Golden Surrender

  She took a deep breath, fighting back a wave of terror that was nauseating, wishing desperately that she had never struck upon the morning’s path. But it was too late for cowardice. Irish men surrounded her; Irish men ready to fight, willing to die.

  She stood up, brandishing her sword high and in circles. She saw the men beginning to mill about the camp look up, seeing her, a figure in gold upon the cliff, and the reaction was as always. They were puzzled; they pointed her out to one another. Then they began to shout and grab weapons and run in the direction of the cliffs.

  She ducked back to the ground, throwing herself to the hard and dusty stone, her heart racing. Now it was time for her to disappear. But before she could creep down the stone, she realized something was wrong.

  The enemy was not rushing for a blind attack. Someone was shouting that it was a trap; the cliff was being carefully surrounded rather than charged. Then the sound of clashing steel came to her too quickly. The battle had already begun.

  She had to get down the cliff. It would be suicide to be trapped there. She began a careful shimmy, watching the earth beneath her the best she could. The sounds of howls and steel and thunder were coming from the east, and she could only surmise that the Irish were retreating, seeking out their mounts and attempting to vanish into the summer lush forests.

  She saw the sandy earth beneath her feet and jumped the last short distance, gripping her sword tightly. But before she could run, she saw that she was about to be met by an opponent.

  It had been a long time since she had practiced with a sword. Too long, she thought with belated remorse, and the steel-clad frame that came after her own was a large one. Weight! she reminded herself desperately. Think of his weight. Seek only to escape him, to run.

  Desperately she fought off the sword blows of the tall and heavy warrior. Pure desperation kept her moving, spinning, ducking, leaping, parrying, returning shattering blow with shattering blow. Desperation alone allowed her to entice the warrior to strike out at her and meet the cleft of the stone cliff instead, momentarily lodging his weapon. All she needed was a moment, enough time to run; but looking up, she found that she was faded by another warrior, and shock stabbed through her like a thunderbolt, because the man she faced was her husband.

  The steel-cold eyes of the Wolf of Norway bored into her, both searing and freezing her soul. It was only then, in that second in which she stared back in dismay, that she realized she had made a deadly mistake.

  The men she had led were the outlaws and Irish. Not Danes. Not Norsemen. Not invaders, but traitors to their own land … to her father’s alliance. To the Ard-Righ of Ireland, to the Norwegian Wolf. She had joined with the wrong men against her husband.

  She thought she had seen him fierce in anger but nothing she knew of him as a man had prepared her for Olaf as a warrior.

  The blue steel of his eyes was the same as his towering, knot-sinewed body. It was in the arm that coolly leveled the sword with the emblem of the wolf meticulously carved into the handle. Steel was in the very air that surrounded him, in the golden glow of vibrancy and tension that was his.

  He inclined his head slightly. “You have fought a commendable skirmish, lady, but so far you have only played games. Now it is my sword you must meet.”

  Erin didn’t have any more time to reflect upon the tragedy of her foolish actions; she was forced to raise her sword in defense. He was right; so far she had only played games. No matter how she ducked or spun, he was there, and each clash of his steel against hers was more than shattering. He was quick, he was lithe, he was cunning, and staying alive became her only concern.

  She noted vaguely that they were watched by a spattering of Vikings, but it meant nothing to her. Someone started to move in but Olaf snapped out that his was a private battle, he was to be left alone. Then she realized that he meant to kill her.

  Not even that mattered, because there was nothing to be done. Instinct took over, and even as her strength was sapped with brutal surety, she fought on like a trapped rat, seeking only to survive and prolong her life as long as possible. Even as she fell to her knees beneath the blinding force of his blow against her sword, she sought to ward him off. Not until her sword flew high and away with his next relentless swerve did she accept the fact that all was lost. Sprawled on the dirt with the point of his sword at the pulse in her neck, she closed her eyes and knew that it was too late to plead for mercy, too late for anything but a last glance at the sunshine and a last scent of the salt summer air.

  “Dear God, don’t!”

  It was Gregory’s voice. He was screaming; there was a pounding across the ground. “Don’t—you can’t—”

  Olaf spoke, his voice strangely cool and detached, but bitingly in command. “Calm yourself and return to camp. I have no intention of murdering her. Go, all of you.”

  “But—” It was Gregory, dear Gregory. Gregory who knew Olaf might have slain his wife; Gregory who would feel the urgent, anguished need to defend and protect her.

  “Go!” It was the growl of the Wolf in absolute, furious command. “I have told you she will live. Now leave me.”

  Erin chanced to open her eyes. The others had obeyed the command. Only Gregory, face contorted with pain, still hedged. Olaf’s sword still hovered over her neck. She suddenly became keenly aware of the hard-packed earth beneath her back, of the sand granules that pierced into her flesh, of the sun beating down upon her, of the hard, cold austerity of the golden giant towering over her prone form.

  “Olaf—” Gregory pleaded once more.

  “I never intended to slay my wife,” Olaf spat out with such furious contempt that Erin felt as if she were paralyzed with shock.

  “You-you know—” Gregory gasped out.

  The sword point moved away from her neck. “Tell me, Gregory, since you insist upon staying,” Olaf continued with a deathly cold calm. “What do you Irish do with traitors? I would say that Aed himself, if asked that question, would agree that death was the rightful penalty.” He stared down at the ground. “Get up, Erin.”

  For countless seconds she couldn’t move. He reached down suddenly and she stupidly thought that he meant to help her, but he merely ripped the helmet from her head, heedlessly tearing out strands of her hair.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but with her tears came a resurgence to life. She rose with what little dignity she could muster and tried desperately to explain. “I didn’t mean to ride against you. I meant to lead an Irish force against the outlaws determined to ambush you—”

  His hand snaked out to grasp her hair, his cruel fingers tangled into silken ebony curls.

  “Don’t!” He ground out harshly. He turned back to Gregory, apparently calm. The only proof of his explosive anger was in his painful grip upon Erin’s hair at her nape. “This, my friend, is man’s most cunning enemy. A woman. She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Gregory, this cousin of yours? Her eyes could melt the arctic ice, her hair is the finest spun silk, her face the purest marble, her form as lush as any goddess. And she can smile at you with lips as soft as summer rose petals, but while she’s smiling, she’s planning your demise. And then, poor lady, she happens to get caught. So what then? Of course, she pleads innocence, and you’re supposed to believe because you’re so enraptured by the sweet ecstasy of all that feminine beauty—”

  “Olaf!” Erin shrieked out. “I didn’t … I wouldn’t go against—”

  Her words were cut off by a cry as he roughly jerked her hair, bringing a fresh wave of hot tears to her eyes.

  “I promised you once, my lady wife,” he grated sarcastically, “that any further trouble from you would result in a heavy toll. I always keep my promises.” Staring at her with eyes of ice that were steel against emotion, Olaf tilted his head back and whistled loudly. Seconds later two Norsemen circled the cliffs to stand waiting, fifty feet from them, leading Olaf’s magnificent black war charger. Olaf’s hand in the air prevented his men from coming close enough to see Erin. The charger moved on to O
laf alone. Comprehension dawned sickeningly in Erin’s mind as the massive animal reached his master and Olaf drew from around the saddle a pair of iron shackles hanging from a length of heavy hemp. He intended to lead her behind him as she had done to him that first day they met. Except that she hadn’t his stamina or strength nor was her flesh as toughened and calloused against the elements.

  “You can’t—” Gregory began, but Erin cut him off, echoing his sentiments with a humiliated horror.

  “Olaf, please! I beg you, I’m your wife!”

  He smiled a smile colder than anything she had ever seen before, and it cut to the quick. It was an anger so sharp she couldn’t see that it covered the deepest agony.

  “You live because you are my wife,” he said quietly.

  “If you would only listen—” Erin pleaded.

  “Listen!” Olaf bellowed. “I don’t need to listen when I can see. You cost lives today, Princess. Men who fought to save Ulster for your brother died here for this treachery.” He grasped her hands when he read the panic in her eyes and knew she could instinctively seek to flee, locking the shackles quickly around her wrists.

  “No!” Erin gasped out, attempting to bite him.

  His hand clenched into her hair once more, tightening unbearably, then he suddenly released her, shoving her toward Gregory, as if fearful of his own anger. “Give her the faceplate back, Gregory.”

  Gregory made a last valiant and desperate attempt to save Erin as he fumbled to return helmet and faceplate to Erin. “Olaf! Let me stand in for her! Punish me—”

  Olaf coldly mounted his charger, his golden brows raised high, his eyes frigidly cold. “I’m sorry. Erin and I have been a similar route before. She still seems to believe there is no law but her own. She must be made to understand that I do not make idle threats, nor do I like my life threatened by my wife each time my back is turned. Go back to camp, Gregory. If you cannot do so by your own will, I will call guards to help you.”

  Erin somehow saw the anguish torturing Gregory through her own fear. She tried to signal him to go, to make him believe things might go better if only she were alone. “Go, Gregory,” she managed to whisper.

  “I cannot.”

  “You must.”

  Erin watched as her cousin turned, stumbling over the cliffs. Her eyes followed his broken walk, then her vision was directed back to the golden man seized by the icy rage who towered above her on the restless and pawing stallion as he jerked on the hemp, pulling her shackled wrists.

  “This, Princess,” Olaf bit out, “is justice. Even at that stream, my lady wife, I offered you no malice. And since you have come to my home, I have looked the other way over the daggers you continually throw. No more, Princess. I draw the line here. You will be meted all that you deserve, which should have been your fate from the day we began.”

  “You won’t lis—”

  She was unable to finish her statement. His lips compressed tightly and he dug his heels into the stallion’s side. The horse leaped to a start, and Erin gasped as she staggered into a run to keep from falling.

  Erin spent several minutes trying merely to adjust to the gait of the horse and the rugged terrain beneath her feet. Then she saw where he led her and she almost stumbled as she closed her eyes with horror. They were moving through the camp.

  Men paused in various stages of duty, saddling horses, packing gear … caring for the dead. The Irish watched her with eyes that spoke of the incredulity and sadness at her betrayal; the looks upon the Norse faces were more venomous.

  No man made a move—neither the few Irish who felt pity for the woman who had once ridden with them as goddess, nor the Norse whose tightlipped stares bespoke their feelings that she should be flayed alive rather than punished and humbled before them. She wanted to sink beneath the earth as she was jeered by warriors she had known all her life, and yet that humiliation was not near the pain of seeing what her folly had wrought. Olaf dragged her viciously around and around the men who had fallen. If she lived beyond a century, she would never forget staring upon the glazed faces of the dead men.

  Finally that torture upon her ended, Olaf swung the stallion about, whipping her sharply behind him. “We ride on for Dubhlain!” he shouted. “I take my prisoner ahead.”

  It was a tribute to Olaf as warrior and king that his complete authority was never challenged. His men returned to their tasks, ready to follow behind at the distance dictated by his command.

  There was only one man who defied the order. Brice mac Aed, still riding with his brother-in-law, had received a nick in the ribs during the skirmish. He had been having his wound bound when the Golden War-rioress was first dragged into the camp, and when he had finally seen her, he had become numbed and stunned.

  But when the Wolf began to ride ahead with her, new life pumped into his veins. No longer aware of his throbbing wound, he tensed his muscles and burst into a hurtling run across the camp. Erin! He had lost Leith, and now he was in panic as the enraged Viking led his sister away.

  He had barely reached the central fire before he was once more stunned to receive a flying blow to his legs and find himself crashing heavily to the ground. Ready to fight, he swung around, only to encounter Gregory.

  “Get off me, Gregory! Have you gone crazy! That’s Erin—”

  “Hush!” Gregory pleaded, spitting sand from his lips as he and Brice struggled back to their feet. He grappled his older and larger cousin’s shoulders and shook him firmly. “Listen to me, Brice. Listen to me well. He knows it is Erin. And he isn’t going to kill her. But she rode against him, Brice. No law in any land would deny him retaliation. Why she did it, I don’t know. But he’s actually protecting her, Brice. Look at the face of the Viking we have called friend. If he hadn’t acted as he had, they would have labeled him a coward and demanded far worse. They would have flayed her within an inch of her life, if they happened to practice benevolence. Erin has to solve this, Brice. If we interfere, we can create disaster. We must wait. We must see how she fares in Dubhlain.”

  The irrational fire of fear and panic slowly faded from Brice’s eyes and his broad shoulders slumped. “She’s my sister, Gregory,” he said brokenly. “How can I—”

  “You must let her go and have faith in the man we have ridden beside in battle so long now. He is a strange man, that Viking we call brother. Powerful but not merciless. Relentless but not ruthless. Erin can far better help herself now.”

  Why had she ridden against him? Brice wondered sickly. He couldn’t condemn Olaf, and yet he couldn’t bear that harm might befall his sister. He would wait until they reached Dubhlain. But if Erin didn’t appear well before him, he would defy the entire land to take her away.

  Olaf did not give the animal free rein. Erin would have instantly fallen and been dragged flat had that been the case. But still he kept up a pace that left her panting before they stood by the cliffs and reached the road. Nor did he glance her way until they were on the road. There he stopped and twisted to stare down upon her.

  “Olaf!” Erin gasped out, inhaling desperately. “Have you not done enough to me? Can’t you see that my own soul tortures me? Think what you do to me! I will never forgive you—”

  “Forgive me!” he thundered. “Wife, never have I met with such a foolish tongue!”

  Again the stallion broke into a slow canter. The ride through the camp had been but a prelude, child’s play, compared to now. Erin felt the cruel jerk upon her wrists, and instinctively bunched her rapidly tiring muscles to break after the animal. Each time her feet touched the ground it began to feel as if they were pierced by swords. The world began to swim before her. The pounding of her heart was like engulfing thunder and the rasp of her breath was louder than the breeze. Yet she fought against falling, for even at Olaf’s speed she would be ripped and torn and bruised.

  He pulled up short beneath the shade of a gnarled oak. Erin collided with the flanks of the stallion and slumped to the ground. She took several minutes to breathe, then li
fted her eyes filled with both wrath and pleading to his.

  “Olaf! I would not ride against my own father!”

  “Noble try, Princess,” he returned coldly. “Your father no longer rides with me. We parted far north. Surely you are aware of such a fact. If you knew my position and that of the outlaws, you certainly were privy to the knowledge I rode alone.”

  “Nay—”

  “Get up.”

  “I cannot—” She broke off with a scream as he jerked at the rope. Struggling, she came to her feet, just in time for the great hooves of the charger to start moving again.

  The black stallion moved in a slow but fluid canter. Again Erin saw the world spinning and shaking. “I despise you!” she shrieked out. “Better that you do kill me than—”

  The stallion stopped abruptly and striking blue eyes were on her again, raking over her as a shaft of cold steel. “Fear not, Princess,” he said coolly. “I will not kill you. You are, as you reminded me, my wife. I do not intend to kill you or even leave you battered or bruised. I do not like to gaze upon scars.”

  A sharp chill crept over the panting heat of her body. “No …” she protested feebly, hating the cold and hardness in his eyes. He could not be planning on coming to her, taking her, not like this. Not when this terrible hate raged between them. Better that she fall and break her bones beneath the stallion’s hooves.…

  “Aye or nay, my lady, choices are no longer yours.”

  She screamed out with pain again as the iron shackles bit around her wrists and threatened to jerk her arms from her sockets as the charger leaped back to motion. A canter again. She wanted to fall, to spite him. Yet she fought against the terrible pain that would come with being dragged against the ragged turf. Not much longer, she thought, stumbling. I cannot run much longer.…

  The blackness started to descend with greater frequency. She could no longer draw breath into her lungs. Every muscle within her moved in heated agony. Then she fell.

  The stallion halted before she had been carried a man’s length. Olaf dismounted from the horse, but as blackness swam before her eyes, she received no assistance from him. She felt the point of his blade against her throat. “Up, my lady,” he murmured.