Viking Ecstasy (10 page)

❧

Ingmar backhanded the messenger so hard that the sound of knuckles striking cheek was sharp and ominous in the tense evening air. When the messenger did not fall, Ingmar struck him again, this time with a closed fist to the stomach, and the young man crumpled to his knees.

"That was not what I wanted to hear!" Ingmar shouted, bending low so that his face was close to the breathless youth's.

Finished, he turned to the other men. They were gathered where, earlier in the day, a wine merchant who had shown courage and foolishness by complaining to Ingmar that the warriors were taking wine they had not paid for. The merchant's corpse now lay in the swine trough and crowded into the house was a collection of women of purchasable virtue and Ingmar's most trusted men.

"Where is Tabor?" Ingmar asked. He picked up the battle-axe that had been Tabor's, turning the weapon over in his hands. The axe was Ingmar's greatest possession. He knew its value to Tabor, and stealing it was a magnificent coup. "Why hasn't Tabor been found? Why isn't Tabor dead?" Ingmar raged. His red-rimmed eyes bore into each of his men in turn. "I have more than a hundred men in my command, and he has less than twenty! Why hasn't he been found and killed?"

No one said a word, to speak now would almost surely mean death. Ingmar wanted to be told what he wanted to hear —not the facts.

Though Ingmar would never admit it to his men, he feared Tabor's retaliation. But he did not know — because none of his men would tell him —was that although when the fighting began, Ingmar had many more than a hundred men, now there were fewer than seventy.

Ingmar held out his drinking horn, and it was immediately refilled with beer. • As he drank, he brooded. As long as Tabor lived, the Viking was a threat. Ingmar promised himself he would not rest until his enemy's corpse, like that of the insolent wine merchant, had been tossed into the swine trough for everyone to see. No man, no matter how powerful, no matter how admired, could challenge Ingmar the Savage.

"Within the hour, the sun will set once again," Ingmar reasoned. "We know that under cover of night, Tabor has already attacked and killed one hunting pack sent to find him. With darkness, he'll probably attack again, so that is when we've got to stop him."

"But," countered one of the younger warriors, "knowing what Tabor is going to do and knowing how to stop him aren't the same thing."

Ingmar's lips twitched before he replied, "How right you are." Then, to the other men, he said, "Remove this insufferable fool, cut his throat, and throw him to the swine."

Without hesitation, the warriors carried the thrashing young man outside, where his screams were abruptly silenced. His cogent comments would no longer interrupt Ingmar's peace of mind.

❧

Tanaka watched as Tabor tilted his head back and sniffed the night air. It was the act of a predatory, hunting animal, not that of a man.

"It will be a harsh winter," Tabor said under his breath, kneeling beside Tanaka. Sven, at his other side, knelt too. "The autumn winds are severe —and early."

"Strong winds from the north . . ," Sven said, letting the words die away.

Disconcerted, Tanaka felt that she alone did not understand the significance of strong northern winds. It made her feel ignorant, despite the fact that in her homeland she was considered a woman of considerable intellect.

"The winds will carry us far," Tabor said. He tilted his head back, looking straight up into the night sky at the star. Would he be able to guide the boat through the rocky, treacherous fjords? "But only if I'm as capable a seafarer as I sometimes think I am."

"You'll get us through the fjords into the open waters. I know you will," Sven said with confidence.

"At night? It's a difficult task in the day; it is tougher still when the mist and the fog hamper a man's vision; it's probably impossible at night."

"Aye, it probably is. But if ever there was a man who could sail us through the narrow fjords, it is you, Tabor, Son of Thor."

Tabor rolled his eyes expressively. He did not care for the title, and he did not like it when his own men used it—especially not when Sven used it. Any association to a deity was insufferable arrogance as far as Tabor was concerned; claiming to be the son of the god of thunder surely had to be hubris to the nth degree. Besides, whenever Sven used it, there was an undercurrent of sarcasm that simply could not be mistaken.

A smile pulled at Tanaka's mouth, and she turned her face away so that Tabor would not see it. Tabor, Son of Thor ... a tide given to him by a woman who considered his lovemaking superhumanly satisfying. When she'd first heard the story, Tanaka had grimaced.
A self-promulgating lie
, she'd thought. Then she found out that the story was true. The emotion she felt was akin to jealousy, and she pushed that away and denied its existence.

What difference does it make what other women think of Tabor's lovemaking?
Tanaka asked herself. Whatever had happened between Tabor and her had been foisted upon her, physical acts that were against her will and for which she could not be held accountable. But though she tried hard to convince herself, she didn't believe it.

A hundred yards away, torches lit the night as men loaded the boat with stolen provisions. It wasn't a large boat —it had a maximum capacity of sixty men —but Tabor had concluded that its size might be to their advantage since it would be easier for a small crew to sail.

"We wait," Tabor whispered, reading Sven's mind as they knelt in the shadows, watching Ingmar's men piling stolen stocks of food and goods onto the boat. "We'll let them finish, then we hit them hard."

"I'll tell the others," Sven said, disappearing into the shadows.

Tanaka took Sven's place at Tabor's side. Though he did not take his eyes from the boat moored to a newly-built dock, she knew that he was aware of her presence. She studied his profile at her leisure, remembering what he had looked like before Ingmar's arrow had cut through his arm, thinking how nice it would be if she could again see that healthy gleam in his sea blue eyes. She would like to see a vital glow to his flesh and boundless strength in his movements.

"Can you fight?" Tanaka asked softly, keeping her voice low enough so that only Tabor could hear.

"I am a Viking warrior." To him the statement answered every question. Tanaka felt it answered nothing at all.

"And I am an Egyptian priestess, but that is not in question here." Tabor gave her a quizzical look, and Tanaka merely smiled back, wondering why she had told him when she hadn't admitted that in all the time that she had spent with Ingmar. "You will soon be in another battle. Are you strong enough to fight?"

Tabor fixed his icy blue gaze upon her. "You are a most persistent woman." It was not a compliment.

"Yes, I am." Her eyebrows arched above challenging eyes. "I need to know if you can fight. Sven has promised that I will live only as long as you do."

Tabor's expression told her that he had not known of the threat and that he did not approve.

"You can fool the others that your arm is not bad by holding onto your belt and not using your hand," she continued. "But I've seen your wounds. I know how much blood you have lost."

He had spent many years telling glib lies to women who wanted to know more about him than he was inclined to reveal, so he had a battery of smooth retorts to deflect a woman's questions. But, for reasons he did not comprehend, he needed to tell Tanaka the truth.

"You are really a priestess?" he asked. She nodded, her eyes demanding an answer to her original question. "I can fight, but I do not know for how long," he murmured.

"Every time you fight, you reopen your wounds. The sickness has not come to your arm yet, but sooner or later it will. And each time you lose blood, you are weaker than the time before. Sleep allows you to recover, but only partially." She placed her palm against Tabor's cheek, looking deep into his eyes. "Unless you stop fighting, unless you bring peace into your life, I fear you will not live much longer."

"No one but you would dare say such a thing to me."

Tanaka smiled indulgently. With more confidence than she had felt in months, she replied, "But I am not just anyone." She passed her thumb lightly across his mouth, remembering the wild thrills she had known from those lips. "Promise me you will stop fighting."

"Soon. ... I promise," Tabor said, conscious that he had never before promised a woman anything other than pleasure.

"It must be soon. ... or it will be too late" Tanaka replied, moving away. Soon it would be time for the attack.

T
anaka added one more layer of cloth to Tabor's arm, binding the wound with an especially tight bandage. She was not unmindful of the groan of pain he emitted when she tied the bandage off; and when she looked into his eyes, she realized he'd made the sound for her amusement.

"Don't look so frightened," Tabor whispered. "I've been in a hundred battles."

With an edge to her voice, Tanaka replied, "And how long do you think you can challenge the Fates by staying alive?"

Keeping to the shadows, Tabor and Sven led the Vikings toward the freshly loaded boat. Toward the rear, Tanaka was surprised that she wasn't as nervous as she had been just prior to the previous bat-des.

Don't tell me I'm becoming hardened to violence and killing,
Tanaka thought, afraid that the savage days and cruel nights had stripped away the humanity and goodness she'd believed innate.

The Norwegian Vikings, fresh from their victory over Tabor's men at Medworth, never expected an attack from a force they considered annihilated. The sentries on land were dispatched quickly and silently. From there it was a mad rush down the narrow, swaying dock, Tabor and Sven shoulder-to-shoulder in the lead, screaming to further disorient the Norwegians.

Though the initial stages of the battle had gone precisely as Tabor had planned, Ingmar's men were seasoned warriors and they would not fall without a fight. Swords were crossed, battle-axes met with shields —sometimes with flesh and bone. Tanaka watched a man only a few feet in front of her get struck down by a Norwegian's deadly, iron-headed axe. As the corpse fell, the dagger the Dane carried rattled across the dock to rest at her feet. An omen? She picked up the dagger, holding it awkwardly in front of her. The Norwegian —a member of Hugh's band of cutthroats whose face she recognized though she didn't know his name —paused a moment to look at Tanaka. Judging that she could not possibly be a threat to him, he moved on to resume fighting.

To follow the man down the dock meant lunging deeper into the heart of battle, but Tanaka felt compelled to do exactly that. She was oblivious to everything but the axe-wielding Norwegian.

An instinct that she knew she must trust warned her to act immediately or it would be too late. She ran onto the boat, leaping over two figures wrestling in deadly combat. Before she reached the Norwegian, her conscious mind finally grasped what her subconscious had known all along—that the man was going to use his lethal axe against Tabor, striking him down from behind.

"No-o-o!" Tanaka shrieked, rushing forward, leading with the dagger as the Norwegian stepped behind Tabor, who was locked weapon-to-weapon with his adversary.

The Norwegian raised his axe, envisioning the honors and riches that Ingmar would bestow upon him for slaying Tabor.

Unmindful of the threat behind him, Tabor feinted a move to his left, then came in hard from the right, bringing the sharp edge of his sword across his foe's throat. A moment later, Tabor heard Tanaka's high-pitched warning cry, and he wheeled around. He saw the axe, but it did not come down in a deadly arc to render bone from flesh, though Tabor could not possibly have raised his blade in defense. He drew back, prepared to strike the Norwegian warrior in the midsection, but the man fell face down at Tabor's feet, a dagger protruding from his back. Tanaka stood motionless, unable to tear her eyes away from the man she had just killed.

Heedless of his own safety, Tabor sheathed his sword, rushed to Tanaka's side, and lifted her into his arms, ignoring the screaming pain in his injured biceps. He carried Tanaka away from the fighting, concerned only for her safety.

❧

"We're ready to set sail" Sven said brightly, too brightly.

"Then set sail!'' Tabor shouted with as much pride as he could muster, wanting to savor this victory over his nemesis. But hardly had the words escaped his mouth when he slumped in the captured boat. He pushed himself erect again and sat upon a barrel of salted meat. His face devoid of color, he struggled to appear hale and hearty, but there wasn't a member of his crew who didn't know that their leader was clinging to life through sheer force of will.

It was madness to be sailing the fjords at night. Even during the day the barely submerged rocks could rip out the hull of a ship. At night, only the ablest of navigators could guide the boat through the waters —and then only with the guidance and blessings of the gods.

The sail was green-and-white-striped, as was the custom for Norwegian sailing vessels. It was not a boat that pleased Tabor, but it had enough provisions for many months to come and he was determined to be happy with what he had. Besides, as a Viking, he was always happiest and felt safest when he was on the water.

They headed toward Kaupang, Norway, running silently in the night. Tabor instructed Sven, who manned the rudder, guiding the sturdy boat through the rocky waters.

It was on the first morning of their escape that they were seen. Though they were a hundred yards from shore, the sail was recognized, and the call went up among Ingmar's men on land. In short order, a boat, fully manned, chased after them, sailing a mile or more behind.

By midday, there were three ships following Tabor's stolen boat; and as the sun was setting, five swift boats joined the chase, each struggling to eke just a little more speed out of the wind in hopes of catching the "renegade Dane."

Through it all, Tanaka kept a close eye on Tabor. She was mindful that his cheeks appeared a bit more gaunt than before, his eyes a touch more sunken. Twice she approached him, suggesting that he eat and get some rest, and on both occasions she was rebuffed.

"I am in command," Tabor told her curtly, his haggard features making him look even more threatening. For the first time, Tanaka looked and saw a man capable of atrocity, a man carrying an enormous burden of responsibility—besieged by enemies and pushed into a corner. "In command is where I will remain until it is time for the Viking funeral."

Irked by Tabor's stubborn refusal to rest, Tanaka wanted to say that the traditional Viking funeral for a man of his stature required that he be burned at sea in his boat, which would make it difficult for the rest of the men aboard ship to continue sailing. But she kept her comments to herself, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders to ward off the early evening chill.

When the sun set, the first of Ingmar's chase boats ran aground on the fjords. At night, over water, the slightest noise can carry great distances, so Tanaka was able to hear the hideous sound of timber snapping like twigs, the high screams of strong men about to die, and the sudden silence as the struggle for life ended.

The smile Sven and Tabor exchanged when they realized a chase boat had been shattered by submerged rocks infuriated Tanaka. She wanted to scream that men had died and that no man should take pleasure in that, but she kept her thoughts to herself. At best, her opinions would fall upon deaf ears; and, at worst, they would give further credibility to the suspicions that she was in league with Ingmar.

During the dead of the night came the most dangerous moment for Tabor and his men. They made the hard southbound turn, at last catching the wind coming from the north to head toward the English channel. Though this was exactly what Tabor wanted, it also put him within visual range of the mainstay of Ingmar's forces and loyalist population.

A second following-ship sank on the treacherous seas and rocks, and a cheer went up from Tabor's men.

"Even in their own waters, you've bested them!" Carl shouted, raising his fist heavenward, proudly, defiantly. "Tabor, Son of Thor, shall never be vanquished!"

Tanaka's heart skipped a beat when Tabor raised his hand briefly to acknowledge the compliment. Then, pale and drawn, his head slumped back on his shoulders, and he entered into the black sleep that she had feared would claim him.

Tabor was carried to the bow of the open boat, a bed of blankets made for him. When a light sprinkling of rain began, Sven ordered the whalebone supports put in place and the tightly woven-wool coverings stretched over them to provide a tent-like protection from the elements and to preserve heat.

Tanaka stayed at Tabor's side, oblivious to the cold and rain, holding his hand between her palms and feeling for his pulse. If she did not hold him, she thought, if she did not touch him, his mighty heart would at last give out. When she asked Sven if it were possible to erect a barricade to give her privacy while she tended to Tabor, he fixed her with a hard, suspicious gaze. Then, softening, he ordered a blanket placed between the bow and the main body of men, creating for Tabor and Tanaka a small bedroom about fifteen feet long.

At the bow she was able to look out to sea. Perhaps, if Tabor escaped from the black sleep, he would be revived further by seeing the waves.

It was a race now, and everyone knew it. The festive mood of the boat had vanished; and, throughout the day, as the ships followed — sometimes inching closer, sometimes falling back —no one spoke a word. Sven remained at the rudder until fatigue got the best of him, and Carl took over.

To their port side, the coast of France slipped by. The hours passed, and exhaustion mingled with fear for those things which never changed —like the ships that followed relentlessly. The northern wind pushed them southward constantly, but the boats were evenly matched in speed and the chase continued. The tension mounted with the passing hours, the participants in this struggle of life against death paralleling their relationships of the earlier battles.

The shores of England were to the west, France to the east. Sven and Carl talked briefly of seeking refuge in England but abandoned that line of thought. Better to be on the water like a Viking, they decided. Besides, neither Carl nor Sven knew much of the English, and they had raided France too many times to believe they would find friends there. So onward they sailed, always moving south, afraid to pause for a moment, afraid that the wind would stop. If the oars were needed, then Tabor's crew of twelve would not stand a chance against the crews of sixty or seventy that followed them.