his foes would next strike. But no matter how well he’d come to understand the Northmen, or how often he stared out across the sea, his gaze on the horizon, he couldn’t guess where or when the Vikings’ long, lean dragon ships would glide out of the mist and then gain speed, their oars flashing like demon wings as they raced to the shore, eager to raid, plunder, and kill innocents.
Now he knew what to do.
He’d draw the Vikings ashore and slaughter them when they landed.
Even if only a handful of their loathsome, beast-headed ships fell for his ploy, the lesson he meant to give them would teach them fear.
At the least, it would warn them to stay away from his shores.
There were two things Vikings dreaded. One was losing men. Not because they feared death. As long as they died well, clutching a sword or battle-ax, Odin’s feast hall awaited them and they went there gladly. But for the living, a reduced number of warriors meant a weakened fighting force. Replacing lost men was difficult when the raiders roamed so far from their own northern shores.
Magnus buckled on his sword, a slow smile curving his lips. He was good at whittling down the number of fighters in a Viking war band.
He took equal pleasure in diminishing the crew on a Norse longboat. After all, every oarsman could wield an ax or a sword as wickedly as his oars bit the waves. And—Magnus tied back his hair with a leather band—soon he’d treat his foes to their other great dread, a burned ship.
More than one, if the gods were kind.
Somewhere a cock crowed, and Magnus glanced at his shuttered window. The barest hint of gray was just beginning to edge the fading blackness. And—he snatched his plaid off a chair—a light drizzle was falling. He could also hear the sea foaming on the rocks beneath his castle walls.
Soon, he would lay his trap for an unsuspecting Viking fleet.
Bloodlust stirring, he threw open the lid of the strongbox at the foot of his bed and looked down at the glittering sea of silver and gold arm rings that filled the chest. He might have to secure a second coffer.
He hoped so, fervently. But this morn, he simply grabbed a handful of the shining bands and slid them onto his arms.
He was ready.
With luck, he’d soon have reason to undo the leather string binding his hair. He’d smile then and shake his head, letting the strands swing free around his shoulders so that his foes would see his loose hair and know at once that he’d come to kill them.
And after he’d sated himself on vengeance, he’d make another visit to Orosius.
The sea vixen might not be of his world, but he was certain she was close.
So near he could taste her.
Chapter 6
Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer.
Help me win. . . .
Margo repeated the silent words like a chant, letting them fill her mind and—she hoped—sending a heartfelt message into the cosmos.
It was the morning of the Bucks County Scottish Festival and, quite possibly, the most important day of her life. The only moment that could surpass today would be when her Atlantic-crossing plane landed at Glasgow International Airport, bringing her to the land of her dreams.
If she won Donald McVittie’s raffle drawing.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone crowding the parklike grounds of the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room shared her sentiments. Celtic festivals did tend to draw people who claimed to love Scotland. Margo could spot such folk at a hundred paces. Their eyes shone with the same sense of wonder she always felt when she walked around the fairgrounds and immersed herself in so much Highland culture and atmosphere.
It was tartan triumph, alive and breathing.
What Scotophile could resist such a perfect blend of bagpipes, haggis, and plaid?
No one that Margo could see. Everyone milled about in awe, their hearts soaring and passions roused. A group of middle-aged couples near the duck pond behind the tea room even wore matching sweatshirts that read
Now he knew what to do.
He’d draw the Vikings ashore and slaughter them when they landed.
Even if only a handful of their loathsome, beast-headed ships fell for his ploy, the lesson he meant to give them would teach them fear.
At the least, it would warn them to stay away from his shores.
There were two things Vikings dreaded. One was losing men. Not because they feared death. As long as they died well, clutching a sword or battle-ax, Odin’s feast hall awaited them and they went there gladly. But for the living, a reduced number of warriors meant a weakened fighting force. Replacing lost men was difficult when the raiders roamed so far from their own northern shores.
Magnus buckled on his sword, a slow smile curving his lips. He was good at whittling down the number of fighters in a Viking war band.
He took equal pleasure in diminishing the crew on a Norse longboat. After all, every oarsman could wield an ax or a sword as wickedly as his oars bit the waves. And—Magnus tied back his hair with a leather band—soon he’d treat his foes to their other great dread, a burned ship.
More than one, if the gods were kind.
Somewhere a cock crowed, and Magnus glanced at his shuttered window. The barest hint of gray was just beginning to edge the fading blackness. And—he snatched his plaid off a chair—a light drizzle was falling. He could also hear the sea foaming on the rocks beneath his castle walls.
Soon, he would lay his trap for an unsuspecting Viking fleet.
Bloodlust stirring, he threw open the lid of the strongbox at the foot of his bed and looked down at the glittering sea of silver and gold arm rings that filled the chest. He might have to secure a second coffer.
He hoped so, fervently. But this morn, he simply grabbed a handful of the shining bands and slid them onto his arms.
He was ready.
With luck, he’d soon have reason to undo the leather string binding his hair. He’d smile then and shake his head, letting the strands swing free around his shoulders so that his foes would see his loose hair and know at once that he’d come to kill them.
And after he’d sated himself on vengeance, he’d make another visit to Orosius.
The sea vixen might not be of his world, but he was certain she was close.
So near he could taste her.
Chapter 6
Magnus MacBride, Viking Slayer.
Help me win. . . .
Margo repeated the silent words like a chant, letting them fill her mind and—she hoped—sending a heartfelt message into the cosmos.
It was the morning of the Bucks County Scottish Festival and, quite possibly, the most important day of her life. The only moment that could surpass today would be when her Atlantic-crossing plane landed at Glasgow International Airport, bringing her to the land of her dreams.
If she won Donald McVittie’s raffle drawing.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone crowding the parklike grounds of the Cabbage Rose Gift Emporium and Tea Room shared her sentiments. Celtic festivals did tend to draw people who claimed to love Scotland. Margo could spot such folk at a hundred paces. Their eyes shone with the same sense of wonder she always felt when she walked around the fairgrounds and immersed herself in so much Highland culture and atmosphere.
It was tartan triumph, alive and breathing.
What Scotophile could resist such a perfect blend of bagpipes, haggis, and plaid?
No one that Margo could see. Everyone milled about in awe, their hearts soaring and passions roused. A group of middle-aged couples near the duck pond behind the tea room even wore matching sweatshirts that read
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