Lord of Hawkfell Island Read Free Page A

to sit beside him on the box bed. She laid her palm on his forehead. He was hot as the coals in the fire pit. She fetched a cloth, dampened it in a bowl of cold water, and began to stroke it over his face and shoulders. Over and over again. He muttered something but she couldn’t understand him. She wondered if he were going to awaken and, when he did, what he would think, what he would do.
    Rorik thought he was dead, gone to Valhalla. Aye, surely he’d gone to Odin All-Father because he’d died as a warrior should, fighting with all his might, filled with rage and valor, and there was the soft voice of a Valkyrie above him, her cool fingers on his forehead, and she was speaking words he couldn’t grasp, but it didn’t matter. She was there and thus he was dead, there were no more choices for him now, no more decisions to be made, no more vengeance to take. But he couldn’t see and surely that was odd. Did a man become blind when he died? Nay, that couldn’t be right. A man in Valhalla felt and saw and ate and sang and took his pleasure with any woman he pleased. He didn’t feel like singing. He felt a lurching of pain in his shoulder and it shook him deeply. He didn’t expect pain, surely there shouldn’t be pain after he’d died. The pain ebbed and flowed, and he tried to force his mind to accept it, but it was difficult. Perhaps he was close to death, and thus hadn’t yet gained all that would be his. He felt cool dampness on his face, another odd thing that shouldn’t be. The cool dampness was on his shoulders, his arms, his belly, but no lower.
    The Valkyrie’s voice grew dimmer until it faded into the blackness that drew on him. Then he felt nothing.
    Mirana rose and stretched. The fever had lessened. He was nearly cool to the touch. Gunleik was right. He would live. He was young and strong. She stared down at him, wondering if she shouldn’t simply feed him some poison and let him die easily. She thought of Einar and knew that he would torture this man, break him until he was naught but a shell, and enjoy himself with every moan from the man’s mouth.
    Men and their vengeance. He would die horribly because he’d tried to gain vengeance on Einar. Aye, she should poison him, but she knew she couldn’t, it was that simple. For so long as he lived there was hope for him. A slender thread of hope, but hope nonetheless. She knew deep down that was a lie but she wouldn’t release it.
    She frowned down at him, then picked up the damp cloth again. She continued to wipe his face and shoulders, over and over until she was satisfied that the fever was truly gone. She pulled the woolen blanket to his chest, looked at him for a very long time, then left him.
    She needed to see Gunleik. He was speaking quietly to one of his men, Kolbein the Ox, who was given the name not because of his size, but because of his droopy eyelids that made him look very foreign and stupid, which he wasn’t. She paused, listening.
    Gunleik scratched his head, saying, “There’s a traitor amongst us, you know it and I know it. That man, whoever he is, raised the cross bar on the rear door for him to enter. He didn’t know I had planned a surprise attack on his leader down on the beach, thus he isn’t part of my inner circle of men. He didn’t know I and my two men left by that same rear door, and thus hecouldn’t have foreseen that I and my men would have been behind his leader. The spy must have been rotting with fear when the man’s scheme failed.”
    â€œI know not who this man is,” Kolbein said low. “I do not like it, Gunleik. I do not like traitors. Not all that many men knew of your plan.”
    â€œThat is true. Ah, Mirana. How is our captive? Has he survived the fever?”
    â€œAye, and he’s resting more easily now. This traitor, Gunleik, you have no suspicions?”
    He shook his head. “We will know eventually.