Chapter One
Am Parph, Scotia—late tenth century
Darach, son of the chieftain of Clan Dùnan Mòr, heard the mournful call of the war horns and stopped dead in his tracks. Days of peace in the northern reaches of his beloved homeland were rare as of late. By God’s grace alone and the challenging landscape, the clan’s lands situated along the most northwestern point of the coast were left untouched by the Norse invaders.
Many longships had met a violent end, blown into the ragged inlets that shaped the coastline and smashed to pieces against the cliffs. As if the Almighty himself wished to remind Darach of his good fortune, a gale howled across the grasslands. What else would the Lord’s voice sound like if not a raging wind or the crack of thunder? He stared southward a last time, visually confirming that his sire’s largest herd of sheep were safe in the meadow before he headed in the direction from whence the horns sounded.
It was the best time of the year to graze sheep in the open—the heather and grass was sweet to taste and plentiful. One of the shepherds tending the flock waved, and Darach signaled back before he turned northward, knowing what he’d find once he ascended the hill that opened to the cliffs overlooking Am Parph—a place the Norse called Vrede, or in Darach’s language, God’s Wrath. An appropriate name considering he believed the Almighty often directed that vengeance at the savages invading Scotia.
The bearded bastards worshipped ancient pagan gods that demanded the blood of their enemies in exchange for wealth and land. It was Darach’s duty, and that of his captains, to safeguard his people.
He gripped the intricately carved cross that hung about his neck on a leather chord. It was a gift from his youngest sister before she’d died two seasons ago. Moving surefooted through the bogs he knew so well, he reached the footpath that would take him to the vantage point where he could survey the vast ocean. If a ship came within fifty miles, he’d see it long before it anchored.
Another horn sounded, raising gooseflesh all over his body. That noise always unsettled him, for it promised one thing . . . But it was the only way for his people to know danger approached.
As he’d suspected, a longship had strayed into one of the narrow inlets. He could make out the color of the single sail—red as blood with a black symbol embroidered in the center, likely a raven or dragon’s head, both meant to intimidate the innocents those heathens intended to attack. Not today, not while there was breath left in his body.
Darach scanned the pebbled beach for the warriors who had sounded the warning, finally picking them out hidden among the boulders below. He ambled down the familiar cliff, knowing exactly where to place his feet and hands so he wouldn’t fall to his death. This part of the northlands was remote and sparsely populated. Darach preferred it that way.
His home might not be the wealthiest, but their quality wool was known throughout the country. The profit made off the exceptional material spun by his kinswomen and the lambs they sold each year, provided a comfortable living for his people. And he’d be damned if the bloody Norse were going to take it away.
Reaching the beach, he motioned to Cameron. “How many men are here?”
“Ten,” his most trusted captain said, indicating the three with him, then gesturing in the direction of where the others must be awaiting orders. “Earvin and Hamish are in charge of the rest. I don’t believe that ship is a real threat. After last night’s storm, I’m surprised the vessel is still afloat.”
Darach rubbed his stubbled chin and gazed across the water. How different the ship looked from here compared to how it appeared from the cliffs. “Twill make landfall within an hour. There’s nothing more we can do to prepare. Tell the men to stand down.”
A few minutes later, a roaring fire was built and the soldiers huddled close for warmth. Though it was late spring, the wind off the water always made it feel like winter.
“How many men on a longship?” one of the warriors asked.
“As many as they can squeeze aboard,” Cameron said. “The heathens don’t think about comfort or cleanliness, they shite where they sleep, like cattle. Can ye imagine the condition of the wee hovels they live in?”
The captain’s words elicited grimaces from the men. But Darach knew the truth. Vikings lived better than most, benefitting from what they stole from the people on this side of the North Sea. The very thought made Darach sick to his stomach and he spat on the ground. “I don’t care if they’re covered in filth and stink to high heaven, not one of them steps off this beach alive.”
“Aye . . .” the men chorused, ready to fight and die.
Darach rose from the ground then, edging close to the water, watching the longship weave and wobble on the waves. Once caught by the tide, not even the grandest of ships could withstand the invisible hand that slowly pulled any vessel to shore. He took a deep breath, feeling uneasy. Something about that ship didn’t make sense. There were no signs of life, no one manning the oars or working the rigging.
Dismissing his concern, he continued to observe the trajectory of the longship, until it finally hit the shallows. He unsheathed his sword, raised his fist to signal his men to follow, and then rushed into the water, unwilling to give his enemies the chance to disembark. Let them die without setting foot on hallowed ground. The only piece of Scotia they’d get would be his fist and blade.
Cameron kept pace with him.
As they swarmed the ship, hoisting themselves over the sides, several of the men cursed and stopped short. Darach landed inside on his feet, ready to kill. But violence was unnecessary, for every man aboard lay dead.
“God Almighty . . .” He raked his hand through his hair and gazed about in shock. It took a few long seconds for him to understand exactly what he was looking at. He eyed Cameron who stood a few feet away, as surprised as he was. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He sheathed his weapon and carefully walked to the closest body.
“Plague?” Cameron asked, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.
Upon closer inspection of the lad at his feet, Darach didn’t think so. There were no marks on his body—no boils or rashes—no blood. “This one is long gone,” he confirmed, “but the cause is unclear.”
Cameron did the same, checking corpse after corpse, only to find no evidence of sickness or obvious cause of death.
“We must ground the vessel,” Darach said. “Order the men to do so.” He straddled the side of the ship then and stared into the depths, confused by the condition of the crew, noting none of them were armed or dressed in mail. These weren’t conquerors, but ordinary men. He jumped into the waist-high water and headed back to shore.
While waiting for his men to carry out his order, he considered why they didn’t climb inside the ship. Fear had overridden their senses. Though he well understood the suspicion of plague or even witchcraft, seasoned warriors shouldn’t falter, regardless of the danger. He’d have to discipline them later.
Cameron finally joined him.
“I believe that vessel was bound for a different destination. And though not a warship, it was built by the Norse, whose superior vessels are always to be admired and feared.”
“Tis a prize to be proud of,” Cameron said. “Think how much gold it could bring at market.”
Twenty men could carry a longship across the land until it reached the next river or lake. This gave the Vikings an absolute advantage, making inland locations as vulnerable as his seaside home.
Once the ship was finally anchored, Darach approached the other soldiers.
“What shall we do with the bodies?” one of the men asked.
Darach considered it. Should they burn the bodies and vessel? Keep the ship as Cameron suggested? Or just take whatever valuables were inside?
“Sir!” one of the men called urgently, “There’s a woman here. She’s alive.”
Darach lost track of his thoughts. Why was she alive? There was only one way to find out. He climbed inside the ship again, determined to get answers to his questions.