Chapter Three
Duna thought she’d be sick with fear. Either that or her legs would give way and she’d go into one of those fainting episodes she’d seen other women in the village do.
The brute standing before her was the most terrifying creature she’d ever seen. And yes, he was a creature. No man of this earth could be so big, or so brutal. His sort were destroying the village, just as she’d predicted.
Predicted!
Her dreams flashed into her memory as she stared up at his face. Some of it was hidden by the strip of metal that came down from the center of his horned helmet. But those eyes, they were summer-sky blue, his lashes dark blond, and the hair growing on his jawline was darker. She snatched in a breath as her attention went to the black strokes of what appeared to be ink curling around the outer aspect of his right eye and onto his cheek.
But she had no intention of hanging about to study his strangeness, so she ducked beneath his arm, to the right, and made a dash for the door.
She didn’t get far. He caught her on her first step out into the night. He gripped her waist and slung her into the air as though she weighed nothing.
The next thing she knew her world had turned upside down. She was over his right shoulder, his hand flat on her ass.
“Get off me!” She hammered at his lower back, cursing the thick leather tunic he wore. “Put me down.”
“Bring back my daughter.” Her father’s voice, filled with panic, came from the cottage doorway.
Her captor spun around. “I have shown mercy, you have kept your life, old man, but in return you must give me something.”
“Anything, take me. But leave the lass here, where she belongs, unharmed.”
“No, the lass is what you’re giving me. She is mine now.”
She is mine now.
Those words screamed through Duna’s brain. “No! Never!” She kicked and flailed, fought to be released, but it was no good. She was well and truly held by him.
“No!” her father shouted. “Leave her be. She is my most treasured possession.”
The Viking acted as though her father hadn’t spoken. He turned into the wind and marched away from her home.
Duna grunted as her belly was pressed repeatedly against his shoulder. He was striding fast, through the village. Raising her head, she glanced around at the carnage.
Her neighbor lay dead on the ground, his house torched.
She spotted one of the Laird’s men, also dead, his face blood-covered.
“Where are you taking me? Stop.” She continued to kick, trying to jab her knees into the chest of the man stealing her away.
“Keep still.” Smack.
“Ouch!” A resounding slap had landed on her buttocks, right across both, his palm was so big. The heat spread. He’d put real male strength into it.
Good, that meant she’d hurt him with her knee jabbing.
She did it again, with more force.
He grunted. “Fuck! Stop that, woman.”
Smack.
She yelped as pain bloomed over her ass. “Let me go!”
Her struggling was to no avail, but she kept it up. She found the strength to raise her head again, from her upturned position. “Esca!”
He was in battle with a huge monster of a man wielding a sword. Her friend—potential husband—was dwarfed by his bearded assailant, but was putting up a brave fight. He swung his axe to the right, then the left, narrowly missing the arm of the other man.
She cried out, fear of what was about to happen gripping her. He couldn’t die, not sweet Esca. He didn’t deserve to, least of all at the hands of these brutes.
“I will kill you for this,” she shouted, fury mixing with her fear. “All of you.”
“Shut up. And stop your fucking wriggling.”
Her heartbeat tripped and stuttered; Esca was on the ground. She didn’t see where he’d been struck, but he’d fallen like a rock tumbling down a cliff side. She wanted to go to him, defend him, hold him while he took his last breaths.
Esca’s attacker appeared, satisfied Esca was no longer a threat, stepped over him, and approached two farmers wielding pitchforks.
She heard her father’s voice again, shouting for her, crying out.
Her heart felt as if it were being ripped in two. Esca was dead, she was sure of it. She’d never see her father again. Her life was over.
Heat from the burning buildings faded as her Viking abductor strolled from the village. His accomplices were close behind.
Much as she’d hated the crackle of flames destroying thatch, and the fearful cries of her friends and neighbors, the deep voices speaking in unfamiliar dialect were more terrifying. Where were they taking her? Were they all going to rape her, take it in turns to find their pleasure with the virgin they’d kidnapped, then murder her, brutally and slowly?
The horror of what was in her future was like an actual, physical pain. Plus she was dizzy, with being upside down. The sickness was back, and she was cold too, the wind catching them as they traversed through the cliff pass.
Don’t give up. Don’t let this be the end. I’m worth more than this.
From somewhere she found the energy and she wriggled and fought, trying desperately to release the iron-like arms that gripped her. This was the fight of her life. It may well be the last fight of her life.
“You have a wild one there, Halvor,” the Viking behind her said.
“Aye, the wench won’t stop wriggling.”
Smack.
She yelped. He’d slapped her ass again!
“Ha, that’s it, teach her a lesson,” the brute behind her chuckled.
She raised her head and glared at him. It was the monster who’d attacked Esca. “You can speak my tongue,” she snarled. “So understand me when I say leave me be.”
“We can speak your tongue, aye, makes it easier to tell our slaves what to do.” He laughed, an evil guffaw that filled her with dread.
“I’m not your slave and I never will be.”
“No, but I have a feeling you now belong to Halvor. You’ll be his slave until the day you die.”
“I will not.” Halvor. Now she knew the name of the marauder marching away with her. Now she had a name for the man from her dreams. But what difference did that make? The thought of being his slave until the day she died turned the blood in her veins to ice.
The sand dunes flashed by in her peripheral vision, as did long skinny blades of grass that cut shins like razors if care wasn’t taken when walking through them in the summer.
The Nordic savages, in their boots, trudged ahead. She tried to listen for other women, but could hear none. Was she the only female taken from her village? Were the others dead?
Halvor came to a stop. He clasped her waist, stooped, and set her bare feet on the ground.
As she straightened, a wave of dizziness came over her. She staggered to the right, her feet sinking in the sand and her arms flailing.
“Steady there.” He gripped her elbow, his big fingers wrapping around her mid-arm and tugging her so she stayed standing.
Black dots swarmed over her vision. The noise of the ocean dwindled. A strange floaty feeling gripped her brain.
“Hey, stand up.” He took hold of her other arm. “You’re unharmed.”
It was true, she was, apart from a smarting ass and bruised ribs, that was.
“Where are you taking me?” she managed.
“To our homeland, Celtic wench.” The Viking at Halvor’s side had spoken again.
She glared at him, hate filling her soul. What he’d done to poor sweet Esca was unforgiveable. A sob grew in her throat, but she beat it down. She’d never see her dear friend again. Now there was no need to further contemplate his marriage proposal.
“Celtic wench.” Halvor released her left elbow and cupped her chin. He tilted her head so she was forced to look at him, then pulled off his helmet.
Again she studied the markings on his face. Swirling dark ink partly covered by his long strands of hair, which were whipping over his brow and temples in the wind.
“I haven’t had a Celtic wench before.”
She twisted from him. “And you’re not having me now.”
To her surprise she managed to spin from his grip. She didn’t pause to enjoy her success. Instead she burst into a sprint. The sand hindered her progress, but she forged forward, toward the cliffs. She knew this land well, like the back of her hand. If only she could get away, she’d find a place to hide.
She made it all of ten steps before a now familiar set of thick, iron-hard arms locked around her.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Halvor’s mouth was by her ear. “I’m not in the habit of letting go of what I want.”
“You can’t have me, you brute.” She shoved at his forearms wrapped around her waist. When he picked her up, her back to his chest, she kicked and threw her head into his face. All she achieved was whacking the back of her head on his helmet, which he must have put back on. But even so, she did it again.
“Stop!” He grabbed her hair, fisting it and dragging her head into the crook of his neck. “Now.”
“Ouch!” she cried out. He’d pulled so hard, pain shot from the roots of her hair.
He yanked harder still. She stopped kicking him. Her eyes watered. She dragged in breath. All she could smell was him; his musky skin, his leathery clothing, the salty aroma of the sea he sailed upon.
“That’s it.” His hot breath washed over her cheek. “Stop. Keep still.” He paused. “There’s nothing to be gained in fighting me. You must accept your fate.”
“No,” she whimpered.
“Yes.” His helmet’s nose tip touched her face, against the corner of her right eye.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“You’re mine now.” His voice was low and husky. “Your father gave you to me.”
“Not willingly.”
“In return for his life.”
“You’re an immoral brute.”
“Brute perhaps, immoral… no.” He slid his hand from her waist up to her breast and squeezed.
She gasped. No one had touched her there before. “Get off…”
To her surprise he did as she’d asked, running his hand up to her throat and resting over it with a mild pressure. “If I had no morals, I would let my fellow crew have you, right now, right here. A pretty little thing, feisty and in need of taking, would be a treat, get me in their good sights.”
“No, please.” She’d rather die, right here, right now than give her virginity to a bunch of barbarians.
Closing her eyes, she prayed for deliverance. Surely God had something else in her destiny.
“But I’m not the monster you think I am… or not quite.” He suddenly released her. But quick as a flash he wrapped his arm around her waist and spun.
“You’re a monster,” she managed as she half walked, was half dragged to the shoreline.
It was then she saw it. The snake’s head. Evil beady eyes and a forked tongue, it sat high and proud on the prow of the longboat looming down at her through the darkness.
A bolt of nausea gripped her. The snake’s head from her dreams. It was real. Now she was sure her dreams really meant something. She’d doubted in the past, because no one believed her. But this was so vivid, so real. There was nothing dreamlike about it. What she was seeing was more than imagination, fanciful thinking; it was a vision turned into reality.
The cold waves were inching toward her as Halvor steered her to the boat. There were already people on it, cowering in the sheltered sides beneath the curved prow.
A Viking with an extra-large horned helmet and a fur jacket shouted at them. Duna didn’t understand what he said.
He was answered with a shout from a man to Duna’s left.
Halvor’s friend laughed. “And the sooner the ale is drunk the better.”
“Aye.” Halvor chuckled. “And the sooner we are home the better. These unplanned raids are pushing the boat to tipping.”
“So leave me here.” Duna shoved at him, but it was like pushing on a stone wall, her effort had no reaction.
“We have room for a little one.”
Suddenly she was swung into the air again, but this time pressed up against Halvor’s chest. “I don’t want to come with you. Leave me here, so I can attend to my husband’s burial.”
Halvor paused. “You don’t have a husband.”
“I do.” She slammed her fist onto the side of his helmet. It hurt her hand. “Take me back to the village.”
“No.” He waded through the ebb and flow of the waves, toward the longboat from her nightmares. “If you had a husband you wouldn’t be living alone with your father. You’re lying to me, Celtic wench.”
“I’m not. Take me back to my home.”
“You will soon have a new home.” He shoved her forward and she lost the heat of his furred tunic and chest.
She found herself plonked, without ceremony, into the longboat. There were other people all around her, soon-to-be slaves; women and men.
“Sit. Stay.” Halvor jabbed his finger at her. “If you go overboard you’ll be going to whatever Valhalla you believe in.”
She glared at him, her face twisted into an unattractive grimace. She didn’t care. This man had taken her as if she were worth no more than a barrel of ale or a sack of grain. “I wish a dagger for your heart.”
He leaned over the side of the boat, which was being jostled by the waves now, and clasped his hand beneath her chin. “A dagger to my heart, eh? I guess we’ll see about that, wench.”