Pagan Fire, page 16
Morrigu pushed herself up like a cat, crouching on all fours, and leveled her gaze at Eugis. “What do you know of it?” she hissed. “I am whatever I choose to be and, at this moment, I choose to enjoy the warmth of the fire.”
Eugis raised his eyebrows, but kept his thoughts to himself.
Morrigu rose slowly into a long, languid stretch. She shook her head and her black hair slowly lengthened and swept around her body in long tendrils, forming a cloak. “As for Jorvik, I do not suggest you chase him down.” Her smile dripped with sweetness. “Unless, of course, you seek to end your life now.”
Eugis grunted. “Very odd sense of humor you have.”
She smiled wider, displaying an even row of sharp white teeth. “It is one of my assets, don’t you think?”
He turned away from her gaze. She was playing with him and it wasn’t sitting well this morning, this talk of death. Did she know something he didn’t? Idiot. Of course she does. She is a goddess, after all.
Eugis looked back at Morrigu and found her now lying down beside him. Oh, she was ripe for the picking all right. Tightness grabbed his belly and worked its way down to his loins. He savored the pressure of his growing erection, the thought of forcing her legs apart and plundering her wet prize filling him.
Morrigu glanced at his crotch. “I see I’ve distracted you from the matters at hand.”
Eugis leaned down on one elbow. “You are a distraction unto yourself, goddess.” He ran his hand lightly over her belly. “Tell me, did Jorvik realize his task? Does he possess Maere? Or is she still with Dylan? What should I do?”
“Am I now a fortune teller?” She brushed his hand away. “Have you debased my station so?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” Eugis protested. “I only seek your counsel. Does he have my niece?” Morrigu didn’t respond. He stared at her but her face was completely void of any thought or emotion.
Yes. Morrigu definitely knows something. “You say the Vikings have turned from here. I will venture to guess they do not have Maere then, that Dylan still has her.” He watched the goddess, but her expression gave no clue as to whether he was on the right track. “I’ll send two men to intercept them and bring her to me. Is that what you would have me do?”
Morrigu raised her arms and stretched. She quietly said, “Do not push me too far, man. There are things you must discover on your own.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Where is my father?” Jorvik demanded as he rode into his people’s camp. He swung a leg over his horse and dismounted in one quick motion, moving so fast Maere fell forward on the horse’s neck. She grabbed a handful of mane before sliding off sideways. She steadied herself and found she was alone except for the one called Grimnir standing nearby.
A man walked past – looking her over – his disdain obvious. Maere pulled her cloak tighter around her as another man ventured near. This one stopped for a moment, grinned slyly, and moved on when Grimnir gave him a playful shove.
“Jorvik’s done well this time, eh?” The men shared a laugh.
Maere moved sideways along the horse, away from the pair who spoke a mixture of her language and theirs. Every so often they would gesture toward her. Nervous, she fidgeted with the ties of her wrap and forced her attention away from the men. A colorfully dressed woman came near, her arm outstretched, offering a cup. Maere smiled gratefully as she accepted the water and drank it down. The women were about the same age, but the Viking was taller and wore her hair in many braids tied with copper ornaments. Maere gestured toward the shiny discs. “Beautiful,” she said with a smile.
The Northwoman touched her hair quizzically for a moment, then nodded in understanding. She removed one of the ties and handed it to Maere. “Are you certain?” Maere asked. The woman continued to hold the item out. Maere took it, turning it over in her hand. The warm copper glowed with the morning sun. She bowed her head in thanks as the woman walked away.
Maere watched as she entered a long wood structure covered with thatch, one of many in the camp. Blankets, serving as doors, were pulled back, allowing a view inside. A small cook fire smoldered in the center of the building. Off to one side were two or three cots, on the other, a loom and stacks of wooden bowls and utensils. Not so different from us. But if that were true, if they were so similar, why so much fighting and distrust? Why did these Vikings insist on overrunning their lands and taking from them what they so obviously already possessed? Perhaps it wasn’t about things as much as it was about the land?
“Come,” Grimnir said, startling her out of thoughts. When Maere didn’t immediately respond, he grabbed her arm and dragged her along behind him.
Jorvik was at the center of the camp and his people were gathering about him. There was something in their demeanor, she sensed. Fear? Of Jorvik? She couldn’t be certain, but they were definitely holding something back from him.
“Where is my father?” Jorvik asked the crowd. There were no answers, only silent stares and heartfelt expressions of grief. He stopped and scanned their faces, one by one, each man, woman, and child.
A gray-haired woman cried, dabbing at her eyes with a thin, supple scrap of suede. Jorvik approached her. Taking one gnarled hand into his own strong one, he knelt before her on one knee. “Tell me, old one. Are my fears founded?”
The woman stared into Jorvik’s eyes for a moment, then turned her head in the direction of the rocky bank. Jorvik looked down, fighting to steady his emotions as he followed the woman’s gaze. Slowly, he rose and began walking toward the water. Toward where the lifeless body of his father now rested.
Those who weren’t following Jorvik quickly surrounded Maere. Hands reached out – seemingly bodiless – there were so many. Touching her all over—her hair, her arms, the green wedding tunic she still wore. They even dared touch the freckled skin of her fair face. Maere jerked her head this way and that. Still, the hands reached for her. “Make them stop, Grimnir.” She received no response so added, “please.”
Grimnir stood for a moment before stepping between his charge and the curious northerners. He said something in their native tongue, an order by the sound of it. They turned and filed away, until only a small child remained, a girl with blonde braids and a red woolen apron.
Maere smiled at the girl and crouched down. She held out her hand, palm up, in greeting. The girl looked from the hand to Maere’s face and back to her hand. She smiled back, dug in her apron pocket, and pulled out a small flat stone drilled through the center. She held it high for Maere to see, peering through the hole, and placed it on the older woman’s palm. Horrified, Maere dropped it like a burning coal. Another cursed charm!
“Why did you give that to me?” Maere demanded, gripping the child’s shoulders. The girl’s eyes widened. She yanked free, turned on her heels, and ran away. Maere looked at the stone where it lay in the dirt. She picked it up and turned it over and over. Charms. Fays. It was all nonsense and she’d had enough of it.
Someone called out. Others were heading toward the water’s edge. “What’s going on?” Maere asked.
Grimnir grunted. “It’s not your concern.”
“But—”
“Nothing you need to know,” he said. “You will attend with me and keep your mouth closed.” He grabbed her arm again and started walking in the direction of the others. This time, Maere stood her ground, refusing to move. Grimnir turned around, his eyes narrowed.
“Remove your hand from me,” she ordered.
“I will not.” He gave her a tug, fury twisting his face. “I won’t be punished for you running off again.”
“Sir, my arm is sore and bruised. And I am too tired to run away,” she said. When he didn’t loosen his grip, Maere continued, “I swear by all that is holy I will not run off.”
“What you and I consider holy are two very different things.”
Maere raised her chin. “What does it matter? If it is holy to me, then I will not lie against it.”
Grimnir studied her for a moment, then let go of her arm. “If you turn out to be Loki in women’s clothing, I will hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?”
She glared at him, then walked toward the crowd. Grimnir followed a few steps behind. “You think you could catch me only because your leader did before. I would not be so foolish again,” she called over her shoulder. “I would take a moment beforehand and dream you gone from here.”
“Witch,” he muttered.
Maere fought to keep back a smile, lest he see it and grab her again.
As they reached the gathering, she spotted Jorvik at the center and made her way to him. He stood quietly over a neat rectangular pile of sticks and branches, surrounded by large stones.
In the middle of the formation, on a berth made of wood, lay the body of an old man. Dressed in brown and white furs, a bronze helmet on his head and a silver hilted sword clasped in his hands, Maere thought he looked ready to rise at any moment to do battle.
Jorvik met Maere’s eyes, his glistening with unshed tears. “Go away from me. You have no place here.”
Her gaze swept over the dead man and returned to Jorvik. The resemblance was very close. “This is your father,” she said softly. “This is why you needed to return so quickly. Because you heard he had died.”
“I needed to come back quickly to prevent his death, not witness it.” He turned away and whispered, “I know this is your work, Morrigu.” Then Jorvik pulled his dagger from its sheath and sliced his palm. He held his fist high in the air, blood dripping freely onto his father’s funeral pyre. “The wind will carry the message of my Valkyrie soul, my song of battle, to you.” He unclenched his fist and held his hand open to the sky. “I will seek you out, goddess. It is not over between us. If I have to die in the process, I will avenge my father.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The moon rose slowly, its face embraced like a lover by streaky clouds tinged with orange. Dylan threw another log on the glowing embers that remained from the fire he’d made earlier in the afternoon. If it were up to him, they’d still be on the trail. They were so close to finding Maere. He felt her presence as a tangible thing deep in his soul. He saw her fair face and her wild hair flying about her. He saw the agony in her eyes as she struggled to remember anything of her past life, unsure if she should trust the stories he told her.
But the rain of the previous day had soaked Seelie clear through and by this afternoon she was thoroughly chilled. He couldn’t leave her behind to fend for herself, so they stopped for the day to let her rest and dry her clothes. He’d offered her a shirt from his sack. She twisted her wet hair into a knot and wrapped a thin piece of wool around it as a covering against the cool night air.
He rose and walked to the low branches of a hawthorn tree to check her clothing for dampness. Feeling the seams, he nodded to himself. Good. They would be dry by morning.
Dylan glanced over to where Seelie lay near the fire. She was sleeping and, from the looks of it, would sleep straight through the night. That was a good thing. She needed the rest for their journey.
Nearby, an owl hooted. “Has someone died, my friend?” Dylan whispered. “Or is it death you bring with you?” A fluttering of wings and the bird was gone. Dylan sighed. No answer. Not that he had truly expected one, but stranger things were known to happen in his world. He smiled ruefully and shook his head. An understatement, to be sure.
Looking toward the fine sliver of moon highlighted against the now-indigo sky, he uttered a simple prayer. “Nimue, look over my love and keep her safe ‘til we are together again.”
Dylan walked back to the fire and sat cross-legged. He pushed his black hair out of his eyes and picked up his leather pack. Opening it, he dug deep inside. He closed his eyes and felt around until his hand touched what he was looking for. Carefully, he pulled out the tattered linen cloth. Placing his sack beside him on the ground, he spread the fabric across his lap. Dylan caressed it and raised it to his face, inhaling the long-gone fragrance of a little girl he once knew. A little girl who smelled green like the trees, talked to the Fays, ordered him about, and healed with just a touch.
His hand moved to the center of the material where a jeweled brooch glinted in the firelight. It was the pin Maere’s family had given her in honor of their betrothal. Dylan smiled at the memory. Maere had looked utterly terrified when she entered the gathering with her mother and father on that Beltane night so long ago. He remembered winking at her and wondering what she was thinking as Manfred made the announcement.
“Before the sacrifices begin, I have something to say,” Manfred had said. The gathering grew quiet as their leader arranged his family in front of him. He gestured for Fox mac Connall to join them, who in turn pulled Dylan along by the arm. Fox was a big, burly man with thick arms and muscled legs, a warrior, used to fighting. His hair, as black as his son’s, was tied into a knot at the nape of his neck.
Maere covered her mouth as she giggled nervously. Rhea squeezed her shoulder to quiet her and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Hush, child. This is important.”
“But Ma,” Maere said, “Dylan looks like a scrawny bird next to his Da!” Rhea smiled and patted her on the head. Dylan elbowed Maere so she’d be quiet.
Manfred continued. “Tonight, I announce the joining of our two families.” He took Maere’s hand in his left, Dylan’s in his right. With great solemnity, he placed their hands together and took a step back. “Tonight, I announce the betrothal of Dylan mac Connall to my daughter, Maere cu Llwyr.”
Murmurs of approval reached their ears. Maere managed a shy glance up at Dylan. He sensed her looking at him and gently squeezed her hand. Oh, he could only imagine what the girl had been thinking, so full of ideas was she!
But it was not to be. Eugis, in his bid for power, murdered their families and carried Maere off. All these years Dylan had lived on the memories, had quenched his thirst with the promise of retaliation. He’d finally found her, only to lose her again. He buried his face in the linen, already stained with countless tears, and quietly added more.
* * * *
“Blast this,” Maere said under her breath. She’d been trying for what seemed like ages to unfasten the sinew tethered tightly around her ankle that bound her to a large central column of the longhouse. Grimnir had deposited her here. Whatever the knot was these Vikings used, it defied her nimble fingers. It seemed as if the more she fussed with it, the tighter it became until – her nails torn and bloody – she finally gave up.
She sighed and leaned against the column, watching the cook fire for a moment. Seeing the play of flames made Maere uneasy, as it had for as long as she could remember. Looking for a distraction, she dug around in her pocket and was surprised to find the circular stone given her by the Viking girl. Maere turned it over and over in her palm, feeling the smoothness of it against her skin.
She opened her hand and held the talisman out to the fire. The mottled golden quartz picked up the color of the flames and glowed. It was much like her own necklace, the one Dylan had forced her to look through and see those devilish beings.
But were they really devils? The miniature woman had seemed harmless enough. She shook her head. She was truly going daft to even contemplate such thoughts.
Maere considered the stone again. Should she? After all, what harm would it do to look through the hole? If nothing else, it would put her mind at rest that such small beings didn’t exist; surely that black-hearted Dylan mac Connall had cast a spell to make her see them.
Muffled voices outside the blanketed opening told her she wouldn’t be alone for long. Spying a scrap of sinew on the floor near her, she grabbed it, tied it through the center of the stone, and slipped the makeshift necklace over her head. She would find time later to investigate the matter of little people and dark spells.
Jorvik pushed back the woven fabric hanging in the doorway and stood in the portal for a moment, surprised to find his captive making an amulet to hang around her neck. He rubbed his chin. Perhaps she wasn’t so Christian after all. Perhaps there was a bit of the old beliefs still tucked away in her head.
As she slipped the charm on, Maere glanced up. Her body jerked with a start to find the Viking there. Pull yourself together. He can never know how afraid you really are. Maere carefully stood. “What do you want?”
Jorvik’s eyes sparkled in the firelight. “It would seem I’ve developed a terrible itch.” He paused to let his words sink in. “And it’s in need of scratching.”
Someone behind Jorvik, beyond the doorway and out of Maere’s line of vision, laughed. He must have slammed the Viking on the back, too, for he came stumbling into the dwelling. Before he could catch his footing, he stepped in a wooden bucket, tripped, and landed sprawled out at Maere’s feet. She looked down at the man, wide-eyed. She leaned over.
“Are you hurt?” She quickly straightened as the odor of sour wine reached her nose. “Not hurt, I see. Just drunk!”
Jorvik made a grab for Maere’s ankle, but she sidestepped the move. She moved as far away as the tether would allow, just barely out of his grasp.
Jorvik pushed himself to his feet, shook off the bucket with a noisy clatter, and moved toward Maere with the caginess of a wolf stalking its prey. His intent shone in his eyes, the firelight reflecting a feral light within them.
Maere pulled at the tether but it wouldn’t budge. She glanced all about her for something that would keep the man away. For heaven’s sake, there wasn’t even a stick of firewood within her reach.
“Stay away from me, Viking,” she said. “Or I’ll, I’ll—”
Jorvik stopped his advance and smiled. “Or you’ll what?” He raised his hands and wriggled his fingers at her. “Will you steal my soul to sacrifice to your Christian god? Or will you simply ‘dream’ me gone?” He laughed at his own cleverness.
