Death Blow (3 page)

A flock of mud-colored birds flew overhead, their discordant shrieks lost in a sudden howling wind. He sniffed. The salt in the breeze had deepened and a thick moistness weighted the air.

In the distance, a line of smoky clouds galloped from the horizon, their advance so swift as to trample on the winged heels of Hermod, the gods’ messenger. One of the swift, violent gales peculiar to the seas of the Scottish isles approached. Already the sun’s light had faded to the haze of portending dusk even though ’twas not much past midafternoon.

Swearing, he drove his arms into the white-crested, whipping waves and swam to shore. The second his feet found purchase on the sandy ocean floor, the skies erupted. A jagged bolt of lightning sizzled atop a rock close to the one where he’d laid his weapons. He cursed and sprinted forward.

’Twixt the dense curtain of rain and the strained shadows caused by the arrival of the black carpet of clouds, he could see no more than an arm’s length ahead. Thunder boomed and echoed around him, he hurdled a boulder blocking his way, and fell flat on his face.

Sharp rocks cut into his chin and forehead.

Before he had chance to draw breath, hands locked onto Konáll’s wrists and jerked him over and onto his back.

Rough fingers manacled his ankles.

Instinctively, he kicked and yanked on the restraining hands.

A blade bit into his side.

He froze. Squinted through the cold raindrops battering his eyes, and choked back a howl.

Ambush.

At least a dozen men encircled him.

Four warriors held him down. Another squatted beside him slowly tracing a dagger across his midsection. Konáll sucked in a breath, hollowing his belly.

“Who be you, warrior?” The streaming drops did little to cleanse the thick layer of grime coating the man’s countenance. He wore a patch over one eye, and Konáll knew with a sinking stomach ’twas the Pict, Bagan One-Eye.

“My liege!” The bellow came from behind Konáll’s head. “We found her!”

Konáll choked back a howl of sheer frustration. He had not considered obscuring the cave’s entrance.

Bagan One-Eye lurched to his feet and pointed his knife at Konáll. “Bind him. He lives. For now. Bring him along.”

The Pict and a couple of his men vanished between the rocks.

Konáll scanned the five armed bandits left behind, but afore he could make a move to escape, they trussed him like a pig ready for slaughter. All the while, swords and knives slashed ominously close to his cock amidst much ribaldry and vulgar jests. All centered on making Konáll an eunuch.

“Move.” A warrior prodded Konáll in the stomach.

Two of the others hauled him to his feet.

“Make haste lest you lose your balls with a slip of my knife.”

The man inserted the long steel blade of his weapon between Konáll’s thighs. He worked his jaw and concentrated on climbing the cliff face and avoiding castration. By the time they crested the trail and entered the cavern, blood ran down his back and thighs from the myriad wounds delivered by the bawdy Picts.

It took a few moments to grow accustomed to the cave’s shadows. Konáll stifled a bellow when he saw Nyssa staked out on the floor, much as he had been earlier. The bastards had ripped her tunic and sliced her leggings to reveal her breasts and a slash of pale curls at the juncture of her legs.

Konáll snapped his teeth together and snaked a sidelong glance at the arrow rock near the back of the cave, behind which lay his other weapons, his spare sword, three daggers, and a crossbow.

Not a man would see the morrow.

“She be a fine woman, the Lady Nyssa.” Bagan squatted beside Nyssa. He traced the tip of his dagger around one firm, mounded breast and outlined the pale serpent birthmark she had inherited from Rán. “A maiden. ’Twill be my pleasure to breach her sweet puss.”

Nyssa tossed her head away from Bagan’s malevolent scrutiny and met Konáll’s gaze.

She blinked and for a second he saw a flare of hope in her stormy eyes before she shuttered them.

“You take her now, brother?” The warrior who spoke was stout, bearded, and of short stature. “And we have a turn after. Then we burn her and gain our reward.”

Cheers, shouted lewd suggestions, guffaws, and roars echoed off the hollow stone walls. The noise rose to a deep rumble. The men crowded around Bagan and Nyssa forming a tight circle.

None paid Konáll any heed as he edged to the back of the crowd and shuffled to the arrow rock. The dense shadows hid his movements and all eyes were focused elsewhere. He dropped to his knees, then onto his side on the floor, felt for his knife, grasped the blade, ignored the deep gouge in his palm, and began sawing the ropes binding him.

The ferocious snarl of Nyssa’s cat deafened all other sound.

Konáll had managed to work a few of the ropes free. He scrambled to a sitting position, glanced around the rock, and grinned. Mús had Bagan One-Eye’s brother by the neck and whipped him back and forth.

Shrieks, screeches of terror, and agonized screams rang out. Men fought each other for the cave’s entrance.

Konáll sliced through the rest of the ropes and threw them off. He grabbed the three daggers and raced to Nyssa.

“Look to me.” He cleaved the ropes trussing her arms, then her feet, and met her gaze. Pointing at the arrow rock, he snapped, “Go there. Stay until Mús and I have all in hand.”

She clamped the torn tunic together with one hand and used the other to lever herself to a squat. “Worry not of me, Viking. Go help Mús.”

Standing with knees bent, he brandished his knives and spread his legs to block her movements as she crawled into the shadows.

The battle had moved outside. The lion’s roars echoed off the cliff face and the beast decimated man after man with powerful swipes of his great paws.

Twixt the snarling enraged animal, Konáll’s war bellows, and the tortured shrieks of the wounded, the pounding rain seemed a mere whisper. The moment Nyssa hugged her arms and ducked behind the rock, Konáll galloped into the storm. Few men were left standing, all either injured or dying or racing into the woods. The berserker in him reared.

Through a scarlet haze he slashed and severed all who stood their ground and halted only when he heard the cat’s howl of pain. Konáll swung around to glimpse the beast crumpling to the muddy ground, a sword buried hilt deep in its side.

“Nay. Nay.” Nyssa, half-naked, bounded to the fallen animal and flung her arms around its neck. “Do not leave me. Nay.”

He could not tell her tears from the hammering rain, but the sob in her voice could not be mistaken. After checking the immediate area and reassuring himself all threat had either vanished or been vanquished, he hurried to Nyssa and grasped her arm. He shook her. “Woman! Cease your infernal tears. Want you your pet to live we needs get him inside so you can tend to him.”

She nodded, and her glazed eyes focused. “Aye. Inside. Help me.”

To his astonishment, she discarded the remnants of her tunic, eased the cloth under the cat’s shoulders, knotted the ends, slung the cloth over one shoulder, and heaved.

“Yield to me, woman.” He grabbed the sling from her. “Light the fire. He is soaked and will take a chill.”

For a moment she looked about to argue, eyes narrowed, hands fisted, but then dropped her gaze to the filthy handle of the sword embedded in the cat’s side and bounded into the cave.

Konáll dragged Mús near to the pit she’d dug earlier.

The blaze had already caught, and low flames welled a cloud of charcoal smoke to the roof of the cavern.

He shifted the beast to the back of the fire, away from the entrance, and let the cloth drop to the ground. “I needs—”

“I know, Viking. I am too well accustomed to battles. See to what you must, but secure me a weapon afore you depart.” She did not look at him but bundled the tunic into a roll and eased it under Mús’s head.

Konáll could bring himself to consider Mús a man, not with the great cat lying wounded with a sword buried to the hilt in his mane. He had learned a long time ago not to care too deeply for the warriors he served with or the stallions that carried him in battle. Death was too frequent and the loss too painful, and the business of a conqueror was of more import. That Nyssa’s brother would survive such a blow was doubtful, but she had proved her healing abilities with Konáll’s injury.

Konáll retrieved a sword and several knives from the fallen Picts and gave them to Nyssa. She did not notice when he left, too absorbed in heating and pulverizing a handful of the moss scraped from the cave’s walls.

* * *

“Wake, curse you. Wake.” Nyssa smoothed the cowlick on the top of Mús’s head, the one stubborn trait that resisted his transformation from man to mountain lion. “I cannot heal you in cat form. Pray thee awake.”

Tears blurred her vision. She could not fail Ciárrán, not after all he had done for her. A cold, wet nose grazed her palm. She swiped at her eyes, stared at Mús, and begged God for mercy.

A burst of blinding white light followed by a cloud of impenetrable black smoke filled the cave; she bit her tongue to stop the threatening sobs of relief. When the dense fog cleared, there lay her half brother, Ciárrán, the sword implanted between his right ribs.

Panic prickled like knives digging into her spine at his shallow breathing and the gray cast to his complexion. His chest barely rose and fell, and scarlet drops of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He faded fast.

She grasped the sword’s jeweled hilt and pulled, keeping the pressure even but firm. The moment the blade cleared Ciárrán’s flesh, blood spewed in a wide arc. Wet splashes flicked her cheeks; she did not dare hesitate but placed both hands on the wound and pressed down. At once sharp lances of pain wracked her body. Her palms burned. Closing her eyes against the violent spinning of the cave, she recited the Lord’s Prayer, chanting the verses over and over.

“Loki’s toes. What do you do, woman?” The Viking gripped her shoulders.

“Nay. Leave me,” she croaked as the darkness descended. Nyssa fell forward covering Ciárrán’s wound with her belly. Aware, but unable to move, she let the heaviness sink through her and into Ciárrán.

Dusk had fallen when she was finally able to lift her lids.

The Viking had kept the fire stoked, and the cave radiated warmth. He was garbed in a fresh tunic and shiny leather boots.

She pushed off the ground and looked at her half brother. His cheeks held a twinge of color, and he breathed easier.

The Viking’s stare bore into the back of her head or so it felt.

She bent to Ciárrán’s side and inspected the wound. An angry welt the length of her hand was all that remained of the injury. His flesh held a chill.

“He needs a blanket. Will you spare him yours?” Nyssa met the icy gaze of the warrior. She had not had the time to inspect the treasures in his iron chest, but had glimpsed a fine length of cloth of a deep heather hue.

In answer he jutted a chin to her left. “I did not want to disturb your healing else I would’ve covered you both.”

She glanced down to find he had piled two thick woolen lengths, a fresh tunic and hose, at her side. “My thanks both for the clothes and for leaving us be.”

Nyssa covered Ciárrán from neck to toes, curling the fabric under his shoulders and feet, and then pulled the tunic over her head. Her legs were cold, and the woolen hose warmed by proximity to the fire proved a delicious slice of paradise. The actions drained the last of her reserves. She curled into a ball beside her brother, rested her hand on the welt, and focused on the Viking.

Their stares met.

“I left you with a cat and returned to find a warrior in your embrace.” The grim line of his mouth left no doubt of his anger and irritation.

“Ciárrán is both Mús and my half brother.” She had not the strength for deception.

In the midst of whittling a weathered branch, the Viking paused, fixed her with a hard stare, and raised a brow.

She wriggled her shoulders under his relenting gaze. “Aegir cursed his wife, Rán, and any spawn born of her tryst with my Da—me. Mús challenged Aegir, and the god changed him into a mountain lion. Rán gave Ciárrán a day each season to return to human form to try to break Aegir’s curse. He used one the day he found me on the beach…I know not if this counts as another. I fear he will ne’er be free again.”

Bile filled her mouth, and she could not force the words as memories of that terrible time swamped her mind.

“’Tis clear Mús was not the victor.”

“Nay. No mortal can claim victory o’er a god. I tried to stop him, but my fool of a brother threw me aside.”

Ciárrán shifted, his fingers twitched and curled.

Nyssa rose on her elbows. Ciárrán’s hooked claws had appeared. He would not remain in warrior form for much longer. “Rán called on the gods to reverse the spell and my curse. Odin bade her choose between me and Ciárrán. She chose me, but Aegir would only lift part of my curse.”

“Tell me of this curse, betrothed.”

The way the Viking clipped the word “betrothed” sent shivers down her back.

“In good time. Mús is halfway to his cat form. It takes him some time to tame his beast anger when first he returns to lion. Make haste. We must leave him be.”

He rose and motioned for her to precede him out of the cave. “So be it. In return you will wash the filth from your flesh.”

Nyssa had grown to tolerate the slime and grime coating her skin, for most men lusted after clean females and in this guise they were wont to ignore her completely. But she could not return to Castle Caerleah in her current state and so, for now she would obey the Viking. The rain had battered most of the grease from her arms anyway.

A burst of temper soured her saliva. She misliked any man, any at all telling her what to do. Not wanting to vent her building anger she lurched to her feet, tramped out of the cave, and choked back a groan. The full moon hung in the middle of a black sky littered with winking stars.

Thrimilici would dawn soon.

She hung her head and fought back the threatening tears. For so long she had lived with the futile hope the curse would somehow be broken. Stifling a scream, she raised her gaze to the midnight, gritted her teeth, and broke into a furious march.