Page 99 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3

There had been games, riddles, and wrestling, and enough meat to fill a man’s belly thrice over.

Later, Elswyth, overcome by the warmth of the room, had gone to take some air—and Olaf had challenged him to a drinking contest. Ten horns they’d supped dry. “Climb on the table,” Olaf had said. “Whoever reaches the end first, without falling off, will be the winner.”

But he’d heard a scream. Then shouting.

Fire!

He’d looked up. The roof was crackling, amber licking between the timbers, eating the turf—dry from the good weather. Chunks were falling through.

Eirik’s heart leapt in panic.

There were flames!

He squeezed Helka’s hand fiercely and drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with air.

“F-fire!” He forced out the word. “Fire!” He gulped down more air. “Helka! Fire!”

He needed to waken properly and open his eyes. He needed to warn them. Get everyone to safety. His shoulders lifted a tiny fraction, but it was as if a great weight were pressing him back. He fought to sit up, and a terrible pain bolted beneath his ribs.

“Shh, calm yourself.” Helka’s hand touched his chest. “We’re all safe. The fire’s out now.”

She paused momentarily. “What else, Eirik? What else do you remember?”

He’d leapt down from the table. Flaming torches flew through the doorway, but still people pushed, stumbling, calling to each other, running to escape.

Helka was nearby, coughing through the smoke. Grabbing her, he rushed forward, and they were out, but the hem of her gown was alight. To smother the flames, he pushed her to the ground.

It should have been dark, but the fire lit everything in its glow. Where was Elswyth? Was she safe?

And then he saw. Amidst the smoke and the shouts and the rush of bodies, there were others. Standing, watching. A shout of command and a glint of steel.

Instinctively, his hands reached for his sword, but there was no scabbard at his belt. Only his ceremonial dagger hung there.

He barely had time to clasp its jeweled hilt when he was pierced by pain. He saw the blade thrust clean through. Blood bubbled into his mouth; the dagger slipped from his hand. And then he was on his back, the ground strangely soft, and a figure loomed above.

Someone called his name.

The violet sky grew darker and the shouts around him faint, until there was only the ragged rattle of his breath.

The far-off voice was no more.

And the light, too, faded.

* * *

Helka

“Eirik!” Helka pinched his cheeks.

It had taken more than three phases of the moon for her brother to wake. She wouldn’t allow him to slip away again so soon.

In the first days, she’d thought him lost. The injury was too severe; how could he recover? But her brother was strong. More than any other man she knew.

The Norns had woven a cruel fate for Svolvaen that night, but the blade that pierced him had only nicked his lung, penetrating beneath his ribs. He’d spilled much blood and fought a fever, but it had passed—the wound healing well, though he’d remained unconscious.

She’d never given up hope that he’d return to her, insisting that she tend him in her own hut. Propping him up, she’d spooned tiny amounts of broth between his lips, massaging his throat to make him swallow.

At last, one eye fluttered open.