The Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger

arms, her
ragged gasps for breath assuring him that she was alive. Though she clung to
him limply, she began to kick her legs. He was astounded that she still had the
strength to swim.
    "Let me go . . . must escape!" she gasped,
trying weakly to push away from him. "Halfdan . . . must escape . . ."
    Rurik had no time to reply for the boat was coming
alongside them, the woman soon hauled aboard, followed by himself. As Arne
released him, he leaned heavily against the railing, fighting to catch his
breath.
    "By the gods, Lord Rurik, you've turned my beard a
lighter shade of gray twice this day! When I saw you dive for the wench—"
    "Surely you didn't think you'd seen the last of
me." Rurik wiped the moisture from his eyes and gave Arne a wry half
smile. "You were the one who taught me to swim, remember?"
    "Aye, thank Odin, like a dolphin." The burly
warrior jerked his head toward Kjell, who stood in a widening puddle of water,
the dripping, exhausted woman in his arms. "Mayhap we should tie the wench
to the mast for the rest of the journey, what do you think? She's proving as
much trouble as she's worth."
    "I'll take her," was Rurik's only reply, sobering
as Kjell brought the woman to him. By the light of an oil lamp set upon a
nearby rowing bench, he noted with concern that her face was ashen, her teeth
chattering, her lips and closed eyelids tinged with blue. If she wasn't warmed
and soon, they still might lose her . . . and their best chance to gain some
information.
    "Set her down, but hold her so she doesn't fall,"
Rurik ordered. Without ceremony he drew the sodden tunic over her head and
threw it on the deck. Ignoring his men's sidelong glances, he lifted her into
his arms, grabbed the lamp, and strode with his nude charge to the tent,
ducking inside.
    "No . . .Halfdan," came a small whimper, the
woman burying her face against Rurik's chest as he placed the lamp near the
tent's back wall. "Must get away . . . please—"
    "Halfdan is dead." Rurik hoped the finality
in his tone would reassure her. "He cannot hurt you anymore."
    Kneeling, he laid her upon the fur pallet, attempting
to ignore her nakedness—impossible task! Hastily he brought the blanket up to
her chin. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her eyes the most stunning
shade of blue in a face hauntingly pale and marred only by the ugly bruise on
her cheek.
    "Dead?"
    He nodded. She looked so vulnerable, the quality in her
voice almost childlike, arousing in him a powerful surge of protectiveness. Or
perhaps it was simply his own exhaustion. He sat back upon his haunches,
determined to get some answers now that she had finally regained her senses.
    "The Slav merchant was also killed. You no longer
have anything to fear from them."
    Rurik was greeted with a blank stare, then a soft
query, "Merchant?"
    "The one who stole you from your master's caravan."
This time he was answered with silence, and she seemed confused. Wondering if
Halfdan's blow or her ensuing fall might have done more damage than he had
thought, Rurik tried another, more direct tact. "Tell me your name, little
one."
    Oddly, she opened her mouth as if to say something,
then her brow creased in consternation.
    "Your name," he tried again. "Think
hard."
    An interminable moment later, she murmured almost to
herself, "I . . . I don't know."
    "Damn that swine!" Rurik cursed under his
breath, wishing it had been his sword that had ended Halfdan's miserable life.
The terrible shock must have robbed her memory. Only the image of the Varangian's
brutality remained.
    "Surely you remember your master," Rurik
pressed. "He's one of Prince Mstislav's boyars, isn't he? A member of his
senior druzhina ? You were on your way
to Chernigov to meet him when you were abducted."
    "Master? I don't know. . ." Suddenly she
grimaced. "My head . . . it hurts so."
    "Easy, wench, easy," Rurik said soothingly.
It was clear he would discover no information tonight. Perhaps she would
remember more tomorrow after a comfortable