‘He’s dead,’ Danr whispered when Rurik hurried up to him.
Rurik drew his brother into an embrace and thanked the gods he was alive. ‘Are you injured?’ He could see no wound, but Danr was covered with soot as if he had been helping with the fires.
Danr shook his head and faced him. His eyes were stricken and filled with pain. Though they were similar in build, his twin’s hair was blond instead of dark like Rurik’s. In many ways Danr was light to Rurik’s dark. He was often quick with a jest when the moment called for levity, while Rurik would rather brood in his thoughts. Nevertheless, the bond between them was unbreakable.
‘I wasn’t here,’ Danr said with disgust in his voice.
‘Why? Where were you?’
‘I... I meant to come later.’ He took in a long wavering breath. ‘There was a woman.’
Rurik turned as a sharp ache seized his throat. There was always a woman when it came to Danr.
‘Alarr says it was King Feann,’ Rurik said.
‘There were others. I do not know who they were, but the whole place burst open with violence,’ said Danr.
Rurik finally allowed his gaze to come to rest on the bodies at their feet. Their father, Alarr’s bride and her parents, with Ingrid on the end. So much senseless death. He might have understood their father’s murder, but why the others? Why did Ingrid and her unborn child have to die? He stared down at the face of Sigurd, his father. He looked strangely peaceful, yet no less severe for the fact that death had claimed him. His arms were crossed over his chest and his formidable brow was as intimidating as ever.
A swell of tenderness and fury for the man rose in his chest. As a bastard, Rurik had always felt as if a void existed between him and his father. The man had claimed him and Danr, but there had lingered a resentment in Rurik that his own mother had never belonged here. She had been treated as little better than a slave. Now that void would always be there.
His gaze sought the fjord, now empty of ships except the burned-out hulls that had been left behind. Sandulf and Alarr had been the only ones here to face those murderers. With Rurik and Brandt sent north and Danr off with a woman, the attack could not have been planned any better. It was almost as if someone had known they would be caught unawares.
‘No one regrets that I wasn’t here more than I,’ Danr said into the silence.
There was a solemnity in his eyes that Rurik had never seen there before. This day had likely changed them all in ways they could not yet determine. In that moment, the rage burst through, overshadowing the sadness and pain.
How dare anyone come here and destroy them? His gaze moved from Sigurd to Alarr’s bride. She should be preparing to dance on her wedding night. Then he looked at Ingrid. She should have been a mother in only a few weeks. Brandt should be looking forward to welcoming his child into the world. Whatever Sigurd had done to deserve his death, these innocents should not have suffered his fate.
Revenge became more important than his own life. It was the only tangible way to deal with the well of anger opening up inside him.
‘We will find who did this,’ he said to Danr. ‘All of them.’
Chapter One
Glannoventa, Northumbria
Two years later
Sins of the past were never forgotten. Father Cuthbert had spent the greater part of Annis’s early childhood trying to make her understand that. To her eternal shame, Annis of Glannoventa had never paid the old man much attention. He had lectured and made her stand primly against the wall of the abbey to listen. Her legs had gone stiff and her back had ached, but none of his efforts had made her truly understand. She had happily continued to wreak havoc on his sense of order and decorum at each lecture’s conclusion.
It was not until this very night, standing in the shadows of a seedy tavern near the sea, that Annis finally appreciated the sentiment. With a dagger she was prepared to use sitting heavy in the belt at her waist, she wasn’t in any position to ask for divine guidance. Nevertheless, Annis sent up a prayer as she checked one last time to make certain the blade was hidden in the folds of her cloak. The cool metal greeted her hand, the filigree work on the hilt threatening to cut into the soft flesh of her palm if she squeezed it too hard. Though it was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, it was meant for protection. It had proven its worth many times over, most recently two years past.
She closed her eyes against the memory of that long-ago day in Maerr. There had been more blood than she had ever seen in her life. So much blood that the smell had haunted her for months and she had locked the dagger away in the armoury, never to be seen again.
Until tonight.
Tonight, she had taken it out in the hope she would not be forced to use it. If only her target would co-operate. The Norseman stood ten paces across the tavern from her. A tankard of ale sat before him on the table as he looked out across the crowded room. The fur cloak fastened at his shoulders was thrown back, intentionally revealing a malicious-looking pair of blades at his hips. She had no doubt that a longer blade would be found strapped to his back. They were harsh reminders of her fate should she fail.
The tavern was filled to overflowing with men from the ship that had arrived earlier. The same ship that had brought the Norseman to their shore. She was forced to brush against a few as she went
