Chieftain's Rebel by Frances Housden

Author:Frances Housden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises, Australia Pty Ltd

There was nae hiding, not if they wanted to escape the flames. Two of the Irish boats were alight and the others trying to avoid them as Calder and the others on the boat with him were attempting to ward them off. They were on the sharp ends of three long oars, two to an oar, putting their backs into it, with muscle, bone and desperation shoving on the end of the oars, fending off the burning Irish vessel. The plan had worked, mayhap too well. They were in the hands of the gods, and whau could claim to know what they wanted, or when they would change their minds and set all agley?

Calder wanted to groan at the horrendous crack and splintering sound that came frae his right. One of the biggest men was on the end of that oar but, like Calder, he had discovered that against the weight of a whole laden boat, the force of two men was a pitiful thing.

“Get ready, Gilda,” he shouted, though in his own ears it sounded like a shriek as with one last heave his oar shattered.

“I’m with ye, Calder,” Gilda’s voice came to him, thin and urgent as he drew his sword, nae time for his shield. He could hear Gilda screaming, banging hard the ring of metal on wood as he leapt up in the bow.

This had to be what hell was like: flames, smoke and demons rising out of them shouting, “Death to the Norsemen! Die! Die! Die!” That was the moment the Irish boat rammed theirs and a bearded monster with a dearth of teeth lunged at him, tangles of hair lifting into the air, dark against the red behind him as he sailed across the gap onto Calder’s sword.

Others took the same road out of this world, dead or drowned as they sank under the water. Calder braced himself to meet the next assault as he heard Gilda’s screams. His heart sprang into his throat, the instinct to protect the woman he loved first and foremost in his thoughts. He turned in time to see Gilda thrust the metal edge of her shield in her opponent’s throat.

Reason enough for him not to catch sight of the warrior whau came up on his right side, leaping frae one bow to another. He heard the thump of feet near the dragonhead prow and turned, slashing out with his sword at the hairy bare legs above the crossed bindings, slicing into the knee. “God’s blood,” he yelped as, bent o’er the side, he felt the Irishman’s steel slide into his ribs below his armpit.

“Gilda-a-a,” her name the last word to slide o’er his lips as he fell after the Irishman.

He hit the water, the salt taste of it filling his mouth, his nose. Pain swamped him as he tried to swim, as though the sea filled his chest through the wound in his side. His plaid bubbled up around his waist, air and water held by his belt.

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