Page 2 of Viking Beast
The man’s misery was etched deep, his lips parched and white. Thoryn was brave and loyal; he would have given his life to save Bretta.
Eldberg turned to Sweyn. Of all his men, he was most like himself—ambitious and unforgiving, able to act without remorse or mercy.
Stolen as a child by marauding berserkers, Eldberg had been enslaved until his fifteenth year, when his height and strength and his relentless will had earned him a true place among them. He’d known only their ways—where brutality and savagery were rewarded.
As Beornwold’s mercenary, paid to join his raiding trips to the West, Eldberg had fought alongside Sweyn these fifteen years, and had seen his jealousy—for Eldberg was soon favoured above all others. The old jarl had chosen him to marry Bretta, to sire Beornwold’s line, and to take his mantle.
Sweyn obeyed through no sense of brotherhood, but because it brought him command over others—in his jarl’s name.
Keep your enemies close, Beornwold had told him long ago.
Eldberg frowned. He’d heeded those words well; allowing Sweyn authority, satisfying the need that drove the other man, making use of it. Had Sweyn become greedy? Had he wished his jarl’s death and that of his heir—yet to be born?
The Norns had unpicked only one strand of that thread upon their loom.
A mist of fury descended, a veil of red that brought his head momentarily from the pillow. He itched for the hilt of his sword, driving his nails into his palms. Through his left side, swathed in salve and linens, came a jolt of pain.
The conviction assailed him—Sweyn had planned everything. Had sought to kill him and take his place. Had murdered Bretta!
“How did the fire start?” Eldberg kept his voice level, addressing Sweyn alone. Despite his fury, he would seek evidence carefully.
“That I have learnt, my Jarl, and have the culprit shackled.” He gestured, sending Ivar and Fiske from the room. “We captured him on the very night of his crime. A spy from Svolvaen, sent to murder you.”
Summoning his strength, Eldberg raised himself a little. “Lift me, Sweyn.”
As bid, his commander took him beneath the arms, hauling him to a seated position. The stab of pain was greater than Eldberg had anticipated, but he endeavoured not to let it show. He’d endured many wounds. This was no different.
Sigrid darted forward to place pillows behind his back, her face pinched. He nodded curtly, acknowledging her care. She, at least, he could trust. Sigrid had raised Bretta as her own and respected the love between her niece and jarl.
The man dragged into the room, hunched over, was a head shorter than those around him. Fiske and Ivar supported him on either side, for he was unable to stand. His head and limbs hung limp, his wrists and ankles bent at unnatural angles. Both eyes were swollen closed within his bloodied face. His jaw hung slack—broken.
“The man has been beaten near to death.” Eldberg fixed Sweyn with an icy stare.
“I interrogated him. It was necessary.”
Eldberg narrowed his gaze. “And now he can no longer speak.”
“I discovered all you need to know, my jarl. Hallgerd’s successor, Gunnolf of Svolvaen, sent him. From a fishing boat he swam into the northern cove and climbed the cliffs hand over hand. Waiting until darkness, he entered the woodlands, watching several days before he acted.”
“Undetected? All that time?”
Sweyn shrugged. “He is more weasel than warrior, adept at hiding.”
“And why? What of the treaty? Nigh thirty summers have passed. Why should this Gunnolf act so foolishly? Svolvaen is no match for our strength.”
“You answer your own question, Jarl.” Sweyn dipped his head. “In fear of what we once were, and what we have the power to be, Gunnolf sent his man to collect what information might be useful.” He glanced up again. “And to wound us most mortally, by causing your death.”
Eldberg shifted, wincing. “Pull back his head. I would see him.”
Sweyn grasped the man’s hair at the crown.
In the heat of battle, Eldberg thought nothing of severing a man’s limb or head, but the state of the prisoner made him grimace. Being unable to close his mouth, bloodied drool hung from his chin. His cheek and nose were likely broken, the flesh bruised and raw.
Eldberg liked to look a man in the eyes—to judge by what he saw within, but the swollen flesh prevented him from doing so. He returned his gaze to Sweyn, whose own granite-grey eyes remained impassive.
“How was it done?”
Sweyn gave answer without hesitation. “He learnt of your chamber’s position within the longhouse. He carried a bow and was able to fire flaming arrows to where they would have most effect. By the time our watchmen saw the flames, your chamber was already imperiled.”
