Twin Passions (37 page)

"Please be careful, Gwendolyn," Anora
murmured. She hugged her sister tightly,
then
disappeared into the dark recesses of the stable.

Gwendolyn ran to the stall where Hakon's great stallion
stood tossing its proud head and neighing loudly in response to the sounds from
other horses in the stable yard. With practiced hands she quickly saddled the
huge animal, then grabbed the reins and led it from the stable.

"What took you so long, lad?" Hakon asked
angrily, striding toward her. "Do you think the battle waits upon your
pleasure?" He grabbed the reins from her hand. "Here, hold my shield
while I mount." Gwendolyn almost collapsed under the heavy weight of the
brightly painted shield, but somehow she managed to hold it upright until Hakon
could take it from her. He hoisted it easily from her arms and fixed it to the
side of his saddle. "Join the other boys back there, and be ready to
assist if you are needed," he said gruffly. Pulling sharply on the reins,
he brought the spirited stallion about so he could face his men.

Hakon felt a surge of excitement course through his
body as several hundred pairs of eyes stared back at him with fierce, undying
allegiance. Most of his warriors were on foot, some armed with spears, axes,
and rude cudgels, while others had swords and bows and arrows slung over their
shoulders. Only he and the petty chieftains under his rule were on horseback.
All was quiet, hushed, save for the impatient nickering of the horses, and the
sound of the cold wind as it whipped through the white banners painted with
leering, fanged dragons that were carried by the standard-bearers.

Hakon pulled his mighty broadsword from its scabbard
and lifted it high above his head. "To Odin!" he shouted loudly. "To
victory!"

A great roar went up from the Viking warriors. "Odin!
Odin!" they intoned, as if with one thundering voice. "Odin! Odin!"
Their fierce cries echoed about the mountainsides across the fjord as they
marched from the settlement behind their Jarl.

Chapter 34

Gwendolyn dropped the spears she was carrying and let
the heavy quiver of arrows slip from her shoulder to the snow-covered ground.
They had been marching for close to an hour. Hakon's forces had moved
stealthily along the hillsides, scattering and rejoining according to the
nature of the ground, until they had reached the valley where Rhoar and his
army of renegade Vikings had camped during the night.

Apparently their arrival had been anticipated, for
Rhoar Bloodaxe and his forces stood ready and waiting in a massive, heavily
armed line at least four men thick that stretched the entire length of the open
field where they would do battle.

Gwendolyn felt a cold fear grip her as she scanned the
hardened, ruthless faces of Rhoar's men. She said a quick prayer that all would
go well, but she was beginning to have her doubts. Though she and the rest of
the young arms bearers stood on a crest of a hill well away from where the
battle would take place, they had already been told they would be used as
reinforcements if needed. Apparently this news had struck great terror in the
hearts of several of the youths, though they tried hard not to show it, for
they had heard stories of the men in Rhoar's army.

They were outcasts, all of them. Some had defied their
chieftains and had been exiled from their lands, while others were murderers
and thieves. Rhoar was rumored to have enticed these men to his cause, knowing
they would fight with a bloodthirsty abandon that only desperate men who had
nothing to lose possessed. It was against this enraged, blinding lust for
wealth and power that Hakon's men would be fighting.

Gwendolyn's eyes followed Hakon's commanding form
astride his mighty black stallion as he moved about his men, his strong voice
guiding them into position.

Suddenly the sun came out from behind the clouds,
blinding Gwendolyn as the bright rays hit the white surface of the snow-covered
field. Bloodcurdling Viking battle shrieks and terrible, wolfish howling broke
from the throats of Rhoar's men at that same moment, shattering the eerie
silence of the battlefield as they began their advance.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Gwendolyn watched in
horror as they rushed toward the line of Hakon's forces, wildly brandishing
their flashing weapons over their heads as they screamed, some even biting upon
their wooden shields like mad dogs. And though scores of arrows rained down
upon them from the bows of Hakon's men, still they kept coming, a relentless,
almost inhuman onslaught. Horns signaled the start of battle from each side,
the haunting sound sending a chill through the very marrow of her bones. She
looked on with grim fascination, unable to tear her eyes away, knowing that
this battle could mean not only Hakon's doom and that of his men, but her
own
and Anora's as well.

Her breath caught in her throat at the fearsome sight
of Rhoar Bloodaxe astride a dappled stallion. He rode fearlessly at the head of
his men, his awful triple-edged axe held high. His flaming red hair and beard
shone brightly in the sunlight, and she could almost hear his wicked laughter
above the din of battle, carried high upon the wind. She watched in horror as he
gleefully buried his axe in the back of an opponent, only to wrench it free,
dripping with blood.

Patches of bright red soon stained the snow as the
fierce battle raged on. To Gwendolyn it seemed everything was happening so
fast! Both forces of men were now waged in hand-to-hand, man-against-man
combat, a macabre dance of death. She could still see Hakon wheeling his huge
stallion about in the wild melee, his black-and-yellow shield raised in front
of him, while his broadsword rained deadly blows down upon his enemy.

But suddenly Gwendolyn lost sight of him as he was
violently wrenched from his saddle by the arms of a huge opponent. Her heart
went to her throat. Sweet Jesu! Protect him! Without thinking, she dashed down
the hill. One of the other arms bearers tried to catch her about the waist, but
she eluded his grasp. She ran into the thick of battle as swiftly as her legs
could carry her.

All around her were the deafening sounds of combat as
sword rang out against sword, the agonized screams of the injured and dying
filling the air. She nimbly dodged grappling opponents and fallen bodies, her
eyes frantically scanning the ever-shifting fray for a sign of Hakon.

It was the evil sound of Rhoar's laughter that caused
her to turn her head. Suddenly everything stopped around her, time froze, as
she caught sight of the terrible scene that greeted her. Hakon was lying on the
snowy ground not more than twenty feet away, his broadsword knocked from his
hand. Rhoar towered over him, laughing hideously, his bloody axe
raised
and glinting in the sun.

All Gwendolyn knew at that moment was that her life
would mean naught without him. Acting on finely honed instincts, she pulled the
knife from her belt and took swift aim, throwing it with all her strength at
Rhoar's uplifted arm. He started in surprise as the long-bladed knife sank into
his flesh, taking his eyes from Hakon for a split-second.

It was all the time that Hakon needed. He lunged
violently for his broadsword and, grabbing the hilt, in one swift movement
brought it up and impaled Rhoar on the shining blade. Rhoar's gleaming eyes
widened as he watched his lifeblood spill out upon the white snow, a gruesomely
pathetic expression on his bearded face. "Damn you, Hakon . . ." he
whispered hoarsely. He was dead before he hit the ground, his eyes staring
lifelessly at the cold winter sky.

Hakon staggered to his feet. "Odin!" he
shouted with all his might, raising his clenched fists high above his head.
Already he could see many of Rhoar's men running from the battlefield, knowing
all was lost now that their leader had been dealt a death blow.

Gwendolyn felt a surge of overwhelming relief course
through her slender body at the sound of his victory cry, but it was
short-lived. Suddenly she felt shattering pain as a long spear hit her just
below her left shoulder. The impact knocked her to the ground. She screamed in
agony, calling out Hakon's name. Then all went black as she mercifully lost
consciousness.

Hakon grimly wrenched his broadsword from Rhoar's body
and wiped the blade in the snow. Then he bent and pulled the long-bladed knife
from his bastard brother's upper right arm. He immediately recognized the
ornately carved hilt. Why, it was one of his own—from his
collection
of weapons in his chamber, no less! He turned, his eyes scanning the
battlefield, which was littered with the dead and wounded. But who threw the
knife that had saved him? He started in surprise as he spied Gwendolyn lying
crumpled and still upon the ground not far away. Nay, it couldn't have been!
Not Garric!

Holding his broadsword poised in his hand, he ran
swiftly to where Gwendolyn lay. His mouth drew into a tight line as he saw the
spear sticking from her shoulder, and the bright red stain of blood spreading
out from the wound. Her face was devoid of color, pale as death.

Sheathing his broadsword and removing his silver
helmet, Hakon dropped to his knees and
lay
his head on
her chest. At least the lad was still breathing, though it was shallow at best.
Thor, if Garric should die . . . He did not care to finish the thought. He only
knew that it would drive a wedge between him and Anora that might never be
removed. Yea, she would never forgive him if her brother did not return alive,
he thought grimly.

Hakon quickly put one hand over the wound and wrapped
his other hand about the wooden handle of the spear. Gritting his teeth, he
slowly drew the pointed blade from her shoulder. It came out cleanly. Tossing
the spear aside, he then quickly tore off a piece of his woolen tunic to
staunch the heavy flow of blood from the gaping hole. He cursed under his
breath, feeling strangely helpless, knowing he could do little more. Gathering
her limp form into his arms, he strode hurriedly toward the healer's tent that
had been erected on the hillside overlooking the battlefield.

"My lord, the battle is won!" Olav called out
excitedly, reining in his horse alongside Hakon. He was covered in grime and
sweat, and there was blood on his arm where he had suffered a minor slash
wound, but his eyes burned with exhilaration. "What has happened to the
lad?" he asked, sobering at the hard expression on Hakon's face.

"I believe Garric has done no less than save my
life this day," Hakon said, not breaking his stride. "If 'tis so, we
shall have him to thank for our victory!" He called out over his broad
shoulder, "See that the last of the enemy are routed, Olav. I shall not be
long from the battlefield."

Hakon looked down at Gwendolyn's pale features as he hurried
along the hillside toward the healer's makeshift tent. Why did the lad look so
achingly familiar? It was almost as if he held the very likeness of Anora in
his arms. How could brother and sister look so much alike? He tried to shake
off his disturbing thoughts, but he could not dispel the feeling of foreboding
welling up inside him.

At last he reached the tent. Pushing back the leather
flap at the entrance, he ducked his head and rushed in, almost knocking into
the stooped figure of the healer as he bent over a wounded warrior.

"My . . . my lord!" the old man stammered,
straightening and stepping back in surprise.

"This lad needs your care . . .
now
," Hakon muttered
,
concern etched on his face. He looked about the large tent
for an empty place to lay his charge. Many of his men already lay on pallets
lining the makeshift walls, and from the looks of some of their wounds, he knew
there would sadly be no help for them.

A pit had been hastily dug near the center of the tent
for a fire, and a steaming caldron of boiling water hung on an iron tripod
above the roaring flames. The air was stifling and overwarm, smelling of
pungent herb poultices and sweating bodies. Hakon noted the stone pan of cooked
leeks and onions set near one of the wounded, and knew the odorous mixture was
being fed to the man to aid in diagnosing a possible stomach wound. If the
smell of the onions could be discerned escaping an injury, it usually meant it
was fatal.

"Lay him there," the healer said abruptly. He
pointed to a thick blanket stretched upon the ground near the rear of the tent.
Hurrying over to the caldron, he used a wooden paddle to lift out several
dripping rags from the boiling water and dropped them onto a platter held in
his other hand.

Hakon gently lay Gwendolyn upon the blanket, then rose
to his feet. His tall, powerful
body made the tent seem
very small. He strode back to where the healer was hastily preparing a thick,
green herb paste for a poultice.

"I must return to the battlefield. Send for me
when you have news of the lad's condition," he said, his voice low. He
walked to the entrance, then stopped and turned back around. "See that he
does not die," he muttered tersely. With that, he pushed aside the leather
flap and was gone.

The healer sighed raggedly. Gathering together all the
things he would need, he hurried over to the blanket where Gwendolyn lay. He
kneeled down beside her, then took a sharp knife from his belt and carefully
began to cut away first the leather jerkin, then the bloodied woolen fabric
surrounding the wound just beneath her left shoulder. He shook his head. Such
tender skin for a lad, he marveled, gently touching around the flaring hole.
From what he could tell, though blood still flowed in a trickle from the wound,
it did not appear to be fatal. He lifted her gently, checking to see if the
spear had pierced through to her back. Nay, it had not. He clucked his tongue,
relieved, as he set her back down upon the blanket.