by Robynn Gabel
“Get behind them,” he thundered, throwing the sword down next to her.
Seraphina scurried to obey. Roald’s original shield wall was gone. Single groups now formed rings of smaller walls, trying to hold as the last warriors splashed ashore from the three ships. The long, mournful sound of a horn sounded again, and Seraphina waited for the next call that signaled a retreat to the longhouse. It never came.
She fought wildly in desperation. From far away, Roald shouted, “Fall back,” but it was too late. Seraphina found herself surrounded, with Dagfinn and Elsjorn at her back. She stared at the Danish warrior in front of her. Garish paint of red and white striped his face, his teeth bared, and a bloody axe swung at his side. Through narrow slits of flesh, he peered at her. “Yield or die.”
She raised her sword in defiance. There wasn’t a moment of regret, only an animalistic drive to keep fighting, no matter the odds. He bellowed, raising the axe, and she braced. The Danes surrounding them surged forward. Feeling Dagfinn wrenched away, she stepped forward. Her thoughts fleetingly acknowledged this was the end, and the final blow could come from either front or back. His axe descended. With a cry of despair, she raised the sword to meet it. The axe head met the blade at the hilt, knocking it out of her hand. A a jolt of excruciating pain shot all the way through her shoulder, leaving her arm useless.
Taking a piece of a shattered shield at her feet, she threw it at him with her good arm, fingers searching for the knife at her belt. Suddenly, she was being choked, grabbing at the arm that felt like a band of iron around her neck. Above her, a voice shouted, “Gnógr,” and she was being dragged backward. As she fought for air, she watched Dagfinn take a blow to his face with the end of a staff, and slowly, he tumbled forward. Elsjorn disappeared under a mass of swarming men.
Still being dragged backward, her feet scrambled on the sickening feel of soft bodies underfoot. Out over the shore in front of her, the dying lay scattered about. One group on her right still stood in a small shield formation, and she recognized the blood-soaked form of Einar as he battled next to Roald. Suddenly, she was thrown against the longhouse wall. A hand moved against her throat, crushing it as she struggled to draw in air. Everything around her wavered.
The bloody face in front of her was almost unrecognizable. Eyes wild, teeth framed by a wicked sneer. A glistening, raw burn wound paraded an ugly red path down the right side of his face. It was a face that haunted her nightmares—Gunnar!
“There will be no doubt of my claim, this time, Angles witch,” he hissed.
26
Celebrating the Victory
“It often happens that he who gets a death wound yet avenges himself.”
The hall rang with the voices of the victorious. All night, Seraphina knelt in the dirt and reeds, her hands bound so tightly behind her they were icy cold from lack of circulation. A rope about her neck was tied to the chair Gunnar lounged in. Her battle gear bit into the soft skin under her arms. The left side of her face itched from dried, caked blood.
At the front of the hall was reminiscent of a scene she had witnessed not too long ago—only the faces had changed. Bengtha sat, looking regally out over the celebrating people. Seraphina still felt a burn of anger every time she looked at the haughty Arnbjørn, covered in the gore of the battlefield, sitting in Roald’s chair. He held an ornate horn that he drank from freely, surveying his new holdings.
She felt detached from the horror around her, yet hot tears continued to pour unnoticed down her face. One by one, she watched prisoners, who were bound and huddled in the corner, dragged forward for entertainment. She witnessed two beheadings, bets being placed on how far the blood would fly at the moment of decapitation. The Danish warriors dipped their hands in the pools of blood to smear it upon themselves as a sign of honor.
Elsjorn was now being pushed and prodded into the center of the hall. She clenched her hands. An axe had taken his other eye, his face a garish mask of slashed flesh. They cut his bindings and handed him a sword, and a soft moan slipped out of her. Laughter and insults were thrown as he battled blindly against the three warriors who harried him. For a moment, Seraphina prayed he might be able to battle through and win. Still strong, he cocked his head, listening and then slashing at a warrior who gave away his position with any noise. A Frank now stared down stupidly at where his hand had been.
Gunnar shifted uneasily beside her. Under his opened battle tunic, she saw dirty strips of linen that bound the shoulder Mara had stabbed. A strip of leather around his neck served as a sling for his arm. Not for the first time that night, she wished Mara could have struck a more lethal blow. Suddenly, picking up an axe with his good hand, Gunnar strode into the melee, and in one quick blow, he sent Elsjorn to the glory of Valhalla. The roar of blood lust almost lifted the roof, fists thudding on shoulders in approval. Seraphina bowed her head, sending prayers heavenward for the soul of the brave man. The rope jerked cruelly at her throat, and she was brought face-to-face with Gunnar.
“You would mourn for that fífl?”
She stared at him blankly, knowing if she said that Elsjorn was a honorable man, she would suffer for it. Watching his eyebrows join in an ominous arch, she was glad she refrained. He grabbed her matted hair and brought his mouth down in a bruising kiss. His lips worked against hers, teeth biting at her lips, forcing entrance for deeper conquest. She choked, finally allowing him to plunder, finding that if she didn’t fight back, he grew impatient and retreated.
Cursing, he pushed her from him. “Try as you may to ignore me, but when I have you under me, you will scream—I promise.” Fury shone in his eyes.
Seraphina was empty, incapable of even being afraid. Her muscles ached, and her bones felt soft with exhaustion. She couldn’t see all the faces in the corner where the captives huddled. If Einar had survived, she’d not been able to find him in the darkness. Every time a captive was dragged forward, her heart lurched painfully, fearing the next face she’d see would be his. She prayed constantly he’d met a warrior’s death on the shore outside.
A stumbling thrall caught her notice. His clothes hung in shreds, and caked dirt filled in where clothing didn’t. A doeskin cap sat atop his head with dirty strings swaying as he moved. She couldn’t discern the color of his hair because of the grease and mud that covered it. One eye was swollen shut and purple; the other squinted. His left arm swung uselessly at his side, the hand a claw. He dragged his left leg slightly but managed to shuffle along among the celebrants. In his right hand, he held a pitcher, filling cups that were quickly emptied. The Danish king slyly stuck out a foot, tripping the slave. Raucous laughter reverberated throughout the hall, and the poor victim joined in with his one good eye squinting, his lips pulled up into a grimacing smile.
Seraphina shifted, her knees burning in pain, trying to find a more comfortable position in the dirt. The thrall stumbled toward her, falling, his shoulder slamming into hers. He reeked of animal dung. She held her breath against the stench.
As he struggled to his knees, she looked closely at his face. In astonishment, she saw it transform. Gone were the slack lips—the squinting eye opened wide, and she saw gentleness in its gray depths. Before she could whisper the name that came to her lips, his low murmur sounded close to her ear.
“Meyla, shhh—I am cutting your bonds; stay in place. Use the knife. You will know when.” As he spoke, he leaned over her, and she felt the cold steel cutting through the leather that bound her hands. The blade slipped under the folds of her tunic that fell to her knees.
Gunnar had been cleaning his axe, but his attention was now on the thrall as he laboriously made a show of getting onto his feet.
“You must have inherited feet from the ox that was your mother. Get out of here.” Gunnar kicked at him as more jeers were hurled for his clumsiness.
Gunnar tugged at the rope, chafing the raw skin around her neck. Clenching numb hands together, she stared back at his leer. Whatever thoughts were behind it, she didn’t want to know. Her b
attle-slashed ankle throbbed in pain. But all of that faded as she became intensely aware of everything going on around her. Hope seeped in as she watched the thrall work around the room: stumbling, crawling, or tripping into a captive here or there. Seraphina watched each one come alert, scanning the room, as they all waited for the signal.
Gunnar leaned over, the back of his hand smoothing down her cheek. “I have waited long for this moment, smár hyrr.”
Einar’s endearment for her sounded coarse and ugly coming from his lips. A shudder went through her.
“What?—do I not please you? Where are your haughty words now? You will serve me well, or I will make sure you regret it.”
Forcing herself to relax, she tried not letting the horrifying images of what he insinuated fill her head. She concentrated instead on the crowd’s activity. The youth she had protected in the shield wall had been pressed into serving as well. He helped the poor, hapless thrall to his feet, the celebrating warriors laughing at the wine dripping from the front of the slack-jawed thrall.
Arnbjørn kept Roald for last. Bound hand and foot, he was now dragged and thrown down in front of the table. A warrior stepped up and cut the leather at his ankles, pulling him up into a kneeling position. Seraphina’s breath hitched at his injuries. A slash to the bone could be seen in the fleshy upper part of his right arm. His once-strong jawline and the handsome profile were marred by a huge swelling on the left side, leaving his eye a small slit. Covered in the black of dried blood and the bright red of slashed flesh, he looked more dead than alive, except for the arrogant, knowing smile that hung lopsided on his damaged face.
Bengtha stood, resplendent in her battle gear, stepping off the platform to kick him and spit on him. “Níðingr, you are not even worthy of my spit. May you scream like the ragr you are.”
Whirling to face her father, she said, “Give him to me so that I can cut his manhood from him and watch him bleed.”
Seraphina wondered what Arnbjørn was up to as he shook his head slowly. “No, Daughter, I have a much more special death for him. I crave the sight of his lungs forming the wings of the eagle.”
“Ekki!” she cried. “You would give him a chance at Valhalla? Were you more insulted than me? It is my right to determine what will satisfy my honor!”
Roald’s ghastly smile grew even bigger, his good eye gleaming with some secret knowledge. Seraphina gritted her teeth, wishing he wouldn’t antagonize his captors further.
Arnbjørn glared at him. “You smile in the face of the blood eagle? You think this makes you look brave?”
The breath left Seraphina, and her shoulders sagged. How could it get any worse? She could see that Arnbjørn was frustrated. His gaze wandered over the crowd, his eyes lighting on Gunnar.
“Come here, Gunnar.”
For a second, Gunnar tensed and then glanced over at Seraphina. He tested the knot on the chair and rose to make his way through the bodies crowded around.
“Yes, my king.”
Seraphina could see he held himself stiffly, not looking at Roald.
“Did you not swear your loyalty to this níðingr?”
Gunnar spoke harshly, “Já.”
“Yet, you swore loyalty to me as well. I wonder which one you meant.”
Twitters and low murmurs rolled around the crowd. She saw Gunnar shift uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I am loyal to you, Lord.”
A cagey smile split Arnbjørn’s face. “Good. I would test it now.”
Quiet floated down over the people crammed wall to wall. Seraphina looked over the crowd, searching for the thrall. Waiting for the signal he spoke of.
“I want you to behead this mare,” Arnbjørn said.
Bengtha screamed, “Ekki!”
Arnbjørn grabbed her, shaking her. “Silence—do not dishonor me so! This is my matter, not yours!” he shouted.
Seraphina couldn’t take her eyes from the scene playing out. There was no mistaking the tension that brought Gunnar up to his full height. “What would you have me use? My axe has been dulled by the fight.”
“You do not think this pig penis deserves a dull blade?” Arnbjørn sneered at Roald. “He once boasted my head would rest atop of the nithing pole I cursed him with. Instead, his will rest there now, to forever gaze at the land he could not keep from my taking.”
Gunnar said, “I simply want to follow my jarl’s orders, but I only have one good arm. Without a sharp weapon, I might damage the head.” Seraphina observed that he clenched and unclenched his jaw, the muscles rippling against the stiffness. She wondered what emotion raged behind his hard features.
“Bring me the sword I showed you,” Arnbjørn said to a warrior beside him. Turning back to Gunnar, she saw a gleam of malice in Arnbjørn’s eye. “I have decided, Gunnar, I will take Stafangr as my new home. There will be other ports we can win for you.”
Gunnar’s hand balled into a fist at his side. Softly, he spoke, “My king, I was promised Stafangr. Will you break your vow?”
A sly smile curled Arnbjørn’s lips up. “I have fought hard for this port, and I will reward your loyalty, making you a rich man, but Stafangr is mine.”
Gunnar stared at the long, fine sword that was handed to him. Seraphina recognized the blade and familiar hilt. It was Skull Cleaver. She gasped, the hall wavering as tears flooded. Her heart thudded so hard she shook. Her last hope fled, leaving her mind exhausted and her soul torn apart in pain.
“Yes, I believe that is Einar’s sword—is it not? Was not Einar once a brother?” Arnbjørn’s features reflected a half-crazed look of total enjoyment at the havoc he was wreaking.
Gunnar took an unsteady step to the side. Hefting it, testing for balance, he looked down at Roald, who continued to smile. Seraphina, through a haze of pain, prayed he would refuse. Shaking his head, he focused on the sword in his hand.
Arnbjørn’s voice cut through the silence. “Take his head now.”
Gunnar closed his eyes, as if in pain, and reopened them, staring straight ahead. Arnbjørn rose, moving around the large table to stand in beside Gunnar. “Who do you choose loyalty to, Gunnar?”
Seraphina felt faint as Gunnar turned away from the king to assume the best stance for one mighty blow. Taking his injured arm out of the sling, he tested it, moving it back and forth. Opening and closing the weak hand, he clasped it over his good one on the hilt. Looking heavenward, it seemed to Seraphina that Gunnar invoked a god. The quiet was broken only by the sizzle of the fire.
She was thankful there was nothing in her stomach as it threatened to relieve itself. Shoving her grief aside, the need to live once again took over. Furtively slipping the knife out, taking a loop of rope and hiding it under her skirt, she sawed at the fiber.
Gunnar brought the sword up, arcing back and then swinging forward in a powerful stroke. He shifted his upper body at the last second toward Arnbjørn, and the sword sliced through the grinning Dane’s throat. In the deafening silence, Roald laughed, and Bengtha’s hysterical scream hung in the air.
The doors of the hall burst open. Seraphina saw the first blush of the dawn behind the warriors spilling through the doorway. Leading King Hjörleif’s horde was a familiar face. Seraphina stared. Her tired mind struggled to follow what was going on. Could it really be him?
Chaos now thundered through the hall. King Hjörleif’s men were joined by the defeated while those who had just seconds ago were drunk with victory scrambled to find their weapons. Seraphina fought her way through, trying to get to the man fighting alongside the king. He looked every bit like an avenging vikingr as he swung his sword in great sweeps. Edging closer, she glanced to the front of the hall.
The ferryman had transformed once again, his one good eye looking out over the raging battle like the eye of an avenging eagle. Doeskin cap gone, his hair was in a wild cloud about his face. No longer pretending to be a stumbling, clawed-hand thrall, he radiated a ruthless menace in his stance. On one side of the ferryman lay Arnbjørn’s headless body; on t
he other, Bengtha knelt. He gripped her hair, baring her throat to the sword that he held against it. Staring at his wife, Roald leaned on a sword, its tip buried in the floor. Seraphina could see he was barely able to keep himself upright.
Still fighting to get to the door, she saw inebriated Danes stagger to escape through the back of the longhouse; then another apparition brought her heart to a standstill. Bloodied, and beaten, Einar locked blades with a huge Dane, and a pushing match was ensuing. Dagfinn jumped out, clumsily swiping at the side of the Dane with a sax. The Dane stumbled back, and Einar drove home a blow to his ribs. The Dane dropped to his knees, and Dagfinn cut his throat.
Another Danish warrior stumbled into Seraphina, running from King Hjörleif’s sword. She ducked around the doomed warrior, still trying to get to the red-headed man fighting beside the king. He drove his sword home, through the heart of a Frankish warrior, and glanced up, his green eyes catching sight of her. Pulling out his blade, he shouted, “Seraphina!”
“Greatfather!”
Seraphina’s arms wrapped around Abbot Forthred. Suddenly there was a bellow behind her as Einar lunged forward to protect her from the man who was hugging her in return. Abbot raised his sword in challenge, pushing her behind him, and a scream tore from her throat.