Chapter Fourteen
Soren
Isle of Arran, Firth of Clyde
Off the West Coast of Scotland
Two months later
Every other time I left the shores of my stronghold, there had been great anticipation in my heart, whether I was off to battle or otherwise.
Yet, as my ship pulled away this last time, that moment of watching Freya stayed with me.
Haunted me as my men and I sailed to the Hebrides, then on to Arran with King Hákon.
She had never looked more beautiful, standing proudly in her war-paint, holding her shield, her hair blazing like flame in the morning sun, her white bear cloak billowing in the wind.
Since arriving in the Hebrides after an arduous journey, I had wished every moment that I’d not left her and our unborn babe, despite having had no choice.
I often thought of the warmth from her touch when she swore the love of her and our child would watch over me via the gods, wishing it would return.
Wishing I could feel that mystical bond. The warmth of her spirit.
Yet the days, despite being warmer in the summer months, had somehow seemed colder, and despite her claiming we had mystically bonded, I had not felt that same magical sensation between us that I had on the pier. That sense of rightness.
Rather, everything had felt the opposite.
Although many claimed King Hákon’s reign had led Norway into a golden age of sorts, I felt more strongly by the day that his actions in this cause would end in the demise Freya feared.
I had grown certain that my king’s relentless determination to see through invading Scotland—despite receiving a cool reception from his own Norwegian nobles in the Hebrides—was foolhardy.
“You brood again, my friend,” Leif said, joining me in my tent. One of many that were part of an encampment near territories we had been ordered to raid for more supplies.
“As do you,” I muttered, having imbibed one too many ales.
Gazing at the flames, I wished I were back in my lodge with Freya by my side.
“I feel as though my soul has aged years and ’tis…
” What? I had no words for how I felt other than those.
“These are not the battles of old, and you know it.” I shook my head.
“There is no honor to it anymore. No betterment for our people.”
Much had changed, or perhaps become what it always should have been, between me and Leif since leaving the shores of my stronghold.
Though we had worked as a team to arrive safely, we had weathered storms and lost men, and once we landed, it was only to find King Hákon a foul beast who often acted irrationally in his need for revenge.
He was in such an unstable mood these days that Leif and I teamed up frequently to figure out how to see through his erratic orders without causing too much unnecessary harm.
Orders that neither of us agreed were worthwhile anymore.
Initially, I was wary of Leif’s motives, as he was one of Hákon’s top warriors and his longtime friend, that is until he lost nearly all the men he’d traveled here with, friends all, to an ambush.
One that Hákon said would not happen, despite Leif’s protests that it very well might, and it had changed his viewpoint significantly after that.
Leif poured an ale, sat beside me in front of the fire, and sighed. “Whether there is honor or not, we are the king’s men, and so we must rally on.”
“Rally on when we fight a losing battle, and you know it.” Frowning, I shook my head, my gaze never leaving the fire in hopes that Freya somehow reached out to me via the flames.
“Yet still,” Leif said softly, sounding as defeated as I. “He is our king, Soren, and will need us to do something in a few days.”
I closed my eyes before narrowing them at my friend.
“What this time? Because I grow tired of taking from people who did me no harm. People who do nothing more than farm the land and try to survive, like me and my tribe. Your tribe. Tired of fighting without a cause because it does not exist here anymore.” Downing the last of my ale, I shook my head.
“Our king has brought our country far, but we’re not there yet.
Now is the time to squelch the strife within our own borders and unify lest we go the way of the Scottish clans.
Though they fight well for their freedom, if they don’t stop squabbling amongst themselves, they will someday fall to England. Mark my words.”
“On that we agree,” he murmured, downing nearly all his ale in one long swig before his gaze settled on the flames.
“Nevertheless, we have received word that although the Norwegian and Scottish embassies have fiercely debated the sovereignty of the Isles of Clyde, ’tis not going well.
Our king is dispatching a fleet to raid into Loch Lomond to ravage Lennox.
Meanwhile, we will reposition ourselves between the Cumbraes and the Ayrshire coast.”
“Loki’s cock,” I cursed, pouring myself another ale. “King Hákon means to see through this invasion no matter what.”
“Ja,” Leif confirmed. “And he wants us lying in wait off the Cumbraes as he considers us amongst his best.”
Hanging my head, I sent up a prayer to the gods and took several more swigs of ale. “And then?”
“And then, once given the order, we make landfall and secure the area so that the main fleet can follow without a potential ambush.”
“So, a stealthy yet not so stealthy approach,” I said dryly. “Onto land heavily scouted by seasoned Scottish warriors in no mood to give up their territory any more than I would be, trying to conquer a people already dealing with the English and their endless prodding at Scottish borders.”
“You are beginning to sound like a sympathizer,” Leif said softly.
“I am starting to sound like the man I have always been,” I countered. “One who recognizes a battle already lost, who doesn’t want to spill more Norwegian blood over a lost cause.”
“So mayhap that is why you and I are here in this moment, my friend,” Leif countered, despite the angst in his voice, telling me he loathed it just as much. “Mayhap your gods and my God have sent us so that we might prevent it and see our men safely from Scottish shores in the end.”
“Now that is the soundest thing I’ve heard in some time,” I admitted. What else was left in this farce of an invasion but to save as many of my countrymen as I could?
“Then let us share another ale and go forward with that in mind.” Leif held out his hand to me. “Let us fight as brothers and keep our countrymen safe.”
I clasped his hand. “Always.”
“Skald.” He tipped his glass to me. “To all that will matter in the end.”
“Skald,” I echoed softly when it usually would be a boisterous toast to men I needed rallied to my cause. Now it was an alliance to keep them safe with no reward. “To all that matters.”
As it turned out, we disembarked with four ships two nights later and anchored off the coast of the Cumbraes as ordered. Two of my ships and two of Leif’s.
“’Tis not a good day for this,” I had warned Leif before we set sail, eyeing the red skies. Nothing good ever came of seeing such before sailing, as it usually preceded bad weather.
“I agree,” Leif replied. “But ’tis the king’s orders.” He shrugged and grinned at me. “I cannot see it being much worse than what we faced sailing around Scotland, and we survived.”
“True,” I conceded, never one to worry overmuch about a storm, but the air felt different, and the winds shifted too much, making navigation tricky when we set out. Lowering our sails, we took to rowing against choppy waters and higher waves than I would have liked.
The king had decided he wanted us to go ashore tonight under the cloak of darkness to scope things out. He and his fleet would join us the next day.
By the time we arrived, the wind had picked up considerably, and the waves were too big to make it safely past the breakers. Even dropping anchor might prove perilous, but we had little choice.
Thunder boomed, white hot lightning flashed, raging waves battered our hulls, and icy rain sliced down as we tried to keep our ships afloat. It eventually got so bad I could no longer make out the other boats in the rapid lightning flashes, and my heart sank.
“Where did they go?” one of my men roared, trying to be heard over the violent storm.
Shaking my head, I ordered them to tie off or hold onto anything they could because the anchor was doing no good, any more than I suspected it had for the other ships.
A lightning flash later proved it.
“Hell, stree mik,” I cursed.
Teetering dangerously on its side, one of the other boats was being dragged to shore by angry waves.
I wiped rain from my eyes and tried to keep it in sight, but moments later, a wave crashed into our boat, so high that it lolled heavily to one side.
Heart pounding, I wrapped my arm around the slick mast and held on tight, thinking only of Freya and our child.
I envisioned her luminous amber gaze and the feel of her warmth in my arms while trying to grab one of my men before he went over, but it was too late.
For all of us, it turned out, because the next thing I knew, my ship rolled and I was underneath the frigid water.
Pushing off the mast, I dove down and swam with all my might to get clear of my boat as waves kept tossing it closer to the shore.
All I could do after that was attempt to make it to shore, too, without drowning in the merciless, raging, wrathful sea.
Finally, and with the gods’ help, I found and broke the surface of the water where I struggled to breathe around mouthfuls of salt water.
Still, I needed to figure out which way was which in the cloying darkness.
Between the rain and the sea, water came at me from every direction, and I lost all sense of bearing until I swore I heard Freya’s voice on the howling winds telling me to look for her wolf.
Look for Largs.