Beyond a Darkened Shore(7)

I sheathed my sword as I panted for breath.

Another Northman warrior stumbled close to me. He saw his leader at my feet. I latched hold of him with my mind as fast as a hawk snatches an unsuspecting mouse from a field. This one was tired and bloody; he barely had the strength to resist. I made him open his mouth and shout in his own language, “Hrokkva!” Fall back. The fighting continued for several heartbeats, and I forced the Northman warrior to repeat his call. One by one, the Northmen caught sight of their fallen leader and obeyed the order to retreat.

The surviving Northmen—twenty or so by my count—turned and ran as my remaining clansmen chased them to the edge of the cliff.

The man I controlled remained behind, still swaying under my influence. I moved him toward the younger unconscious boy. I could sense the pain of his injuries as I forced him to scoop up the boy: the cut on his thigh bleeding freely that burned as he bent down, the searing pain of bruised or broken ribs with his every breath, the sting of the blood and sweat in his eyes. Still, he was strong enough to retreat with the boy, and that’s all I cared about.

Take the boy and never return, but your leader is mine, I told him. Let him remember me for the monster I was.

I glanced back down at the fallen Northman leader as my twelve remaining clansmen gathered around me.

“Cut his head from his shoulders and end this,” said Conall, one of my cousins.

“No,” I said, my eyes holding his. He immediately dropped his gaze. “I want him kept alive.”

“Your father—”

“My father isn’t here,” I snapped, “and this Northman may know about—may even be responsible for—the attack on the monastery. I need to know if my father survived.” I moved to stand over the Northman’s fallen body like a wolf guarding her pup. The crow’s voice had told me to spare him, so I would . . . for now. But more than anything, I wanted to know how this Northman was able to resist me. I let out a sharp whistle for Sleipnir. He trotted over, gracefully avoiding trampling the fallen. All my clansmen save Fergus and Conall backed away, eyeing me warily. I stared at the two of them for several heartbeats—just long enough to remind them I could force them if I wanted to—before they finally hefted the Northman onto my horse.

I leaped onto Sleipnir’s back behind my prisoner.

Apprehension at what I’d done filled me. If my father returned—no, when, I corrected myself angrily—I’d have to explain why I hadn’t immediately killed the Northman when I had the chance.

But first, I’d have to explain my logic to myself.





3





There was only one place I trusted to keep a prisoner both secure and secret—at least for a while. A tiny cave carved into the high cliffs by the sea, easily the most miserable place in our kingdom.

The sea roared beneath us as we hugged the side of the cliff. Conall and Fergus grunted under the weight of their unconscious charge, and I led the way over the rocky path to the cave. It was only the three of us who were able to drag our captive to his new prison; the rest stayed behind to guard the way until the enemy fully retreated. We followed a steep goat trail to a small cave carved out of the rock. Jagged rocks awaited us if we fell, but this was a path we knew well. Once I slipped inside, I helped pull the Northman into the cool darkness.

Manacles dangled from chains attached to the wall, and I fastened them around the Northman’s wrists. I gritted my teeth as I touched him in such a familiar way. His arms were surprisingly heavy, the lean bands of muscles pulling the chains taut as soon as they were fastened. He slumped forward, his head on his chest, arms outstretched. His long hair escaped the leather thong that kept it bound, some of the blond strands preventing me from seeing his face.

I leaned back on my heels. I didn’t understand why the voice had made me spare this man’s life. Many times it had warned of battles to come, but it had never intervened in any other way—especially never to spare an enemy’s life. Sometimes the crow appeared with the voice, but not always, proving this was more than simply an enchanted crow. I’d asked it many times what—or who—it was, but I’d never been given an answer. A spirit, a god, a demon . . . it made no difference. All that mattered was that it enabled me to prepare for battle. And now, it had spared my enemy’s life.

I tilted my head as I studied the warrior before me. He looked like any other Northman—so why had the voice commanded he live? But if I was being truly honest with myself, I knew there was another reason I’d spared him.

I wanted to know how he’d been able to resist my mind control. After all, who was this warrior whose mind was nothing but a stone wall? Who could resist even my power?

“Is everything all right, milady?” Conall’s voice snapped me back to the cave. In the dim light, it was hard to see my clansmen, but I knew both had minor injuries from the battle. Conall’s forearm was sticky with clotted blood, and Fergus had added yet another scar to the collection on his craggy face. For all I knew, the Northman I had spared had put those marks on men I’d grown up with. Men who were perhaps the only two who treated me as an equal rather than someone to be feared. I closed my eyes tightly as if the simple act would erase the greasy guilt swirling inside me. Maybe the Northman would awake in a fury and I would be forced to do what I should have done on the battlefield.

“Go home and tend to your wounds,” I said to Conall and Fergus. “There’s no reason for all three of us to keep watch.”