She could pick the scents of pine and larch trees from their smoke with the relish of a wine connoisseur. Her nose tickled with it, her throat filled with the taste of ashes and soot and she lurched into consciousness with a frantic jolt. She was tied to one of the large stakes that had been where the whip had torn into her flesh. Firewood and kindling piled high to her knees. Her head pounded like the inside of a bodhran at Beltane, but the sight of Mother Superior carrying the torch toward the adjacent pyre upon which Niall stood was enough to force the pain into the background. Vikings sprawled across the courtyard, though whether dead or unconscious, she couldn’t tell. Flames licked at Kenna’s feet, but they didn’t burn, only fed her ire, and the Berserker’s power surging through her veins. Fire might not be a danger to her flesh, but it would kill Niall, especially in his weakened state. “What have you done?”
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