The man threw back his head and roared with rage, the sound more animal than man. He swung, turning to Rhiannon, and Rinda darted in, delivering her own slice. The two shield maidens worked as a pair, bleeding him, furiously slicing and retreating. He became wise to their game, and an unexpected swing forced Rhiannon to roll along the ground, gravel and stones digging into her skin. She bounded back up behind her opponent, carving her sword across the man’s calves. His tendons and sinews cut, he dropped to his knees.
She stabbed him in the chest, striking again and again, his hot blood bathing her skin. Until the body lay unmoving. Weary, Rhiannon staggered to her feet, searching for the next one. But there was no one. She scanned around dazedly. The rest of the survivors followed the retreating force back to their ships to make sure they left.
Was is really over? Just like that? She had survived. Had Bjorn? When she’d last seen him, he had been without a shield in the thick of the fighting. She didn’t recognise his body among the fallen, and it breathed hope into her.
“Looks like they aren’t immune to fire and iron after all.” Rinda panted beside her as she wiped a hand over her sweat-streaked face.
Rhiannon’s legs wobbled, and she slid to the ground rather than fall down, the very last of her strength leaving her.
“What?” Rhiannon croaked, blowing the hair out of her face that had worked its way loose.
“The berserker,” Rinda bit out, nodding to the body of the felled feral man. “They are legendary for their fighting prowess.”
Rhiannon closed her eyes at hearing that bit of information. Of course they were. Bjorn was going to kill her.
“They are meant to be immune to fire and iron when in a rage. Not even my brothers have brought down a berserker,” Rinda said smugly, a competitive light flaring in her eyes.
Rhiannon shook her head in disbelief. She would have quite happily spent her lifetime never facing that…that…that thing, let alone be forced into a position of having to bring one down.
Every part of her hurt, even her toes and eyelashes. How the hell could her eyelashes hurt? But they did.
“But why in Odin’s name were you facing him without a shield?” Rinda asked. “Where’s yours?”
“Bjorn’s shattered.” Rhiannon’s voice was flat, and she didn’t even look up. “I rolled mine towards him.” That hollow weight in her stomach was back.
Rinda’s eyes widened. Yes, she knew exactly what that meant. To purposely give hers away in the middle of a battle was courting her own death. Bjorn… Her throat closed up, and she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes until the blackness turned white under the stress. She didn’t care if she lay there among the mud and blood and decay. So much death, she just didn’t care anymore. Rhiannon’s eyes drifted shut, and she dozed, floating above the sea, aches assaulting her body.
“Rhiannon!” That voice. It tugged at her. Penetrating past the sick throbbing at her temple, it forced her back to the present.
Rhiannon pushed up onto her elbows. That had sounded like…
“Rhiannon!”
It was! Bjorn was sprinting towards her, his face as pale as death. Somehow, someway, she forced her feet under her. She would have crawled over hot coals if it meant that Bjorn was waiting for her at the end of the ordeal. Rhiannon threw herself into his arms that immediately wrapped tightly about her. He squeezed her to his chest, and her bruises flared to life. At Rhiannon’s pained cry, Bjorn instantly released her.
“Where are you injured? I can call Myrna. I need to get you to bed. In Odin’s name, Rhiannon!” he babbled, hands frantic, tugging at her armour, trying to look at her.
It took a moment for her aching head to catch up. He thought the blood smearing her body was hers.
“I am bruised and could sleep for a sennight but am unharmed.”
“Unharmed?” he breathed, his hands shaking badly.
She nodded again, just on the off chance he hadn’t understood the first time.
Her words must have penetrated the panicked fog, as next he roared, “Why in Odin’s sacred name were you lying down? I thought you were dead!” He gave a hearty smack to her bottom that had her jolting a step forward. “And you are never to throw me your shield again.” He continued swatting her other cheek. “I swear I will tie you to our bed to keep you safe. I will take a switch to you until you mind me—”
Rhiannon sniggered, interrupting him midflow, knowing he wouldn’t do either. His dark gaze landed on her. Fear. Pure, undiluted fear in his eyes—for her. Guilt pricked at her for laughing at his bluster. He’d truly thought she was dead.
Stepping forward, she gripped the sides of his face to gain his attention. “I’m sorry, husband, I didn’t mean to make you fear for me.”
Some of the tension drained out of his frame. “Min hjarta,” he breathed against her lips, and she trembled. My heart. “I love you.”
Rhiannon grasped his large hand and placed it on the left side of her chest. “You are my heart, too.”
Gripping the nape of her neck, Bjorn kissed her. He devoured her mouth, and Rhiannon welcomed his invasion. It made all her aches disappear. It didn’t matter that they were both covered in dirt and blood. It was the most perfect kiss they had ever shared as she curled her fingers around his biceps. Raw and primal, it shattered the numbness that was draped over her like a sodden blanket. They had both made it. They were alive.
The air was sombre and heavy, the collective sadness pressing down on Bjorn. The people of Achnaryrie filed down to the beach to bid the fallen goodbye on their final journey. The last fingers of light fading, the bobbing light of torches moved in single file in the funerary procession. Rhiannon walked stiffly beside Bjorn, wearing a yellowish bruise on the left side of her face. He was mindful to keep his pace slow and not overtax her. Her injuries still pained her after the battering she had received in the battle. Though none were life-threatening, it was worse than she had led him to believe. Each bruise and blemish on her tender skin was a reminder of his failing to keep her safe. They had cleaned up after the battle in a daze. The village had been untouched and their casualties minimal, a handful of men who had followed Brandr from Skalanes had perished. Though it was Alarik’s death that had hit them all the hardest. Rhiannon had confided that she still had nightmares of being frozen in place, helplessly screaming while the axe descended, but Alarik was deaf to her dire warnings. She said she replayed the moment that the blade cleaved into his head, staring into his face when the light left his eyes. The fact she would confide in him was heartening. Bjorn soothed her with gentle words and touches until her trembling ceased and she once again slept fitfully in his arms.
A small hand crept into his. Bjorn’s gaze flicked down to his precious wife, and he attempted a strained smile that he was sure didn’t reach his eyes, the muscles in his face aching from the effort. She squeezed his hand, letting him know she was there. Bjorn squeezed back and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. More than one man had praised him after the battle for having such a wife. He experienced a mixture of raw admiration and awe upon listening to them recount her actions. She had fought with the skill of the most hardened warrior and the tenacious ferocity of a she-wolf. That she had faced down a berserker—no, she had slain a berserker. Bjorn, broke out into a cold sweat each time he thought about her dancing within death’s reach, and for the thousandth time he thanked the gods for keeping her safe for him.
Their footsteps were muffled by the soft sand, and the assembly drew closer to the lone ship. Left behind by the enemy, it would now carry their fallen—it was only fitting. The air was cool and crisp. Bjorn’s breath misted in front of his face, though the chill was still mild compared to the winters of his homeland. Cold nipped at his fingers and cheeks.
Catching Brandr’s eye, he moved with others of their band and grasped the edge of the boat. There Alarik lay, still and blue-lipped in all his finery, a leather cap upon his head hiding the worst of the mangled mess, entombed by bundles of re
eds and timber on all sides. An empty shell without a flicker of life, gone were his ready jests and wry humour. His shield rested on his chest, his sword bisecting it and clutched in his hand. He’d died a noble death, facing the enemy with his sword drawn, and he would enter Valhalla the same way and feast at Odin’s table. There was no higher honour.
Bjorn and his friends pushed the boat, and it glided through the unnaturally still water. The slight swell peeled back from the prow of the ship was reminiscent of dark silk rolling over, the water lapping at his boots, his calves and knees. He inhaled sharply, the icy needles pricking at his skin, and when it edged up his thighs and higher, he gritted his teeth. Once it was deep enough, they allowed the tide to take it and waded back to shore.
“Light it,” Brandr ordered, and an arrow bestowed with fire arced through the sky, a tail of flames trailing behind, and found its target.
The rushes caught instantly, the vegetation shivering and blackening, the small dot of light growing as it fed. The crackle built to a roar, and the tide took the boat out to sea.
“May the halls of Valhalla welcome you, my friend,” Bjorn whispered under his breath. Rhiannon’s body bumped into his side as if to snuggle closer, and Bjorn tugged the fur mantle tighter about her shoulders and curled his body around her, resting his chin on top of her head. When he’d seen her lying upon the ground, he had thought the worst, and the world had fallen away. She could have been one of the bodies on the boat. Bjorn’s hands tightened on her body; he loved the stubborn woman with his entire being.
The fire rose to a fever pitch and began its eerie dance. Embers flew, crowning the sky like brightly lit jewels, the light reflected off the water, dazzling. It almost hurt to look at it. They watched in silence until the boat began to sink, the flames hissing in protest as the waves clutched at the craft with foam-tipped fingers before being pulled under into the depths below. Bjorn stared at the surface. There wasn’t a hint that remained of the funerary pyre. It was like it had never been.
Their friend had made the ultimate sacrifice but they would keep Alarik alive in their memories and in the tales they would tell their children of how they had fought to live in this place they now called home.
Epilogue
21st September, 913 AD
Rhiannon stood at the prow of the ship, the wind combing her hair and whipping at her cloak. Her cheeks were surely pinkened by the fresh air, and she scented the cold temperature of the water below. The cliffs in the distance were a welcome and familiar outline on the horizon, and excitement rippled through her. Home. Despite the wonders of travel, Rhiannon had come to realise there was nowhere like home, and she found herself leaning farther forward as if that would somehow get them there that bit sooner. She drifted her hand over her lower stomach, a secret smile playing on her lips.
The ship entered the inlet, and by now she knew better than to get in the way, her gaze flickering appreciatively over her husband’s form as he grasped the sides of the ship and vaulted over the edge, feet landing with a splash in the surf. With his knees braced, the water lapped at his boots. Turning back to the ship, Bjorn gestured for her to descend. Rhiannon raised her eyebrows, and blue eyes stared back, Bjorn waited expectantly—her stubborn Viking. Since she had been getting sick in the mornings, he watched her like a hawk and hovered constantly. He thought it was an unusual extended bought of seasickness, but Rhiannon knew differently.
Bjorn motioned for her with a flex of his palms, arms outstretched, waiting to lift her to dry land. She jerked her chin upwards. Not about to be carried, she threw her leg over the side and climbed down. It was a long-standing argument. A tug on the back of her cloak, and she lost her grip, her arms windmilling backwards, and she went into freefall. Landing against a hard, warm surface, flipping her hair off her face, she found herself secured in the strong arms of her husband.
“This is becoming an annoying habit,” she grumbled without heat, curling her arms round the back of his neck.
Every time they disembarked without the use of a dock, Bjorn insisted on carrying her to shore. At first she’d fought it, then she’d resented being treated like a fragile butterfly. Bjorn grinned down at her, like he always did.
“How many times do I have to say it?” he growled under his breath, wading out of the water. Rhiannon settled back against his chest and rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. Now she secretly enjoyed it, though she would never admit it.
“I like carrying you.”
Clear of the water, he slipped her down his body, and Rhiannon shivered, heating at the feel of his hard muscles. The glint in his gaze said Bjorn knew it, too. Well, two could play that game, and she licked her lips, tasting the tang of salt. Bjorn’s ravenous gaze latched on that movement, and heady power hummed through her. The sharp focus of his gaze reminded her of a starving wolf scenting a luscious fat rabbit. After a long trip in an open vessel, there hadn’t been an opportunity to be together.
“You’re back!”
The moment was broken, and Rhiannon turned just in time to catch Eithne, mindful of the babe she balanced on her hip. It was only Bjorn’s steadying hands on the small of her back that kept her upright. She only tensed for a moment before relaxing into the embrace and returning it, inhaling her familiar, comforting scent. Home.
The two smaller forms of Leif and Havardr excitedly danced around, peppering them with questions. Where did they go? What did they see? Where there any strange beasts? Why were they so late? It was enough to make Rhiannon dizzy, and Bjorn chortled, catching Leif under his arms and swinging the smaller boy up so he sat on his broad shoulders.
“So many questions for one so small,” he said good-naturedly. “Have you been practicing with your axe?”
Leif launched into describing his progress, barely pausing to draw breath. He could have been mistaken for a cackle of magpies, a far cry from the shy little thing he had first been. It wouldn’t be long before Leif was too big to ride Bjorn’s shoulders, and Rhiannon was surprised to find that Havardr was already her height. He had shot up over the summer and had all the markings of taking after his father’s build. Brandr followed a few paces back, carrying their other daughter.
Supporting the infant against his wide shoulder, he grasped Bjorn’s wrist in greeting. “You’re late. I was beginning to fear the weather would close in before you made it back. How was the trip?”
Bjorn grinned. “Fair sailing for the most part, and more importantly, profitable. It’s good to be home.”
“You’re just in time for the harvest celebration,” Eithne chattered excitedly, leading Rhiannon up the path back to the village.
She shot a silent plea to Bjorn to rescue her over Eithne’s head, but his blue eyes just sparked amusement.
“At least allow us to bathe first.” Rhiannon laughed, ducking down to tickle her niece under the chin, the child giggling, holding out her arms to be held. “How is my mother?” she asked, taking the child from Eithne and balancing her on her hip and bouncing the gurgling babe.
“She fairs well,” Eithne said.
She caught Bjorn watching her with a funny look on his face, like honey warmed by the sun and a hint of longing. After securing the ship, the cargo to be unloaded in the morning, they began the walk up the path to the village, and she talked to the babe all the way under her breath.
“When you and your sister are older, I will teach you how to use a sword, and then when you are old enough, you can stab the man you want as your husband.”
“Please tell me she’s jesting.” Brandr panicked gaze flickered between his daughters and Rhiannon, and he curled his arms tighter upon the toddler, as it to ward off Rhiannon’s influence. Unable to the resist the perfect opportunity to toy with the jarl, Rhiannon smirked, feeling like the cat who had got the cream.
“I guess you’ll never know,” she purred.
It would do the man good to be kept on his toes and not grow complacent. A hapless Brandr turned to Bjorn and Eithne, and Rhiannon took the opportun
ity to wink at her husband, his sky-blue eyes dancing in merriment.
“She is jesting, isn’t she?” Brandr beseeched Bjorn and then Eithne, who shrugged.
Bjorn shook his head ruefully, though he suspiciously appeared to be biting his cheek. “You never completely know with Rhiannon.” He clapped his brother on the arm and stepped past to guide Rhiannon towards the path to the village, before she could drive the exasperated jarl to an early grave. “But you at least have a few more years before you truly have to worry.”
“That’s not comforting,” Brandr called at their retreating backs. Bjorn chuckled softly under his breath.
Once they arrived at the village, Rhiannon reluctantly handed the babe to Eithne, Leif was placed back on his feet, and they quickly escaped to the privacy of their cottage, almost sprinting in their haste to prevent anyone else from delaying them.
Puffing out a breath, they stared at their home that Feidelm had kept for them while they had been away at sea, shrugging out of their weapons to make themselves comfortable while the water heated. Once their thralls had filled the half barrel with warm water in the small room off-shooting from the living area, Rhiannon turned to Bjorn expectantly, only to be disappointed.
“You bathe first,” Bjorn fussed.
Rhiannon frowned at him. Usually Bjorn enjoyed helping her bathe. In fact, early on in their marriage, he had looked for any excuse to touch her. She had asked about it once, and he had said he was allowing her to get used to him. Her fierce husband had something of a soft spot reserved solely for her. She no longer stiffened at his touch, but bathing had become somewhat of a ritual of theirs, and she wanted some alone time with her husband.
Stepping close to him, Rhiannon cupped his groin and was rewarded by Bjorn’s suddenly hitched breathing. Under his patient tutelage, she had become an enthusiastic participant in their bed sport, and Rhiannon smiled knowingly, circling her thumb over the head of his fast-hardening shaft.
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