The Viking's Wedding

by Jessica Knight

  “I—I’m sorry, Warlord,” Trident stammers, but it isn’t enough.

  I tighten my hold even more, the beast rearing its ugly horns again. A little tighter. It whispers. Kill him.

  “Release him, Warlord.”

  Grim’s order is clear. I know what he wants, but I can’t see to unwrap the tight hold I have on Trident. I debate on whether to break his neck. I need to remember this man has been a good warrior, a good protector. He has done everything I’ve ever asked.

  Against the beast in me, I release him.

  Trident falls into a heavy heap on the floor, coughing and choking, begging for air.

  I crouch down, elbows on my knees. “You’ll do well to remember, next time, I won’t be so kind, and I won’t heed the Lord’s order.”

  “Aye, Warlord. I apologize.”

  The horn blares again. My attention is diverted to the woods. Trident stumbles to his feet, hand on the butt of his sword. It seems the North wall is a popular place today.

  “What is it?” Grim yells to the guards on top of the wall.

  “Smoke! About a half-mile ahead!” Abram, his arrow already loaded to his bow, shouts down. In the short amount of time that has passed, he has grown stronger.

  I’m proud of my boy.

  We waste no time. The group of us sprint ahead, jumping over broken logs and thick bushes. Leaves slap me in the face, but I do not wince, it does not slow me down. I keep running. If these bastards are here, I want to take their heads.

  In just minutes, we get to another spot. The smell of burning flesh invading my lungs. I swear, there isn’t a worse smell. It is terrible, gut turning. A few of the men behind us vomit. They will get used to it. Soon, it will just be another smell, like lavender or stew. It is horrible, but it is just the way it is when you smell something so often.

  “There’s movement in the trees,” Grim whispers, pointing his sword to the area in front of us.

  We spread out, circling around the fire to the tree line across the clearing. Wulf is the first in line, sword at the ready. When we break the trees, Wulf stops in his tracks. We nearly run into him, and when we circle around him and the body on the ground, the shock on his face says it all. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes leak water.

  For the first time in my life, I have witnessed Beowulf crying. He stares at the girl on the ground. The fire roars heavily behind us, but the other warriors are working to put it out with dirt and water.

  “Wulf,” I say, trying to bring him out of his trance.

  He collapses to his knees, hovering his hands over the woman’s body. He doesn’t touch. He doesn’t know where to touch. “Lilith, what did they do to you? Sweet, sweet girl. Oh, Lilith…”

  “You know this woman?” Grim asks, squatting to the ground, eye-level with Wulf.

  Wulf gathers her in his arms, holding her as if she is a baby. He pushes her dirty hair, stained with blood out of her face. “I haven’t seen her in nearly twelve years,” he holds her to his chest in disbelief and shakes his head.

  “No, no, no. Please, no,” he cries, shouting at the top of his lungs. The girl’s arms are limp, hanging by her sides.

  His forehead lays on her shoulder as he clutches her as close as he can. “No, no, no,” he chants. “You must stay. Stay with me.”

  He shakes her by the shoulders.

  “Stay with me!” he roars.

  “Wulf.” Grim places his hand on his shoulder, but Wulf doesn’t move. “My friend, she is gone.”

  “No! She is not gone. I refuse to believe that. Lilith. Lilith!”

  He wails to the goddess above, hoping to bring her back. “Come back to me.” He rubs his thumb over her jaw, but when she doesn’t move, he places his cheek against her heart and clutches the filthy material of her dress. “Come back,” he pleads.

  It breaks my heart to see him so out of sorts. This. This is what I imagine it would be like if I ever lose Thyra. And it hits me; this woman isn’t just a friend. Wulf loves her.

  “Wulf?”

  Wulf gasps, as all of us do. Her eyes flutter open, fighting exhaustion or death. “Heaven,” she whispers. “It’s heaven.”

  “No, I’m here. It’s Wulf. I’m really here. I have you, my love. Goddess, I have you. You’re safe.”

  “Heaven,” she repeats before her eyes roll to the back of her head.

  Wulf places his ear against her heart and breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s beating.”

  “Let’s go. She needs Leiva, right now. Go warn her of a battle. Go!” Grim yells.

  Wulf holds her close and sprints faster than I have ever seen. I turn around, feeling eyes on me. The woods are quiet, though. I do not see anything. “You’ve failed this time!” I shout. “One lived. And all of you shall die.”

  Maniacal laughter echoes through the trees, growing closer.

  “Foolish Vikings!” cries a voice from the trees.

  All of a sudden, a rush of Jackals comes forward. Just as Abram said, they are in one large group, dozens of them, swinging their swords and cackling cruelly.

  Grim and I trade a quick glance and immediately shift into position.

  “Hold, men!” Grim calls.

  Our men, as one, unsheathe their weapons. Swords, daggers, knives, spears, axes, hammers, maces. Abram cocks an arrow to his bow. Alexie raises his fists.

  “Hold, men!” I call.

  Our men respond in a single battle cry, lifting their shields. “Aye!”

  Grim stares down the advancing Jackal line, his eyes like beams of pure fury and hatred directed at them. I’m sure mine are the same.

  The Jackals start loading their own bows and arrows.

  Grim and I take a step forward, in unison. The same formation we have fought in so many times.

  “Are you ready, brother?” he whispers.

  “Aye.” I nod. I am ready to unleash the beast.

  With one voice, we shout, “To death!”

  “To death!” answer my warriors.

  And we charge forward.

  Instantly, it’s chaos. Swirling steel and metal. Arrows fly through the air, at rapid speed. The Jackals’ savagery knows no depths. They jeer and cackle cruelly, swinging their weapons with abandon.

  I roar, raising my sword and cutting one’s head clean off. Another lunges for me, but I quickly step to the side and raise my knee to his chest, knocking him out. I hear one behind me and catch his sword with my own. The metallic clang of combat raises through the air. But I am a more skilled swordsman than he, and I knock his sword from his hand before stabbing him through the stomach. As he falls, I see Grim step forward, his blade glinting in the sunlight, felling three Jackals with a single blow.

  “Einarr!” I hear from behind me.

  I duck, and it is fortunate that I do because a blade whizzes just by where my head was. Had I been half a moment too late, my head would be on the ground.

  The Jackal glowers at me, raising his sword again for the kill. But then an arrow pierces his neck. He screams, falling to the ground.

  I look up at the direction of it, to see Abram, perched on top of the massive Kievan Rus’ prince. Abram lets out a whoop.

  “Good shooting, friend!” calls up Alexie, as he grabs two Jackals’ heads and smashes them together.

  “Da!” Abram shouts back. He loads another arrow and snipes another Jackal from his position riding on the massive man’s shoulders.

  I suppose I shouldn’t have been worried. The boy is an amazing shot.

  The battle rages. My men are the superior warriors, but the Jackals have strength in numbers, and their tactics are underhanded. Just as Abram told us, they have replaced their fallen with a steady stream of new warriors.

  I am exhausted. My arms ache, and I’m pretty sure I received a wound from a Jackal’s knife in my side. I push the pain aside, though. Nothing shall keep me from protecting my family. Nothing.

  I let out another roar, but it is weaker. I might be more injured than I thought. Grim suddenly is thrown on t
he ground next to me, with a heavy, pained grunt. I lift my sword and stab the balls of the Jackal he was fighting. The man collapses with a high-pitched squeal.

  “Thanks, brother,” Grim gasps as I pull him up, his face covered in blood. I am unsure if it is his own or the blood of Jackals. He looks just as exhausted as me. But we cannot surrender. We must not.

  But if we don’t get some help, soon, we will lose. We will die.

  And my Thyra will be taken.

  The thought burns my heart. I roar and slice the arm off another Jackal, but my movement is slower. I am weak. I gasp for breath.

  “Einarr!” comes a familiar voice. Almost like a dream. I cannot place it.

  And then I realize.

  “Lord Troy?”

  The man comes swinging down from the trees. From where, I have no idea. He looks like he has spent the last few months in the woods. His hair is messy; his face is filthy. He lands with a wild cry on top of a Jackal, wailing on him with both fists.

  “A sword!” he shouts.

  I look around me and take a sword from a fallen enemy. I toss it to Troy, who in a single motion snatches it from the air and drives it through the Jackal’s heart. He enters the fray, slicing and dicing, nimbly avoiding all their strikes, and makes his way to me.

  “Is Thyra safe?” he shouts to me, as we stand back to back.

  “Aye,” I say. “She is with Sassa in the castle.”

  She is with child, too. I should probably tell him that. But now does not seem like an appropriate time.

  Lord Troy nods and lunges back into the battle. His appearance energizes my men. Grim lets out a mighty war cry, and we begin fighting back. We are winning.

  Grim, Trident, Alexie, Troy, and I all march headlong toward the now retreating column of Jackals. Abram leaps forward, narrowly dodging the swirling blades, and plants an arrow through the eye of one. He steps back to dodge the man’s dying thrust but isn’t quick enough. He cries out in pain. A bright red gash appears at his side.

  “Abram!” I shout, running over to him.

  “It’s fine,” he says, holding the wound. “Just a scratch.” He lets me feel it, and indeed it is just a flesh wound. The boy is lucky. Again.

  “If you aren’t careful, boy, you shall end up with more scars than me,” I grumble.

  A horn suddenly interrupts us. Not the same as our own, but a different one. A Jackal horn. As if suddenly possessed by some foul force, the Jackals scatter, disappearing into the trees.

  Only one remains.

  “We have more men. We have more weapons. This is your final warning, Vikings. Return our Queen, or we shall burn your kingdom to the ground.”

  Abram fires an arrow at him, but it lands on the ground. The Jackal is gone.

  “Is that all of them?” Grim asks, looking around. We have taken heavy losses this day. Some of our finest men have fallen. But for every one that did, he took five Jackals in his place.

  We have many funerals to plan.

  “Aye,” I nod. The rage in me has not cooled. The beast still rages. I do not even wish to let out a victory cheer.

  I will not live in fear of these foul men any longer. I will not risk the safety of my wife and family any longer.

  I look to Grim, who nods. I look to Lord Troy, who nods.

  If it is a war they want, a war they shall get. I am a Warlord, after all. If they want to bring death here, it is time I bring death to them.

  Starting with the head of their Queen.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Thyra

  “Is daddy coming back soon?” asks Abigale.

  “Of course he is, my love. Just you wait and see. He is the finest warrior in seven kingdoms,” I say, putting on my finest smile for the girl. I do not wish to scare her. I know Einarr will come home to me. I know he will. He will do anything to protect me.

  But I am scared. I am so, so scared.

  I hear quick footsteps echoing, and my heart leaps. Could it be him? Could it be my love?

  The man is dashing madly, practically barreling through the guards, calling out. “Leiva! Leiva!”

  I sigh and do my best to hold back tears. It isn’t Einarr. It’s Wulf. He’s holding the limp body of a woman. She looks to be breathing, but only barely.

  “Leiva!” he shouts again. “We need your help! There will be a battle! Lord Grimkael sent me.”

  A gasp echoes through the room. Sassa and I trade glances.

  “What has happened? Is he hurt?” she asks, cradling Erik tight to her chest while I pull Katorina closer to mine.

  “I do not know, my Lady. All I know is he sent me back to warn you of a battle.”

  “What of Einarr?” I ask.

  “Einarr is with him, Lady Thyra. I do not know more than that.”

  I nod. Abigale looks up at me; fear etched in her face. Oh, I had hoped not to have to expose her to such tragedy.

  Leiva enters the room and talks with Wulf. We begin immediately setting up beds, herbal paste, and other things needed. It is good to keep busy. It keeps my mind off the fear.

  Soon it is done, and all we can do is wait. The minutes tick by, feeling like hours. I could scream.

  “He shall be fine, Thyra,” Sassa tells me, but the worry in her own face betrays her soothing words. “Einarr is a strong warrior.”

  Einarr. My Einarr. I do not know what to do if he does not come back to me.

  No, I shouldn’t think it. I know he will.

  After what feels like an eternity, we hear a horn in the distance. The horn used to signal approach.

  “Is that—”

  “It must be!” Sassa says, her eyes lighting up with hope.

  We run down to the entrance with bated breath. And then I see motion on the horizon.

  “There!” I point.

  There they are. Our warriors. Our husbands.

  Grim and Einarr march in front, proudly leading the army. They are covered in blood and filth, but I do not care. They are alive.

  I burst into tears that I did not know I had been holding back. Sassa clasps my hand tight and cries with me. They are safe. They are alive.

  They are home.

  “We have many injured,” calls out Einarr, “and many fallen. But we have won!”

  The sorrow in his voice breaks my heart.

  Leiva and Wulf run forward, helping Alexie with the injured, and bringing them to the beds she had set up. The bodies of the dead are respectfully laid outside the castle. We shall have to build boats for their funerals.

  “Abram! Abram!” I shout, noticing the heavy bloodstain along his side. “You’re hurt!”

  “Don’t worry, Thyra,” he winces through the pain. “It will just be a scar like Einarr’s!”

  Einarr grunts and knocks him in the head with his knuckles.

  “Enough of that with ye. Go with Leiva.”

  “Aye, sir,” says the boy, and he does.

  “Thyra,” I hear from my right. I spin to see who it is, and it is no other than my father, standing there.

  “Father!” I run out to embrace him. He wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. Tears are streaming down my face, but I do not care. My husband and adopted son are safe. My father is home. “Father, I have missed you so much.”

  “I am sorry for leaving you, dear,” he says. Now that I get a look at him, he is utterly filthy. “But I shall not leave again.”

  He embraces me around my stomach, but I have to pull away from him. “Be careful,” I tell him. “You might hurt the babe.”

  His eyes light up. “The babe? The babe! You are with child?”

  I can only nod through tears. He hugs me again, careful not to squeeze my stomach too hard.

  “My love,” says Einarr. I turn to look at him now. He is filthy, bloody, and sweaty, but he is mostly unharmed. His armor is off now, and his muscles gleam, rising and falling with his heavy breath. Another bead decorates his beard. My warrior. My protector. The man who would fight off a million foes just to rescue me. “
We have something to discuss.”

  I am so happy to see him alive right now; I don’t care what it is. “What is it?”

  “We must…” he trails off, as if unsure what to say.

  “We must kill your mother,” interrupts Grim, lowly. He is sitting on a bed, pain contorting his face, as Sassa cleans his wounds. “It is the only way to defeat the Jackals once and for all.”

  The words hit me like a hammer blow. I look up to my father and see the sorrow etched in his face. He nods with me.

  I had hoped, someday, to have a relationship with my mother. To be able to share in my growing family with her.

  But I have known that this is what must be done all along.

  My tears of relief and joy suddenly turn to tears of anguish. Sassa reaches her hand to place it on my shoulder.

  “Goddess,” I mutter to no one.

  “I am sorry, my love,” whispers Einarr. “It is all we can do to keep you safe.”

  “I know. I know.” I take a deep breath. But the sadness leaves me. It is replaced with fury. This woman does not love me. She never did. She is the Queen of the Jackals.

  All she wanted was to steal me away. From the man that I love.

  “Kill her,” I grit.

  “Aye,” nods Einarr, lifting up his sword. He stands quickly and turns to the tunnel, but my father stops him.

  “Let me do this,” says my father. “It is my duty.”

  “Lord Troy…” Einarr whispers.

  “No. I’ll have none of this. The woman was my wife. It is my responsibility. I must be the one to do it.”

  Einarr looks at me, heartbreak in his face, and I nod.

  “Aye,” he says.

  We enter the tunnels together. Einarr, Grim, Sassa, me, and my father. Abram protested, but Einarr threatened to chop his head off if he did not stay with Leiva.

  Einarr holds a torch high above his head, illuminating the dark tunnels with an eerie glow. I am reminded of the time I came running through here to escape from the attack on my party.

  Once again, I am walking through these tunnels to kill a Jackal.