by Robynn Gabel
The Danes shouted insults that traveled over the water with a hollow echo. He watched them expose their backsides as the dragon ship passed. Roald and his men stood silent and waited on the east side. They had not been able to fortify all the shoreline with the sharpened poles. Several rocky sections were accessible at the threat of grounding a ship. The Danes had donated another ship to the barricaded neck of the inlet the evening before by trying to unload their men there. Broken, she lay broadside now, her crew slaughtered as they tried to come ashore.
Einar was hopeful. The Danes would have to engage the waiting warships on the water as well as rush the barricade and try offloading warriors to take on the shield walls. This would divide their forces and weaken their attack. Either way, Einar was eager to get on with the battle. Unbidden, the words of the seiðr suddenly sounded in his mind. “One in blood-by it they die. One in rock new foundation will rise. One in heart, no longer deny.”
Dagfinn’s gaunt features appeared before her.
“Ladye, Einar insists you get some sleep.”
The injured man stirred restlessly under her hands.
“I can not leave him.” Seraphina had slept little, her dreams haunted with the dying—enemy and brethren alike.
“Einar insists.”
“Where is he?” she queried.
“At the lookout.”
She looked around the hall. All the platforms were crowded with those who had worked earlier. There was no privacy. When exhausted, one would just find an empty space and lie down next to a neighbor or family member.
Shaking her head, she answered, “Tell him I will sleep when he does.”
Dagfinn smiled a weaker version of his original. “You two are sure suited for one another. You are going to kill each other with your stubbornness. Frigga save us from your offspring.”
“Dagfinn!”
He moved off.
Seraphina held the warrior’s hand, the blood tacky against her fingers. Mara had done her best to sew up the sword wound. The blade had sliced the flesh of the upper arm down to the bone. It continued across his chest. He was one of the lucky ones.
He moaned and thrashed his head.
“Shhh, rest now,” she soothed. A cloth lay in an herbal infusion that Mara had made. Picking it up, she gently pressed it over the stitches. It seemed another lifetime when she had vowed to protect a Nóregr jarl and had been kissed so hard that she naughtily wondered what else she could do to irritate Einar. Her world now consisted of keeping the injured comfortable and holding the hands of the dying.
She had never seen so much blood. Her sword practice seemed paltry now. How could she ever do this to another human? What about protecting Einar? His concern was valid about her abilities.
Somewhere in the night, she felt Einar’s hand on her shoulder as she pulled off another poultice from the injured man’s wound. She looked up into his shadowed face, an impassive mask, as if no emotion existed anywhere in him—until his eyes met hers. Softness crept in, and his thin lips tried tugging up into a smile. She rose unsteadily, fatigue slowing her every move. He scooped her up, and she could feel the stiffness of his blood-soaked battle tunic. Pushing his face into her neck for a moment, she could hear his sigh.
Carrying her to the platform where Ljúfa lay, he gently laid her down beside the sleeping girl. Quickly, he slipped his sword off. Crawling in next to her, still in full battle gear, he said, “Sleep, smár hyrr.”
He laid Skull Cleaver in front of her. Lying down on his side behind her, she didn’t resist when he tucked her against him. She felt him bury his face in her hair for a second, and heard his inrush of breath. Then he became still. Snuggling into him, she could feel his warm body cradling her. She softly trailed her fingers over the rough hair on the brawny arm draped over her waist. She sighed. For the moment, her heart was at peace.
Seraphina awoke to the sound of moaning. For a minute, she was confused as to where she was. Looking around, she could see the front door open and the sunshine streaming in. The hall was busy: people coming in and out. The smell of cooking porridge laced the air.
Einar was gone.
The raven circled as if waiting for the oncoming slaughter in the morning light. Up in the tower lookout, Einar could see all of the bay and waters beyond.
“How many men did we lose to the landing yesterday?” Roald questioned gruffly.
“Twenty, with two out of the fight until they can mend,” Einar said.
Looking over the harbor, Einar noted that the blockade had held, but he feared it wouldn’t for much longer. Eight summers before, the Danes had sailed unannounced into the inlet and had laid waste to the port. With a heavy loss of men, and the help of the Jarl of Jørpeland, they managed to repel the Danes. Einar knew it cost Roald everything he held dear, and he’d been planning his revenge ever since.
Einar and Roald watched King Arnbjørn’s ship pass again. Archers stood in a row down the center of the ship. They raised their bows, and the first flaming arrows arced across the sky to land on one of the fishing boats. Soon, it was raining fire. A blaze started building.
Roald broke the silence. “Is it true Gunnar lives, and the fate of Dusavik is still unknown?”
“That is what Dagfinn reported. What did the ferryman find out?”
A tired smile appeared on Roald’s face. “King Hjörleif was working on getting reinforcements. If he can not even hold Dusavik, it looks like we will have to hold our own.”
Einar remembered well eight years ago when Njörðr, ruler of the sea, kept the king from coming to their aid with high winds and turbulent seas.
“It is time, Einar. May Odin greet you himself in the hall of Valhalla.”
Grabbing Roald’s hand, Einar pulled him close and pounded twice on his back. Letting go, he ran down the small knoll to his waiting ship and crew.
Seraphina had obeyed orders for the first time in her life. Holding the longhouse had become a reality. The women kept busy with the incoming wounded but looked anxiously toward the barred door.
She listened carefully as Dagfinn reported while she worked on the wounded youth they had brought to her.
“The jarls protecting the waterways are under attack, and they are fighting ship to ship. Einar has rammed a Danish ship and sank it in the port, and another is afire. But we lost one of our ships and most of the crew. Roald holds the shield wall on the east; Elsjorn’s on the west. Keep this door locked, go through the tunnel in the back, and leave the wounded if the Danes get through the door. Disperse in the woods. It looks like they are coming up from Dusavik as well. Rumor is there is a shield wall at the lake. The farmers hold that one.”
Seraphina gasped when she cut off the youth’s quilted battle tunic, revealing the wound beneath. Mara’s eyes filled with tears. She put her big hand over the hole in the belly that gurgled blood every time the young man took a breath. Mara shook her head slightly in answer to Seraphina’s questioning gaze. His hand clutched Seraphina’s, his eyes wide. “Tell my mother, my mother. . . .”
“Shhh. She will know you died bravely,” Seraphina said quietly. He nodded and then breathed his last.
“May Níðhöggr gnaw Arnbjørn’s flesh for eternity,” Dagfinn mumbled. “I am headed back out.” His face was drawn and pale. Dark circles under his eyes gave him the look of a draugr.
Seraphina nodded. The low moan of the horn sounded once, twice, and a third time. It was a call for a fallback. Dagfinn sprinted for the door; pushing up the heavy board across it, he peeked out. Seraphina looked over his shoulder and saw chaos. Roald’s shield wall was strong down the shoreline; the stakes had done their job well in discouraging landings. But they fought against men swimming ashoreons.
Einar’s ship was grounded on top of the hull of another ship on its side. To the west, the shield wall had broken, men running toward the port. The horn called for retreat again. Both walls were meant to hold back an advance to the docks and the little dell in front of the longhouse. Once the longhouse wa
s breached, Stafangr would be the Danes’. Seraphina now realized Roald trusted her more than she had thought. Protecting the longhouse, with the healers and injured inside it, was of great importance. But she also knew he had never thought they would lose the fight.
Turning to the women, Seraphina leaned on her lifelong training of being a landholder’s daughter. Having dressed in her battle vest earlier, she now strapped on her sword belt, shouting orders. “Get the wounded who can walk into the tunnels now. Everyone, grab what you can and leave.” Her voice carried an authority no one questioned.
Dagfinn angrily shook his head. “You will go with them, Seraphina.”
She picked up her shield. “There was a reason I was brought here, Dagfinn. If today I am to die, I will do so as a shield-maiden, not hiding in the woods while others die for me. Can you handle a sword with your uninjured hand?”
“We are going to find out.”
Einar slipped in the greasy gore at his feet. Off balance, he clumsily moved the tip of his shield to deflect a blow. The Vindálfr leaned crazily, both men now sliding on the shifting deck of the ship. He heard the horn’s low, mournful tones call for retreat, but he paid no heed to it. Focused on the man in front of him, all he felt was the raging need for survival coursing through him as he hacked at his enemy’s shield with determination.
A blood-splashed Danish face leered above the rim of a scarred shield. “You incompetent hæstkuk. Come—my spear is thirsty for your blood.”
Einar didn’t waste precious breath responding, raising Skull Cleaver again to hammer down over the edge of the other’s shield. The Dane easily deflected, driving forward with his short spear, the tip bouncing off Einar’s shield boss.
The ship listed again, her bow seesawing on the hull of the Danish ship that Einar had rammed. The incoming tide was giving the beached ship buoyancy, and at any minute, the Vindálfr would break free and float. Einar moved the shield aside, bringing Skull Cleaver into another swing at the capsized ship’s chief. Ramming the Danish ship in shallow water had given Einar’s crew the chance to cut down the fleeing Danish crew and wade ashore, giving Roald aid on the shield wall. Einar would have joined them, but the Danish chief challenged him.
The Vindálfr groaned and shuddered, faithfully protecting her captain, tilting just as the Dane lurched forward to shove his spear under Einar’s shield rim. He slipped in the blood of his companions, joining them in death as Einar swung Skull Cleaver against the Dane’s neck.
He quickly scanned the shores. On the right, Roald’s shield wall was pushing back and gaining on the few Danes standing against him. Looking left, he saw the shield wall had broken, several different small groups of warriors trying to defend themselves, falling back toward the docks while the Danes’ shield wall overwhelmed them. A Frankish ship laboriously worked its way through the burned blockade. It wouldn’t be long before it hit the shore, unloading its cargo of warriors. Glancing back at the longhouse, he saw a flash of red hair running downhill toward the dock. His gut clenched, and the fire of rage swept through him.
“By all that is Thor’s, I will beat her if she lives,” he cursed under his breath as he jumped from the boat.
Seraphina had finally found a use for her temper. Shoving with all of her strength, she focused it on gaining one more foot against the shield locked with hers. It was harder to kill a man than she thought. Not emotionally—she had locked that away; simple survival was her drive now. But physically, it was difficult to push a sword through leather or padding . . . and even then, there was the resistance of bone, she thought fleetingly. Anger and mind-numbing fear fed the adrenaline that drove her, giving power to each slash and shove.
Crouching, she held her shield in front, and a taller warrior stood behind her, holding his shield over her head. She worked at keeping the edge of the shield even with the shields of the men straining on either side of her. Hacking at anything under its rim, she got an occasional glance at the faces in front of her when a warrior would move his shield aside to take a strike.
Einar had been right: a shield wall was no place to learn how to fight, and she hoped she would live to let him know. It was a chaos made up of heaving, grunting, and cursing men and the occasional death scream or gurgle. The finesse of swordplay Elsjorn had taught her had no value here. She couldn’t watch her opponents’ moves or counter what they might do next. It was ram, shove, push, and stay behind the shield while looking for an opening to thrust a sword through.
She saw a shield edge lift in front of her as the enemy struck overhanded, exposing his side. Without thinking, she plunged the sword into the Dane’s thigh. He growled, dropping his shield to defend himself. The warrior behind her saw his chance, bringing his sword down, cleaving the Dane’s skull. She felt the sickening softness of his body as she stepped on it, her stomach lurching in nausea. Keeping up with her shield brothers as they surged forward again, she stumbled over another body, going down on one knee. A strong hand wrenched her up, and a smooth voice said behind her, “Stay upright, meyla.” Seraphina had no time to see who spoke. A burning anger and a primal desire to live replaced the nausea in the pit of her stomach.
One more shove and there was a give; the enemy scrambled back. The Danes’ shield wall broke apart, and the wild cries of her shield mates deafened her. They swarmed around her, breaking ranks, to take on the individual warriors one-on-one. Panic suddenly froze her, but that strong hand pulled her back once again. Looking up, she saw gentle eyes under a fierce helmet. She recognized the ferryman, and relief flooded her, tamping down the fear for the moment.
A lazy smile, marked in blood flecks, appeared before he spoke. “Einar says if you survive, he is going to kill you himself.”
Before she could think of an answer, a shout rose from the enemy’s scrambling shield line. Looking up, her heart thudded in alarm. Around the carnage in the port, three ships sailed toward them. In the lead was Arnbjørn’s sail.
The gentle-eyed ferryman now roared out orders. “Shield wall to the dell. Fall back to the dell.” She scrambled with the rest.
Seraphina had heard that on their deathbeds, sometimes people had regrets. Now, facing almost certain death, she regretted only one thing: she had not told Einar she loved him. But that thought fled as she once again fought with all she had. No longer feeling tired, pure adrenaline drove her, giving balance, speed, and coordination in tandem with a will to live. Now she just wanted to cut down anyone who threatened her, furious she had to yank back hard to retrieve the blade out of flesh and bone.
Seraphina felt grateful for the respite when Roald’s shield wall joined them. Quickly, those with intact shields took a position in front. A new row of shields formed. They would hold their shields over the person in front of them, overlapping. Those with spears, bows, and long swords filled in behind. For a moment, as they flowed together building a new wall, the enemy regrouped as well.
Gritting her teeth, she could see Arnbjørn smile triumphantly as he jumped from the ship bow. Splashing through the water to the shore he joined his men, facing Roald’s final shield wall in the port’s valley. She waited with the others, catching a much-needed break, wanting desperately for it all to be a bad dream. Stretching over a two-hundred-foot-wide expanse, Roald’s army was bloodied, breathing hard, and tired. Arnbjørn’s line had fresh warriors just joining the fight, but the bodies of their comrades littered the shores of the port, showing their heavy losses.
Arnbjørn shouted out, “All those who would live, join us! Fight beside us and be spared.”
Silence reigned up and down Roald’s ranks.
Ragnvald stepped up beside his father, his little pig eyes shining with battle lust. Arnbjørn shrugged and said, “So be it. Die, Nóregr mares!”
The shields came down and overlapped with a clacking, and the two lines slowly advanced toward each other.
Seraphina had been pulled to the back of the shield wall but was grateful. At least she hadn’t been sent to the longhouse. She waited, ho
lding a shield over the head of the youth crouched in front of her. The grunts and cursing started, and then the hollow sound of axes and swords hacking at shields began.
The wall broke to her left, and it was sudden mayhem. The ferryman roared out, “Hold the wall,” and jumped in to fill the hole. The other warriors surged forward, filling in the weak spot. Elsjorn’s voice ordered beside her, “Back up; form a ring.” She obeyed immediately. Now grouped with about twenty warriors, shields were raised overhead, creating a concave arc over the shields on the outer ring. It looked like a turtle protecting its soft innards. The Danes were splitting the shield wall down into pieces and taking those pieces out one at time. Shrill, gurgling screams of death mixed with curses filled the air. Over that could be heard the shouted directions of leaders.
She kept stabbing and cutting. There was no time to worry about the burning in her ankle when a blade struck under the shield. She shifted and defended again and again. On her left, daylight appeared as her fellow shield man died with an axe in his chest. Seraphina tried desperately moving over to line her shield up with the next one, but his body was in her way, and she stumbled. Falling out of the wall, she suddenly was on her own—and facing Ragnvald.
He smiled and swung his axe, splintering her already weakened shield.
“Move aside!” she heard Einar roar, and then Skull Cleaver was swinging toward Ragnvald’s throat. She scrambled out of the way. Einar slashed again, and she realized he had no shield. His eyes were crazed, and he focused with ferocious intensity. Ragnvald easily blocked, ducked, and swung. The axe rang with a sharp reverberating clang off the sword.
Seraphina bit her lip, stopping the scream as Einar stumbled. Ragnvald took the opening to swing his axe at Einar’s exposed side. She grabbed her blade hilt with both hands, and swung, knocking the axe back, the blade breaking, and the blow numbing her arm. Einar took advantage and sank his blade deep in Ragnvald’s throat. His pig eyes opened wide, and he collapsed to his knees, before slowly falling facedown on the shore. Einar sheathed Skull Cleaver in the scabbard over his back. Seraphina felt Einar’s hand dive down the back of her leather tunic, and before she could get her feet under her, he dragged her behind him, taking ground-covering strides over the blood-slick mud. He leaned over and grabbed a sword from a fallen warrior and kept going. With a mighty heave, he tossed her onto the bank, nearby a group of warriors with a shield wall holding strong.