Chapter Seventeen
The rain had ceased, and behind heavy gray clouds the light moved steadily to the west. Quarrie, shivering intermittently, slumped against the mast, half mad with his thoughts and with questions that had no answers.
He would die, that much was certain. If Da gave himself over to Hulda in a misguided attempt to ransom him, likely they would both die. The only uncertainty was what would come ahead of death.
He hoped he had the strength and courage to face it bravely. If she brought Da, and these savages made Da watch him die—well, he must then die bravely for his father’s sake. At the end of it all, Da should be proud of him.
If they made him watch Da die—
Nay, not that. Please.
The deck of the ship was narrow and he was positioned prominently so he had to endure the stares, the curses—identifiable even in a foreign tongue—and kicks from all who passed. He had no way to evade any of it, and as the time passed, he could feel his endurance wane.
What if his men killed Hulda there on the shore? What would happen then?
He did not doubt that the fellow with the brown hair and the vicious eyes would take control of the boat. Quarrie’s death would be hard and long and terrible.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and a deep shudder took him. Would he pass beyond prayers then? Did a man who hung on the very breath of pain forget how to pray?
The crew aboard the longboat grew impatient. They went repeatedly to the rail and looked out. At last there came a shout.
Did Hulda return?
Quarrie’s heart struggled in his chest and began to beat hard. No chance for escape. They had left his hands bound behind him and also lashed him round with stout line.
He heard excited calls from the crew and the hull of the smaller boat scraped alongside. He strained to see over his shoulder. If they hauled Da aboard…
They did not. Hulda Elvarsdottir came clambering up first, and then one of her men. The other likely secured the boat.
A fast and furious bout of question-and-answer followed. The voices of the crew integrated with Hulda’s lighter tones. Anger. Still another argument broke out.
They argued much, these Norse. Quarrie barely noticed, so strong was his relief that Da had not come.
Da had not come.
Thanks be to whatever powers ruled the heavens and the earth. The whole point of this was for Da to perish, if perish he must, in his own bed with Ma at his side.
Then why should Quarrie, for just a moment, feel like a small, abandoned lad?
Because he was going to die here. Most terribly. And even though it was a choice—a sacrifice—he’d made, he had thought in the back of his mind that his father might want to save him.
Foolishness, that. There was no sense in both of them dying.
Feet padded across the deck and Hulda moved into Quarrie’s field of vision. As might be expected, her men followed, still arguing in their own tongue. A fiery argument it was.
The brown-haired man railed at Hulda, no doubt for coming back empty-handed. She answered in a tone that shouted, I am in command here. Others of the men joined in, or tried to. The two of them were locked in on one another.
Until, that was, Hulda glanced at Quarrie.
They were beginning to lose the light by then and clouds lowered, but she could not fail to see the damage he carried.
A swift demand. What happened here?
Volatile answers from her men.
What did you do to him?
The brown-haired man answered.
Hulda came to Quarrie swiftly and hunkered down. Her gaze, pale even in the dying light, inspected him swiftly. She spoke in Norse and then said, “I told them not to harm you.”
He believed her. The harm would come later. Soon.
The brown-haired man stepped up behind her. He spoke in very rough Gaelic, no doubt for Quarrie’s benefit, “He got but a taste of what he has coming.”
Hulda sprang to her feet and faced him. “I gave you an order, Ivor.”
He shrugged. “He will have to die, either way. And we are bored. Kill him, mistress, so we can go home.”
Hulda said nothing.
“This has been a bad venture from the first. I should have known. Be assured, I only came with you because your faeir asked. Him, I respect.”
Implying that he had no respect for Hulda.
“I thought you wanted vengeance for Jute, your good friend.”
“That too. Now I am bored. Let us kill him and pull anchor. We can drop the corpse on the shore of the settlement as we pass.” He bared his teeth. “Without its head.”
One of the men, listening to this, spoke in Norse. Another chimed in.
“Ja,” Ivor agreed, and added in Gaelic, “After we find out how much pain he can endure.”
“In the morning,” Hulda thundered. “I need time to think if this is the best plan.”
“It is the only plan. He deserves to die.”
“Does he?” Hulda drew herself up to face Ivor. “He has shown courage.”
“Not yet, he has not. Mayhap he will, though I doubt it. See?” He looked around at the crew. “This is why it is a bad idea having a woman in command. They are not hard enough, eh?” He made a lewd gesture, pumping a hand at his own loins.
Hulda said something to him in Norse. The crew stood down.
For now.
Come morning, it would be a very different story. Quarrie had only the night ahead to live.
*
He did not sleep. The voices of the crew kept him alert in case Ivor argued his point and they came for him sooner. Came to take him. But he did let his mind wander away from the deck of the boat, back to the place he loved.
Mayhap if he thought hard enough on Scotland, that was where his spirit would linger once he died. For he wanted no other heaven.
He called up memories of days he had known, all he would have now.
Shivering against the mast, he relived them.
Bright mornings setting out for the hills on a hunt with the scents of salt air mingling with wild thyme all around him.
Bonfire nights when the flames leaped from hilltop to hilltop and the connection he felt with his ancestors flared strong.
Times under the stars when a visiting harper came to tell stories of all the places he had been, and played music with the power to transport Quarrie like magic.
He wanted all that. He wanted it all his life. But a warrior could not choose how he died. And a warrior did not always fight with a sword in his hand. Sometimes his only weapon remained courage.
He needed to remember that when they came for him. When they cut him or flayed him or set whatever challenge they desired. He would die like a warrior.
And when the agony ended, he would fly home.
Dimly, he heard the guard change—the men who had been standing went to their rest. Others, only dimly seen, took their places.
A shadow moved beside Quarrie, close. His whole body jerked to life, his heart beginning to pound sickeningly.
“Be silent,” a voice hissed at him. “Hold still.”
A knife. It glinted in the dim light, and he thought, Och, so it ends here after all. Quick or slow?
The rope binding him to the mast was cut with haste. A sharp blade it was, as he found when it moved to his bound hands, nicking his skin but only out of haste, with no intention to harm.
He gasped involuntarily. He’d been bound a long while, and it hurt to move.
The shadowy figure moved closer to him and asked, “Can you swim?”
He knew her then. Recognized the inflection of the whisper. Hulda. She did not mean to haul him up and kill him, but—
“Go,” she whispered. “Go now while Garik and I are on watch. You will have to slip over the side.” She asked again, “Can you swim?”
“Aye.” Could he? The shore was a long way off and his arms were numb. “I can. But mistress”—he reached out and touched her arm—“why—”
“They will kill you.” She seemed to feel it explanation enough. Perhaps it was.
She dragged him up. She was strong, and he could feel her determination.
“My sword—” he began. It meant much to him, and he wanted it back.
She shook her head violently. “Nei. Go. Now.” Yet her hands continued to clutch at him, and when he would have stepped away to the rail, prepared to leave with nothing but his life, she leaned up—and kissed him.
Quick and hard and fierce was that kiss, so fleeting that, as she towed him to the rail, he almost thought his blasted mind had imagined it.
For why would she kiss him? Why let him go, for all that?
Soundlessly, he slid into the water and began to swim.