36. The Fading Valkyrie
XXXVI
THE FADING VALKYRIE
The sky was ash.
Seren stood over Erik, dressed in armor, her long raven hair swept back, blown by the wind, but her garments remained still. She wiped the sweat from his brow with a hand that shook from love restrained too long.
"Rise, warrior," she whispered, her voice deep yet ethereal. “I choose you.”
Erik murmured her name.
“Seren.”
She bent low, cupped his face in her hands. Their lips brushed, the memory of a kiss stolen by time—and then she faded.
"Seren," he rasped, reaching for her.
But his hand found only shadow.
A man’s voice cut through the haze. “This one calls for Seren.”
He couldn’t swallow. He tried to say her name again. His arm trembled as he reached for the place she had disappeared.
“Head wound,” someone said gruffly.
“Valkyrie,” he mumbled. “Come back, Seren.”
A voice again. “Take him to camp.”
Hands grabbed his wrists and dragged him through the dirt. His vision blurred. A shadow ripped his helmet from his head.
Was he standing, kneeling, or lying down? The world was black and blurred and upside down.
“Seren,” he whispered again—the only name his lips could form.
A shadow slammed into his gut. “Stop saying her name.”
He doubled over from the rush of pain.
“Take his weapons, strip him to his trousers, leave him in the keep’s dungeon till he wakes from his wandering.”
The urge to vomit rose to the top of his throat. Shadows stripped him to his trousers. The October cold bit his skin.
“Pagan marks!” The rough voice ripped through his ears.
He obeyed his stomach. Despite retching, nothing rendered. Curled in on himself, he whispered again, “Seren.”
A boot crushed his belly. “Stop it!”
He groaned and curled tighter.
“Is it Helheim?” he croaked, throat raw. “Valhalla?”
“He’s mumbling in another tongue. Don’t know what he’s saying.”
An enormous shadow lowered beside him, seized a fistful of Erik’s hair, and yanked back.
“I know this face. Commander Payen de Montfort.”
Erik blinked a few times, eyes trying to bring the speaker into focus. The Norman name grounded him—briefly.
“You do not get to say her name,” the shadow hissed. “You took her to that demon’s keep.”
“Payen?” another voice asked. “Like the Norman’s pagan?”
“Kill him,” said the large shadow.
“But look at his marks,” a man objected.
“And Father, why he is calling her by her name? Wouldn’t she be Lady de Thornwyck to him?” another voice.
The man who’d tied the meaning behind his false name continued. “He isn’t Norman. Look at his marks, and he said your daughter’s name. Maybe he knows why Lord Henry descended upon us.”
The large shadow, the one they called “Father,” dropped Erik’s head.
“Hold his arms,” he ordered.
Shadows dragged Erik upright, to his knees, with his arms outstretched. The movement dimmed the world. His chin dropped to his chest. Then nothing but a dark buzz.
Then—light. The cold had vanished.
Instead, warmth, a bed.
A woman beside him dabbed sweat from his brow.
“I remember you.” Her voice was low and coarse with age.
He rolled his head toward her. Her face was blurred. Long gray hair. Irises like dying autumn.
“Seren,” he asked, knowing the eyes.
“She is my daughter.” She pressed something cool against his head wound, near his temple.
He flinched. The wool blanket gathered between his fingers as he curled his hands.
“Where am I?”
“Madoc keep,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”
His head spun. The urge to vomit came again, but he forced himself not to retch in front of the lady. “Why didn’t they kill me? Why am I in a bed?”
The woman rose and stepped back. “He is of sound mind now. Fetch Chief Madoc. Quickly.” Blurs moved. A door opened and closed.
Her voice wavered. “Tell me . . . is she alive?” The question came almost as a whisper.
He covered his eyes from the sunlight. “When we left Thornwyck, she was alive.”
A breath released from Seren’s mother as if she’d set down the heaviest of loads.
The door flung open, and four men entered the tight room.
“Montfort, if that’s your name, tell me what I want to know, and you may live for now,” the largest one said. His voice boomed.
“Sit up when Chief Madoc speaks to you,” one man yelled.
Erik tried to move, to roll up as ordered, keeping his head against the wall to steady himself. He fought the urge to vomit, but his body retched.
“Get a bucket,” Seren’s mother ordered.
Two blurs rushed toward him, and he finally released whatever was left in his stomach just as the bucket slammed beneath his mouth. Someone wiped his lips.
He curled against the wall and closed his eyes. His head pounded. “I am—” he stopped.
But through the haze of pain, Seren’s voice stirred from memory: “Erik.”
He wouldn’t be Henry’s tool anymore.
The bucket slid back, ready at his silence. But he pushed it away. His stomach was satisfied.
“My name is Erik Bjornsson,” he mumbled, words slurring. “Lord Henry named me Payen de Montfort.”
“A conquered man. Norseman,” one muttered and took hold of Erik’s shoulder as Madoc leaned in, his breath hot and furious.
“My men found you alive when every other Norman bled into the grass. Why? How did you survive when trained knights did not?”
Erik swallowed, vision swimming. “Something struck my helm. I remember the sky . . . then nothing.”
“Convenient,” Madoc snarled. “A commander found alive after battle, calling for my daughter? Sounds like Henry sent you ahead to open our gates from within.”
The man holding him rammed a finger into the inked shaft of Odin’s spear—an oath-mark from another life.
“Wait,” he whispered. His finger dug deep. “It can’t be.”
Erik groaned and pulled away.
The man squeezed his shoulder. “He wears—”
“It can’t be,” Madoc echoed, shoving Erik’s head into the wall and wrenching his shoulder to examine it.
Erik grunted as his hand curled into a fist.
“Tell me, Erik,” Seren’s mother said, now beside him. Her soft fingers brushed his old wound.
“Did my daughter stitch this?”
Erik swallowed his spit to appease the dry ache in his throat. “Yes.”
“Do you know what she did to you?”
Madoc held him fast as if he were going to be a threat to his wife.
“She gave me her star,” he whispered. “I told her I would carry her with me wherever I go. She said she gave them to her brothers so they would not miss her when she was taken away.”
Madoc slammed his head back against the wall.
“Did you make my daughter an adulteress? Is that why Henry attacks us?”
Erik shook his head. “No,” he croaked.
Madoc squeezed harder, then released him. Erik gasped for air. His lungs burned.
“So why did she give you what was meant for kin?” a man asked—likely one of Seren’s brothers.
“I don’t—,” Erik slurred. “She is blameless. She is strong. Clever. We became friends. I protected her from Henry as best I could. She loves my son. And I fell in love with her.” The confession felt good. He paused and let the words settle. “She’s my Valkyrie.”
Seren’s mother’s voice slipped between the men’s anger. “You say you love her. But does she love you?” she asked, though her gaze remained on his shoulder.
Erik’s breath shook. “Before I left, she touched her lips to my cheek—just enough to graze mine.” He touched the corner of his lips, remembering the warmth of her breath.
His hand fell into his lap. “It was her boundary. Because she would not break her vow, not even in private, not even to die loved.”
He whispered again to settle the doubts, “She is no adulteress. But she is the most loyal soul I have ever known.”
“Yet you fight against her homeland?” Madoc raised a fist, but Seren’s mother lifted her hand.
“Let him explain,” she asked, voice soft but firm.
Erik scanned their faces. All echoes of Seren. They were her kin.
“I fight for Henry,” he said, voice rough, “because he holds my son’s life in his hands.”
The truth settled hard in his chest. There was nothing noble in it, only survival.
“Before we departed, I asked her if she would still choose me, knowing who I fought.”
He hesitated and swallowed hard.
“She said yes.”
The word alone stole his breath.
“For one moment, I let myself believe I could save her. That somehow, if I obeyed, if I endured, we would both live.” He shook his head as another bitter truth soured his tongue. “But I know better. So does she.”
He lifted his eyes to Madoc’s.
“I’ve never lost a campaign. I’ve never been thrown from a horse.
Until now.” He drew in a raw, shaky breath.
“It wasn’t just the fall. It was a warning—an omen.
She told me that Henry would kill her, no matter the outcome of this.
If he gains victory over you, she’s no longer useful.
If you defeat him, he’ll lay the blame at her feet. ”
Madoc studied Erik. “Are you going to let her die?”
“She told me to let her—so her son wouldn’t begin his rule in blood.” His vision cleared. His voice cracked. “If I kill Henry, all she’s suffered—all she’s survived—is for nothing. She’ll be bartered to another lord for peace. She’s already bled more than any man I’ve led into war.”
At her mother’s hitched breath, a memory cut through him—Seren beneath the orchard boughs, her daughters laughing as she pressed crushed blackberries on their cheeks.
Vala had called it war paint. Their laughter burned through his heart.
Seren had turned to glance at him; her eyes were bright with joy, even though bruises littered her cheek and neck.
He broke. Tears slipped free. Maybe it was the head wound. Maybe it was the crack in the soul speaking words he had never been free to say.
“I am a broken man. She healed me. But to watch her die . . .” He shook his head. The words came from a clogged throat. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to let her die.”
He was unraveling—a warrior no longer.
“I love her,” he said again, voice hoarse and blood-rough. “Don’t let him kill her.”
Madoc’s stare lingered on Erik—long enough to see if the Norseman would flinch.
Then he stepped back, jaw tight.
“You say you love her,” he said quietly. “Then bleed for her.”
He turned toward the door, pausing only to add, “Prove you’re worth saving. Then we’ll see if you’re worth her heart.”
Erik didn’t answer as they left him. Guards stood at the door. His head slumped back against the wall, eyes closing around the name he’d die whispering: Seren.
The October cold turned biting as the November days bled into December.
Viggo—the mud-stained horse—had returned to the marchland border without his rider, and the warriors brought him in. They cared for him well. They did not extend the same courtesy to Erik.
And in the slow climb back to strength, purpose returned with every breath bent toward saving her in a way unknown. Under guard, his head cleared. His ribs knit in healing.
They forced him into labor: hauling timber, repairing nets, splitting logs slick with frost. He obeyed each order without protest. He kept his eyes down, his mouth shut, and his temper buried. The men watched for a sign of rebellion and received none.
Rumors flew anyway.
The knight who crossed them.
The knight who warned them.
The knight who said Henry would kill their chief’s daughter if he returned with or without victory.
Whether they believed him didn’t matter. Only Madoc’s verdict did.
And at last, Madoc sent for him.
The chief’s longhouse carved a warm glow into the frigid dark December night. Erik stepped inside, guards flanking him. Smoke curled toward the beams overhead. Men gathered around the table fell silent as he entered—some glaring, some wary—but none friendly.
Madoc stood at the head, palms planted, shoulders taut with days of cold and unspoken grief.
“You’ve kept your head low,” he said without a greeting. “You’ve worked, obeyed, and waited.”
Madoc’s gaze sharpened. “You gave me the truth. You swore it when I brought you here. You said Henry would kill Seren when he returned home defeated or not.”
His voice thinned. “Now the scouts tell me Henry retreated at dusk yesterday.”
Erik swallowed. “Then you know what that means.”
The chief’s jaw flexed. “Say it, so they hear it from you.”
“Lady Seren’s in danger,” Erik answered. “When Henry reaches Thornwyck, she won’t see another sunrise.”
A murmur stirred among the men. Madoc silenced them with a look. He stepped from the table. The room tightened around him.
“You were his commander,” Madoc said. “Rode at his side. Took his pay. Enforced his will.”
Erik didn’t deny the truth. The men’s snarls only proved how deeply Henry’s shadow reached.
Madoc’s eyes flickered—pain, then fury, then something older and deeper.
“What would you have me do to save her life?” the chief asked.
Mutterings rippled, but Madoc locked eyes with Erik, ignoring them.
Madoc wasn’t handing him trust—only the hard question of a father who finally understood the danger, and recognized that Erik alone knew the shape of Henry’s retreat.
“Unite the north,” Erik said. “Gather the chiefs and bring only the fighters who can ride swiftly and strike quickly. No siege lines, wagons, or trophies. Ride light, ride now, and catch Henry before he regroups. Come spring, he will have new supply lines, fresh troops, and new weapons. He’ll return stronger, and you’ll fall. Strike now while he’s vulnerable.”
A long breath escaped Madoc.
“Let me go tonight,” Erik said. “I know the roads he’ll take, the pace his men keep, the markers he favors. If I push my horse, I can reach Thornwyck before he kills her and use your advance as leverage to save her life.”
Madoc studied him for a moment.
“You would give your life for her.”
“Yes.”
Something inside Madoc shifted. It seemed a new direction was given to his grief.
He turned toward his captains. “Wake the runners. Light the beacons. Call the clans to arms. The Welsh march on Thornwyck. If my daughter is murdered, we will not leave a soul within those walls breathing.”
The men shot to their feet.
Madoc faced Erik again. “Ride without armor. Only your axes. A horse flies when it carries no extra weight.” His eyes narrowed. “If you reach Thornwyck before Henry . . . pull her from those walls.”
“I will,” Erik said.
“And if you fail . . . ” Madoc breathed hard, steadying himself, but his face hardened.
Erik didn’t look away. “If she dies, others in that keep die with her. Innocent ones. You know this.”
Madoc held his stare, then stepped closer until their breath mingled in the cold air. “And, Commander—if you only seek to return to your master, I will make your pain tenfold.”
Erik’s voice stayed level. “He may have forced obedience. But my loyalty belongs to Lady Seren.”
He motioned to a scout. “Ride far enough to ensure he clears our borders alive.” He turned to a stable hand. “Give him whatever horse will carry him fastest.”
Erik bowed once. “My horse will do.”
Madoc’s last words followed him like a warning bell:
“If you mean to save her, ride. If you betray us—pray the Marches take you first.”
He would ride hard. The Norseman turned toward the dark outside, the frost biting at his nose, with her voice echoing in the space between his breaths: “Return to us, Erik.”