Chapter Six #3
Stunned, the other warriors tried to flee, but the brothers were among them like foxes in a chicken run, causing chaos and confusion.
Hakon took an axe stroke on his shield and responded by thrusting his sword into the man’s guts.
Gunnar kicked the man with the broken nose to the ground, hacking a lethal blow at the man’s head.
Hakon dodged a sudden spear thrust and stepped inside the weapon’s range, head-butting the spear wielder in the face before dispatching him with a lethal blow.
The final enemy warrior turned to flee. Hakon stuck his sword into the ground, picked up the spear of his fallen enemy, hefted it for a moment to test its weight then threw it in a flat trajectory towards the fleeing man’s back.
The spear took the warrior between the shoulder blades, and he dropped without a sound.
Gunnar looked up from his examination of the two witches, locked eyes with Hakon, and shook his head. Hakon cursed.
Thorulf. His farmhouse. Swiftly now!
“Gunnar, we—”
“I know!”
The brothers raced across the fields which were, thanks to the wards, bathed in a magical light. Sounds of battle rang in their ears, along with the hissing crackle of spells flying through the air.
“There!” cried Hakon as they neared the farmhouse.
He could see a circle of warriors with Thorulf in the middle, holding attackers at bay.
Hakon bellowed a war cry in an effort to buy some time, and just as the enemy warriors turned, Hakon and Gunnar were on them like a pair of wolves.
In the work of moments, three of the enemy lay on the ground and the rest were fleeing.
Thorulf was panting and holding his left arm, which was bleeding heavily.
“You got here just in time,” rasped Thorulf, breathing heavily. He tried to chuckle but ended up in a burst of coughing. “I was just about ready to sing my death song.”
“We need to get you seen to,” said Hakon. “Hold on to me, man, and let’s get you to the witches. They must have some kind of healing art.”
“That would be good,” replied Thorulf, just before his eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out. He would have fallen to the ground if Gunnar had not caught him.
“Odin’s beard!” cursed Hakon, as Gunnar hefted Thorulf over his shoulder. Not knowing how to communicate with the Elder Sisters mind to mind, he simply shouted, “Gunhilde! Thorulf will die without aid!”
Bring him here to the middle of the camp. We will see to him.
“Let’s go,” said Hakon to Gunnar, and the two of them began a shambling run back to the center of the camp.
Bodies of both witches and warriors lay tangled on the ground.
The center of the camp featured a kind of treatment area for the wounded.
Hakon looked on amazed as both Baedi and Sif leaned over the injured, softly singing and passing their hands over wounds.
Those who had fallen were bathed in a diffused golden light.
“Gods,” murmured Gunnar as he carefully lowered Thorulf’s body onto an empty cot. “They look like battle angels.”
It was true. Both Baedi and Sif looked like Valkyries from the sagas, hovering over the fallen. For a brief moment, Hakon felt as if he was looking at a scene from some ancient story. Then Sif caught sight of him, and the illusion was broken.
“Sacred Freyja!” cried Sif, rushing forwards and running her hands over Hakon’s body. “Are you hurt? Where are you injured?”
“I am whole, praise Thor,” replied Hakon, “but Thorulf needs your aid.”
Sif looked down and made a noise of dismay.
Then she laid her hands upon Thorulf’s wound and sang softly.
As she sang, she moved her hands back and forth, and they glowed.
The glow flowed through the air from Sif’s hands to Thorulf’s wound.
The bleeding slowed then stopped, and finally the wound itself closed before their eyes.
Sif stopped her song, and the glow faded.
She looked down at Thorulf, who appeared to be sleeping.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” she said. “He will need rest.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Hakon slowly. “Truly, you have been given a gift.” Sif blushed and looked down.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” observed Gunnar, rubbing his palm. They all laughed as the moment of wonder passed and they returned to a sense of where they were. Sif kissed Hakon, briefly but intensely then stepped back and said, “There are others who need my aid.” She returned to the injured.
Gunhilde walked up to where Hakon and Gunnar were standing. Hakon looked at his brother, took a deep breath then said, “Lady, where do you need us now?”
“The attack appears to be over, thank Freyja,” replied Gunhilde, and even as she said it, the keening sounds of the witch-wards faded, and the bright lights of the flares dimmed, replaced by the growing light of the dawn.
The battle fury passed from Hakon, and he suddenly he was terribly thirsty.
He looked for and found a leather canteen and drained it.
A thought that had passed through his mind during the fighting took root.
“They do not look like Skraelings,” he said slowly. “Nor do they fight like them. At least, not according to the stories I’ve heard.”
Gunhilde shook her head sadly. “We captured one,” she said, “who was a commander here. Let us speak with him and see what he has to say for himself.”
***
Sif had never felt so tired and yet so alive at the same time.
It was as if she had reached deep inside herself to discover great reserves of energy that she had not known even existed.
Discovering these reserves had been an exhausting process, but now that she had found them, Sif felt as though she had discovered a deep well of hitherto untapped energy.
Goddess, am I truly what my Elder Sisters have told me that I am? A once in a generation talent, eclipsing all of them…even Lady Brede?
“Hey there,” said Hakon softly, breaking her musings. Sif looked at him, startled. How long had he been standing there?
“You looked a thousand miles away,” said Hakon. “Where were you?”
“I’m changing, Hakon,” Sif replied, and trembled. “Something has started, and I don’t know what it means. I feel like I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”
Hakon took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.
“You are Sif Astridsdottir,” he said, clearly and firmly.
“I have known you for your whole life. We played together from the time we were children. You are the love of my life, my woman. You are not alone, and whatever happens, I will be by your side.”
Sif felt the panic begin to recede as the truth of Hakon’s words washed over her. She slowed down her breathing and leaned her head forwards until her forehead touched that of Hakon’s. His hands came up to cup her cheeks.
“Thank you, my love,” Sif whispered. “I’m going to need you.”
“You have me,” replied Hakon, and he suddenly let out a laugh that felt to Sif like refreshing cool water. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” he chuckled.
“Thank Freyja for that,” said Sif with conviction. She felt grounded once more, after her brief attack of panic. She straightened. “Come,” she said. “We should be there when they question this so-called commander.”
“If you’re sure,” said Hakon gently. “If you need rest, take it. I mean it.”
“I know. Believe me, with how I’m feeling, rest is the last thing that I need.”
“As you say,” said Hakon, guiding her by the arm, as if he feared she might break. They made their way to where the Elder Sisters had gathered.
Gunnar looked up as the couple arrived. “This man is not a stranger to us,” he said grimly. “Hello, good fellow! The Jarl’s councils get a bit boring, did they?”
The cluster of witches parted, and they looked upon the face of Eirik, the heavily built member of Jarl Birger’s council. Sif gasped in dismay and whirled to face Gunhilde.
“We were attacked by the Jarl?” Sif cried, outraged.
“So it seems,” said Gunhilde, her face set like stone. “You have been named, Eirik Norvikson. We know who you are. Now explain yourself.”
The Jarl’s councilor struggled briefly against his bonds then seemed to think better of such an unseemly display. “I represent the interests of Jarl Birger of Visby and speak with his authority. I demand that you untie me,” he said arrogantly.
“The Jarl’s authority became somewhat tarnished when he promised us safekeeping and then tried to slaughter us,” observed Gunhilde dryly.
“Where is this promise of safekeeping?” demanded Eirik loudly. “Is it written down? Was it witnessed?”
“Ah,” said Sigrid, “so that’s how the Jarl seeks to excuse treachery. It was neither of these things, and you know it, else you would not ask.”
“Then without any evidence of teachery, I demand my release,” insisted the councilor.
“There is still the matter of your unprovoked attack upon my Sisters,” said Sif hotly.
“The Jarl had the right to defend his territory!” bellowed Eirik.
Gunhilde looked off in the distance for a moment, and her eyes blazed as she looked down once more upon the bound councilor. “Well, he’s not doing such a rutting good job, is he?” she demanded, grasping Eirik by the hair and wrenching his head in the direction of the city.
Thick black smoke rose from Visby’s harbor.
“The Skraelings have come,” snarled Gunhilde.