He yanked it out, then hopped backwards, bloody dagger in hand, crouched and waiting.
The sharp hiss of escaping air combined with Dag’s guttural scream sent the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Then he stood as still as the surrounding oaks, shock clearly written across his face. All at once, blood spurted in a high arc over them, warm droplets spraying across her chest and arms. Dag dropped his ax and grabbed madly for his neck.
The Viking sank to his knees and looked up at them, his eyes wide and incredulous. With each beat of his heart, blood flowed in thick waves from between his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak, and gurgling blood bubbled from his lips. He coughed and seemed to be trying to say something. Arian stepped closer but the Saxon flung his hand back and stayed her.
Dag spit blood from his mouth. “The stag,” he gasped, spitting more blood from his mouth. Dag closed his eyes and drew a deep, wheezing breath. Arian cringed at the sharp hiss of air as it rasped in and out from the hole in his neck.
The Saxon reached down and picked up the great ax. “What of the stag?” he demanded.
“He runs north.” Dag coughed more blood.
“Who do you speak of?” the Saxon demanded.
Dag grinned a macabre leer and looked at Arian. Even in the twilight of his death he was lecherous. He coughed up more blood, but managed to say, “Betray Norway.”
“What do you speak of, Dag? Who betrays Norway?” Arian demanded.
Dag sneered. “I will not betray Norway.”
“You betray your uncle!”
He spat a wad of blood at her feet.
“There is no more reason for your stay here on earth!” the Saxon ground out, and in one mighty heave, he separated the Viking’s head from his shoulders.
Arian screamed as the head toppled to the ground and in a bloody rush rolled toward her resting upon her bare feet. Dag’s ice-colored eyes and twisted sneer gaped up at her in deadly accusation.
“You slew him!” she gasped, turning to the deadly Saxon. And as her eyes clashed with his brilliant blue ones, she shivered hard, and realized they both stood no more than an arm’s length from the other and neither wore a stitch of clothing. But more than that, with the removal of Dag’s head, so too had he removed any hopes of her reaching her betrothed a happy bride. The recriminations for what just took place would be far-reaching. That she had been nearly raped by the dead man mattered not: he was cousin to King Olaf of Norway, and her betrothed’s trusted nephew.
Her shock at what had just occurred turned to horror when she looked harder upon the Saxon’s ravaged face. From the crease of his right eye down along his hairline to the outer edge of his cheek was a long fresh gash, sewn in a most terrible way. Even with a most skilled hand he would be horribly scarred from the wound. ’Twas a wonder he had not lost his eye, the cut came so close to it. And just as ghastly was the horrific red imprint of a broadsword burned in his chest. His eyes narrowed dangerously. His full lips thinned into a sneer and she knew a deep-seated fear she had never experienced in her entire life. Not even when Dag attempted to rape her.
Her belly roiled when ugly visions of what this man would do to her burst into her thoughts. So terrified was she, Arian gagged back the bile that rose in her throat, then doubled over and coughed as one heave chased another. Her noon meal spilled upon the ground, yet even then she could not stop the relentless twisting of her belly. Finally, with nothing left to spew, she spat to the ground. Humiliated and sure she was done, Arian slowly tried to right herself, but when their gazes clashed, another heave roiled up from her belly. She retched again and again, the pain of the spasms overriding her fear. Finally, with nothing left, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and slowly stood. Through bleary eyes she watched him. He had not moved a hand to assist
The sharp hiss of escaping air combined with Dag’s guttural scream sent the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Then he stood as still as the surrounding oaks, shock clearly written across his face. All at once, blood spurted in a high arc over them, warm droplets spraying across her chest and arms. Dag dropped his ax and grabbed madly for his neck.
The Viking sank to his knees and looked up at them, his eyes wide and incredulous. With each beat of his heart, blood flowed in thick waves from between his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak, and gurgling blood bubbled from his lips. He coughed and seemed to be trying to say something. Arian stepped closer but the Saxon flung his hand back and stayed her.
Dag spit blood from his mouth. “The stag,” he gasped, spitting more blood from his mouth. Dag closed his eyes and drew a deep, wheezing breath. Arian cringed at the sharp hiss of air as it rasped in and out from the hole in his neck.
The Saxon reached down and picked up the great ax. “What of the stag?” he demanded.
“He runs north.” Dag coughed more blood.
“Who do you speak of?” the Saxon demanded.
Dag grinned a macabre leer and looked at Arian. Even in the twilight of his death he was lecherous. He coughed up more blood, but managed to say, “Betray Norway.”
“What do you speak of, Dag? Who betrays Norway?” Arian demanded.
Dag sneered. “I will not betray Norway.”
“You betray your uncle!”
He spat a wad of blood at her feet.
“There is no more reason for your stay here on earth!” the Saxon ground out, and in one mighty heave, he separated the Viking’s head from his shoulders.
Arian screamed as the head toppled to the ground and in a bloody rush rolled toward her resting upon her bare feet. Dag’s ice-colored eyes and twisted sneer gaped up at her in deadly accusation.
“You slew him!” she gasped, turning to the deadly Saxon. And as her eyes clashed with his brilliant blue ones, she shivered hard, and realized they both stood no more than an arm’s length from the other and neither wore a stitch of clothing. But more than that, with the removal of Dag’s head, so too had he removed any hopes of her reaching her betrothed a happy bride. The recriminations for what just took place would be far-reaching. That she had been nearly raped by the dead man mattered not: he was cousin to King Olaf of Norway, and her betrothed’s trusted nephew.
Her shock at what had just occurred turned to horror when she looked harder upon the Saxon’s ravaged face. From the crease of his right eye down along his hairline to the outer edge of his cheek was a long fresh gash, sewn in a most terrible way. Even with a most skilled hand he would be horribly scarred from the wound. ’Twas a wonder he had not lost his eye, the cut came so close to it. And just as ghastly was the horrific red imprint of a broadsword burned in his chest. His eyes narrowed dangerously. His full lips thinned into a sneer and she knew a deep-seated fear she had never experienced in her entire life. Not even when Dag attempted to rape her.
Her belly roiled when ugly visions of what this man would do to her burst into her thoughts. So terrified was she, Arian gagged back the bile that rose in her throat, then doubled over and coughed as one heave chased another. Her noon meal spilled upon the ground, yet even then she could not stop the relentless twisting of her belly. Finally, with nothing left to spew, she spat to the ground. Humiliated and sure she was done, Arian slowly tried to right herself, but when their gazes clashed, another heave roiled up from her belly. She retched again and again, the pain of the spasms overriding her fear. Finally, with nothing left, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and slowly stood. Through bleary eyes she watched him. He had not moved a hand to assist
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