Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] Read Online Free PDF

nonattire, his eyes had almost bulged out. What a sight that had been!
    These men were a scurvy bunch, with crafty eyes, though they rode fine steeds, and their claymores and long-bladed dirks were of the best quality. The man who had spoken, the leader, appeared most sinister of them all. He had seen more than fifty winters, and white strands threaded through the bright red hair that hung down to his shoulders. His mane looked as if it hadn’t been washed or combed in a sennight. A full red beard encircled his chin. Most conspicuous about him was his eyebrows … or, rather, his eyebrow … for the man had only one bushy brow that extended from one hairline to the other, with no break in between at the bridge of the nose. With this single brow the man appeared frowning and ruthless.
    Rurik didn’t trust him one bit. “And who might you be?” he asked.
    “I be Duncan MacNab,” the leader replied in a deep Scottish brogue that made his name sound like, “Dooonkin.” He was clearly annoyed that Rurik did not recognize who he was. “These are me men… MacNabs, all.” He waved a hand toward the men who sat astride nervous mounts on either side of him.
    “I mean no trouble to you,” Rurik offered in a placating tone. “I am looking for the woman calledMaire of the Moors. She is of the Campbell clan, I believe.”
    The Scotsman laughed, a deep-from-the-chest bellow, and his men snickered. “Everyone in the Highlands, and the Lowlands, is aware of yer search for Maire the
Witch.”
The leader put particular emphasis on that last word and exchanged smirking glances with his men, as if they knew something Rurik did not. In Rurik’s experience, Scotsmen were great ones for smirks … when they were not frowning, that was.
    “Know you where I might find the witch?” Rurik asked through gritted teeth. He had little liking for being the laughingstock of all Scotland, whether they were laughing at him or some secret jest.
    “Aye, I do.”
    “And you know why I am looking for her?”
    Duncan laughed again, a nimbly sound, like a bear growling. “I expect ye want to have that ‘tattoo’ removed from yer pretty face,
Viking.”
He put emphasis on the word Viking, as if it were a foul substance.
    Rurik nodded, grinding his teeth at the villain’s continuing laughter and the grins of his men. He saw naught of humor in his face mark. Could it be that he still harbored self-doubts, lingering from his childhood? He had come so far, and not so far, after all, he supposed.
    He came out of his musing with a snort of self-disgust and snapped at the MacNab, “Why would you care if I get the mark removed, or not,
Scotsman?”
Mimicking the other man, he put unpleasant emphasis on the word
Scotsman
.
    “I doona care one whit if ye be blue, or red, or purple,” Duncan retorted. “I’m here t’day to give yea bit of advice. Leave this land, or ye’ll have more than a blue mark to worry on.”
    “Oh, and what might that additional worry be?” Rurik asked coolly, while at the same time giving his men a surreptitious hand signal to ready themselves for a fight.
    “Loss of blood… broken bones … death,” the MacNab answered with equal coolness. “There be naught more a Scotsman enjoys than a Viking bloodbath.”
    “Is that a threat?” Rurik inquired icily.
    “Aye, ’tis a threat. In fact, ’tis a promise, ye bloody barbarian,” Duncan replied with equal iciness. Then, without warning, he let loose with a well-known Highland war cry,
“Stuagh ghairm!”
    In the blink of an eyehd, all eighteen men were at arms. Soon the flat-bottomed gully, the width of several longships, rang with the clang of metal hitting metal, the slap of leather from body-to-body contact, the frightened neighing of horses, the whistling of arrows, and the ominous crunching sound made by a hand ax splitting flesh and bones. At that last noise, all eyes turned to Stigand, who was wiping off his broadsword on a clump of heather, the whole time