Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) by Nelson James L

Author:Nelson, James L. [Nelson, James L.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3
Publisher: Fore Topsail Press
Published: 2014-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Six

[A] race of pagans…will carry you into bondage

from your own lands and will offer you up to their own gods.

9th Century Irish Prophecy

The thumping brought her around, the thumping and the motion and the pain. Quite a lot of pain. Her body was wracked with it. It was the first thing of which she became aware.

The next was that she was upside down and having a very hard time breathing. But she still did not know where she was. She opened her eyes. The night was all but black, but there was light enough for her to see feet and legs below her, a muddy plank road. She was draped over a man’s shoulder. Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill was being carried off by Vikings.

Her head was pounding, her thoughts disorganized, but she could recall the fight now, remembered Almaith cracking one of the bastard’s head open with an iron spit, herself swinging and missing with the ax. She recalled seeing the big fist coming around at the side of her head, the frozen terror of it, her inability to move. And that was it. There was no more.

She turned her head sideways, left and right. There were four other men that she could see, moving in a tight bunch, moving toward what she believed was the waterfront where the ships were anchored or pulled up on the beach. That was not good.

No boats… she thought vaguely. Can’t let them get me on a boat… Once they took her beyond the horizon, there was no telling what fate might befall her. She would never be heard from again. That was the thing about boats.

She balled her hand into a fist and pounded on the back of her abductor’s thigh, the only place she could reach, but it seemed to have no effect. The blows felt weak and ineffectual. The man carrying her seemed not even to notice.

Damn it, damn it… She could not form a clear thought, with the thumping and jostling and gasping for breath. She let herself go limp, hoping it would make her more difficult to carry, hoping it would make the motion better, give her a chance to think.

It did not help.

The man over whose shoulder she was draped yelled something, shouted out into the dark. Brigit could not understand the words, but the tone was very much that of an order, an order, given no doubt, to men aboard a nearby ship. Orders to take up the oars. Orders to carry her off to sea.

She felt a new surge of panic and started pounding again on the man’s legs, but her effort was no more effective than it had been the first time. She thought she felt the pace of the men quicken a bit. She heard another voice, from off in the distance. The man aboard the ship no doubt, reporting that all was ready.

But no. The voice was from behind them, from the direction they had come. She strained to hear. Far off, faint, but there.

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