Page 47 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
F ear was the cold sweat beading his skull. Safira had collapsed against him. Hooking an arm behind her knees, he carried her out of the smithy.
The silk-clad woman standing in the yard reached for Safira, her mouth agape. “My daughter,” she wailed.
Rurik held Safira close. By habit, his reflexes took over.
“I’m taking her to the hall,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We’ll treat her wound there.”
A dark-haired man in long robes nodded. “Quickly.”
Rurik ran to the jarl’s hall. “Astrid!” he bellowed.
Hands clapped to her cheeks, the matselja emerged from the weaving shed. “To the eldhus. ”
He shouldered open the kitchen door. Two women gawked at him until he barked, “Get out!”
They dropped empty platters on the floor and scurried from the kitchen. Astrid threw open the shutters. “I’ll need light.”
Rurik set Safira gingerly on the table. “Lay down here, sweeting.”
Shaking from head to toe, she held her arm awkwardly and managed a weak smile. “Do you hear this, Astrid? He’s getting comfortable ordering me around.”
“All men start out like that.” Astrid helped Safira lie down. Her smile was kindly as she stroked Safira’s hair. “It takes time for them to learn.” Astrid’s face grew serious. “I am going to give you something to make you sleep. It will be better.”
Safira nodded numbly. “Valerian and lavender?”
“And a few other things that I will keep to myself.” She patted Safira’s shoulder.
Safira gulped air in fits. She was blinking fast, her eyes glassy as if the world hazed around her.
Rurik squeezed her arm above to arrow’s entry. Blood was pulsing fast out of her arm.
“My daughter.” The ebon-haired woman stumbled past the doorframe.
The man who must be Safira’s father stood behind her, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her up.
Keen, dark eyes assessed Astrid and Rurik and Safira’s arm with the arrow run through it.
“We are not knowledgeable healers but we are able to help.” He glanced at his wife. “At least I can.”
“I am safe and well, Father. Take care of Mother,” Safira said, her voice raspy. “You know how she is with the sight of blood.”
His dark-eyed study flicked from Astrid to Rurik. “I will.”
They disappeared from the lintel, and Safira’s uninjured hand fished around the table. “Rurik.”
“I’m here.” He tied off her arm with a kitchen cloth and caught her clammy fingers in his.
Sweat beaded her hairline. Color faded from Safira’s cheeks as if life ebbed with each exhale. Her dry lips opened wide. She was gasping for air.
Rurik shook with cold rage. He would tear Vlad limb from limb. He wanted to do the same to Longsword and Ademar. Enough of this scheming . This was what happened when Vikings played politics.
Innocent blood was shed.
Force was the only answer. The only way to stop evil men.
Astrid set out a row of jars. She pinched dried bits from one vessel and another and dumped the contents into a wooden cup.
Safira heaved a breath. She was sickly and gray, her eyes blank orbs.
Rurik cursed under his breath. “She’s slipping away! Tell me what to do.”
“Get my thralls back,” Astrid snapped. “I need help.”
“I’m not leaving her. Tell me what to do.”
“Are you sure?” Astrid stirred her tincture in the wooden cup. “It will not be easy to see the woman you love flat on the table. She has lost a lot of blood.”
“Save her!” He barked the words.
Astrid didn’t flinch. “Safira,” she cooed. “Stay awake, Lady. I need you to drink this.” To Rurik, “Hold her up and see that she drinks as much of this as possible.”
Safira was a rag doll in his arms. She whimpered. Her lashes fluttered low, and blood seeped from her arm onto the table, a trail of it trickling to the floor. Rurik coaxed her to drink the liquid. The tincture dribbled at the corner of her mouth.
Her breathing was thinning until her head lolled against his chest.
Astrid set rolls of plain weave linen on the table. “She sleeps. Now we will remove the arrow from her arm, and I will staunch the bleeding.”
Rurik was sure she muttered, “And hope she survives.”