Chapter Sixteen
Soren
Even after being immersed in eternal darkness after getting cut down in Largs, I longed for Freya and our child, when I should only be eager to visit the great halls of Valhalla now.
To finally share an ale with my All Father.
Yet the darkness did not fade, and I feared I was in Hel, the land of the dead despite dying honorably in battle.
Moments later, the darkness splintered into fragments of shearing pain and moonlight, then all went dark again before I woke to more splintering pain and blinding candlelight.
Unable to do anything but moan in agony, I squeezed my eyes shut, only vaguely aware of voices, before fading into darkness once again.
The next time I stirred to semi-awareness, men speaking with Scottish burrs were arguing, and a cool cloth pressed to my head.
“Shh,” said a gentle, feminine voice with a Norse accent. “’Twill be all right, but you must battle the darkness, Soren Dahl, because your fight is by no means over.”
“Where am I?” I rasped, my throat parched and my vision blurry when I cracked my eyes open again.
“Nowhere you want to be, heathen,” a deep voice growled. “Nowhere you—”
“Enough,” the female interrupted him, a frown evident in her voice. “Now is not the time.”
“’Twill soon be, though, lass,” he muttered, “because I dinnae like this one bit and he will know it.”
“I’m fairly certain he already does,” she cut back. “Now, both of you leave us be so that he can be tended in peace. He earned it, did he not?”
“Och,” the man grumbled. “He earned nothing but—”
“Go,” she bit out more firmly, the octave of her voice reminding me much of Freya’s when she grew exasperated, determined to have her way. And I could only be grateful because I was clearly in enemy territory and at the mercy of a man who did not like me.
Where was I, though? Given the woman’s accent, I could only pray I had somehow ended up in the hands of Freya’s sister, Astrid. Fortunately, once a door slammed shut, implying we were alone, she confirmed it.
“You must try to drink some water, Soren,” she said softly, tilting something to my lips. “’Tis crucial so that you see my sister, Freya, once more, for she worries about you greatly and is coming for you.”
“No,” I tried to say, but cool, refreshing water had already slid down my dry throat, and I had no choice but to swallow, craving it more than I realized.
After gulping down as much as I could before my pain became too much, I must have passed out because when I stirred awake, I was finally able to open my eyes and see my surroundings.
I appeared to be lying on a bed beneath fur blankets in a stone room with sparse yet well-built furnishings and narrow windows.
A fire burned on a sizeable hearth, telling me I was likely in a castle, and its master was someone of higher rank in their society.
“Good morning,” came that same soft, feminine voice, and I realized a woman sat beside me.
What looked much like a white wolf with the same pale blue gaze as hers sat by her side.
Lovely with honey blond hair tied back and a simple brown linen dress, she smiled and pressed a cool cloth to my forehead once more.
“My name is Astrid Helvig, sister to your wife, Freya. Mayhap she has told you of me?” She gestured at the wolf beside her. “This is my husky, Oksana.”
I recalled Freya talking about Astrid’s huskies. How she ended up with several strays when a child near the Russian border, and now had one of their descendants here in Scotland with her.
“Of course, Freya mentioned you,” I managed, my voice still raspy. Despite doing my best to smile, I suspected it didn’t quite meet my eyes. The pain in my midsection was still too intense. “She speaks highly of you and your sister, Tove, and misses you both greatly. ’Tis good to meet you, Astrid.”
“You as well, Soren, and I miss my sisters just as much.” Sadness flickered in her gentle gaze. “Very much.”
“What happened?” Frowning when I recalled her mentioning Freya coming to me, I shook my head, hoping I had misheard. “I thought you said Freya was coming, yet I assume I’m somewhere in Scotland despite thinking I died in battle?”
“You are at Mackay Castle on the western shores of Scotland,” she confirmed gravely.
“’Tis a wonder you didn’t cross over to your gods before we got to you, but it seems you’re blessed because you still live.
” She shook her head. “But make no mistake, you need to take great care, as your injury is grave. I applied a special poultice and put herbs in your water to ease your pain, but you must remain in bed for now, healing, as your journey back from your deities is not yet complete.”
At first, I found her turn of phrase unusual, given our gods were the same, until I saw the cross hanging around her neck.
Freya had never mentioned she was Christian, but why would she?
It was common enough now for our people to convert, so mayhap it was of no consequence, even for seers, which struck me odd, but it was the least of my worries right now.
“What of Freya?” I asked, concerned about her above all else. “Is she safe? Have you been in contact with her via the flames? Because I could have sworn you told me she was coming when ’tis the last thing she should do.”
“I have seen her via the flames, and she’s safe.” She shook her head. “And no, I said nothing of the sort, for ’twould be unwise given your location. You have been in and out of fevers, so mayhap ’twas your imagination.”
Mayhap. But something about the look in her eyes told me otherwise. Yet given my circumstances and her healing me back to good health, I thought it unwise to accuse her of such.
“How did I get here?” I wondered. “The last I recall, I lay on the forest floor looking up at Freya through the trees, then all went dark.” Glancing around the room, I frowned. “’Tis clear I’m not welcome, or mayhap I imagined a man’s voice as I did your assurance that Freya was on her way.”
“That you did not imagine,” she said. “’Twas Declan Mackay, son of Chieftain Lachlann Mackay, and he can be…difficult.”
While I had not heard of Lachlann, the other name sounded familiar.
“Declan Mackay,” I murmured, trying to place where I had heard his name before. “’Tis a name that reached our shores, is it not?”
“’Tis,” she granted. “He’s as well known for his battle prowess in these parts as you are back home.”
That’s when it hit me, and I raised my eyebrows at her.
“Surely not.” I frowned, hoping I was wrong because if so, my near-death experience was just a holdover to a far worse demise.
“Not the Declan MacKay, renowned for being King Alexander’s most prized warrior?
Declan Mackay, ‘The Ruthless’? The man who’s known to have single-handedly driven our people from these shores? Who has slain countless Norse?”
“Ja.” She shook her head and looked skyward. “Though I would say the tales are taller than the truth, much like those told of you and mayhap even me and my sisters.”
“If ’twas truly his voice I heard on my deathbed, I would say the tales not as tall as you think them,” I countered, hardly believing I was in Declan Mackay’s castle when his hatred of the Norse, whether Norwegian or otherwise, was renowned.
Yet here Astrid sat acting as though he didn’t threaten her in the least.
“And why am I here again?” I asked tentatively, wishing I had more mobility because again, my fate at Declan’s hands was not bound to be good or honorable.
“Better still, how, given my location? You could not have carried me back here alone, nor put me in a chamber that is better than any Scotsman would feel I deserve.”
“On that you are quite right,” came a man’s voice, before the last person I expected to see entered the room.
“I know you,” I exclaimed. “You’re the merchant on the shore that night.” I took in his fine clothing and the blue and green plaid wrapped over his shoulder. “Yet you are no merchant, are you?”
“Nay,” the voice I had heard before growled, and another man entered behind him.
Tall and formidable, with dark hair and the same plaid wrapped over his broad shoulder, he shot me a fierce scowl and narrowed his piercing green eyes.
“He isnae a merchant but Chieftain Lachlann Mackay, and you are here at his bidding because I would have let you die where you were, heathen.”
“Which makes me a heathen, too,” Astrid reminded softly, yet her gaze was anything but gentle when she narrowed her eyes at him. “And you would do well to remember that, Declan.”
“And you would do well to remember—”
“Enough, you two,” Lachlann grumbled, shooting his son a disgruntled look before lowering into a chair by the fire.
His skin was pale and drawn, speaking to a slow recovery from nearly drowning.
He paused for a moment, as if weighing his words, then spoke to me.
“’Twas verra risky bringing you here after I heard Oksana had found you, but I owed you a debt for saving my life, Soren Dahl, and Astrid pleaded for your life, so here you are. ”
“Many thanks,” I replied, loathing how vulnerable I was in this bed.
Hell, I couldn’t even sit up properly and defend myself if these men decided to slaughter me here and now.
Or worse yet, drag me to their king, where I would surely be forced to suffer for days to rally their armies’ spirits if nothing else.
“What now?” I grunted. What else could I say? My days were undoubtedly numbered, and I would know my fate.
“Now we see you healed,” Lachlann said.
Declan stood in front of a window with his arms crossed over his broad chest and glared at me, making clear what he thought my fate should be.
“And then?” I prompted. Pain throbbed in my gut where I’d been stabbed, causing my vision to blur, but I refused to wince and show weakness in front of these two. “What after that, now that you have stolen an admirable death from me?”
“Och, you have some nerve after—”