Dear Father, he
was a Viking! Torchlight burned in his eyes, bronzed the skin of his clean
shaven face and neck, and wheat-gold hair touched the top of his shoulders. The
indigo cloak he wore swept across his chest, held at his right shoulder with an
ornate brooch of silver. Beneath the drape of wool, showed his embroidered
tunic, and at his side, a sword, its hilt embellished in runes and the hammer
of Thor. His raiments indicated wealth and an eclectic, worldly mode of dress.
She gaped in
awe of him, perceived his consternation at the sight of her dressed in just her
thin wool undergown. A shiver ran through her as he eyed her hair, where it
tousled in thick ropes along her arms and down her back. In spite of her fear,
from the depths of her faith her courage continued to spout.
“There are no
riches here. Your heathen kind has been here before and taken it all. Have you
returned to raze even the timber dwellings?”
“I seek the
Maiden Seer, not a squeaking mouse. Step aside. Where is the prophetess? Is she
in this room?” Raising the torch higher, he stepped closer to within a couple
of feet of her, a towering presence. His light and attention fell on the nuns
huddled in a corner behind Amber. Beyond him, Amber saw the man’s cohorts just
outside the door, hands on their hilts at the ready for opposition. She feared
for the abbess and the monks who remained elsewhere in the complex. Her
men-at-arms, encamped down the hillside, might be summoned with a just a shout,
yet she hesitated to provoke bloodshed if it could be prevented.
“Truly!” she
maintained, looking up at his looming frame. Panic threatened to overcome her
as the heat of his torch warmed her face. “I am the one. I foresaw you as an
iron oak and knew you would come.”
The Viking
lowered the flame, which cast his eyes in unearthly gold. He drew back briefly
and a flicker of dismay crossed his face, a subtle expression for Amber to
detect and judge. Through hundreds of readings she knew had hit her mark in the
Viking.
Grabbing her by
the arm, he jerked her closer to him, prompting screams from the nuns in the
corner. He smelled of smoke, leather and the faint scent of eucalyptus.
“Iron oak?” he
said gruffly, more statement than question.
“Sisters, be at
ease.” Looking up at the Viking, she tried not to grimace under the vise grip
of his huge hand. “Yea, an iron oak. Are you the one?” He may need proof from
her, but she also needed it of him, lest she lose her nerve to proceed.
He narrowed his
eyes in response, and flexed his jaw with an almost imperceptible nod. “You
cast the runes?”
“Aye. And since
you have found me, cease this menace. If
you have come to take what little is here, then do your worst. We are all
prepared to die. We know where we will be after death. Do you?” Amber pulled at
her arm as she spoke the much-too-brave words, felt little prepared to die, and
tried to forget the oft-told stories of the terrible Danes. She held on though,
to her interpretation of her dream, determined to see it through.
“No one will
die, mouse. At least not yet.” He let go of her, urging her backward. “Get your
things! If you have foreseen my coming as you claim, then you also know you are
coming with me.”
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