Rorik felt no pain, only a sharp cold that seemed to surge through his shoulder. He didn’t understand it, but it didn’t bother him—yet. Oddly, he felt strangely apart from himself for a few moments. Suddenly a woman broke through the circle of men. She stared at him, at the knife stuck through his shoulder, its handle glistening in the rain, but still Rorik stood straight and swung his sword in a powerful arc, the knife in his other hand just as deadly to those who ventured close. She looked as if she were terrified. But if she was, why was she here? Why was she staring at him? Why was she coming closer?
He watched her as she slipped between two men and came to the fore. He realized it was the same woman who had lied to him, the black-haired witch, Einar’s whore.
“Mirana! Get back!”
It was the man’s voice, the man who’d thrown his knife into his flesh, the man who’d yelled at the warriors not to kill him, but Rorik saw that she paid the man no heed. Slowly, her hand outstretched, she walked toward him. One man tried to stop her, but she shook off his hand, paying him no attention. Was she mad? Did she believe him on the point of death? Did she believe him no longer man enough to kill?
Rorik stared at her, a witch, aye, she must be an Irish witch, her thick hair black as a man’s dead heart, plastered against her head, making her face a death mask, and she had no fear of him, nothing showed in her white rain-streaked face. He stared at her outstretched hand, as white as her face. She was come to take him to Valhalla. She was a Valkyrie then. Nay, that couldn’t be right. A Valkyrie was all white and blond and solid, not slight and skinny like this girl. She was mortal, she had to be—all that black hair streaming down her shoulders, over her breasts, aye, she was mortal and his enemy. He could kill her if he could but reach her.
He slowed, still staring at her, unable to look away from her, for something about her drew him, held him. He looked at her mouth, blue with cold, and heard the words she spoke, but he didn’t understand them. No, all he felt was a deadening weakness that was twisting through him, and he was caught within it, as an insect would be in a spider’s web. It was slowing him, holding him still now, and he hated it, knowing that it was crushing his very soul. It was defeating him, destroying what made Rorik Haraldsson a man and warrior, and alive. He couldn’t breathe. He knew a knife was in his shoulder, he saw the silver of its blade sunk nearly to its hilt into his flesh, the whiteness of its bone handle. Weakness swept over him, pulled at his arms, gripped him hard, made his legs weak as a woman’s.
The witch with the soft gentle voice said, “Put down the sword. You are injured. None will harm you. I swear it. Give me the sword.” And she held her hands out to him, so small her hands, the wrists so slight he could break them easily, very easily.
He frowned at her for she was still there, standing in front of him, unheeding of the rain, unheeding of the fact that he could cleave her apart. Those damned hands of hers still stretched toward him. He wanted to kill her. He wanted her white throat between his hands.
“Come, put down the sword.”
He shook his head, took a step toward her, his sword raised. Then, very slowly, he sank to his knees. He stared at the muddy ground and felt the cold of the pounding rain and the air settle onto his body like a heavy shroud. He fell forward on his face then lurched to his side. He felt the coldness of the sucking mud to his very soul. It was the relentless cold of failure. He’d failed, there was naught else to do but die.
2
THE BLACK-HAIRED WITCH was leaning over him, her white face very close to his. She was speaking to him, her words quiet, the sound of them soft, but he didn’t understand. He wondered vaguely what she wanted of him, but then he didn’t care. He sought death. He’d failed, not only himself but his father and mother. He eased out his breath and welcomed it. He was drawn quickly inward once again, and he saw her no more.
Mirana backed away from the bed. The man was deeply unconscious, which was just as well. She watched Gunleik lean over him, brace one hand on the post of the box bed, clutch his fingers around the ivory handle and pull the knife from his flesh. He did it quickly and cleanly. Blood gushed out in its wake, red and thick, too much blood, flowing under his arm, snaking down through the thick blond hair covering his chest. Quickly she pressed clean woolen cloths against the wound. Gunleik wiped his knife on his tunic, then slid it back in its sheath. He grunted, and moved her aside.
“I have more strength,” he said, and sat down beside the man, bearing down on the wound.
“You truly don’t know who he is,” she said as she bathed the filth from his face.
“Nay. But I know that if he’d gotten his hands on Einar, he would have told him, aye, he would have told him who he was and watched his eyes as he killed him.”
“Why do you wish him to live? Einar shows no mercy for a man who steals a chicken. What would he do to this man?”
“Kill him slowly and with great pleasure.”
She was silent, drying his face now, pale and drawn in the dim rush light.
“Let him die,” she said finally.
“Nay, I cannot. My loyalty is to your brother. I must grant him the choice of this man’s future. Besides, we must find out who he is, we must know what he wants, why he hates Einar so much. There might be others, the man’s kin. There are strong feelings here, hatred that runs very deep. Nay, we must know who he is.”
“Ask his two men once they are conscious again.”
“Aye, I will, but I doubt they’ll tell us. No, I must speak to this man, and only he, for he is their leader and he is the one who seeks revenge.” The man wouldn’t speak, Gunleik knew, not until he saw Einar, and even then perhaps he wouldn’t, for he had failed in his vengeance. He would probably die unknown to them and to Einar.
“Why is there such hatred for my brother?”
Gunleik pressed more firmly on the wound, frowning at the seeping blood from beneath the thick wad of wool. “You will seek your answers from Einar. I trust he will recognize the man. There is hatred here that chills the soul.”
“He is a very young man,” Mirana said. “With his silver helmet and its nose guard, he looked fearsome, like a demon, unknown and thus frightening. But he isn’t. He’s just a man and he—”
“Aye, he is just a man, Mirana, and he is well formed and strong, a warrior. I hope that Einar will allow him to die like a man.”
Mirana did as well, but she doubted Einar would ever consent to forgo his pleasures, for the pain of others brought him a good deal of pleasure. This man was fine-looking as well, Mirana thought, turning away from him. When she had watched him fighting in the outer yard, his sword had gleamed as brightly as the silver arm bands that still encircled each of his upper arms. Aye, he’d looked like a demon in that helmet, but not an old devil th
ough, for he was large, his body lean and beautiful with its golden hair, his legs thick with youth and muscle. He wore only a tunic that was belted at his waist and thick leather shoes cross-strapped to his knees.
“I will send two of the women to strip off his wet tunic and bathe the blood and mud from him.”