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“No,” Athol said. “Never.” He wheeled his stallion about, to ride back at the fore of their group.
“I want you to keep your knife close,” Cleve said to Chessa. “Damn, I wish Kiri weren’t with us.”
“But why?”
“I have this feeling, nay, it is more than that. Keep close watch, Chessa. By all the gods, we shouldn’t have come with this half brother of mine.”
The attack came so quickly there was no chance for her to answer. Cleve took a wild look at Kiri, now tucked securely against Merrik’s side, even as he drew his sword.
There were at least three dozen of them, not at all like Viking warriors, but wild men garbed in bearskins and wolfskins, their trousers filthy and ripped, their feet bound in coarse leather sandals, all of them wielding small swords over their heads. They carried wooden shields and wore wooden helmets. They looked strong and ready to kill. They were yelling their heads off and their faces were painted with the blue and red circles and squares. Picts, Cleve thought, and his eyes glittered. He didn’t doubt for a moment that Athol had summoned them after he’d spoken to Cleve but minutes before. No doubt at all, the little bastard.
Cleve calmly rode forward, even as the Malverne men and Varrick’s men were shouting and positioning their horses, preparing for the attack. The loch was at their back, the outlaws hemming them in. There was no escape, not that a Viking would ever avoid a fight or want an escape.
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.”
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