Storm Maiden (7 page)

He’s your enemy! Fiona reminded herself. If
he came upon you outside the souterrain, he would rape and murder
you.

But what if he had gotten free of his
shackles already? Fiona’s heart hammered in her chest at the
thought. Would the Viking consider sparing her because she had
aided him earlier? Or would he kill her on the spot? Her broken
body might be found days from now when they thought to search the
souterrain.

Fiona tightened her grip on the torch. If
she had to, she would use it as a weapon. She would not die
meekly.

The doorway of the last chamber loomed
ahead. Despite the chill in the tunnel, Fiona felt sweat bead her
forehead. In a moment, she would know the Viking’s fate—and mayhap
her own.

The light from the torch flickered and
wavered, casting wild shadows against the rough stone walls. The
chamber was empty!

Fiona stood frozen. Panic gripped her as she
wondered if the Viking waited in another part of the souterrain.
Could she have missed him? She had passed a half-dozen nooks and
niches where someone could hide in the shadows. She must search
them. She could not climb the stairs to the outside world without
knowing for certain if the prisoner had escaped.

She cautiously retraced her steps, shining
the torch into every turn of the tunnel, every corner of the four
main storage chambers. Nothing. The Viking was gone.

Fiona took a deep breath. He was outside
now, somewhere. He had no clothing, but he would not be overly cold
on this summer night. From what she’d heard of them, some Viking
warriors even did battle naked.
Berserkers
they were called,
men so mad with battle lust that they entered combat naked and
sexually aroused.

Fiona’s throat closed up at the thought, and
she hurried up the souterrain stairway as fast as her legs would
take her. Reaching the outside, she took a deep breath of fresh
air. Her heart had almost begun to slow when a harsh cry rang out
behind her.

The sound rose in ragged crescendo, then
died with a horrible gurgling moan. Although she had never
witnessed such a thing, Fiona imagined a man having his throat cut
and drowning in his own blood. She swallowed hard, and her eyes
raked the darkness as she sought to gauge the source of the sound.
It seemed to have come from the perimeter of the palisade. Had they
been attacked? Why had no alarm been raised?

Another tremor of foreboding raced down her
spine as she turned away from the souterrain. She must make certain
the men remaining in the fortress knew of the danger.

She ran toward the main entrance of the
palisade, reaching it in time to see the sentry scrambling to close
the heavy timber gate. A man doubled over nearby, retching in the
dirt. When he finally raised his wild-eyed, bloodied face, Fiona
recognized Dubhag, one of the youngest of her father’s men. He
stared at her, speechless and stricken.

Fiona gave a choked cry. Dubhag stumbled
toward her, like a wraith come up from the underworld. “Fiona...
lass... I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do... dozens of
Vikings.”

“My father?” Fiona breathed.

Dubhag shook his head, his youthful features
raw with grief. “I’m sorry, Fiona. ‘Twas a slaughter. They only
allowed me to live so I might come and warn the rest of you.”

“Warn us?” Fiona’s body felt cold, her
senses dull. This could not be happening. It must be a dream, a
terrible dream.

“The Vikings mean to kill every living soul
in Dunsheauna. There is no escape.... They taunted me... told me to
come and warn everyone that ‘Death walks on the nightwind tonight.’
“

Dubhag’s face contorted, and he bent over
and began to retch again. Fiona opened her mouth to cry out her
father’s name in grief. Then she smelled fire, and her scream died
on her lips. Duvessa, Dermot—she must get them to safety!

She whirled away from Dubhag and the sentry,
who had also smelled the smoke. He began screaming “Fire! Fire!” at
the top of his lungs.

Fiona’s unbound hair whipped behind her as
she jerked her shift up to her thighs for speed. Never had she run
so fast, but it seemed to take hours for her to reach the women’s
house. She plunged into the doorway and nearly trampled the group
of women waiting near the entrance, their eyes wide and frightened,
their faces pale. Some of them held crying babes and sleepy
children.

Fiona ignored everyone else and sought out
Duvessa. “It’s a raid,” she gasped. “We must find Dermot and seek
shelter.”

“Where? Where will we be safe?” Nessa, an
older woman who had served Fiona’s mother in her day, clutched
Fiona’s arm, her eyes wild with terror.

“The souterrain,” Fiona answered firmly. “If
we can get inside before the killing starts and the fires spread,
we might survive.”

“Fire?”

Fiona met Duvessa’s horrified gaze and
nodded. “The Viking bastards—they mean to burn us alive.”

The room suddenly erupted with screams and
crying.

“Silence!” Fiona shouted. As the woman
quieted, she turned determined eyes on them. “If we panic, there is
no hope for us. Duvessa and I will get Dermot and the other boys.
The rest of you, hurry to the souterrain. We will meet you
there.”

“But it’s naught but a dank hole in the
ground!” one of the younger women, Ismey, wailed.

“Dark, cool, underground—the perfect place
to wait out a fire,” Fiona answered, her voice sharp. “Now, all of
you—go!”

Fiona’s courage ebbed as she and Duvessa
neared the building where the soldiers slept. Her spirits sank
utterly as they entered and found the place deserted.

“Too late,” Duvessa whispered. “Dermot would
go with the men. He would die as the warrior he will never live to
be.”

“Nay!” Fiona answered, her voice harsh with
frustration. “I will find him!” She turned to Duvessa, eyes
blazing. “Go to the souterrain with the others. I will find Dermot
and meet you there.”

“Fiona, please!” Duvessa begged. “Save
yourself. You are the last of the line of the Deasunachta. You must
not go to your death because of my brother. ‘Tis too great a
sacrifice!”

Fiona shook her head, tears filling her
eyes. She had failed her father, but she would not fail everyone
she cared about. If there were a chance to rescue her foster
brother, she must take it.

“Go,” she insisted, giving Duvessa a shove
out the doorway. “I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” Duvessa
gave her one last agonized look, then took off in a fleet-footed
run. Fiona muttered, “Don’t fret for me, sister. Tonight I am too
angry for any mortal man to kill.”

Dark shadows flitted past her. A shriek of
pain sounded in the distance. Fiona crouched in the doorway of the
feasthall and tightened her sweaty fingers on the handle of the
dagger she had taken from the men’s lodge. So far, she’d seen no
sign of Dermot or any of the Irish defenders. She had no idea if
they’d already been captured and killed or had managed to escape
the fortress.

Either way, she was ready to admit defeat
and join the other women in the souterrain. She wondered if she had
waited too long. Vikings swarmed the settlement, carrying torches,
setting fire to the buildings one by one. She was trapped here in
the feasthall. It was only a matter of time before they set it
ablaze. Then she would have to run, out into the darkness, like a
desperate hart driven before the hounds.

She took deep breaths, trying to calm
herself, to prepare herself for one last dash through the maze of
supply buildings and shops that lay between her and the souterrain
door. Reaching down, she grabbed a handful of dirt from the floor
and smeared it over her white shift, then smudged her face as well.
She was small and agile. If she could avoid the blaze of firelight,
she might not be detected.

With one last gulp of air, she began to run.
She dodged and swerved, grateful that she knew the dark pathways so
well. Twice she had to duck back into the shadows while a Viking
passed by, but each time the man went on as if he had seen nothing.
The gods were with her tonight, Fiona thought grimly. Or mayhap she
was already dead and did not know it. She might be a wraith,
gliding soundless, invisible past her enemies.

Her hand flexed on the hilt of the blade she
held as another Viking warrior moved past her. How she wished she
had the strength to take one of them down, to stab one of the Norse
devils in the back and watch him die like the filthy pig he
was.

The man vanished into the shadows. As soon
as he was gone, Fiona stepped from her hiding place and began to
run. Her lungs ached from the acrid smoke and her body shook with
fear, but she was so close, she would not lose courage now. The
souterrain entrance lay a few paces ahead beyond the granary. Thank
the saints, the Vikings had not yet fired the grain supply.

Fiona slowed as she reached the back of the
granary. She peered around it, her eyes straining to see the wooden
door in the earthworks that marked the souterrain entrance. She
sucked in her breath in dismay. A huge Viking stood between her and
the doorway. His back was to her, but she could make out the glint
of his helmet as it reflected the blaze of the fires, the appalling
breadth of his back and shoulders, the corded muscles of his
massive arms. Compared to him, even the Viking captive would seem
small.

Fiona set her jaw. No matter that he was a
giant, she must distract him. He was much too close to the
souterrain entrance. Even if it were too late for her to seek
shelter herself, she could not risk his discovering the women and
children hiding in the tunnels beneath the earthworks of the
palisade.

Picking up a rock, she threw it far to the
left of the Viking. He whirled and took a few hesitant steps in
that direction. His massive, helmeted head jerked this way and that
as he tried to ascertain the direction the rock had come from.
Fiona crept back behind the granary wall.

When she again dared to look, the Viking had
moved away from the souterrain entrance. Fiona took a deep breath
and began to inch steathily toward the doorway, her eyes still on
the Viking. She had covered half the distance when the man turned
toward her. Fiona froze. If she made a dash for the souterrain
door, the warrior would pursue her and discover the hiding place.
If she ran in the other direction, he would be on her in
seconds.

Fiona gripped her knife in trembling
fingers. If she were going to die, she would not die fleeing but
fighting.

The Viking approached her with an easy,
casual stride. Fiona flexed her legs and shifted her weight from
one foot to the other, mimicking the movements of the warriors she
had watched in combat games.

When he was only inches away, Fiona lunged.
With lightning swiftness, the Viking’s hand closed around her wrist
and jerked her hard against his bulky chest. The breath left
Fiona’s body in a gasp as the knife slipped from her numb
fingers.

Fury burned through her. She gritted her
teeth and began to thrash against the Viking, kicking and clawing.
The man gave a deep, rumbling laugh, and his free hand reached for
her shift and tore it down the front.

Tears of fear and rage burned Fiona’s eyes.
The Viking meant to ravish her, and she was helpless to stop him.
She went still, trying to think. He would have to put her down to
mount her. Then she would have another chance. If only she hadn’t
dropped the knife.

The Viking grabbed her other wrist and
lifted her far off the ground so she dangled close to his leering
face but far enough from his body that she could not kick him. His
guttural, mocking voice rang in her ears, and she guessed he was
assessing her body beneath the thin, torn shift.

She gritted her teeth, struggling against a
rising tide of humiliation and terror. Never would she weep or give
in to helpless despair. She would fight him again as soon as he put
her down.

A deep voice sounded to the Viking’s left,
and he relaxed his grip, seemingly startled. Seeing her chance,
Fiona managed to give a weak kick in the direction of his groin.
Her captor grunted, but didn’t release her. The stranger’s voice
came again, harsh and commanding. The Viking’s only answer was
another grunt.

The other man moved closer but was still out
of Fiona’s line of vision. When he spoke this time, there was no
mistaking his anger. As the Viking responded, sudden awareness
dawned on Fiona. The two men were arguing over her, no doubt over
who would have the privilege of raping her first.

Sheer outrage made Fiona’s body go rigid.
Then she screamed her fury and twisted violently in the giant
Viking’s grip. He spoke sharply and shook her. When she continued
to struggle, he let go of one of her wrists and used his free hand
to strike her on the side of the head.

Fiona’s vision dissolved into piercing,
savage stars.

* * *

“If you’ve killed her...” Dag’s voice
trailed off in teeth-clenched anger. “I told you, she saved my
life. I don’t want to see her hurt!”

“The little bitch came at me with a knife,”
Sigurd Thorsson answered in an irritated voice. “I wasn’t going to
hand her over until I was certain she wouldn’t cause you trouble.
After all, you’re still as sickly as a puking dog. Here...” He
thrust the limp woman toward his brother. “Have your Irish witch.
She’s too fierce for my taste anyway.”

Dag suppressed a groan as he grabbed the
unconscious woman around the waist and heaved her over his left
shoulder. Sigurd was right. He still felt shaky and woozy. Damn the
Irish for leaving him to die. If it had not been for the woman, he
would be a rotting corpse by now.

A feeling of mingled resentment and
gratitude swept over him. The maiden had saved his life, and he
owed her hers. But what in Thor’s name was he going to do with
her?