Fires of Winter by Johanna Lindsey Read Free Book Online

sword drawn. An axe missed her by inches. Halfway between her and the enemy, Dunstan was the first to fall. The Vikings divided their party. Three went to the back of the hall and three into the receiving room, closing the door soundly after them. Wyndham came from the rear and took on two of his kinsmen. He fought valiantly, but he was old and tired quickly. He felled one, however, before the other’s sword entered his body and ended his life.
    Five men came at Brenna. Four passed her and mounted the stairs, only to lose themselves in the maze on the second floor. She met the remaining man without fear. His broadsword was heavier than hers, and each blow she countered was backed by enormous strength. Her arm and back ached with the effort, but the screams coming from behind the closed door of the receiving room added to her determination. With strength she had not realized she possessed, she knocked the man’s sword aside and pierced him smoothly with her own. She kicked him away, but another, older man quickly took his place. Her stamina failing, Brenna continued to fight until, with a powerful downward stroke, the man’s sword split hers in two.
    Brenna stared stupidly at the broken weapon in her hand. She did not see the death blow coming her way, or hear Fergus’s anguished cry. “Cease! ’Tis the Lady Brenna!”
    Then Fergus was between her and the glittering sword, pushing her back. The mighty double-edged blade severed his arm, which dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. Fergus, his life slowly slipping away, fell at Brenna’s feet.
    Anselm the Eager looked at the girl curiously. To think he had fought her and almost killed her. A fine honor that would have been to take home. He would never have lived it down. So this was the girl they would wed to his son. A stunning maid, to be sure, now that he saw her for what she was. And such spirit and courage as he had never seen in a woman before. She had even succeeded in wounding one of his men. That one would go home in shame. Bested by a woman—ha!
    It was too bad she was the enemy. This black-haired beauty would have made a fine daughter-in-law. She would have bred sons with strength and courage to match no other. In truth, it was a pity.
    The servants, late in arriving, fell all around Brenna. Blood flowed everywhere. The screams from the receiving room had ceased. Two of the Vikings came out of there, laughing and clapping each other on the back before they joined the others to ransack the manor. Linnet and Cordella, were they dead too? wondered Brenna.
    From the top of the stairs came another garbled cry, and Brenna turned mutely to see its source. Alane was there, a short dagger in her hand. It slipped from her fingers as Brenna watched, horrified. Then her old servant, face gray and eyes bulging, tumbled down the stairs to land in a pool of her own blood. An axe was grotesquely embedded in her back, which gushed crimson.
    It was the final horror, the last act of madness which pushed Brenna beyond her endurance. Something snapped in her mind and blackness engulfed her, yet did not blot out everything, for she could still hear voices, and she was still standing erect. Someone else was screaming and screaming. It sounded so close, she knew that if she reached out she could touch whoever was making that agonizing noise. But she could not move her arms. No matter how much she willed them to move, they would not budge.
    “Anselm, can you not stop the wench from screaming? Her madness is beginning to spook the men. They would sooner give her to Hel than listen to that.”
    “There is only one way I know of,” Anselm the Eager replied tiredly.
    Brenna did not feel the blow, but at last the blackness was complete. She no longer heard the terrible screaming of one demented.

T he march to the coast was slow. It took two hours more to return than it had to come. The horses, cattle, pigs and carts loaded with plunder slowed their progress. Still, they reached