Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] by The Bewitched Viking Read Free Book Online Page B

Bolthor beamed like a bloody moon. “My master, Tykir the Great, has been so busy I can scarce keep track of all his exploits.”
    “I can just imagine,” Eadyth said, eyeing Tykir with dry humor as she silently mouthed, “Tykir the Great?”
    After five days of riding up one fell and over another, in the company of the most shrewish witch from hell, followed by a smitten sheepdog and a half-dozen sheep who refused to stay in their pens despite being returned to Graycote three times, Tykir had thought he’d experienced the worst days of his life. He soon found out that the worst was about to come.
    Just then, an arrow whizzed by his head, barely missing his right ear, and embedded itself in a passing cart. Amazed, he turned to see a group of armed horsemen approaching. Just entering the high-arched gates that separated the Norse palace from the Coppergate merchant sector of Jorvik, the attackers were still some distance away—at least ten ells—way too far for even an expert archer to aim his bow.
    Startled passersby strolling the stalls of the tradesmen, as well as personages about to enter the palace grounds, gaped with alarm at the peril entering their midst. Manyran for cover or ducked under the canopies of their trading booths.
    “Helvtis!” he swore upon seeing that the two noblemen in front had bushy red hair and green eyes. “Damn!”
    He and Rurik and Bolthor exchanged looks of incredulity, even as they instinctively went into battle readiness. Reaching for weapons and shields, they prepared to fight off whatever foe threatened them. But what man in his right mind would risk starting a fight in the midst of the business center of the city, or so near the palace and its fighting forces?
    One of the red-haired miscreants yelled, “Halt, you whoreson of the North!” He was waving a sword in the air so wildly that Tykir feared he might chop off his own head.
    The other red-haired miscreant seemed to have trouble staying upright on his horse and was holding on to the reins with both hands. From the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, Tykir assumed he was the ill-trained archer who’d attempted to shoot him. The lackwit managed to inform Alinor in a shrill shout, “Never fear, sister dear, we have come to rescue you from the devil’s spawn.”
    Devil’s spawn? Is he referring to me?
    “Eadyth,” Tykir ordered, “get into the palace, out of danger’s way.” She was staring at the impending action, open-mouthed, as if it was a jester’s play. “Make haste now!” he roared, and she nigh jumped out of her skin.
    Bolthor had already released his halberd, affectionately named “Head Splitter,” from its specially designed leather strap at the side of his horse. Grinning with anticipation, Bolthor hefted the long-handled battle-ax in one hand. On more occasions than Tykir could count, he’d seen Bolthor save the day in a fierce fight by severing anenemy from crown to cock with just one swift blow from “Head Splitter.”
    Rurik pulled a leather helmet with a metal noseguard over his head, lay his favorite sword, “Death Stalker,” across his lap, and grinned. He probably relished the prospect of spilt blood, since they’d not exercised their battle skills for a long time.
    As the attackers approached, Tykir noticed another nobleman trailing behind—a short, balding man of at least sixty who was as wide as he was tall. His poor horse looked sway-backed with the excess weight. “No heathen barbarian steals what is mine,” he asserted. He, too, was waving a sword in a dangerous fashion.
    “Halt, if you value your lives,” Tykir warned the group, standing up in his stirrups, sword and shield raised high. The whole time, he surveyed the hird: twelve soldiers, in addition to the three noblemen. He and Rurik and Bolthor could handle the lot themselves with ease.
    Suddenly, in the midst of his assessment, Tykir understood why Lady Alinor had attempted to delay their departure from Graycote. She’d