He watched Athol even as he brandished his sword above his head. Ah, aye, he was right, it was some sort of signal to the outlaws. Cleve was on him in the next moment, his arm about Athol’s throat, his knife poised directly above his heart. He pulled the boy off his horse and over onto his. He said in his ear, “Call off your men, Athol.”
The boy struggled, nearly shrieking, “They aren’t my men, Cleve, they’re outlaws, thieves. They want our swords and our jewelry. They want the women.”
“You call off your men now or I will stick my knife clean through your heart. Do you understand me?”
“I would rather die than let you have—”
The knife slipped through Athol’s tunic, touched its cold tip to his flesh and then gently eased in. The boy screamed.
“You see, death is never preferable. I learned that during the fifteen years I was a slave. A man can bear anything if he believes he can survive. Call them off or you will never draw another breath.”
Athol shouted, “Sarva! Stop! Nay, come no nearer. You and your men withdraw. Now, or I will die.”
The man in the lead paused a moment, and Cleve could see the frown on his painted face. These were no Scots. They were indeed outlaws, men loyal to Athol. But how had Athol gotten to these men so quickly? He shook his head, but Athol, feeling Cleve’s knife pressing deeper, screamed at him, “Go back! Don’t attack.”
Sarva slowly raised his hand. The men behind him stopped, then circled around him, speaking amongst themselves.
Merrik said, “Why don’t we go kill them?” As soon as he spoke, he realized he was holding Kiri against his side, her face pressed against him. “Nay, I didn’t mean that. Everything’s all right, Kiri. See, your papa’s solved the problem.”
“Papa always solves problems,” Kiri said, and brought her face out of Merrik’s armpit. “Papa, who are those men?”
“Soon they will be gone, sweeting, and then we will find out,” Cleve said. He whispered in Athol’s ear, “They were here so fast, all ready to kill us. You’d better hope that Sarva listens to you, Athol. Do you like the feel of this?” The knife went in just a bit further. Athol groaned, not moving.
Then the men melted away behind three low hills, behind the piles of massive boulders, simply disappearing into the mist. It seemed to swallow them, pulling them through a gray veil.
Cleve withdrew the knife. Calmly, he sheathed it at his belt. Then he lifted Athol by his tunic and threw him to the ground. He jumped off his horse’s back and stood over the boy. “Stand up, you puling coward.”
“So,” Chessa said, riding her mare to within a foot of Athol. “This was your idea. You wanted to kill all of us.You wanted to kill Cleve, to kill Kiri.” Her voice rose to a near shriek. She slid off her mare’s back, pulled her knife and dove toward Athol. Cleve managed to catch her. “No, Chessa, no. I don’t want his miserable blood on your hands. Kiri is all right. We’re all fine now. Think of him as another Ragnor of York, the poor fool. You really didn’t want to kill him, you just wanted him to be gone.”
“He put you and Kiri into mortal danger,” Chessa said, panting hard, still held in her fury. Cleve shook her. “Come, Chessa. Come back to me.” He leaned down and kissed her hard, then squeezed her against him.
Kiri said to Igmal, whose horse was next to Merrik’s, “My second papa won’t let anyone hurt me or my first papa. Her eyes turn red when she’s really mad. I’ve seen her dive at a man who wanted to hurt someone she loved. She’s wonderful, my second papa. But I wasn’t sure I wanted her to marry my first papa. We did well before she came.” Kiri sighed, much put upon. “But she has brought excitement to our lives and I think my first papa thinks she’s splendid. She’s not my real mama, you know.”
Igmal nodded. “She’s a Viking woman. She’s strong and proud and she very much loves your first papa, if I’m not mistaken, and I’m not. You could do worse for a stepmother, Kiri. You call her your second papa. You must explain this to me.”
Cleve leaned down and pulled Athol to his feet.
“I’m bleeding, you cut me.”
Cleve just smiled at the boy’s outrage. “He reminds me so much of Ragnor, both whining little worms.” Cleve sent his fist into Athol’s jaw. He wished he’d heard a crack but he hadn’t. He would have liked to have broken the little bastard’s jaw.
“Too bad,” Merrik said. “A broken jaw would have done him good. Every word he tried to say would have killed him. He just might have starved to death. But you tried, Cleve.” He grinned. “Five years with you and I didn’t manage to instill enough killing instinct in you, but you did hurt him, and I trust you enjoyed it.”
“Aye, I enjoyed it.” Cleve then sent his fist into Athol’s belly, doubling him over, and then he kicked him, sending him sprawling to the rocky ground. Cleve turned to Varrick’s man, Igmal, and said, “We will take him back to the fortress. Varrick will decide what to do with him. I don’t want his blood on your hands any more than I want it on my wife’s hands. Do you agree, Igmal?”
Igmal looked down at Athol, who was lying on his side, knees drawn up, hugging his belly. He looked both sad and yet not surprised. “I saw him come from his mother’s womb, whole limbed, squalling, ready for life. I watched him grow tall, but he didn’t grow straight. A darkness grew in him, a cramped black place I didn’t understand. I’ve watched him since you came, Cleve, watched the fear in him, knowing he would lose everything, then I saw the calculation, the hatred, the determination. And now he would have killed you, his flesh and blood, the women, and the little girl who makes me laugh. This is a shame that drowns all of us.” Without saying another word, Igmal pulled a short slender knife from its scabbard, leapt from his horse, and bent down. Cleve grabbed his arm even as it was descending to Athol’s heart. “No, Igmal, no. This must be up to Varrick. He must decide. You speak of shame. It isn’t your shame, but my family’s. We must return him to Varrick.”
“As you will, Cleve,” Igmal said, and straightened, slipping that knife back into its scabbard. “You will be master and lord here someday.” He turned to spit down at Athol. “He saved you,” he said, staring down at Athol as if still uncomprehending that the boy had done such a thing. “You would have killed him, yet he saved you. He saved you from his wife and from me.” Igmal spat on Athol, then turned his back and motioned his men back onto their horses.
“Igmal,” Kiri called out.
The ugly man looked at the child and gave her a ferocious smile that showed those blazing white teeth of his. “Aye, little one?”
“I will ride with you back to the fortress.”
Merrik just shook his head and handed Kiri over to Igmal, who tucked her neatly in the crook of his huge arm. “I begin to believe all of us are here just for her pleasure.”
Cleve nodded, then said, “Let’s get him on his horse. I don’t know what Varrick will do.”
