Read Online Éire’s Captive Moon by Sandi Layne - Free Book Online Page A

that he had killed her men. They had been battlechiefs, and he had defeated them without aid. Agnarr felt deep satisfaction at doing so. They had been strong men, but would have made defiant slaves.
    The healer, on the other hand, would be worth any amount of trouble. If he could wake her up. She had fainted, unsurprisingly. Women were weak.
    “Agnarr! She’ll be a handful! Want some help?”
    Ribald laughter danced around the men, but it stopped abruptly as soon as Agnarr met their eyes. “She’s not to be treated as a common trell ,” he instructed. “She’s to be my healer, and I’ll not have her abused.”
    He hadn’t given the matter thought until he had seen her, but it seemed now to be the only right thing to do. Casting a quick look at the rest of the new captives, Agnarr stepped quickly around them and went to her.
    Thorvald was standing guard over her, scowling at everyone with his sky-blue eyes and a frown as sour as bad ale. He had survived the attack and had taken charge of the captives, including Charis, the “moonbeam healer”.
    Agnarr glanced around. “Is everything secure now?”
    “Well, I’d know, Agnarr, if I got the chance to look.” Thorvald’s shoulders were tense, as was the grip he had on his axe. He tilted his head. “Anything else?”
    “Yes. Get Kingson from where Erik left him.” Erik. Where was he?
    As Thorvald stomped off to retrieve the captive, Agnarr knelt next to the healer, who was every bit as pale as—what was his name?—Colum said. She did indeed have that quality of the moon on a misty night. Her hair had been braided, but wisps had escaped and were now plastered in curling tendrils against her forehead. Her face had a tattoo, a picture of a bird, half covered by ashes and other smudging. Her long, pale throat led to the untied neckline of her gown—a simple one, of unbleached fabric. A bloody handprint on her left breast angered the Ostman , however. Who had dared?
    He shook his head as he continued his survey. She wore an apron, the pockets still bulging. Curious, he prowled through them, pulling out small pouches, cloth-wrapped bundles, and pungent-smelling mixtures. These reassured him that she was, indeed, the healer he had sought.
    A witch? Not such a one as he had in Balestrand.
    She was . . . different, though. He would need to treat her well.
    The thought reminded him of the incredible pain he had been ignoring from his own wound. How had he been sliced? His helmet had never failed him. Until it had been shot from his head this day. Who had accomplished that feat?
    “Agnarr!”
    Rising to his feet, he found another of his surviving warriors. He grimaced; Tuirgeis would be displeased at the numbers lost in the raid. Fortunately, he had acquired many slaves—fifteen, not including the kvinn medisin —and his men were even now combing the houses in search of any small treasure they could find.
    “Agnarr!”
    The urgency in the voice compelled him to hurry to where Sigurd beckoned. “What?”
    “It’s Erik, Agnarr. He’s been wounded.”
    A surprising pain ripped through Agnarr at the words. The two of them picked their way carefully to the outer edge of the fallen near the broken wooden gate. The smoke from the extinguished fires choked him as he drew nearer, making him cough. Spilled blood, emptied bodies, and the overhead cries of carrion birds worked through to Agnarr’s awareness as he neared the youngest member of his party.
    “Erik,” he called, feigning heartiness and making himself smile slightly. “You made it!” The smile shot fresh pain through his head, but Agnarr pushed it down inside himself. His men came first.
    Erik’s freckled face was drawn and pale. “Didn’t . . . get to fight, Agnarr.”
    The weak, thin words were almost the only evidence of Erik’s wound. The spear shaft, broken and jagged through his groin, was the other. Agnarr didn’t dare yank it out; the wound would be redoubled in severity, he knew. Best