Bjorn

by Jane Burrelli

  Thinking of pleasanter things they could be doing in their bed, Bjorn followed the familiar path that led to the cliff top. Thick mist rolled off the sea like a milky soup; he could have cut it with a blade. It thinned as he reached the hilltop, and he offered a tight nod to the sentry who grinned and prodded his spear in the direction of the continuing path. Bjorn rolled his eyes. It was hardly a secret that Rhiannon occasionally felt the need to lead him on a merry chase, but all had learnt not to interfere unless they wanted to find themselves on the receiving end of their combined wrath. The grasses swishing against his trousers, he continued on to what he liked to think of as their tree, where they had sat with their backs propped against its trunk, watching the sunset. Bjorn strained his eyes to pick out her dark silhouette.

  “Rhiannon?” he called out, voice rough with sleep.

  “Here.”

  He moved towards her immediate greeting, almost bowling her over before he could discern her silhouette through the fog. She was ethereal. Her dark hair, loose and curling down her back, danced about her pale face like dark ropes of seaweed moving in the water. He loved seeing her long hair unbound, but this sight was spellbinding.

  Rhiannon flicked a glance over her shoulder, acknowledging his presence, then returned her gaze to the thick cloud in front of her.

  His anger waning, Bjorn came up behind her and dropped the cloak on her shoulders. His hands glanced her skin in the act of wrapping his arms around her middle, and he found her chilled to the bone. Bjorn blanketed her with his body, locking her tight against his chest, and rested his chin on the silken crown of her head.

  “You promised me no more nighttime wandering,” he grumbled, kissing the shell of her ear to take the heat out of his words, but instead of relaxing into his embrace, she held herself stiff and erect. Something was wrong with his wife. “Rhiannon?” he prompted, wanting to know what had driven her to leave the comfort of their bed.

  “I had a nightmare,” she said tightly at last.

  “About?” Bjorn probed.

  “Them,” Rhiannon bit out simply.

  There was no need for a further explanation. He knew who she meant—the ones who had hurt her. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled the scent of lavender.

  “That does not excuse you for running off. You should have woken me,” he reprimanded softly. “You can turn to me, Rhiannon.”

  “Not about this.”

  That hurt him, but he understood. They were still newly married, and the scars left on her would not fade overnight. He could only promise that when she was ready he would be there. No other words passed between them. Bjorn tucked her hands into the folds of the cloak, and they stood together, watching the sun slowly rise and burn off the sea mist. He would deal with her when they returned home, but not now while she was raw from the relived nightmare.

  A dark shadow moved on the horizon, and Bjorn leaned forward, attempting to discern its shape as it sliced quickly through the water. He caught sight of the profile of a dragon’s head arcing from the waves before the mist swallowed it. The breath stilled in his lungs. A dragon ship. He blinked again, and at least two more outlines became identifiable, making a total of three.

  “Back to the village, as fast as you can,” he snapped, releasing her instantly.

  Rhiannon didn’t move. Twisting, she peered up at him, brows drawn.

  “There are ships,” he explained. “Go now!”

  Rhiannon’s eyes widened, and she immediately sped back down the path, Bjorn hot on her heels. He ordered the sentry to ring the bell, the tolls shattering the early morning quiet, and Bjorn prayed they would have enough time, prayed they were prepared, that the survivor’s tale was an exaggeration. They could be harmless traders, but the odds weren’t in their favour.

  The village was alive with activity by the time Rhiannon made it back down the path, Bjorn not far behind. Each person had their responsibility to carry out as she spied her mother and Modwen gathering up the children. Ailsa stood close by, anxiously strumming her bow, prepared to lead them deep into the safety of the forest. Rhiannon wanted to call out and hold her mother and make sure she knew she loved her, but there wasn’t time.

  She rushed to their home and opened the chest at the end of their bed. She stared at the armour that lay within, then removed it from the chest. There was movement behind her, the familiar tread alerting her to Bjorn’s presence.

  “What is that?” he asked sharply.

  Rhiannon trapped her tongue between her teeth. He knew exactly what it was. Lips pressed in a tight line, she drew her armour on and swept her hasty braid over her shoulder.

  “My armour,” she said shortly. “Can you please lace up my back?”

  For a heartbeat he said nothing, the silence pounding against her back, then large hands anchored her shoulders and spun her around with dizzying speed. She found herself staring at her husband’s taut face, his blue eyes practically glowing silver in the low light.

  “Don’t,” Rhiannon warned.

  His nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath. You didn’t have to be a soothsayer to know he was going to ask her to go with the others and hide.

  “Don’t ask me what you are about to.”

  Bjorn’s hands tightened on her shoulders, and he appeared gripped in an internal struggle.

  “You vowed to me, Bjorn, you would not make me put down my sword.” She hissed, pressing her point, hands planted on her hips. “We don’t have time to argue.”

  “And I now bitterly regret that vow,” he grumbled.

  Rhiannon opened her mouth, but with a hand on her shoulder, he whirled her back to face their bed. “Not one scratch, Rhiannon,” Bjorn bit out almost savagely against her ear.

  He viciously attacked her laces, forcing the leather to mold over her breasts, hips, and stomach. She stood still and silent, his furious energy simmering behind her. She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, the leather tightening and constricting around her rib cage.

  “Bjorn?” she murmured, flexing her shoulders in an attempt to find some breathing room while he took his frustrations out on her laces.

  He didn’t apologise, but the tugging did lessen. When he was finished, Rhiannon turned back to him, and Bjorn grasped her hips, yanking her to him. The breath left her lungs, and awareness flooded her. They were chest to chest, thigh to thigh, the polished leather sliding on his tunic. She had to tilt her head back to look at his face, his eyes blazing in the grip of intense emotion.

  “I don’t want one single scratch on you or I will be seriously displeased, do you understand me?”

  She nodded and loved him all the more for not going back on his word. Her heart missed a beat. Loved? Her fingers curled into his forearm of their own accord, trying to anchor them together. She loved him. Dear Lord, when had that happened?

  The incessant ringing of the bell shattered the spell. Time was of the essence. She didn’t have the words for him, not right then. Instead, Rhiannon reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him. The world melted away, and she revelled in the feel of strong arms enclosing her, safe, nurtured, protected. All the things she couldn’t say with words she poured into that kiss. Things she didn't dare give voice to.

  “Watch your left side,” she breathed against his lips.

  “Thor’s teeth, Rhiannon, nothing can happen to you.” His forehead resting on hers, he cupped her cheeks, tracing her face with his thumbs. “Nothing.”

  “Nor you.” She hastily shoved his massive shield at him.

  Bjorn slung the shield across his back and quickly donned a helmet.

  His sword at his waist, he took up his Dane axe while Rhiannon fitted two knives into her boots and threaded a small axe through her belt loops. She snatched up her smaller shield and sword, then they were out of the door to assemble with the other warriors, grouped near the path that led up from the beach.

  Brandr wove between the men barking orders, easily distinguishable by one of the few men wearing a helmet. Spotting his
brother, he made his way over.

  “Bjorn, front line of the shield wall,” he instructed. “Pick your men.”

  Rhiannon’s heart seemed to leap into her throat. He would be where the fighting would be thickest.

  Bjorn jerked his head, “Magnus, Alarik, with me.”

  Magnus stalked forward, and Rhiannon had to fight not to take an instinctive step back at his grim visage. Naked from the waist up, strange markings were inked into his skin, an imposing man of a stern disposition, he now radiated pure menace. His rage was encased in ice. It was cold, focused, and merciless; it was his chance to avenge the death of his first wife. She almost pitied the enemy.

  Brandr then turned to her, his speculative gaze scanning her face, and Rhiannon held her breath.

  “Brandr,” Bjorn warned, trying to get his brother’s attention, no doubt wishing to give her a task that would see her as far from the fighting as possible.

  Rhiannon scowled at her husband and jutted her chin out stubbornly, and for one impossible moment, she thought she had seen a flicker of admiration in the jarl’s eyes. But she must have imagined it, for there was no trace of it when he gave her position.

  “Rhiannon, rear line, take out any stragglers that break through.”

  She didn’t like it, but it made sense. She wasn’t strong enough to hold the line, and he put her where her speed could be of an advantage.

  “Yes, Jarl.”

  Brandr’s eyes widened, and he took a step back like she had slapped him rather than offer some semblance of respect. Shaking his head, he walked away, muttering about the unpredictability of women.

  The plan had been made long ago. To get to the village, the intruders would have to come up the narrow path from the beach. The men formed two lines, weapons draw and shields at the ready. Positioning them on the high ground, Brandr was forcing the enemy to fight uphill. Nervous, Rhiannon wiggled her fingers on the hilt of her sword. Her mouth was dry, and her heartbeat too loud. She’d fought skirmishes, but never in something like this.

  Rinda’s gaze swept over Rhiannon’s trembling shield. “Stay close to me,” she grunted, though not unkindly.

  “I can look after myself,” Rhiannon pushed the words out through gritted teeth.

  Yes, she was afraid, but she would stand her ground. The sounds were getting louder, and her heart beat faster, pounding painfully against her fourth rib. They had to stop them here; they couldn’t reach the village. If it was destroyed, then many wouldn’t survive the winter, the youngest and the old most vulnerable. The face of her loved ones flashed in her mind—her mother, and Eithne, rounded with her much longed for child. It steadied her hand. They would not destroy everything they had built.

  An ungodly howl raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The men shifted, restless, and she caught the first sight of the enemy. If she thought of Bjorn as a giant, then the man who led them was a mountain, bare-chested, with a wolf skin draped over his shoulders.

  She blinked. And no other clothing. The wait was torturous, and they were forced to helplessly watch as the enemy drew closer and closer. They collided with the first line. Rhiannon flinched, the thunderous roar rippling through her bones. It sounded horrendous, those howls screaming louder, closer. The man-beasts lunged at the lines again and again, hunting for weaknesses. The men repelled the monsters, furiously hacking with their blades, and Rhiannon scanned for Bjorn. Please keep him safe, please keep him safe. The left side of the line was bowing, curving under the pressure.

  “Get ready!” someone to her right bellowed.

  Rhiannon readjusted her grip on her sword, wiggling the feeling back into her fingers and stood on her tiptoes to see what was happening. The enemy wave parted, and one of the berserkers stomped forward, straight out of a nightmare. He rammed into the line, and Alarik’s sword slid into his chest, a knife slicing through butter. But the berserker kept coming, unfeeling of the mortal wound. Roaring, he swung his axe in a great overhead blow and buried it in Alarik’s skull, cleaving a chasm between his eyes.

  Someone screamed “No!”, and Rhiannon realised it was her. Alarik’s body swayed, suspended by air, and then slowly collapsed in on itself.

  The cry went up, “They’ve broken through!”

  The second line stepped forward, and they poured through the gap left by Alarik. One of them surged straight towards Rhiannon. For one heart-stopping moment, the breath froze in her lungs, and her limbs locked. Fear held her in its thrall. She snapped out of it and caught his blow on her shield, the shock jarring her arm. Her feet moved from memory and neatly sidestepped, and she thrust her blade deep into his side, twisting as she tugged it free, the blade stained red.

  She barely caught her breath before the next man rushed through the gap and connected. The lines dissolved like foam upon the waves as they were pushed back up the hill and descended into a writhing mass. The ideals of structure and discipline were forgotten, the bodies erupting forth, scrambling and climbing over each other.

  The sun beat down from overhead, and a bitter thirst burned in Rhiannon’s throat, her flesh hot and confined beneath the leather armour, her tunic stained with sweat under her arms. The cries and screams and clang of metal were disorientating and came from every direction. Faces flashed in front of her, and she only had moments to distinguish friend from foe. Rhiannon became numb, swinging her blade again and again, her arm turning leaden and dead. Her shield arm was bruised to hell, jarred and strained from blocking blows stronger than she was used to, and the pain it caused her to lift it was agonising.

  She had never prayed so hard, to her God or Bjorn’s gods—she prayed to whoever would hear her. Every sound, every movement, every beat of her heart telling her she was still alive had been intensified tenfold. The raw savagery of the battle made all her other fights appear pitiful and pathetic skirmishes.

  She pushed her now dead opponent off her shield, wheezing hard, and through the mob she caught sight of a helmet gleaming in the September sun. Only Bjorn and his brother wore helms like that. He was fighting one of the men dressed in a wolf skin. Using all of his skill not to give ground, the man twisted, and upon Rhiannon seeing Bjorn’s profile, her heart all but jumped into her throat. He stepped forward to intercept the mighty blow, and his shield shattered in two. Time slowed to the consistency of cold honey, and she watched Bjorn throw the mangled remains of the shield away, and icy horror clawed at her.

  No, it left him too open! Rhiannon ran forward, swinging her blade left and right, trying to beat a path to his side. She had to reach him, she just had to. A crushed group of bodies shifted into her path, and she pulled up short, balancing on her tiptoes, the way blocked. There was a thin gap between the clashing opponents, and she glanced down at the perfectly round shield on her arm. She tore it off, barely deflecting the blow that came swinging at her neck, forcing her to take her eyes off Bjorn. She twisted and reversed her blade, driving it deep into the man’s gut. The threat dispatched, Rhiannon retrieved her shield from the ground and resumed scanning for Bjorn. Her gaze darted desperately from face to face. There! He was still alive. She would have one chance at this, and, sucking all the air into her lungs, she charged forward.

  “BJORN!” Rhiannon screamed, releasing the shield from her outstretched fingertips. It rolled along the ground.

  She held her breath, curling her hand into a fist. The shield wobbled drunkenly, weaving through the forest of legs. A stray hilt smashed into her jaw, the blow taking her off her feet. Rhiannon’s back hit the ground with a hollow thud, black dots threatening her vision. Her head gave a sickening throb, and the metallic taste of blood flooded her tongue. Her teeth gritted against the pain, she rolled blindly back onto her feet in one movement, the earth beside her vibrating, absorbing the blow meant for her. Rhiannon thrust up, and her sword met resistance, and the wet gurgle turned her stomach. She blinked hard, the world came back into focus, and her sword was lodged in the gut of a man, holding him upright. His pale lips still moving, blood leaked f
rom the corner of his mouth and splattered her cheek. Swallowing bile, Rhiannon scrambled upright and slid her sword free. The man clutched the slippery wound with his hand, but the blood kept pouring out. That howl came again. Closer, and Rhiannon lifted her head up and met a pair of maddened, feral eyes over the heads of the battling warriors. She swallowed hard.

  The giant cut a swath through the battle, heading directly towards her. Rhiannon backed up a step, and with bodies at her back, found herself trapped. Up close, his mouth foamed, and grey spittle flew from his lips. One of the men swung his sword in the mountain’s direction, and he slashed out with his shield, and the same man was taken off his feet. For all that was holy…

  She snapped her gaze to the long weapon he carried in his hands, recognising it instantly—a Dane axe. Her heart sank into her boots. She didn’t have her shield. Ridiculously vulnerable, she drew her axe and held it in her left hand, her sword clenched in her right. She wasn’t going down without a fight. The man swung, the movement like lightning, and she barely ducked it to save her head from being taken clean off her shoulders. Dodging and weaving in a desperate dance, she managed to keep one step ahead of the swings that would kill her with a blow.

  Thank God Bjorn had shown her those movements on the practice ground; it allowed her to recognise and anticipate his next strike. But sooner or later she would make a mistake, and he would end her.

  A patch of rough earth sent her staggering, Rhiannon hit the ground hard. This was it. She tensed, eyes scrunched shut, waiting to feel the bite of his axe. The pained screech of metal upon metal, and her eyes snapped open. A sword intercepted the blade, and she darted her eyes up. Rinda. The blonde shield maiden gritted her teeth, shaking with visible effort to keep the blade from descending. Rhiannon rolled out of the way and, on to her feet, regained her balance. She shared a look with Rinda, who nodded. They attacked the man as a unit. Rinda drew in his blows, and Rhiannon charged forward. Cutting close to his body, she sliced deeply into his flesh.