Bitter is the wind, p.13
Bitter is the Wind, page 13
She hoped to the gods that these people still feared her and she would be the witch they feared and spin the magic to release him. She had no other plan. Her blood started pounding through her body.
She had her bow and quiver full of arrows and she was as good, or better, than any man with these. But she was only one.
“I am the sharp point of these arrows and the strength of my bow,” she whispered to herself to give her courage. “They are the symbol of what must come and kill the evil forces that abound here.”
It was time. She shifted about to place her weapons where she would need them. If she could climb up and sit on top of the wooden stall wall, she could lean against the pillar to steady herself and load her bow. Her only hope was that they were all watching the cruel beating of Thorstein and would not see her in the shadows.
Slowly, she pulled herself up. No one was looking her way. She lifted her leg over the wooden plank and balanced herself. Silently, she pulled up her bow and settled it in her bow-hand. It felt solid and good in her hand. She slid an arrow out of the quiver and loaded it. She was ready.
Thorstein cursed his tormentor through his pain. She did not understand but she could feel his pain. It was time to end it. Swallowing hard, she cleared her throat and prayed for the gods and spirits for her to remember the incantations, the spells she needed to say, and guide her voice. Her heart pounded inside her.
“Drop your whip, Bjornsson!”
The cruel man with the raised whip swung round.
Her words caught in her mouth and her body froze, shocked. It was not her voice. She had not uttered a word. It was the voice of a man, harsh and commanding. And a voice that filled her with horror.
It was Thorulf.
Silently, she slipped down into the stall once more, shaking. How could it be? Where was he?
Shocked muttering spread through the people. Trembling, she strained to see.
The man he called Bjornsson held fast. “Thorulf Eriksson!” he muttered, through clenched teeth.
“I said drop the whip,” Thorulf commanded, warning in his voice. “You do not hold sway on this land to flog my brother.”
The gathering parted, falling away from the challenge looming and Abria could see him, striding around the hearth, his hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword ready to be drawn. Hatred and fear halted her breath. He should be dead. He should not be walking this Earth. He was buried under Irish soil or the deep ocean. But he was real and walking around the hearth, so near. She could weep with fear but hatred was winning. He should be dead. She watched. What would come of this?
The whip was thrown to the ground.
Vigdis stood up holding the table, visibly shaking. “Thorulf! Is it you? Have you come to haunt me? What evil magic is this?”
He turned to look at her. Before he could speak a word, her swollen body spoke to him. He looked her up and down and raised his eyes to hers, filled with hate. His face grimaced and clenched with anger. She gasped and held her unborn child. With the shock and terror of seeing him, she had not thought to conceal her betrayal.
“By the gods,” he uttered, with menace. “You gutter wench. Even before you heard the tales, the untruths, you rode another cock. Forgot to take it in the arse, did you? Too happy with the fucking to remember? Get yourself out of here before I kill you and your bastard before it sees daylight.”
Thorstein called to him, his voice dry with pain. “Thorulf…
Thorulf walked over to him but made no move to cut him loose. “Be silent, brother,” he said, harshly. “It suits me to have you bound. You have much to answer for.”
He turned back to his brother’s torturer and walked slowly around the hearth again. “So, I see it now, Magnus Bjornsson. You torture my brother to take my homestead. Do you really believe she has a widow's right to this?” He spread his arms wide and laughed. “No, of course, you didn’t. You thought to force my brother’s hand, give him a slow, torturous death for your amusement and to give it to her so her bastard child would take it and share the spoils with you. Well, I have returned and, by the laws of this land, you and your gutter wench sister, are trespassing and planning to steal my land. No bastard child will inherit this land. So, gather up your adulterous, filthy kinswoman and get off my land, before I slit open her stomach and spill her entrails with her ill-gotten vermin inside her!”
Vigdis’ kinsman held his ground, standing tall, his fists clenched. “Thorulf Eriksson, you will pay for this,” he growled. “You will not shame me.”
In an instant, Thorulf unsheathed his sword, its blade glinting in the firelight. “You are unarmed, Bjornsson, and the blade of this sword is honed so sharply, it will cut you in half with one swing of my hand. I will gladly atone for her betrayal against me but you are a sad, old man and I shall allow you one chance to leave and take her with you. But my patience is running thin. Leave!”
Abria, with all the other gathered folk, watched on, barely able to breathe. There was hatred and danger in the swirling, smoke-filled air. Thorstein hung from his bindings, watching it unfold. This was a struggle of honour and no one would intervene. Their master, their overlord, had returned from the dead and no one dared challenge him for fear of death.
The man hesitated but he was unarmed and would know the strength of his adversary. His shoulders dropped and he bent to pick up his whip. But Thorulf was upon him in two strides and stepped on the whip.
“You leave with nothing!” he spat. “Get out!”
The man stepped back and looked at him with hate. “You’ll not get away with humiliating me, Eriksson,” he hissed.
In a flash, Thorulf lunged and lashed at Magnus Bjornsson’s arm. He groaned and held the bleeding wound.
“That is merely a warning wound, Bjornsson. I will not be challenged. You live because I have chosen that you may. For now. Go. And take your filth with you.”
The man signalled to Vigdis to get out and she scrambled from behind the table. A moment later, they were gone.
Thorulf looked around at the watchful people in his house. “And any one of you that seeks to challenge me, will regret it. Your end will be painful. Now go about your work.”
The people broke up. Families, servants and slaves went about their chores, subdued by fear, their eyes cast down.
Abria peered over the top of the stall. Thorulf walked back over to his hanging brother and laughed. He raised his sword. Abria gasped. Surely he would not kill his defenceless flesh and blood? She could see Thorstein hold his head high and brace himself for death.
CHAPTER 28
The sword fell swiftly, cutting through the bindings holding him. Once. Twice. With his wrists freed, he dropped to his knees, breathing heavily, his head lowered.
Thorulf kicked his clothes over to him. “Cover yourself, brother. I have no wish to see your dangling genitals.” He walked around him.
Thorstein looked up at him. Abria could see the anger in his eyes as he struggled to his feet and pulled on his clothes.
“You are back from the dead, brother,” he said gruffly, straightening up, wincing.
Thorulf shrugged. “You thought nothing of believing the stories you were told. Nothing of checking them. Nothing to bringing my body back, to have told my kinsfolk I had died with honor. Brotherly love, eh, Thorstein?”
“I took them at their word. No one could give me a time when you were slain,” Thorstein answered. “And it was the first I knew that you had left Heimsgaard to voyage and raid overseas. My judgement was clouded by my anger that you had left Heimsgaard. I was told you had been buried at sea or in the soil of Eire. There was no more I could do.”
“Ah, so you feel the anger of Heimsgaard being abandoned?” he said, as he paced the floor. “So you will know how I felt when you left to roam the seas for adventures, and riches, and freedom to ram your cock into any captured maid. Whilst I was left for farming and marriage to a dullard.”
“Heimsgaard was a good inheritance for you…” Thorstein began.
“But not for you, eh, brother? But tired of your piracy, you thought to come back and take possession of it. Once you knew I was dead, of course. So the best of both worlds for the favoured elder brother,” he said bitterly. “Did you not think of taking my traitorous woman, as well?”
The fire was dying. Thorstein signalled to a servant to put on more logs. The flames leapt up high, casting a flickering orange glow over the two brothers.
“Master already, Thorstein?” Thorulf mocked.
“You have shown yourself to be a poor master, Thorulf. You left this place to rot and your abused wife to care less. You besmirch our father’s name and his legacy. You do not deserve this place and nor shall you have it. As his elder son, and in his name, I am taking it.”
Abria heard every word and gasped. The people of the longhouse heard every word and tension was rising. She saw them exchange glances and signs. They were as fearful of Thorulf as she was. Some began to leave the house. Thorstein had thrown down the gauntlet to his evil brother.
“You challenge me, brother?” Thorulf demanded, his eyes narrowed, tightening his grip on his sword.
Thorstein nodded. “I will fight you for this place before I see you let it fall back to the wilderness.”
“Then we fight as in our youth. But this time to the death. The stake is the farm.” Thorulf breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling. He turned to a servant. “Get me a sword. A fighting sword. Now!”
Abria was filled with fear and dismay. Thorstein was injured, bleeding and weakened from the flogging. He could not fight his younger brother.
The servant returned and held out the sword to Thorulf.
“Give it to him who would be your master, boy,” he said, grimly.
Thorstein took the weapon and weighed it in his hand, ready to fight.
“So, we fight, favoured son of Torbein the Bold.” He spat the words at Thorstein.
“That is where your bitterness lies, Thorulf,” growled Thorstein. “You could not accept that to gain our father’s respect you had to work for it. Nothing to do with favouritism. You always were lazy and wanting all to be given to you.”
With a cry of battle, Thorulf launched himself into the assault of his despised brother. The swords clashed again and again.
Abria flinched with every clash and with every grunt of their fight. There was nothing she could do but she would be ready if the hated brother came close to swinging the final death blow to the one she had grown to love.
Brothers. One she despised. One she loved.
Once more she climbed up to balance on the thin plank of the stall wall. She clasped and steadied her bow. And watched the hate-filled fight. Trembling.
They had no words for each other. Only hatred in every swing of their swords. Both fighting for the same. But Abria could see Thorstein was weakening. She knew he would fight to the death rather than live knowing his brother would waste this precious land.
Thorulf stumbled as he sprung forward and, with a last, mighty swing, Thorstein lunged to gain advantage, wounding his brother’s sword arm. Thorulf dropped his sword with an agonised cry.
They faced each other, breathing heavily. Thorstein raised his sword with both hands to bring the killer blow to his evil brother.
Thorulf looked aghast and vanquished. Blood oozed from his wound. “Stay your arm! Let me, at least, die with honour with my sword in my hand,” he called out.
Thorstein watched him, his hands clutching his raised sword above his head, his jaws clenched. Abria saw the love and pain for his brother in his eyes. And with a roar, he cast his sword away. It clattered against the hearth stones and came to lay in the hot embers of the fire. Burning sparks jumped up in the billow of smoke.
“I’ll not kill my brother,” he growled, his hands shaking by his side with wrath and his face dripping with the sweat of the fight. He staggered back a step, growing weaker. “There are better ways to resolve matters.”
“No!” whispered Abria. How could he do that? Did he not understand the full evilness of his brother?
For a moment, Thorulf looked shocked. He had escaped death. Smirking, he got up.
“Well, brother,” he mocked, gaining his balance. “Where is the Viking in you? Where has your fight for honour whatever the cost gone? All that was driven into us as boys? Have you been tainted by the new religion and lost your Norse soul?”
“I’ll not kill you, Thorulf,” repeated Thorstein, holding himself tall, trying to calm his breathing. “I’ll not kill my brother.”
With his strength returned, Thorulf quickly reached for his dropped sword. Armed again and with victory in sight, he laughed.
“I do not share your compassion—or foolishness—brother,” he said, his voice filled with contempt. “You had your chance. This land will be mine and without you to challenge me.”
He raised his sword high.
But Abria was ready. Her bow was loaded and drawn back. Hatred, love and loathing coursed through her blood. She would not watch the evil she hated kill the man she loved. She prayed for the gods and spirits to keep her strong.
“Cast aside your sword!” she cried. Her voice scythed through the thick air. It was not her own. It was deep and menacing. Twisting with magic. Unworldly. Her arrow was trained on his core.
Thorstein saw her in the shadows. “Abria!” he yelled. “Get away from here!”
Thorulf swung round. Even in her hunting clothes, he knew her. “You!” he hissed. “My fucking Irish princess slave.” He laughed. “I shall enjoy fucking you again in every tight hole you have and fill your mouth for you to swallow.”
“I have no fear of you,” she warned, her voice venomous and powerful.
It was the spirits and her soul that spoke, the words vomiting from her open mouth, in her ancient tongue and the language of the Norse. The spirits were with her.
“Abria, save yourself!” Thorstein yelled. He leapt to the fire and kicked his sword out from the embers. It glowed red, untouchable.
“Stay back, Thorstein Eriksson!” the voice, the spirit voice, yelled back at him
Thorulf laughed again and started towards her. “You are my property, slave girl.”
“Come no further,” she warned. “Touch me and my skin will scorch yours. And I will boil your heart and soul, so you perish and be forever in the company of witches.”
He stopped in his tracks and looked at her, warily. The magic possessing her sharpened her vision. She could see the flash of fear cloud his eyes and the twitching of the muscles in his face. Her voice filled the longhouse.
“As the rising sun takes away the crystal stars, I take away your strength,” she cursed.
He moved forward again, his sword raised, watchful of Thorstein waiting for his chance. “You’re just a useless wench, fit only for arse-fucking until you bleed,” he threatened.
“Come near me and I shall bleed you, and with a club I shall break your balls whilst you are down and snap your manhood like a river reed. You will be forever unmanned.” Her voice was guttural, gravelled in her throat and laced with spit.
He stopped, wide-eyed with fear.
Thorstein took his only chance and leapt on his brother. They clung to each other, wrestling and fighting for the sword. They pushed apart and the younger, battle-hardened brother, driven by evil, dragged it away. He raised it up over his head. This time he would not miss. This time he would not fail.
CHAPTER 29
Never before had a quarry been so clear to her. All she could see was his wide torso, his arms held aloft with the heavy sword, ready to slay her love. Open to her.
“May no enemy dare be the strength of me,” she whispered. And drew back her bow.
The arrow cut through the air and swiftly buried itself deep in her target. The bowstring still shuddered as she watched his blood spurt out and run down his body. The sword dropped out of his deadening hands, falling at his feet. He looked down at his trickling life blood and then raised his head to look at her. His darkening eyes, dimming with death, held shock and hatred, even as he left this world and his life spread onto the earthen floor. He fell to his knees and, as he toppled forward, he drove the arrow shaft deeper through his body.
Shocked cries and screams of horror ran around the longhouse amongst those that had stayed. No one moved.
Abria knew he would be dead before he hit the ground. She knew how skilled she was. There was no chance she would have missed. No chance he would not die. She was trembling with what she had done. To hunt and kill a prey was one matter, but to kill a man shook her to her core. Her heart was pounding and her breath was frozen.
Time was no longer what it should be, but in that movement of time, Thorstein sprung forward and kneeled at his brother’s body, pulling him into his arms. He understood death but rocked in lament for the man in his arms, his long dark hair falling over his brother’s grey, bloodless face.
Abria watched, her body and mind screaming and pleading silently, trying to catch her breath, rooted to the hard, stall plank. She had saved his life but she had killed the brother for whom he was prepared to die. He loved his brother, with all his faults, and it was she who had taken him from him.
Thorstein looked up and swung around to look at her. His eyes were dark with thunderous anger and pain. His look stabbed deep inside her and twisted. He was lost to her. She had taken his beloved brother. He said nothing but his look said it all. She must be gone. She must get away. She could not bear his condemnation of her.
Summoning all her fading strength, she twisted around to jump from her place. Turning around for one last look at him, she held his gaze.
“I love you,” she mouthed silently to the death-filled air, then jumped and ran from that place with her bow and one less arrow than before.
Stumbling through the snow, she heard him call her in a grief-stricken bellow. Tears coursed down her face to know that was the last she would hear of his voice, the last time she would see him.
He did not follow her. No one did. No one cared even for justice or retribution. She was nothing to anyone. The long night was dying and another dawn was breaking, giving her some light. She ran. Ran for the forest which she understood and the trees to enfold her. To return to the boathouse was not a choice. Her life held nothing and no future.
