the air in his lungs. It
released both a power and a rage he’d
never suspected was there. If only he could have laid his hands on that leader with the russet
beard. He’d have squeezed the life out of the man with such joy, he
trembled at the mere thought.
Blood pounded in his ears,
roaring louder than the dash of surf
against the rocky beach. He felt as though he might burst out of his own skin.
He took a shuddering
breath. The red haze cloud ing his vision
began to recede and he suddenly recognized what had happened to
him. Battle lust. It was the power
of berserkr, the
trancelike state that came upon warriors.
It made them cut themselves and feel no
pain. A man who worked himself into the darkness of berserkr might gnash his own shield in his frenzy to fight. A warrior in the throes of the
mad ness could charge naked into a melee
and survive un scathed. A berserkr ceased to be
human. He became a killing machine.
He looked around at the carnage on the beach.
Had he actually slain four men? All he could remember were
snatches of color and the screams of the dying. He stared at the
adze in his hand. Ribbons of red snaked down the length of the
handle and over his wrist. The smell of blood was eerily familiar
to him.
He’d puzzled so hard these
past weeks over who he was. Now, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, he
wondered what he
was.
A soft whimper pulled him out of himself.
“Moira.” He turned and knelt beside her.
“Have they done you hurt?”
She had pulled her tunic down over her bare
legs and wrenched the gag out of her mouth. But when he reached to
help her up, she sidled away from him, wild eyed. With shock, he
realized she was afraid of him.
Perhaps she was right to be.
Brenna’s sister made several attempts to
rise, but yelped in pain and sank back onto the sand. One of her
ankles was visibly swollen.
“Be easy, now,” he said, forcing himself to
breathe slowly. “I’ll not harm you.”
Moira looked at the bodies of the dead
raiders. All the color drained from her face. She rose to her knees
and was promptly sick. When she finished emptying her stomach on
the sand, she plopped down heavily and eyed him with suspicion.
“Keefe?” she said uncertainly.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said as he
suddenly remembered the raiders seemed to know him and had used a
name for him that rang true in his ears. “I’m called something
else. It seems my real name is Jorand.”
How did those men know him?
Were they his comrades in his former life?
That might explain why they hadn’t fought
back with any vigor. And if the gang of men who nearly ravished
Moira were his companions, what did that
say about him?
He felt as heavy and worn
as a dull ax. He dropped the adze and sank
to the sand.
“Jorand, is it?” Moira had
stopped trembling and made an effort to
smile at him. The color was return ing to
her face. “Then I’m after thanking ye, Jorand. God alone knows what would have happened if ye hadn’t come when ye did.” She turned her gaze
away from the mangled bodies. “And did
what ye did.”
“We’d better get you back to the keep,”
Jorand said. “Can you stand?”
She tried to put weight on
her foot and cried out in pain. “I don’t
think so. My ankle hurts like the very Devil himself is jabbing hot needles into it.”
“Then I’ll carry you.”
“First, ye’d best be
cleaning up.” She waved a pale hand toward
his face and chest. “Give yourself a good plunge in the sea.
Otherwise, me Da will think I’m being
fetched home by a monster.”
Jorand touched a palm to
his cheek. It came away sticky with blood.
He stumbled down to the shore and waded into the
shallows.
The bracing, salty spray
cleared his head. He wasn’t sorry he’d
killed those men. They deserved every thing he gave them. But the ease with which he
dis patched them, the burning in his veins
as he hacked away, the jubilant triumph he
felt... What had he been in his former
life?
Perhaps he was a
released both a power and a rage he’d
never suspected was there. If only he could have laid his hands on that leader with the russet
beard. He’d have squeezed the life out of the man with such joy, he
trembled at the mere thought.
Blood pounded in his ears,
roaring louder than the dash of surf
against the rocky beach. He felt as though he might burst out of his own skin.
He took a shuddering
breath. The red haze cloud ing his vision
began to recede and he suddenly recognized what had happened to
him. Battle lust. It was the power
of berserkr, the
trancelike state that came upon warriors.
It made them cut themselves and feel no
pain. A man who worked himself into the darkness of berserkr might gnash his own shield in his frenzy to fight. A warrior in the throes of the
mad ness could charge naked into a melee
and survive un scathed. A berserkr ceased to be
human. He became a killing machine.
He looked around at the carnage on the beach.
Had he actually slain four men? All he could remember were
snatches of color and the screams of the dying. He stared at the
adze in his hand. Ribbons of red snaked down the length of the
handle and over his wrist. The smell of blood was eerily familiar
to him.
He’d puzzled so hard these
past weeks over who he was. Now, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, he
wondered what he
was.
A soft whimper pulled him out of himself.
“Moira.” He turned and knelt beside her.
“Have they done you hurt?”
She had pulled her tunic down over her bare
legs and wrenched the gag out of her mouth. But when he reached to
help her up, she sidled away from him, wild eyed. With shock, he
realized she was afraid of him.
Perhaps she was right to be.
Brenna’s sister made several attempts to
rise, but yelped in pain and sank back onto the sand. One of her
ankles was visibly swollen.
“Be easy, now,” he said, forcing himself to
breathe slowly. “I’ll not harm you.”
Moira looked at the bodies of the dead
raiders. All the color drained from her face. She rose to her knees
and was promptly sick. When she finished emptying her stomach on
the sand, she plopped down heavily and eyed him with suspicion.
“Keefe?” she said uncertainly.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said as he
suddenly remembered the raiders seemed to know him and had used a
name for him that rang true in his ears. “I’m called something
else. It seems my real name is Jorand.”
How did those men know him?
Were they his comrades in his former life?
That might explain why they hadn’t fought
back with any vigor. And if the gang of men who nearly ravished
Moira were his companions, what did that
say about him?
He felt as heavy and worn
as a dull ax. He dropped the adze and sank
to the sand.
“Jorand, is it?” Moira had
stopped trembling and made an effort to
smile at him. The color was return ing to
her face. “Then I’m after thanking ye, Jorand. God alone knows what would have happened if ye hadn’t come when ye did.” She turned her gaze
away from the mangled bodies. “And did
what ye did.”
“We’d better get you back to the keep,”
Jorand said. “Can you stand?”
She tried to put weight on
her foot and cried out in pain. “I don’t
think so. My ankle hurts like the very Devil himself is jabbing hot needles into it.”
“Then I’ll carry you.”
“First, ye’d best be
cleaning up.” She waved a pale hand toward
his face and chest. “Give yourself a good plunge in the sea.
Otherwise, me Da will think I’m being
fetched home by a monster.”
Jorand touched a palm to
his cheek. It came away sticky with blood.
He stumbled down to the shore and waded into the
shallows.
The bracing, salty spray
cleared his head. He wasn’t sorry he’d
killed those men. They deserved every thing he gave them. But the ease with which he
dis patched them, the burning in his veins
as he hacked away, the jubilant triumph he
felt... What had he been in his former
life?
Perhaps he was a
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