Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (135 page)

Alarik shook his head, angrily denying the unspoken command, and again tried to resurface, clutching Olav’s hair tight within his fist.

It was then that he caught sight of Elienor above him, her tattered sapphire silk gown blending with the sea itself. Light as she was, she drifted down past him, her body lifeless, and in a sudden panic, Alarik reached out to seize her, releasing Olav momentarily to snatch her about the waist, and then he drove again to regain hold of his brother. Grasping blindly, his fingers secured a hold on the gleaming ring that bobbed around Olav’s neck.

Alarik tried in vain, once more to resurface, in one hand holding the brother he’d served so long—in his other, the woman he loved. God, how he loved her!

He needed them both.

And by God, he’d save them both!

Resigned to his fate, Olav shook his head furiously, waving Alarik away in desperation, urging him to save himself and Elienor while he could.

Alarik’s lungs pained him beyond anything he’d ever known, but he dared not give in, nor even loosen his grip upon the mortal weight he clutched.

He peered up wretchedly at the fire fading halo of light. It grew more distant with each passing second. How could he simply let go? How could he choose to release his brother—his blood?

Yet in his arms Elienor remained lifeless and he knew he must decide.

With no hands to swim with, and only his feet to propel himself he sank down further still, until he faced Olav in the darkening water.

Olav’s cheeks were bloated, his eyes bulging, set in the deepest scowl Alarik had ever beheld. He struggled against Alarik’s hold. “Go!” he exploded, and the command erupted with a profusion of angry bubbles. By the time the single life-ending word reached Alarik, it sounded no more than a faint rumbling to his ears. Below him, Olav thrashed wildly as he took the burning saltwater into his lungs, and with his last coherent gesture, he jerked his body violently.

Through the fist that held the leather cord around Olav’s neck Alarik felt the spasms that coursed through his brother’s body, and then abruptly Olav, too, became limp and grew heavier, carrying him down... further down...

Still Alarik could not release him, but his strength ebbed, and his fingers went numb about the cold metal ring, and there came a final instant when he knew he could delay no longer. If he didn’t release Olav, Elienor would die for certain.

He could choose life, or he could choose death.

But it was not his destiny to choose at all, for just then Olav slipped from the leather neckband that held him imprisoned in Alarik’s grip.

Pain knifed through Alarik’s chest as he felt the sudden weightlessness—yet he could delay no longer.

His breath exploding from his lungs, he struggled toward the faded light above, leaving a trail of urgent bubbles in his wake.

He only hoped he was not too late for Elienor!

By the blood of the White Christ—what if it was too late? His chest burned until it seemed his lungs would burst. Odin help him—God help him—anybody—the light was too far!

He’d sell his soul to any God to reach it.

He’d take Elienor home, to her uncle, if she wished... if only...

Too far!

His vision faded black momentarily, and then, when it seemed he could hold no longer, he broke through the spume and was breathing once more, gasping for life-saving air.

He’d held Elienor so tightly that even had she come to and been able to take a breath, it wouldn’t have reached her lungs, and he let out a guttural cry as with the last of his strength he hoisted her up into the air.

Vaguely, he was aware she didn’t come back down—and then hands reached down mercifully, seizing him, dragging him from the sea, Elienor’s ring held in a death-grip within his fist.

The impact to her belly as Elienor was hoisted up and down against the ship’s gunwale drove the water from her lungs. She coughed, spewing saltwater. Gasping and choking, she struggled for breath. For the briefest instant, she opened her eyes, saw him not, and cried his name before succumbing again to the blackness that waited to claim her.

W
ith everyone so preoccupied over defeating Olav, they had somehow managed to escape the battle without notice. Fools! For mere hours now the battle had been ended and already there were rumors bandied about that Olav had been spied making away in one of the Jomsviking’s ships.

Alarik knew better.

They’d come straightaway to the steading. For his part, he’d never felt emptier than he did at this moment. And the Gods curse him! He’d never loathed himself more.

Elienor had yet to waken, and for that too he could only blame himself. His chest heaved with emotions he could not express.

If only he’d left her in Francia.

He’d had no right to her then—nor did he have a right to her now.

God—she’d risked her life for him! He could still see the image of her bursting through the flames at him, and the vision would haunt him every last day of his life. She’d taken the blow meant for him, he realized. Had she not leapt at him, shunting his course, twisting his body with the impact of her own, so that it had struck her instead, that axe would have embedded itself between his shoulder blades.

And he would have lain eternally in those icy waters with Olav.

His eyes stinging, he made his way into the dark but familiar
skali
with Elienor’s unconscious, battered body draped across his weary arms. Alva led the way before him with torch in hand. Sigurd and then Brother Vernay followed solemnly, along with Nissa, her face grave and distressed. Within his chamber he laid her gently down upon his bed, and then turned to Nissa, feeling an anger toward her he could not define. All he could think in that moment was that she’d been the last to see Elienor before her abduction. “Leave us!” he commanded, his voice hoarse.

Nodding anxiously, Nissa fled the chamber.

Elienor lay so quietly and unmoving upon his bed, as pale as death itself, that Alarik’s gut twisted violently at the sight of her.

“For what it’s worth, jarl,” Sigurd proffered, “I have faith she’ll heal.” Alarik peered up at him, his dark eyes glittering. “You know how many broken bodies I’ve tended after battle. Her flesh has not the taint of death about it.” He nodded hearteningly, and seeing the longing in his jarl’s eyes, hoped it was so.

Alva shook her head. “’Tis the truth he tells you,” she added, though with somewhat less certainty.

Alarik’s jaw tightened. Closing his eyes, he shut out the raging emotions that battled within him. He could little bear the thought of losing her now—now that he finally knew the depth of his love for her.

Aye, love, he cursed himself! Fool that he was, he had refused to see it! He’d not lose her now, by God!

Not before he was given the opportunity to make it up to her. He would give her her heart’s desire... send her back to Francia if it was her wish—anything she requested of him.

Anything!

If only she would come back.

Looking into her slumbering face, Alarik felt the moisture well in his eyes. He covered his face with his hands, growing angry with this unwanted turn of fate. His massive hands slid down to shadow his quivering mouth as he demanded between clenched teeth, “Is there aught more you could do for her this eve?” His gaze turned from Sigurd to Alva to Vernay. “Any of you?”

Sigurd shook his head, as did Alva and Brother Vernay. “Nay, my lord,” Vernay replied softly, his own eyes watering shamelessly. “Unless she were to... to...”

“Then leave me!” Alarik demanded, refusing to hear the monk out. She would not die. He’d not let her, by God. “Go!” he shouted when they were too slow to comply. He had no wish to disgrace himself further by weeping like a woman before them. Keeping his tone completely devoid of emotion, he added, “And Sigurd...”

Sigurd turned, though Alva and Brother Vernay did not. The two of them hurried away to give privacy.

Alarik’s voice was gruff. He waited until both had left them and then said, “I’d have you take the watch. I’ve no idea what will come of the battle, but for certain I’ll not let any usurp what is mine.”

Sigurd nodded, his expression as sullen as his lord’s, for though Alarik’s words held every trace of their former strength and determination, they lacked the passion. Never before had he beheld him so crestfallen. “Very well, my lord,” he avowed and again turned to go.

“Apprise me the instant you see Bjorn, will you?” Alarik added grimly. “If he dares show his deceiving face.”

“Would you have me tell him aught?” Sigurd asked, turning at the door to look over his shoulder at him.

Alarik shook his head, trying to think coherently, unable to do so. “Tell him...” He shook his head again. “Tell him nothing. Merely send the bastard to me when he comes—if he comes...”

Sigurd nodded, departing at last, closing the heavy door behind him.

Alone, Alarik knelt at the bedside, his eyes closed in anguish.

Elienor had been through all this because of him. Only God knew what she’d endured in the last weeks under Hrolf’s hand. “You shall live!” he demanded arrogantly. “You shall!” His gaze softened, moisture burning at his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut and touched his brow, awkwardly beginning the sign of the cross as he’d seen Brother Vernay do so oft. Odd that he found solace in the ritual when it was done.

After a long moment, he found his voice again, gruff as it was. “I am...” He shook his head in self derision. “A stubborn, arrogant, fool. Too long have I felt the need to be as mine sire... so much so that I’ve done as he did to the last; I’ve denied the love of my heart... as did he... as it was his way to deny all emotions not manly.” His voice faltered. “Christ... fool that I am, I believed him. I believed his way was the true way of men. I was mistaken, Elienor... forgive me.” He laid his head against her breast. “In the name of your God, open your eyes!” he cried hoarsely.

Elienor remained unmoving, and he lifted his face, vaguely aware that a tear, the first he’d ever shed, rolled down his cheek and fell upon her ashen face.

Blinking, he touched the crystalline droplet with a finger, stunned unto death to see it, his heart hammering, unsure what to do next. With a low cry, he swiped it away, and bent to kiss her lips. Taking her head in his big hands, he whispered hoarsely, “Come back to me, Elienor—oh, God, come back to me!”

For the longest time, he merely gazed down at her angelic face, so pale in the dim, flickering light of the single torch. He felt like cursing. He felt like howling. He felt like committing murder. He did none of those. Instead, there, upon his knees, he kept a silent vigil, and cursed Hrolf Kaetilson to a death without a place in his precious Valholl! He’d not been able to avenge himself, for he’d not seen Hrolf again, and he prayed Hrolf had died without a weapon in his traitorous clutches.

Losing track of the hours he spent at Elienor’s side, he thought of everything Elienor had endured at his own hands, at his men’s hands, and knew that never again would he take a man or woman against their will. It was wrong, and looking at her too-still form, the wound on her forehead—his finger gently traced the scar that had completely healed, and then moved into her hair to search out the lump caused by the axe handle. There was no open wound, but it could have killed her—might still kill her. And then there were the burns on her legs, not grave, for they’d plummeted into the water well before her dress could fully ignite, yet still there, a loathsome reminder of all she’d suffered for his indulgence.

Every moment, he prayed for her recovery, but with the light of the new day, it still had not come. In its stead came utter exhaustion. The physical toll of battle and his raw emotions drained him, but he refused to close his eyes.

Nearly asleep upon his knees, he removed his boots and blood-stained shirt, and clad in naught more than his breeches, crawled into the bed beside his beautiful Elienor.

And still he fought exhaustion as he watched her every unconscious gesture. Reaching out, he grasped a lock of her hair, and feeling it between his fingers, he again imagined Olav’s red-gold hair within his fist. Felt again the moment his brother’s body slipped from his grasp to the sea, and a hoarse cry escaped him.

More tears.

But he didn’t care.

He’d lost too much to care.

When Elienor had not roused by the following morn, he felt like shaking her awake. His endurance was near to the breaking point. He felt helpless as a babe simply staring. There had to be something he could do to aid her... something...

With that notion he felt compelled to go to the
kirken
. Elienor had spent so much time within the small building—mayhap there he would find answers. He didn’t bother changing his clothing. Restless as he was, he left his chamber dressed in naught more than his leather breeches.

The instant he walked out of the
skali
, Nissa hurried within, toward his chamber.

Alarik didn’t note it. And he didn’t bother with his mount.

Instead he ran the distance, releasing his frustrations in the course of it. Midway there, he let out a tormented cry and fell to his knees, pounding the ground with his fists in outrage.