Ragnvald saw the volley of arrows coming toward them in time to crouch behind a fallen shield and protect himself, but Harald caught one through the shoulder, right at the gap in his armor. It went through the joint, a spot to paralyze his sword arm. A band of men bore down on them from the woods. No one, Ragnvald thought distantly, had followed his plan to clear out the woods after the battle turned.
Ragnvald tried to grip his ax two-handed, but his right would not obey him. The leading man was certainly Gudbrand, his hair bound around his forehead with a golden band, his beard long and gray. He led a band of fiercer warriors than any Ragnvald had seen in the shield walls. They were bigger, their shields bitten more deeply by sword cuts, the swords themselves slim and bright-polished, Frankish steel. Ragnvald stared at them for an agonizing moment longer. They moved so quickly, and his feet were rooted to the ground.
They were going for Harald. Ragnvald commanded his legs to move, his hand to grasp. He had to hold his ax up, to protect Harald. This was why the gods had put him here, given him the dream, kept him from dying in the fjord. Solvi’s knife, Olaf’s betrayal, all had led him here, and yet his body would not obey him.
One thing left, he told himself, then rest. He picked up his ax and ran for Harald, who was still pinned to the ground by the arrow. Harald started to sit up as he saw the men coming for him, but his arm dangled useless at his side. He looked shocked and insensible, the fire from before gone from him.
“Get behind me,” said Ragnvald. “Stand up when you can. You still have one working arm.”
Ragnvald was cold where the blood from his own left arm had soaked through his shirt. His right hand no longer felt hot, but boneless, dead already. He gripped the ax with his left and chopped into the first comer, then the second. He did not care if he killed them, only that he cleared them away from Harald. Dimly he noticed that others had joined them, that Harald stood next to him again, holding his sword awkwardly in his left hand.
Then something hit him wetly in the head, and he fell to earth.
*
Crows wheeled above Ragnvald, as they did in the land of the dead, except he could not imagine that in any of Hel’s misty realms he would be this thirsty, or hurt this much. A woman stood over him: this was Urd, with her dark hair and a raven on her shoulder. She was not a Valkyrie, but one of the fates, come to tell him what might come next for him, or here to cut off his life.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Come to kill me.”
She did not seem to see him from above. Her hair flew behind her like a banner. She stooped down to one of the men and gave him water. Water, Ragnvald needed water more than he needed anything else. He tried to raise his right arm, but it would not move. He shifted and wrenched at whatever weighed him down until the left one did.
“Water,” he croaked. “Water.”
She walked as if she would pass him by. All around smelled of blood and death, of bowels opened by swords. And of dirt. He lay in the dirt, the mud churned up from a dozen feet.
“Water,” he said again. “Water,” he said. He would chant it until he died. She turned and brushed her hair away from where the wind had blown it in her face, her eyes scanning the ground.
“I might have a live one here,” she called out. “Noble enough. He’s got a helm.”
“Ours or theirs?” someone else called back. A man’s voice.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“There’ll be a reward if it’s the cousin of that boy-lord, Heming—Ragnvald—that’s who they’re looking for. They want to give him a proper burial.” That was nice, they wanted to give him a proper burial. Ragnvald would like that, to lie in a clean, sheltered barrow, to rest.
“I’m Ragnvald,” he said as the woman stooped down by him, her hand on her dagger. A strand of her hair swept over his cheek. She looked like Alfrith, the island witch. “You can bury me,” he whispered to her.
“He says he’s Ragnvald,” said the woman. She smelled like clean water.
“Water,” he said. He wanted that, and a barrow—a barrow with water, or ale. Nothing more. He told her this.
“You are Ragnvald?” she asked, suddenly dubious.
“Yes,” he said. “Help me.”
Hands came and touched him, lifted him. He could not move parts of his body; some were numb, while others sang with pain. Did he still have all his parts? Did he have a raw wound like the draugr’s, splitting his head?
They took him to a tent full of the dead and dying and laid him there. Then someone touched his hand, and he started crying and begging. Someone else put a hand over his mouth.
“Honor yourself,” said the voice, a woman’s. Svanhild, perhaps. She always told him the right thing to do. He went quiet.
Someone touched his hand again, and this time it was too much pain for him to remain conscious. The goddess Ran and her dark waters were waiting for him, the depths of forgetfulness, her hall of drowned sailors. Where he belonged.
*
When he woke again, it was dark in the tent. He turned his head and looked toward the door, where torchlight approached, outlining the figure of a man in its glow. It was Harald; no other warrior was so tall. The light made the edges of his hair shine gold, and cast his face entirely in darkness. A golden wolf. In Ragnvald’s fever, he had chosen this golden boy, this would-be king.
“What has happened to me?” Ragnvald asked.
Harald started, as though he had not expected Ragnvald to speak. He said some low words to his guards, and they turned and left, taking the light with them. “You are injured,” he said.
“How?” Ragnvald tried to sit up, and his head swam. Harald’s face wavered. “Did you let them take my hand?”
“No,” said Harald. “They wanted to, while you were gone from us, but I wanted to ask you first. A man should be allowed to choose.” He edged back from Ragnvald as though he could be infected by Ragnvald’s injuries. Still, he did not turn to leave. That meant something.
“No, if I am dying, let me die of it. I do not want to live without my sword hand.” Ragnvald let his head fall back onto the pillow. The beams of the ceiling overhead spun and continued spinning even after he closed his eyes.
“I would say the same,” said Harald. “A man who cannot wield a sword cannot be king.” He grew quiet.
“What happened? How long . . . ?” Ragnvald asked.
“You last fought a week ago. You saved my life, and my mother saved yours.”
“If I do die, let me take up my sword.”
“It was left on the field,” said Harald. “Someone will find it and bring it to you. If not, you may hold my sword, until I can give you one for yourself. I promise.”
“Do you believe I will go to Valhalla?” Ragnvald asked. He did not think so. He was Ragnvald Half-Drowned; he needed to find the half he had left behind. Maybe it was out in the water, the cooling water. He was thirsty again. Harald held a cup to his lips with such gentleness that tears pricked in Ragnvald’s eyes. He could not bear kindness right now, but he wanted Harald to stay. A warrior should stand vigil for a warrior’s death.
“You will be king,” said Ragnvald. “You are mighty.”
“I almost fell,” said Harald. He sounded uncertain.
“Luck was with you.”