Chapter Thirty-Two
Iron clashed with iron. Spears flew through the air, fewer of them now. Rurik fought with Fenrir in one hand, his axe in the other. There hadn’t been time to have Ivar make a new shield for him.
Dead men lay all around him. Safira was nowhere in sight. His blood pounded in his ears. Through the trees he saw two women clamber out of the boat and dash for the shore. Bronze silk flashed in the blaze that was her burning ship.
Vlad was nowhere in sight either. A Breton man met Rurik’s charge with hard thrusts, his grin showing a missing tooth. Sweat poured down the gap-toothed fighter’s head. His belly was soft under his mail, and his sword swings weakened.
Rurik pivoted on his wounded leg. He flinched as pain lanced his thigh. Raising his axe high distracted Gap-tooth. Rurik took the opening and swung Fenrir down hard, slicing into the Breton’s thigh. Blood gushed from the bone-deep wound. The man sputtered and dropped his shield. Rurik knocked him down and drove his sword into the man’s neck.
Fern fronds snatched at Rurik’s calves. It was hard to see the ground, except where dead bodies flattened the greenery. Death cries rang in the forest. Piercing, childish wails of men in the throes of their final breaths.
Thorvald swung his bearded war axe and cut down two men. Gunnar battled a wiry man to his knees. Thorfinn and Bjorn were silhouettes swinging their weapons in knee deep water with Erik at their back. He faced the shore both swords in hand. One sword sliced a man’s belly, the other sword followed with lighting speed, cutting down another. The clearing lit with torches and campfires showed Bretons, Chamavi fighters, and one of Vlad’s men.
“Vlad,” he said under his breath and searched the fallen men.
Two of Vlad’s Rus Vikings lay in a pool of blood. Three more found their end in the middle of the camp. With Sigurd dead, that left Vlad and two men somewhere in the forest. He scanned the trees. Nothing. But on the riverbank, two women huddled. One of them wore bronze silk.
Rurik charged through underbrush. “Safira!”
“Rurik!” She shot up and raced across the grassy bank.
Safira launched herself into his arms. He dropped his axe and held her tight.
A gust left his lungs. “You’re alive.”
He dragged hard on another breath. The sweetness of holding her... He touched her cheek. Needed the assurance of her softness. She was panting, sopping wet and shivering in his arms.
“You gave the gold back.” Her voice was hoarse with tender accusation.
“I meant for you to find it when you returned to Paris.”
He kissed her hard. Her mouth felt as good as it tasted. The peppery warmth that was her. His life, his future. He brushed wet hair off her cheek. Battle sounds died off around them. The ship crackled and burned, lighting up the dark, brighter and brighter. Her amber eyes were the brightest, shining at him with love.
Drenched silk clung to her body, leaving little to wonder about her charms. “You gave me the amber.”
“I hope you will pass it on to our sons or daughters.”
Her breath hitched. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying I want to be a man who honors his promises to the woman he loves.”
She laughed and tipped her forehead against the wolf carved on his chest. “That’s why you wanted to see me home. Because you said in Sothram’s outpost you would break your word if it suits you.”
He cupped the back of her head and held her close, checking his surroundings. The forest quieted, but a hot, fast thrum raged inside him. He needed to see Vlad dead.
Everyone gathered on the beach, watching the inferno in the river. Thorfinn helped an Alzaud man remove his fish scale armor. He beckoned him to stand by a torch and tended a wound. Erik, Gunnar, Bjorn, and Thorvald sifted around the riverbank, checking fallen men.
“I need to get you to the beach.”
Her face was pale and her eyes big. “You spoke of our sons and daughters. I would know what you mean.”
The firm angle of her chin told him she wasn’t moving, not until he poured out every word he’d kept carefully locked away in his heart. He had to be a fright, blood spattered and dirt-smeared. Some of it streaked her dress. It was good she couldn’t see Fenrir in his right hand. The iron was red and his hand slippery with blood.
Was she ready to marry a Viking? To marry him?
His left hand played with a lock of hair curling against her collarbone. “I love you, Safira. There is no surety Longsword will accept my condition that I take the land with you as my wife.”
She inhaled fast. “You would give up the land? For me?”
“Would you marry a landless Viking?”
Shock lit up her face. Primal possession, he was sure, lit up his. Every inch of him was ready to claim Safira.
Her lips parted with carnal invitation. “Yes,” she laughed and pushed up on her toes to kiss him. “We will be happy—”
Rurik was knocked to the ground, his helmet skittering off into a bush. His head throbbed. He scrambled for his sword, but Fenrir was at Safira’s feet. Vlad jabbed a finger at her with his left hand, blood pouring from the side of his head. His right hand was bandaged, the fingers swollen.
“Thank you for distracting my son. I’ll kill him first, and then I’ll kill you.”
Safira stumbled backward. Rurik jumped up. Vlad advanced on him, his left hand swirling a long-handled axe. He menaced Rurik and kicked his wounded thigh.
“Ahhhh!” Rurik bellowed in pain and yanked the knife from his boot.
A knife to a long-handled axe. The odds didn’t favor him. He could bellow for help. Everyone had gathered farther down the riverbank, where the burning ship’s light helped them tend wounds. Time slowed. He wouldn’t call for the Sons. This was his fight and his alone.
“This is a long time coming,” he snarled.
Vlad’s laugh was low and vicious. “I had the chance to kill you in Cordoba—”
“But you’re weak,” he said boldly. “There’s not a single thing you see through to the end.”
They circled each other in knee-high ferns with moonlight bathing their battle. Vlad whipped the axe at Rurik. A feint to the right and he avoided the sharp edge, but Vlad kicked his wounded thigh again.
Rurik bit out a curse and stumbled to one knee. Throbbing, burning pain flared over his leg. Five paces away, Safira bent low and picked up Fenrir hidden in the ferns. A tang of blood and sweat burst in Rurik’s mouth.
“Ha! I’ll enjoy this.” Vlad raised his axe.
The father was going to kill his son.
Rurik rolled on the grass. If she could throw it to him...
He pushed up fast and tossed his knife to his left hand. Vlad pivoted. Sweat dripped down his shaved head. Behind him, Safira hefted Fenrir with both hands.
“Safira. My sword,” Rurik growled.
Vlad charged at Rurik.
Holding the sword high, Safira ran at Vlad with all her might. A cry tore from her lips. The sickening crunch of sword meeting flesh and bone broke the battle. Vlad froze. His axe fell into the grass. Rurik circled around to Safira.
Vlad stumbled. His cruel face set, he reached around his back. Mouth twisting, blood and spittle sprayed from his lips. “You...”
Safira’s snarl was worthy of a seasoned warrior. Lungs billowing, she grabbed Fenrir’s hilt and pushed again with all her might. A striving groan hummed in her throat. Rurik’s feet rooted in place as she drove the sword in deeper. Vlad toppled face first to the ground, and one last strangled breath rattled from his body.
Vlad was dead.
Rurik stepped around the man he once called his father. “Safira?”
She blinked at him. Ebon hair fell in a curtain of drenched locks around her face. Blood and dirt covered her shaking hands gripping the hilt. Her life vein bounced visibly at the base of her neck. She looked ready to strike.
“Just breathe,” he coaxed. “Breathe.”
Her jerky nod was her answer. Slowly, slowly she emerged from the cloud of what she’d done.
“He was going to kill you.” Her voice was faint. “I—I had to stop him.”
“Shhh... I know.” He pried her hands from Fenrir and started to pull her close, but she set her hand over his heart. Wonderstruck and oddly peaceful.
The trembling stopped. She licked dry lips and stood tall.
A small shake of her head and, “I am well, Rurik. Truly. I can’t explain it, but I know... It had to be me saving you.”
Hair on his nape stood on end. He brushed her cold cheeks. “We saved each other. Something tells me we will again. For a lifetime.”
“Yes, a lifetime.” She covered his hand with hers.
His fame, his future twined with hers. No chest of gold or swath of land was nearly as powerful as the love he found with Safira. A mysterious weave...a gift few discovered.
The Forgotten Sons crashed through the forest. Their charge slowed at the sight of Vlad face down in the dirt. Bjorn rested his axe on his shoulder, his eyes big and round in his helmet. Gunnar, Thorfinn, and Thorvald flattened tall grass under their boots. They removed their helmets, trying hard not to gawk at Safira in sodden silk. Erik brandished both swords, his muscles tense as if he was still in battle’s throe.
Safira surprised them all when she planted a foot on Vlad’s back. With both hands, she pulled the sword free and swiped it in the grass.
She held Fenrir’s tip to the heavens, the sword a blood-smeared metal line showing two sides of her face. “When we are married, you must teach me how to use a sword. I will never be defenseless again.”
Respect lit the wolfish eyes of his men.
“Bad idea bringing a woman along,” Erik teased. “Slows a man down.”
Bjorn removed his helmet. “Safira’s a fast learner. I wager she can teach us a thing or two.”
“Does this mean we’re tossing out our third law?” Thorvald asked.
The men glowered at their smash-faced brother.
He shrugged a beefy shoulder. “Just asking. I’m fine with it...she tells a decent story.”
“If Rurik says she stays, then she stays. His word is good enough for me.” This from Thorfinn, wiping blood off his cheek.
Safira was pretty in moonlight, her black hair falling around her shoulders as she studied Rurik’s sword. “Does this mean I get a leather vest with a wolf on the front?”
Thorvald coughed.
“I’m not sure that is a good idea.” Gunnar raked a hand through his hair. “It’s one thing to ride with us on a journey, but to dress like a Son?” He appealed to the others. “You all must be thinking the same as me. A woman wearing the wolf’s head?”
“Relax. I’m teasing.” Safira arced the sword, sweetly clumsy until the tip touched the earth.
Curious onlookers broke the tree line to check on them. One concerned soul held up a torch, which showed her mother’s worried face. Safira sighed. Standing beside her, Rurik knew. There would be much to explain. Plans to reverse. But his resolve was firm. So was hers.
Her face tilting to his, she held Fenrir with both hands like a maid of ancient yore. “I learned something tonight. There are times one must live by the force of his or her hand.”
He took Fenrir from her and sheathed his sword. “As there are times when a man must know the force of his hand is not the answer.”
Worried voices called out from the riverbank. “Safira!”
“Come,” he said, folding her hand in his. “We will talk to your mother and father together.”
Safira’s amber eyes shined brighter than gold. His heart swelled at the light she gave him. He would be the best husband, protector, and—when his seed took root—father.
Pushing out from the broken places inside him were threads of green. New life. His life entwined with Safira. Honest and full of passion. They would face the future together and find their life weave as husband and wife—a vow he would never break.
A gentle breeze rustled the trees above their heads. In his heart, he knew. The gods had spoken.