Storm Maiden Read Online Free

prisoner?
    Vevina returned in a moment, and Fiona
collected the rest of her supplies. Then she set off for the
souterrain, weighed down by a caldron of water, the blanket, and
the bag of supplies. Fiona’s progress was slow, and her muscles
tightened with apprehension as she neared the edge of the palisade.
The entrance to the souterrain was located a few paces behind the
granary. If anyone saw her, it would be difficult to explain her
numerous burdens.
    Fortunately, she met no one. When she
reached the wooden door set in the ground, she put down her
provisions and glanced around warily. It was almost twilight. It
would not do to light the torch until she was well down in the
passageway; someone might mark the glowing light and come to
investigate.
    She took a deep breath, shuddering
involuntarily as she contemplated again entering the damp, gloomy
hole. The place made her shiver, and not only because of the
darkness and the crawling things that lived there. Her father’s
fort had been built almost on top of one of the old burial mounds
of the Tuatha De Danaan, the original inhabitants of Eire, and the
storage chambers of the souterrain made up part of the passageways
of the ancient barrow. Although Fiona had never sensed spirits
lingering there, the place still made her uneasy.
    Now her dread was intensified by the fear
that the Viking had roused and freed himself of his shackles. Her
throat closed up at the thought, but she forced her fear aside and
unfastened the souterrain door. Jerking it open, she maneuvered
into the opening and found the crude stairway that led downward.
She took a few steps, then fumbled for the torch and the flintstone
tied at her waist. She struck the flint, and the passageway flared
into light. The pitch on the torch caught quickly, burning with a
pungent odor. She placed the lighted torch in a crack on the side
of the stone stairs and went up to retrieve the rest of her
supplies.
    Sweat trickled down Fiona’s brow as she
moved gingerly down the steps and reached the floor of the main
storage area. Come winter, these rooms would be full of cabbages,
turnips, leeks, and apples; now, only a few weeks into summer, they
stood almost empty. The Viking was in the farthest chamber. Fiona
made her way to the room and paused in the doorway, wondering what
her torch would reveal.
    He was still there, his body twisted
awkwardly as he sagged sideways in his shackles. His head hung
forward, hiding the finely-chiseled features and piercing eyes that
had so struck her when she first saw him. She approached
cautiously, expecting him to raise his head and stare at her again.
He did not move.
    She dropped the full wineskin to the floor
to make noise, then called out “Viking” in a loud voice. Still, he
did not stir. Fiona took a deep breath; it appeared the man was
unconscious or dead.
    She went to him and touched his arm. The
heat of it made her draw back. Aye, he lived, but he was clearly
ill with fever. It would take all her efforts to keep him alive.
Fiona felt some of the tension leave her body. The chore of healing
was much easier to contemplate than seduction.
    She found the bracket in the wall and hung
up the torch, than began to unburden herself, spreading her
supplies on the dirt floor. Siobhan had laid out her tasks
carefully. She must get the man to drink. First water, then the
drugged wine.
    Fiona filled an empty skin with water from
the cauldron, then stood on tiptoe and aimed the skin at the man’s
mouth. She squirted some water between his lips. His mouth hung
open, slack, motionless, and the water dribbled down on the filthy
straw beneath the prisoner. She swore softly and lowered herself to
the balls of her feet. How to make him drink if he was insensible?
She searched her mind for some memory that would aid her. Sometimes
newborn babes would not suckle at first, and Siobhan would stroke
their throats. If it worked with a babe, why not a man?
    Fionna again stretched up on tiptoe. With
one