The Viking’s Sacrifice (17 page)

Einar took a horse from Agnar’s, a stout stallion that would bear the weight of them both, that made his heart ache for Horse-Einar. The house was quiet and no one saw him in the deepening storm, or heard him above the rising howl of wind. He wished he could leave something for it in return, but he had nothing but his clothes, and the knife Sigdir had left, half rusted and blunt.

By the time he made it to his hut, both he and the horse were cloaked in snow, hair and beard alike frosted and clinking, but he didn’t get down, not yet. She was inside waiting for him and now he wasn’t sure if he had the nerve to go in, or whether it was shame that they were running that made him stay out in the snow. Then she was at the door, running to the horse with a laugh, her hand was on his and she was smiling up at him. It was enough. To see her safe was everything, worth any shame.

Her fingers trembled against his, and he looked down at her, at the wide-spaced eyes, the finely crafted mouth that quivered.

“Einar will help you run.”

Her eyes seemed worried, but he smiled and nodded and something in her loosened.

The horse stood, patient and puffing as he dismounted and began to gather what little he had. Wilda spoke to him, saying nonsense words he couldn’t know but only caught part of, a sense of a phrase here or there, gleaned from listening to the thralls. The only word he really heard was
Einar
. She thought him that long-ago boy still, full of hot blood and bravado. That boy was long gone, replaced by a hovel-dwelling coward. But even a coward had his day, reached the point when he could take no more but turned and fought. Even a coward would find his courage, let dreams of it outside his head, when he must, when Odin played his runes on a man and grinned to watch what happened.

An Odin trap, this. Bausi would follow, would try to find them. Would kill Einar for this, if the curse did not.

She had no cloak so he handed her his and the look as she took it was worth it, the numbness in his limbs, the fear in his heart. Other than that, the ragged furs that lined his bench where he slept, the pork that was only part smoked, a few oats for the horse, it was almost all he had to take.

He bundled the furs onto the horse, wrapped one across his shoulders in place of a cloak, took as much of the meat as would fit, and got Wilda up. Before he got the horse—he’d begun calling him Horse-Einar, silently in his head—to the tree stump he used to help him mount, Wilda grabbed his hand in both of hers. She said something, but he couldn’t know what. All he knew was the look of panicked fear held under control, the bewilderment.

“Bausi,” he said. “Bausi will kill you if you stay. We have to run. Run.” One of the few words he felt sure she knew.

“Renn,” Einar said, and Wilda knew then, knew a sick, dread fear. Bausi was there, somewhere, and once again Einar was saving her. Telling her to run, as she always wanted to run.

She clamped down on the fear, on the aching sickness in her belly, and held out a hand to help Einar onto the horse. He was as them—a heathen, a barbarian, without God. And a good man. He didn’t scare her as the others did, with their strangeness, their savageness. His courage wasn’t loud and blustering like theirs. Quiet, but just as strong, deeper perhaps. Like the mountains here, strong and silent. She sank into the soft warmth of the cloak, into his arms around her as he took the reins. She felt safe as she hadn’t in days, weeks. Maybe years.

Einar spoke quiet words to the horse and they passed under the dark arms of the forest.

Together they ran.

Einar led the horse up the gorge and they both stumbled with exhaustion through the blizzard that had descended with the night. Forcing their way through snow that was chest-high in places had taken its toll, but Einar couldn’t stop. Was afraid to stop.

Bausi hadn’t started the chase as soon as he’d feared, but soon enough they’d heard the echo of hunting horns. When Einar looked down the valley, peering between squalls of snow, dark groups of men on horses gathered. Bausi would not take this slight well. It was a faint hope that he’d not taken it out on Sigdir.

Those who chased Einar and Wilda would have it easier, following their trail. Every time Einar looked—when he could see them, which wasn’t often—they were closer, narrowing the gap. The falling snow was thicker up here than in the valley, spinning into Einar’s face so at times he could barely see a horse-length in front. He had to be careful—this gorge split up ahead, one way leading to a little-used pass that led to the next valley, the other to a sheer drop, and the short day was finally dying, grey light turning black, hiding them and hindering them.

He stumbled again, and fell to his knees with a grunt of pain. His hand seemed frozen in place on Horse-Einar’s bridle and he used the patient horse’s strength to pull himself up to standing again.

When he looked up to try to see the way ahead, Wilda stood there, swathed in the cloak he’d given her, which framed her face. She reached for his hand and tried to prise it from the bridle. When he wouldn’t budge, she said, “Einar, up,” and pushed him toward the saddle.

He shook his head—he couldn’t explain, he could only try to show her that they had to go on. Fear was curdling in his belly at the thought of what would happen to them both once Bausi caught them. At what would happen once they reached the marker, and he must turn back, turn into Bausi’s path. Until then, he had to keep going, keep her safe.

“Einar, up.”

Again he shook his head and this time took a step forward. They couldn’t stop. He couldn’t ride, because he’d never see the drop ahead in time. Wilda barred his way with a gentle hand and a stream of words. In the end, when it was clear he couldn’t understand, she cupped her hand by her ear, and Toki stopped to listen. All he could hear was wind, the puff of Horse-Einar’s breath, the soft plop of snow as it slid from a branch. He realised he’d not heard horns or the call of the dogs for some time.

An outcrop of rock stood just to one side, bare of trees. He’d be able to get a good view of the valley, perhaps, if the swirl of snow allowed. The rock was slick with snow and ice and it took long, hard minutes to reach the top. Einar caught his breath and looked down through the curtain of snow.

They’d managed to climb near to the top of the mountain, and the village lay far below, a distant huddle of lights in the dark. More lights, just pinpricks in the white-blown blackness, lay closer but not moving. Torches, fires, gathered in a clearing. More than halfway between Einar and the village. Closer every time he looked. Bausi would catch them soon, but not before Einar had got Wilda safe, somewhere she could find the next valley, one of the little huddled villages there.
I swear that to you, Odin, and that I will finish this curse, one way or another, as soon as she is safe.

Wilda came up the rock and stood next to him, peering down with a worried look and shuddering with cold in her cloak, her face white as the snow that drifted across it. They watched for some time, but the torches didn’t move—Bausi was no fool. He’d camped for the night, confident enough he could catch a halt-legged idiot and a woman trying to make the pass in a blizzard.

The weather worsened by the minute, the wind shearing through the gorge, biting through even furs. Once they were past this gorge, the way would only become colder, harder as they trekked across the open scree of the mountain top. No trees to soften the knife-edge of the wind, to turn the worst of the snowfall. Wilda was half-frozen and Einar was about ready to fall down with weariness. Even the horse drooped where he stood, head down so his muzzle rested on the snow, his ears limp.

They could go on—and die from cold or exhaustion long before they reached the next valley. Or they could stop, rest during the worst of the storm, and maybe get caught out by Bausi. It wasn’t certain all his men were at that camp. The choice was Einar’s.

In the end, weariness overcame fear. If it came to it, if Bausi caught up with them right now, there would be nothing Einar could do for the exhaustion that dragged at him, turned his bones to ice, his thoughts to glittering, useless frost. He helped Wilda down from the outcrop. The horse had a thick layer of snow over his back even in the short time they’d stopped.

If Einar remembered right, there was a place not far where they could rest. Not a cave, more a scooping out in the mountainside with trees growing above to keep out the worst of the weather. With the furs he’d brought, and the fire-steel and striking stone kept safe inside his tunic, he should be able to keep them warm and dry.

He gathered the reins and, with a cluck of encouragement, he got the horse started. Wilda followed, and Einar took her hand—two missteps now, and she could be lost in the whirl of the blizzard. She squeezed his fingers, and when he looked down, she graced him with a grave smile from a face fringed with snow.

When Einar stopped and began to unload the furs from the horse, Wilda sagged with relief. She was frozen to her bones, her feet numbed with wet and cold. It didn’t take long for Einar to get a makeshift shelter ready, and Wilda helped where she could. Soon they were in a cocoon of furs and fir trees, the horse as out of the wind as they could make him. Einar scooped out some snow at the back of their shelter and managed to find some pine needles that were only a little damp. A fire at the entrance of their little bolthole soon warmed Wilda enough that she could feel her feet.

Once that was done, Einar retreated to the far side of the tiny space and watched her. She wished she could talk to him, tell him, have him tell her what was passing behind his eyes. She could see a clear pain there, and something else she couldn’t name. Then his face lit up into his brilliant, hesitant smile, and all that was forgotten when he reached out his hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Thank you.” His smile faded, left behind it some kind of proud sadness. “Thank you.”

Wilda took his hand and kissed it, a soft touch in the middle of his palm, and smiled at the shiver that ran through him. “I don’t know what you’re thanking me for. Or why I’m saying this when you won’t understand. I should thank you.”

He pulled her closer in the frosty dark, and tapped her hand on his chest. When she frowned, wondering what he meant, he made her hand into a fist and thumped it to his heart.

“I don’t—” But then she did see. He sat straight now, no longer hunched, no longer taunted or silent. His eyes were still clouded with sadness, for what she didn’t know, but he looked at her, not shyly from under his brow but really
at
her. Courage was everything to a Norseman, wasn’t that what they said? She’d always thought him brave, but now maybe he did too. “Not me.” She took her hand away and replaced it with his, folded it firmly over his chest.
“Einar.”

The smile slid back, made his face sad and strong and wanting in the firelight. “Thank
you.
” His voice brooked no argument, and he didn’t give her the chance even to breathe before he pulled her into him and kissed her. For a brief moment she was afraid of him then, at the ferocity of his kiss, the strength of his hands on her, before her own want burned in her chest, in her belly, and she gave in to it, to him.

Before, it had been her who was desperate to shake off her chains, her responsibilities and what was expected of her. This time, it was his desperation that drove them, made him fumble and drag at her clothes, rip at his breeches until they were naked. He kissed her until she could barely breathe, until all she knew was chill air, warm fire, soft furs and his mouth, before he was on her,
in
her and she was wanting, sinning, not caring, wanton with it. Not a sin, something so glorious could never be a sin, so that when it all peaked inside her, it was God she called to, to forgive her, to bless her.

Einar wrapped them in the furs and when he went to kiss her again, she giggled. He pulled back, perplexed, but she took the edge of the fur by her face and tickled it along his neck. He laughed too, and when he looked at her again, there she was. The free and unfettered girl he’d once seen and had wanted to bring back. Everything now was for her, that wild girl who’d caught him with a glance, with a nerve that filled him with awe.

He would swear it to all the gods, make sacrifice on it and swear in blood. Get her away so she could find the man who deserved her, who could give her all she could wish for. Because he knew, one way or another, he’d not make it to the next valley with her. She’d saved him again, given him what he’d lost, his courage, the nerve to face what he should have faced long since.

He’d face it all, because of her and what she’d given him, just as soon as she was safe, so that if he failed and all came to nought, he would still have this one thing, before Odin.

The wind still howled around them, through the cracks in the makeshift shelter, bringing flurries of snow and biting cold. Bausi would not come on in this. They had a little time, and in the furs they were warm, warmer than he could ever recall in his frozen waste of a life.

This time, he took his time, kissed her slowly and with care, let his hands discover all of her. Discovered too what his hands could do. A sweep of finger here that made her gasp, a caress there that brought a moan and at last, one final stroke just there, that made her whole body stiffen as she pressed against him with a cry.

He would have carried on all night, finding what he could do, but she pulled at his back, guided him in. He was lost in her, in the scent of her hair, the salty taste of her skin, the feel of her under him, around him. Each thrust brought a ragged gasp from him, a sweating moan from her until she cried out again, the whole of her holding him, gripping him, pulling him in, and he could last no longer and came with his own harsh shout.

They lay together in a sweating tangle, her lips on his neck, whispering sweet nonsense words until they slept. Strange images danced across his eyelids as he dreamed, of other darkness, sent by Bausi and his seidr magic, of what would happen if he left the valley. Sigdir’s younger face withered before him, Gudrun shrank into herself and disappeared, Wilda ran across the mountain with a faint, sad wave, and all that was left was Einar, alone and cold in the silent dark.

Silence jerked him awake, and he slid from the furs to peer outside. Still dark, but the storm had blown itself out, left its mark over the mountain and gone. With its passing, Bausi would come on as soon as it was light.

He woke Wilda gently with a kiss, but they had no time to waste. Einar dressed in a rush and pushed his way out through the snow to check on the horse and look down the mountain. Wilda wasn’t far behind, and they stared down the gorge to where it opened out onto a steep open place that was a high pasture in summer.

The snow was dark with horsemen.

Wilda clung to Einar’s back as he pushed the horse on, faster now they’d reached the open mountaintop. A scouring wind drove the snow before it, leaving bare rock in places, so the horse didn’t need to push a path. The poor beast stumbled nonetheless—the weight of them both had taken its toll, the exhaustion from the previous day only slightly dulled by rest. Einar slid down and walked, pulling at the bridle to urge the horse on. The looks he cast over his shoulder grew more frequent, more urgent, the set of his face harder each time. Wilda didn’t need to look to know—the horsemen, Bausi’s men, were gaining.

Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun shone. Mist and blown snow shrouded its pale disc, but the light made grey shapes of what had been utter dark and brought a shred of hope.

Finally they neared a forlorn stand of trees, black claws of branches bowed down with snow. At its edge stood a great grey stone, cut about with some sort of writing, seeming to warn of entering. Einar let the horse stand and looked over his shoulder again, panting from the effort. Wilda looked with him.

Two dozen riders, Bausi at their head, his bright sword already unsheathed. Sigdir rode behind him, his face dark and unreadable. When a raven cawed behind her, Wilda almost fell from the saddle. The bird settled on the stone and seemed to watch with interest.

“Einar, up. Up!” If they could get into the trees, maybe they had a chance, but not with Einar limping, worse the last mile as the pace took its toll. Wilda leaned down for his hand, to pull him up.

He didn’t mount or let her pull him but stood, hard and solid as the mountain under them. He lifted her hand and planted a soft kiss on the back of the wrappings that kept it warm. His gaze never left hers, even as he put her hand back on the reins and spoke, soft and sad.

“Wilda renn. Renn…” He frowned, perhaps trying to think how to phrase it so she could understand. Then he put his fingers to her lips and shook his head. No silence. Her lips tingled where he’d touched them.

“Einar renn too. Please, get up.” She couldn’t understand what he was doing. Bausi got closer with every passing heartbeat. She reached for his hand again, but he stepped back to avoid it, his smile no longer shy, but as soft and sad as his voice had been. He was staying. She refused to believe it, or to let him. “Please, get up. You can’t—”

He brought his hand down in a great slap across the horse’s rump, making the poor beast start and almost unseating Wilda. Again he slapped, this time with a shout that had the horse into a canter before Wilda could even cry out. The horse bolted for the trees. Wilda barely had time to look back before all her attention was on not being knocked from the saddle, and the arrow that whistled past her and sank into the trunk of a tree.

Her last sight of Einar as the horse plunged deeper into the wood was of his outline, black against the grey of the sky, with one hand half raised in goodbye. Then he was gone.