Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (133 page)

Alarik waited a moment before replying, weighing his words. Somehow, the conversation had digressed from that which they’d rehearsed. When he spoke again his tone was more resigned than angry. “Seems to me, mine bror... you have your own battle to fight. You have no time for mine.” Their gazes locked. In the silence of the moment, Alarik swallowed his resentment, for no matter how infuriated he was with Olav... Olav was his brother... and more than that... he was his king. “Nevertheless,” he began, when Olav failed to be soothed, “if you would care to make mine battle your own... then I will always...
always
welcome you at my back.” He nodded. “As I, in faith, hope you would have me at yours?”

Olav returned the nod, satisfied. “Very well, then... if ’tis possible... I shall procure those men of the Pole for you... and then I shall add to them mine own. I would be there to see you skewer that red-haired heathen!” There was a lapse in conversation abruptly, a silence that was endless, for it seemed every man within the
skali
was intent on their conversation. “Shall we leave, let us say... within the fortnight?”

Alarik nodded. “Within the fortnight,” he agreed, and it was then he sensed more than heard Bjorn rising from table. Again, he didn’t bother to look to be certain. Somehow, he knew. Pain knifed through him. Closing his eyes, he listened as Bjorn gave his excuses. He felt his brother brush by his shoulder, and opened his eyes, his gaze remaining upon Bjorn as he passed by him and made his way through the
skali
, looking more light-hearted than he had in weeks. A muscle ticked at his jaw, for on the way out, Bjorn stopped briefly to banter with Ivar Longbeard—nothing significant, the two merely shared a snicker—in truth, it was as though Bjorn had suddenly been given a new fate...

And mayhap he had.

Mayhap this day they all had.

“Think you he took the bait?” Olav had bent to whisper the question at his ear.

Alarik watched a moment longer, until Bjorn departed at last, and then his gaze returned to the ring Olav wore. He said quietly, enigmatically, without emotion, “I feel the blade twisting already.”

“Good, then... mayhap you will reclaim the Fransk before long.”

“Mayhap,” Alarik concurred.

“Alarik?”

Alarik met Olav’s gaze at last. He nodded sullenly.

“It seemed to me that for an instant... for the slightest instant... there was sincerity in your anger. Is there aught you would speak to me of?”

Alarik considered briefly asking of the ring, but knew he would not. He could not quite bring himself to disclose his weakness for Elienor to such a length. Suffice it that everyone assumed he liked not being thwarted, that he liked not being deprived of that which he owned. Why should any know of the bleakness that had settled into his soul and heart?—verily, even into his bones!

Still, there was something that concerned him just as deeply. “Olav... mine, brother...” He swallowed, for it was doubtless the most difficult thing he’d ever said to his brother. “I know you say you have a passion for this faith... that for the love of it you would die... but can you not love it somewhat less... and practice it more?”

Olav’s visage twisted suddenly with outrage. “What say you, Alarik? Do you denounce mine faith?” he raged, his face mottling.

Alarik’s expression did not so much as change. “Nei, Olav. But if I were to... would you then treat me with the same heavy hand you lend to others when they do not fall to your demands?”

Olav’s face reddened. “I’ll not answer such an impudent question!”

Alarik shook his head. “You cannot sway the people through force.” His eyes fixed upon his brother, unyielding. “Can you not take a single backward step?”

“And you! Can you so easily discard the wench?”

Silence.

“Never,” Alarik replied, his eyes sharp as daggers. “Never.” And it was God’s truth, for even if Bjorn failed to flush Ejnar and Hrolf out of hiding, he’d not stop searching until his dying breath.

“Trygvi’s bastard will not find you, lest I will it!” Hrolf taunted, having overheard Elienor’s prayers.

Filthy and reeking from the prison pit she’d been cast into, Elienor struggled to keep her dignity. She’d not deign to reply, she told herself, for every time she did, Hrolf committed some atrocious act upon her person such as spitting down at her through the bars. The man was vile! Jesu, but it felt as though she’d been imprisoned for years. Hell had nothing new in store for her after this!

The hours passed slowly by. There was naught for her to do but sit and listen to the grating sound of Hrolf’s voice. Her legs and backside ached from inactivity. But at least they fed her well enough—small consolation though it was.

“Olav, the fool... he’s turned every man against him with his oppression and his threats!” Hrolf declared. “For truth, there is no one who would betray us to him now—none that I know of. Though there are some who would betray him,” he said cryptically, and then snickered. “As you shall soon see…”

Still Elienor refused to respond. Instead she listened, for in the last days she’d gleaned much information from Hrolf in just such a manner. Braggart that he was, Hrolf seemed pleased to goad her night and day, and through his prattling she’d managed to discover that her pit graced the hall of an old abandoned steading located on an isle in the middle of a marsh—thus accounting for the sour smelling soil.

“Even those who might have followed the Christian faith will not now because Olav will not suffer them to choose of their own will. He shovels his own grave, I tell you, and he’ll pull his bastard brother down with him when he plunges down into it. Alarik, the fool, is simply too loyal for his own good... and you,
witch
, will insure me his ruin… and then shall you watch as I shovel putrid soil over both!”

Elienor covered her ears and prayed for strength, forcing herself to ignore Hrolf’s mockery of Alarik and his horrifying prophecy. Dear God, she prayed, bear me through this...

Even through her hands, she heard the rise of voices and uncovered her ears, trying to make them out.

“Your God will not aid you!” Hrolf scoffed, snickering nastily.

A quiver raced down Elienor’s spine at the all too familiar declaration. Her heart pounded frantically as the muffled voices grew in clarity, finally catching Hrolf’s notice, as well. He quieted, pivoting to face the men that entered, and then howled wildly with glee. Walking out of her sight to greet the newcomers, he laughed again and declared, “At last... at last! But then I knew you’d come!”

“Dispense with the crowing, Hrolf!”

Elienor cried out softly, recognizing the voice.

‘The information I bring comes with a price...”

A long silence.

“What price?” Ejnar’s gruff voice asked.

There was another pause and then Bjorn declared, “Your daughter, Ejnar... your daughter and land of mine own if you should depose him...

Ejnar guffawed. “Bastard!” he said, without animosity. “You’ll bed her yet, will you not? Persistent... bold... I like that... very well, Bjorn, Erik’s son. If the information you’ve borne me today proves worthy, I shall indeed grant you my daughter at long last! What say you to that?”

Elienor heard a grunt and ensuing sigh, and imagined Bjorn relieved.

Was this the betrayal she’d dreamed of?

“If she’ll have you,” Ejnar added.

“She’ll have me!” Bjorn avowed.

Ejnar laughed once more. “’Tis baffling is it not... that a man’s weakness should eternally lie betwixt the legs of a woman? Some day, I warrant, the crafty bitches shall rule all the lands!” And with that declaration, all three roared with laughter. “Come,” Ejnar charged. “Let us hear what you have to say.” And with that, they moved out of hearing distance.

When Hrolf swaggered into view moments later, his eyes were alight with unholy mirth. Snickering, he bent, unlocked the grate excitedly, and swung the cell door wide. “Come out, come out!” he beckoned ominously. “’Tis time at last!” And with that, an anticipatory grin split his red beard and face.

And in that instant, a dark foreboding swept over Elienor, a presentiment more sinister than any she’d ever known.

The time had come, she knew, and the realization chilled her to the bone.

A
larik was beginning to wonder that mayhap he’d been mistaken.

They’d made the journey to Vendland to meet with Burislav the Pole entirely without incident, and now upon their return there was yet no sign of Ejnar, or Hrolf. His gut twisted with the thought, for it had been weeks now since he’d seen Elienor.

For the first time he considered that he might not see her again.

Nei, but he would find her, by God! If it took the remainder of his days, he would find her.

Altogether they sailed with nearly seventy-one vessels in their entourage, and men enough to crush the life from any army Ejnar could amass upon his own.

And crush him they would.

If they could find him.

Along with sixty of their own well-manned warships, they’d managed to recruit another eleven of the Jomsborg Viking’s. Still, something beleaguered him now...

Something...

Above them, the sun shone bright as the Goldenhawk glided over the waves, its proud hawk’s head soaring majestically before them, but the breeze swept dark clouds directly into their path. The threat of a storm gave rise again to his feeling of foreboding.

About them the air was calm.

Too calm...

Instinct told him something was amiss, and he hadn’t lived so many years by disregarding his intuition.

The gut feeling had begun when first their departure from Vendland had been delayed, but he’d attributed his unease to his agitation over recovering Elienor. Now he found cause to wonder whether it had been a planned conspiracy. Scanning the waters ahead, he spied their escort, the Jomsvikings—they’d granted their ships much too easily, he thought, and his sense of unease intensified.

And now that he considered it... Burislav, too, had handed over the lands Olav had requested much too promptly... with nary a protest...

An hour past, the lead Jomsviking ship had bid them follow, saying that they knew well the safest route through the island sounds... that the water was too shallow in places for the Longserpent and the Goldenhawk to pass through. At the time it had sounded reasonable enough... though now...

His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he inspected Svolth’s chalky coastline rising in the distance. It appeared forsaken and deserted, but something wasn’t right.

Something...

And then he spied them and cursed roundly.

In that instant, the clouds moved over them and the skies darkened forbiddingly as he motioned across the frothy waters to Olav upon the Longserpent.

Before he could speak, from another ship, the Shortserpent, came an anxious shout. “My king! Do you see them?”

An undeterminable number of ships made their way swiftly forward, coming like hungry rats from behind their refuge. Even as they advanced, the Jomsviking ships fell back from their midst.

“Betrayed!” Alarik roared to Olav. “We are betrayed! Lower the sails!” he commanded his men at the top of his lungs. “Secure the ships!”

“But there are so many!” someone bellowed from upon the Crane.

Olav’s gaze snapped about. “Let not my men think of fleeing!” he warned. “Never have I fled in battle! May God reclaim my soul, but we’ll not flee now!” He pivoted to Alarik. “Know you who commands the fleet that sails against us?”

Alarik squinted as the sun burst through the clouds once more, its brightness blinding. He shook his head, turning to Olav, his hand shielding his eyes. “It appears to be Svein Forkbeard with his Danes!”

“Humph! We should have no fear from that quarter! There is no courage in those Danes! Who else dares challenge us this day?”

“The Swedes!” Sigurd bellowed with contempt at Alarik’s back.

“Hah!” Olav scoffed. “Better it would have been for them to stay home and lap their sacrificial bowls than to attack the Longserpent and encounter our weapons!”

“My lord!” someone interjected from upon the Longserpent. “Haconson the jarl sails beside them, as well!”