Page 46 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

“ I am sure I can mend this today.” Safira climbed out of the hold, the two parts of his trousers in hand. “But you might consider owning more trousers…since you will be a leader and all.”

He grinned, wolfish. “I’ll buy cloth, and you can sew them for me.”

Wind carried her sprite of a laugh. “Beware Viking, if I have charge of your trousers, one leg would be too long and the other, too short.

Rurik jumped from the ship’s rail to the dock, his thigh throbbing when he landed. He grimaced and willed the pain to pass.

“You have so little faith in your ability to take care of me?”

“I can take care of my husband ,” she said pointedly.

“But not the man you love?”

Her mouth a soft pout, Safira tucked his ripped clothes under her arm and crossed the wide plank. She set her hand in his to step off.

“Marry me and find out,” she taunted, brushing against him.

They stood, bodies touching, her fingers clasped with his as if they were inevitable.

With Safira’s face lifted to his, he had the strangest thought she was memorizing him.

Holding onto every color in his eyes, his hair, the shape of his nose and even the ear with a missing chunk of flesh.

A fool’s thought, that. He was never letting her go. She had to know that.

He quirked his mouth. “Is it possible you’re admitting that you can’t live without me?”

Pain flickered like a shadow, here and gone, in amber eyes.

She pushed up on her toes and planted the lightest kiss on his lips. “No, but I will admit I cannot sew. Only mend. Because there is a difference.”

“I don’t believe it. The fair maid of Paris lacks a womanly skill?”

Pride got the best of her. “I am a quick learner, Viking.”

They walked, hands clasped across the dock.

Wind buffeted thick, rainless clouds, blocking the sun.

Merchants opened up their stalls. A new ship, Frisian by design, docked nearby.

In the distance, a Frankish ship manned by twenty oarsmen sliced through choppy water.

On land, Gunnar and Erik waited near the blacksmith’s open doors.

A woman idled with those two, holding a basket against her hip.

Three maids passed, giggling behind their hands when spying the men.

“Look at that.” Safira nudged him, whispering, “News has spread. The Sons are here to stay, and Rouen’s fair maids approve.”

“They’d better enjoy the attention now. There won’t be time for women in the coming months.”

Wind blew strands of hair across her face. She’d bound it loosely at her nape with a white wool strip. In the hold, she’d asked Rurik to tie another farther down her back. Fixing her hair had been intimate and sweet.

His hand at her back, he steered her toward the hall. “Let’s go eat.”

Despite their hunger, they ambled along the deck, taking quick checks of each other, one hesitant smile drawing out another.

“You will be busy in the coming months.” Safira’s voice was small.

The sad notes ripped him. He had to look away.

“There is much to do.”

Her scent was on his skin. He’d awakened with her head on his shoulder and her calf resting alongside his. Their sluggish gait was proof neither wanted to leave the cozy nest they’d made in the dragon ship.

Safira tucked loose hair behind her ear and squinted at southern rooftops. “The jarl will send you to clear Queen Annick’s men from the southern forest. Little chance for you to build your holding, no?”

“We meet later to discuss strategy.” They stepped off the dock. “As to when I build... I don’t know.”

A heavy-wooden wheel ox cart stalled their progress uphill. Five children sped by, laughing at a game with a single stick and ball of yarn. Ivar’s hammer rang a steady ping, ping, ping in morning air.

Erik broke away from his conversation. “Rurik,” he called out. “I have news.”

Rurik guided Safira across the muddy road to meet Erik. The basket-holding maid bid Gunnar good day and left to finish her chore. Both the Sons waited in the yard outside Ivar’s forge which faced Merchant’s Row.

Safira stopped in the sunshine. “I will wait here while you talk to Erik and Gunnar.”

Ivar’s hammering ceased. He set down his hammer and a half-formed scythe to step outside. “Rurik. You need to be ready.”

He was as massive as Thorvald without the short-temper. A talented blacksmith and wrestler, he would make a fine warrior if he chose that path. Bare of his tunic, all could see the tattoos that painted his shoulders.

“Vlad and his men are gone,” Erik said.

Rurik bit back a curse. Three paces away Safira shaded her eyes.

“Did you see that?” She pointed south. “A flash...like metal.”

Ivar, Erik, and Gunnar checked the direction with him. “I see nothing,” he said.

“There is something there,” she insisted. “I am sure of it.”

“When we get to the hall, tell Soren. He’ll send a man to investigate.” Rurik turned his back on the road. “What happened with Vlad?”

“The jarl expected them this morning, but they never showed.” This from Ivar. “Could be Vlad left with his tail between his legs. He has his pride.” Ivar grinned. “Which you thoroughly beat to the ground.”

“I don’t like it.” Erik’s tone was full of caution. “He’s too mean-spirited to take a beating like that. He’ll want revenge.”

Safira’s footsteps scraped the ground behind him. “Rurik. Something keeps flashing in the sun. I think it’s coming from that last roof.”

He turned, impatient. “Wait?—”

What happened next came like glass shards caught in the air, then falling slowly, slowly before his eyes.

Arrows showered the skies. Ivar yelled to Gunnar. Children scampered, howling and running for cover. A scream rent the air.

From a new ship on the last dock, a fine-skinned, ebon-haired lady stepped off her ship, the wind snatching her silken veils. A man in black robes stood beside her. The silk-clad lady slumped as if her knees had jellied.

A warrior’s instincts seized him. He grabbed Safira and dragged her to the smithy.

Air whooshed from an arrow flying close to his ear.

Copper’s tang flooded his tongue. The twang of arrows striking wood sounded.

Children shrieked. Arrows arced high above, dozens of them aiming for the smithy. Ivar and Erik ducked behind massive doors. Three arrows stuck to the smithy door. More landed in the dirt. Countless arrows skidded across the roof.

Like an unrelenting hail storm, the sharp weapons pelted them.

Another scream curdled Rurik’s ears. Safira. Her amber eyes rounded. She clutched his trousers and fell to her knees. She huddled on the floor against the forge’s stone base. She was safe and out of the way.

Ivar stood up, glaring south. “They’ve stopped.”

Erik collected arrows off the ground. Gunnar jumped up from the barrel he’d hidden behind and yanked the arrows out of the smithy door. More footsteps pounded. Thorvald, Thorfinn, and Bjorn sprinted from the jarl’s hall with Ademar right behind them.

“We’re prime targets, out in the open,” Erik said, scanning the rooftops.

“The Bretons?” Ademar was panting from his sprint.

“No.” Ivar held up the arrow. “I forged these arrowheads. A few days ago. For Sigurd.”

“Who is dead.” Thorvald spat. “Dead men don’t shoot arrows.”

Bjorn eyed the circle of men. “Vlad and his men are alive and well.”

“I’d wager every piece of ivory I own, they’re headed to the southern forest,” Erik said, raising the arrow he clutched. “And this was their invitation for us to join them.”

“Rurik.” Safira’s voice was whispery behind him.

His blood ran hot. He would see Safira safely to the feast hall and ride south.

Vlad and his men would die.

Dogs were barking. Angry chatter erupted everywhere. Ademar shouted orders to housekarls who’d come running. Inside the forge, Safira’s back was to him. She set a steadying hand on a post and pushed to her feet. When she turned, her face paled.

Blood ran fresh across her skirts. Crimson dripped off her hem.

Under one arm, she clamped his trousers to her ribs. An arrow had struck the other.

She blinked, holding up her slender arm. The arrowhead had pierced all the way through her flesh.

“I—I…” she stuttered.

“Safira!” He rushed to catch her as her knees buckled.

Another scream tore the air. Closer, frantic. Rurik held her tight to his chest.

“I’m taking you to Astrid.”

“Wait.” Safira craned her neck, intent on looking past his shoulder.

A muffled scream came and he pivoted to the road. Safira’s head bobbed, but her voice was clear.

“Hello, Mother.”