Storm Maiden (40 page)

She turned back, running into the wild
strobe of fire. Smoke sucked into her lungs, a burning beast that
tore at her insides. She breathed in deeply. Once. Twice. The gasp
that woke her turned into a scream
....

Sweat dripped down her face as Fiona stared
around the quiet dwelling. Beside her, thralls stirred. One of the
women lifted her head and asked, “What’s wrong?”

Mutely, Fiona shook her head. It had been a
dream, only a dream. She lay back down again and tried to slow her
frantic breathing. The uneasiness would not leave her. She could
not shake the terror.

Again, she rose to a sitting position.
Swiping at her damp brow, she shivered as drafts of air swirled
through the openings in the flimsy structure sheltering her. A
windy night, mayhap blowing in another storm.

Restless, she crawled from her bedsack and
went to the doorway. The hide covering trembled and shook in the
wind. She pushed it aside and peered out. Nay, not a storm. The air
did not smell damp. It smelled like... smoke.

Fiona’s nostrils flared in recognition. She
had dreamed of her father’s palisade burning, but that was
thousands of leagues away and a dozen sennights. Now she dwelt in
the land of the Norse. The scent of death-tinged smoke could not
follow her here. And yet, it had. The odor was unmistakable.

She took a deep breath and ran outside.

The longhouse was heavily ablaze when she
reached it. Fire ringed the oblong dwelling, trapping those inside.
Fiona stared in horror. Mina, the children—oh dear God, it could
not be happening again!

She began to scream, although her
plaintative cries scarcely rose above the roar of the flames. She
cried out for Mina, for Sigurd’s sons, for her father and kinsmen.
Beating her chest, she shrieked her agony to the pitiless wind.

“Witch! Irish witch!”

Fiona whirled at the low snarl beside her
and met Brodir’s hate-filled gaze.

“I hear how you curse them,” he said. “It is
because of you they die!”

Fiona bared her teeth at her enemy, but he
approached her, his boar-like eyes wild. “You made the fire. You
are evil. Knorri should not have let you live!”

“Odin have pity!” Sorli limped up, his
seamed face grotesque in the firelight. “The murdering bastards
have fired the longhouse!”

“Who, Sorli?” Fiona demanded. “Who?”

“Raiders, of course,” the slavemaster
answered. “Who else would do such a wicked thing?”

“Who else, indeed?” Brodir sneered. “ ‘Twas
this witch. I heard her screaming her incantation. She brought down
this calamity upon our heads.
She
is guilty!”

To Fiona’s eyes Brodir appeared as mad as a
slavering dog, but her hatred was too strong to hold back. She
lunged at him, aiming for his face, clawing at his skin.

Strong arms dragged her away. “Cease your
struggles, wench,” Sorli hissed in her ear. “Do you want to be put
to death for attacking a warrior?”

Fiona forced herself to go limp, her
breathing to calm.

“Why weren’t you at your post, Brodir?”
Sorli snarled. “And where is Utgard? Did the raiders get him?”

“
Nei,
not raiders. It was
she
who caused the fire.” Brodir grabbed Fiona’s arm and shook her
until her teeth rattled. Fiona jerked away. Mayhap she should run
and hide. Sorli seemed to believe in her innocence, but there was
no reason others would.

Brodir cursed her, low and fierce. Sorli
gazed in dismay at the flaming longhouse while Fiona looked into
the darkness behind the ruined dwelling and considered her escape.
Her eyes widened as she saw figures moving through the haze of
smoke.

“Blessed Jesu! They’re alive.”

They all stared in disbelief at the dozen
women staggering toward them. Mina and a house thrall clutched
Sigurd’s sons to their chests. The others carried children or heavy
casks.

Fiona rushed to Mina and took the child from
her arms. “The jarl,” Mina breathed. She bent over, coughing, then
turned stricken eyes to Sorli. “Please, go after the jarl.”

Sorli glanced at the inferno of the
longhouse. “How?”

“There is a tunnel beneath the storeroom
which leads through the ground to an entrance outside. Knorri
showed us where it was. Then he went after the hacksilver. I
thought he was behind us, but when we reached the outside opening,
he was gone.”

Sorli gripped the arm of one of the stouter
thralls. “Show me.”

As Sorli and the woman disappeared into the
night, Fiona embraced Mina. “Thank God you are safe.”

Mina stared at the longhouse. “If it were
not for the old jarl, we would all be dead. Everyone was asleep
when he came and pounded on the bedcloset door. He led us right to
the tunnel. Said he’d had it built in case of a raid. We all
grabbed something and went down into darkness. We begged the jarl
to come with us, but he would not listen. He wanted to go back for
the treasure.” She took a gulp of air. “We had to feel our way
along the stone walls. The smoke followed us. I’m afraid it caught
Knorri.” A sob broke from her throat.

“You must not think of it,” Fiona soothed.
“You are alive, and you saved the children. If Knorri dies, at
least he died bravely, like a warrior.”

It seemed only moments before Sorli and
Brodir came from behind the longhouse, bearing the limp form of the
jarl. When Sorli shook his head, indicating that Knorri was dead,
Mina fell to her knees and began to tear at her hair in grief. The
other women joined her.

Fiona stared at the dead man and grieving
women, reliving her own loss. Then she heard a panicked shout and
turned to see a half-dozen men running toward them. By the
firelight, she recognized them as freeholders and craftsmen who
lived in their own dwellings outside the longhouse. They had
finally smelled the smoke and come to help. The first word on their
lips was “raid.”

Brodir answered them, his voice thick with
hatred. “ ‘Twas not a raid. The Irish witch...” He pointed at
Fiona. “She did this!”

Fiona backed away from the wild-eyed men
encircling her.
“Nei,
I did nothing! I was asleep in the
slaves’ dwelling—ask any of the thralls!”

“And why should they not lie for her?”
Brodir taunted. “They are slaves like her, and she has put them
under her spell. I tell you, I arrived at the fire to see her
cursing in her foul tongue and waving her hands. She caused the
fire with her evil sorcery.”

“I was grieving!” Fiona cried, half
hysterical. If these men believed Brodir, they were like to throw
her into the fire now and think about it later. “I wept for the
children, the women. I feared them all dead!”

“And where were
you,
Brodir?” Sorli
asked sharply. “Sigurd left you to guard the steading, and you
failed. The jarl is dead, our longhouse destroyed. I think you cast
blame on the Irish thrall to save your own skin.”

Brodir’s face contorted. “I cannot fight
sorcery! No warrior can!” He moved toward Fiona as if he would grab
her.

Veland, stepped between them. “On the
morrow, there will time to settle this. For now, we must tend to
the jarl’s body and find shelter for the women and children.”

At his reasonable words, the other men came
forward to aid Mina and the others. Within a short time, the
survivors of the fire were led off to temporary beds in the
dwellings of the freemen living near the steading. Breaca appeared
out of the darkness and took Fiona’s arm. They began to walk toward
the slaves’ dwelling.

“Seize the witch! She’s getting away!”
Brodir shouted.

Fiona turned and met Sorli’s eyes, begging
him to intervene for her. Sorli shook his head at Brodir. “You’ve
lost your wits, man. Loki’s name, she’s only a woman. She couldn’t
hurt anyone.” He gestured toward the eerie, orange-edged skeleton
of the longhouse, still burning furiously. “That fire was set by
men, by raiders. If I were you, Brodir, I’d think up a better
excuse to explain to Sigurd why you failed to guard the long-house.
These lame tales of sorcery and spells are unworthy of a Norse
warrior.”

Fury flashed in Brodir’s eyes, and he took a
step toward Sorli. Fiona held her breath. At last, Brodir turned
and stalked off into the night.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Sorli.

The gnarled-faced man gave her a fierce
look. “I spoke naught but the truth, but I would not vow to it if
Sigurd sees things differently. You’d best hope they find evidence
of raiders when they search on the morrow. Sigurd’s no fool, but he
might not pass up this chance to rid himself of you. He’s sore
grieved over his brother’s going away, and now he must face another
loss.”

Fiona swallowed. Sigurd would return to find
his home burned and much of his wealth destroyed. Would he blame
her for his misfortune? If naught else, he might have her put to
death to silence Brodir.

Panic beat through her veins. She could run
away, but where? As Breaca once pointed out, she was certain to
perish if she fled outside the steading. Besides, if she ran, she
would appear guilty of Brodir’s accusations. She could not allow
Mina and the others to believe she had set the blaze. And Dag—she
thought desperately. If he believed her guilty of burning out his
kin, he would be beside himself with remorse. He would grieve over
his mistake for the rest of his life.

She shuddered. Even if it meant her life,
she would not flee. Never would she allow Dag to suffer the
damnable torture she had known the last few months.

She reached for Breaca’s arm. “Come, let’s
go back to the slave dwelling.”

Breaca spoke glumly as they walked. “I
didn’t realize what it was like, how horrible a raid could be. I
never considered that innocent children might perish.”

“It could have been much worse. No one died
but the jarl, and I imagine he was proud to go to his death
defending his home rather than dying quietly in his bed. The Norse
prize death in battle as the height of glory. The jarl’s struggle
to get the women and children out and his wealth to safety was a
battle of sorts.”

“I’m not thinking of this raid,” Breaca
said. “I am thinking of what Rorig and Sigurd and the others meant
to do to the Agirsson steading. I was... so greedy. I thought only
of myself, of Rorig’s securing hacksilver so we could be wed. I
didn’t think of how others might suffer.”

Breaca began to cry, and Fiona drew the
weeping woman to her breast. The bitterness of Breaca’s guilt
reminded her of her own. But was it not merely human to think of
one’s own interests and forget the price that must be paid by
others? “Pray, Breaca, do not carry on so.”

She led Breaca to the slave dwelling and
helped her lie down. Two thralls rescued from the longhouse had
squeezed in among the rows of pallets, and the small building was
more crowded than ever. Finding her own pallet occupied, Fiona
snuggled up to Breaca and tried to sleep.

Although her body felt drained and
exhausted, sleep eluded Fiona. The images of the fire and the
jarl’s scrawny body lying still on the ground would not leave her.
What if it were Dag who had been caught in the poisonous smoke? How
could she bear to go on living if Dag no longer walked the earth? A
sharp pain caught her in the chest. Oh, how she loved that fierce,
stubborn Viking!

A sudden thought struck her, and she jerked
upright. Surely Sigurd would send word to Dag of the jarl’s death.
Close kin as they were, Dag was certain to come home for Knorri’s
funeral. Hope suffused Fiona’s weary body. To be held in Dag’s
strong arms again, to hear the thud of his brave heart beneath her
ear, to smell the enthralling musk of his skin—the thought of it
nearly stole Fiona’s breath away. She clutched herself tightly and
tears stung her eyelids.
Blessed Bridget, please let me live
long enough to tell him I love him!

The day dawned gruesomely cold. Despite the
many bodies huddled together, the chill sweeping through the cracks
in the daub-and-wattle structure woke everyone early. Sitting up
stiffly, Fiona surveyed the crowded dwelling. The other thralls
were quiet as they went about their personal tasks this morning.
They were clearly shocked by the news of the fire and apprehensive
about what the disaster meant for them. Fiona sought to shut out
their anxiety and concentrate on her slim hope. To see Dag again...
to speak to him...

A groan from Breaca brought Fiona back to
gloomy reality. “Oh, Fiona, find me a pot.... I’m going to be
sick!”

Fiona hurried to the storage area by the
hearth, stumbling over several thralls as she did so. By the time
she reached Breaca, it was too late; the young woman was bent over,
retching onto the dirt floor between the pallets.

“Ohhhhh,” she moaned as she straightened.
“Now there is no more willow to make a soothing draught for my
stomach. All Mina’s herbs burned in the fire.” Realizing how much
else had been lost, Breaca began to weep again.

Fiona planted her feet and decided that the
time for coddling Breaca was past. “Nay, Breaca, you must not cry
any more. ‘Twill make the babe sickly and weak.” She turned her
glance to the rest of the thralls. “It is grim, aye,” she said.
“But no lives were lost, save the jarl’s, and he would not have
lived many more years anyway. Rebuilding the longhouse will take a
great deal of work, but at least the foodstores are safe. We will
not starve this winter.”

“Well spoken, Irish.”

Fiona looked around to see Sorli standing in
the doorway. His expression was dour, as always, but Fiona thought
she recognized the glint of admiration in his eyes.

He stepped into the room and spoke
brusquely. “There is much to be done. Food must be prepared for the
jarl’s household, and Mistress Mina wants the men to go through the
ruin of the longhouse and search for anything that can be salvaged.
The larger timbers still smoke, but some areas can be cleared.”