Viking Beast: Viking Warriors Series

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  I’d only used a knife to prepare meat, never to kill anyone. And why would I now? The men of Svolvaen would know me and would never harm me.

  But what of Bjorgen’s warriors? They, you’ve never met.

  I touched its slender spike.

  “Under the ribs, here.” Thoryn pointed. “Push hard, and it’ll go straight through. Or behind if you need to—just the same, into the soft organs.”

  He clasped his axe. “I must see how the fight goes. I won’t leave you, but you must be prepared.”

  He nodded to me before easing up the latch. Bringing his face close, he peered out through the opening but, in the same instant, the door flung back.

  A figure leapt into the room, silhouetted against the fading light, his shield blocking the swing of Thoryn’s blade. The two wrangled, their axes locking as they pushed against one another. Then, Thoryn shouted in surprise. He fell back, lowering his axe.

  “Sweyn!”

  “Aye, little brother. ’Tis me!” He kicked the door shut, and his gaze passed over me.

  I’d shrunk to the far wall, the shiv’s handle tight in my palm, its steel cool, flattened against the back of my wrist.

  “Just what I’ve been looking for.”

  Thoryn, uncertain, looked from Sweyn to me and back again. “You disappeared without a word. Why, brother? Were we not worthy enough—the men who’ve stood by your side since we first held our wooden swords? You wished so badly to leave us?”

  Sweyn narrowed his eyes. “You ask me that? Where was your loyalty when Beornwold died? I was his favourite until Eldberg came. He would have chosen me to take his place—chosen me to marry Bretta. I was our jarl’s second before that berserker scum gained the old man’s trust, but none in Skálavík spoke for my claim. Where was your brotherhood then? Or was that your own jealousy? You’d rather see a stranger rule than bow to me?”

  Thoryn shook his head. “So much anger, bróðir. Don’t the gods show us the folly of kin turning on kin?”

  “And this one.” Sweyn jerked his head in my direction. “She’s no kin at all, but that matters not. Eldberg knows no loyalty, and nor does she—a whore who makes her bed where it’s softest.”

  A dawning awareness seemed to come to Thoryn. “You were looking for her? Did you not think her dead, Sweyn—since you left her so?”

  “I had to be sure.” He curled his lip. “Before I slit the throat of the last man of the headland watch, I found out what I needed to know—that the bitch yet lived.”

  Thoryn held his axe aloft again, but his face was full of sorrow. “You betrayed us.”

  “Aye! And ’twas easy! Those Svolvaen fools believed readily enough that I’d tried to help their precious Elswyth.” His face contorted in a mocking sneer. “So sad that we were separated in the forest!”

  Sweyn tossed aside his shield, placing both hands on his axe.

  “I’d thought only to find shelter there, but they’re stronger than we realised with their Bjorgen friends. There’s enough of them to take Skálavík— and it’s I who’ll be given command when they do.”

  Thoryn was nimble, swinging his axe towards Sweyn’s chest, but his brother was speedier, arresting the blow and sending his own blade into Thoryn’s upper arm.

  I cried out as Thoryn crumpled. He slumped to the floor, groaning and clutching the wound.

  Sweyn gazed down at him. “’Twas my bargain, brother—to lead them here, bringing them up through the chasm in the cliffs. You must remember how we discovered the crevice leading to the cave, and the pact we made to keep all secret? Our special place, that no other knew of.”

  Pulling his arm into his chest, Thoryn winced. “You’re no brother of mine but some changeling, sent to destroy what we’ve built.”

  Sweyn pushed him lightly with his foot. “If you be right, then I truly owe Skálavík nothing and shall take from it what I see fit.”

  Tipping back his head, Thoryn grimaced. “And you helped our enemy all along, I suppose, with that worm who set the longhouse blazing.”

  “Oh no! That you have quite wrong.” Sweyn’s laughter was mirthless. “I found the sorry cur spying on us, right enough, on the edge of the forest, but it was I who shot those arrows. A rewarding hunting trip, indeed, for I caught a scapegoat for my misdeed, and broke his jaw before dragging him to our jarl.”

  Hearing those words, the room swam before me. All this time, Eldberg had believed Gunnolf’s man responsible for the fire that killed his wife. On this basis, he’d attacked Svolvaen and blamed Eirik equally with his brother. But Sweyn had been the viper, waiting to send his venom to Skálavík’s heart.

  Thoryn closed his eyes. “And what now, Sweyn? You must kill me, for I’ll not permit your foul villainy—not while I live.”

  “Aye, brother, you’ll die, and the whore with you. Look how she quivers.” His voice dripped with contempt. “There shall be none alive to contradict my story.”

  As Sweyn bent to Thoryn, placing his hands about his neck, I took the one chance I had. Flinging myself across the room, I plunged the shiv with all my might deep into Sweyn’s side.

  He screamed in agony—in rage. Twisting, he tried to pluck it out, but I leapt forward again, jerking the blade free. He lurched to one side, disbelieving as the blood spurted from the wound.

  I glanced at Thoryn. He was pale, but his lips moved, urging me to act.

  On his knees, Sweyn was groping for the axe he’d let drop. Steeling myself, I jumped upon him and drove the shiv home again, clear through his neck.

  With a cry of horror, I recoiled, watching as Sweyn fell. This time, there was no scream—only the gurgle of a man trying desperately to breathe. He struggled briefly before his head fell back, and he moved no more.

  “Elswyth.” Thoryn’s voice rasped. “Help me!”

  His tunic was stained crimson. He was weak, but conscious still. Where the blade had entered, the fabric was ripped and I tore it farther, to better see the wound. It was deep and the blood rising dark.

  Grabbing the towels, I wadded one, pressing it to the open flesh, bidding Thoryn hold it while I brought the other cloth around, binding all tight. Pulling Thoryn, I brought him more securely into the corner. Even if he fainted, he would remain upright. It would give him more time. Though, if he lived, it would be the gods’ will, for I could do nothing more without needle and thread.

  To find those, I’d need to leave where we were.

  I’d need to reach the longhouse.

  21

  Elswyth

  December 3rd, 960AD

  Since Sweyn had entered, I’d paid no heed to the commotion outside. Now, I heard again the clash of metal and the screams of men slain—not immediately outside but farther down the hill. I was fearful to confront what lay beyond the door, but I needed to help Thoryn, and myself.

  I wiped the shiv clean on Sweyn’s tunic and took a deep breath.

  The cold was cruel after the warmth of the bathhouse, and I’d no cloak for my shoulders, but there was little time to think of comfort—only of action.

  Wounded men, the dead and dying, lay between me and the longhouse but none to prevent me reaching it. The snow, falling gently, was already covering the bodies, the snow stained scarlet beneath them.

  In twenty paces, I reached the great hall and paused for breath, leaning my head against the frame of the open doorway. From inside came the sound of furniture pushed aside.

  Someone was there—moving through the space.

  A Bjorgen warrior, greedy for spoils while his brothers fought? Or a Svolvaen man, who could lead me to Eirik?

  Holding the shiv before me, I darted within, pressing my back to the wall.

  They were in the far chamber.

  “Take what you like. I won’t stop you!” It was Sigrid, frightened, discovered in her hiding place. There was a clatter of something overturned, then a shriek. “Don’t hurt me, please!”

  I cursed. For all that I disliked Sigrid, I couldn’t stand by and allow her to be harmed
. Swiftly, I made my way across the space, pausing where Sigrid’s loom hung. Beneath were several sacks of wool, yet to be spun, and as I stopped, one toppled over. There was a squeak, then a low mumble. Two pairs of eyes peeped out.

  Ragerta and Thirka!

  Seeing me, they crept out, grasping my hands, drawing me into their embrace. They were as pleased to see me as I them, but there was no time to waste. With my finger pressed to my lips, I pointed toward the cooking knives.

  “I don’t know anything!” Sigrid screeched from beyond the curtain.

  Wielding our weapons, we yanked aside the cloth.

  On the floor, her assailant was twisting Sigrid’s arm behind her back. The torturer looked up and, seeing me, gave a snort of surprise.

  “Helka!” I dropped the shiv and rushed to her.

  The next moment, Leif appeared, locking Thirka and Ragerta about the neck.

  “’Tis all right.” I motioned the women to lower their blades. “We’re friends here.”

  “We’ve come for you, Elswyth, to bring you home.” Helka stood tall, her eyes glinting fire. “And to avenge those who died in Svolvaen, the families who’ve been torn apart. We’ll make Skálavík pay!”

  “No!” I couldn’t bear it. This fighting must cease before more lost their lives. “Skálavík was betrayed!” Taking Sigrid’s hand, I pulled her up. “It was Sweyn. He’s deceived everyone. He set the fire that killed Bretta!”

  Sigrid’s hand flew to her mouth and her face crumpled, but then she shook herself. “I don’t believe it! You’re up to your cunning tricks again!”

  I could have shaken her for such stupidity.

  “Thoryn knows. He heard Sweyn confess.”

  Thoryn!

  I turned to Thirka, telling her to go to the bathhouse and take everything necessary. Ragerta would help. If they could stop the bleeding, he had a chance.

  “This Sweyn, who led us here—” Helka made me look at her. “He said naught of this—only of his grievances, and that he tried to help you.”

  White hot fury surged through my veins. “He wanted to kill me. He’s without honour or truth, serving only himself. All this—” I found, suddenly, that I was crying. “Everything. It’s his work.”

  “Come, Leif, we’ll tear each limb from his body and fling him from the cliffs!” Picking up her weapons, Helka pushed past Sigrid.

  “He’s dead already, Helka.” I held up the shiv. “By my hand.”

  Helka stopped immediately. Turning, she stood for a moment, only looking at me. Then, her gaze dropped to my belly. Her eyes grew wide, and she clasped me to her again.

  “Always fighting for your life, brave one.” She buried her face in my hair.

  “Eirik?” I had to know. “He’s alive? He’s here?” My heart pounded.

  Eldberg was possessed by hatred that would brook no outcome other than Eirik’s death. If he found him, he would kill him—even if it brought his own end.

  I could not deny that I loved them both—in different ways.

  To think of either being hurt or dying!

  I couldn’t bear it.

  She nodded. “We’ll find a way to stop this madness.”

  Unstrapping the crossbow from her back, Helka passed it to me. “You remember how to use this?”

  * * *

  Eirik

  Eirik gripped his sword—the weapon that had served him through all time, his Heart of the Slain. Raising his prayer to Thor and Odin, he asked for their strength.

  There was but one man Eirik sought.

  If Elswyth were alive, only this man’s death would free her.

  He’d heard of the cruelties of his adversary, and the brute strength which brought annihilation to his enemies.

  Running to meet the advancing foe, Eirik sent his blade into a man’s stomach. His axe sliced through another’s neck. Amidst skewered flesh and splitting skulls, he was aware of his warrior brethren and the Bjorgen warriors fighting alongside, but was single-minded in his purpose.

  Eldberg!

  Who’d brought vengeance to Svolvaen for a crime laid only at Gunnolf’s door. Who’d killed men and women innocent of misdeed. Who’d kidnapped his wife, degrading her as his bed-thrall!

  Across the fray of screams, Eirik saw him—taller by far than anyone else, his head without helmet, his hair a wild mass of copper, and his face scarred upon the left side.

  The throng of battle seemed to part as Eirik gazed upon Skálavík’s jarl, and his voice rang clear. “Time to taste my blade, Eldberg!”

  Those about them fell back, making way for the two whose encounter would shape all that was to come. Through the fading light, each took measure of his foe. It was a meeting long coming.

  “Or have you bravery only for skulking in the night, abducting women—like Beornwold before you.”

  In reply, Eldberg thundered forward, his sword raised fully above his head, bearing down on his enemy. Fury boiled in his fearful war cry—the wrath of a man who’d suffered pain and loss, and would fight unto death to exact his vengeance.

  Eldberg charged and swung, delivering a stroke that might have felled Eirik before he’d offered a single blow, but Eirik threw himself to one side, rolling away. Leaping up, he raised his shield to ward off the next strike. It was swift in coming; Eldberg’s sword ringing from the metal edge.

  Eirik kept his feet firm but managed not a single thrust in retaliation, barely defending himself against the attack Eldberg rained down upon him. He was tiring, straining to withstand his adversary’s onslaught. Helka had warned him; his strength was not as it was.

  Despite the freezing air, sweat drenched his body, but he needed only one sure hit—a quick motion, stabbing under Eldberg’s raised arm, into the tender, unprotected flesh.

  As Eldberg’s weapon fell again, Eirik levelled his sword. Now was the time to strike—between his enemy’s blows, but Eldberg seemed to anticipate his move.

  With a groan, Eirik blocked the weight of plunging steel. He staggered, faltering, then dropped to one knee.

  Snow had begun falling again, light flakes upon heated skin.

  In silent horror, Eirik witnessed Eldberg’s sword enter his shoulder, slicing through muscle, flesh, and bone. The force broke the blade in two, leaving him impaled.

  Elswyth, my love, where are you?

  From far away, there was a scream.

  * * *

  Eldberg

  Eldberg pulled out the sword and flung it away, then pushed Eirik flat beneath his booted foot. Drawing up his enemy’s tunic, he laid his back bare and, from his belt, took his axe. He’d promised bloodeagle, and this he would deliver. First, the skin peeled back, then the ribs hacked from the spine. As he plunged his hands in this man’s blood, he’d offer the death to Odin. As to the lungs, he’d burn them and let the smoke carry to Valhalla as proof of his victory.

  Standing, he raised his axe high above his head and bellowed his triumph.

  Many of those who’d been fighting had already fallen back, seeing Svolvaen’s jarl at the mercy of the Beast.

  Eldberg looked about him, reveling in his conquest.

  Let all behold and fear!

  None would take what was his. Skálavík! Elswyth! And his true revenge! He would be denied nothing.

  * * *

  Elswyth

  Helka would never reach them in time. I had to shoot and pray that my aim was true.

  Only as the arrow pierced his shoulder did Eldberg see me. The axe dropped from his grip, and his face turned full to mine. It showed first disbelief, then agonized sorrow, as if a searing light had been extinguished.

  I had betrayed him.

  He staggered, crumpled, and pitched forward.

  22

  Elswyth

  December 3rd, 960AD

  I loved them both.

  I didn’t know how this could be, but it was true.

  Eldberg refused at first to look at me, though he allowed me to clean and bind the wound. I’d made my choice clear, in tak
ing arms against him. The injury I’d inflicted might forever pain him.

  “You loved your wife. You must understand.” I sat beside the bed we’d shared.

  Whatever Eldberg imagined he felt for me, it was not love. A desire to possess or to see in me what he’d lost. But I would never be Bretta, and he was not Eirik. He wished me to love him, as he had come to yearn for me, but this would never be.

  Eirik was the husband I’d chosen.

  “There is much you do not know.” He regarded me warily, as if it was too painful, or too dangerous to keep my gaze.

  “The gash behind your ear—”

  I touched it, gingerly. It had scabbed over but remained tender.

  “You have a mole—” He paused. “There are two more, within your hair. Three altogether.”

  “What of it? Many have such marks on their skin.”

  “Not like this.”

  Eldberg told me then of his conviction, that I was of Beornwold’s line, that the babe I carried was Beornwold’s grandchild, that Bretta had been my half-sister. I’d told him long ago of how I was conceived—by rape of my mother during a Viking raid. It had been more than twenty years ago, before Eldberg joined Beornwold’s service.

  “So many times I saw her in you. Wishful thinking, I believed, but there was more to it than that. Sigrid saw it, too, though she didn’t want to accept.”

  I’d always known that I belonged elsewhere. After all that had happened, all that I’d endured, to find that Skálavík was that place! That my father had been here all along. And a sister…

  It changed nothing between Eldberg and I, but it provided a stronger reason for Svolvaen and Skálavík to put aside their blood feud. The clans were already joined, through Ingrid of Skálavík, Eirik’s grandmother. Now, the child I carried would join the two again.

  “You’ll speak with Eirik. You’ll agree to a truce.” I told Eldberg of what Sweyn had boasted—that he was responsible for the fire, that his ambition was stronger than loyalty to his own.