Chapter Ten
Don’t move,” Styr commanded, seizing Caragh before she could run towards the cage. Already her brothers had seen Brendan and had gone to plead with the council for his life.
But Caragh refused to yield, struggling against Styr’s tight grasp. “Let me go.”
“Your brothers will bring him back,” he said. “Let them handle this.” He refused to let her anywhere near the sacrifice, and he used his height to block her view.
“He’s so young,” she whispered. “He can’t die. Not like this.” Tears flooded her eyes, as if she couldn’t stop the rush of emotion. “You have to save him.”
He remained silent, weighing the possibilities over. The volva had predicted that Elena was alive, and the green stone she’d described was an island outcropping south of here, near the coast. Though he wasn’t certain whether to believe the prophetess, she’d given him a possibility.
He risked a glance at the slaves, before meeting Caragh’s pleading gaze. She laid her head upon his chest, closing her eyes. “Please. For my sake, I beg of you—save his life.” Her hands dug into his tunic, her mouth tight with fear. “I know you still hate him for what he did. But he is my brother.”
“Elena jumped into the sea because of him.” Styr made no effort to conceal his anger and frustration. The boy had brought harm upon his loved ones. He deserved nothing at all.
“She escaped,” Caragh argued. “We don’t know what happened that day. Brendan might have tried to help her.”
She reached up, her palms on either side of his face. “He doesn’t deserve a death like this one.” Her hands were cool against his cheeks, and her blue-violet eyes were wet with tears. “If I mean anything to you at all...if we have become friends, I ask you to save him.”
Her plea for mercy slipped past his stony resolution for vengeance. His gaze lingered upon her mouth, remembering all that never should have happened.
“For me,” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything at all, his mind turning over the quandary.
A woman’s desires shouldn’t matter. But Caragh had suffered more than most women.
She’d had no one to take care of her, and she’d been strong through the worst of circumstances.
After all that she’d endured, he didn’t want to see her look upon him with eyes of hatred.
Her brothers were arguing with the council, but he could see that they were making little progress. Every minute that passed was a minute that brought Brendan closer to death.
He took Caragh’s hand in his, leading her to stand before Ivar. The man’s dark eyes assessed both of them, and clearly he’d overheard their conversation. “Do you want me to intervene on her behalf?” he asked.
“I want you to guard her while I speak with them,” Styr corrected.
Ivar gave his vow, but before Styr could leave, Caragh threw herself into his arms. “Thank you,” she wept, gripping his waist. “I won’t forget this.”
He stared back at her, knowing that it was not at all a gesture of mercy. And he couldn’t stop himself from caressing her hair.
The blinding smile she sent him was enough to stop his heart cold.
“Will they release my brother?” Caragh asked Ivar.
The Norseman’s arm moved over her shoulders in protection, as he held her hand. “It’s unlikely. They require nine slaves for the sacrifice. I would offer one of mine in their place, except—”
“Except the newer slaves are Styr’s men,” Caragh finished. She understood now, that Styr was not only negotiating for her brother; he was also fighting to save the lives of his own kin.
“I want to move closer,” she said to Ivar.
“It isn’t safe. You should remain here, far away from the sacrifice.”
She pressed her hands upon his chest, pleading, “This is my brother. Don’t ask me to stand back and watch him die. If Styr cannot save him...”
“We will do what we can,” Ivar said, “but it may be too late.”
Already, the first thrall had been set on fire, his screams agonizing among the throng of people who silently watched. Prayers rose to her lips, for mercy.
“They will slit the throats of the others,” Ivar said. “That slave attempted to run away, to avoid his fate. Those who agree to die as a sacrifice will have the death of honor. It will be quick, and this night, they will dine with the gods in Valhalla for their bravery.”
Panic caught up in her throat, as she saw the terror in Brendan’s eyes when he was brought to stand beside the rest of the men. He’d made many foolish mistakes, but he didn’t deserve to die for them.
A tear broke free as she saw the second slave die. Styr was speaking to the men, along with her brothers. She could not hear their words, but when she saw him strip away his armor, handing it to Ronan, her pulse quickened.
He wasn’t planning to take Brendan’s place, was he? Bile rose in her throat at the thought of Styr falling beneath the blade, or worse, his body turning black in the flames.
She closed her eyes against the image, wanting to believe it would not happen. He had a wife to save, along with his men. He wouldn’t sacrifice himself, would he?
“Take me closer,” Caragh demanded. Before Ivar could protest, she faced him squarely. “Unless you believe yourself incapable of protecting me?”
His gaze hardened. “Of course you will be safe.”
Caragh took his hand in hers. “Then bring me to where I may watch what is happening.”
Ivar clasped her palm and guided her through the throng of people.
In the distance, she heard the hollow beating of a round drum.
Styr was stripped down to his hose and nothing else.
In one hand, he gripped a battleaxe, while in the other, he held a round shield with a metal boss. Across from him stood another Norseman.
“What is he doing?”
“He has offered to fight,” Ivar answered. “If he defeats his opponent, that man will take his place as the sacrifice.”
“And if he loses?”
Ivar met her eyes with a steady resolution. “You know the answer to this already, Caragh.”
She squeezed his hand, her heart beating so fast, she could hardly breathe.
“What is this man to you, Caragh?” Ivar asked. “Does he have a prior claim?”
Inwardly, her mind was crying out with fear. No, there was no claim. She should feel nothing at all for this man. Especially when he was one she would never have. He loved his wife and honored her. Every touch between them had been of her own doing.
But she found herself nodding. “I do care for him.”
Ivar’s hand came up to cup her chin. “He is not worthy of you, kjaere. You should have a man who worships you.”
“There is no man who feels that way for me.” At Ivar’s piercing gaze, she predicted, “Not even you.”
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Have you thought about my offer?” He reached out for her hand, holding her fingers gently. “You hold the power to free his men.”
“I can only think of my brother now,” she answered honestly. But Ivar’s suggestion made her aware that she would owe Styr a debt that could never be repaid. He was risking his life for a boy he despised.
From across the space, his eyes met hers for the barest flicker of a second. As if to remind her that this was not his choice. Not his battle to face.
He was doing this for her, because she’d asked it of him. And in his eyes, she saw the strength and determination to win.
In that moment, her heart was impossibly lost. She could no longer deny that she was in love with a man who could never belong to her. Tears heated her eyes, but she willed them not to fall. Instead, she drank in the sight of him, trying to remember every line of his face, every feature.
She gripped her hands together, willing herself to meet his last look.
“He is a fool, kjaere, if he does not see the woman before him.” With a dark smile, Ivar bent down and brushed his lips against hers. “You will soon learn that I can give you far more than Hardrata ever could. Perhaps it might one day be enough to win a smile.”
She said nothing, turning all of her attention to the fight. In the morning sun, Styr’s hard body revealed his battle skills. Upon his torso were carved the deep lines of muscle. Not only in his strong arms but also in his abdomen.
He moved like a predator, attacking his opponent with a skill she’d never imagined. His long blond hair hung over his shoulders, and upon one upper arm, she saw the gleam of a golden armband.
The enemy Norseman slashed his blade toward Styr, and he blocked it with his shield, his battleaxe arcing towards the man’s head.
Ronan and Terence stood by Brendan, who was still chained.
Her brother's dark hair was matted with blood, his bones showing against his pale skin.
Before Caragh could take another step forwards, Ivar held her back.
He kept one arm around her waist, the other just above her breasts. “No closer,” he warned.
In his arms, she watched as Styr dived to the ground, narrowly avoiding the sword. The tip of the blade caught his arm, drawing blood. At the sight of it, the people began to shout, calling out for more blood.
A cry caught in her mouth, though she pushed it back. She couldn’t understand what terrible Fate had led her to love this man. But the thought of Styr dying sent a phantom pain into her own body.
The drumbeat intensified, mirroring her heart. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, and when his enemy let out a roar, plunging his sword, she gripped Ivar’s arm, her nails digging into his skin.
Styr raised his shield, and his enemy’s blade embedded within the wood. He ripped back the shield, disarming the man, and within seconds, his enemy lay upon the ground.
Her knees went weak, and when Ivar let her go, she couldn’t stop herself from running. Not to her brother, who was already unchained and guarded by Ronan.
But to Styr.
Blood ran freely down one arm, and perspiration gleamed upon his skin. But Caragh ignored all of that and embraced him hard, not bothering to hide her tears.
“Thank you for saving him,” she whispered.