Highlander’s Viking Seductress: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Page 4

  She heard the deep whip of the air again, and this time saw the source of the noise – the sudden rearing head of a trebuchet high above one of the townhouses behind the dock.

  The leather sling whistled through the air as the beam thrust upwards, releasing another boulder that arched spectacularly across the grey clouds before striking another of their ships. It clattered with an ungodly sound, and Idunn watched as the people hurried to the edge of the boat, desperate for safety. Some abandoned their weapons, leaping for the waves. Others searched for their friends, desperate to save others before themselves.

  Around Idunn, the Norse who were still alive were already swimming to land. It seemed now they had two enemies to fight. One was the Highlanders, the other the raging sea. Each time a wave crested, the white foam boiled, as if furious at being disturbed by Viking ships.

  Idunn tussled against one of the waves, pushing upwards to keep her head above the boiling ocean. She swallowed water, forcing her body to wretch out the salty dregs once again. Lifting her eyes to the beach, she swam against her captor.

  In lines upon the beach stood the Highlanders - many soldiers bearing bows and arrows. The row at the back released their arrows in unison to a barked order, striking down the Norse warriors as they emerged from the sea. They fell cleanly to the ground. Others dodged the missiles, too accustomed to warfare to fall so easily.

  Amongst them were people she knew, warriors who were her friends. At the thought of her friend, she grew agitated.

  Idunn flicked her head around in the water but could not find Einarr. Her hands trembled with the thought that one of the empty helmets could be his.

  As fast as the thought struck, another trebuchet released – the stone landing near her in the water, creating an almighty splash that covered her face and threatened to drag her back down to the depths. She fought the ocean monster all the way, but it felt as though each wave had fingers that were gripping onto her tunic of cattle hide and wool, dragging her back down. She imagined kicking away the monster, releasing its hold from her tunic and the ankles of her boots. Once her head broke the surface, she spat the water out and swam forward, determined to reach the shore.

  Already, some Norse warriors had made land and were sparring with the Highlanders. A sudden determination filled her, and she found renewed strength to swim towards the beach.

  As Idunn reached the shallows, clambering through the sods of wet sand, the soldiers were prepared for her. Three of them moved towards her, but she was ready. Undercover of the ocean, she pulled her sword from its sheath, hiding it from view beneath the green glacial surface. It was sluggish through the water, requiring greater strength than ever to free it.

  As the soldiers moved forward, she surprised them – lifting her sword out of the water to strike with one blow across their unarmoured legs. The men reared back; two of them falling into the shallows on their knees, bellowing in pain, the third stood tall and raised his sword. He was big and bulky, making him slow in his movements, she was small and lithe, and her attacks were much faster.

  As he attempted to strike, she jumped to her feet and dived to the side, splashing in the water. With one strong blow, she struck across the man’s chest, locating the weak spot in his chain mail. He looked down briefly at his wound as she removed her sword with a sound that made her wince. He fell like a plank into the sea, causing a great splash against the water.

  Idunn moved away from her three attackers, heading towards the fray that had now broken the Scottish lines of soldiers into pockets of smaller battles across the rocky beach. She squinted through the misty rain, watching the fighting as her breathing grew heavy.

  Her mind wracked with errant thoughts, wondering where the soldiers had been hiding. A battle cry disturbed her mind’s wanderings. She flicked her head around to see the source of it, her wet blonde braid below her helmet swinging with the movement, dripping water down her already soaked armour. Her eyes found the source; it was more soldiers. They were running free from the cliffs' caves, aiming directly for the skirmish on the beach.

  She trained her ear to listen to their words. The Scottish tongue was not so different from the Norse, and she had learned a lot on her previous raids.

  “For the Clan. For the Laird. And for every Man!”

  Idunn was certain of the words; there was something to admire in the battle cry. She could not help but smile. It was a clever tactic of the Scots to conceal themselves in the caves and ambush the Norse from such a hiding place.

  As they ran towards her and the others, she braced her feet in one of the beach's rock pools and lifted her sword, preparing her body for the attack.

  Water was still running clear of her armour and the iron helmet. Her sword glistened in the seawater; the familiar motif of the Viking compass, or vegvisir, shone with trickling droplets. Each spike and trident on the motif were cut into the iron, creating a mass of sharp ridges. Her mother once told her the sword would always show her the right path. Each line on the motif was a symbol of a route to take in life. That, after all, was the meaning of the compass, to show the user the way.

  She breathed deeply for a moment, adjusting her fingers on the grip of the hilt. As the Scottish soldiers neared her, she smiled again.

  Já, this is my path. I am a warrior.

  As the fighting began, she sparred easily, taking some of the Highlanders down with her ferocity and ensuring others backed away. As more Norse warriors reached the beach, the battle grew until warriors and soldiers were spread thinly.

  Idunn fought on, determined not to give up. As she took down another soldier and turned to her next challenger, her eyes darted away from her opponent to the people beyond. Amongst the warriors, she saw Einarr.

  She could not stop the smile of relief when her gaze found him. He was wrangling easily with his own opponent. His greater height and skill protected him effortlessly from the attack. As she knocked her own opponent from his feet, her gaze scanned the rest of the beach.

  We are outnumbered.

  It was a fact that could not be avoided. They had not even reached the town; no Norse foot had stepped beyond the beach onto the green earth.

  More ships were sinking from the trebuchet’s missiles out at sea, and a new horror dawned on her. The boats at the back of the fleet were turning around.

  “Nei,” she murmured under her breath, the momentary pause allowing the soldier to clamber to his feet, “This cannot be happening.”

  The soldier was intrigued enough by her gaze to look over his shoulder toward the ships. He turned back, betraying a smile beneath the half-covering of his helmet.

  “It seems yer people are abandonin’ ye!” his strong Scottish accent rang out with depth, “Surrender now, and I willnae kill ye, lass.”

  She moved her eyes back to him, narrowing her lids in certainty.

  “Nei. I will never abandon my people. To the death.”

  “To the death then.” The soldier lifted his sword, and they quickly returned to their parrying, leaving her to move back and forth in the paddles of the rockpools, her boots making splashes around her ankles.

  She fought with all her might, trying to push away a condemning thought that clouded her mind just as much as she tried to push away her attacker.

  Perhaps we are about to lose our first battle ever against the Scots.

  Chapter Five

  Gavin could feel the sweat pouring down his neck as he fought against the Norse. It came in droplets, dampening his tunic and making his chain mail stick to his arms. It mingled with the spray of the rain and the ocean waves. In the sheer heat of his armour, helmet, and the fight, his skin was burning. He absorbed the heat, feeling the thrill of the battle engulf him as though it were flames itself.

  With Findlay at his side, the two fought together, protecting one another from the Norse's underhand tactics. He took down one of the Norse warriors, delivering a strong blow of his sword between the man’s leather armour's quilting. He looked away from the blood
pooling as he turned.

  It was not the death in battle he liked; it was the honor of defending his people. He turned his head to scan the beach as Findlay finished with his own opponent.

  “They are outnumbered,” Findlay called, as he pushed the warrior to the floor and struck him with his shield, “Why daenae they concede? Look, some of their ships are even sailin’ away! Weaklin’s.” Findlay laughed as he pointed to the horizon.

  “Maybe they are just realistic. They ken they cannae win.” Gavin nodded towards the ships. “They can see they will die if they come ashore. Just as their friends have. As for why the warriors here daenae concede…”

  “Foolhardy?”

  “Nay.” Gavin’s eyes moved between the warriors, squinting through the slats in his great helm. “Honor, me friend. I cannae deny them that. We would do the same.”

  He raised his sword again as a Norse warrior charged towards him, bearing a battle- axe above his head. Easily he blocked the warrior with his sword, drawing the attacker nearer before delivering a firm elbow to the man’s nose. He fell back into the shallows of the sea, clutching his face. Gavin did not let up, and with the hilt of his sword, he struck the man’s helmet, knocking the man unconscious. He drifted down into the shallows of the sea. Still breathing, but hardly conscious.

  “Aye, suppose so. To the death it is, then. It will warn them nae to attack the Clan of Comyn again.” As Findlay walked forward into the fray, lifting his triangular shield as though it were a trophy of victory, Gavin followed slowly, continuing to scan the crowd with care. He was never as confident as Findlay in battle; though they matched each other in skill, Findlay had the greater strength.

  The thought made him search for someone else, someone who might have struggled against the Viking warriors' strength.

  He was looking for Tadhg amongst them, but he was nowhere to be seen. He could have been hidden from view beyond the many helmets of the Scottish soldiers or masked from sight by the sheer number of people. Still, Gavin could not recognize the stance or build of his brother. He began to panic, fearing his brother lay amongst the fallen bodies in the sand. He searched the faces closest to him, but only grew more afeared by seeing men he knew amongst them.

  Forcing his gaze upwards to the sky, he felt the patter of rain seep through the holes in his helmet. He shook his arms free of the tension of fighting, lowering his eyes toward another in the crowd.

  It was a Norse warrior woman. She was perhaps not the tallest but was toned with muscles beneath her cattle-hide armour, and her arms wielded the sword better than many a soldier he had seen. Beneath her helmet, a long blonde braid swung freely over her shoulder as she struck her opponent.

  She did not roar as many Vikings did, but her lips were pressed firmly together in determination, her large eyes ablaze. Gavin watched her, observing her ferocity in battle as she took on two of his men at once. She parried with both - simultaneously, her lithe body keeping the men from outnumbering her. Without a shield, she used her sword to both attack and defend with agility.

  As she delivered a cruel blow to one of the men’s shoulders, the other managed to strike back, belting her helmet with his bare hand - having already lost his sword to her skill.

  She staggered a step back, reeling from the blow, and raised her head again, revealing her nose guard was twisted from the strike. She removed the helmet and tossed it to the side, letting it splash into the oncoming waves, displaying her face for all to see.

  Gavin found his body fell still as he watched her through the fray.

  She stood with legs apart in leather fitting trousers. There was a long cloth tunic below her armour, covering her hips as though it were a short dress. She planted her boot-clad feet solidly to the floor and raised her sword. By removing her helmet, she had revealed even more of her large eyes and prominent features. Her blonde hair reached the middle of her back. It was braided but was coming loose in wisps. Her full lips curved into a smile as her attackers paused. One of them passed a second weapon to the other, an axe they had salvaged from a dead warrior. They charged towards her – she dodged the first blow easily and was soon back into the heat of battle. Her body moved back and forward with ease and athleticism and was well-matched beside the men.

  A clang of metal sounded beside Gavin’s head, drawing him away from his observations.

  “Gavin! Can ye return to the land of the livin’?” Findlay stood in front of him, having blocked a Norse warrior’s attempted blow on Gavin.

  He shook off his thoughts and returned to the battle, moving his mind to notions of victory and what they would do with the Norse warriors that survived the fighting. He moved between the warriors, consumed with the thrill of the fight and determination to win.

  As he knocked another Norse to the floor, he heard the swish of metal through the air close to his helmet. He ducked and dived to the side, turning in time to see who had attempted to strike him around the head.

  He paused, his body bent and coiled, ready for retaliation.

  It was the woman warrior he’d been watching. She stood, bent forward, legs apart with her sword raised, waiting for the first strike. When he made no move, the corner of her lips turned in a smile, and she raised a single eyebrow in challenge, as though she was taunting him to come and get her.

  She is… captivating.

  As the word broke through his battle-fuelled mind, he lifted the sword and took his first blow to her. He should not be thinking of someone from his enemy’s ranks so, he should despise her on sight. She was a Norse warrior who had come to loot their land. He could not let himself be bewitched by her ferocity and figure.

  She sparred with him easily, blocking each of his blows and attacking back. At one point, they were in the rockpools; her swipes at his legs, forcing him to jump out of reach of her sword. Yet a minute later, they were back in the shallows of the water. As Gavin took the upper hand, he pushed her back until she was knee-deep in the water and knocked her from her feet. She used the moment to her advantage and struck back at his ankles, causing him to retreat without harming her.

  She regained her footing, and they stared at one another, both poised, ready for the next attack.

  Gavin was aware of the clamoring sounds of battle around him. Axes struck shields, swords against swords, bones against rocks on the beach. He should be helping his men and finishing the warrior woman quickly, yet he could not.

  Firstly - she could match him in battle; her skill was just as great, though her tactics were different. Secondly, and altogether a more concerning reason; he did not want to harm her.

  She is the image of a warrior goddess.

  He shook off his admiration, forcing his eyes closed with a hard blink as though he could force the image of her from his mind. However, when he opened them again, she was still there – with the same ferocity, determination, and beauty.

  This time, she was the first to strike. After a minute of back and forth, with neither one of them gaining ground, he managed to control her sword with his, catching it at the perfect point on the hilt. He drew her sword around in a circle, bringing her towards him.

  It was a traditional move, a well-timed one that would give its orchestrator the advantage. She stumbled forward, baffled by the action but reluctant to release her weapon. They stood, almost nose to nose, the hilts of their swords pressed together and the blades pointing upwards, parting their faces. Gavin had a hand on the hilts, controlling her and refusing to release the sword.

  She looked between their weapons and the slits of his helmet, clearly trying to see his eyes.

  He had the advantage; it was obvious. With any other opponent, he would use the hilts of both swords to strike their face, forcing them to release their weapon and deliver a horrifying injury, yet he did not.

  Instead – he watched her.

  She was breathing deeply, her chest beneath the armour rising and falling quickly, her full lips parted as her eyes darted between the slits in his helmet. Those eyes were
a mixture of blue and green – a color he had never seen before. It was as though the two colors were swirled together by a paintbrush.

  Those same eyes narrowed, watching him with curiosity.

  She is a warrior. She knows I have the advantage.

  The woman was wondering why he was not taking advantage; he could see it in her eyes.

  Gavin grew aware of a new sound echoing behind him. It was a battle cry. He looked up to see Norse warriors charging towards them, and to his right were his own Highland soldiers. He looked back to the woman in time to see the same panic on her face at being caught in the middle of the charge.

  Pushing against the hilt of her sword – he forced her away from him and out of the direct colliding point. She stumbled into the sea, casting one curious glance at him before she was pulled into a new fight.