by Steve Dunn
Read on for the prologue...
VIKING RESURRECTION
Prologue
909 AD: Rygjafylke, South-West Norway
The cold meant nothing. After more than a week at sea, buffeted through countless storms, cheeks numbed beyond feeling by the icy winds, Berenice no longer cared for the bitterness around her. It was the one inside that consumed.
As her sodden boots sank deeper into the sand, her feet registered no alarm. Her fingers curled around her sword's hilt, locked into an unconscious claw, raised high above her head. Her breath leaked from her ravaged lips in clouded gasps of vengeance.
One thing, and one thing only, held her focus. In this moment – frozen between a past life of peaceful farming and a future with men's blood upon her hands – the daughter of a butchered man, the sister of five slaughtered brothers, saw only death. Death could wear the clothing of silent sleep; it could dress in the form of your worst fears. It bore no favours, and treated all with the same derision. Here, on this foreign soil, it brandished the frames of wild-eyed barbarians. Northmen: murderous raiders who had raped her homestead and killed her family. The blood of her kin had washed from these fiends' matted hair and clothes in the arduous return journey from Kent, far across the North Sea. Their swords had been cleaned, but the smell remained. The stench of death.
Berenice was here to avenge her brothers and her father, at whatever cost that demanded of her. She had her husband by her side. Yet even Brand knew the price that might be asked of them.
He nodded.
Berenice swung her sword arm down with all the strength she could muster, aiming for the back of the Northman's unprotected head. He fell without a sound and crumpled from the rock he'd been sitting on. Berenice glanced around, peering into the dark for signs of movement. There was nothing. He had been the only one on this side of the camp, too full of mead to note the threat creeping up behind him. These particular marauders had fattened themselves on their own arrogance, the tales of their exploits travelling the air faster than a hawk, their renown racing across the North Sea's wide embrace.
Hrafn's men: merciless, unrepentant, voracious, terrible – words upon the lips of folk from north and south alike. These vicious raiders must have known she and her people were following them, they'd remained in sight for the past eight days at sea, and yet this sentry's haughty complacency had been his undoing. Blood had been spilt. The path was chosen.
Berenice looked to Brand. He smiled grimly at his wife, his broad features ghastly in the twilight. Her deep brown eyes bore a glint that caught his breath, even here.
'We do not leave here until Hrafn is dead,' he whispered. 'I promise.'
Berenice nodded. She had spilled blood. There was no return, wherever this might lead. She stole a final glance at the body by her feet and crouched to follow Brand around the dunes.
§
The raven banner whipped in the harsh breeze that swept up from the beach, snapped against itself, bringing the black raven on its yellowed cloth to writhe dementedly. Hrafn gazed up at it with a smirk. Raven in name, he also gave life to its symbolism of battle and death. He too writhed on the battle ground, his long black hair flying, glorying in his foes' horror and panic as his great axe-hammer hewed and felled. He was a demon in war and none could defeat him. Even in death.
He watched Sybil, his woman, glide between his men towards him. She was his goddess and with her he would rule this world.
'Are you certain of this?' he asked her. He towered over her, half her height again.
The beautiful red-headed woman considered for a moment, her eyes lingering on the camp fire, and then nodded slowly. 'Prophecy is my sister's way; only rarely do these things unfold as spoken.'
'But still, it is possible?'
Sybil smiled and took his great hand. 'It is always possible. Fore-telling, the language of Spa, is the weaker of the two paths. A true prophecy defines an unavoidable fate. Nothing more you can do, it simply relates the threads that have already been woven upon the loom. Else it is a notion, a sentiment, and as containable as the wind. True prophecy is rare, and I define my own path.'
'And yet you keep the name your mother granted you.' He stroked her cheek with a blistered thumb. 'Sybil. Seeress.'
Sybil laughed. 'That is the defiance in me. I carry the name to mock the gods; I shall not live bound to others. I make my own destiny, and I shall make it ours. I leave the Spa to Eir. I walk the path of Seidh, that is where the real power lies. And yet...'
Hrafn raised a brow.
'...And yet I sense this to be the loom's true telling. When the Raven and the Worm collide, the lands will smelt as one. That is you and I, that is our future reign. And it begins here.'
With a swelling chest, Hrafn watched his men prepare for battle. They tied back their manes of hair, one re-braided his beard, all sharpened their blades and checked their shields. He turned back to Sybil. 'And Eir says it is tonight?'
'Yes. I have never seen my sister so stricken with certainty. It possesses her. It is time.'
Hrafn could not hold back a grin. His heart rushed, his head was giddy. He considered his possible and very much long-awaited death for the first time in his extended life. Decades with this breath-taking woman – more years stolen from fate than any mortal had an earthly right to – had gotten him used to forgetting it was still to come. And finally, it could be this night: his glorious death that would become merely a new beginning. He and Sybil had been planning for this moment since before his warriors were born.
'They are here,' Sybil said. 'Those Cantwara.'
'The Kentish folk? Already? You've seen them?'
'No, Bodil has. She returned from scouting while I was with Eir. It's begun.'
'After all this time, and it will be at the hands of farmers.' He considered his statement. 'Very well. I have spent so many years in this life, now to begin another. Everything is prepared?'
'It has been for a long time, my love. I have it all close by.'
Hrafn kissed her, his love for her so at odds with his taste for fear and pain in others. 'Then gather all your sisters, I will gather the men. We will do this well.'
§
'Do you think they know we are here?' Berenice whispered.
Brand shrugged. 'They knew we were following them, so we must be expected. Prepare yourself.'
They were crouching behind a wide thicket, sheltered by a raised line of more scrub, having crept uninterrupted across a dipped belt of grass to circle the camp. They were a hundred strides inland and could finally see Hrafn's men – nearly thirty in total – and eight of his women, all deep in thought and quiet discussion, partly obscured by tethered horses and some unpacked items. The now-familiar raven banner fluttered maniacally in the wind, partnered in its dance by the swirling fingers of the nearby camp-fire. The Northmen were a few quick strides away, reachable in moments.
Berenice drew a breath and squinted at the dark horizon. The nearby band of hills against the sprayed stars were the deepest of blacks. The largest resembled a sleeping giant, feet and nose pointing to the heavens. It was a strange formation. Its repose struck her more as that of a corpse, now she considered it. Or perhaps that was just the tang of morbidity in the chilled air.
She studied the odd hill for give-away firelight, but saw none. She'd been wary of Hrafn luring them here, only to have reinforcements pour in from the distance, but there had been no sign thus far. Her instincts told her that wasn't the case – Hrafn was as hated in his homeland as he was in hers, so the tales wove – but her vigilance remained high. He was unpredictable if anything.
She dropped her eyes from the strange terrain and back to the camp.
'Where is he?' she muttered as she leaned on her shield, fingering its shoddy edges. It had been her grandfather's; much of its defections were from age rather than battle. Her family were not warriors.
'Or his woman,' Brand added.
'They are seated,' came a quiet voice behind them.
'Godric!' Beren
ice fumed, her anger threatening to expose them. 'Some warning next time, please.'
'As you wish.' The teenager grinned but his smile could not deny the fear that trembled in his bones. 'Hrafn and Sybil are there, I saw them. They were in the centre of the group, near the fire. I do not know what they are doing.'
'And all our people are in place?'
He nodded and swallowed. His mouth was dry. 'This is too easy.'
It was a while before Berenice replied. 'I know. Do you wish to turn back?'
Godric glanced at Brand. His face was shadowed but she could see how he felt. He was so young. 'Perhaps. You do not think this could be a trap? No one has attempted to overcome Hrafn before. No Saxon, no Scot, no Dane or Frank. No one has dared. And not on his own soil either.'
'You think I am foolish?'
Godric did not answer. For a young man, barely more than a boy back home, this son of a naïve cooper was petulant enough.
'This man killed my father,' Berenice said, 'and had his men butcher all of my brothers. Their screams will linger in my ears until my last day. You think I will walk away now, after weeks at sea?'
'There are more of them than us. Not to mention his witches.'
'Perhaps so. Yet we have already killed one of them in his complacency, and there are still eighteen of us, farming folk I know, but burning in grief. Surprise can favour us immensely.'
'This is his land. How many more men has he perhaps hidden in the hills?'
'Already considered. These are all the ones who attacked our homes. He has had no time to muster more. So, no more talk, Godric.'
'We should have gathered reinforcements first,' he persisted. 'Perhaps King Edward could-'
Berenice scoffed, exasperated and struggling to keep her voice low. 'King Edward is not interested in minor vendettas; he is interested only in national peace. Like his father Alfred before him-'
'A great man,' Brand interjected.
She ignored her husband. 'Like Alfred before him, he desires the unity of our land. If we are to avenge our people's deaths, then it is down to us. Hrafn killed your cousin, Godric. I saw it with my own eyes. His very axe-'
'Enough.' Brand turned Godric's shoulder toward him. The lad blinked. 'If you wish to turn back, we will not stop you. This is a matter of honour on our part and for you to decide likewise. Hrafn's woman has kept him alive far beyond any man's allotted years. Her dark sorcery endures him in his devilry and perhaps, just perhaps, we are the ones to end it. Godric: are you with us?'
Godric had no time for an answer. While they were talking, one of Hrafn's men had caught wind of a faint murmuring in the thicket nearby and crept closer to investigate. The moment he saw a glimpse of Godric's thatch of red hair was the same moment Berenice heard his approach and she leaped up with sword drawn. It had begun.
Brand was immediately at her side. They clashed their blades together as hard as they could, the signal for the rest of their party to strike, and she screamed, 'Men-folk of Cantwara! Avenge your people!'
Her sword tasted a Northman's blood for the second time as it sliced across the brute's shoulder, but he did not falter and swung his weapon towards her neck with frightening speed and a rallying cry. Brand deflected it with a last-minute blow. It gave Berenice just enough time to bring up her shield before the Northman dealt a swift return of his sword. Brand booted him heartily in the chest and attempted a pointed thrust at his belly as he lurched but for all her husband's determination, the man outclassed them both in agility. He stepped sideways to avoid the manoeuvre and spun around, his sword outstretched, splitting the air and aiming for Brand's head. The man was aiming to take out the stronger of his foes first; Berenice he saw as mere fodder.
A shriek startled her and Godric suddenly came hurtling past between herself and Brand, screaming and hoisting his small sword aloft with a wavering arm. 'For Cantwara!'
The Northman's sword struck. Godric fell instantly to the ground, his head and body severed. Brand, seizing the opportunity while Berenice could only stare in horror at the sight, lunged at the savage and buried his sword deep into his chest until it emerged on the other side.
'For Godric.' He kicked the man's body off his weapon and shook Berenice with his hand. 'Come. We will mourn later.'
He dragged her and they rushed into the centre of the clearing, where already their compatriots were fighting Hrafn's men. They were outnumbered by half as many again, and outmatched in ability by far more. Berenice's heart sank. Was this foolishness after all? Perhaps Godric had been right. Perhaps they should have waited for help from other men and women of Wessex before attempting this. And now Godric was already dead. The only thought that compelled her was that her own brothers and father had died at these savages' hands too. Hrafn and his jackals had been busy for many decades and her family were a loss in a long list of many more. If there was to be an end to grieving daughters, fathers, kin, then she had no choice but to try, and pray it will be so. All she could do, all she had left in her, was to seek him out and kill him. When he was gone, his men would eventually disband. He was the key.
Brand was already tussling with a fresh opponent and she headed to assist, but a devil leaped in front of her, his delicately braided beard at odds with his feral scowl. He snarled, spittle catching her in the face, and hunkered down, unarmed, to grapple with her. Her sword bore no concern for him as she swung it at him. He caught it by the blade and simply wrenched it from her hand. Astonished, she saw thick leather bands wrapped around his palms and he laughed, the vile stench of his breath causing her to flinch while he threw her sword away. He grabbed her neck with one hand and her leg with the other, hoisting her high above his head and turning her to face upwards. She flailed there for a brief moment, aloft and impotent in battle, seeing her fellow countrymen upside down and losing the fight so soon. In one motion, he propelled her down, aiming to snap her spine across his raised knee.
More out of desperation than calculated thought, Berenice flung her hands out and wrapped an arm around his throat, swinging herself about and slamming her hip into his leg, narrowly avoiding the knee itself. Her shield was still strapped to her left arm and she jabbed its edge at the man's face. It caught him across the mouth and he stumbled, blood pouring as he spat two teeth into the earth. One of the leather bands around his palms had come loose, presumably severed when he'd grabbed her sword edge. A tail of it hung down from his hand and she ran past him, stooping to grab the end as she went. He turned, confused, to watch her run away until it had unravelled from his hand completely and fallen to the ground. She now had over two strides' length of leather strapping trailing between her and her opponent.
Brand had finished with his own assailant, another body at his feet. Relief swept through Berenice, but she knew this was far from over. She could see at least seven or eight of her folk already dead nearby and there were in all likelihood more in the vicinity. She could only see three of Hrafn's men lying still on the ground. This was not going well, and she was still to find Hrafn.
'Brand!' she shouted, nodding at her current foe. The Northman was sauntering towards her, grinning at the unarmed and breathless young woman before him, delighting in her imminent death. Catching on to their intentions, he spun around to meet Brand's sword, again grabbing it like he had Berenice's. This time the blade cut into his flesh, the fact of his missing leather banding occurring to him too late. Still he laughed, even as the blood poured freely.
But while he and Brand grappled, Berenice did what she had already planned. She dropped her shield, sprinted and leaped onto the man's back. She clasped one arm across his chest and her legs around his waist to gain a hold, whilst wrapping the thong around and around his neck as tightly as she could. It bit deep into his thick neck, the man gurgling but still attempting to overwhelm Brand before the Saxon's sword came free to strike a blow. Berenice pulled back hard on the remainder of the strap, leaning away from his body, forcing all her weight into constricting his windpipe. His head flushed a purpli
sh red and his veins bulged. She hung there for as long as she could, his arms slapping feebly at her, his palm's wound spraying blood over her. Eventually he changed tack and grappled at his throat in a last-ditch attempt to save himself while Brand stepped in to finish the man's demise, kicking at the back of his knees. His legs crumpled, Berenice jumped away and as the oaf crashed to the ground, kneeling and about to topple, Brand plunged his sword down at the man's shoulder and as far into his chest as it would allow. Pulling it clear produced a desecrated fountain as the man's life gushed from his body.
Berenice nodded at her lover, breathless. 'Have... Have you seen him?'
He tipped his head, indicating behind her. 'Eafa has him.'
She grabbed her sword and shield and hurried with Brand to help Eafa the carpenter do battle with the devil of their waking dreams.
§
The women gazed on with intense interest, craving to be in the midst of the carnage but held back by the wont of their youngest sister. Sybil knew what she was doing. They understood her intentions, and they trusted her judgement. But still they lusted for blood shed at their own hands and not just the men's. It was a hunger that forged itself deep in their bones, it always had done, every time an enemy made itself known, and it was a hunger that they all struggled to contain. Each had a beast inside that fought to spring free from the confines of its human cage, and each had learnt to know when to tether and when to release. For now, they remained leashed.
All nine of the women were mounted on strong steeds, having ridden to a middle distance as soon as the attack on their camp had begun. Sybil had insisted, and so patiently they waited, a frustrated audience but agreeable in deed if not nature. This was a skirmish easily fought and even more easily won – such offerings had been fought countless times in their reign over the past forty years, the sheer ferocity of their attacks leaving few survivors and greater mythos in their wake – but a command to withhold had been given and so withhold they would. Sybil might be the youngest of the sisters, but her power far eclipsed their combined abilities. Everything deferred to her.
Eir, diminutive and blonde, tapped her tongue on her teeth, agitated and annoyed. Beside her, Bodil, long and slim with drapes of brown hair, studied every detail of the fracas with a deceptively detached gaze. The other sisters waited in line for their sister's word to enter the fray. If it came.
Ylva, the eldest, grey-eyed and silver-haired, stared unblinking and curled her lip back in a sneer. 'We go now, sister.'
Her shoulders rose and rolled forward a fraction, an almost imperceptible shimmer across her body until Sybil, immediately at her side, placed a hand upon her arm.
'Not yet. Eir's foreknowledge has a semblance of truth tonight.' Eir stared wide-eyed at the admission while Sybil continued. 'We knew this day would come. Not in fate, but in our planning. This night, we bring the first part to completion. It will make us stronger.'
She turned to watch her lover be set upon by three of the Cantwara.
§
Eafa twisted beneath Hrafn's grip, the huge man's hand grasping the whole of Eafa's throat. He hoisted his massive axe-hammer up high and dropped it straight down onto the man's head, crushing it like an egg. Eafa's limp form slumped to the ground, just as Berenice and Brand arrived. One glimpse at their neighbour's body – he had lost a son to this horde, and his wife had pleaded he stay at home and not pursue this course – twisted in Berenice's gut but she had no time to regret. She could allow that only when, if, she made it home to tell Emma of her husband's brave deeds and sacrifice.
Brand lunged at Hrafn unhesitatingly, the giant Northman's pitch-dark clothes and hair making him a shadow in the diminishing light, his visage an apparition of evil. He stood half a height over their tallest man. He was a freak.
Hrafn slipped to the side and swatted Brand's face with the back of his hand. Berenice hacked at the space occupied by her adversary, grunting in fury, but was too late, missing the shifting monster by a hair's breadth.
While she gathered a breath for another strike, she saw two of his men rushing their way. There were now less than half of her own people left alive, and so many of Hrafn's still standing, that it would all be over within a handful of strikes. She and all who had travelled with her to avenge the deaths of their kin will soon have joined them in the afterlife. Such a dreadful sadness overwhelmed her that she clenched her teeth and propelled the end of her sword directly at the hand that held the axe-hammer. Simultaneously, Brand thrust his own blade towards Hrafn's face. Hrafn leaned back, avoiding Brand's move easily, but not eluding Berenice's. Her blade buried itself deep into his wrist, remaining there, lodged while his axe-hammer fell from his grasp like an apple from a tree.
Hrafn punched her immediately in the face with his other hand and reached to grasp his injured wrist, grimacing more from anger than from pain. Berenice stumbled to the ground under the immense blow, her skull screaming obscenities and lights flaming in her temporary blindness. She landed on top of Hrafn's axe-hammer just as her husband drove a repeated attempt at the giant's chest. Hrafn still batted him away like a fly, these Saxons more an annoyance than a threat. He removed Berenice's sword from his wrist without further reaction and threw it distractedly at Brand. It cleaved the air and hit Brand square in the chest. His heavy leather vest took much of the blow, and the angle mostly broadside than edge, but the force of Hrafn's throw was still enough to cut through and puncture flesh. He fell to the ground beside his wife, gasping for breath.
Berenice rose to her feet at once, seizing the heavy axe-hammer and struggling to raise it in the air. Hrafn drew his own sword from his belt and hewed it across her face. She did not waver, despite her cheek flaying open at the blade's caress and her mouth filling with blood. She had only moments before the two men of Hrafn's reached their master to aid him in his fight. He stooped to jab at her. With every ounce of her being, every tear of her grief, every scream of her night terrors since her loss, she swung the axe-hammer round hard and fast, its blunt hammer-head punching a suddenly unmoving Hrafn square in the face, matching Berenice's own new injury. The metal sank deep and the giant dropped to his knees with a groan. It was as if he had chosen to allow the blow. He remained there for a heartbeat, suspended just this side of consciousness, a faint smile on his lips, and then his uncrushed eye rolled up and he fell to the side. His men stopped in their tracks, astonished by what they saw. Berenice leaned over Hrafn.
'For Cantwara,' she screamed at him, then spat at his face. As she did, blood poured from her sliced mouth and cheek, washing into the pulped crater in the side of his face. It filled steadily with their mingled flows of blood, burying the contours of his horrific wound with a wash of scarlet.
A united chorus of female cries roared across the wrecked camp and Berenice caught sight of Hrafn's women, those nine witch-sisters, riding at full pelt on their mounts towards her. They were little more than a hundred strides away, gaining ground at terrifying speed.
Before the two men nearby could regain their senses, and before the women arrived, Berenice gathered her pale husband, already on his feet but visibly weak, to her side. They had done all they could. It was time to go.
§
Sybil dismounted and ordered the two Northmen to drag the unconscious Hrafn to the camp fire. Her sisters gathered around in a circle as she knelt upon the ground, cradling her dying lover's head. His breaths were lessening, each gasp more strained than the last. One side of his face had completely caved in, a blasphemy to her, and enough to warrant instant death at her hands of the pathetic Saxons. But there was a far greater design, and she had only moments before his life leaked completely from his body.
'Can you save him?' asked Brynja, the darkest and tallest of the family. Her heavy-set frame demanded attention from its mere imposition; she was not pretty.
'No,' Sybil said. 'This wound is too much, even for my powers of healing.'
'Then this day is truly the one we have been waiting for. Eir was right. The pat
h of Spa spoke truth.'
Eir endeavoured to conceal her delight and said nothing. She tutted her tongue, nervous energy coursing inside.
Sybil nodded to Bodil, who was nearest her steed. The woman reached into Sybil's saddle-bag and withdrew a slab of wood, larger than a man's head. Sybil had carved runes into its hard, bright surface many years ago, in preparation for this day whenever it may have arrived. Those runes she had devised in a darkened cell beneath a palace far from here. Years imprisoned in that place had led to her meeting Hrafn and striking upon a future together that was so beautiful in its promised horror. Those years had not been lost. They had been a seed for today.
Tenderly, she stroked her fingers through the pit of the man's wound and then spread the thick blood over the runes themselves. The scarlet seeped into the carved letters, filling the tiny crevices, staining the plateaus in between. While the remainder of their men joined the circle, Sybil continued to take more blood from Hrafn's face and massage it deep into the ash wood.
'Depart, my love,' she recited, not looking once at the runes themselves. Those words were etched as deeply in her mind as they were in the ash. 'As decay's stench bears your frame; heart failing, flesh erupting, bowels tearing, lungs corrupting...'
As she spoke, Hrafn's skin began to rupture across the unmarked side of his face, across his arms and, Sybil knew, elsewhere beneath his clothes. The pool of blood on his cratered cheek bubbled. Death in all its guises flooded through his body and he groaned in agony.
Some of the sisters murmured with glee. And Sybil joined their delight while she chanted the words of the ash-rune.
§
'What is she doing?' Brand whispered from behind the dune where they hid, horrified. He struggled to catch his breath, but his wound was not deep enough to be fatal. 'The healing witch casts disease upon her lover with delight. What devilry is this?'
Berenice, on her haunches beside him and the seven other survivors of their men-folk, wheezed unaccountably. Her cheek still oozed blood freely.
'I can make out only a few of her words,' hissed Desmond, a lithe man who had the most experience in battle out of all of them. He had even fought for the king in younger years. He strained to hear her words. 'Their language has some likeness, but so much of it is strange. “Awake with the memory of Niflheim in your bones...” What does she mean?'
Brand shook his head. 'She is sealing his fate. If she could save him, she would. She always has done. So I take encouragement, whatever she is doing. Our task is accomplished. In a few moments, Hrafn will be dead.'
His wife coughed suddenly, her body following the splutter with a wave of convulsions.
'Berenice! What is-'
Her face exploded into disgusting boils, the foul lesions concentrating on the wound that Hrafn had dealt her, but from there spreading down to her neck and arms. Her comrades and husband gathered around her in terror.
Beyond them, mere paces away, Sybil finished her recital and threw the ash-rune into the fire. She laughed while the flames licked at the words and the blood. Once the wood itself caught aflame, she took a leather flask from Eir and poured a mouthful of water on the tablet, a malevolent hiss rising with the steam from the fire.
'As water consumes the flame, so death consumes your life.'
Within a breath, Hrafn gasped his last and died.
Behind the dune, and with immediate effect, the convulsion and the boils disappeared from Berenice's body without trace and she looked up at Brand as if for the first time. Even the gaping split in her face had healed to leave a scar that should be years old.
'Are you okay?' he asked.
She nodded, uncertain but hopeful. 'I- I think so...'
'What happened?'
'I am not sure.' She touched her cheek, lost in thought, moving her jaw and running her tongue along the inside of the protruding scar. Her blood, which still remained in drying streaks upon her face as proof of the event, had mingled with Hrafn's own, mixing into the grotesque pit that she had wrought upon his head. A coldness, greater still than the air around her, seeped into her very soul.
'The women!' cried Desmond. 'They are coming!'
Berenice turned to see the nine sisters, already mounted and galloping directly at them with a fury in their eyes and a victorious war-cry as at odds with the loss of their greatest warrior as Berenice felt with the world right now. Its ferocity was sinister.
'Raise your weapons, men of Cantwara!' she shouted. 'To death they journey! Hrafn is dead!'
Her heart was not as steadfast as her cry, but she sang it out to steel her men.
The sisters' horses hurdled the dune and the women leaped from their still-galloping steeds, landing in front of the Saxons. One on one, the two parties ran at each other: one final, parting clash before this moment in history closed its door. The Saxons braced for the impact, each staring oblivion in the face of a powerful sorceress. By fate, by design, Berenice knew not which, she was the one to collide with Sybil herself. It wasn't until it was too late that she realised none of the women were armed.
Her sword impaled the witch with ease, sliding through Sybil up to its hilt and piercing the she-devil's heart. Sybil's face softened and for a brief moment she was merely a beautiful woman to Berenice. Their eyes met and she smiled, no sadness or surprise crossing her countenance, just the pleasant smile that of itself was unreadable.
And then she died.
Every single one of Berenice's remaining men still stood. Every single one of the witches was dead.
§
'I have the spell,' Desmond called out. He picked the damaged ash-rune out carefully from the smouldering fire and waved it high, using a cloth to hold the hot charring. 'It may help us understand.'
He traced the tainted carvings, seeking out words he recognised. 'Some of it is badly burnt... “Fade to rise, my love...”' He shrugged.
Berenice nodded, the same bewilderment clouding her soul. She looked across the camp and mourned her brethren. So many had given their lives for their kin, and for her. It was she who had spurred them to join her.
By the time they had clashed with the sisters and clambered over the dune, all of Hrafn's surviving men had disappeared on horseback towards that strange black hill that met the night sky, taking their master's body with them. It would be useless to follow; the purpose of their journey had been accomplished. Death had been faced, and death had been dealt.
'Let us bury their dead, not just our own,' she told them. Her voice had lost its strength. 'Include the women. May they all rest in peace.'
'Berenice.'
She turned to see Brand standing on the dune, staring back into the moonlit scene on the other side, where the sisters' lifeless bodies lay.
'Yes?'
'There are only eight.'
Those words took too long to make sense. Before they did, Brand uttered aloud the very same thought her mind was formulating.
'Hrafn's woman is not there.'
Her hands returned to her new scar, feeling the place where Hrafn's death had erupted in her own flesh and she knew, more than anything else in this life, that what had happened on this shore would reverberate far beyond. Fade to rise, my love. Fade to rise...
'Then this is just a beginning.' She sighed. 'Let us go home.'
TO BE CONTINUED...
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