Page 43 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

F ear tasted bitter in her mouth. It drenched her tongue with mist and brine. She threw herself into the fight, crossing axes with a man as tall as her. Fire crackled everywhere. Ships in the harbor split in two, eaten by flames. The smoke was thick, the fog thicker.

Warlike disir blessed her. This was the place she was supposed to be.

Bjorn’s voice rang in her head. Teeth to teeth, Ilsa. Only one gets to walk away.

She’d make sure it was her. Grunting with all her might, she sliced an arc at the man battling her. Red bloomed on his shoulder. The axe bite. With an upward swing, the flat of her axe smashed his jaw. The hammer bite.

Head angled oddly, he tumbled off the dock into the water. Her second kill. The first had been on her byrding vessel.

Chest heaving, she jumped onto the dock. There was a cadence to battle. A strange rhythm in the chaos. Erik and Gunnar fought back-to-back, a well-practiced maneuver. Gunnar took on three men. Erik did the same. More men of Aseral joined the fray to defeat the famed fighters. She should help them.

Iduna and Frida were sprinting from the ruins of a longhouse, both with spears in hand. Soot smeared their faces.

Iduna’s mouth opened wide. Her fostra yelled something she couldn’t hear. She froze at the sight of her father’s dead body in the marketplace that he’d once ruled. Blood drenched his beard and tunic. He gaped at the skies. Gone forever.

The din of war clambered around her—flames crackling, iron pinging, death cries piercing her ears.

Loss gutted her. Dead widows, their clothes muddied and bloodied, Aseral’s men outnumbering them, and the mess of fallen bodies. So many of them…

We are losing.

Is Vellefold being sacrificed to the gods?

Her axe hand was sticky with blood. Red covered her arm and dripped off her fingers. She was part of this…this loss.

Chaos boomed in her ears. A high-pitched hum threatening to swallow her whole. Feet were pounding the wooden dock. Fires and more fires, big and small spread. One sound reached across the harbor.

“Ilsa!”

“Bjorn?” She stumbled, croaking his name. Battle cries had ravaged her throat.

Two men ran at her, axes raised. Her skin was icy. Weapon raised, shield ready, she would meet them. She was Viking. If this was her death day, she would meet it with courage.

Blood seeped from the first man’s ribs. Panting hard, he flew at her.

She slashed hard, iron meeting bone. His wail cut the buzzing in her ears.

She’d cut a new wound on his ribs. His tunic sagged.

Cloth soaked red and heavy, sticking like glue to him.

His body twisted awkwardly. She gritted her teeth and kicked him into the giant of a man trailing behind him.

The oaf grunted, a sweaty laboring beast with a grizzled beard that hung over his round belly.

He recovered from stumbling and tossed his fallen friend into the water. Nostrils flaring, he eyed her. Battle’s labor cost him. He lumbered forward. Beefy footfalls slammed the dock. She gulped and rammed him with all her might. He huffed when the iron shield boss slammed his belly.

His laugh was the noise of tumbling boulders. “Is that your worst?”

“You—”

A solid smack knocked her sideways. Her head whipped to one side. Black spots spun before her eyes. The dock was slippery and her sight was fading fast. The edges of her vision curled, grey and distant. Muscle and sinew jellied. A blow to her shoulder finished her. Her axe went flying.

The bearded giant chuckled at her tripping feet.

Her head lolled. She was slipping, slipping. Her shield dropped. The cumbersome giant wasn’t the last person she saw. It was Bjorn’s axe slamming into the giant who stutter-stepped before falling like a broken toy.

Bjorn raced the length of the dock and reached for her.

“ILSA!”

His hand missed her by a finger’s breadth.

The world went sideways as she fell into icy water.

Chill wetness stung her limbs. Bubbles danced around her head. She was sinking into a dark world, the bones of broken ships and broken men all around her. Light was lost to blackness creeping over her eyes.

This was her end. A battle lost, an oath unfinished.

Love gone forever.

Searing pain tore through Bjorn. His lung burst in his sprint to save Ilsa. Men and women brawled in a fight for their life. Vellefold was losing. The tide could turn if he charged the hill and broke the backs of the men pinning Gunnar and Erik.

“Bjorn!” Erik’s gravel-voiced plea ripped the air.

His feet slowed. He searched the landscape, instinct when hearing one of his brother’s call his name.

But a bear-sized man was laughing at Ilsa on the far side of the harbor.

She was no match for the over-sized warrior.

The world was spinning wrongly. Dead bodies lay in warp and weft patterns on the ground.

Odell was among them, dead from an axe wound in the gut.

The famed ivory hunter’s blank eyes stared at the skies with death’s eerie mask.

Ships were burning, smoke billowing. Blood was washing clean snow red.

This was the crash of past and present, of life and death, loyalty and love.

Blood and sweat dripped down his cheeks. His feet were stuck. His limbs, uncertain. Erik’s glare was an angry slash, the weapon as effective as the twin swords he used to cut down men.

Gunnar bellowed, “Bjorn!”

Both men called to him for help.

But a bearded giant knocked Ilsa in the head.

She could be dead! was the wail inside him.

“Bjorn!” Erik called again.

Iron resolve locked in place. His choice was clear.

He charged the dock, throwing his father’s axe with all his might at the warrior who’d struck down Ilsa.

Iron and wood spun, end over end, until it sank into the enemy’s spine.

The giant’s body hitched. He reached a flailing arm around to pull the blade out of his back.

The man turned and snarled, blood seeping over his lower lip.

One stutter step, and the enemy dropped with a thunderous slap.

All around him, Vellefold did the same. Voices cried in anguish and pain. People were on their knees, lost. The gods had passed judgment, but there was one treasure he’d not let them take.

Ilsa.

Her name rang in his head. He checked the harbor.

Air bubbles popped the water’s surface where she fell.

Ilsa’s last breaths. He dove into the water, the cold scoring his skin like needles.

Eyes open, he blinked at dead warriors and shattered ships.

He searched, frantic. Water blurred lines everywhere.

He clawed at water, kicking, swimming, searching.

Where is she?

Desperate, he dove deeper.

A thin gold line caught his eye.

Her flaxen braid was a long rope trailing above her head. He kicked the water with all his might and chased her. Deeper, deeper, everything darker. Pressure squeezed his lungs like an iron band. His ears clogged. Pitch-hued water encroached the lower he swam. Aegir was stealing her.

Ilsa was sinking, her arms wavering. He swiped fast at her braid.

And missed.

His lungs craved air. Light was nearly gone. He thrashed his legs in the watery world, going deeper. An unseen force wrapped around his skull as if to smash it. Water shrouded her in black. Only her braid was visible, a pale disappearing ribbon.

Furious with the gods, he stretched for her braid and yelled an angry demand at gods and giants.

Save Ilsa!