Legend of the Mist (24 page)

His men, it appeared, had not been thus afflicted. They were still as thirsty for killing as they’d always been. And they’d look to Einarr, their leader, to spearhead the attack. No matter what he might be feeling—or not feeling—Einarr could not let them down.

It didn’t mean he had to think about it now, though, and took a long
swill of ale from the cup clenched in his giant hand to further silence the voices in his head. It was a crisp, fragrant brew that Fara made. He let it caress his tongue, savouring its hints of heather and herbs that were unique to this area of the world.

Not for the first time since returning from Hvaleyrr he begrudged the men their
need for revenge. Why could they not let it be, at least for a few years? Perhaps they should concentrate instead on building up the settlement on Rysa Beag. He could live quite happily on that little piece of land in the middle of the sea, with Norah by his side and a brood of boys nipping at his heels.

His thoughts were so pleasing, so warm and comforting that he did not hear the small footsteps which approached
from behind him. He did not notice his men had stopped talking until one of them brought him out of his reverie.

“Er ... Einarr, y
ou have a visitor,” said Freyr. He nodded his chin to where Cinead stood, a foot away from the table of war-hungry Vikings, his small head held high in defiance.

Einarr peered over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the boy as much to bring him into focus as
to intimidate him.

“
Well?” he barked. “Speak, if you will, otherwise dig yourself to
Muspelheim
. I’m busy.”

“So busy ye dinna care where yer betrothed has run off to ... or wi’
whom
she’s run off?” Cinead answered casually.

The table
fell silent. All eyes pivoted to the boy who had dared antagonize the great Einarr Alfradsson. Einarr himself swivelled slowly on the wooden bench to fully face Cinead. A vein twitched dangerously in his forehead and his nostrils flared. When he spoke his voice was soft, controlled. But still vicious enough to freeze the blood of even the most seasoned warrior.

“If you are playing games with me,
sveinn
, I’ll tear your head from your neck with one hand before I slice you open from gullet to throat. What do you mean ‘with whom’?”

Cinead stared down the Viking with cold hatred. Not the tiniest bit did he flinch beneath Einarr’s withering glare. Pulling his hand from behind his back
Cinead tossed the necklace on the table. Its heavy amulet thudded onto the wood with an echo that vibrated off the stone walls.

“She’s wi’ the man that gave this to her,” he answered
, and for good measure, added, “and they’re no’ discussing yer upcoming wedding, either.”

Einarr stared at the ruby, a slow fury working its way through his body. His heart begged his mind not to believe it. Torsten would not do such a thing
; his own brother would not steal his betrothed from him ... would he?

And the girl
, Norah. He thought she’d been different. Einarr generally disdained women; they were nothing but bed warmers as far as he was concerned. But Norah ...

Her
innocence and her beauty had blinded him. At the core she was no different than that sagging whore Gnud! He should have known. He should never have let himself believe she was any better than the rest!

A
torrent of memories blurred his vision, memories he hadn’t known existed because he’d not thought much of them at the time. Torsten taking such violent offence when Einarr had called the wench
bikkja
; secret, meaningful glances between the pair of them ...
Muspelheim
, she’d run after Torsten because the wedding day had been set—how had he not realized
that
?

He was so angry that the table beneath his fist began to shake.

“Where. Are. They?” he growled between clenched teeth.

“Einarr,
be calm,” Freyr warned, placing a restraining hand on his forearm.

“Where
are
they?” he repeated, shaking off Freyr’s grasp.

From a nearby table
Garrett and several of the Gallach warriors had watched the confrontation unfold from the minute Cinead walked through the doors of the hall. When the boy led the group of Vikings away, the Gallachs followed.

“He’ll no’ hurt her, will he, Garrett?” said one of the warriors.

“Nay, I dinna think he’ll hurt
Norah
. His brother, on the other hand ...”

“Get the chief,”
ordered one of the Norsemen to a passing servant as the large group made their way through the corridor to the main entrance of the fortress, grabbing torches from their mounts as they went.

The servant pressed herself against the wall, her mouth falling open before she caught Garrett’
s eye. When he nodded, encouraging her, the servant fled for the keep where Fearchar had retired for the night.

The
torches pitched violently once outside, the wind lashed so strongly it threatened to extinguish their flames. Nervous murmurs flitted among the men that followed Einarr as their furious leader stormed down the path to the harbour. When Cinead reached the crag he stopped, pointing into the darkness.

“See for yerself,” he said triumphantly.

Wrenching his sword from its sheath across his back Einarr barrelled forward with the rest of the men tight on his heels.

Indeed, the boy had spoken truth. At the bottom of the crag Torsten stood, holding Norah’s hands in his
and pleading with her. At his feet was a bundle that looked as though it might contain belongings.

Belongings that would be needed for travel.

Einarr’s vision darkened with rage at the pair of traitors. The moment they registered the intrusion, their heads snapped to the ledge above. Shocked, their eyes flew wide, and they stepped back in unison, Torsten angling himself in front of Norah to protect her.

“
Einarr, brother—” Torsten began, holding his hands up in front of him. But Einarr would have none of it.

With a shriek that carried on the wind
he launched himself over the side of the crag. Einarr stumbled when he landed, and staggered to his feet again before rushing at his brother, swiping his sword with each stride. With little time to react Torsten shoved Norah out of the way, then unsheathed his own sword to deflect his brother’s blow.

“I’ll kill you,”
Einarr swore in Norse, striking again. Again, Torsten deflected the blow.

As the others scrambled down to break up the fight, Einarr
lashed over and over. Torsten defended, making no move to attack. The Viking leader’s aim was off, the ale he’d consumed making his movements sluggish and sloppy.

“Stand still so that I can run you through, you cur!”
he snarled.

Norah, who had fallen to the ground when Torsten
shoved her, scuttled out of the way to avoid being trampled on. She was not fast enough. Einarr swung; Torsten stepped back to dodge the blade ... and tripped over her. Despite the ale, Einarr was on him in a blur, the edge of his sword pressed and ready to slice his brother’s throat.

Norah screamed, and
squirmed from beneath Torsten to wedge herself between him and the blade.

“
Dinna do it, Einarr,” shouted Garrett, throwing himself overtop his sister.

“
Take her away,” the Viking spat, “and then I’ll kill him.”

“No,” Garrett repeated firmly. “I’ll no’ let ye kill yer own brother.”

“It’s no concern to you.”

“
Then do it for Siri,” he cried. “Yer Siri wouldna want this.”

The mention of his sister’s name sent a shock wave through
Einarr’s system. He froze, glaring at the young Gallach who had put himself at the mercy of his blade for the sake of peace. His eyes moved to Norah, who gazed back at him in terror; to Torsten, who gazed back at him with regret. Then his eyes swept upward to his men who had moved in around them, their faces a mixture of shock, horror, and grim disappointment.

He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly, in the distance, the urgent blowing of a horn interrupted him. It was an alert, coming from the harbour.

An attack!

“We are not finished,
brother
,” Einarr hissed. He stepped back, glaring a final time at Torsten, then waved his sword, signalling his men to follow him as he climbed back up the shallow crag.

The Fara men remained, waiting for Garrett as he
helped first Norah to her feet, and then Torsten. He, too, glared at the Viking, making his displeasure known to the man. But he made no comment on what had been revealed this night. There was no time.

“Hide her,” he said instead. “No’ at the fortress, they’ll be sure to find her there. Somewhere else.”

“I will,” Torsten promised.

Then the
y scrambled up the crag together, praying they were not too late to save themselves from whatever force had landed upon them.

Shortly after,
the first clap of thunder announced the arrival of the storm. A harsh rain broke through the clouds, extinguishing the torches and plunging the island into darkness.

Twenty

Longships ...

Perhaps fifty of them rose from the sea like mountains,
each one packed from port to starboard with forty robust men. Even from a distance the carved dragon-heads of the ships’ bows could be seen in outline against the shards of rain which pelted them. They swarmed the harbour, their hulking keels sliding up onto the wide, pebbled beaches one after another. Slicing into the earth like terrible blades.

Einarr and his men
halted at the crest of the well-trod path before it pitched steeply to the harbour; Garrett and the Gallach warriors, followed by Torsten and Norah, halted behind them. Together they stared down, surveying with dawning horror the spear of the impending attack below. Lightning pierced the clouds, illuminating in hideous clarity the details of the invaders from their blood-stained, wooden shields to their soulless faces beneath riveted iron helmets.

Vikings
.

“Who are they?” Garrett demanded,
shouting over the howl of wind and rain.

“They fly the banner of Fairhair,”
Einarr answered flatly, stupefied by the usurper king’s bold ambition. As many as two thousand men poured over the sides of the vessels, each one heavily armed. There was no stealth about this attack, no strategy. It was a display of sheer power, a force sent for one reason only—to kill.

That
runt of a messenger left behind in Hvaleyrr had spoken true: Fairhair meant to end this war.

“Ye bloody fool,”
spat one of the Gallachs, stepping forward to confront Einarr. “Yer damned war has followed ye here. This isna
our
fight; we’re no’ in this wi’ ye.”

Indignation
flared in Torsten, coupled with an unprecedented urge to defend his brother. In all the years Einarr had thrown himself into a conflict that did not seek him in return, in all the years he’d raided and killed mercilessly, justifying his gruesome deeds as necessary to the cause, Torsten had opposed him. But this insult by the Gallach warrior was unfair. Ungrateful.

“Einarr Alfradsson has kept war from reaching your shores for the past three years,”
he shouted back, pushing his way to the front of the gathering. “You would all have fallen long ago if it weren’t for the protection of his name.”

The Gallach man began to
argue, but Garrett cut him off.

“
Sir Torsten is right,” he agreed, resignation weighting his voice. “We’ve had peace these years because of our Norse allies—no matter the reason we’ve found ourselves thrown together. As much as we might wish it, the past canna be undone, no more than our brothers who fell in the raid three years ago can be brought back to life. This is the present, and it is
our
fight as much as it is Sir Einarr’s. We must fight as brothers now—Celt
and
Norse—if we are to have a chance of surviving this.”

Einarr’
s cold, hard eyes flickered to Garrett, betraying a sliver of shock and humility at the unlikely support. It was a brief slip, one only Garret saw, before Einarr regrouped the strength, courage and fortitude which marked his leadership of his men. With renewed vigour he faced them.

“Freyr, take
half our men here now and go find the rest,” he commanded, addressing his captain in the language of their homeland. “And anyone else who can wield a sword. Once you have amassed your forces, meet us in the village and attack in any way you can.” To the Fara men he said, “You will follow me and the other half of my men who are not following Freyr. We must draw these
hauknefr brusi
into the village where the dwellings will be an advantage to us. They will be obstacles for such a large force, and we will be able to break them up, ja?”

“Can we win wi’
that plan?” Garrett questioned, doubtful.

Einarr hesitated before shaking his head
with grim finality. “No, we’ll not win this one, there are too many of them. But with Odin at our backs we can cut into their numbers, and if we fight with honour, then perhaps we’ll secure our places in Valhalla. If we are to die tonight, then let it be with pride. As the warriors we are.”

A
valiant round of cheers erupted in response, though against the storm the sound was bleak. Freyr clapped Einarr on the shoulder, nodding his respects to his leader and friend.

“Good luck to you, man. We’ll see you in the village.”

Then the captain led half the Norse warriors away, heading towards the barracks where more of the men were likely resting. When the departing men’s backs were to them, Einarr unsheathed his sword.

“Have courage men,” he declared. “I’ll see you on the other side of death.”

Lifting his weapon above his mighty head, he roared an eloquent Norse insult to the invaders below. As if by divine inspiration, lightning cracked again, flashing against the majestic blade of the great Einarr Alfradsson.

The faces of the invaders
snapped towards him in unison. Recognizing the formidable figure above them, they began to lope up the steep incline. As soon as they did, Einarr led the Norse and Fara men west at a run, glancing back over his shoulder only once to ensure the bait had been taken.

It had.

Norah and Torsten remained, gazing after the men as their powerful bodies were swallowed up by the thick blackness of night. Disturbed by the force of the rain the mist rose off the ground. It gave the illusion that the warriors were ascending into the sky on clouded chariots.

A
n ominous foreshadowing of what was to be.

To T
orsten, however, the image was inspiring, rejuvenating. The warrior in him, so many years subdued in slumber, raised his head. Torsten’s muscles flexed, straining to run after the men and partake of the fighting. He was not afraid to die, not afraid of the pain that would precede his death, nor the unknown that awaited him after it. He was only saddened, terribly,
deeply
saddened by the knowledge that he might be parted from his love once again.

Norah, it appeared, had not considered this outcome. It had not occurred to her that Torsten meant to fight.

“We must run,” she insisted when the warriors were out of sight. Nodding vigorously she tugged at his sleeve, urging him back down the path. “We shall hide at the broch. Perhaps they willna find us there. If we can only make it to the broch we can wait out the attack.”

Glancing
to the harbour below to ensure they hadn’t been noticed by any lingering raiders, Torsten allowed Norah to lead him. But once they were out of sight of the harbour he redirected her to the crag. The bundle of her belongings he’d collected were still there, drenched and wholly unimportant now that death was breathing down their necks.

Carefully he helped
her down the incline which had become treacherously slick from the storm. He prayed the face of the shallow cliff would conceal them both for a while longer, long enough at least that if they were to die this night, they might say their goodbyes to one another properly.

“W
e canna stay here,” she gasped when he stopped at the bottom. “We must flee!”

“No,
myn
svass
,” he said sadly. “My beloved, there is no fleeing for me. I must join the men and fight. Surely you know that.”

“
No,” she shouted, panicked, “I
dinna
ken that.” Her face crumpled in agony, and tears welled from her shimmering green eyes. Pounding her fists against his chest like a child she repeated, “I dinna ken that, I dinna ken that!”

Torsten
allowed Norah to expel her rage against him, against the invaders in their midst, against cruel fate itself. When the force of it had been spent he drew her to him, enveloping her in his strong arms. Cradling her head to his chest he soothed her as she cried, content to do nothing more than hold her.

Eventually Norah
grew light-headed from her exertion and she forced herself to regain her composure. If this was the end, if she was to be parted from Torsten this night, she could not prevent it by giving in to such a tantrum. No matter how strong the urge.

S
he clung to her love, her warrior, memorizing the feel of his contoured chest beneath her cheek, the scent of him, the ethereal tingling of her limbs and body where it was pressed to his.

“I canna
lose ye again; I canna let ye die,” she said, her voice wavering as she looked up at him.

“Ye
must, if that is what is meant for me,” he answered. Despite her protest, he saw in her eyes that she knew she was helpless to stop it. “No one understands as you do, my love, that the course of one’s destiny is unalterable. I am a warrior. I have always been a warrior, in lifetimes before this. I will not lay down my sword when I am needed.”

Lowering his head
, Torsten pressed a kiss to her lips. It was a gentle kiss, yet one potent with unfulfilled promise and infinite love. Her lips were slick and cold from the rain, but they seemed softer and warmer to Torsten than ever before. He committed them to memory, savouring the taste and the feel of her as best he could.

When he pulled away, he brushed his lips against her ear and whispered raggedly, “We both know
the story that has been written for us. We cannot change the end of our tale any more than we can change the tides. What we
can
do,
myn svass
, is meet our fate with courage, meet our story’s end with pride and dignity.”

For
a measure of time that was both infinitely long and entirely too brief they simply held one another. The thought of letting go was nearly painful to bear for both of them.

“No matter what happens
this night,” Torsten murmured, “no matter how many years may pass before we meet again, my love for you will never fade.”

“Nor
mine for ye,” Norah whispered achingly.

With a final,
tender kiss, Torsten stepped back and drew his sword from its sheath at his back. “Find the broch,” he said before he ascended the crag. “You may be correct, that may be the only place you can hide. With nothing on that side of Fara the raiders might not consider it worth their while to go there. If either of us is going to survive this, it may be you.”

Norah’s lungs constricted painfully
as he disappeared from her view. The wind tore at her hair and her tunic, both saturated and clinging to her. Only when she was alone, whimpering to herself in the dark and the wind and the rain, did blood return to her numbed limbs. She shivered against the sudden rush of vitality and her mind began to canter ahead with plans and strategies of her own.

The children—the first thing she must do before she fled to the broch was to find as many of the children as she could and take them with her.
They could not be subjected to this brutal slaughter; she would prevent it if she could.

Resolved in her mission
she climbed back up to the path. The grass and rock face of the crag was slippery beneath her. Twice she stumbled, scraping the exposed flesh of her palms and her wrists. After a valiant struggle she made it to the top, gasping as much from the adrenaline fuelling her muscles as from the effort.

The harbour was nearly invisible from her vantage point, and as she peered down at it through the slicing rain she determ
ined that there was no movement, no one left to follow her. A jagged blade of lightning confirmed her suspicion: the bodies of the Gallach guardsmen floated in the water and lay motionless on the docks. All killed.

Though
distressed by their deaths, it was a whisper of sombre pride which straightened Norah’s spine and raised her chin a notch higher. Her clansmen had stayed and fought to the death to protect their island and their people, instead of fleeing to save themselves.

If she were fortunate enough to meet them again on the other side of this life, she would have to impress upon them her gratitude for their sacrifice and loyalty.

* * *

It had not taken long for the raiding Vikings to catch up with Einarr’s party. They had only just made it to
the first dwellings which established the perimeter of the village before they were overtaken, and were forced to turn and fight.

“Draw them deeper,” Einarr bellowed in Gaelic,
hoping that Fairhair’s men did not understand the language.

In answer
his warriors allowed the raiders to gain ground, pulling them in amongst the buildings with each successive thrust and strike.

The tactic was not as effective
as it would have been if the village had been more densely populated. Still, it provided enough of an advantage, for the ground was not entirely open and the raiders were forced to separate. The storm helped; the domestic fires that had been lit by the villagers earlier in the night were now nearly extinguished, providing the added cover of darkness and shadows.

Einarr had been right
: they would not win this fight. But neither would it be a decisive victory for Fairhair. It was a small encouragement for the men who defended Fara.