Page 4 of Her Celtic Captor
"Bastards," muttered Taranc, just as Fiona came into view. She walked beside the dark Viking, her eyes blazing with a familiar anger. Taranc hoped she would manage to curtail it for he had no doubt that retribution would be swift should she fail.
The women were shackled like the men, and added to the formation at the rear of the group. The slave master strutted up and down the line yelling his orders in a near incomprehensible broken Gaelic. He used his switch freely as though convinced that a sharp blow to the shoulders or hip would aid his victims in deciphering his garbled words.
"All. Go now. Walk fast, no slow."
Muttering and exchanging bewildered glances, the group shuffled forward, uncertain what they were meant to do. Suddenly a shrill cry rang out. Donald's mother had caught sight of her son.
"Donald! Donald, it is me. Donald..."
Taranc turned, and saw that Donald had, too. The boy saw his mother and his little face lit up. She called a reassuring greeting to him before the slave master brandished his switch at her and she shrank back into the line of women.
Slowly, with much clanking and stumbling and chafing of already bruised ankles the sorry convoy got under way. The slave master urged them on, his switch swinging freely as he barked orders at the prisoners. "You walk now, two days. No slow down, no stop. All must work, all will walk, yes."
Time would tell, mused Taranc. Were he pressed, he would not wager much on all of them completing the journey. A two-day forced march, on minimal rations, and in chains— impossible. He feared for those not strong enough to meet the vicious Viking slave master's demands.
The first couple of hours were hard but not gruelling. The slave master insisted on setting a brisk pace, but most could manage it, more or less. Taranc looked back frequently to check Donald's progress and was relieved that the lad was being aided by his new companions. Neither man was known to Taranc, presumably they had been seized elsewhere on the Vikings' murderous voyage. He would be sure to thank them when he had the chance.
By the time the sun neared its height Taranc was feeling the strain of the march and he could only guess at the struggle for those weaker than he was. The shackle left his ankle bruised and battered, and the shambling, uneven gait of the men hobbled together ensured that every step jarred and jolted. Several times he stumbled but managed to right himself.
The Vikings allowed them to stop for a few minutes every hour or so and they were given water to drink, but that was the only refreshment offered. The day was warm and shade non-existent, and by the time the miserable convoy halted for the mid-day meal all were exhausted. Despite the discomfort oftheir chains all the slaves sank to the ground to take what rest they might as the Vikings handed out yet more stale bread and dry cheese. Taranc was coming to loathe the stuff but he ate it anyway. There was no other reasonable course if he was to retain the strength he needed to see this ordeal though.
Fiona was too far away from him to allow for any conversation, though he succeeded in catching her eye. She offered him a reassuring nod as she, too, chewed on the unappetising fare.
Too soon they were ordered back onto their feet and the march was under way again. Taranc lost track of time as they trudged on, and he even succeeded in disregarding the shrill ranting of the ugly little slave master who strutted up and down the line. The man was a bully and Taranc found him ridiculous, though dangerous too. It did not do to underestimate the destructive potential of conceit and an overblown sense of power and importance.
At some point in the mid-afternoon the clatter of hooves disturbed their monotonous progress. The line of slaves edged to the side of the track to make way for the horses which caught up and passed them. Taranc recognised Ulfric and the dark Viking among the riders cantering alongside. The horsemen overtook the slaves on foot and as Taranc watched, the dark one leaned across as though he intended to speak to the blond. Any conversation was forestalled by the piercing shriek from the rear of the slave line.
Taranc did not need to turn. He recognised that voice. It was Fiona.
The horsemen turned their mounts and cantered back at the same time as the slave master charged along the line brandishing his ever-present switch. "What happens? Why stop? Why all this din?" He yelled at the slaves and cast about himwith the crop as though they all bore equal responsibility for this reprehensible state of affairs.
Taranc could hear the cries of pain and alarm emanating from the rear of their column, but could see nothing of the cause. He only knew that his betrothed was at the centre of it, and that she was hurt.
"Fiona? Fiona, what has happened? Where is she? Let me go!Let me go!"The restraint and fortitude of the last couple of days was abandoned now as he fought to escape the chains which held him fast. He had to reach her, she needed him.
There was some sort of commotion, a rattling and clanking of chains, then a slight figure was dragged from the mass of thralls by two of the Viking guards and dropped unceremoniously on the verge at the edge of the track. Taranc could see Fiona clearly now as she lay writhing in the grass, the odious slave master bending over her. She cried out as he reached for her, and even at this distance Taranc could make out her ashen features.
She seemed unable to stand, though he could not discern why. Whatever the cause, the slave master was utterly averse to this turn of events and it would not be tolerated. His appalling solution was at once cruelly apparent when he drew his dagger and grasped the front of Fiona's tattered tunic.
"No!" Taranc cried out, hurling his weight against the chains which held him back. Other Celts, too, saw the horror that was unfolding and rushed forward with him. A riot was erupting in the slave ranks and the Vikings were quick in their determined efforts to quell it. Their swords and war-axes drawn the Norse warriors surged to surround the men who now squirmed and fought against their chains. A rock was hurled, then another. The confrontation grew angrier, uglier, more deadly by the moment.
Ulfric and the dark Viking arrived in the middle of the melée and slithered from their horses. Words were exchanged and the slave master relinquished the disposal of the stricken Celtfemale to his chief and rushed to lend his aid to the rest of his men.
Taranc found new breath and raised his voice above the growing babble which surrounded him. He screamed at the Viking warlord. "Let her be, you animals. I shall carry her. I will—" His words were but briefly interrupted by a vicious swipe from the slave master. The switch caught him full across the face and shoulders but he was not to be deterred. The men around him, too, found renewed anger and outrage at the assault on their leader and the din rose to a roar.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, the Viking guards stepped back. Taranc found himself facing just the leader, Ulfric, who had abandoned Fiona to stride across to where the rebellious slaves mounted their incensed protest. Fearlessly he stepped among the angry thralls to plant himself before Taranc. The thrall boiled with rage but the Viking was unmoved.
“You, listen to me and heed me well. What is your name, Celt?"
"I am Taranc." It was all he could do not to fly at the Nordic warrior, chains and whips forgotten. Every sinew bristled, Taranc was ready to do murder, and to die for it. The slave master made as though to step in and restore order and authority.Let him fucking try, thought Taranc and he glowered at the vile little thug. Ulfric seemed to share his view and dismissed the Viking karl with one upraised hand. The man fell back obediently.
Ulfric stepped closer to the unruly slaves showing not the slightest trepidation. He stopped less than a foot's length from Taranc. "She is mine now. I told you this. My property."
"You will not harm her! I?—"
"No, I will not. I take care of what is mine. She will be safe." Ulfric paused as though considering, then continued in a lower tone, "You have my word on this."
"Your word? What is that worth? The word of a murdering, robbing savage impresses no one." Taranc spat his response at their captor who straightened and narrowed his eyes. Still the Viking did not raise his voice though all about heard his words clearly enough. He stood his ground, his steady gaze unwavering.
