Rorik, p.6
Rorik, page 6
Magnar arched a brow in question.
“I have nae time to change.” Shoving the blade back into the sheath belted at her waist, she quickly mounted the horse.
Steinar made long strides toward them. He glanced sharply at Ragna. “Do you have any healing herbs on you?”
Giving him a heated glare, she lifted the pouch on her belt. “As you well ken, I never travel without some kind of herbs.”
After Steinar mounted his horse, he turned toward her. “You may tend to his wounds, but I have spoken with Rorik and will be his guardian while he heals in his wolf form.”
“We waste time speaking. Let us go to him,” she said in a strained voice.
Without waiting for either of the men, Ragna urged her horse forward through the bailey and across the bridge. Relief coursed through her knowing the man had appointed a guardian. She’d prayed Rorik had shifted into his wolf when they reached him.
Dark clouds hovered in the far distance. The scent of rain filled her as the lash of wind slapped furiously across her face. She held off the curse she wanted to spew forth and urged her horse faster. Relying on the images within her mind from earlier, Ragna traveled across the rugged landscape. Thunder clapped overhead, and she shook aside the doubts creeping into her thoughts.
As she approached the edge of the forest, the ground dipped into the trodden path.
Magnar stormed past her, with Steinar taking up position behind her. They kept at their steady pace, weaving around trees and ascending higher toward the injured man.
Oda’s shrill cry reached her. They were near.
A tree limb smacked at her, and Ragna winced from the stinging pain. When the path opened before them, Magnar slowed his horse and dismounted.
“Steady,” she urged her animal, coming to a halt before a large pine tree. After dismounting, she took off running toward Rorik.
“Nae!” bellowed Magnar, collapsing to the ground in front of the man.
Her heart hammered fiercely against her chest as she drew near. The scene before her stole the breath from her lungs. Ragna shoved a fist to her mouth to squelch the scream lodged within. Blood pooled from his skin onto the ground—from his face, hands, and most likely other parts of his body.
“Does he live?” asked Steinar in a hushed tone.
While she ignored the man’s question, she tugged at the pouch on her belt. Fury rose within Ragna. She refused to let this warrior die. “Move aside, Magnar!”
The man gave her a glaring look but promptly did as she ordered.
Crouching down in front of Rorik, she fought the wave of uneasiness. With a shaky hand, Ragna placed her palm over the man’s chest and waited. Despite the slow heartbeat, the man continued to live. On a sigh, she lifted her gaze toward Magnar. “He lives, though barely.”
The leader of the wolves cast his hand outward. “Can you save him?”
Her lips thinned, and she shrugged. Uncertainty filled her answer, and she turned away from him. She could offer no words of assurance.
Ragna’s fingers trembled while she moved carefully over his body, trying to determine if the man had any other injuries. There is so much blood. When her hand slid upward on his left arm, she encountered the wound and let out a hiss.
Ragna quickly removed her small blade from the belt at her waist. Again, she sliced away portions of her gown and handed the scraps to Magnar. With steady movements, she cut through the fabric of Rorik’s tunic. After securing her blade, she drew forth the herbs from her pouch and pressed them along the jagged flesh. Not one word of complaint passed from Rorik’s lips while she tended to him. How she longed for him to open his eyes and spout a curse at her. She’d give anything to see the fire in his eyes, even if they sparked hatred toward her.
She held her hand outward to Magnar for the bits of her gown. “Hear me, Goddess, bind the wound and staunch the blood flow. Allow this warrior to heal.”
While she continued to chant her words to the Goddess, Ragna bound his arm with the cloth. She placed a hand over his heart, hoping to see any change from the man.
When the first drop of rain splattered across her cheek, she pulled back. “Storm is here.”
Magnar glanced at Steinar. “Help me get him onto my horse.”
Without a word, the man went and lifted Rorik from the ground.
Magnar took a hold of her elbow to assist her to standing. His steady gaze held hers for a few moments. She knew the leader of the wolves had questions, yet she had no answers to give him.
He gave her a curt nod and went to help Steinar secure Rorik over the horse’s back.
After wiping her bloody hands across her gown, she swallowed the bitterness threatening to heave forth through her lips. Never before had her attention drifted. Furious for allowing her emotions to sway her focus, she bit her lip. Ragna feared if this happened again her power to heal would surely slip away into the mists.
Even as she studied Rorik’s limp body over the horse, tears stung her eyes.
With an indrawn breath, Ragna forced the feelings for this man far into the deepest region of her heart. On the exhale, she straightened and went to her horse.
Chapter Six
When they arrived at Steinn, Ragna rushed past a stunned Hallgerd. The woman gaped at her like a forlorn fish at the entrance, and Ragna had no time to stop and explain her appearance to the woman nor Rorik’s.
Once inside, the torches on the wall flickered, casting ugly shadows along her path. Whispering a word of protection, she continued onward. Stay focused and calm. Help me, Freyja. Banish those who desire to come for the warrior. Now is not his time, I beg you, Goddess.
She steadily moved along the corridor and made her way to her chamber. There was no time to change out of her soiled and torn gown. Quickly retrieving her small chest of healing herbs and salves, Ragna dashed back out.
Her steps faltered, and she leaned against the wall. Hysterical laughter fought for a scream within her throat. “Where did they take you, Rorik? I do not ken where I am going.”
Without waiting for another to assist her in her search, Ragna proceeded to start opening doors. Her hand paused on the bolt of one of the doors. The lone howl of a wolf pierced her thoughts, and she whipped her head around half-expecting the animal to be behind her.
Ragna retreated farther along the corridor following the sound within her mind.
Light flickering from a partially closed wooden door led her forward. Her fingers grasped the cold steel, and she opened the heavy oak door. Golden light spilled out into the corridor. When she went inside the chamber, her gaze drifted to the man spread out on a massive bed. Magnar was taking great care in stripping the torn tunic from Rorik’s body.
She glanced around the expanse of the chamber. Noting a table by the arched window, Ragna crossed the room and placed her chest down. Picking up a jug, she sniffed the contents and grimaced. What she required was fresh water not sour ale.
Turning toward Steinar, she handed the jug to him. “I require fresh water to mix a healing tonic along with more betony. I dread he won’t be strong enough to fight a fever.”
The man stepped from the shadows of the room. As he removed the item from her outstretched hand, he whispered, “Why has he not changed into his wolf?”
Bitterness clawed at her. She had warned Rorik. Told him the consequences if he continued on this quest and not permit his wolf to heal his wounds.
Ragna glanced at the bed. “Rorik holds the answer, not I.”
“Did you not see this in a vision?” he snapped.
Returning her attention to Steinar, she glared at the man. “He refused my warning. As with all the wolves, you tend to seek your own wisdom most of the time.”
“Enough!” ordered Magnar, coming to her side. “Fetch the Seer some water.”
She watched as Steinar quickly departed, and then she faced Magnar. “This is not my fault.”
The man’s features softened. He gripped her elbow and led her toward the bed. “Do what you can for Rorik. I ken you advised him. He chose not to listen.” Magnar dropped his hand. “I sense there is more damage within the man.”
Confused, Ragna asked, “What are you saying?”
He shrugged. “For many moons I have sensed his inner self ebbing away. He has spoken nothing of what ails him.” Magnar pounded his fist against his chest, adding, “But I ken ’tis growing and rotting within Rorik. Even my wolf can smell the sickness within the man.”
Ragna’s shoulders slumped. “Along with the demons he battles within his mind.”
“But they are battling inside his body. His wolf has abandoned him. In time, both will die.”
“Then I must do all I can for him,” she added softly. “Any physical wounds cannot heal if the mind is damaged.”
The leader of the wolves nodded slowly, rubbing a hand over his chin. “The blood stops at his waist. Do you ken why?”
“I have heard it mentioned the sickness travels from the head slowly down the body. This is only the beginning.”
“Have you sought out the runes?” he asked.
She laughed bitterly. Countless times, she’d begged wisdom from the Goddess when she tossed out her runes. The response continued to be the same. Nothing. Digging her fingers into her gown, Ragna responded, “You would ken more than my runes.”
Steinar returned with a jug of water and placed it on the table. “I shall stand guard outside the door. Inform me when he shifts into his wolf.”
“I fear that day will never come,” she whispered as sorrow spilled into her voice.
Magnar placed a firm hand on her shoulder. His strength seeped into her. Ragna lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I trust you to heal him, Seer.”
“And if I cannot?”
“Did we not agree to curse him all the way to Valhalla?”
Quickly turning away, Ragna tried to hide her emotions from the man. “He will not die.” Yet the words she spouted rang hollow inside her. She gave the man one more passing glance and went to the table to spread out her herbs and salves.
“Though I am curious, Ragna. How did you ken Rorik was in danger and where to find him? You would have nae reason to venture far away from the castle. Was it a vision?”
Her hand hovered above a small vessel. Did she dare tell the man the truth? Until she sought her own answers, a lie ached to be released. However, being dishonest, especially to the leader of the mighty Wolves of Clan Sutherland, was a risk she did not wish to undertake.
She met his intense study of her from across the room. “I heard the cry of his wolf.”
The man arched a brow but refrained from asking any more questions. He held her gaze and then gave her a curt nod. Quietly, Magnar departed the chamber.
Ragna let out a long sigh as the door closed softly behind him. “Either the man does not believe my words, or he has chosen not to offer any more insight of knowledge.”
Gathering some bandages and the jug of water, she went to Rorik’s side. “Goddess, help me to heal this man.”
Ragna worked in silence for the next several hours tending not only to the wound on Rorik but also his skin, wiping the blood that continued to ooze forth. Each time she thought her task complete, more blood appeared. Her fingers trembled as she took the damp cloth mixed with herbs across his skin. Her feelings betrayed her, and she found herself studying each scar and marking on the man. Aye, she had heard the whispers spoken around the fires about the battles the Dark Seducer fought. Many times she grew curious until one of the men would hasten to add Rorik’s conquest in the bedchamber after a battle.
She brushed a dark lock of hair away from his face. Even in his deep slumber, the man captivated her. “Will you not wake, Rorik from the House of MacNeil? What I would not give to hear biting words from your lips,” she whispered while she drew her hand back.
After dropping the cloth back into the bowl on the small table, she reached for her wooden jar of salve. Dipping one finger inside, she swiped out a small amount. Carefully, Ragna traced a pattern of healing in a circular motion across his forehead, down his cheek, and over his jaw.
“From the air, I seek to banish the sickness. From the land, I seek to bind your wounds—stitch and mend. From the fire, let the burning flames destroy the plague that consumes you. From the north, remember who you are, Rorik MacNeil.”
Ragna bent near his ear and uttered softly, “Remember your binding vows to both—Odin and your wolf. Do not cross the void into the next. Face your demons and fight, warrior.”
With one final smudge of the salve over his heart, she drew back and waited for any sign from the man. Returning the jar to the table, she pursed her lips in thought and then hastily gathered more herbs from her pouch.
Walking to the hearth, Ragna held her hand out toward the flames. “Goddess of healing, seal this chamber as I work to mend this warrior. Let nae other come to claim him from across the otherworld.” Tossing the herbs into the fire, she added, “From north, east, south, and west, I, Ragna, fasten and protect those within this room.”
The flames hissed, and tendrils of smoke drifted into the room, weaving their way to the injured warrior.
Her skin tingled with the power skimming across her face and down her body. She bowed her head. The Goddess had heard her plea.
Now she must wait.
****
When the first star shone in the evening sky, Ragna reckoned she could do no more for Rorik. His skin burned with fever. The bleeding had lessened giving her time to ponder what else to do for him. Her healing salves and herbs slowed the process, but she did not ken for how long. A day, perchance two? Even the magic she surrounded Rorik with would eventually leave the man.
Flames from the hearth snapped. She wiped her hand over her brow, slick with sweat, and rose from her chair by Rorik’s side.
Wandering to the arched window, Ragna stared at the landscape below. A cool breeze brushed against her cheek, and she inhaled sharply. Closing her eyes, she let the scent from the land fill her, along with the sea breezes.
The door to the chamber opened. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled weakly. Elspeth stepped inside carrying a trencher of food and a fresh gown over her arm.
The woman’s smile eased the strain from Ragna. “How kind of you.”
“You should let another tend to Rorik while you seek some rest and change out of your soiled gown,” suggested Elspeth.
Moving away from the window, Ragna shook her head slowly. “Until the bleeding stops I do not trust another. Your healers do not hold the wisdom of the ancients.”
Elspeth set the trencher down on the table and held out the gown to Ragna. “I have offered up prayers to our Lord. I hope you do not find fault if I offer my own.”
Ragna understood the woman followed the path of the new religion. Once, she had heard Gunnar speak of the healing tales of this man they called Christ. He performed great deeds while he walked the land and counseled the people.
Reaching for the gown, Ragna nodded. “If your God considers Rorik worthy of your prayers, continue to offer them for his healing.”
A serving woman entered, followed by a young lad. Each brought jugs of fresh water. They quickly placed them on the already crowded table, taking the empty ones and departing as silently as they entered. Another lass dashed inside the chamber and handed Elspeth a small package. She gave the girl a wink before she darted back out.
Elspeth approached Ragna and took her hand. Placing the package within her palm, she disclosed, “’Tis rose-scented soap. At least bathe and change into a fresh gown. What if Rorik wakes and finds you in this manner?”
Ragna snorted and took the offering. “Then my task here is finished, and I can leave for Orkneyjar.”
The woman folded her arms across her chest. “Are you certain you would leave him in the care of another once he wakes?”
Finding the woman’s questions annoying, Ragna went to the table. While searching for a clean bowl to dump the fresh water into she fought the growing ire inside her. She could sense Elspeth’s gaze boring into her back.
“There is fresh water and a bowl in your chamber. I shall stay and wait for you to return,” suggested Elspeth softly.
Glancing over her shoulder, Ragna gave the woman a weak smile. “I only require a few moments.”
Elspeth lowered herself into the chair by Rorik. She pointed a finger at the man. “If he wakes, I will scream for you.”
She burst out in laughter, along with Elspeth. They both glanced at Rorik. Not even their outburst had stirred the man.
Ragna hurried out of the chamber. Her steps hastened along the dimly lit corridor and to her own chamber. Dashing inside, she closed the door behind her and placed the clean gown on her bed. She stripped the soiled and tattered gown from her body, letting it tumble to the ground.
Going to the table, Ragna dumped the water from one of the jugs into a large bowl and proceeded to wash the grime from her skin. The scent of roses assailed her senses, and she gave silent thanks to whoever thought of mixing such a potent flower in the soap. Most times, she bathed in the stream near her home. Her soaps were a mixture of herbs and the wildflowers that covered the ground.
Within moments, images of long ago tumbled forth within her mind.
“You are hurt,” she exclaimed, moving past the group of angry men and coming to a halt by Rorik’s side. The blade had slashed along his back, ripping apart his tunic.
“Nae,” argued Rorik, glancing over his shoulder. “Simply a scratch.”
One of the men gave him a scathing look in passing. While he spouted a curse, the man shoved a fist into the air.
“May the Gods look down favorably on your house, old man!” shouted Rorik.
“Why did they draw their weapons?” asked Ragna while inspecting the wound. “You are fortunate it was not deeper.” She tugged on his arm. “Follow me.”
He waved her away dismissively. “There is nae need.”
“Do not be foolish,” she protested, not willing to let go of the stubborn man.
“Where are you taking me, Seer?”
How she hated when he used that tone with her. Her mind told her to drop her hold on him and walk away. Better to let his wolf heal him than use her precious herbs and magic to bind the wound.
