The Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger Page A

newly conquered
city whose occupants had once been loyal to Yaroslav. But then he spied two
different sets of guards, four men in each group, moving from stall to stall
obviously questioning each trader. Rurik tensed.
    "What's the trouble?" he queried the merchant
who had finally waved off his previous stubborn customer in disgust, having
failed to settle upon a price. Rurik inclined his head toward the nearest group
of guards. "You'd think some valuable prisoners might have escaped from
the kreml for the armed men in this
market."
    The sallow-faced trader, his skin deeply pitted from the
pox, warily appraised Rurik. "You traveling through?"
    Rurik nodded, lowering his furs to the counter. "Four-day
trading pass."
    "Well, you can expect to be answering to the
bastards soon enough," said the trader, his gruff tone indicating that he
didn't look too highly upon the city's newest citizens. "They were just
here, slinging their questions so fast as if to confuse a man. I suspect they'll
harry us until they find the wench, be she alive or dead."
    Rurik held his voice steady. "Wench?"
    "Aye, Prince Mstislav's youngest daughter,"
the trader spat. His gaze narrowed at the distant kreml that loomed on a hill above the city. "Word came just
this morning that she was abducted from a caravan bringing her to Chernigov.
The guards are ordering everyone to watch for any sign of her. Troops have been
sent to search every trading camp along the Desna." Lowering his voice,
the merchant leaned toward Rurik. "The prince has offered quite a reward
for her safe return . . . one thousand gold grivna! Any chance you've seen a
wench with hair the color of a lion's mane, golden skin, and blue-green eyes?
At least that's how they described her. Sounds like a real beauty."
    Rurik shook his head, hoping he didn't appear stunned.
Loki take him. Ilka, his captive concubine, now bound hand and foot with two
inches of her braid hacked off . . . Prince Mstislav's daughter?
    The trader grunted his disappointment. "Too bad,
my friend. Leading Prince Mstislav's men to his daughter Zora could have made
you a wealthy man."
    Zora?
    Rurik's attention was suddenly drawn to a commotion at
one end of the market square, the pounding of hooves growing louder. Shoppers,
merchants, and guards alike scattered as thirty mounted guards thundered past
the stalls, led by a dark-haired warrior whose countenance was as black as the
rumbling storm clouds gathering to the west.
    "Lord Ivan, the girl's betrothed!" the trader
shouted above the din. "It's rumored that he was to marry her shortly
after her arrival." The man coughed on the dust billowing around them. "The
guards said a search of all ships was to begin at once, Lord Ivan to lead it. I'd
hate to be questioned at that one's hands! He's said to be as cruel as he is
arrogant, the kreml prison filled
with wretches he's marked to die."
    Rurik didn't need to hear more; a new plan formed. Yet
he took a moment, despite the fierce impatience gnawing at his gut, to buy a
quill from the trader so as not to arouse suspicion. Then he left the market by
a narrow side street, taking a different route than the mounted warriors. One
he prayed would lead him faster to the wharf as he cut between frame houses and
down winding alleyways.
    He had to get Leif and Kjell off the ship before Ivan
reached them. He trusted their loyalty, but torture could drive the truth from
the strongest warriors and that would surely be their fate if the enraged boyar
found their answers suspect.
    Somehow Rurik, his men . . . and his lying little
princess had to escape from the city while confusion still reigned.
    How swiftly her royal blood had changed their
circumstances.

     

     

 
    Chapter 8

     
    As thunder crashed overhead, Rurik burst in the door of
the shack.
    Arne lurched from the bench. "My lord, you're back
sooner than I—"
    "Leave everything here, Arne, we've no time to
pack!" he shouted, wiping the rain from his face. Soaked to the skin, he
left a