Death Blow by Jianne Carlo Page A

him.
    “I know not. You broke Aegir’s curse afore Thrimilci’s dawn and ’twould seem the lifting of one spell has led to the lifting of many. The cove has long been known to be the haunt of gods and goddesses. Many moons afore there were hot pools at the base of these cliffs.” The lion climbed to the top of a flat rock.
    “And the blow to my skull?” Had any of it happened? Was he even now locked in a dream?
    “Your Saracen captor has a hatred for you.”
    “Aye, and I will have my vengeance in good time. But what has my captor to do with the blow to my head?” He halted at the cave’s entrance.
    Mús rocked onto his massive haunches. “’Tis no time for that tale. Make haste, Viking. I can smell the vile odors of those that approach.”
    Konáll liked not a creature besting him, but the cat had.
    “Wait here.” Konáll ducked into the cavern and laid Nyssa on the blankets she had used for Mús.
    Konáll retrieved a few chunks of dried, salted beef from a pouch in his trunk and ate while he worked. In no time at all, he dressed Nyssa in warm hose, a tunic, and fitted boots onto her feet. He swaddled her in a warm blanket and retrieved a skin containing sweet mead from his chest. ’Twas a drink his brother’s wife, Skatha, had insisted he take on his travels. The potion contained nourishment and herbs to heal many ailments. Though she did not awaken, Nyssa drank a quarter of the mead afore clamping her lips closed. He studied her serene features uncert whether to force her to drink more or not.
    “Viking. We needs hurry.”
    The lion’s muted roar spurred Konáll into hasty action. After setting Nyssa down near the open chest, he retrieved a large burlap sack from the top. His brother, Dráddør, had gifted him not only with the harem master’s tools, but also several jeweled daggers and glass bottles containing erotic potions and oils. He filled the sack with those items, his remaining weapons, and added the velvet-wrapped dildo. Konáll pulled out a few hoses, tunics, and a cloak and changed quickly.
    He armed himself, tied the sack diagonally across his back, scooped Nyssa high against his chest, and walked into the early morning daylight.
    “We needs journey to the other end of the isle.” Mús pointed his black nose to the East.
    “To what end?” Konáll set a pace a tad beneath a run.
    He could have sworn the lion wore a superior sneer.
    “The Picts will expect you to try to regain Castle Caerleah. ’Tis less than an hourglass away. They will not expect you to retreat. And ’tis the place where your men await you.”
    Konáll’s jaw dropped.
    His men were alive?
     
    * * *
     
    Nyssa had learned to lie still and feign sleep when she first awoke after her uncle, Ánáton, and her aunt, Maura, took control of Castle Caerleah. ’Twas while they thought her deep in slumber that they plotted their evil schemes and, if she lay still long enough, she could sometimes learn enough to thwart their plans.
    The low murmur of conversation reached her ears.
    A rumbled belly guffaw crackled above the deep, male voices. Answered by a shout and chortles and hoots.
    Men. Many men.
    Panic threaded through her veins.
    Trying not to blink, or change the cadence of her breathing, she inhaled. Soap, musk, and smoke.
    She was swaddled in a blanket of the finest warm fabric and lay on a firm pallet. The air around her was still. The cave? Nay, for a hint of brine rode the other aromas.
    “You are with me and my men in a camp on the north end of the island.”
    She held her breath at the familiar, rich voice. The rumble belonged to Konáll, the Viking who bore the ring of the Saracen, the magik ring she had fingered before he…
    “It comforts you to pretend to slumber. ’Tis matters not to me. I am in need of sleep as well. It has been a long day.”
    How did the infernal man know she pretended slumber? Irritation prickled her fingertips, the urge to shake or scratch him sweet and insistent.
    Metal