by T S Florence
“You’re one of my best scouts, and one of my most trusted men. I need you to check. I will make sure Freya is safe, and we will wait for you in the village,” Ivar said.
“Very well,” Skald clipped, climbing from the river, before continuing, “but once I’m back, I’m taking a break,” he said.
“You will have earned it,” Ivar said, nodding his head.
They shook hands, like blood warriors do, and Skald walked away to prepare himself for the risky task.
“I’m coming with you,” Freya said, cornering him in the tent, after he told her of what Ivar had asked him to do.
“I’ll have one of the men tie you to them and drag you into the village if I have to,” Skald reached for his sword, “just like Ivar did with Princess Isla, when she was his captive,” he said.
“How dare you,” Freya said, moving closer, her chest heaving from the deep breaths she was taking.
“You are my wife and you will obey me,” Skald said, moving his face close to hers.
“You do not scare me like you scare all the other women, you bully,” Freya said.
“Bully?” Skald asked, amused.
“Yes. You are trying to intimidate me so I won’t come with you,” Freya said.
“You’re not coming,” Skald grabbed her shoulder, looking into her eyes.
“I’ll be back before nightfall,” Skald said, more calm, releasing his grip slightly.
“You know, Isla said she’s scared of you,” Freya said.
“What’s that got to do with this?” Skald said, frowning.
“You’re trying to intimidate me. You intimidate people,” She huffed, looking away.
“I’m not trying to intimidate you,” Skald said, still holding her shoulders.
“Then if this is you not trying to intimidate someone, I’d hate to see you actually trying,” She said, shaking from his grip, and walking to the other side of the tent.
“Freya, stop this,” Skald growled, following her.
“You’re really living up to your name, Skald the Heartless,” Freya turned to face Skald, “you know, I was a leader of an army before you came along and tried to save me,” she said.
“Tried? I believe I did so successfully,” Skald said, ignoring her comment on his reputation.
“I would have escaped,” Freya said.
“From Gregor and Gorm?” Skald laughed.
“You think I’m so weak, after I saved your life?” Freya said, moving closer to Skald, her fiery gaze making his body react in ways that he knew she would not appreciate in that moment.
“I’m going without you, and if you follow me, Ivar will have you stripped of your weapons and tied up,” Skald said, before finally storming out of the tent, feeling a need fresh air, before his manhood got the better of him and he tore the dress from her body right there.
“You said you wouldn’t leave me for another minute,” he heard her say, as he left the tent.
He knew in his heart he meant those words, but if the rumours were true, then he did not want Freya in close danger of so many vicious highlanders. Skald was a ghost in these woods, he knew them like the back of his hand and no highlander would ever out track him or catch him scouting for their party. Being so good was the reason that Ivar had asked him to go. Skald knew he had many other men that he trusted, but none were as efficient or as ruthless with a sword as Skald.
Freya
Freya felt Cnut’s eyes on him more than the other days they had been travelling, and she wasn’t sure if it was because Skald was gone, leaving her less distracted, or if it was because he had grown more bold in Skald’s absence.
She made sure to travel a little closer to Isla and Ivar, knowing that Cnut would be less likely to harass her in their absence. It was clear to Freya that the men that followed Ivar respected him more than they feared him, and like Skald, his reputation of his cruelty was not truthful. In fact, he seemed to be one of the more good natured men she had met in her life. He was a far cry from the terrifying warrior that slaughtered her men in his blood-soaked bear fur on that fateful day.
After stopping for lunch, Freya was stuck in the latter half of the long line of warriors, with no space to leave for the front. She noticed that, once again, Cnut was nearby, with his eyes still on her, yet keeping his distance, like a fox stalking its prey. Cnut Foxhair was a fitting name for the man, she thought.
As the sun began to fall in the sky, Freya was starting to wonder how far away Skald was, for she knew that he would be riding hard, rather than the slow march that the bloated war party was travelling. Cnut’s voice made her jump, having closed the distance between the two of them, without her knowing.
“Are you looking forward to spending a night in my village?” Cnut smiled his yellow smile, displaying a brown tooth that looked ready to fall out.
“Your village? I was led to believe it was Ivar’s” Freya said.
“Ivar’s, mine, Magnus’, it doesn’t really matter. It was everyone’s. I’m sure you are looking forward to meeting Magnus’ children and his widow,” Cnut said, causing Freya’s stomach to drop.
This was the first time Freya had learned that Magnus had a family, for it was not something that anyone had ever mentioned to her before. How had Skald failed to tell her, she silently fumed. This was something that he should have told her, as her husband, to prepare her for the stay.
“I will be keeping my distance from anyone who doesn’t wish to receive my company,” Freya clipped, kicking her horse, in an attempt to move away, but Cnut kept pace.
“That might be harder than you think, Goddess of Death. It’s a small village” he said.
“I won’t be bothering anyone,” She clipped.
“I have my very own house there, if you get cold in the night,” he chuckled.
“I’ll tell Skald you offered,” Freya replied, hating herself for resorting to using Skald.
“Freya, Goddess of Death would hide behind her husband? Your reputation tells lies,” he said.
“I would say something about you, but you don’t have a reputation at all,” she said, causing him to scowl at her.
“You’re pathetic, hiding behind your husband. If the raiding highlanders kill your husband, then who will you hide behind? Maybe I’ll take you for myself” Cnut sneered, as he kicked his horse, riding ahead of her.
Skald
Skald rode father than the rumours of sightings had reported. He knew the rumours were false. There were no highlanders in England. But why had someone made the rumour up, what benefit would this person get from drawing only a few scouts away from party of nearly nine hundred men?
Skald finally made a turn back towards the village, shortly after the sun had reached the middle of the sky. He heard a distinct whistle, as his horse turned; the whistle of an arrow flying through the air.
Skald flung himself from his saddle, throwing himself to the ground and breaking into a roll, before leaping back to his feet. He ran to the nearest tree and waited for the sign of next movement. Maybe there were highlanders here, after all, he thought. If there were, he knew he would need to sight at least one tartan kilt before he rode to the viking village.
Just before Skald made move to grab the reins of his horse, he heard the movement of a man creeping through a forest. But no man was as skilled as Skald at the art of moving unseen and unheard.
You cannot kill a ghost if it is already dead. Skald smiled to himself, enjoying the thrill of the hunt, turning from prey to predator. He moved from one tree to the next, more silent than the wind blowing through the leaves. He heard another footstep, this time closer, from a man who obviously did not realise how close Skald now was.
“He’s not on his horse,” he heard a man say in his native tongue.
Skald knew that the men would now be looking in the direction of his horse, so he stood to the side, and saw two men. Ivar’s men. Cnut’s friends. Skald’s blood ran cold. Cnut had created this rumour to draw Skald away from Freya. Before the me
n turned to see Skald, he took the bow from his back, loaded it, and loosed an arrow, piercing one man’s neck.
The next man dropped to the floor, but it was too late. More calm than the eye of a storm, Skald put his bow back on his back, and removed his sword. The man rolled, only to see Skald at the last minute, and died with a look of shock on his face, realising he had been outwitted. Skald pulled the sword from the dying man’s bleeding heart, and wiped it on his clothes.
He did not need to ask questions, for he knew that if he did not reach Freya by nightfall, Cnut would be making his move. Of all the men, Skald was not surprised that Cnut was the one who hated Freya with such passion. He was an emotional man that was brave in number but cowardly when singled out. He looked up to Magnus with a strange fondness that always seemed odd to Skald, and now Cnut intended to repay Magnus’ death.
Skald left their bodies where they lay, and kicked hard into his horse, riding back in the direction of the village. By the beginning of nightfall, he reached the end of the war party, which slowed him down greatly, for now he would be weaving through countless men, looking in every direction, hoping that he would see Freya’s face. He was not so lucky.
Halfway there, Skald saw one of Cnut’s close friends, Brant.
“Brant,” Skald called, as he rode behind the man.
The man turned around, his eyes wide, his face looking like he’d seen a ghost.
“Where is Cnut?” He asked.
“I do not know,” The man said.
“I know what was planned, the dead men told me. Tell me where he is or I’ll cut you down where you stand,” Skald said.
“How dare you threaten me,” Brant said, his anger taking over his fear, as he turned in his saddle.
Skald knew that this man would no longer be cooperative, but his reaction told Skald that his instinct was correct. Never had he wanted to me more right in his life.
“You murdered those men,” Brant yelled, causing men to turn and look.
Skald pulled his sword from his scabbard, the cold metal almost singing in delight at the chance to be wet with blood, once again. Brant slipped in his saddle, as he was reaching for his sword.
He was a decent swordsman in training, but he lacked courage on the battlefield, and for that reason, Skald had never respected him. He whipped his sword across the man’s throat, causing blood to pour out onto his wide-eyed horse, which whinnied and galloped into the forest.
“What the hell are you doing?” One man asked, as Skald sheathed his sword.
Skald would tear through half this army, through his own blood warriors, if it meant getting to Freya before Cnut got his filthy hands on her.
“Do something” Skald growled, turning to the man.
The man who had approached Skald had clearly not realised that is was Skald who had just slain one of their fellow warriors, and when they saw Skald’s face, their bravery left them, causing the outrage to lull into quiet discontent. They knew that if they were to face Skald, not only would some of them die in their attempt to avenge Brant, but once they had succeeded, Ivar would likely kill them.
32
Freya
Freya was staying in a hut near Isla and Ivar’s great hall where she had several men guarding her door. Despite their protection, Cnut’s interest in her made her feel uneasy, and most men were in the village, getting drunk, and flirting with the local women.
Freya chose to quietly slip away during the festivities, bidding Ragnar good night, and finding her hut. She noticed that Ivar did not drink; but rather stayed sober and watched over his men like a hawk.
Finally, Freya found sleep after what felt like half a night of tossing and turning. Skald had told her he would be back that night, so she could only hope that he would wake her during the night upon his arrival.
In her dream, she dreamed again of the battle. She watched Magnus the Mighty fall onto his chest, blood pooling around his body as he died. And there was Skald, his hard gaze pinning her to the ground; but now he had a look of urgency that made her feel panicked. She tried to turn and run, but her legs were stuck to the ground and he took long strides towards her. He pulled out his sword, without taking his eyes off her.
“Skald?” She tried to say in her dream, but her words were silent.
And then she saw Cnut. Cnut had never been in her dreams before.
“Hello Goddess of War,” she heard his words clearly, and then she was struggling to breathe. She saw Skald swinging his sword, but before he could strike, her dream began to descend into a disarray of colours and darkness, until finally she awoke to a sour, rotten breath in her face, with a dirty hand over her mouth and nose to stop her from yelling.
Cnut’s red beard brushed against her neck as he yanked her from her bed, making her skin crawl at the touch as he silently dragged her from bed. With the assistance of another man, he tied her hands behind her back, and started pushing her through the doorway, out into the deserted village.
It must have been late into the night, for most of the men were asleep, except for the few who liked to stay awake late into the night and tell exaggerated stories of their exploits in the recent battles, and the fires were beginning to shrink as they were neglected, and the air had a frosty bite to it that only came when the sun was deep underground.
Cnut dragged her over his horse and began speaking to his friend in their native tongue.
“We need to get her out of here, now,” Cnut said, strapping her onto the horse, before continuing, “Skald is not dead. He has just arrived back in town and he’s searching for her,” he said.
“Skald is a goddamn nuisance, I say we kill him, too,” the other man said.
Cnut laughed at this comment, “would you like to face the man?” Cnut asked, showing that he did not want to enter sword combat with Skald.
“Where is Freya?” She heard Skald’s venomous, booming voice, break through the night air, causing Cnut and his companion to jerk their heads up.
Freya tried to scream through the cloths that had been tied tight against her mouth and nose, but the exertion made her dizzy. She was struggling to breath through the material, causing her heart and mind to race.
“She’s nearby,” She heard Ivar’s voice, impatient for being woken up.
“Show me,” she heard Skald’s low growl.
She started to shriek again, as she heard them leave the great hall, and Cnut mounted his horse and kicked hard into its belly, heading the down a trail, taking them further into England, away from Skald.
Skald
Skald was frantic. He had killed two men since he had arrived at the back of the war party line, and the second man put up more of a fight than Brant did. Skald did not know the second man’s name, but only recognised his face, and knew him to be one of Cnut’s friends, therefore questioning him, and killing him.
One of Isla’s soldiers attempted to grab Skald, likely confused, for Skald had been speaking in his native tongue to Ivar when in their room, after barging past the guards. Ivar was speaking back in their native tongue, and the guard was clearly not aware of who Skald was.
Skald pushed the man back, and attempted to leave the great hall, once Ivar had told him where Freya was. He did not have time to explain to Ivar the extent of the plot that had been laid by Cnut and his companions, but instead wanted Freya safely in his arms.
If only he had listened and taken her with him, he thought, then he would have stood between her and any filthy bastard that wanted to get their hands on her.
He strode out the front of the hall, only for two more English Knights to make an attempt at grabbing him. Skald was frantic and knew that he did not have time to argue with these English knights in their mother tongue. Not when Freya’s life was in danger.
When he made it out the front, he heard the hard beating of horses. More than one, which were riding to the other exit of the village. Skald shoved the two Knights, causing them to draw blades. Skald cursed to himself as he drew his own blade, and cut the
men down. Their inexperience left them like helpless children against his fury, coupled with the thousands of days he has spent practicing mastery of the sword.
The third man that was guarding the room yelled out, upon seeing what Skald had done. Skald whipped his sword around, the tip of it glancing across the man’s throat, cutting through the cartilage, and creating a red waterfall down his neck and chest. Three English knights dead.
Skald saw the nearest horse, and mounted that one instead of his own, for his was exhausted from the travel. He cut the rope with his sword and set off in pursuit, following the direction in which he heard the horses go. He was relying entirely on the sound of the hooves, for he could not see tracks in the night.
