Viking's Prize Read Free Page A

giving Elienor an accusing glance, Stefan bolted for the
door.
    Elienor seized him by the wrist. “Nay! You cannot!
’Tis done! ’Tis done, I tell you!”
    “My lady! I beg you release me! ’Tis my duty you
would deny me!” Shouts of the wounded and dying escalated. “Release me, I say!”
    “Nay!” The scraping of metal upon stone could be
distinguished beyond the chapel doors. “Nay!”
    They heard a bloodcurdling scream. Elienor could
picture it all so vividly, the savage Northmen with their axes raised high into
the air. There was little use in closing her eyes, for the vision originated
from within, from some accursed second eye within her soul.
    “Set me free!” Stefan demanded furiously. Again he
shouted, “’Tis my duty you would deny me!” With a final twist, he liberated
himself and raced toward the door, his long legs awkward as he ran.
    “Stefan! Nay, oh, nay!”
    He could not go! She would not allow it!
    Desperately, Elienor groped about in the darkness,
seeking the means to stop him. Her hand closed upon the sacred reliquary, a
small copper chest that sheltered a sliver of the Christ’s cross, and she knew
at once what she must do.
    “Father, forgive me,” she whispered fervently, and
then she bolted across the nave after Stefan, striking the chest down upon his
head.
    Caught in the process of sliding the bar from the
ring, Stefan made some strangled sound and released it. Though she could not
see him fall for the darkness, she heard him as he crumpled to the wooden
floor, unconscious. The wooden bar fell from his grasp, slamming against the
door as it began to slide cacophonously from the other ring. Without a moment
to spare, Elienor seized it, securing it once more.

     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER
3

     
    The skali , or hall, was dark, save for the feeble
glow cast by a single torch guttering further up the stairwell.
    Alarik’s eyes scanned the shadows, noting with
disdain the slain enemy scattered about his feet. What little resistance they
put forth, these pathetic French! With a grunt of disgust, he gave the signal
for his men to disperse and make use of whatever could be found, be it ale or
wench, beast or gems.
    He’d never doubted they would prevail, but it had
been much too simple a victory, and he decided that tonight his men deserved
whatever spoils they desired, for he knew they were not appeased. By the gates
of Hel, neither was he, for the count he’d come to crush had been conspicuously
absent from the fray.
    Shouts of revelry followed Alarik as he wandered
away in search of the missing count, but the terrified howl of a man found
hidden beneath a table in the gloomy light of the skali drew him back, and he turned to
watch, leaning a shoulder against the arched entryway.
    Before him, Sigurd Thorgoodson scampered up the
steps to retrieve the torch flitting there and then returned like a maelstrom
of fire, sweeping his way around the hall, lighting torches as he passed. He
flew by each so quickly that it seemed he lit them with the sparks spilling in
his wake.
    Alarik understood the haste.
    This last kill they would savor fully, terrifying
the hefty man with their unappeased blood lust, rendering him senseless with
fright. Then, they would offer the poor fool a battle axe. Viking men had
little liking for killing the defenseless, for there was no glory to be gotten
from that manner of execution. To fight in the face of danger showed one’s
valor. And if by chance a Viking fell in the enemy’s stead, then from Asgard
would come, donned in shining armor, riding steeds of white, the maidens from
Valholl, the hall of the slain. Heads held high, solemn and deep in thought,
the Valkyrs rode—choosers of the slain—and down they would come to
the field of battle to swoop up the souls of the dead to join Odin in his great
corps, the Einherjar. There, only the bravest served.
    It was the Viking creed, his father’s legacy, but
no longer his own.
    His men encircled the prey,