LITMIR.BIZ

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who had served her mother and her so faithfully. He’d taught her how to handle a sword and had dried her tears when her mother had become too exacting.

      ‘Then he is fighting for Odin now as he always wanted to,’ she said around the lump in her throat. Old Alf would be the first to scoff at tears, acting like a fragile female he’d call it, instead of behaving like a warrior. She wiped an eye. ‘A fitting end for him. Good. Old Alf trusted you. Why?’

      The Gael shrugged. ‘He understood what I had to do. He urged me to do it. He knew the sword I wore came from your father, the sword which shattered saving your life. Your friend died so that you could live.’

      ‘My men...’ Dagmar whispered as the lump in her throat had begun to choke her. ‘My men are loyal.’

      He lifted a brow. ‘Obviously not as loyal as you might have thought. Some of them betrayed you, led by Olafr. As we were leaving, they shouted for Thorsten while beating their swords against their shields. They turned the tide against Constantine.’

      The buzzing in her ears increased. Her men, her mother’s men had betrayed her and broke the fellowship when she needed them the most. How was that even possible? Her mouth tasted bitter. The Gael had to be lying, hoping she’d go quietly to wherever he intended for her to be ransomed.

      ‘They wanted the land the King promised my mother,’ she said as her gut hollowed out. ‘One more victorious battle and it would have been theirs.’

      ‘Your mother is dead. Why would Constantine honour that promise even if he could? Or perhaps you know more than I, Shield Maiden.’

      Dagmar’s fingers itched for a knife, for anything to wipe the knowing look off his face. He mocked her. She didn’t need telling that competing with her mother was an impossibility. Her mother had been more than an equal to men, a legend in her own time and Dagmar was merely the daughter.

      She forced her hand to relax. She had to start behaving like her mother’s daughter, rather than giving in to her desires and curling up in a pathetic ball.

      ‘How do I know you tell the truth? I take it you conveniently disposed of this shattered sword.’

      ‘Old Alf gave me this brooch. It apparently belonged to your mother. He entrusted me to get you to safety and that means going to your father.’

      He held out her mother’s favourite brooch, the one she had used to fasten her cloak, the one she had handed to Old Alf as she’d breathed her last. Dagmar’s heart twisted. The Gael was telling the truth. Why else would Old Alf have entrusted his most beloved possession to him?

      With great difficulty, she rose. The world swirled about her, making her stomach swoop, but she forced her spine to stay erect. ‘I will go to see the High King. I will not allow this insult to go unavenged. Constantine will see sense once I explain the situation. If not for Olafr’s double-dealing, I would have given him victory. I can still do it. Once the land is confirmed, the men will see they made a mistake in betraying me and return to my felag. Without them, Thorsten will find it impossible to hold Northern Alba.’

      ‘You will go nowhere except where I say you go.’ The Gael snapped his fingers and his giant dog instantly blocked her way. It bared its teeth and gave a low growl. Dagmar retreated several steps.

      ‘I need to go there and confront the King. Please, call off your dog.’ She hated how her voice trembled on the words. ‘There are women and children’s lives who depend on me making this right. I gave my word to my mother. My first duty is to them.’

      ‘Your name will be the byword for treachery in Constantine’s camp,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You will not be allowed within ten paces of him. Your life expectancy would be a few breaths at most. I regret I cannot allow you to go there to your death. My people and I need you alive. Afterwards...you may go where you will, but my people come first.’

      She swayed slightly. Her name a word for treachery. She rapidly sat down before she fell. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I’m innocent.’

      ‘Do you think Constantine cares?’ The Gael’s eyes burned fiercely. ‘He needs a scapegoat to blame for his failure and you are a pagan woman warrior, an abomination in the eyes of his priests and counsellors. A woman who lives for blood, rather than her brood. You are no peace-weaver, Dagmar Kolbeinndottar, but a peace-destroyer in his eyes.’

      ‘And the people who work the lands promised to my mother?’

      ‘They will do what people always do—work the land for the new overlord, one whom Thorsten appoints.’

      ‘Or they will depart, hoping to find refuge.’ She held out her arms and willed him to understand. ‘I must be able to offer them that refuge.’

      ‘You can do little for them if you are dead.’

      She hugged her arms about her waist, hating that Aedan mac Connall’s words made sense. She had heard the whispers from Constantine’s priests about her and her mother, but always Constantine had refused to listen. She and her mother were his favourite weapon, the unbeatable combination who kept the Northmen from Dubh Linn from gaining sway over his lands. She had almost achieved her goal—her own estate with plenty of land for her men. But that was before. Before she had lost this battle. Before Constantine had been badly humiliated.

      ‘You appear to know a great deal about what that future holds.’

      ‘I know what Constantine and the Picts are like,’ the Gael said with a faint smile. ‘I know their prejudices. How little they think of the Northmen. I heard the mutterings as we escaped. Thankfully they were too busy trying to save their hides to worry about a single man leading a pack horse with a dog trotting alongside.’

      ‘We were winning. I sensed the shield wall beginning to break. A few feet more...’ She put her hand to her head as the blackness threatened to overwhelm her again. She had nearly tasted victory, victory which was hers alone, rather than sharing part of her mother’s triumph. ‘Or at least I think it was like that. My recollections are hazy.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter what you think or sensed.’ He banged his fists. ‘My task is to take you alive to your father by All Hallows. Therefore, we will not be journeying to Constantine or your lands or anywhere else you might think will serve your purpose first. We go to Colbhasa and your father.’

      ‘My father cares nothing for me. He turned his back on me a long time ago. He requires sons, not daughters.’ Dagmar crossed her arms. There, she had said the words out loud, words which had been written on her soul on her tenth name day.

      ‘Your mother hid you from him. She actively kept the two of you apart. She made sure you received no word from him. The old warrior who perished asked me to tell you that. Said it would calm you down.’

      The stark words were hammer blows to her heart. Trust the Gael? Old Alf might have, but she saw no reason to. She could never trust her father—not after how he’d treated her mother and her, after he chose her stepmother and her swollen belly over them. And despite her stepmother’s prophetic dreams about bearing her father many warriors, the woman had produced only one sickly son.

      Gunnar’s mysterious illness should have warned her that Old Alf had spoken true about Olafr’s attempts to betray her, but she’d ignored his warnings. All she had needed was one good victory to cement her position, gain the land she required—what she had achieved, instead, was a resounding defeat. Everything had slipped through her fingers. Her life had become the dregs of the pond as her stepmother had predicted it would—the only words the witch had ever spoken directly to her. ‘I’ll listen to what you say, Gael, before I decide.’

      ‘Will you behave yourself?’ he asked. ‘Or does my dog have to keep you in check?’

      ‘Do I have any choice?’

      ‘Not really.’ He gave a smile which was like the sun breaking through the mist on an autumn morning. ‘Be content with breathing, Dagmar.’

      ‘I would like to carve Olafr Rolfson’s heart out.

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