Page 21 of Ravager
“You know I do not.”
“Regardless,” he said, turning from her and placing his hand on Knut’s shoulder, “you will be in Knut’s care. You’ll both stay with the carts, watching over them and each other. And I’m sorry, but…”
Erik reached down and picked up the rope. Before Cherine had a chance to react, he had grabbed her by the arms and pinned her wrists together.
“You bastard,” she sneered, trying to do serious damage with her eyes. “Why are you tying me up again?!”
“Because I don’t trust you with Knut. I also can’t risk you running off to join your fellow countrymen, perhaps even trying to warn them. If you did that, you’d end up killed in some way.”
“Are you going to be the one to kill me?” She glared at him as he finished the knot.
“Now that you’re tied up? No.”
She was back to hating him, and he wondered how long that would last. It didn’t matter, though; the ropes were for her own protection. If she tried to run off—and he knew she would the moment she saw another Frenchman—the others would try and kill her on the spot.
And knowing Rolf’s twisted sense of justice, he knew he’d be the one forced to do the killing.
Chapter 11
Cherine
Ihad never been so angry. I was angry not only at Erik for tying me back up, but at myself, for thinking he was interested in anything more than just keeping me as a sexual slave.
Oh, well, I suppose I was also upset that I was starting tolikethe idea of being his sexual slave.
Now that we were approaching Saint Martin, I was at the back of the rear cart, perched uncomfortably between a sack of grain for the horses and a stack of slaughtered chickens. When I wasn’t waving the flies away with my bound hands, I was glaring at Knut, who was sitting across from me. I had thrown a bunch of French obscenities his way, but Knut had only smiled in response. He was no dummy, though. He just enjoyed my vivacious company.
When the constant creak and rocking of the cart came to a stop, I knew we had reached our destination. I tried to get a good look at the village of Saint Martin, but I couldn’t see beyond the massive line of horses in front of me. The only thing I could see were rolling farm fields with a few peasants working in them. As soon as they spotted us Vikings, their small forms darted acrossthe fields. In minutes, the whole village would know we were at war, if they hadn’t known already.
Before I could contemplate it further, there was a single cry. It was animalistic, deranged, and utterly mad. I knew without question that the booming voice belonged to Rolf. Its impact rippled through me, sparking my nerves. Seconds later, the forest filled with the battle calls of fifty crazed Viking warriors, causing birds to scatter from the trees. The sound of pounding hooves soon followed, and when the dust finally cleared, Knut and I peered out of the cart.
We were left alone except for another cart and one more Viking, the stocky red-headed man I’d seen earlier. He looked ashen and ill as he lay propped up against a pile of animal skins, which explained why he had stayed behind. Everyone else was gone in the cloud of dust moving up the lane. Beyond the dust stood the fortified walls of the village. To me, it looked like a stronger village than Criolium, but in the grand scheme of things, the stone walls were low and hastily put together, and the Vikings would have no problem getting through.
We waited in silence as the cries grew louder, joined by new ones. Fearful ones. Tortured ones. Dying ones. Screams and the gnashing of swords and armor, the ping of arrows, the slicing of axes, filled the air like a raging symphony of death. The sound of battle grew until it became a living breathing entity of its own, one threatening to smother me until I succumbed to it.
I hadn’t noticed I was screaming myself until Knut was at my side, covering my ears with his hands so I wouldn’t have to listen. But the sound of death was far too powerful, and behind my pinched eyes, I could see my countrymen dying, ruthlessly being murdered by a tyrant and his minions.
Then, the image of Erik flashed through my head, and I was struck with internal pain, like death was seeping into my veins. He was the only person I really knew out there, and the thoughtof him being speared by a sword—even if it driven by one of my own—caused my flesh to curl.
I couldn’t bear it anymore. No matter how mad I was at him, no matter how torn up I was about my feelings, the thought of him dead caused my heart to drop right out of me. I found myself ripping out of Knut’s hands and leaping off the cart and onto the road. Before I could even realize what I was doing, I was sprinting away from the cart, panic fluttering in my chest. It was an awkward run at best, and I tripped over my skirt every few seconds. Still, I was surprisingly fast, considering I didn’t have the use of my arms.
Knut was hollering after me, and I knew he wasn’t too far behind, but I couldn’t stop. I kept going until I collapsed on my knees not far from the moat that separated Saint Martin from the road.
I thought the scene in Criolium had been too horrifying to comprehend, but this was far, far worse.
Bodies upon bodies lay everywhere: on the grassy slope that led down toward the manor, on the bridge over the moat, on the dust-covered lane. Some of them were still alive, moaning, pleading for death while missing limbs. The fallen Viking at my feet was gutted, his steaming entrails spilling out of him. Close to him was a Frenchman—or what used to be one, as he didn’t have a head. A spear was clutched in his hand, frozen in death.
I jerked my head away, unable to take it all in, wanting to get away from the aftermath. But still, I heard the fighting from behind the village walls and remembered why I ran in the first place.
A gentle hand grasped my elbow, and I cried out in surprise, whirling around. It was Knut, eyeing me with concern.
“Erik,” I told him in a choked voice. “I need to know if Erik’s alive.”
Knut nodded, seeming to understand. Keeping his hand on me, he led me through the bodies. There seemed to be just as many Vikings as Frenchmen, and I could see he was trying hard not to be affected by it. His eyes watered with every familiar face he saw.
When we were almost at the walls, a Viking reached out and grabbed Knut's leg. I could barely look at the man. He was much older, with a long, greying beard and braided hair, folds of wrinkles on his sickly face. His legs had been cut off just above the knee, and he was dying a very slow, painful death.
I didn’t need to understand Norse to know what the man was asking of Knut. I clutched my hands tightly to my chest as Knut knelt and removed a sword that lay at the Viking’s side. I turned my head just before Knut drove the sword down into the man’s heart, killing him instantly and putting him out of his misery.