Crux (24 page)

Two heavy draft horses are tied to the back of the wagon I follow, their feet the size of dinner plates. They scare me, but make good cover, so I settle in between them. Massive heads turn toward me, snorting as I plod along amongst them.

I lift my chin. “’Sup there, horsey, dudes, fellas, … guys.” I pat one of the horse’s ginormous cheeks and smile. If horses can roll their eyes at stupid comments, I swear they do, but they shuffle along and leave me alone.

The sun never appears, but the day grows bright under a hazy sky. Wind blows through our ranks, so blasted cold even the hardened warriors pull their furs tight around their shoulders. I have Alarr.

Boys are called to pass bread and moldy looking cheese from baskets to the men. I don’t want to be caught shirking again, so I report for duty, yanking my hat as far down over my head as possible, and do my job.

The stink of the soldiers is overwhelming. There’s no gym locker, no Porta-Potty, no sweat-soaked, beer-barfed NASCAR stadium to rival the aroma. I’ve lived in a house with boys before, baby sat, and accidentally walked in on someone changing.

Here, most of the men step to the side of the road, drop their drawers, and go whenever the mood strikes them. They’re beyond disgusting, whipping out their willies like weapons. The soldiers make jokes, hold pissing contests while comparing sizes, and think its hilarious.

Personally, I could do with a little less hilarity.

A guy with a bushy, black beard slaps me on the back, and I stumble forward. He points to my crotch, and they all laugh. I make out the words ‘wee’ and ‘pecker’. Despite the fact I’m pecker-
less
, I’m offended. He says something else unintelligible, and they snicker some more.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead despite the cold. If he wants a peek, we’re all in for a shock. Thankfully, he seems happy just to insult me. “Ha. Ha. Good one.” I laugh and try to appear good natured about the whole thing.

Blackbeard grins and walks away with his buddies.

Aren’t you just the funniest? Good Lord.

After another hour of more male bonding, we slow at the crest of a tree-covered hill. From beyond, a dull roar gives me pause.

I figure we must be getting close.

Flags are raised near the front. By the way everyone scrambles, I assume it’s a signal.

Men put on their chain mail and load themselves with weapons. They’re distracted, and it seems as good a time as any to part ways with my English buddies.

I haul a helmet, mail, sword and three foot shield unnoticed from the back of a wagon to hide behind. Blood lust fills every eye as though they’re drunk with the idea of a glorious victory.

My gear helps me blend with the rush of humanity heading toward the hilltop, only I slip off to the side, away from the mass of English soldiers, to hide in the thicket that lines the knoll.

When I peer over the rise, the sight I’m confronted with stuns me, and I hold my breath in awe.

25

I thought the English climbed the hill to meet the Vikings in battle. It turns out, the men I travel with are a
second
battalion. Reserves to support a campaign already in progress.

What I take for the River Basselhund slithers across the moor, slicing it in half, a battle raging on either side. Below me, the field is littered with bodies—most of them Vikings, distinguishable by their highly decorated armor.

Down the hill I race, exchanging the English shield I carry for a discarded Viking one instead. I want the English to know who their enemy is.

Alarr sharpens my sight and hearing, floods my body with the strength of a bear.

I toss my sword aside, lean over, and pull a Dane Axe from the chest of a dead warrior. My hand tests the weight. I flip it in the air and catch it again by its handle.

Adrenaline ignites my muscles like a lit fuse to a powder keg.

I clang my axe against my shield.

Let’s party boys.

The English horde bottlenecks at an old stone bridge over the river. They’re trying to reach the rest of their scumbag army beyond the fjord.

Jeff is somewhere over there, I hope.

I hold the shield above my head as a volley of arrows darkens the sky, and charge forward.

As I near the bridge, one brave man stands alone in the gap between this battleground and the one across the river. He fights off scores of English soldiers, but I can’t imagine he’ll last much longer. I know I’ve got to help the guy, so I leap over the heads of my enemies and land close to the bridge, but not close enough. I cut through English bodies with my blade as though they’re made of butter.

I force myself to act without conscience. It’s the only way I can do this.

A sword arcs through the sky in my direction.

I thrust my axe up to block it.

The handle shudders on impact, and my opponent’s sword flies from his hand, whirling through the air.

My hand catches the hilt and swings, slicing the throat both of its former owner and the dude next to him.

This is nothing like TV, a movie, or a video game where I can’t smell the foul stench of rotting flesh. Here, my face is the last thing my enemy will see. It’s me who watches the light leave his eyes, cloud over as his spirit departs, and I can’t escape the fact that that’s on me. These are real human beings … or were.

The thought I’m killing ghosts is some consolation.

Snow flurries fall from a bitter, gray sky. There’s no fire to wield out here on the field. No spark for me to manipulate, but water and wind exist in abundance.

The battle’s widespread and confused. I don’t think I can harm the enemy without endangering the Norsemen.

I continue to wield my axe and sword, mowing down men in my path like a John Deere tractor intent on reaching the warrior on the bridge.

He fights like a titan, crushing men’s skulls with an enormous axe. His slashing leaves opponents cleaved and dying in a growing pile at his feet.

The English haul the dead away and send in fresh troops.

I thrust my sword into the ribcage of the last man between the bridge and me. He screams, his eyes bulge, and he slaps at the air with his hands.

My blade clicks against bone, catching on something inside him as I try to pull it back. His death isn’t quick like the others I’ve killed. He’s suffering, and my breathing ramps toward hyperventilation.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

There’s nowhere to step that isn’t on a squishy body part. I can’t catch my breath and realize I’m nearing a full-blown panic attack. With my foot against the dying man’s gut, I yank the blade out. Blood and water spew out, covering my chest. The solider slumps to the ground, gasping at my feet. I smother a gag and stab him again to end his torment.

I hate war!

Someone digs at my neck with a short blade. Warm blood trickles to my shoulder. I whirl and land my axe in my attacker’s skull. Bones crunch and buckle with the force of my blow like a bug’s exoskeleton under my shoe.

He falls forward, and I topple back, struggling under his weight. The stench of urine hits me. Fecal matter glistens in the slush, still fresh. The guy next to me has soiled himself in death. Green veins run through mottled brown excrement as though its user were ill. Noxious fumes hit me like a punch in the nose. My stomach lurches, and I turn my head aside to avoid the sickly-sweet aroma, but the smell marches up my sinus cavity, burning like an army of flesh eating ants. Stinging, devouring, they eat away into my mucus membranes like acid. My eyes tear, the cold freezing the water on my lashes. As I lower my head with a gag, my resolve weakens.

I can’t do this anymore.

A wolf howls on the plain somewhere on the other side of the bridge. A few seconds pass before the sound registers in my reeling brain.

Fenris?

My throat closes, choking off any attempt at speech. I swallow hard and yell, “Fenris!”

“Birdie?”

What the …
Grey?
With my head lifted, and stomach still sketchy, I scan the area around the shoulder of the man crushing me. “Grey?”

“On the bridge!”

He’s alive!

The lone warrior is Grey.

I draw from Alarr for the strength to push the corpse off me.

His body explodes upward from the force of my arms.

I fly into the air, somersault over the heads of three-dozen soldiers and land on my feet near the stone crossing. Another spring and I’m standing next to Grey. The sight of him, whole and unharmed, lifts the shadow from my soul.

“What took you so long?” he asks.

Very funny.

A group of Vikings stand behind him, reinforcing his position on the bridge. They feed him a steady stream of barbed spears, which he, in turn, uses to harpoon the English.

Our gazes meet. I want more, but that’s probably not a good idea right now. Being close is enough.

The English onslaught continues as they must secure this pathway to advance. Grey meets them with ferocious energy. He doesn’t seem tired, just outnumbered.

“You okay?” I ask, while hacking at the arm of an opponent. “Where’s Fenris? Jeff? Does he …” I slash at my enemy with the weapon in my right hand, “… know about the curse?”

“Fenris … is … with Jeff. He knows.” Grey ducks, parries, and thrusts. “He told … me to … hold the bridge.”

“Haddr?” My blade whistles, cutting through the air as I attack another man.

“I don’t know. Are you alright?”

“Don’t worry about me right now. Focus!”

Another burst of arrows discharges from the enemy line. One catches me in the shoulder blade, burying itself deep within the muscle. The pain spreads down my arm like a bolt of lightning.

“Bird!”

“I’m fine,” I lie, panting. “Just my shoulder … not bad.”

Grey can’t afford distractions with the onslaught that faces him. Though he and his men fight with incredible skill, there are too many. I step back, reach a hand around my shoulder, and try to force the arrow out. It breaks off, sending another shock down my arm.

“You have Alarr,” says Grey, more statement than question.

“Yes, do you feel it?” He doesn’t answer, but I know he must.

He pushes two men off the side of the bridge with his shield and stabs another with his spear. No way could he fight like that on his own.

An English soldier climbs up my side of the bridge. I hit him with the metal boss in my shield, and the wood splinters. I throw the remnants over the side and lunge at the next man with my axe. The blade hits his back, and he takes it with him as he falls into the swift flowing river below.

Left with no weapon, I use Alarr to raise water from the Basselhund. I funnel it through my hands like a fire hose and wash the soldiers from the bridge who try to climb up the side.

A Viking warrior approaches me with a double-edged axe. He kneels, bows his blond head, and offers the weapon up as if in sacrifice. “This be Head-biter,” he says.

I take the weapon and nod my thanks before glancing behind him.

For the first time, I notice the resolute expressions of the Viking warriors who fight with us. Huge, blond-bearded men dressed in heavy animal skins and silver helmets adorned with copper accents. Archers shoot a volley of arrows into the oncoming Englishmen.

I lift my new axe in their direction as a greeting.

No one questions my presence. Maybe Jeff told them to expect me. The idea he believes in me brings him close, and I know what I have to do.

I face Grey. “If I find Jeff, everything will stop.” An enemy soldier gets past Grey and I clobber him with Head-biter.

He flies through the air with blistering speed, toppling the men behind him.

The Vikings send up a cheer behind me. Apparently, they like the way I use their gift.

“Go!” Grey’s sword falls in a keening arc over his enemy’s head. “I’ll hold them off while you search.”

“No. You have to come with me.”

“I will. I’ll follow. If I go now, the Vikings will be overrun.” He throws a spear into the chest plate of an enemy soldier. “Let me take care of a few more first.” He knocks another man into the water below.

In the distance, English soldiers continue pouring over the hillcrest.

I see his point and motion to the warriors behind us. “Send your men in for you. We all
have
to be together. If we don’t find Jeff, they’re dead anyway.”

Grey signals to his men, and we sprint from the bridge, leaving the smaller band of Vikings to hold their position alone.

• • •

The evidence of slaughter on the field turns my stomach. Red fades to pink as blood leaks in all directions over the snow. Our feet hover over the ground to avoid wading through the maze of fallen bodies as we search for Jeff. Birds circle in the sky, preparing to feast on the carcasses. I try to shut out the moans of the dying.

If I can find Jeff, these men will be at peace, never to suffer this pain again.

Weapons clash, echoing around the battlefield. Wounded horses lift their heads and scream. I plunge my sword into the heart of one near me to ease his suffering. The image fills me with anger.

We push on and search the grotesque landscape for the selfish kings who brought us to this point. I’d call out, but I don’t want Haddr to hear me.

I’m furious with Jeff—Thorolf—for starting the whole thing. If he wasn’t so hard on himself over the mess he created, I might hate him.

Haddr is another matter. What kind of person watches men die over and over? Subject the same tragic souls to this fate again every ten years? Do ghosts remember the past? They bleed. They feel pain. The tragedy he caused is unforgivable by man. Only God can forgive this kind of cruelty.

In the distance, a group of men clash. The Viking in the middle is outnumbered ten to one. Grey jets forward to assist him. My mind pushes me toward them as a black wolf the size of a bison breaks from the edge of the wood and blitzes the group.

He takes down the English warrior on the end. The man struggles against the mighty animal a minute before going still.

“Fenris!” I drop to the ground and run for him. Tears stream from my eyes, blinding me. The bloody battlefield evaporates for a moment and I throw my arms around his neck, ignoring the crimson stains on his fur. I’m as emotional as a six-year-old reuniting with her pet at the end of some sappy Disney film.

He sighs and groans a doggy sound from deep within his chest.

Fenris lifts his head and snarls. I follow his gaze over my shoulder. Hundreds of English soldiers race over the plain, closing the gap from the bridge to our location. They must have broken through our last line of defense.
My wolf whips his head back toward Grey.

He and the other Vikings fight amidst a sea of enemies. Swords clash, yellow sparks fly, and I get an idea. I hold my breath, lift my hand, and use Alarr to summon the sparks. They fly to me, and I combine them in my hands. I breathe on the tiny flame, using the wind to feed the fire. It spins, growing against my body until I hold a five foot wide inferno between my palms. Heat warms my skin but doesn’t burn. I take a knee. My hand winds back as if to throw a ball, but this ain’t no pigskin. This is a rocket. I let go and the firebomb speeds toward my enemies.

The English stop, terror etched in their faces. They dive but too late. The fiery orb hits its target like a missile. Torched men scatter and drop, engulfed in flames.

Fenris darts to Grey. His courage, and my success with the fireball, rejuvenates me, and I follow, plowing into their midst, teeth and blade bared.

My monster dog takes a man by the throat. I suppress a shudder as blood spurts from his jugular. I plunge Head-biter toward a man’s chest, but he blocks with his shield, which busts in two. My next blow finds its mark, separates neck from shoulders, and the man lies quivering at my feet.

Three English soldiers remain. Grey chases one who makes a break for the woods. Fenris takes another down and drags him off, crying and screaming. The lone Viking splits the skull of the man before him. The soldier drops, leaving the Viking standing victorious.

Feet apart, his chest heaves. Gold hair streaked with gray streams from under his helmet, which is shaped like a crown. Blood drips from his lip, darkening his blond beard, but his expression is proud, regal.

It’s Jeff … and King Thorolf.

One and the same.

“Jeff,” I whisper, thrilled to have made it in time. I pull Alarr from the wrappings at my chest and hold the pendant out to him.

“You’ve done well, Orn Strongwing.” He speaks formally, like a monarch and not the Jeff I know. “I’m proud of you, my daughter.”

Daughter?
My heart is full. Daughter sounds nice coming from a king or Jeff—I’ll take either one.

As I take a step toward the golden ruler, Grey emerges from the forest and jogs toward us. I smile at him.

We’ve done it. We’ve won!

Fenris arrives and stands alongside me. A warning growl erupts from his throat. Before I can process what’s happening, a shadow darkens Jeff’s side. An arm comes from behind and wraps around his neck as the bloody end of a sword appears through his torso.