Legend of the Mist (25 page)

As the battle
surged, a large number of the raiders left the village to pursue the fleeing islanders. There were not enough of Fara’s warriors to engage them; those that were not fighting could raid and kill without opposition.

It was a significant
dis
couragement for the men who defended Fara.

Fighting at the centre of the conflict
, Einarr found himself facing two raiders with nothing but his sword and a wooden cart between him and them—it was exactly the type of combat the Viking leader thrived on: the kind which required creativity to win. The cart, he discovered, made an effective barricade.

Ducking a swipe from
his opponents over the platform of the cart, he dropped to his knees. Before the men on the other side realized he had not come back up, Einarr stabbed through the wheels at the shin bones across from him, striking one bone squarely above the ankle.

The injured man shrieked
at the sudden pain and stumbled, landing hard on his wide back.

“Ha!” Einarr
shouted, elated by the beautiful opportunity he’d created for himself. Before his second opponent could come to his companion’s defence, Einarr darted around the side of the cart and dispatched the injured man.

“Gaze upon my weapon and know that it is your destiny, you maggot-mouthed swine,” Einarr crowed, indulging theatrically in the tradition of Norse insults.

But before he could put a decisive end to his fight, a scuffle to his right caught his attention. Garrett, who had been locked in battle with a single opponent, had slipped in the mud, losing hold of his sword as he fell. He now lay at his opponent’s feet, helpless to protect himself from the blade suspended above his head.

“Garrett,”
Einarr roared.

Thinking of nothing but the need to save the chief’s son he lifted
the edge of the cart with a burst of power and launched it at the second of his attackers. The unanticipated manoeuvre caught the man off guard; the cart’s heavy frame crashed on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

Einarr
did not wait to see whether his tactic had been effective. He charged towards Garrett’s opponent, and with one mighty swing of his blade he severed the man’s head clean from his neck. It toppled to the ground and out of sight; the decapitated body sank to its knees, collapsing grotesquely into the mud.

Astounded by
the fortuitous demise of his opponent, Garrett gazed upwards at the hardened visage of Einarr.

“
Behind ye,” he called as another raider moved to strike Einarr’s exposed back.

Twisting onto his stomach Garrett
strained to grab a hold of his sword’s handle, and when Einarr dove out of the way he thrust the steel blade upwards, puncturing the raider through the abdomen.

The
man emitted a wet, gurgling grunt and keeled over onto the headless corpse of his comrade.

“Thanks for that,”
Einarr said, pulling himself to his feet and offering Garrett a hand.

“And to ye, as well,” Garrett returned.

“It is a shame we won’t make it through this. I would have asked you to teach me how you manage to be so ... what is the word—
lithe
?”

“Not to worry,” Garrett bantered
ruefully. “I’ll show ye when we both get to yer Valhalla.”

With that they
both threw themselves back into the battle. It would be the last time they’d ever speak.

* * *

Pressing through the wind and rain Norah closed in on the fortress. The clash of steel upon steel, and the screams of the islanders as they fled, mingled horribly with the howling storm. The going was difficult; with so little light she found herself losing her bearings easily, and had to wait from clash to clash of lightning to regain them.

As the fortress loomed
into view the lightning flashes were accented by the terrified faces of her clansmen and women as they fled. They ran to the fortress; they ran
from
the fortress; they ran in any direction that would deliver them from the Vikings who pursued them.

Amid the scurrying bodies Norah spotted
Cook. The old man’s wrinkled face was a mask of fear and his withered arms were wrapped around her father’s silver goblets, which he’d always taken such pride in.

But h
e carried too many; they hampered his speed, already limited by his age.

Norah’s
legs froze and she halted in the middle of the chaos, exposed and unable to move. Her brain screamed at her to yell to Cook, to tell him,
you fool, leave them. They are not worth your life
.

The words would not come.

Lightning speared the sky again, and the impossibly large figure of a raiding Viking appeared behind Cook.

Time slowed.

The Viking raised his axe, his soulless eyes glaring down at the old islander. Then he heaved his axe downward, burying the blade deep into Cook’s back with a sickening thud.

Cook’s eyes found Norah
’s in the brief second before they turned heavenward. They begged her forgiveness, begged her to save him even as the light of life left them. When he fell dead into the cold, unforgiving mud, his murderer stepped over his body, a thing that was of no more consequence to him than a split log.

Against the crackle of thunder, screaming reverberated in
Norah’s ears. Horrid, ragged wailing. It was several long seconds before she realized that the screams were her own.

I
t was several seconds more before she realized that a pair of small hands gripped her shoulders, and were shaking her back and forth like a puppet.

“Move, Norah,”
Cinead bellowed, “ye must move. Ye canna stay in one place, screaming yer bowls out. Yer making a target of yerself.”

Norah wrenched her eyes from Cook’s body, and she stared blankly at the boy in front of her.

Seeing that she was unable to move under her own power, Cinead took her by the hand. “Come wi’ me,” he commanded. “Please, Norah, move yer feet. That’s it, keep moving.”

Her wails fading to pitiful bleats, she allowed herself to be
pulled towards one of the outbuildings, behind which Cinead concealed them both. It was the security of shadow that helped Norah to regain her senses. She stared at Cinead, observing his rain-slicked hair, his tattered clothing, and the sword tucked into the crook of his elbow which was much too large and heavy for him.

Recognizing the weapon’s hilt, Norah’s heart throbbed with an old ache. It had been the boy’s father’s.

“Cinead, lad, I need ye to round up the children,” she said, focusing on his face. “They canna find safety on their own. Ye must find them. Madeg will help ye, and Greine—”

When
Cinead shook his head miserably, she choked on the rest of her words.

“N
orah, Madeg and Greine are dead,” he said.

“Dead?” she croaked
. “No. No, they canna be.”

“They’re dead,”
he repeated.

“H
-How?”

The boy
swallowed thickly at the fresh memory. He could not bear to tell Norah what he’d seen, how Madeg had tried to protect Greine from that beast of a Viking who wanted to ... who would have ...

Greine ... poor Greine. Too young
and pure to be fodder for that kind of vile sport.

“There’s no time,” he said instead. “Norah, ye must run. Ye must be the one to find the children and get them out of here. I will stay and fight.”

“Fight? Are ye mad? Ye’re too small to fight them!”

Cinead smiled
sadly. “I hardly think
ye’re
one to be accusing
me
of madness, aye?” he teased. Sobering, he added, “I
must
fight. ‘Tis the only way to honour my da’s sacrifice.”

Norah
had never seen the boy so resolute; there would be no persuading him. Releasing an anguished whimper, she embraced Cinead one last time.

“Be safe,” she whispered.

“And ye,” he whispered back. Then Cinead darted around the corner of the outbuilding, back into the seething chaos of fleeing people.

Better they get him now than he let
her see him cry.

Alone,
Norah stood trembling in the dark.

“Stop it,” she chanted to herself. “Stop it,
stop
it!” Shaking like a fool would not help anyone.

Instead she searched deep within herself, c
alling on an inner strength she’d found only once in her life before—three years ago when her eyes locked on the frightful, blue-eyed Viking who had been so amused by her terror.

Finding a sliver of it, she
commanded her legs to move. One step at a time she walked; then trotted; then ran to the fortress and through the main entrance, pushing her way past the escaping islanders and their Viking pursuers.

The fortress was not nearly as
turbulent as the grounds outside. Torches still burned in their mounts, and most of the voices she heard came from beyond the stone walls. Dashing through the corridor that would take her to the keep, she rounded a corner—and came to a dead halt.

Directly in front of her was
a group of raiders. They shouted something in their guttural Norse language and charged after her. Emitting a strangled yelp Norah took off in the opposite direction, tearing through the lower passages towards the servants’ working chambers.

Outside a store room the opportunity to hide presented itself
: a stack of empty basins three wide had been shoved against the damp wall. Norah did not hesitate to take it. With little time to spare she dove behind the basins, curling herself behind them as tightly as she could.

Please
, she prayed fervently, unable to articulate anything more than that.
Please, please ...

The thumping of heavy footsteps against the flagstone floor filled her with
dread. Louder and louder they grew, like drums pounding against her soul. The tension was so great she thought she might die of it.

Closer. Louder.

They were right on top of her!

T
hen they thumped past, growing more and more distant. Until they were gone.

Expelling a sigh of relief, she listened to make sure she’d been missed
. When she was certain she was alone she climbed back out from behind the basins, then retraced her steps to the keep.

Reaching them she hitched her sodden tunic to her knees and took
the wooden steps two at a time, racing to the top. She prayed that she would find Friseal and Roisin there, hiding together.

Her prayers were
shattered the moment she mounted the last step.

Vi
sible from the doorway and across the common room, three lifeless forms lay together on the floor of her parents’ bedchamber. A single torch flickered outside the door, casting eerie, moving shadows over the motionless figures.

She approached. And stared.

“Mama,” she moaned, sinking to her knees and sobbing uncontrollably.

Iseabal lay with
her arms draped protectively over Friseal and Roisin. All three were covered in horrid amounts of dark, thick blood.

Bending over them,
Norah fretted over their bodies, desperate to discover some sign of life no matter how small.

There were none
.

Behind her more
heavy footsteps echoed up the keep stairs. Frantic, Norah glanced left and right, searching for a place to hide without success. The bed frame was high and uncovered; the chest in the corner would surely be searched.

With no other options s
he did the only thing she could think to do—she wedged herself under and around the bodies of her siblings and mother. Pressing her face into the floorboards of the chamber, she clamped her eyes shut.

And then Norah waited,
hoping against hope that whoever was coming would think her dead, too.

“I told you,” came a rough voice speaking in Norse
words she didn’t understand. “Knut’s already been here; there is nothing left to take.”

“Alright, alright,” grumbled another
, entering the chamber. “Just thought it was worth it to check.”

A booted toe dug sharply into Norah’s ribs
. She shook fiercely, biting back a gasp before it escaped her lips and gave her away. Pain rippled over her torso, but it was nothing compared to what was to follow.

Searing
agony ripped through her scalp as she was pulled from beneath her siblings by her hair. When she was free of Friseal’s lifeless body the raider dropped her carelessly. Her forehead slammed into the ground with a crack, and her arm was wrenched behind her, flipping her onto her back.

Somehow, by the grace of heaven, she
kept her eyes shut and her face blank—barely. Behind her closed lids she could feel the heat of torch light as it was held to her face.