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anywhere. Flames that could eat the world, they were, but she was not afraid. She watched them,
entranced by their brilliance, all thought of Offa, of the Viking, of her need to escape, now banished. A
flame inside her matched the flames around her. It gorged on fuel laid up for years. She felt a union with
that fire. It completed her, as though she had never known what it was to be whole before.
Then the fire that burned or didn't burn before her, changed somehow, and she was seeing another
fire, one she knew was far away from the tiny coals in a Saxon hall. This one raged about her. The evil
crackling of its progress through the trees filled her ears. It was a threat to her and all she knew and
loved. She was running and Fenris was there, but not only Fenris. The Viking was there and she had to
save herself and her dog, and she had to save the Viking, too. He was important to her. She could feel
that, as important to save as Fenris. Only she couldn't see through the smoke, and she knew in that
moment that the fire would catch her and Fenris and the Dane.
She gasped as the world shuddered back into place. Her head shook convulsively as she fell to her
knees. The embers of the tiny firebox glowed dully. They were small and real. She felt light-headed, and
realized she was panting. No wall of flame surrounded her.
What was that? she asked herself. It had been a vision, surely. A vision of the future? The terrible
urgency of the need to save herself and Fenris and the Viking still reverberated through her. Why had the
Viking been in that vision? Was he in her future? Was he so important to her? Moreover, how could she
be having visions?
She looked around the hall, still dazed. The Viking lay like a discarded rag by a table in the center, naked
except for her poor excuse for bandages. His face was covered by hair matted with blood, his limbs
sprawled awkwardly. Shreds of rope bound his ankles and wrists, and one was knotted about his neck.
A small medallion at his throat glinted in the dying firelight.
The vision almost stifled her as she moved through the darkness toward him. If the vision was true, he
was not dead. She held her breath. As she drew closer, she saw a fresh wound in his side, oozing blood
into a pool on the floor. She knelt beside him. If Offa had wanted to kill him, he would have centered the
blow just under the breastbone. She reached out a hand, ghostly in the darkness, to touch the glinting
medallion that had failed to protect the Viking. It was the Hammer of Thor surrounded by knotted
snakes. Gods never protect you. As she touched the medallion, the blood in the Viking's throat beat at
her fingers, weak and erratic but shocking nonetheless. He was alive! At least that much of the vision was
true.
But could he stay that way? She scanned his body. He had been beaten. She pushed the matted hair
from his face. It was almost peaceful. Opening one swollen eyelid, she saw a whole eye there. She pulled
down his chin and saw a whole tongue. No, mutilation had not been Offa's plan. With quaking hands she
reached out and pulled the Viking over onto his belly. His back was bruised and gouged. There were
shallow cuts across his buttocks and smeared gore everywhere. Horrified, she realized what they had
done, using the blood to ease their work.
They should have killed you, Viking. Perhaps he would have escaped into death, if she had not
stopped his bleeding.
She owed him for that. And then there was the vision&
A way out of the fortress flashed through her mind. Would it work? It almost didn't matter. It was what
she had to do, and she needed the Viking for her plan.
There was little time. She darted out the door and over to the livestock pen, directly across from the
feasting hall. The horses moved restlessly around her as she crawled in through the crude fence. Taking a
rope halter from the gate, she grabbed the first nose she could reach, pulled it down over her shoulder,
and slipped the halter over the snorting head. The gate creaked much too loudly as she led her prize over
to one of the carts that had carried the wounded.
It took her long moments to hitch up the horse. Offa had disappeared inside his hall. Even now he might
realize she wasn't there. She pulled the horse and cart behind the nearest building.
Glancing up toward Offa's lair, she saw him appear in the doorway. He was looking for her! Britta took
a deep breath. I still have time, while he searches, she told herself. As Offa started into a neighboring
barracks, she darted back into the Viking's hall. Now all depended on him. She could not drag so large a
man. She rolled him over and slapped his face.
"Wake up, Viking," she whispered hoarsely. Nothing happened. She called again and slapped him
harder, several times. At last, with a low groan, the eye that was not swollen shut cracked open. She
reached for a sack of mead and squirted some directly into his mouth. He gasped and choked, but it
seemed to revive him.
"If you want to get out of here," she said, knowing he couldn't understand, "you have to help." She pulled
him up and knelt beside him. Dragging his arm over her shoulder, she shoved upward with her thighs.
They both groaned as she managed to push erect. Panting, she continued talking, hoping to keep him [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]