and Bryda should prepare a meal,” Turold said. “Whether we hunger or not, we should eat. No fire, though.” He swept them all with his gaze. “It will be some time before the others return. We might as well get as comfortable as we can.”

Oswulf kept the guard. The others slept, but she was still awake when, by the dark mid hour of the night, the víkingrs still had not come.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It was late, past the mid watch. In a guest chamber of the manor overlooking the valley town of Andefares, Talon of Yriclea waited for word of his quarry. Warm and dry, tankard of mead in hand, he mused on his amazing change of fortune, on how swiftly his life had altered. He gazed at the flames leaping in the brazier. Who could have foreseen it? He smiled, though no one was nigh to see it. How capricious was fate, yet sometimes, it handed a man the future of his dreams.

Still, he faced a quandary, but it had naught to do with the watch he had set for the Northmen. Silver, and an unlooked for but advantageous alliance, had provided him all the help he needed for that task. He had scouts watching the southern and western passes. Every road, bridge, ford or ferry was under observation, especially the little-used ways.

Five rivers watered this land, a primary and four tributaries, three of which were northwest of the primary and flowed parallel to each other into it. A party of hired warriors, each one led by a Yriclea man, waited in ambush at strategic crossing points on each river.

Andeferas was the heart of the valley, straddling, as it did, the middle of the three aligned tributary rivers. If he had guessed their route correctly, and if they moved as far north as he expected, the Danes would have to ford all three. In fact, he was surprised they had not already done so. They must have been delayed, for he was certain they had not detoured farther south and east, over the high ridges beyond Wintanceastre.

One of the hired men, who knew this land well, had advised that a lesser-known ford of the southernmost river, two leagues south of Andeferas, would be the likeliest place a party wishing not to be seen might attempt to cross. With its heavily wooded banks and thick, man-high reed beds on either side of the ford, it was the perfect place to stage an ambush. An army could lurk there, waiting to attack. One of the parties of warriors now waited there.

Howbeit, if word came the Danes passed by from a different direction, it would be a simple matter to move his men to intercept.

Nay. He and his new ally were ready for the Northmen. What he did not know was what he would do about Lissa.

His arrival in Andeferas and the creation of the new alliance had wrought a major change in all his plans. It began with his meeting with the true love of his life. Late in the evening of their first day in the town, he had come upon her, driven by youngling bullies into the muddy alley between the mead hall and a grain storage building nigh the town wall. Her cries for help had mingled with the ugly jeers of the youths, and been unheeded by others. He had gone to her rescue.