It felt like an eternity.
Sweat ran in rivulets down my back, making me long for the frigid winds of the prior day, but the sky was clear, the morning sun cutting through the boughs of the trees and giving me no respite as it melted away the prior day’s snow. Though the tips of my toes were numb, the rest of them throbbed unmercifully with each stride across the wet earth, the full belly of food Bodil had cajoled me into eating threatening to rise.
“You look ready to spill your guts,” Bjorn said under his breath from where he walked at my left. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“You said I wouldn’t die today,” I reminded him. “Besides, once the battle starts, I won’t feel the pain.”
“The former was said while very little of the blood in my body was servicing the part that does the thinking,” he hissed. “As for the latter, who the fuck told you that bullshit?”
“Probably you.” I winced as my toe caught against a tree root, pain lancing up my leg. “The source of all bullshit.”
Bjorn kicked a rock, sending it flying through the trees and nearly hitting Bodil, who turned around and shot him a glare before disappearing into the distance.
“Everyone is in position,” I reminded him. “If we delay for the sake of my toes, we risk discovery. We need this fortress. Not only to house our people come winter, but to protect them when Nordeland tries to attack.”
“I’m aware of the stakes.” He caught hold of my arm, pulling me to a stop. “You don’t attack the strong when you’re weak, Freya. You bide your time.”
“I am not weak.” I snapped the words despite the fact it was fear, not anger, that blossomed in my veins. So much depended on me in this fight. So much depended on us winning this fight, because retreat would not take us out of reach of winter. Jerking free, I strode forward until I reached Snorri, hoping he’d deter Bjorn from making any more comments to undercut my confidence.
A fool’s hope.
“Father,” he said, coming up on Snorri’s opposite side, “we need to delay. Wait for Bodil’s healer and have him see to Freya before we proceed.” He hesitated, then added, “Her role is crucial. If she falters, all of us are dead men.”
“I’m not a man,” I muttered.
“Thank you for clarifying that point,” Bjorn retorted. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You two quarrel like children!” Casting dark glares at both of us, Snorri gestured with one hand. “Freya, run to those trees.”
“What?” I demanded. “Why?”
“If you can run, you can fight. Go.”
Not giving myself time to think about it, I broke into a sprint, my shield bouncing on my back. Each step felt like knives slicing my feet but I ignored the pain and pushed for more speed, focusing on finding level ground so that I wouldn’t stumble. I could do this. I had to.
Sweat poured down my brow as the trees drew closer, then my eyes moved beyond. To one of Snorri’s warriors, who was riffling through the pockets of a man bleeding out on the ground. A hunter, judging from the bow next to him. Sliding to a stop, I demanded, “Who is that?”
“Someone with eyes,” the warrior answered, pulling silver rings off the hunter’s fingers and shoving them onto his own. The dying man stared at me, mouth opening and shutting, blood trickling down his chin courtesy of the arrow through his throat, then his eyes went dim, body limp.
Dead.
I’d seen more dead men than I could count, victims of raiders who’d come to take from my people. To kill my people. To steal away my people and turn them into thralls. But this was different.
This time I was the raider.
My throat burned and I swallowed bile even as I turned to Snorri, ready to tell him that my feet were too injured for me to fight. To buy time to figure out another way to take this fortress than by force. But before I could speak, he said, “The time for retreat is over. Now we fight. Send up the signal.”
All around us, the warriors sloughed off the things they would not need, pulling shields from their backs and drawing weapons, the markings on their faces monstrous and terrifying where a heartbeat before they’d been only ashes and paint. Bodil withdrew a pot from her belongings and approached me, removing the lid to reveal blue paint. With her fingers she covered the skin around my eyes, then drew small droplets down my cheeks. “They say Hlin kisses away the tears of those who weep for the fallen,” she murmured. “May the world drown in the tears left in the wake of our blades today.”
I swallowed and gave a tight nod even as one of the men called, “The decoy forces have signaled. They move to attack.”
“As do we,” Snorri said. Reaching down, he ran his hand across the blood pooled next to the cooling corpse, then went to Bjorn, dragging his palm across his son’s face. “Don’t disappoint me.”
Bjorn didn’t answer, but his axe appeared in his hand, the divine fire burning in a silent inferno as his gaze locked on mine, sending a shiver coursing over me. He looked as dangerous as I’d ever seen him, eyes full of anger, and I turned away.
Because his anger was for me.
We moved down the mountain slope toward the plumes of smoke rising above the fortress. Not the orderly ranks used by the nations in the distant south, but like a pack of wolves moving through the trees on silent feet, teeth and claws formed of steel.
We reached the tree line, and I got my first glimpse of Gnut’s fortress, my chest tightening, for Bjorn’s description had not done it justice.
Easily three times the size of Halsar, Grindill was flanked to the north by a turbid river, called the Torne. The west side overlooked a cliff, leaving the south and east sides of the fortress approachable. Except it was also surrounded by a deep trench filled with sharpened stakes, passable only over a wooden bridge. But what stole my breath was the circular wall beyond. Steep embankments of earth covered with stakes were topped with towering wooden walls, which must have had a platform behind them, for I could see the heads and shoulders of a handful of archers standing upon them. There was only one entrance on this side, which was shut, more archers peering out of a covered structure built over the thick wooden gate.
Shouts filtered out from the fortress, the decoy force formed primarily of Bodil’s maidens having begun their attack on the south gate, and those trapped outside raced toward the east entrance, seeking refuge.
The archers above only shook their heads, their eyes on the tree line where we lurked, expressions grim. I didn’t blame them, for they were few in number, which meant the diversion had worked. Gnut’s spies had told him that I trained with Bodil’s maidens, which meant he believed I was with them and had drawn his forces to meet me at the main gate.
Leaving his arse exposed to the true attack.
“This one,” I heard Snorri say, and I turned to find him pointing at an old oak within the sea of pines. Bjorn dropped his shield, taking hold of the haft of his axe with both hands. With a grunt of effort, he swung, and the tree groaned as the blade of fire dug deep into its flesh. Bjorn wrenched it free, muscles straining, then swung again with unerring aim. A drop of sweat cut a line through the blood smeared across his face as he swung a third time.
The oak moaned its death cry as it slowly toppled, gaining speed as it fell to smash into the open field. Those gathered at the base of the wall screamed in panic, some wisely running away from the fortress, though many remained, pleading to be let in.
I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing their fear. Knowing what it felt like to be descended upon with safety just out of reach. Run, I willed them as Bjorn cut the tree to a manageable length, others moving to wrap rope around the trunk. As they hoisted the ram off the ground, those on the wall called the alarm. Called for reinforcements.