Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire: The Stranded One (Viking Brothers Saga Book 1) (44 page)

Much of the harbor was visible from where they stood. A single dock stretched into the water, but only small boats were tied there. Many other ships, some with the dreadful dragon prows of legend, were pushed up onto the beach. Larger ships floated just offshore. The harbor was hub of activity, the boat crews using ropes and logs to haul the grounded ships higher up on shore.

Excited shouts rose from the wall as they approached, and though she did not understand the words, the names of Brandr and Sindre were clear. They had been recognized.

Brandr suddenly bent to her. “Lissa, listen to me! It is very important you remember all I told you yestre day. Do not be afraid, but more importantly, do not
show
fear. Few of my people can speak or understand your language, and that will aid you, but you will meet a few who will. Say naught, Lissa—
naught—
but what I told you! I will not leave you alone if it can be helped. Now lift your chin, put on a haughty expression, and show no fear! Give me your smile!”

Somehow, she managed it, though it wobbled a trifle. She glanced down at the lovely clothes she wore, the smokkr the blue of the sea in the sunlight, with copper tortoise clasps, over a soft, cream serk. They had all bathed in a stream that morn, and dressed in the new finery. She took courage in knowing she looked as good as was possible.

“Já, it is good. You will be fine. You are strong, and I am proud of you. You are also very beautiful, so remember, you are
mine!”

Those were his last words to her for some time, for despite his intent to keep her close, as soon as they came through the gate, he and Sindre were immediately swept away by enthusiastic villagers who called their names and pounded them on the back. Nicolaus and Hakon went with them.

They are well liked and respected among their people. That is good to know.

Siv stepped forward. “Stay close to me, Lissa.” She smiled at them all. “It it best if we who are strangers stay together. Turold and I will do the talking.”

The scop, clearly fascinated by all he saw, stood directly behind her, holding Alwin’s hand. He grinned. “Do not be afraid. These people are farmers, fishermen and traders. They wonder about us, but I sense no hostility. We have arrived with the sons and brother of their jarl, and it clear we are not prisoners. They will not harm us.”

Lissa took comfort from his confidence as they followed the brothers, greeted by all who saw them, down the straight central lane that divided the village in half. From up ahead, Brandr shook free long enough to turn. His azure eyes took in all of them, then pierced her with a hard look. He waved and offered what was meant to be an encouraging smile.

In an effort to fight the fluttering in her stomach, she looked around at the town as they followed in the wake of the men. Behind the palisade, Ljotness was bigger than it had looked from outside the walls, boasting many houses, whitewashed or painted in bright colors, and laid out in an orderly fashion. Trees grew along the central lane, and little gardens and pens for small livestock could be viewed between the houses. People were everywhere, some busy with tasks, others hurrying from one place to another. They eyed her group with bold curiosity, but did not accost them.

As they drew nigh the far palisade, a building larger than the others loomed. It had once been a large Saxon mead hall.

“There is a curious mix here of Saxon and Danski construction,” Turold remarked.

She nodded. “Brandr said this was a Saxon village until his father attacked it two summers ago and wrested it from the Saxon thegn who ruled here.”

“Ah, I thought as much. Look, the Northmen have rebuilt many of the houses. In some cases, they have connected two, or even three smaller buildings to create the longhouse style they prefer. They have constructed strong, timber-framed structures that will withstand the sea storms.” Admiration was in his tone. “This is a good place, a place to raise a family.”

She was beginning to think so, too.

“Bjarki!”

Recognizing the shouted name, Lissa turned to watch as a young man of perhaps seven and ten summers barreled through the gate to fling himself at Brandr. With shoulder length, flaxen hair held in place by a forehead band, and almost as tall as Brandr, he looked very like him, except he wore no facial hair and had yet to gain Brandr’s muscled bulk. Surely, this was Rathulf, the youngest brother, whom Brandr called Thegjandi, the quiet one. He was not quiet now, but wrestled with Brandr, yelling and laughing all the while.

Behind him limped another tall, arresting figure, powerful and very much a warrior. His head was shaved except for a short patch that covered his pate, and he had a pointed beard similar in hue to Lissa’s own golden tresses. He wore a mark of black on his scalp, one above his left ear, and another on his neck. His limp, and the fact that he and the other, younger man carried the strong, clearly defined features of the family, identified him as Karl, the eldest. He could not be much older than Brandr, but he wore his maturity well. Brandr had said he was called Vard, the guardian, because Karl was eldest and from childhood, believed it his duty to watch over the rest of them.

Brandr reached beneath his tunic and took off one of the two pendants he had worn through their journey. He dropped it over his brother’s head and said something. Both men started to laugh and gave each other a single, mighty hug.

She had almost caught up with them. By unspoken consent, the small group with her stopped a little distance away, so as not to interfere with the reunion of the five sons and brother of Óttarr Grimarson.

“They are a striking bunch, are they not? Powerful warriors, all.” Turold’s expression held speculation. “I must admit, I would not wish to face them in battle, but to have them at my back would inspire great confidence.”

“Indeed, they are magnificent, and handsome too, every one of them.” Siv’s eyes glowed. “Especially my Sindre!”

“They are very big.” Alwin moved closer to Turold.

“But you are part of the family, now, Alwin.” Oswulf’s reminder was gentle. “You have naught to fear from them.”

“Aye, that is true.” Turold held Alwin’s gaze. “Northmen treasure their families just as Saxons do. They will welcome you.”

Lissa nodded as Alwin turned his gaze to her. “It is true. Did Sindre not say before witnesses you are his son?”

“Aye, he did. I am supposed to call him ‘fadther’,” he tried to say it with the odd accent of the Northmen, but it did not come out quite right, “but it is strange on my tongue.”

Before she could answer, a sudden silence fell among those with Brandr. She watched as a figure, almost as large as Sindre, strode through the gate and approached them. His face was scarred and lined, and despite his advanced age, he walked upright and proud. The hair on his head was cut very short, so he seemed almost bald, but his facial hair, as white as that on his head, was so thick it fully obscured the lower half of his face. Above it, his sharp, narrowed eyes were deep, deep blue, the same azure hue as those of Brandr, but they were cold, and carried an emptiness that caught at her breath.

Brandr stepped forward. He stood tall and seeming at ease, but she recognized his tension in the set of his broad shoulders. “Father!”

The villagers still close to the brothers parted and drew aside. Nicolaus, Hakon and Rathulf ranged themselves behind Brandr, while Sindre and Karl stationed themselves on either side.

They align themselves with Brandr! Oh, I am glad.

“Nicolaus! Happy am I that you have returned sooner than expected, my son. I see you bring with you the lost ones.” He nodded to Sindre. “It is good you have survived, my brother, though of course, I am not surprised.”

For long moments, Óttarr Grimarson made much of Sindre and Nicolaus, but Lissa felt her heart catch when he completely ignored Hakon. She could not see the faces of his sons, but all five of them stiffened when he turned his gaze to Brandr, upon whom he cast a contemptuous eye.

“
So. The rumors that you feast in the halls of Valhóll are untrue.” He uttered a word that had all the brothers except Brandr bristling.

Sindre growled, a low, menacing sound. “Óttarr! You know naught of the truth. Save your contempt until you have heard all.”

“Bah! I have eyes, and know enough.” He suddenly moved to stand nose to nose with Brandr. “Where is the treasure you promised to bring home to me? I see naught of riches.” He gestured toward Lissa. “Are these ragged Saxons all the thralls you could find to add to my wealth? They do not even look healthy.”

Brandr did not move, nor did he speak.

Sindre answered. “Those you see are no slaves, but free men and women. Two are honor-bound to serve Brandr, one is skáld, three are kin.”

“Kin! What is this you say! Do you take me for a fool, Sindre?”

“You
are
a fool, Óttarr,” Sindre roared. “Sometimes, I am ashamed to call you brother.” He turned. “Siv, Alwin, Lissa. Family, come to me!”

The brothers—all but Brandr, who continued to face forward—turned to peer at them. Karl and Rathulf struggled to hide their shock, but it was clear they were as surprised as their father at Sindre’s claim.

Lissa glanced at Brandr’s unyielding back. The anger she felt on his part, and for Hakon, was as an iron rod up her spine, for Brandr had told her of his father’s contempt for the son who wished to be a skáld. She firmed her jaw and walked to stand between Sindre and Brandr, while Siv, her movements sure and graceful, went to take Sindre’s hand, Alwin trotting at her side.

Sindre pulled Alwin in front of him, then placed a hand first on Siv’s shoulder, then upon hers.

Without a word, Brandr took her hand, lacing their fingers.

Never had she felt more proud, nor more certain of her place.

Óttarr caught Brandr’s gesture. His face went as cold as the eyes he raised to him. If he could have frozen his second son solid on the spot, he would have.

Sindre gave him no chance. “Hear me, Óttarr Grimarson! You see before you my wife
,
Siv, my son, Alwin, and my daughter, Lissa. I have named them so before many witnesses, both Danski and Saxon.” His voice dropped and his tone took on a hard, brittle edge. “Insult them, and you insult
me
.”

For the first time, Brandr spoke. His lips barely moved. She had never heard his voice so barren of emotion. “Sindre may have claimed Lissa as his daughter, but I have claimed her to be my
brúdr
. We will be wed as soon as it may be arranged.”

She froze.

Brandr! You were supposed to wait to tell him of this until after Sindre showed him the gold!

A shocked silence held them all in sway.

“Brandr,” Karl said, warning in his tone.

Brandr shook his head. “Not now, Vard!”

Óttarr’s face went livid as his lips turned white. “You are already betrothed,” he roared, “to the daughter of Abi Bergthorson! The contract is agreed before witnesses, the bride price arranged, the dowry paid.”

“Then return it! You made those arrangements against our law, Father, without my presence, knowledge or consent, and all who witnessed it know it. The contract is invalid, and so the godi will declare. I
will
marry Lissa of Yriclea. If Jarl Bergthorson is insulted, kill him.”

Lissa waited for the eruption that built in Óttarr’s eyes. His big hands fisted.

Almost as one, those who watched the confrontation edged back.

Sindre and the brothers closed ranks.

Óttarr suddenly relaxed. He smiled.

It terrified her.

Lightning sheeted across the clouds out at sea, drawing her gaze. A long, slow rumble of thunder rolled across the water toward them.

“Thorr is angry,” Sindre said.

Óttarr turned, and without another word, walked away down a lane that angled to the north.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Brandr sat on a sheepskin-covered bench at the table inside the mead hall. He rotated a drinking horn, delicately inlaid with elaborate patterns of silver and gold, between his fingers. His belly was pleasantly full, the bjórr was cold, and the big hall was warm and comfortable. He was clean, and in his own clothes again, no longer torn and travel-stained, and surrounded by family and friends he loved. He would have preferred to be in a pit full of vipers.

Across the blazing fire pit on the opposite side of the room, his father slouched, relaxed and watchful, in the High Seat.

He connives, but what? It cannot be good.

The hall was crowded. After an unpleasant sup in which his father had made sly, contemptuous slurs against himself, Lissa and Hakon, Óttarr announced he had ordered a
thing
. Every man in the village, except for a handful of guards at the walls, was packed into the room. Under the circumstances, the godi should also be present, but Brandr was well aware their troubles would have to be taken to the old priest, for he would not come to them, especially on such a night.

It was not yet raining, but the wind blew cold and steady and mighty Thorr drove his chariot through the skies with his great hammer, Mjóllnir, thunder and lightning in his wake.

The tingling charge in the storm-laden air heightened the strain in the room. He was on edge, jumpy, wishing Frækn was by his side, but his father had forbidden all weapons.

Still, his sax rode his thigh beneath his tunic. What Óttarr did not know….

He wished he had not had to leave Lissa with his mother, Elsef. At his introduction of Lissa as his wife-to-be, Elsef had gone icily silent. Her ice-blue eyes lit upon his love, as cold as those of Óttarr. She had barely been able to bring herself to be civil, even to Sindre and Siv. That she took an instant loathing to Lissa and the other Saxons, she made very clear.

For reasons she would not speak, but which worried him, Elsef insisted Lissa stay with her and Siv, and he had no choice but to leave her. Women had no place at the
thing
, but he had to be there. Turold could not help protect Lissa, for he, Alwin, Oswulf and Bryda had been shown to Sindre’s house and placed under guard, until matters were decided. He prayed to Thorr, Odinn and Freyr alike that in his absence, his mother would respect the laws governing dealings with strangers.