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connecting the woman he loved with the Norseman’s blackest villainies.
    But if Sword Breaker had her, he’d upend the world to free her.
    Calum leaned close then, his gaze direct. “You’ll do well to brace yourself. I fought Sword Breaker’s father, Thorkel Raven-Feeder. I know what they do—”
    “I’ll find Liana, where’er she is.” Magnus clapped the old man’s shoulder, silencing him. Then he turned and raced after his men, tearing down the steep, dizzying path as quickly as his hurrying feet would carry him.
    The scene at the bottom was worse than he’d imagined.
    He glanced wildly about, staring at the chaos.
    Beneath his feet, the ground tilted dangerously, almost bringing him to his knees.
    “Liana!” He shouted her name, knowing she wouldn’t answer him.
    Fire-blackened—or butchered—bodies were everywhere, littering the crescent-shaped strand in glaring testimony to how savagely they’d died. No mercy had been shown. Each slashing wound displayed how ferociously the Norsemen had wielded their spears and axes.
    They’d also been free with their torches. Every cothouse, byre, and fishing shed stood ablaze. The smoke was denser here, great billowing clouds that filled the cove with an ominous, suffocating stench.
    Magnus’s men ran about, shouting and battling the Magnus’s men ran about, shouting and battling the flames. Many had stripped naked and were using their plaids to beat at the fires.
    Magnus ran, too, ripping off his own plaid and swatting at the leaping flames as he dashed from one sprawled and broken body to the next, searching for his bride.
    He was almost to her father’s cottage—now a soaring wall of fire—when one of his men pounded up to him, red-faced and panting.
    “Magnus!” The man clutched at him, breathing hard.
    “We’ve found one still alive! It’s Liana’s grandmother and—”
    “Liana?” Magnus’s hope flared. He stared at his kinsman, willing the answer he wanted to hear. “What of her? Has anyone seen—”
    “She’s with the old woman.” The man’s tone made the world go black. “They’re there”—he pointed to a rocky outcrop at the edge of the cove—“together, both of them. The grandmother doesn’t have much longer.
    She’s been grievously set upon. Liana ... your bride . .
    . I’m sorry, Magnus. She is—”
    “Dead.” Magnus’s heart stopped on the word. He couldn’t breathe or move. He went rigid, his entire length freezing to icy-hard stone even as agony hollowed him, leaving him emptied of all but searing denial.
    He saw Liana now, her lifeless body there on the sand, beside the rocks. Several of his men knelt around her, their heads respectfully bent. One of them cradled the old woman, leaning down to catch whatever last words came from her blood-drained lips.
    A great cry burned in Magnus’s throat, but he couldn’t tell if he was yelling or if the terrible, earsplitting sound was the thunder of his blood.
    Then, somehow, he was at Liana’s side. He flung himself to his knees, pulling her into his arms, holding her limp form against him. She looked only asleep, for her body wasn’t broken and mangled like the others.
    Her fair hair was unsullied and shone bright as always, spilling around her shoulders. But her eyes were closed, her lashes still against the whiteness of her cheeks.
    “No-o-o!” He tightened his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, still so cool and silken. Just as her skin was yet smooth and warm, almost alive.
    He heard footsteps then and looked up to see one of his men approaching, pity in his eyes. The man set a hand on Magnus’s shoulder, gripping hard. Magnus glared up him, grief and rage turning him feral.
    “She isn’t dead, see you?” He raised a fist, shaking it at the heavens. “She’s only stunned, I say you. She’ll waken soon and—”
    He broke off, staring at the blood on his hand.
    Bright red and fresh, it colored his fingers and the whole of his palm, hideous rivulets