Gressa looked down at the cloak that filled her arms before she looked at Strian. His hand ran over her hair and along her back, encouraging her to continue. “Brynjar, this is the son Strian and I lost all those years ago. They denied him his proper burial instead placed in a Christian grave. We are taking him home, so his spirit can rest at last.”
The boy looked at the bundle Gressa settled on the seat beside the rudder. He looked at the couple, seeing the pain they shared, and despite his young age, he understood their grief.
“I shall guard my cousin. No one will come near him and live. I will be the guardian of his body and his soul.” Brynjar seemed to grow with those few words, and his voice deepened with the sense of duty that filled him.
“Thank you,” the couple murmured before they both took one last look at the small form on the bench then stepped onto the shore.
In less than an hour, they scattered the entire combined forces throughout the ruins, hidden in the tall grass and the remaining rubble. Little was said, and no one moved as the time ticked by. It was early evening when at last the signal was given that ships had been spotted. Gressa and Strian lay next to one another not far from Ivar and Lena. Freya and Erik lay near his parents on another stretch of earth that faced the approaching boats, and Bjorn and Tyra had climbed into the trees with the other archers. Several of the Welsh bowmen had scrambled over the rubble and found elevated places from which to shoot. Gressa was uncertain whether these Welshmen would fire upon their fellow countrymen who would arrive with Grímr, but she was confident they would shoot Grímr or any of the foreigners they resented arriving on their shores to disrupt their homes and their lives. Sigrid remained hidden in Freya’s cabin while Leif lay on the far side of Ivar and Lena.
The first sounds of boats coming to a halt floated up the hillside then the splashes of men wading ashore followed. Voices carried through the still air, and Grímr’s voice rose above the others.
“Find the boy and find the chests. We gather those before we continue to Gwynedd. I’ll have that fool’s hidden stash and will pay him with his own goods. Then we’ll put an end to Ivar and Rangvald. They cannot be far behind us now.”
Ivar raised his hand and made a slicing signal forward. The Norsemen and Highlanders rose to their feet.
“We are not that far in front of you!” Ivar roared.
The Highlanders beat their sword hilts against their targes, dark blue woad covering their faces, leaving only the whites of their eyes to gleam as the sunlight softened towards dusk. The Norse formed their shield wall, and the Highlanders found their places among it, having learned from fighting more than one battle alongside people they thought once to call their enemy.
“Grímr!” Rangvald taunted. “There is nothing left to make us think your cock is bigger than your pinky. We have your gold and coins. We have killed or captured your sons. You have no home to go back to. And your ally in Gwynedd is dead. You are a man who has been cut down at the knees. You are but half a man, a half the Valkyries will fly right past. The rest will shit on your remains. Your place shall be to wallow in Helheim, left in darkness and agony, while all who live know you as a níðingr, a man with no honor. A man no other will respect nor revere. Nornar has chosen this place, this moment for your death. Will you accept it as a man or pish yourself like a child?”
Rangvald’s laughter echoed behind the shield wall, but his taunts did what he intended. Grímr roared and ordered his men forward. Rangvald and Ivar ordered their shield wall remain. They waited as Grímr’s forces advanced up the hill while Rangvald and Ivar called for them to hold. When Gressa could see their enemy was halfway up the rise, she tapped Strian’s shoulder. He moved his shield aside enough for her to aim her bow through the gap. She awaited Ivar’s order, and when she heard it, she released her arrow, lodging in a man’s belly. It was the signal the other archers had been awaiting. Arrows flew from every direction and rained down on Grímr’s forces. As they continued to push their way uphill, they left their backs open to the archers they had not noticed passing. Grímr’s shield wall shifted and rippled as a mixture of Norsemen, Highlanders, and Welshmen attempted to remain a unified force with no one to communicate among them all.
“For Valhalla!” Ivar’s order rang across the field of battle as the Norse and Highlanders charged forward, using their elevation to their advantage. They barreled into Grímr’s warriors, knocking them backwards, many falling then rolling as arrows whizzed by and found flesh to embed in. Gressa used her bow until her quiver was almost empty. She stayed beside Strian, part of her always touching him, reassuring them both that she did not fall behind. As the two shield walls collided, the melee began in full force. It was each warrior for themselves, and Strian fought back to back with Gressa. They had trained together to fight like this long ago but had never had the chance. Now they moved as a beast with two bodies but one mind. Their movements were synchronized and in tandem as they cut through one enemy after another.
Gressa spun in time to see an archer aim for Strian. She lunged and tackled him around the waist, pushing him to the ground. His body absorbed most of the brunt, but he pinned Gressa’s hands beneath them.
“Gressa?”
“Arrow,” she panted. “You eat too much.”
She fought to free her trapped hands and shook them before picking up her sword and shield. Strian followed her, using his shield to protect them both as they picked a position near Freya and Erik. The battle waged on, and more of Grímr’s forces fell, but never him. He evaded each warrior who set their sights on killing him. Gressa caught sight of him several times from the corner of her eye, her rage growing each time she realized he was still alive. She fought one enemy after another, indiscriminate of their origin only with the singular goal in mind to defeat Grímr. Strian slayed a man who dared leer at Gressa before charging at her. She spun around and found herself face to face with Grímr.
“You have come to me yet again.” Grímr tried to reach out to grab Gressa’s arm, but she was quicker, her knife slashing across his forearm. “Bitch, I will kill you for that. After you suck my cock once more. What you can do with that pretty mouth of yours.”
Gressa hurled a wad of spit onto his face.
“That is what my mouth can do for you.”
Grímr roared as he launched his attack. He fought with no finesse and no plan. Gressa could easily read his next movement before Grímr even seemed to decide what to do. She ran her sword blade into the flesh and bone beneath his collarbone. Blood geysered from the large puncture wound. As it splattered her face, Gressa licked around her mouth.
“Your blood tastes far better than your seed. Perhaps that is what I shall drink tonight.”
She lunged again and sliced her sword across the thigh that still bore a wound received many months earlier. Grímr sank to the ground no longer able to bear his weight. Gressa moved around him, and kicked his back, forcing him flat onto the ground.
“I would run you through, kill you right here and now, but I have a better idea for you. Perhaps Jarl Ivar and Jarl Rangvald will even allow me to do the honors.”
Gressa brought the hilt of her sword down on Grímr’s temple, turning his world to black. Once his eyes slid shut, and she was sure he would not be moving again, she looked up to see Strian watching her. He had been guarding her as she fought Grímr. He had once told her he would give her the chance to kill Grímr if he could.
“I have a better way to make him suffer than a clean, quick death. I will hear his screams ring through the air as mine did in my head each and every time he forced me near him.”
Strian nodded and whistled a call to signal that they defeated the enemy. The Norsemen and women killed the last of their opponents while the Highlanders rounded up their injured and dead. Ivar and Rangvald made their way to where Gressa continued to stand with her foot on Grímr’s back.
“He’s dead?” Rangvald narrowed his eyes as he looked at his former brother-in-law.
“No. Not
yet.” Gressa answered.
“You had the chance, and you didn’t take it? You had the right,” Ivar questioned.
“Blood eagle.” Gressa’s two words brought everything to a halt. They considered the form of execution barbaric even among their tribes and one they reserved for the most heinous of enemies. Gressa raised an eyebrow at the two jarls.
“He lives,” Ivar grunted. “That is the only requirement at this point.”
“Very well,” Rangvald shrugged.
“Who has he wronged the most?” Gressa asked.
“Who hasn’t he wronged?” Erik returned her question with his own. “He was complicit in Hakin’s plans, taking them several steps further. He helped orchestrate Sigrid’s kidnapping not once but twice. He captured Tyra and Bjorn and you and Strian. He led Freya and me on a merry chase that nearly got us killed more than once. He swore to kill all of us and steal my father’s and Ivar’s land. But you are the only one he’s touched. You are the only one who has suffered the most at his hand.”
Gressa looked around the group and saw several heads nod. She looked at Strian, fearful of what she would see. While Erik may have been accurate that she had suffered most directly from Grímr’s evil, it also pointed out a part of her past she wished never happened, or at least that no one knew of. She was embarrassed to meet Strian’s gaze, but he stepped forward and raised her chin. He brushed his lips against hers before kissing her in front of everyone, their friends, family, and tribe members along with the others present. Strian once more pronounced her as his wife with a kiss that left no one doubting his devotion to his wife.
“Kill him, so we can go home and make those babies,” he murmured against her lips.
Thirty
The moon rose over the treetops as the last of Grímr’s most loyal men hanged from a tree limb. Their bodies no longer writhed or twitched. They swayed in the light breeze. They had waited until Grímr awoke before binding and gagging him then forcing him to watch. The antipathy showed Grímr had never cared for anyone but himself. Perhaps once he had loved Inga, but his wife destroyed that with her affairs. He never loved his brother nor the children who carried his name. Once the last of his men were dead, it was his turn to die. He would die alone, befitting his life and his legacy.
Leif and Bjorn rushed to stretch him prone against the ground, his arms tied to stakes they hammered into the dirt. They pulled his legs apart to leave him spread eagle. Gressa looked to Strian who passed her an axe he had spent the past two hours sharpening to a fine edge that could split a hair.
Gressa looked around at those who watched. Lorna had explained to the four Highland lairds what would happen. They had each insisted they would watch, but the Norse warriors wagered how long they would last before they looked away, vomited, or collapsed. Her eyes came to rest on Ivar and Lena, the only parents she had known. She looked at the man who had tried to steal their home and end the lives the couple had spent decades building together and for their people. She glanced at Rangvald and Lorna who had proven to be the best of allies. She even looked at the Highlanders who valiantly fought alongside people they did not trust nor understood. They had formed their own alliances within the group of extended family and friends. Finally, Gressa looked once more at Grímr. Someone had removed the gag, so all could hear the howls of his pain.
Gressa raised the axe over her head, prepared for the first cut when two ravens cawed and landed on a stump nearby. The Norsemen and women went silent as the two birds turned to watch Gressa.
“See,” she lowered her axe and pulled a fistful of Grímr’s hair to raise his head enough to see the two blackbirds. “Odin is here. He is here to be sure that no one confuses you for anything but an honorless pile of shite. No Valkyrie shall look for you. The goddess Freya will not be looking for you in Folkvang. The doors of Valhalla will remain locked to you, and you will never see the inside of the great feasting hall. Instead, you shall rot until the end of days in Helheim. Not with the ordinary people who die a less than valiant death. No, you shall reside with the other cowards and weaklings. You will live in fear of the cold and dark until there is nothing left of you. But first, you shall soar like an eagle, or at least your bones will.”
Gressa swung the axe, making the first cut along his spin, splintering several ribs from his spine. She brought the axe down again on the same side, shattering the connecting fibers between Grímr’s ribs and spine. She repeated the process on the other side, cutting through meat and bone in between his howls of pain. She paused again when the sound of two wolves echoed his wails.
“Do you hear that? Geri and Freki call to Odin. They tell him that your death is only moments away. They laugh along with your screams of pain. You cannot even die with pride and dignity. Even in death you show your weakness and cowardice. A real man would bear the pain and praise Odin for the chance to feast with him. But you know,” Gressa’s laugh was harsh. “You know you are nothing. A níðingr.”
Gressa swung twice more, releasing the last rib from its bindings to the man’s spine. Gressa dropped the axe and plunged her hand beneath his right ribs. She pulled several times before she withdrew his lung. She held it above her head as Grímr’s blood dripped down her arm. His cries of agony grew louder when his own lung landed beside his head, but the last of the air that filled his single remaining lung escaped, and he could not make more than a whimper, a gurgle in the back of his throat. Gressa reached beneath his left ribs, but this lung did not want to break free. She drew her knife and sawed through the connective tissue until she felt it give way. She speared the second lung and pulled it out, sitting upon the tip of her blade. She raised it for all to see before dropping it next to the other. With both hands, she pried Grímr’s ribcage open, making it look as though his ribs were a set of eagle’s wings.
Leif and Bjorn whipped away the rope binding his legs to the ground, then they pulled the stakes free that pinned his arms to the ground. Both men tugged on the ropes wrapped over tree limbs, lifting Grímr’s body from the ground. Suspended in midair, Grímr’s body swung and twisted as his lifeblood drained from his body, and the last of his life slipped away.
Strian took Gressa’s hand and weaved through the crowd until they came to the shore. He had thought ahead and brought a bar of soap from his own belongings to the execution. He guided Gressa into the lapping water until they were far enough out that the waves crashed against their knees. He pressed her hands under the water then lifted them and began scrubbing. He watched her face for any clue to what she felt. She seemed dazed, not from battle lust nor shock. She appeared to be both deep in thought and without a thought in her head.
“He’s really dead. It’s really over,” Gressa looked at Strian as though it surprised her to find she was not alone. She watched him continue to scrub the blood from her hands and arms. The water was frigid, but Strian pressed her down until she dipped below the surface. He was quick to scrub her hair, her chest and clothes, then her face before easing her beneath the water again. She was too tired to say the saltwater would only make her hair worse. She had an overwhelming need to curl up next to Strian and go to sleep.
“As soon as we get you dry. Then you can sleep. I won’t move from beside you.”
Gressa nodded, vaguely aware that she must have spoken aloud.
“Gressa?” Strian watched as she turned towards him, her eyes growing more focused each time he spoke to her. “Do you regret being the one?”
“No,” she was emphatic and shook her head to reaffirm her point. “He deserved it. It just seems anticlimactic now that he is dead. We have been through so much, and now it is all over.”
“Do you fear that now there’s no danger, there will be nothing pushing us together?” Strian was slow to speak and watched Gressa even though he tried to sound casual.
Gressa was sure a wave had just crashed into her face as Strian’s words sank in. Whatever cloud she had been floating upon gave way.
“There will always be something pushing
us together. Fate decided long ago, and our love reaffirms it. We are meant to be together. And if it’s not fate, then is will be me wrapping my legs around your waist with you deep inside me that pushes us together.”
Strian let go of the soap as he pulled Gressa against him. His mouth devoured hers as their need overcame them. It had been days since they had made love, but it felt like yet another eternity. Strian lifted Gressa into his arms then marched to his boat.
“Off!” He demanded.
His crew looked at him, most getting ready to settle in for the night.
“I said off. All of you. Find somewhere else for the night.”
His crew came to their feet, looking at him with annoyance until he lowered a soaking wet Gressa to her feet. His crew hastened to jump to the sandy shore. Even Brynjar seemed to understand the urgency. Strian turned them so his back was to the shore before he helped Gressa peel off her sodden clothes. He pulled a blanket from a pile near the starboard rail and draped it around her. He peeled off his tunic, but when he began to untie the laces to his pants, Gressa gasped. She looked around him, and there were plenty of people on the beach near the boats. More than a few were watching them but turned away when they realized Gressa caught them staring. She opened her arms and waited for Strian to step within the blanket. He pushed his pants free and stepped out of them. His hands found Gressa’s waist as he kissed her, wrapped within the wool. He lifted her until her legs coiled around him, and he slid into her. His strong legs lowered them to the deck where Strian sat with Gressa straddling him. Their bodies warmed as much by the blanket as the growing heat between them. Strian guided Gressa’s hips as she rocked against them. Their kisses were slow and languid as they took their time, drawing out one another’s pleasure. They remained joined as the camp grew quiet, and only the soft sounds of other couples floated to them over the sound of the waves.
Strian (Viking Glory Book 4) Page 23
