‘You need to get Sandulf out of here,’ his Aunt Kolga said moving from her seat where she’d been holding her only son close—a thin weak lad several months younger than Sandulf. ‘Brandt is like his father. In that sort of temper, anything can happen. He may be sorry afterwards, but sorrow cannot bring the dead back to life. You and I both know that.’
Standing beside Joarr, Sandulf’s mother, Hilda, became white-lipped. There was no need for his aunt to explain further. Everyone knew who his aunt blamed for her husband’s death and why.
‘I know,’ his mother said in a barely audible voice. ‘I am the one person you don’t need to remind of what Sigurd was capable, Sister. I can see much of him in Brandt.’
‘I can help in the search,’ Sandulf shouted before his mother agreed to send him away to somewhere boring with his cousin where he’d be safe. And he didn’t believe his aunt—Brandt knew where the lines were drawn. He knew how to control his temper. ‘I can help hunt them down. I am more than capable of wielding a sword. Every man will be needed to revenge this...this insult.’
‘Leave that to me and your brothers,’ Joarr said. ‘There is truth in what your aunt speaks. Brandt in this temper will kill first and suffer remorse after. You have been trying everyone’s temper sorely, Sandulf, since this summer’s final battle. Luck was with you in that victory, but it won’t always be.’
Sandulf regarded his brother who slowly rose to his full height. His ravaged features showed how deeply he felt this blow. ‘Give me another chance. I saw the assassins. I know things. You will see. I have value to you and my brothers.’
Brandt’s lip curled. ‘How many times have I heard that claim fall from your lips, only to have it proved wrong? Like our last-but-one battle where you failed to protect the flank, seeking your own glory instead!’
Brandt never hesitated to bring up Sandulf’s faults, claiming he needed to learn lessons. Their father had believed his explanation that he’d seen the enemy creeping about and had gone out to engage them, even if the others refused to. Sandulf rapidly examined the ground. His throat tightened. His father would never again speak in his defence.
‘One of my new husband’s ships leaves for the Rus with a view to trade down to Constantinople on the next tide,’ his aunt said, putting a hand on his mother’s sleeve. ‘A place can be found for Sandulf. I am certain of it. By the time he returns, Brandt will have forgiven him.’
Hilda covered her face with her hands. ‘Not that. Many who go never return. Isn’t there another way?’
His aunt resembled Hyrrokkin, the most fearsome of the frost giantesses. ‘Give him a chance of living, Sister. The winds of change have finally arrived. You know this as well as I.’
His mother examined the corpses rather than confronting her older sister. ‘I lost a husband today. I’ve no wish to lose my youngest son. In time Brandt will forgive.’
‘Why should I forgive him when the assassins who did this to my wife still have life in their bodies?’ Brandt drew his sword and pointed. ‘Go to Constantinople, Sandulf, and let your big brothers clean up the mess you helped to create. I’m done with you. We have all finished with you and your excuses. You are not worthy to be called my brother.’
Rurik and his twin came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Brandt. With a sickening thud, Sandulf realised the sole reason why his middle brother Alarr was not there standing beside them, too, was because he was injured so badly he was incapable of standing. His brothers, the great sons of Sigurd, his boyhood heroes, were united against him. They were banishing him without listening to his story or understanding the truth.
Sandulf gripped the arm ring and glared back at them. Brandt had no right to command him, but he’d do it anyway. He’d find the assassins who’d murdered Brandt’s wife and he alone would destroy them. Then all his brothers would see that he, too, was worthy of being called a son of Sigurd. Worthy of being their brother in arms rather than the nuisance whose presence was merely tolerated for the sake of blood ties.
‘I accept your offer, Aunt, with pleasure.’
Chapter One
June 877—near Dun Ollaigh,
Kingdom of Strathclyde, Oban, Scotland
Once, Ceanna of Dun Ollaigh in Cenél Loairn had believed in handsome heroes who would ride in on a white horse and rescue her in her hour of need. She’d loved the stories her old nurse had told her and had wanted to believe they were true. She’d listened with eager ears and wasted time looking out of the narrow window of the old tower, waiting for her destined hero to appear, when she should have been concentrating on her needlework.
Now a grown woman, Ceanna knew they were simply stories to soothe a restless child to sleep.
Heroes on white horses coming to save maidens from all manner of disagreeable tasks did not exist, but evil men, monsters with human faces, did. She could control her destiny, if she took action.
She refused to be married off to a leering monster simply to aid her stepmother’s quest for power, while the dawn of each new day saw her father grow weaker and weaker until he had become incapable of standing or stringing together a coherent sentence.
Her father had barely recognised her when she whispered goodbye that morning. She feared he’d be dead before the month was out. Then everyone in Dun Ollaigh would be without their protector and the entire fortress, as well as the
