Chapter Six

In the Chapel

Thorvald stepped over a prone body of a man in rough brown robes. He’d been the only one who hadn’t run and, consequently, had been slashed.

Thorvald grimaced. If he’d been quicker to notice that one of his men had vanished—directly defying his orders—he might have prevented the needless bloodshed. He reached down and poked a finger in the loose skin of the man’s neck. A heartbeat. Not dead. Good.

Leaving the man where he lay, Thorvald crept into the little room where the local people prayed to their strange, singular god. He breathed in the fragrance. Whatever the faults of their misguidance, at least their god smelled nice.

One small candle cast a ring of glowing light around a table raised on a dais. The table had been pushed aside. A secret door in the planks had been opened and a figure hunched over with a bag was grabbing things as quickly as he could.

Ubbi. The rat.

Thorvald crept slowly behind him. Without warning, he grabbed the man’s free arm, hauling him away. “I told you not to leave the camp and I told you no looting.”

“These people are predictable.” Ubbi stumbled but pulled away and bent to resume his work. “Always hiding their most valuable possessions in the same place.”

“Put it back.” Thorvald jerked him back again. The floor creaked where he stepped.

In his hand, Ubbi clutched a silver cup inlaid with colorful stones. “It’s mine.” The man tried to twist away. Thorvald held fast and reached for the piece of treasure. Ubbi stretched out an arm, holding it beyond his reach.

The people who made questionable decisions about their god made questionable decisions about their treasure too, ’twas true enough. But that wasn’t the point. “A flea has more integrity than you.”

Ubbi winced. Thorvald was holding tight. Too tight. Part of him didn’t care. The rotten fiend had disobeyed him.

“And you, Thorvald Longsword, have the sense of a festering dung pile.”

It would be shameful if Ubbi thought well of him. “Think as you please. The only thing you must do is obey me. I gave you an order.” He hung heavy emphasis on each slow word, so that the significance might penetrate Ubbi’s dull wits.

“Look.” Ubbi held up the ill-gotten precious object. “It’s silver. Silver.”

The beauty of silver was the beauty of the wild sea. A welcome sight. And tempting, certainly.

But Thorvald no more longed to possess it than he dreamed of plucking the stars from the night sky. Silver did not sing. It did not bring comfort or warmth during a long winter’s night. Nor did it coax perfect, bright green shoots from black earth.

“Put it back.” He let the man go with a shove for emphasis. “Put it all back. We’re done here.”

Thorvald went to the table where the candle burned. An enormous…thing sat open in the middle. He’d seen its kind in other places, all the same and all different, too, but still had no word to name it. It was flat and bound together strange sheets that weren’t quite leather, but not quite fabric either. Upon each one were strings of curious shapes and pictures colored in a dazzling array of bright inks. The tiny details were fascinating.

Whatever the object was, it meant something to these people. They always kept it with their treasures and bound the sheets in flat, square plates of gold and jewels. So much beauty.

Making no response to Ubbi, he ran his battle-scarred fingers over the painted surface, trying to memorize the colors and feel. It was useless trying to speak. The other man would never understand Thorvald’s captivation. He could stand here all night, mesmerized by the designs. It would be far preferable to waiting for the sun to rise.

Ubbi, it seemed, wasn’t finished. “It’s silver and it’s ours for the taking. They tried to hide it, but all they ever do with their treasure is secret it away where they always do. They’re… What are you doing?”

Thorvald was reaching for his sword, ready to bludgeon Ubbi with the pommel and drag him unconscious back to camp. Better than waking the slumbering population.

From the shadows came a distant and unmistakable sound. A human sound. Slight, but distinct. An inhalation of breath, perhaps. Like a tiny gasp.

Thorvald immediately went tense. He clamped his hand upon Ubbi’s mouth. “Be still.”

They both waited, frozen where they stood, listening. Nothing.

Thorvald scanned the darkness. No hint of movement. That didn’t mean he’d imagined the sound.

Slowly, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard, took Ubbi’s candle, and began to hunt. Probably one of their holy men hiding. Thorvald sniffed. The air smelled the same as when he’d entered. Perfumed smoke, candles, and…weathered wood. Ubbi, too, to Thorvald’s misfortune. No hint of another person—either the stink of sweat a man leaks in terror or the piss with which he might have soiled himself.

As Thorvald crept deeper into the darkness, the shadows revealed their secrets. Darkness always seemed unassailable until one stepped inside. Sometimes he found himself drowning in empty pitch. But sometimes he found an unexpected source of light.

It was that way now, with the candle’s reach deeper than could be seen when standing too near the flame.

The corners and nooks were all empty. And nobody stood hiding against a pillar.

Thorvald relaxed and sheathed his sword. Maybe it had been the wind or a groan of wood he’d heard.

He gave an almost offhanded glance into one final recess—and all his senses jumped to alert. A figure stared out at him. Her face he’d seen but once. A face he’d never forget.

The princess.

Her gray eyes were huge with terror. She inhaled a sharp gasp when their gazes met.

Heat bloomed in his blood, his whole body suddenly aware that this was everything he wanted and he couldn’t make a stinking mess of it. This was his chance. No playing games of negotiation with the people. No more waiting. He could leave with his prize and be done with the whole nasty business.

Before she could scream, Thorvald’s hand shot out, clamping shut her mouth.

He had to move quickly, and he did. But he wasn’t in such an addled rush as to be unaware of her. His touch brought her to life. She tensed so hard, she probably could have broken her own bones.

Then she began to struggle. It was too late—and he had every advantage. She’d been crouched, he’d been standing. She was over the average height of her people, but he was over the average height of his. She was feral with fright. This one chance was a gift from the gods and he wasn’t about to foul it up. Thorvald held her fast, even as she kicked and twisted.

Ubbi laughed.

Thorvald glowered. “Shut up, or we’ll never make it out of here. And leave the silver or I’ll throw you into the sea to die. Give me that rope from your bag.”

Ubbi ran up to them and her leg flailed out, her foot nearly making contact with whatever sorry excuse for manhood Ubbi kept between his legs.

“Hold her still.” Thorvald regretted the words instantly. The sight of Ubbi touching her made Thorvald want to run his sword through the man’s gullet. The reaction was swift and powerful.

As quickly as he could, Thorvald—suppressing his instinct to dispatch Ubbi—sliced the rope into two shorter lengths, then tied the princess’s wrists and ankles. With one smooth move, he heaved her over his shoulder. She was no downy bag of feathers. She had heft.

A sick sense overtook Thorvald in a crashing wave. He was no better than Ubbi. This was what he wanted—the princess—and they could leave tonight, vanishing like ghosts into the night-black sea. He’d never have to spill blood. Merely following Ubbi when the no-good cretin slunk away from camp in direct opposition of Thorvald’s orders had been enough.

He should have laughed and rejoiced. The key to unlocking his prison had fallen directly into his hands.

But the key was no metal thing dangling from a chain. It was a person. Never in his life had he so much as placed an unwanted hand upon a woman’s head. In his view—and in stark contrast to many of his people—forcing unwilling females stripped a man of any right to name himself as such.

Now he was ripping a woman away from her home and people.

But there was no other way. He was trapped by the jarl and the witless promise of loyalty he himself had made. He’d given his pledge when he was no more than a frightened boy, true. But he was beholden and beholden he would remain. A vow to a man was a vow to the gods.

Another promise fueled his determination. This one was bigger than the first because although this was not a vow he’d made to the gods, it was a vow he’d made to himself.

No matter how he did it and no matter how many winters it took, Thorvald would be free.

Stepping over the still-prone form of the man outside the door, Thorvald slipped out into the night with the one thing he needed to end his torment once and for all.