Legend of the Mist (23 page)

“
Ann ek ther
,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Her response was a kiss, a tender kiss that expressed more than words ever could. He began to move, a slow, rhythmic rocking of his hips. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply the scent of him. Wood smoke, earth, salt spray of the sea.

Her mind galloped madly, chasing a swirl of memories. Of Torsten, her warrior love, as he had been centuries ago. And then another face revolved in place of that, a face still similar, still Torsten. But not. A life before even the last. And again, another face. And another.

Norah gasped from
the exquisite melding of shock and pleasure. The past stretched back before her, laying bare their love lifetime after lifetime. She had not known it before, not known how many lives they’d lived. But then they had not shared themselves as they did now. It had been the one barrier that stood between them, the one promise they had not yet made to each other.

Torsten knew too.
As his climax swelled, he cupped her chin in his palm, forcing her to look into his eyes. The years, the decades, the centuries melted away, leaving them with countless memories of each other, in all their incarnations, as clear and fresh as the ones they’d collected in this life.

Afterwards, when they’d both been sated, when they were both gasping at the new, clear reality
they’d been given the gift of understanding, Norah lay in Torsten’s trembling arms. She curled into his side, warm and soft and safe, and drifted to sleep.

But just before
slumber overtook her, a laugh infiltrated her consciousness as it dissolved into oblivion. The sea, its cruel chuckle all-too-familiar, taunted her once more.

Remember
, it whispered,
your fate still waits for you.

Nineteen

The mass of humid, hot air, which throughout the autumn season had plagued the islands of Orkney and the northern tip of Scotland, was changing. In the afternoon a generous breeze had offered respite from the muggy heat; by evening it had picked up, coursing steadily over the hills and crags of Fara as dusk turned to the velvet blackness of night.

The sky was
pregnant with the energy of a coming storm, the clouds luminous with the promise of lightning. Of course it was not an unwelcome storm. In anticipation of a good rain, the mood of the people in the hall at the evening meal was decidedly lighter than it had been since the voyagers had returned from Hvaleyrr.

“
I heard a wonderful word today,” Einarr said to Norah, leaning across the high table to where she sat at the far end.

“And what word might that be, sir?” she answered, curious about
his sudden interest. Einarr did not often converse with her, and but for that morning when he’d walked with her to the village he’d sought neither her company nor her conversation since their marriage had been announced.

“The word is ‘alluring.’ I like it very much. In Norse, the closest word is
saemiligr
, or perhaps
vaenn
, but I find your word rolls off the tongue nicely.”

“I’m glad ye like it.”

“If you will allow me,
myn fagra
, I would like to tell you that you look very alluring this night.”

Norah
allowed a smile for the Viking leader’s benefit. She did not know the reason for his interest in her, but he looked as though he were truly making an effort. A crooked grin brightened his harshly handsome face, and despite his lightness of tone there was a ragged edge to his voice which was not normally there.

It was a similar raggedness that she heard in Torsten’s voice,
which she knew was caused by the pain of his loss.

“I thank ye, s
ir.”

“I notice you do not wear jewellery often. I would like to present you with fine gifts deserving of your beauty when we are married. Would you wear them if I did?”

“So long as they arena the fruits of yer raiding,” she answered, belatedly realizing her tactlessness. She winced as the remark sliced through his mask of civility.

“Mind yer tongue, lass,” Iobhar barked, overhearing the conversation as he and Fearchar took their seats. “Ye’re as bad as yer brother.”

“I am sorry, Sir Einarr, I shall deal wi’ her after the meal,” Fearchar promised, casting his daughter a look of disappointment.

“There is no need,” Einarr
responded, a smile on his face despite a waver in his voice.

Norah regretted her comment
. She was not accustomed to this new truce between her people and the Norsemen that had come about since Hvaleyrr had been destroyed. “Sir, I do apologize, I hadna meant to be so callous. The thought just ‘rolled off my tongue,’ as ye say. I dinna wish to be unkind.”

He responded with a begrudging chuckle.
“I am not so easily bruised,
fifla
. You are forgiven.”

At the far end of the hall, Torsten watched the exchange intently. A faint unease nagged at the back of his neck. Such cordial behaviour to women was uncharacteristic of his brother. Einarr had shown very little of it to Norah in all the time that he’d known her.

The nagging unease turned to suspicion when he noticed the furtive glance between Fearchar, chief of the Gallachs, and his brother, Iobhar—a suspicion which was confirmed as, at the end of the meal, Fearchar stood, commanding the attention of the hall.

“
Because of the recent, tragic events which I dinna need to mention,” he began, “Sir Einarr has proposed that the marriage between himself and my daughter, Norah, be hastened. I can find no reason why it shouldna be so, and have dispatched a messenger to the Isle of Mull. I expect the priest from Iona Abbey will arrive in no more than a sennight, and the ceremony will take place promptly upon his arrival.”

The chief did not quite beam with pride at the announcement, but there was a quiet satisfaction in his posture and the set of his
features. He raised his arms, heralding the Viking at his side. The islanders and Norse responded with subdued applause which echoed through the space.

For Torsten, the clapping
was deafening; the sound was like hammers shattering his skull. The blood drained from his face, and he stared across the hall to Norah, who stared back at him equally shocked. Equally dismayed.

When Fearchar
beckoned his daughter to him and placed her hand in Einarr’s, bile rose in Torsten’s throat. Shoving himself from the table, he stormed from the hall, startling several people by his inexplicable departure—including Einarr.

“What has upset him?”
he wondered aloud.

Norah tensed, her body straining to run after
Torsten. To combat the urge she locked her knees in place and clamped her lips shut. Only when the flurry of activity died down and people began to drift away from the hall did she addressed Torsten’s sudden flight.

“Perhaps I
might seek out Sir Torsten and try to discover what has riled him so,” she suggested.

“
How can
you
help?” Einarr questioned, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“Well ... perhaps a woman’s touch is what is needed.
We are, after all, gentler in manner than men, are we no’?”

“Dinna be daft, lass
, yer time would be better spent attending to yer husband-to-be,” Iobhar dismissed, waving his hand in her direction. “Let yer mother go, instead.”

“
Eh—I’ll no’ be taking
yer
orders,” Iseabal protested hotly, to which Iobhar sheepishly mumbled his apologies.

Norah used the distraction to her advantage. “There is no need, mother,” she put in. “
Ye must be seeing to the children anyway. I shall go, I willna be long.” Before anyone could stop her she scampered away, threading through groups of conversing people on her way to the entrance.

Once outside
the fortress she stopped, looking left and right, trying to guess which way Torsten had likely gone. Her first thought was the broch. Perhaps he had gone there, hoping she would come to him ...

But no, there was no call from the broch; it was silent.

The wind permeated her thin-spun woollen gown; had she known the weather would shift so suddenly she would have fetched her cloak. Wrapping her arms around herself, Norah started forward into the night, with not even a vague idea of where Torsten might have gone. She was halfway to the harbour before she found him—or, rather, it was he that found her.

“
Come, let us go,” he said, marching up behind her on the trodden path.

Releasing a startled yelp, Norah whirled around
to find Torsten striding towards her. In his arms was an awkwardly shaped bundle which had been carelessly wrapped in bed sheets.

“Where did ye go?” she demanded.

“To your chamber. I have collected some items and clothing that you might need or want.”

“My—my
clothes?”

“Ja, your
clothes. We are leaving here.”

Brushing past her, he stalked
on towards the harbour. Norah trailed after him, her panic growing.

Leav
e? She could not leave Fara; he could not mean what he said.

“Wait,” she cried
, grabbing his elbow. “We canna leave.”

“Ja, we can,”
he insisted flatly, and continued to walk, pulling Norah along with him. “We will take a boat from the harbour; one of your smaller birlinns will do nicely, I think.”

“Ye canna take a birlinn,”
she laughed, incredulous. “Have ye lost yer mind? Ye’d need twenty men to row it.”

“Not tonight
. The wind is strong enough that I can sail it out of the harbour myself. We can wait out the storm on Shetland and sail again in the morning.”

“Sail
again? Sail again
where
?”

“Anywhere. It does not matter. I will not let you marry
him—I’ll
die
before that happens!”

Still
staggering along behind him with her fingers gripping the crook of his elbow, Norah shook her head. He must be made to understand. She could not leave Fara; she could
not
go onto the water. She would not see land again if she did.

As if acknowledging
her thoughts, the sea laughed as it rolled and heaved in the distance.

“Stop
,” she begged. “Let us discuss this first.”

“There is no time to
discuss.”

“Please
!” Her panicked cry came out in a shrill pitch, finally breaking through Torsten’s singular determination. Halting, he heaved a sigh.

“Do you not see, Norah? We must leave
now
. Now, while we have the opportunity. Who knows what chance we might have again?”

“I—well, aye, I agree,” she stuttered, stalling for time. “
But surely we can talk about it first. We must have a definite plan, after all.”

Though her
hesitation clearly frustrated him, he agreed for her sake. Transferring his bundle to one arm he took her hand in his. Then he led her off the path and down a shallow crag where they would not be happened upon.

Unknown to them
, a pair of eyes had witnessed their exchange.

Shrouded in darkness Cinead stood
at a discreet distance on the main path to the harbour. Watching them intently, a sharp twist of betrayal stung his small chest.

He had always been m
istrustful of the Viking demon and was concerned by Norah’s growing friendship with him. When she’d raced from the hall, Cinead suspected the reason, and had followed her. He was glad he had, for it appeared that his concerns were well-founded: the Viking bastard had somehow made Norah fall in love with him.

And now
the man was asking her to leave Fara. Well, not if Cinead had anything to do with it. He could stop her; for her own good, he could prevent it from happening.

His eyes trailed down to the ground
at his feet. Barely visible against the moonless night and the drifting mist was the object he’d seen fall from the Norseman’s bundle when Norah grabbed his arm. Bending, he scooped it up and examined it in his palm. It was the necklace he’d given her, the ruby suspended on the delicate gold chain. A tarnished ring he hadn’t seen before had been added to the chain, and was nestled beside the jewel—it, too, a ruby. Instinctively the boy knew the Viking had given that to her as well.

The Viking was too bold; he
must
be stopped!

His
duty mapped before him like the islands of Orkney themselves, Cinead marched back to the fortress, the necklace clutched tightly in his small hand. He would do what he must to protect Norah.

Even if
it meant breaking her heart.

* * *

“If Olaf Gunnarsson thinks we’ll not retaliate against Joldusteinn, then he must have Fairhair himself guarding his back. He would not have moved against Hvaleyrr otherwise,” stated Freyr, punctuating his remark by stabbing the surface of the trestle table with his meaty forefinger.

“
We don’t know that for certain,” argued another of the Norsemen gathered at the table. “Perhaps he seeks to gain Fairhair’s favour by instigating the attack in the first place. It would not be the first time such a thing has been done.”

“
Yes, but do we want to gamble on what we don’t know for certain?” said another.

Freyr agreed. “What we
do
know for certain is that, though Gunnarsson is known to be a courageous leader, he has never in the past shown himself to be a risk-taker. He has his pieces in place, you can be sure of that.”

“What about his message?”

Freyr snorted and rolled his eyes. “What will Fairhair do? Sail out here to these forsaken little islands and pick a fight with every one of us pirate bands? There are too many islands and too many of us hiding among them for him to do anything.”

Einarr sat in the centre of his men, hunched over his cup of ale which he’d already refilled several times. His head was beginning to grow pleasantly foggy—he was not so far in his cups that he could not take on any one of these sorry brutes, but just enough that Siri’s battered, bloody face had sunk to the recesses of his mind.

He did not need to be sober for this conversation anyway; he’d only been listening with half an ear since it started. That was more than an hour ago, and still they had yet to come up with a viable plan for their retribution against Gunnarsson’s lot.

Besides, when he was drunk he could also ignore the disturbing fact that the itch for war no longer nagged him. The thought of battle, of thrusting his sword through flesh and bone and feeling the life of his enemy vibrate against his shoulder as it slipped away ... it no longer got his blood pumping.