by Robert Jones
“Harald?” One of the new men asked from beneath the heavy cover of the shields.
Harald looked at him, the man was older, but his strength hadn’t left him. The grey in the man’s hair made Harald thankful he didn’t only have boys with him. He gave the man a nod and took another step back from behind the shieldwall.
“Isolde sends her regards,” the man said.
Harald looked at him suddenly. “You’ve seen her? Who are you?”
Another heave from the enemy forced them further back and Harald felt the slip of the first step. Now they make theyir stand.
“Hold!” he cried.
“Jarl Folke,” the man said as he stabbed out between the gaps in the shields with his blade. “She told me to link up with you.”
“Where is she?” Harald demanded again.
“Out to the east. She is going to face Hrothgar.”
Harald nearly dropped his guard when Folke told him her plan.
“No!” he cried. “You should have stayed! You should have helped her!”
“Have faith,” Folke said as he winced from the shudder of a blocked blow. “She knows what she is doing. The gates are open, Harald. Help is coming, we have to have faith.”
Harald whirled his great axe over the heads of the front line and let it crash down on the head of whoever was attacking, he swung, again and again, trying to abate his rage but it only grew. The enemy pushed them hard again and they were forced back another step.
“Hold fast!” Harald cried and he heard Folke take up the call until it carried through the small line.
“Have faith,” Folke said again, and again the enemy pushed, but this time the southern line held.
***
“Did you really think you could beat me?” Hrothgar gloated.
He stood over Isolde like a dark tower, his gauntleted fist tight around the hilt of his sword, and his one emerald eye shone like fire as he stared down at her. She felt like a mouse, cowering in the street below the talons of some devilish bird.
“Why Orlog wanted you I could never know. You are weak, Isolde. Too weak to hold the skill of a netherwalker. I should have had your mother, she was a queen that would have risen to the task. But you, you are just a sad shadow of that woman.”
Isolde tried to sink herself into the ground, she felt as though the weight of the earth was pressing down on her.
“No,” she worded as a whisper.
“No?” he roared with a wicked smile.
“She would never have come to you…” Isolde’s words gave her the strength to meet Hrothgar’s stare.
He shook his head and laughed.
“You’re right,” he said. “She was too stupid to see the power I would have given her. But that was a long time ago, and now I have to be content with you.”
Isolde got to her knees and saw the king tighten his fist, but he didn’t strike her.
“Why me? Why us?” she asked as she steadied her balance.
“Why, why, why?…” he mimicked her to the laughter of the men around them. “Because you can cross the planes. Because our son will share that power, he will bridge the gap between us and Bezhaal and I will have legions of demons at my bidding!”
Hrothgar’s words horrified her.
“But Bezhaal is dead!” she said.
Hrothgar roared and struck her across the cheek.
“Then I will find a new devil to ally with! Are you so blind, Isolde Astridsdottir? You are a fly, a rodent, a nothing that is merely a means to an end. You waste your power and the world suffers because people like you have no ambition. What will you be remembered for? Nothing! But the people with sing my name forever by the time I am done. These lands will be unified under my fist. Already the work is being done, already this city has fallen. And then I will take them all, one by one, and I will make you watch as I slaughter the men of Eyndale and enslave your friends. The women, the children, they will birth me a new generation, one that knows loyalty. One that will respect its king. A people who will look at our son as a god as he brings them hell on earth.”
Isolde wanted to cry, she wanted to bury herself in the street and weep for the future. Hrothgar laughed at her, he must have seen the change in her face.
“You will do what you are told, Isolde,” he growled.
The words stung her like a bee. The poison swelled under her skin and she raised slowly to her feet. Her hands were twitching and as she levelled off with Hrothgar, she met his eye.
“I will kill you,” she said slowly.
He matched her gaze.
“You will do what I say, when I say. Look behind you at the last ragged defence of the south. This final charge will crush them and then it is all over.”
Isolde didn’t turn, she kept his eye locked on him.
“You are the mother of my child, Isolde! You could be a queen, you are a queen, my queen,” he said, though Isolde could see the mockery in his eye.
“Then as one monarch to another,” she said slowly, “I challenge you now under the eyes of the gods to fight me ‘til death for the rule of the north.”
The words made Hrothgar twitch, only for a moment, and then he laughed at her.
“By the old laws I challenge you,” she roared and she felt the uneasy shifting of weight from the men around her.
“Only royalty can make that challenge,” he said with tight lips.
“I am the Jarl’s daughter,” she said sharply. “And I am your queen. You said it yourself, High-King Hrothgar.”
Hrothgar looked at his men, but they were silent, none dared step into the challenge that had been laid down.
“I challenge you to single combat for the rule of the north!”
As the words came from her mouth, Hrothgar swung at her with an iron fist. The old man was fast for his age, but Isolde was faster. The blow hurtled past her face as she sprang back as quick as a cat. The king roared at her, his eye was red with rage.
“I will not kill the mother of my unborn child!”
Isolde took the moment and lunged at him, her fist caught Hrothgar below the chin and she felt him double over as her blow choked the wind from his throat. She followed the blow by moving past the king and walking the ring of men, looking each helmeted man in the eye.
“My sword!” she commanded them, but no one moved.
“The gods are watching,” she said. “They will hold you accountable.”
The clang of steel on cobbled street rang out behind her, and she spun on her heel to see her sword on the ground. She took it up as Hrothgar raised himself, his own blade in his hand.
“What can I do,” he choked out. “I cannot kill you, so I will make you break instead!”
He flew at her in a flurry of blows that were unnaturally fast for his age. Each strike rang out as she parried them all with her own sword, but the old man had her on the back foot and kept the blows coming. She felt the explosion of pain as he punched her low in the chest, and the wind forced itself out of her mouth until she couldn’t breathe at all. He struck her hard with the flat of his sword against the temple, and her world rocked as she hit the ground.
“Why don’t you just join me!?” he cried at her.
Again she raised up to one knee and tasted the blood in her mouth.
“Join me,” he pleaded, “and you will have everything you could ever dream of.”
She shook her head at him and got back to her feet.
“All I want,” she said, “is to be free.”
She plunged her blade deep into Hrothgar’s gut as he stood stunned at her. He gasped air and she twisted the blade to cut him off, before ripping it out.
The King’s hands wrapped around the small chink in the armour and Isolde saw the black blood oozing out between his fingers.
“I want my freedom,” she said, “and I want the freedom of my people.”
She stumbled forward suddenly losing the strength in her leg. The men around her gasped in horror and Isolde felt the terrible pain in her side.
She looked down, her furs were soaked in crimson blood and she saw the silver hair-pin that had skewered her. The king’s eyes were wide with glee before he fell to the floor, and Isolde clutched at her wound.
Help… she tried to say, but the words wouldn’t form.
She clutched at the pin and felt how deep it had pierced her. Panic welled up and mingled with the pain, she didn’t feel the road beneath her, and she barely saw the darkness take her.
CHAPTER VIII
Arrows ripped into the mountain-men and raiders like raindrops crashing into a raging river. Harald felt them whiz and hiss past as they violently tore through the sky, yet not one of the deadly shafts hit him or his men. He stood dumbfounded as rank upon rank of northerner fell to the hailstorm of missiles right in front of him. The enemy raised their heavy shields, but the broad-headed shafts cracked into them which such strength and number that they turned the shields into wooden splinters.
The arrows came from every which way, zipping in from the east and west, and arching overhead from the south so that the northerners began to fall in deep piles under the relentless storm.
The scene was awful and Harald thanked the gods under his breath as he looked at the handful of soldiers that had stayed with him until the end. They all shared the same wide eyes and slack jaws that he knew were due to both exhaustion and surprise. Folke put a bloody hand on his shoulder and the pair watched as Hrothgar's forces broke and ran, and they smiled as they watched the arrows stream down and cut them apart in their retreat.
"What have I missed?" came a deep voice and as Harald span around, he saw Wulfric's huge frame against the backdrop of the burning hall.
Harald let the man take him in a bear hug and nearly let himself go limp in the strength of Wulfric's arms.
"Amroth!" Harald cried as he saw the elf beside Wulfric.
Amroth smiled and gave a slight nod, saying with a bow in hand, "my friend, you have changed."
Elves streamed past them, each moving with the grace born only to the woodland creatures. They were all armed and let their arrows fly as their white robes streamed in the winter air of the night.
"Where is Isolde?" Wulfric huffed.
Harald felt his stomach drop.
"Isolde!" he said in panic.
"The eastern road," Folke cried. "She is fighting Hrothgar!"
All exhaustion was forgotten, and a new manic energy filled Harald. He needed to get to Isolde. He pushed out from atop the stairs and forced his way through the groaning bodies of the dead and dying that littered the street. Elves were everywhere, slipping in and out of the alleys with silver blades and long yew bows. They worked silently, weaving their way through the city.
Folke, Wulfric, and Amroth tailed Harald, they followed him step for step as he ran up the road. The cries of men became distant as the main force rushed for the northern gate, and the devilish stones and comets that had been raining down were no more. It was silent and the snow was beginning to fall lightly again.
That was how they found Isolde. With the first white crystals beginning to form across her brow, lying lifelessly among the dead villages and black-armoured corpses in the bloody street.
Harald howled into the night, everything within him dropped away and he fell to his knees, not even noticing the dead Hrothgar beside her. All his focus, all his thoughts were on the young blonde woman, lying limp, bloodied and beaten. He took her up in his arms and dragged her into his lap, her head lolling to the side and the memories of a lifetime flashed before him.
Wulfric crashed down next to him and began to grab Isolde by the shoulders. He jerked her back and forth violently in Harald's lap and cried out for her to wake up. But she wouldn't move and the giant of a man took to his feet and began to pace and cry curses into the night.
"She is not dead," came a quiet voice, but Wulfric kept up his tirade until Folke yelled at him to be silent.
Amroth was already on his knees, taking Isolde gently away from Harald. He didn't want to let her go, but the elf's eyes were calming and he trusted him. Amroth put his slender fingers to Isolde's neck and held them there for a time. He ran his palm across her temples and looked down to her side.
"There is the wound," he said to himself, and Harald gritted his teeth when he saw the silver hair-pin sticking out her side. He knew instantly that it must have been the same one she had used on Hrothgar back in Ravenscar.
The elf touched the pin gingerly, being careful not to move it too much. He slowly peeled back her top and studied the wound and with sharp eyes judged what would be best.
"She will live," he said. "But we must bind the pin where it is for now, and get her somewhere warm."
The first glimmer of hope threw away the darkness from Harald's heart like a candle lit in the night. He felt reborn, full of concern, full of anxiety, but alive and hopeful. He sprang to his feet and helped Amroth lift Isolde's limp body, though the elf's strength was more than enough for the task. Wulfric and Folke moved to their side, and looking like burial priests, they carried Isolde away from the death in the streets and on to somewhere safer.
***
They had taken her to a home in the southern sector of Harkham where the devastation was little compared to where the main fighting had happened. Harald stood worried in the corner of the room, hanging in the shadows behind the hearth fire that kept the cold out. Amroth had Isolde wrapped up in a bed, totally covered, save for her head and the wound in her side. They had cleaned her together, the poor thing had been covered in blood and gore, as had Harald. But now Amroth sat on his knees, silently working away at the silver pin with acute concentration.
The elf had been at it for at least an hour and Harald hadn’t moved an inch. Wulfric couldn't take it, he had left in anxious anger but Harald knew he wouldn't have gone far, he could almost feel the man's presence through the wall.
Folke had taken off, the battle wasn't over and good leaders were still needed. The last Harald had seen was the enemy fleeing and the pockets of southern soldiers coming out from the alleys and side streets. It turned out that his stand at the steps of the hall wasn't the only one in the city.
"The infection won't be much," Amroth said, breaking Harald's concentration. "Silver has a way of keeping back the bile, but the swelling will be bad, Harald."
Amroth kept his eyes on the task at hand as Harald nodded in silence.
"Do you know the gacia grass?" Amroth asked.
"Goosegrass?" Harald asked confused.
"Yes... the goosegrass. It helps with swelling and cools the flesh when it heats. It grows in the streams, can you get me as much as you can find?"
"How much will she need?" Harald asked quickly.
Amroth took his eyes away from the surgery and looked at Harald with sharp eyes.
"She won't need much, Harald. But there are a great many wounded in this city, and the grass might help them also."
Harald felt the sharp lash of the elf's tongue and lowered his eyes as he felt ashamed for not having considered anyone but Isolde. He took one last look at her, she was buried under the blankets with her head limp on the pillow, yet her eyes twitched beneath the thin veil of her closed eyelids, she was dreaming. Harald hoped that in her dreams she was somewhere far away, someplace where she was happy, and he turned to the door.
He nearly ran into the hulking frame of Wulfric as he stepped out into the street. The man had been pacing, his fists were opening and closing as he looked down at Harald.
“How is she?” he demanded.
“Much the same, old friend,” he replied solemnly. “Amroth wants us to go get some goosegrass for the wound.”
“Goosegrass?” his eyebrow was cocked.
“That’s what he said. Come on,” Harald said as he turned up the street with Wulfric by his side.
Even in the southern quarter of the city, the signs of the battle were evident. Most of the townsfolk were indoors still, but those that had ventured out for fresh air just milled about on the sides of the stre
et, their eyes hollow with the shock of war. They left these people behind and headed north, the Jarl’s hall had collapsed in on itself, and as they passed it, Harald thought it looked more like a mid-summer bonfire than a great hall.
Here the fighting had been the worst and the bodies of the dead and dying littered the streets. Those with no life had the light dusting of snow forming on their bodies, but the wounded still moaned and struggled to stay warm as they contorted their bodies on the ground like worms. More townsfolk were out, some of them were sifting through the fallen and Harald couldn’t tell if they were looting the dead, or looking for friends and family. In either case, he had better use for them.
“Form up,” he said, trying to muster some strength in his raw throat.
A few head’s shot up from their tasks to look at him, but then they simply returned to whatever they were doing.
“Oi!” Wulfric bellowed, making Harald jump. “Form up, here!”
That got the people moving and soon enough a ragged group of men and women stood before them.
“They need our help,” Harald explained to the people. “I want you lot to go to Throndir’s temple and clear it for a makeshift hospice. Tell the people there to lend a hand and then come back to help the others here. Everyone else, go through the city, find the wounded and bring them to the temple.”
“What about Hrothgar’s wounded?” Wulfric murmured in his ear.
“The battle is over,” Harald said. “We have no enemy, only countrymen. Take their wounded, treat them well.”
The small spark of life seemed to return to the eyes of the folk. The moved off quietly to their task not arguing the treatment of the enemy and Harald nodded to himself. They kept walking north toward the gate, and here the town was ruined. Nearly every building had been touched by fire, and the worst were no more than stone and wood skeletons of former abodes and workshops. The great stones from Hrothgar’s war-machines littered the way, they would stay in the city for a long time, he thought, too big to move without teams of oxen, yet no longer a danger to make a priority. No, he thought, they would remain where they lay as a stark reminder of what happened here.