Despite his blazing face and arms, the Berzerker did not relent, swiping in wide arcs with the double-edged axe. Elinas glimpsed an opening and slid Caliburn under the man’s chin. Only after his crispy head had rolled half-way down the hillside, did the Berserker fall and drop the axe.
Now surrounded by a raging fight, Elinas peered through the smoke. Screaming for courage, he let battle frenzy heighten his senses. He threw himself at the enemy, hacking right and left, engaging every Viking in sight.
Projectiles flew from slings. Enemy or friendly, he could not tell. The Viking devils threw axes. The barbarians fought viciously, with battle hammers and spiked iron balls swinging from maces. They often switched hands, as skilled with the left as with the right, making it difficult to predict their next move. Relentless as killing demons, they never seemed to grow weary.
From the corner of his eye, Elinas caught a glimpse of light on steel. Whirling around, he countered the crushing axe blow from a grimacing madman whose eyes bulged. The Berserker’s snarl froze when Elinas cut him wide open below the breast plates.
In the king’s hand, Caliburn seemed to fight of its own volition, light, strong, precise, like a living thing. Warmth flowed from the blade to his arm, shielding him from pain and battle weariness. Armed with such a weapon, Elinas felt invincible.
Men ran in every direction, Britons and Vikings alike. Spilled pitch burned along the line where the archers had stood. Wounded men fell into it, rolling in the grass in a futile attempt to quench the flames licking their body. Some ran, screaming and blind, and impaled themselves on enemy blades. Heralds, standard bearers and messengers lay dead or dying.
Thunder clapped overhead. Smoke darkened the sky. Was it the gloaming, or just stormy skies? Having lost track of time, Elinas could not tell whether it was day or night. On both sides, fighting men strained the limits of human endurance.
* * *
Choking on the smoke of many burning ships, Bodvar shouted orders from the deck of his Drakkar. But no one obeyed, too busy fighting or snuffing out fires.
"Cut loose the burning vessels to save those still intact!"
Finally someone heard him over the din and the word spread. More men carried his order from ship to ship. Bodvar shook his head at the disaster. A score of Drakkars had already burned to the waterline and sunk.
The Berzerkers’ raid on the Briton commander had almost succeeded. What Bodvar needed now was another chance. He had no doubt that this formidable enemy, with war machines and mounted soldiers, could be defeated if they lost their commander. Individually, the Britons were lousy warriors, farmers, no doubt, and not very strong ones.
Almost as bad as Gwenvael. The Viking glanced at the young friar, who stared at the carnage, transfixed. How could the half wit have warned his sister? With his cursed writing? But how could the lad have known exactly where Ragnar would land? There must be an explanation, and Bodvar would get it out of him, one way or another.
Unless Gwenvael had told the truth and magic was involved. Bodvar wondered about the Ladies’ power. Had they truly raised Nidhogg? Were they responsible for this botched invasion? It would not be the first time in history that unearthly forces defeated fierce warriors. Bodvar spit over the railing for good measure.
Amidship, he recognized Ragnar leaning against the ballast. The young Viking kicked a dead Briton overboard. The body splashed in shallow water on the river’s sandy shore. Black soot dripped from Ragnar’s face in rivulets of sweat. Rage filled the young Viking’s pale eyes.
Ragnar set down his weapon to tie back dirty ringlets whipped by the wind and shouted, "Stop worrying, brother."
Everywhere Bodvar looked, the incendiary arrows and the war machines had done their ghastly work. A horn sounded in the distance. Overhead lightning flashed and the thunder rolled.
"Listen." Bodvar pointed to the sky with his sword. "Thor is on our side. Let’s show these land-crawlers how Vikings fight."
With a flicker of a smile, Ragnar retrieved his battle axe and dropped down to the beach. "He who kills the most generals gets to keep the best slaves!" the young man called to the wind, before running to the melee.
"And the loser buys the mead!" Bodvar jumped off the boat after him, as the first drops of rain hammered the foredeck. He thanked Thor for extinguishing the fires with a downpour.
* * *
Night had fallen and the barbarians still attacked. The fight had moved away and Elinas leaned against a tree trunk, catching his breath. He saw exhaustion in his men, but the Vikings remained strong. The heavy rain dampened the fires and shortened the range of the catapults. The soldiers defending the big machines would not hold long.
A lightning strike illuminated the battlefield. The fighting had spread, and the Vikings fought best one on one. Trapping them on land might not have been the best plan after all.
Elinas found comfort in the fact that the enemy fleet had suffered great damage. Very few vessels remained undamaged. He could not tell which side had the advantage, though. The staggering number of dead and wounded, strewn on the shore and the hillside, gave no clue.
As the depleted cavalry regrouped in the rain around Elinas, an aide brought back the dappled gray who had fled after throwing him.
"Tell the catapults to stop firing when we enter the enemy camp," Elinas ordered.
He mounted the warhorse and sounded the charge with his silver horn. Spurring the gray, he raced ahead of his brave men.
In a maelstrom of drumming hoof beats, yelling to encourage the horses as well as the men, the meager cavalry swept upon the Viking camp. Hacking at limbs and heads, they trampled in the mud the dead and the dying, wielding swords and spears with ferocity.
In a swift assault, the Britons reached the longships. Soon, the riders found themselves surrounded by enraged Vikings, bent on defending their only means of returning home, the Drakkars.
Thunder rolled overhead, unsettling the horses. Elinas used his steed as a weapon, rearing and sending deadly hooves flying to enemy heads. When he finally saw fear on the Vikings’ faces, he took heart. The speed of the attack had shaken the barbarians’ confidence.
A young giant with blond ringlets to his ankles, drenched from the rain and sooty from the fire, came at a run along the line of wrecked ships and engaged Elinas. Anger darted from his pale eyes as he stared in defiance, axe at the ready. The warrior’s determination sent a chill down Elinas’ spine. It felt personal, as if the two of them had a grudge to settle.
The young Viking grabbed the bridle at the bit, forcing the gray steed down on its flank. Elinas leapt to avoid being crushed, then planted his feet in the sand and faced his tall opponent. As Elinas rushed his enemy, soldiers and warriors gave them a wide berth. Despite the barbarian’s youth, the gold at his neck marked him as a leader. He certainly fought like one, too.
Hammered by sheets of torrential rain, Elinas dodged the axe, stepped aside, then swept Caliburn upward, but the young Viking countered with unexpected speed. Whoever said battle axes were clumsy had never fought this man. Elinas secretly admired the barbarian’s exceptional skills. Blow after blow, they kept hacking. Neither weakened but neither prevailed.
When Elinas thought he could not last much longer, a sudden surge of blue energy flowed from Caliburn to his sword arm. The radiance emanated from the sword. Could it be the Ladies’ magic? He thought of Pressine and felt her presence.
With renewed vigor, Elinas rained blows on the young giant, now too hard pressed to counterattack. Rage kept the Viking going, but his strikes weakened. In a matter of seconds... There. The opening Elinas had hoped for. Like quicksilver, Caliburn slashed, then stabbed. The young man collapsed in a flood of crimson diluted by the rain, spilling his steaming guts onto wet sand.
A battle cry made Elinas whirl about. A one-eyed madman charged him with a Scramasax, the one-edged Frankish sword. Narrowly deflecting the blow, Elinas engaged his formidable opponent. This Viking, older, battle scarred and battle wise, used his fury w
ith masterful control.
The single eye, cold as steel, daunted Elinas. Already bleeding from multiple cuts, the filthy devil, quick on his feet, delivered strong blows and moved with cunning. Elinas prayed the sword’s magic had enough power to defeat such a warrior.
He shuddered as he heard the distinctive hiss of flying stones. The catapults? Against orders?
* * *
With the strength of despair, Bodvar fought the enemy leader. How could a land-crawling Briton have killed his younger brother? At least Ragnar died in battle and now rode to Valhalla in company of the Valkyries. One should rejoice for him. But Bodvar only felt rage. He would not rest until he had avenged his brother’s death.
The Briton wielded his double-edged sword with uncanny accuracy. If not for his smaller size, dark hair, eyes, and beard, he could have made a decent Viking. Bodvar switched the Scramasax to the left hand, his right arm weary from too much fighting.
Although he’d learned to compensate for his single eye, Bodvar could not evaluate with precision the depth of his thrust. Once again, it fell short. Even a fraction of an inch could prove crucial against such a skilled warrior.
Taking advantage of his superior size, Bodvar drew his opponent in a contest of strength. Squinting through the downpour, he battered the Briton who blocked his blows two-handedly. But the superior steel of Bodvar’s Frankish sword could endure any punishment.
The scramasax suddenly snapped under the Briton’s blade. Bodvar screamed as the enemy gashed his left arm. Drawing his dagger with the right hand, Bodvar sought the Briton’s central line in hopes of stabbing a vital organ.
Unexpectedly, the Briton turned and ran, just as an eerie sound screeched on Bodvar’s blind side. Turning, Bodvar howled at the enormous stone. It impacted his left shoulder in a thud of flesh and splintering bone. As if in a dream, Bodvar fell slowly and watched the stone crash a few feet away. Then he blacked out.
* * *
From the foredeck of the damaged flagship, Gwenvael squinted through the thinning rain. The fighting had ceased. The din of battle had quieted, replaced by moans and whimpers. Had Elinas left? Or would he order to finish off the wounded Vikings?
Like a shadow, Gwenvael dropped to the beach. As a monk, he felt an obligation to give the last rites to the dying who wished for it. Shivering in his wet clothes, he moved among the human charnel, looking for a sign of life, a labored breath, a moan, a plea for help.
The beach crawled with the wounded and the dying. Too many soldiers were beyond his help. Gwenvael blessed those still alive but already gone in spirit, Britons and Vikings alike. He also prayed over the corpses. In his silent quest, he met another priest. The two exchanged a quiet sign of the cross, then went separate ways.
Among the dead, Gwenvael recognized the mutilated body of Ragnar with his long blond ringlets. He prayed for him, too. God Almighty, in His infinite love, might choose to forgive an ignorant murderer.
A grunt attracted Gwenvael’s attention and he hurried in that direction. In the dark, his feet bumped into sprawled arms and legs. He hoped the moaning man would want to confess and be saved.
When he knelt to look at the man’s face in the faint glow of waning fires, Gwenvael let out a cry of surprise. "Bodvar!"
The scarred Viking lay shivering in the rain. He had lost his eye patch and his twisted face told much about the pain he must feel. He bled from many wounds, but his left shoulder looked like a hellish mess of protruding broken bones and lacerated flesh. In the midst of that agony, the man found the strength to smile.
"Gwenvael," Bodvar said in a rasping voice. "Odin be praised!"
The strain must have been too much, because the Viking closed his eye and would have looked dead, except for the slight twitch in his gashed arm.
The thought of joining the Britons after his blessing of the dying had brushed Gwenvael’s mind, but he knew he must not. He had promised God to convert the barbarians to Christianity. So, he must save Bodvar, who represented his only hope to influence the Vikings’ beliefs. Besides, he had also vowed to free Cliona from slavery.
Scanning the beach for help, Gwenvael saw no able body close by. He did not want to attract the Britons’ attention to the fact that a Viking prince still lived. The flagship stood two hundred feet away... Yet, he had to try.
Jaws clenched with the effort, Gwenvael took hold of Bodvar’s feet. He dragged the heavy burden across the soggy sand, working his way around the dead and the dying. Exhausted by the strain, he stopped several times. Finally, after an arduous trek, he reached the foot of the flagship and called.
The Viking standing guard peered over the railing.
"By Thor’s hammer," the man let out, then called others on the boat.
From the Drakkar, exhausted Vikings came to life. One laid down a plank. Two jumped over the railing to help. A huge bearded warrior slung Bodvar over his shoulder then walked up the plank.
Gwenvael followed him. "I found Ragnar too, but he is dead," he announced as he came on board.
"We will retrace your tracks in the sand and bring Ragnar back," a young Viking said then motioned to two other men. They went down the plank with a torch.
"You should take to the sea under cover of night," Gwenvael suggested to the few men aboard. "You are in no condition to face another attack."
"Vikings do not flee." The barbarian glanced at him with contempt. "We do not sail at night either... not safe."
"And this is safe?" Gwenvael laughed at the incongruity of the comment.
"We sail tonight." The labored voice came from Bodvar, who had propped himself against a rib of the hull. "Get as many good oars as you can salvage among the damaged ships. Do the same for the sails."
Gwenvael ran to support the prince ready to collapse, but Bodvar stopped him with one look.
"Collect food, water, weapons. We leave as soon as we can." Bodvar attempted to sit up straight and grunted. "Ragnar is dead." He grimaced. "No point in dying to carve him a kingdom... Later, we will avenge his death."
Gwenvael wondered about the Drakkar. It seemed to be taking on water. Would it be seaworthy?
"What about the wounded?" A tall brute asked with concern.
"Bring aboard those who can be saved. We have no room for the dying. Let the Valkyries take them to Valhalla."
Bodvar’s words spread like quick fire. A flurry of stealthy activity surrounded the vessel. Under cover of the pitch black night, the Vikings loaded Ragnar's corpse and brought aboard a score of wounded.
Gwenvael wanted to tend to Bodvar’s wounds, but the Viking refused his help. If he wanted to save the man’s life, Gwenvael would have to remember the rudiments of the healing arts he had learned from the Ladies. Although his knowledge did not match theirs, he could recognize a good number of healing plants.
The exhausted Vikings pushed the Drakkars into deeper water, then climbed aboard and manned the oars to maneuver down the current. The flagship took the lead into the night, keeping to the middle of the river to avoid the sunken wrecks. Gwenvael counted only two other ships following them at a short distance.
In the sliver of moonlight filtering through thinning clouds, many longships protruded from the water surface at steep angles. A mast, a dragon tail, a prow, like crosses in a Christian cemetery... As the ship left the village behind, it slowed and stopped, eliciting oaths among the rowers.
"What is it?" Gwenvael could barely hide his dread.
A Viking stopped bailing and looked in Bodvar’s direction. "Something dragging. Could be nets, or ropes."
"You," Bodvar ordered another with a movement of the chin. "Go see what it is, before the next ship rams us from the rear."
The designated Viking, slender compared to the others, climbed down the rope at the side of the prow.
Gwenvael could not help but admire how Bodvar still controlled his men, even wounded as he was, barely able to sit.
Moments later, the slender warrior reappeared, dripping, with a triumphant smile.
"The Britons thought fishing nets and floating hemp ropes would prevent us from passing through!" The man laughed, brandishing his knife. "Nothing a good blade cannot slice."
"Take us home," Bodvar ordered grimly.
The dip of the oars resumed. The wind had died and the rain stopped. The air smelled clean, despite traces of smoke and blood clinging to the boat. Silence fell among the survivors, disturbed only by the regular rasp of oars against the oarlocks, the gentle slapping of water against the hull, and the rhythmic scooping of the bailers.
Gwenvael considered himself lucky to have survived the carnage. So few Vikings had. Three boats out of eighty... But even these survivors may not make it to safety. Dear God, in your infinite clemency, spare these wretched, lost souls.
On this starless night, no one dared sail the dark sea, except for three dragonships taking on water, rowing north along the western coast of Alba.
Chapter Eleven
Through the open window of Pressine’s chambers, Joyous notes rang from a distant horn.
"The king’s party is approaching! Hurry." Pressine’s voice lilted in anticipation as she urged the lass tying the silk sash of her deep blue gown.
Her heart raced.
"Thank you again, O mighty Goddess, for sparing my beloved," she murmured, for the hundredth time that day.
She pinched her cheeks, checked her hair in a small silver mirror, then ran out of the chamber. Breathless, she dashed up the wooden stairs leading to the top of the ramparts, to get a glimpse of Elinas.
Outside the walls, the warm afternoon sun drew steam from the fields soaked by yesterday’s heavy rain. Woods and meadows, green with new growth and alive with wild flowers tossing in the breeze, seemed to rejoice in the return of their king.
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