“He’s only going to kill you, Ilisa,” she counselled herself as she flopped down next to him.
The fair haired man showed no signs of stirring so she took a moment to study him properly. Tentatively reaching over, she swept aside the wet strands of long hair and gasped as she got a proper view of his features. A more beautiful man she had never seen. She snapped her hands back and traced his profile with her gaze. A long, strong nose and angular jaw gave the impression of great strength yet his relaxed lips and closed lids leant him a softer look. Ilisa laughed aloud. Vikings weren’t soft. He’d probably run a blade through her for saying as much without a second thought.
He didn’t have one did he? She shuffled onto her knees, wincing at the feel of cold, wet wool against her skin. She lifted the folds of his garments but saw no blade. His large hands and wide shoulders should have been enough to scare her anyway. What was she thinking? He didn’t need a blade to harm her. From the look of his arms—which were surely as wide as tree trunks, she mused—he could snap her in two with little effort. His height gave him an advantage too. Vikings were notoriously large but even lying down, this one appeared taller than most.
Drawing on her courage, she plucked at a pendant from around his neck. She turned the disc over in her hands but it gave her no clues as to his identity or where he came from. But what more did she need to know? He was a Viking. She really should just leave him. A touch of red amongst his hair caught her eye and she parted the damp strands and the small braids threaded into it to see a gash on his scalp. It was not large but she knew from experience a lot of blood could be lost from head wounds. He had likely struck his head on the rocks.
Ilisa licked her lips and considered him for a few moments more. Ear to his mouth, she gazed down the long length of him and spied the tiniest movement of his chest. Still alive then. The faintest puff of breath against her ear sent shivers from her and she bolted upright. Looking to the heavens, she muttered a prayer and snatched the man’s shirt again. God protect her from what might happen should he wake up.
***
Water crashed over him. Wood splintered. Rocks beckoned like sirens. Thor and Aegir were not happy with them. Thor had unleashed his wrath on the skies and the sea god had sunk their ship. Maybe they had been too greedy. Whatever they had done wrong, the gods intended to kill them. Several of the men couldn’t swim. They would die first. Alrek tried to swim over to Gardarr but to no avail. The waves were too strong, even for him and they were separated. The last thing he saw was Gardarr’s flailing arms as the splintering hull of their ship loomed over him. Thor wanted Alrek’s death. If only it had been a warrior’s death. He had never pictured a watery grave. He’d intended to go down with a blade in his hand and reach the halls of Valhalla.
More water. He spluttered and tried to fight the pull of the waves but they grasped around his wrists, as if they really were sirens, tugging him to his doom. A face floated in front of his vision and a soft song reached his ears. He didn’t recognise the words. Perhaps it was a siren after all. Alrek tried to turn away but the voice was too beautiful, the features too enchanting. He relaxed and let her take him.
A sharp sting to the back of his head made him cry out. What manner of siren was this? Was she intending to feast on him as some said they did? He jerked his head but her grip was too strong. More stinging pain.
“Bi clos.”
He scowled. Drips trickled down his neck but the waves had gone. He forced his eyes fully open. In the place of the leaden clouds was a straw roof. And beneath him was no bed of sand, but a straw pallet. And the siren…? Alrek twisted to view the singing siren. Surrounded by a halo of sunlight as it dappled in through the eaves of the roof, the red haired woman dabbed a cloth in a bowl before leaning over. He eyed the hint of breasts above her dark blue gown and coughed. Was this Valhalla? He had pictured it being a little more… grand. But he had never seen a woman so enchanting.
She dabbed his head and he hissed. “Cease, woman.”
Her pale blue eyes widened and she stopped singing. He missed the sound immediately. Her voice matched her looks, soft, with a hidden strength. Her tightly pursed lips and high cheekbones hinted at a wilful temperament though why he thought that, he did not know. Then, as if he hadn’t spoken, she began singing once more and began dabbing at the painful spot on his head. Though his ears had to be full of water, he made out several words and realised she was singing in the language of the Gaels.
Alrek bolted upright, only for his wrists to jar and he slumped back down. He peered from side to side and realised his wrists were bound to the wooden frame of the bed with coarse rope. He released a growl and kicked out with his legs. The woman dropped the bowl and jumped back, knocking over the wooden chair on which she had been sat. She snatched a sword that had been propped against the wall and thrust it out. He eyed the shaking blade and rolled his eyes. It had to be her husband’s or father’s for it was too large for her. Even if she managed to swing it, he doubted she’d have enough strength behind it to do any damage.