“Now we need a light,” Rorik said, and nodded to Aslak. Quickly, Aslak crept to the small fire pit and its still-glowing embers, and lit the wick that floated in the small jar of oil that lay nearby. A smoking trail of light went upward. Chessa stepped inside the barrack and wanted to yell with relief. All the men were there and were alive. Then she wanted to yell with fury.
All the men were chained to huge blocks of wood. All were ragged and filthy. The stench was nearly overpowering. All the Malverne men looked as if they’d been starved.
“Papa!”
Chessa slammed her hand over Kiri’s mouth, quickly leaning down. “Be quiet, Kiri. This is dangerous. We want to save your first papa and not be caught ourselves. Don’t make a single sound.”
“But Papa—”
“I know,” Chessa said, so furious she was choking on it. She lifted Kiri into her arms and ran toward Cleve. He was staring at her as if she really weren’t there, as if she were a Viking ghost, and she thought she saw alarm in his eyes, but it was too dark in the long room to be certain.
All the men were whispering, so relieved to see their friends they seemed filled with renewed energy. Chessa fell to her knees beside Cleve, her knife already drawn, already sawing on the thick rope that bound him to the chain that was drawn through an iron ring in the huge chunk of wood.
“By all the gods,” he said. “Kiri, is that you, sweeting?”
“Aye, Papa. I’m here to save you.”
He laughed. Where that laugh came from, he didn’t know. He wanted to hold Kiri but he was too filthy to touch her. He feared making her ill. He felt lightheaded. Maybe all this was a dream. He’d thought so much about Rorik coming. Aye, it was a dream to bedevil him. But why had Rorik brought Chessa and Kiri on so dangerous a mission? He shook his head and stared at his small daughter. No dream this. He knew, of course, at least about Kiri. If Rorik hadn’t brought her, she’d be dead now. Poor Rorik, damned both ways, no matter what he did. “Hurry,” he said to Chessa.
Then Gunleik was beside her on his knees, his own knife joining hers. In moments, Cleve was free.
“Can you stand?” Gunleik said.
Cleve eased himself up with his back against the wall. He felt damnably weak and he hated it that Chessa and his daughter were here to see it.
He immediately said in a furious whisper to his small daughter, “Were you starving yourself again?”
She just looked up at him solemnly, saying nothing. He frowned down at her. She didn’t look hungry. There was so much he didn’t understand.
Chessa handed him a skin of water. He drank deep. He drank until the skin was empty. Then she handed him a strip of dried beef. He didn’t want to stuff it into his mouth, but he did. He’d never been so hungry in his life. Well, he had, but that had been years before when he’d been only a small boy and he hadn’t brought his master his goblet of wine quickly enough. Stupid memory. He shook his head again and drank down another skin filled with cool water. She handed him more dried beef. It was the best food he’d ever had in his life.
Chessa looked about. The men were gulping down the water and the food. She knew that if they weren’t strong enough to walk on their own, all of Rorik’s men would carry them. She saw Merrik. Thank the gods he’d survived, else Rorik would tear York to the ground.
By the gods, in another week, they would have all been dead. She wanted to kill Ragnor. And Kerek. Even Captain Torric.
“Why are you growling, Papa? You sound very angry.”
“I’m not growling. I’m swallowing this wonderful food.”
“No, not you, Papa. My second papa. She’s very angry.”
Cleve had no idea what Kiri was talking about. Perhaps he was crazed, for the days and nights had flowed into each other, the hunger and thirst growing and growing until none of the men even wanted to speak. They were waiting for death. When Kerek brought them food and water in the dark of night, they thought he was merely torturing them, making their ultimate death drag out. But he’d come again and again. Not enough times, but he had kept them alive. But the men wouldn’t trust him. They knew it was a game, Ragnor’s twisted game, and they would die. They were convinced of it, all save Merrik. He just said again and again, “Rorik will come in time.”
And Rorik had come and now they had a chance. But for the moment, the only important thing in the world was getting that beef chewed and into his belly.
Each warrior was responsible for one man. Slowly, they made their way from the prisoner barrack, bending low, ever watchful, silent as the night air. Cleve breathed in the clean night air. He whispered, “I never thought to be free again. We all gave up except Merrik. He never doubted Rorik would come. Thank you.”
Gunleik grinned. “We’re not away yet, Cleve. Hold your thanks until we’re in the warship and leagues from this cursed Danelaw.”
It happened so quickly the men were stunned. Two men came out of the darkness. One grabbed Chessa, the other grabbed Kiri, and held the little girl in front of him, his hands wrapped around her neck. He yelled, “Don’t any of you breathe or I will twist her neck off.”
By all the gods, Cleve thought, staring helplessly at his daughter. Someone knew they’d escaped. Mayhap someone had planned it. But why Kiri? Why Chessa? Where were the rest of the men, armed and ready to kill all of them?
When the man grabbed her, Chessa, just like the men, froze with surprise, but for only an instant. She grabbed one of the knives in her belt. She saw the other man had Kiri and knew she had to do something. She left the knife in its scabbard. She went limp.
“She fainted dead away,” the man said, grunting as he brought her up against him.
“Wait, Erek, look at her closely. Kerek said she was smart. I don’t think—”
