Chapter Twenty-Seven
Safira climbed out of the hold, the two parts of his trousers in hand. “I am sure I can mend this today.”
Rurik jumped from the ship’s rail to the dock, his thigh throbbing. Safira tucked his ripped clothes under her arm and walked down the wide plank he’d set for her. Thick, rainless clouds buffeted by wind conspired to block the sun. Merchants opened up their stalls. A new ship, Frisian by design, docked nearby. In the distance, a Frankish ship manned by twenty oarsmen sliced through choppy water.
On land, Gunnar and Erik waited near the blacksmith’s open doors. A woman idled with those two, holding a basket against her hip. Three maids passed, giggling behind their hands at the warriors.
“Look at that.” Safira nudged him. “News has spread. The Sons are here to stay, and Rouen’s fair maids approve.”
“They’d better soak up the attention now. There won’t be much time for women in the coming months.”
Wind blew strands of hair across her face. She’d bound it loosely at her nape with a white wool strip. In the hold, she’d asked Rurik to tie another farther down her back. Fixing her hair had been intimate and sweet.
The fluttering bow taunted him. You’ll miss this.
Setting his hand at the small of her back, he said, “Let’s go to the hall and eat.”
Despite their hunger, they ambled along the deck, taking quick checks of each other, one hesitant smile drawing out another.
“You will be busy in the coming months.” Safira’s voice was small.
The sad notes ripped him. He had to look away. “There is much to do.”
Her scent was on his skin. He’d awakened with her head on his shoulder and her calf resting alongside his. Their sluggish gait was proof neither wanted to leave the cozy nest they’d made in the dragon ship.
Safira tucked loose hair behind her ear and squinted at southern rooftops. “The jarl will send you to clear Queen Annick’s men from the southern forest. Little chance for you to build your holding, no?”
“We meet later to discuss strategy.” They stepped off the dock. “As to when I build... I don’t know.”
A heavy-wooden wheel ox cart stalled their progress uphill. Five children sped by, laughing at a game with a single stick and ball of yarn. Ivar’s hammer rang a steady ping, ping, ping in morning air.
Erik broke away from his conversation. “Rurik,” he called out. “I have news.”
Rurik guided Safira across the muddy road to meet Erik. The basket-holding maid bid Gunnar good day and left to finish her chore. Both the Sons waited in the yard outside Ivar’s forge which faced Merchant’s Row.
Safira stopped in the sunshine. “I will wait here while you talk to Erik and Gunnar.”
Ivar’s hammering ceased. He set down his hammer and a half-formed scythe to step outside. “Rurik. You need to be ready.”
He was as massive as Thorvald without the short-temper. A talented blacksmith and wrestler, he would make a fine warrior if he chose that path. Bare of his tunic, all could see the tattoos that painted his shoulders.
“Vlad and his men are gone.” Erik was quick and to the point.
Rurik bit back a curse. Three paces away Safira shaded her eyes.
“Did you see that?” She pointed south. “A flash...like metal.”
Ivar, Erik, and Gunnar checked the direction with him. “I see nothing,” he said and turned his back on the road. “What happened?”
“The jarl expected them this morning, but they never showed.” This from Ivar.
“Could be Vlad left with his tail between his legs. He has his pride.”
Ivar grinned. “Which you thoroughly beat to the ground.”
“I don’t like it.” Erik’s tone was full of caution. “He’s too mean-spirited to take a beating like that. He’ll want revenge.”
Safira’s footsteps scraped the ground behind him. “Rurik. Something keeps flashing in the sun. I think it’s coming from that last roof.”
He turned. “I don’t have time to—”
What happened next came like glass shards falling before his eyes.
Ivar yelled to Gunnar.
Children scampered by, chasing the ball of yarn. Crows landed on the smithy’s roof, their beady yellow eyes skimming the ground.
A new ship had taken a place on the last dock. A fine-skinned, ebon-haired woman stepped off her ship, the wind snatching her silken veils. She fussed with her skirts as a tall man in scarlet and black robes joined her.
Safira touched his back. “Rurik.”
Air whooshed. His neck bristled and a metallic taste flooded his tongue. The twang of arrows striking wood sounded. He grabbed Safira and dragged her to the smithy.
Another whoosh. Children shrieked. Arrows arced through the skies, dozens of them aiming for the smithy. Ivar and Erik ducked behind massive doors.
Three arrows stuck to the smithy door. Two more landed in the dirt. Countless arrows skidded across the roof.
Another scream curdled Rurik’s ears. Safira. Amber eyes rounded. She clutched his trousers and fell to her knees. She huddled on the floor against the forge’s stone base. He’d let her recover. She was safe and out of the way.
Ivar stood up, glaring south. “They’ve stopped.”
Erik collected arrows off the ground. Gunnar jumped up from the barrel he’d hidden behind and pulled the arrows from the smithy door. More footsteps pounded. Thorvald, Thorfinn, and Bjorn sprinted from the jarl’s hall with Ademar right behind them.
“We are prime targets, standing like this out in the open,” Erik said, scanning the rooftops.
“The Bretons?” Ademar asked, panting from his sprint.
“No.” Ivar held up the arrow. “I forged these arrowheads. A few days ago. For Sigurd.”
“Who is dead,” Thorvald spat. “Dead men don’t shoot arrows.”
Bjorn eyed the circle of men. “Vlad and his men are alive and well.”
“I’d wager every piece of ivory I own, they’re headed to the southern forest,” Erik said, raising the arrow he clutched. “And this was their invitation for us to join them.”
“Rurik.” Safira’s voice was whispery behind him. He would see her safely to the feast hall and saddle his horse.
His blood ran hot. Vlad and his men would die.
Inside the forge, Safira sat with her back to him. She set a steadying hand on the stone base and pushed to her feet. When she turned, her face paled. Blood ran fresh across her skirts. One forearm clamped his trousers to her ribs.
The other forearm trembled. An arrow had shot through it.
“Safira!” He rushed to catch her as her knees buckled.
She craned her neck and blinked at the road. Intent on looking past his shoulder, her voice was clear.
“Hello, Mother.”