Beowulf's Claim (Viking Warriors Book 3)

by Jessica Knight

  Damn it to hell; I can’t see anything. The torch isn’t as bright anymore. I have no idea if Lady Thyra is okay, or dead, or unconscious. Goddess, please let her be okay. I do not have it in me to kill my Warlord.

  “About damn time,” she says. Instantly, a wave of relief settles over the whole army. Her voice is light and refreshing. Much better than the deep baritones of the men around me that I’ve been stuck with hearing over the last few days. A woman’s voice is nurturing to a man’s soul and mind, giving us the care we need in order to go into battle strong.

  The world, I firmly believe, would be weak if we didn’t have women by our sides, giving us softness and kindness. Something men lack, yet crave.

  “You’ve been down here waiting for us? Why? I’m going to—”

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to do.” I can tell by the irritated hitch in her tone that she is rolling her eyes. I don’t need light to tell me that, not when Lilith gives me the same tone. “No, I hurt my ankle. I can’t walk, Einarr. I only wanted to find my father. I found him. He is beyond this gate. I can’t open it. I don’t have the strength.”

  “Don’t ever do that again, do you understand me? You could have died down here. And what would I have done?” Lord Grimkael moves the torch closer, and that’s when I see the Warlord’s hand on Lady Thyra’s stomach. “I would have died,” he whispers, and it is only loud enough for the people up front to hear it. “Give me water and food. Now!” he barks, and Lord Grimkael is at his friend’s side, giving him jerky, fruit, and fresh water.

  Lady Thyra seems exhausted, on the verge of death. If we didn’t find her when we did… another day or so without food and water, she might have died. I can understand Warlord Einarr’s panic.

  “Beyond this gate, beyond this iron about another mile is everything you need to find,” she rasps, her breathing labored.

  “Sir Troy?”

  “I found him slipping through this gate, but he closed it right when I got to it. He told me he loved me, and he disappeared. I wish I knew, Einarr.”

  “It’s okay. We shall find him.” He turns to Lord Grimkael, his feet sliding against the water, causing it to slosh. “I can’t go with you. I must take care of her. I’m not leaving her.”

  “You must. I’ll be here,” she objects.

  “No.”

  “Einarr, think reasonably—”

  “No! You have no idea what can happen to you down here alone. I’m not leaving my pregnant wife in the cold. I’m taking you back to the castle right now.”

  “I can’t walk.”

  “I’ll carry you then.”

  “It’s two days!” she tries and argues.

  “Two days of my love in my arms? I think I can manage. And maybe you’ll learn not to run off again and learn something from this.”

  “I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

  “We shall talk about this later,” he croons, and then picks her up in his arms, cradling her head against his chest. “I’m sorry. She and my babe come first, Grim. I cannot go and leave her, and I don’t trust any of the warriors to make sure she gets back safe. She’s my wife. My responsibility.”

  Lord Grimkael sighs. He doesn’t sound happy, but he also sounds like he understands. “I know.”

  “Good luck, brother. I’ll be waiting for your return.” And with that, Einarr leaves us to our own defenses. A part of me is worried. He is our backbone, our strength, our ruthlessness. His power exudes from him on the battlefield, and all of his warriors soak it up. How the hell can we win this without him?

  A cold sweat falls over my body, and doubt starts to trickle in. Without him, we have no direction.

  Lord Grimkael clears his throat. “Men! Don’t forget why we fight. What we came here for. We fight for our village. Our lands, our people. Our families. I know your faith is in Einarr, as it should be, he has been training you for a while now. But do not forget that his fight is the same as ours. I count on you, men, to carry on his fight. To match his ferocity with your own. We have always had two Warlords—myself and Einarr. But we are missing one today. I order each of you, down to the last, to fight with honor and glory as befitting a Warlord. Nay, this day, we shall not have the strength of only one Warlord. We shall have the strength of three hundred proud Viking Warriors!”

  All the warriors stomp their feet and pound on their chests. It almost sounds like a song with nearly three hundred people banging their armor. Lord Grimkael gives us his back and lifts his leg, kicking the iron gate down with ease. We follow him, but I can’t help the uneasiness in my stomach. Without Einarr, we are at a serious disadvantage. I know his strategy. I know how he likes me to fight. I know what he expects of me.

  Putting my fear aside, I do what a warrior always does. I follow my leader, ready to fight for him. My heart races when light starts to come through at the end of the tunnel and the round of hands hitting against their swords thrums through the tunnels. This is it. This is the moment we have been waiting for.

  When we break through the next gate, I expect to see the Jackals ready and preparing for war, but when the sunlight hits my eyes, I wince from staying in those dark fucking tunnels for too long. When I finally get my bearings, what I see nearly makes me trip over my feet.

  Two dead bodies. Their heads are gone and stuck on a spear.

  “What the fuck?” Trident says what we are all thinking.

  The snow is tainted with blood, ruining the natural beauty that winter has.

  “That reckless son of a bitch,” Lord Grimkael curses under his breath. “I’m going to kill him once I get my hands on him.”

  “You think Troy did this?”

  “I know he did. That’s how he always shows what he has done.”

  “He has a signature? Bad fucking ass.”

  “Or mad,” I say to Trident. A man must hold a lot of anger to show off his killings like that.

  “I’d be too if my wife led the Jackals,” Lord Grimkael says. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but I didn’t expect him to do this. I haven’t seen this side of him. King Leif gave me a brief overview of how… dangerous, Lord Troy can be.”

  “The man is a hero. Why isn’t he a warrior with us?”

  “Because Trident, the difference between him and us, is he enjoys the kills. Revels in it. King Leif made sure he never had the chance to destroy himself, but it seems he broke.”

  A low horn blows from the watch towers. I suppose they know we are here now. So much for the surprise attack. Lord Troy took that away from us.

  “I hate this place.” Lord Grimkael swings his sword in the air. “It seems all my demons lead me here.”

  The rusted iron gate opens, and Jackals sprint toward us. It isn’t a slow walk. No attempt at truce or any type of negotiations. They are full force, pure, killing machines, and they are coming for us.

  An arrow hits the ground right in front of my feet, burying itself in the snow. I tilt my head up toward the sky and see a black cloud getting closer to us. Only it isn’t rain that is coming. It’s a hail of flaming arrows. And they are coming directly at us.

  “Shield! Get your shields,” Lord Grimkael shouts. Everyone falls to their knees, myself included. I hold my shield and get in formation until we form a tight barrier, every inch covered. I grunt, keeping the heavy iron above my head, my muscles bulging with exertion. One by one, the arrows bang against our shields, thudding into the iron. It reminds me of thunder.

  “Up!”

  It’s all I need to hear from our leader. Right as we stand, our knees wet with snow, everyone throws their shields onto their backs. We have just enough time to block the first wave of Jackals. They are skinny, malnourished, and have rotten teeth. Their skin is raw in certain places, and they have a mad gleam in their eyes. They aren’t all there in the head. It’s like they lose their minds to the frenzy of battle.

  Not like us. We are proud Viking warriors. We hold ourselves with honor and fight to protect ourselves and our loved ones. As they ch
arge toward us, my mind flickers to my family. Lilith. Rian. The babe.

  I shall do anything to protect them. Anything.

  “To death!” Lord Grimkael shouts.

  “To death!” we respond as one. And we charge the enemy.

  Three hundred noble Vikings meet a thousand Jackals in a vicious fray. Swords clash, and men cry out in rage and pain.

  I let out a long war cry and slice through one Jackal after the other, never stopping, never tiring, never giving up. I won’t stop until I’m inside that castle and free the people in the dungeon.

  Trident slams a Jackal in the throat with his shield, then yanks him forward to toss him, knocking two more down. He laughs gleefully, in the joy of battle. Abram raises his sword high and slams it down against a Jackal. Already he is mastering his technique. The boy may not need much training after all.

  Lord Grimkael bellows and fells three Jackals with a single swipe of his sword. I rush forward and swat an arrow from the sky just before it hits the back of his head. We fan out, the two of us clearing more territory with every swing of our blades. Erik barrels through a dozen men like a battering ram to join us.

  An earth-shattering boom shakes my head and nearly knocks me to the ground. I whip my head wildly around to find where it came from. There is fire and smoke in the air. “What the—”

  Jericho lets out a whoop. “Jericho balls are a success!”

  I can’t believe it. The utter madman. Yet somehow, he has managed to craft a useful weapon.

  The fight rages on. I grow exhausted, but I must continue. The Jackals press against us, seemingly unending. They have more men than we thought. Abram tosses me his sword and takes up his bow, sending Jackal after Jackal down with a series of rapid-fire shots. I swing both swords in my hands skilfully, fighting several foes at once.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Lord Troy run past me, from out of nowhere. He is dirty and bloody, with his sword in the air, stained with red. I run after him and look up when I see a woman staring down from the stone tower.

  Shite, that’s his wife. The Jackal Queen. And he is hammering every single Jackal with ease. He never turns back to see if they are dead, he just knows.

  “Fuck!” I shout when someone grabs me by the back of my fur and cuts it off me.

  “I think I’ll use this to wrap your body in,” the man cackles, “or maybe I’ll lay it down and fuck your woman on it. I remember her, you know. All hot,” he snaps the T, spitting rancid saliva.

  I take him by the throat and snap his neck, watching the light leave his eyes, and then run him through with Abram’s sword until he is nailed to the ground.

  No one talks about Lilith like that.

  Even in my rage, taking a man’s life isn’t easy, and how Lord Troy seems to enjoy it, I’ll never understand. This man used to have a life before joining the Jackals. Possibly a family. He lost his way, and sometimes, that’s all I can think about when I’m battling.

  Until I hear his words repeating over and over in my head. He knew Lilith, and who knows what he has done to her. I hope the piece of shit rots in hell.

  “Wulf! Wulf!” Trident’s shout is one of warning.

  I turn around to raise my blade, but it’s too late. I lost focus. I let what he said about Lilith get in my head. The sword comes quick, piercing my torso, right through the scar Lilith’s father left me.

  “No, no, no.”

  My eyes lift to see Trident pushing through a wave of Jackals. He is swinging his sword left and right, to and fro, dropping them like flies. The Jackal that has his sword through my gut is smiling. His yellow teeth gleam in the snowflakes falling to the ground. My hands grasp the sword as he pulls it out, and I fall to my knees.

  I can’t believe I fucked this up. Hundreds of fights and battles, I’ve never lost my focus. Trident comes up behind the Jackal and stabs him in the back, his long silver blade cutting through the vile man’s heart.

  Everything around me fades and blurs. Time slows everything. I fall to my back, the blood rushing down my fingers. I never wanted this to be the last thing I saw. I imagined myself dying in Lilith’s arms, not some enemy territory by some mad man that barely knows how to swing a sword. But I suppose life likes to throw unknowns into my world.

  “Hey, brother. Hey, it’s going to be fine,” Trident rubs a hand over his mouth and looks around. The sounds of war are becoming quieter, and I can’t tell if it’s because we are winning, or if I’m dying. “We are winning. They are no match compared to us. What the fuck, Wulf? You let this fucker get the best of you?”

  I know. I’m currently wondering how I let that happen too. I try and open my mouth to speak, but blood clogs my attempt, and the only thing I can do is cough it up.

  “Fuck, that’s not good. That’s never good. I’m getting you out of here.” He bends down and throws me over his neck. He won’t be able to last long like this.

  I won’t be able to last long like this.

  “I love her,” I wheeze, imagining Lilith in the sun as I let blood loss take me, taking me to my only heaven.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Lilith

  Something’s wrong. I feel it.

  I know the moment something went wrong. Maybe I’m overreacting, but it’s been days, and it has been the first time I’ve felt like this. Something is wrong with Beowulf. I’ve never felt anything this painful in my entire life. All those years, all those dungeons, nothing compares to the wound in my heart.

  I run out the door of the cabin, pumping my arms as fast as I can. I’m not even wearing shoes. The snow is so cold it burns my feet, but it isn’t enough to stop me from finding my Beowulf. Tears fall, but they can’t even make it all the way down my face until they freeze.

  My stomach turns, and I hold my hand against it, telling myself and the little babe that we will be okay. We must stay strong.

  I slip when I take a quick turn around the castle and catch myself on the rough stone that binds the wall together. My breath comes out in frozen puffs. With every inhale, my lungs burn. With every exhale, I panic more.

  I start running again, seeing men walking out of the disguise of the trees. One by one, the warriors fall out, tired, dragging their swords, covered in enemy blood, but there is one man I don’t see.

  The most important one.

  Beowulf.

  “No!” I fall to my knees when I see Trident carrying a body over his back. He is moving as fast as he can, but he is stumbling. Even from here, I can see how drenched in sweat he is, covered in dirt and blood. It’s Beowulf’s blood.

  “Lilith. We must go to the medical corridor.” Warlord Einarr takes me by the arm. I only know it’s him from his voice. My vision is compromised by emotion.

  “He’s dead,” I whisper. “I feel it. Oh, god.” I give the Warlord my back. My stress gets the best of me. I’m done. I fucking hate this life. All the years of being without him, all the torture I felt, none of it hurt as much as this.

  It isn’t fair. Why? Why would the universe, the goddess, give Beowulf back to me after all this time and give me a taste of the future I’ve always wanted, only to take it back.

  “No, he isn’t. He is almost dead, but he is breathing. We don’t know if he’ll make it through the night. Come on. Let’s get you up.”

  “I don’t want to,” I fall to my rear and curl in over myself, debating if I want to let the cold take me. “I can’t see him die.”

  “I know he would want you to be the last person he sees.”

  I muffle a sob with my hand and sob. Trident falls to his knees in front of me, tears in his own eyes, along with blood on his neck and face. But it’s not his. It’s Beowulf’s.

  “Come on. Let me carry you,” Trident says, scooting closer to me.

  “You’ve carried enough already.”

  “No, no, I haven’t.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just picks me up with his shaking arms and starts walking to the medical corridor. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lilith. I tried. I tried. I tried
everything. We cauterized the wound. It’s up to Leiva now.”

  I hold my breath as we enter Leiva’s sanctuary. The only place that can save him now. “Please, put me down.”

  Trident releases me, placing me on the stone. I wince as my raw feet scrape the rough rock, but the pain, no matter the amount, shall never keep me away from Beowulf. Leiva is working quickly, cleaning and stitching the large gash in his abdomen. The chest I love so much, it’s still rising. It’s slow, but it’s something. It’s better than the original thought I had.

  He has dried blood all over him. The dark chest hairs I love so much are matted down, and when I place my hand over his heart, instead of warmth, it’s cold.

  “Beowulf,” I cry, letting the unsteady beat of his heart hit my palm. “Please, don’t go.” They were the same words I used before he left to go to fight the damn Jackals. If he died, would his death be in vain? Did we even win the damn war?

  “Angel,” he rasps, his voice weak.

  I gasp and lean forward to put my face in front of his. Goddess, he looks so pale and tired. His lips are chapped, and he tries to lick them, but he coughs. The stitches that Leiva put in place break free. Blood, the little he has left, starts to dribble out.

  “No, shh, it’s okay. Don’t speak, my love. Just rest. Save your energy. You must live, Beowulf. You’ve had worse than this. You can’t let that Jackal bastard kill you.”

  He nods, but it’s weak.

  “I love you. We are supposed to get married, remember? You can’t die without making me your wife. You can’t. You have to meet our child.” I grab his hand and place it on my stomach. It’s still flat, but in the last few days I swear I’ve felt flutters. It could just be wishful thinking. I want to feel our baby move so desperately that sometimes I wonder if I’m making it all up in my head.

  His eyes are closed, and his hand is still on my stomach, but it doesn’t have the same firm hold that he always gives me. I always found it so overbearing sometimes. He always has to be touching me there. When I’m cooking, his hand is there, when I’m sleeping, his hand his there, bathing, walking, whatever it is, his hand is there. And he always has a smile on his face, showing that crooked smile I’ve loved since we were children.