Page 45 of The Last Valkyrie (Vikingrune Academy #4)

Chapter 45

Grim

ONE OF THE WATCHTOWERS on the wall had burst into flames. A section of the high stone wall was down, letting in a flurry of dark shapes and a much, much larger shape behind them.

The Huscarls and cadets manning the wall were dead, and the ones on the ground were fighting for their lives in a panicked display of discord, trying to stem the flow of invasion. They were courageous, valiant defenders, and my bare feet hurried toward them as I drew closer with Magnus and Arne, until our trot became a run.

“Here!” Magnus said to my right, and I glanced over just in time to see him pick up a sword from a fallen soldier and toss it through the air at me.

It was no war-axe, which had been left in Fort Woden after my first shift, but it would do. I spun the blade in my hand, snagging an errant shield from the ground as I charged and yelled a battle-cry to let the defenders know reinforcements were on the way.

We were only three—not much against the dozens flooding the gates—but my call-to-arms was met by an echo of raised voices behind us.

Glimpsing back, I saw a gold-armored wall rushing to help in defense, and a bronze hue of bare skin behind them.

The Ljosalfar and Skogalfar would be joining us.

Lifting my sword, I careened into battle, the first dark elf in front of me turning around from his battle with a Huscarl just in time to earn a blade through his back.

I wiped the impaled menace off my sword then spun to meet the next in line. There were at least ten behind him, yet I fought without care or forethought. I simply acted.

Arne began with his customary sheets of ice, slicking the battlefield and sending elves sprawling to their knees and backs as they slid. Magnus wielded his coagulated bloodblade and shot into the brawl with the same fervor as the rest of us.

If Vikingrune Academy was going to survive, it would happen here. This inflection point, this bottleneck at the southern gate, was where the main force of Dokkalfar had focused their attack. The draug had simply been a distraction—a well-timed, well-orchestrated one that nearly brought the academy to its knees.

But still we fought on, despite the overwhelming odds against us. Because this was our home, a place for outcasts like me and legacy students alike, with generations of memories and stories and training sculpting our collective lives. We couldn’t simply let it fall to invaders from another realm. It didn’t fucking matter which realm—Jotunheim, Svartalfheim, Muspelheim, Hel.

I drew a lot of attention because of my large size and nude stature, a berserk brute on the cusp of losing my mind to the red curtain that always nagged at the back of my head.

I knew a trance-state would put my own people in jeopardy, so I held back as long as I could, swinging into the crowd of bodies and hacking at dark elves as quickly as they popped up.

These were skilled warriors, much unlike the draug before them. They moved fast, avoiding my attacks, nicking me with slices here and there, which I ignored with practiced ease.

My blood rushed, body growing warm as the berserk rage clawed further up my spine, trying to reach my brain where it could change me.

Gritting my teeth, I snarled at the nearest elf and locked my eyes at the huge figure behind him as it came into view through the cloud of dust.

The jotun noticed me first—the largest of my people—and grinned. The man was massive, the only living creature on two legs I’d ever seen to dwarf me. It had a huge belly and sturdy legs the size of tree trunks, lifting him to the height of two men, at least twelve feet high. Strange shapes of ink, swirling tattoos of power, lined every fiber of his greenish-brown skin. It wore a loincloth and nothing else, wielding a massive war-club that put the dinky sword in my hand to shame.

Dark elves streaming into the battle avoided the jotun, and one that got too close earned a club across the face, exploding his head like a watermelon.

Interesting , I thought, shoving the dark elf in front of me aside so I could charge at the jotun. Almost like the jotnar and Dokkalfar alliance doesn’t run as deep as we thought.

No other cadets in the vicinity were equipped to face this monster. Hel, I wasn’t either, but I had to try. He was already killing my people—a single swipe of its club sent two soldiers flying ten feet away in sprays of red.

The lane cleared and I saw my opening.

Before I could charge, the jotun brought his club down on the ground and cracked the earth in a zigzag of grooves that made me reel.

Then it charged, and I roared and met him.

I raised my shield—foolishly—and the beast brought his club down. The shield exploded in a million splinters, shards sticking into my forearms as I felt my bones jar and crack from the intense hit.

Fighting dizziness, I bounced on my feet toward the beast, using my smaller size and greater speed to get under his arm before he could reel his club back for another strike.

My left arm was useless now, numb. I jabbed my sword into its belly—

The sword fucking bent , meeting thick skin like it was platemail.

“Fuck,” I groaned—

A second before the giant backhanded me and sent me flying, white lights shooting behind my lids.

I went weightless, floundering through the air, and landed heavily many feet away on my back, blinking up in a daze.

A dark elf stood over me, blade raised with a sinister grin on his face, ready to plunge it down into my bare chest.

And unlike the jotun, my skin wasn’t like armor.

I clenched my teeth, ready for the end—

THUNK.

The dark elf launched skyward. I’d never seen so many fucking bodies getting tossed around like ragdolls.

A huge tower shield barricaded me, easily six feet in height.

I blinked up at the huge, armored form of Thane Canute, who had rushed in and blasted the elf away with his massive shield.

A hand came into my peripheral vision and reached down. “Get off your ass, lazy bear.” Sven Torfen gave me a crooked smile, and I’d never been so elated to see my former rival. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, his eyes were tired and wild, and a nasty bruise had formed around his face.

Seemed getting out of Fort Woden for the wolf hadn’t been a walk in the park.

I took his hand and he grunted as he helped me to my feet. “Heavy bastard,” he complained.

“Salos?” I asked.

Sven shook his head, meeting my gaze. “No more.”

Working my jaw, I nodded firmly. That was all that needed to be said. I clapped him on the shoulder, sending him wobbling a few feet to the side. “Good to see you still alive, wolf.”

“Shield wall!” a voice called from the west.

Our heads whipped over to the sight of Hersir Axel Osfen, newly arrived with Huscarl reinforcements. They looked much more ready and aligned for the fight ahead than the initial defenders of the wall had seemed.

Sven grunted. “Better get to it then, eh?”

He dashed away before I could respond, lifting his sword and shield to join Axel and the incoming wall of muscle, armor, and spears. The Ljosalfar weren’t far behind us to the north, and the Skogalfar were already starting their deadly volleys with arrows punching into dark armor along the wall.

For the first time, I felt we finally had a chance to defend this junction. To push the Dokkalfar back and claim victory, even if only for a moment. It would be a huge morale boost.

Yet Ravinica is still missing, and my morale will never boost as long as she’s gone. The rage in my head swirled, threatening to unchain.

The sound-barrier-breaking blasts of Thane Canute’s shield rang out, and for a moment I was stunned to see the huge warrior fending off against the jotun singlehandedly—faring much better than I had.

There was magic in that shield, I was sure of it. If anyone ever deserved the title of “Defender of Vikingrune,” it was that one-eyed motherfucker right there.

Through the slowly lifting fog of dust and grime, I glanced far to my left to see how our flank was doing on the outskirts.

And that’s when I spotted Hersir Ingvus Jorthyr. He was decidedly not locked in the battle like the rest of us. I squinted, because he was . . .

Talking to a gods-damned Dokkalfar?!

The Steward of Vikingrune nodded to a shadowy, white-haired man near a section of the wall that was still intact, just under the rafters of a watchtower.

A dark cloak shrouded his face, but I had a profile view of him, and those blond braids running down to his chest were impossible to hide.

Twisting my head back to the fight, I saw that our people were starting to get the battle in hand, fighting ferociously against the Dokkalfar and even forcing the single jotun back toward the wall as Magnus and Arne joined Canute to fight him.

So I ran toward Ingvus to the left, fifty feet from the battle. The dark elf had vanished into the shadows, leaving the cunning Hersir alone. He began walking away, further east and further from the fight.

“ Jorthyr !” I roared, twenty feet away and still moving.

Ingvus froze. He dashed a look over his shoulder, the whites in his eyes growing bigger.

He took off into the shadowy scaffolding under the watchtower.

I sprinted after him, with only a bent sword in my hand.

The sprawl of battle behind me intensified, the cries and clangs growing louder.

I dashed into muffled silence within the open alcove of the watchtower, under crisscrossing sections of lumber that held the tower up.

Slowing my roll, I muttered, “What kind of treachery are you playing at, Steward?”

A blade emerged from my left, a flash of moonlight on the steel saving my life.

I lifted my sword to desperately parry, just as Ingvus Jorthyr tore from the darkness with a snarl on his face.

He hacked at me, fighting with the trained ruthlessness of a Huscarl. The jailer moved fast, aiming at weak points of my body—veins and muscles that kept everything working.

I backpedaled and fended him off, swinging my sword around in an effort to keep him from striking me.

“They are the future, cur,” he growled as he struck at me. “No one else seems to under stand that!” A particularly vicious hack caught my blade and nearly knocked it from my grip.

I dug in, charging at him, lowering my shoulder.

He sidestepped and slashed across me, nearly severing a tendon and drawing blood and an echoing growl from my lips.

“If we want to survive, we have to compromise, as Salos said!”

His next strike allowed me to pivot, giving my front foot more leverage, and I drilled the tall Hersir with a bone-jarring strike that seemed to dizzy him as he parried.

“Salos is dead,” I answered. “Your traitorous compromise is finished, Ingvus.”

He scoffed. “Nice try. I don’t listen to animals.”

Memories of him talking me down, wishing for me to be caged—doing everything in his power to make my life Hel—swirled through me.

My berserk rage burst free, and finally I became undone. I saw the shift in his eyes. The determination and anger switching to fear and uncertainty. Red clouded my vision. I swung unnaturally fast, forcing him back, back, back, until he was against the stone wall of the academy.

He met my blade, circled his wrist, and got the upper-hand with his sword over mine. Our blades locked, his eyes glanced down my naked front. “Problem with having a big cock, barbarian?” He grinned wickedly. “Big target.”

He slashed down with pinpoint accuracy and forced me to curve my body inward, neglecting any chance at a parry so I could protect my manhood.

His sword dug into my thigh, dangerously close to my femoral artery. Blood spurt, I dropped my sword and fell to a knee as the rage swelled inside me.

Ingvus brought his arm back to try and behead me—

But my hand caught his wrist like a stone wall, the extended sword inches from my neck.

The Steward gasped.

I snarled like the animal he claimed I was and snapped his wrist with an easy twist .

His gasp became a shriek.

Then I launched to my feet and clamped my jaws around his supple, skinny throat. My burning red eyes told the entire story as I chewed into his neck with my teeth, a gout of blood bubbling up from the wound around my lips.

Ingvus’ voice became a garbled mess, a gurgle.

I pulled back viciously with my teeth, bringing veins and stringy tendons steaming out of the cavernous wound. My hand latched around the slippery remains of his neck and I slammed the back of his skull into the stone wall behind him.

With a sickening crunch , a splatter of red inked the wall, and his eyes rolled. I slammed his head a second time, creating a bigger circle of blood, mixing it with fragments of bone.

Releasing my hand around his throat, Ingvus dropped bonelessly to the ground in a heap.

I stared down at the jailer, the supposed “steward” of this place, and spit his flesh out of my mouth onto his corpse.

My berserk rage, fueled by his hate, thinned from a boil into a simmer. But it wasn’t because of Ingvus’ death that my rage was quelled—it was never easy to turn off the berserk trance once it began.

No, it was because I noticed a shape in the purple sky through the crisscrossed, airy ceiling of the watchtower, silhouetted against the moon. The figure flew above the academy high in the clouds, shaped like a dragon or a maiden on a winged steed.

My heart soared, my anger died, replaced by hope.

Ravinica!