Storm Maiden (43 page)

Slowly, the sensation faded. The sun rose,
and the world became ordinary again. Fiona turned—expecting to see
Dag beside her. She saw only Sorli standing there. Yet, she knew.
Dag had not abandoned her. His love was with her still.

“Fiona?” Sorli’s voice was awed, uneasy. She
met his gaze. His hand quickly went to the Thor’s hammer amulet he
wore around his neck as a charm against evil. “Thor, save us,” he
whispered. “Dag was right. You are a wise woman—a
volva!”

“A what?”

Sorli swallowed. “A
volva,
a seer,
someone who can see the future. For a moment there, when I looked
in your face, I knew...”

“Knew what?”

The old warrior shook his head. “Sigurd is a
fool if he does not see it. Your death will bring the wrath of the
gods down upon us. Dag is right; we should return you to your
homeland before it is too late.”

“What’s happening, Sorli? Why are you afraid
of me?”

Sorli shook his head again and would not
answer.

They waited on the outcrop for a time, then
slowly made their way back to the steading. The calm and strength
she had found as she’d gazed out at the sunrise remained with
Fiona. Even knowing what was to come, she felt peace. Dag had not
forsaken her; he loved her. Their spirits would be together, even
if she no longer walked the world of the living.

At midday, the Angel of Death came for
Fiona. She was an old crone, broad and immense of body, with
blackened teeth and gnarled features. The sight of her should be
enough to frighten her victims to death, Fiona thought wryly. The
wise woman was accompanied by two younger, less repulsive
assistants. It was the younger women who took Fiona to the
bathhouse and bathed her and washed her hair. They fussed over her
as if she were a bride, as she supposed she was in a way—the bride
of a dead man. They oiled her skin until it gleamed, arranged her
hair in an elaborate coiffure of braids around her head, then
helped her into a snow-white linen shift and an exquisite overtunic
of scarlet silk trimmed with fur. The tunic was not fashioned in
the normal style for a woman, and Fiona suspected it had been made
over from a man’s garment.

When Fiona tried to put on her fur boots,
one of the women snatched them away and told her that she would not
need them. Indeed, she had scarcely stepped out of the bathing hut
when she was picked up by the warrior Kalf. As he carried her
through the steading, Fiona was surprised to find the place
near-deserted. Then, they reached the end of the path that led to
the harbor, and Fiona realized that the Norsemen, their families,
and even the thralls were already gathered around the grounded
ship. Huge piles of timber and brushwood surrounded the graceful
hull. Fiona inhaled sharply, thinking of bright flames consuming
the abundant kindling and then racing upwards to devour the
ship.

Do not think of it, she told herself. You
will be dead or insensible by then.

The crowd was silent as Kalf strode up. Then
Sigurd and old Ranveig lifted their burden, and those gathered
began to wail and cry out in grief. Old Knorri lay on a plank of
wood, wearing a long tunic that nearly matched the one Fiona wore.
After five days of death, his corpse appeared gray and shrunken,
the more so because of the bright attire.

Fiona shivered. She did not want to be
placed in a tent with a dead man. She looked around frantically.
Kalf still held her tightly, and they were surrounded by grieving
warriors. She closed her eyes, searching for the peace which had
eased her spirit earlier.

There was a rancid smell. Fiona opened her
eyes to see the

Angel of Death standing before her. She held
out a beaker. “Drink,” she said, her eyes glittering. “ ‘Twill ease
your passage to the otherworld.”

Fiona stared at the woman, then knocked the
beaker from her hand. The woman cursed her, her mouth gaping open
in a toothless sneer. Fiona gathered saliva in her mouth to spit,
but before she could, Kalf began moving again. He carried her to
the ship as Sigurd and Ranveig had done with Knorri. Kalf’s booted
feet trod heavily on the plank leading up to the ship, then Fiona
heard the creak of the ship’s timbers. She gritted her teeth.

Kalf jostled her roughly as he entered the
tent, then bent down and deposited her on a soft surface. Fiona
turned her head and supressed a scream at the sight of Knorri’s
corpse a mere arm’s length away.

The dead jarl was propped up on cushions,
and his flesh had sunk into his bones until he looked more like a
skeleton than a man. Despite the spices used to preserve his body,
the putrid odor of decay filled the tent. Fiona edged away from the
corpse and examined her surroundings. Beside the pile of rugs and
furs she lay upon was a large beaker of ale. She lifted the beaker,
examining the frothy dark contents, then replaced the beaker on the
ship deck and crawled to the tent entrance to search for the
poison.

She found it neatly sewn into the edge of
the tent flap. Carefully she took it out, then opened the leather
packet and stared at the white powder within. This, then, was her
means to an easy and painless death.

The light of day was still visible at the
tent entrance, and in the distance, she could hear the voice of the
skald,
clear and true, celebrating Knorri’s bravery and
wisdom in life. She glanced toward the shrunken corpse sharing the
tent and sighed. Poor old Knorri. Was a part of him aware of how
his people honored him? She did not think so. Knorri’s spirit was
gone; the ceremony outside was for the living, to ease their grief
and validate Sigurd’s authority as the new jarl.

The poison is slow acting. You must not
delay in taking it.
Breaca’s words filled Fiona’s mind, and she
looked again at the packet clutched in her hands. It would be so
easy to mix it in the ale and drink it down. By the time the first
of the men came for her, she would be beyond caring.

Dag dug his boots into the horse’s side,
urging his tired mount faster.
Sigurd means to burn the
Irishwoman with the dead jarl.
The young thrall’s words rang in
his head, igniting a panic so intense Dag could scarcely breath.
Thor’s fury! What madness had come over his brother? Dag knew of
the ancient rite of burning a deceased man’s concubine or wife with
him so she might serve the warrior in the underworld, but he had
not known it done in his lifetime. Nor did men of his era
ordinarily burn perfectly sound ships with their dead jarls. Sigurd
must be mad, so beside himself with grief and anger that he wanted
to destroy everything around him.

“Slow down,” Ellisil remonstrated from
behind Dag. “We won’t get there any sooner if you kill your mount
with your breathless pace.”

Reluctantly, Dag eased up on the reins. His
friend was right. The horses represented their only chance of
reaching Engvakkirsted in time. Gratitude filled him as he glanced
back at Ellisil. Aeddan had arrived at Skirnir’s steading just as
they’d returned from the trip to Hedeby, and Ellisil had not wasted
time
asking
questions or wondering at the oddness of a young
thrall serving as messenger. Instead, hearing of the crisis, he had
immediately secured one of his father’s fine horses for Dag to
ride, then compounded his generosity by offering to accompany Dag
and show him the fastest route home.

Dag took a deep breath, trying to calm
himself. He would not let his impatience cause harm to the horse he
rode. Unlike the plodding beasts he and Sigurd had purchased from
Ottar, Skirnir’s horses were sleek and beautiful, with deep chests
and long legs. If he were not so worried about Fiona, he would
greatly enjoy the thrill of riding such a magnificant animal. It
was like gliding on the wind.

But the stallion was only a flesh-and-blood
creature, Dag reminded himself. They could not drive the beasts
endlessly. At some point they must stop and rest. He jerked his
head around to call out to Ellisil, “How much farther?”

Ellisil scanned the rugged terrain before
them. “I believe Engvakkirsted lies over the next range of hills.
We should reach it by nightfall.”

His friend’s words struck a chill in Dag’s
heart. By custom, funeral pyres were lit at sunset so the glow of
the flames could be seen clearly in the gathering darkness carrying
the dead man’s soul to Valhalla. If they arrived by nightfall, they
might be in time, or hopelessly late. Once the flames of the pyre
reached the pitch-soaked ship, there would be no chance of rescuing
anyone caught in the inferno.

The rocky, narrow pathway forced them to
walk the animals for a time, then they set off again at a steady,
ground-eating pace. Dag scanned the sky impatiently. On such an
overcast, gloomy day, it was difficult to guess how soon twilight
would creep over the land.

“The boy slave who came with the message—did
you teach him to ride, Dag?” Ellisil asked.

“
Nei.
He must have learned on his
own.”

“I’m amazed he was able to coax that old nag
such a distance,” Ellisil continued. “And how he found his way to
my father’s steading—he’s little more than a boy. The woman must
mean a great deal to him that he would venture so far alone. Is she
kin of his?”

“
Nei.
They did not even know each
other until Fiona went to stay in the slaves’ quarters.”

“Sigurd vows to kill her.... You and the boy
risk your lives for her. I wonder that the Irish wench is not some
supernatural being after all that she arouses such strong feelings
in those who know her.” Dag gave Ellisil a helpless look, and the
Norseman continued. “Mayhap this desperate journey is unnecessary.
Such a powerful creature may be impossible to kill. They say
witches don’t burn.”

Dag tried to find comfort in his companion’s
words, but could not. The wrenching fear in his gut told him that
Fiona was naught but flesh and blood like him. Fire would reduce
her beauty to ashes, just it would destroy Knorri’s proud drag-
onship. Another pang of anguish swept through him. Would that he
were in time to save the
Storm Maiden
as well! That proud
vessel did not deserve a fiery fate any more than Fiona did. He
shook his head at Sigurd’s madness. Knorri would not have wished
for a funeral that beggared his people. Without the
Storm
Maiden,
Sigurd would not have the means to go trading, nor
raiding either. His brother’s extravagant expression of grief could
doom the Thorsson clan to poverty for years to come.

As if echoing his thoughts, Ellisil asked,
“Was Sigurd so fond of your uncle that he must make such a display
of mourning on his behalf?”

“Knorri was like a father to us. But
Nei,
that does not explain Sigurd’s actions. I’ve never
known him to lose his reason before. It was always he who
restrained me from impetu- ousness....” Dag broke off, the sick
feeling in his gut deepening. His world seemed turned upside down.
Was there anything he could be sure of?
The Irishwoman,
his
mind answered. His love for her felt clear and strong—if only he
could keep her safe.

They reached a familiar rise, and Dag urged
his horse faster. They slowed as they moved down the incline and
saw the valley spread out before them. Dag drew rein and stared.
The sight of the burned-out longhouse struck him like a blow to the
belly. The dwelling he had been bom in, then passed from boyhood to
manhood in, had been reduced to blackened ruins. He had the sense
of the solid ground shifting beneath his feet.

“I see the ship, but no fire yet. I trow we
have arrived in time, sword brother.”

Eliisil’s words took a moment to register.
Finally, Dag shook off his shock and answered, “I would like to
arrive unnoticed, if possible.” He met Eliisil’s questioning gaze.
“I’m not certain I can dissuade Sigurd from his senseless plan. We
may have to rescue Fiona by stealth.”

Eliisil made a motion of assent, then smiled
grimly. “ ‘Twill be like a raid, with the woman as plunder.”

Dag nodded and gazed down at the
steading—his home, now utterly changed. He considered several
plans, discarding each one in turn. They could not wait until dark
and sneak into the steading; it would be too late by then. They
would have to lead their horses down the slope and leave them
behind the main cattle byre. They would circle around behind those
gathered for the
skald’s
final tribute to Knorri. Ellisil
would go and speak to Sigurd, bringing Skirnir’s respects to the
dead jarl and greeting the new, thereby creating a diversion so Dag
could make his way unseen to the other side of the ship. He would
climb the planks and have Fiona out of Sigurd’s murderous clutches
before anyone was the wiser.

He quickly explained his plan to Ellisil.
“After the fire is set, slip away and meet me again behind the
cattle byre. We’ll leave at once. I don’t want to linger.”

“I could stay with the woman while you spoke
to Sigurd,” Ellisil offered.

Dag shook his head. “It might be difficult
for me to get away if Sigurd knew of my presence. Besides, I have
no desire to see my brother.” He sighed. “I’m not certain I know
the man any longer.”

“There is nothing else you wish to rescue
from your home?”

“ ‘Tis my home no longer. What possessions I
had burned in the fire. All I want now is the woman.” He gazed
intently at his companion. “Now that I am near destitute, are you
still willing to join me in the expedition to Ireland?”

Ellisil shrugged. “You have convinced me
that it is a risk worth taking, and we will have supplies and
support from my father. I will go with you, Dag.”

Dag smiled and reached out his sword hand to
grasp Ellisil’s. “Thank you, brother. You make me proud to be a
Norseman.” Releasing Ellisil, Dag gazed again toward the valley.
“As my brother has made me ashamed,” he added softly.