Valura woke to the screams of the ravens, and she knew her fever was
broken. She felt hollow and flayed, as though her skin had been
stripped and burned in a fire. She stirred in the darkness
belowdecks, and the sound of waves and the birds haunted her. She
did not know how long she had been abed.
She shoved the furs off and sat up, fighting past a wave of weakness.
Hunger chewed at her belly and she scooped up a bowl of cold stew
from beside her bunk and swilled it down. The lack of motion beneath
her feet told her the ship was ashore, so the army had arrived, and
she had likely been left behind with the coal-chewers and the camp
women. It made her want to spit. At last a war fit for her axe and
she was left behind with a gods-cursed fever.
The axe she dreamed of lay close at hand, leaning against the inner
wall of the hull, and she caught it up and stumbled forward, reeling
from beam to beam until she could push through the leather curtain
and climb up into the daylight. The smell of salt and smoke was as
familiar to her as the feel of armor and shield, but the ravens
circling overhead were disquieting.
Wind whipped her pale hair back from her brow, and she felt the cold
bite her skin through the sweat-stained shift she wore. She felt
weakness and drove it back with hatred. It was cold today, and the
wind was coming down from the hills and sweeping across the stony
shore. The sky was low and gray, seeming like a stone roof close
enough to touch.
The ninety ships of the invasion force lay around her. Some, like
her own ship, were drawn up on the shore, hulls propped with beams to
keep them level on their keels. Many more ships lay at anchor
behind, rolling in the swells. There was not room for all of them on
this lonely strand. Ashore, the ground was covered with tents and
cookfires and heaps of supply. This had been built as a camp for the
army to use before venturing out into the hard lands in search of
Hror the killer, and as a redoubt to fall back on if need be.
She took her wolfskin from the hook on the mast and shrugged it over
her shoulders. Barefoot, she went to the gunwale and jumped over,
dropped hard to the pebbled beach. One of her hearthmen came
hurrying to meet her, looking worried. He was Serl, and she thought
he fancied himself her lover someday, if he could prove himself. He
was a big, heavy man with a long beard and a rolling way of walking.
“My Thane,” he said. “You should not be out of your bed –
you have been very sick.”
“I will say what I should and should not do. How many days?”
She went to a nearby fire where a sheep was roasting, and she hacked
off a piece of bloody flesh with her axe. She pulled it sizzling
from the coals with her hand and tore into it with her teeth. She
was ravenous.
“Four days since the army marched forth,” he said. “Your fever
raged, and -”
“Piss on my fever,” she said. She spat a piece of bone into the
fire. “Any word of the army? Any battles?” She thought of
Thane Crune and his sly, narrow face. She didn’t like him; she was
here for blood gold and glory won in battle, not for his ambitions.
If she were fortunate, he would be dead already.
“No word,” he said. “None.”
She looked up and stabbed her axe at the circling ravens. “How
long have they been about?’
Serl looked puzzled. “Since last night, I think. Better than the
gulls screaming all day.”
“Gulls don’t eat dead men,” she said. “Gather any warriors
left in the camp and stand them to arms.” She looked out past the
sharp stakes driven into the ground to make a defensive position
around the beached ships. She would need hundreds of men to guard
it. The army had been more than six thousand, and she wondered how
many were left.
“To arms?” Serl looked outward to the misty hills.
“The ravens are awaiting a feast,” Valura said, stripping the
last of the sheep with her teeth and throwing away the ragged bone.
“That means it’s coming.”
o0o
She went belowdecks on her ship and donned her mail shirt, strapped
on her belt with her dagger and sword, and she drew her helm down
over her dirty hair. She felt passing waves of weakness and
dizziness that made the deck seem to tilt beneath her as though they
were still at sea, but she shrugged it off. Blood was coming, and
she would not miss the spilling of it this time. She wondered if the
army had been entirely defeated, and then she pictured the forces of
Hror coming for them to burn the ships, and her heart leaped with
eagerness in her chest. A thousand to one, those were odds to make
her smile.
Back on the deck, she took a shield from the rail and climbed up to
where the figurehead roared silent wrath into the distance. She
stood as tall as she could and she looked inland. The mist lay low
on the green hills, coiling in hollows where nests of hardy trees
clung to the shallow soil. She looked hard, her eyes narrow, and she
saw shadows moving in the gray.
They came as though materializing from nothing, scattered groups of
men moving together, hurrying toward the shore, and she knew then
that this was no conquering army; these were the men she had come
here with, and they did not move as an army, but as fugitives.
She looked down and saw a knot of men there with Serl, and they
looked confused and nervous. She swore aloud to the gods at the
kinds of fools who must have been left behind. “Ware!” she
called, and she pointed to the hills with her axe. “They come.”
Valura took a rope and swung down to the ground, and then she shook
off the way her head spun and jogged to the line of stakes and wooden
barriers that made what passed for defense. She saw it had not been
done very well and she spat on it as she slipped through. Confidence
had made for poor planning.
Men were coming down the long slope to the sea, some of them
staggering, many of them helping others to walk. They followed no
one, and drifted like leaves on an unseen wind. Some of them were in
groups that carried others upon shields braced with spear-shafts, men
too wounded to carry themselves. Valura chewed her tongue at the
sight. A man too wounded to walk should be left to fend for himself.
She thought them foolish to slow themselves for the sake of men
would would likely die.
When the first of them came in reach she called out to them. “Ho
there! What news of the battle?”
Faces looked up at her, pale and streaked with mud and gore. She saw
the sallow, shocked eyes of exhausted men, and knew there was nothing
they could tell her that she could not divine from their faces.
Defeat and fear were written in ever limb and motion.
“Disaster!” a man called out to her. “They are close behind
us! We must flee this place!” He seemed to shake off his
weariness and rushed to the line of stakes, leaned upon one as he
gasped. “The battle was a slaughter, and we left many hundreds
dead on the field. We must be gone before they catch us!”
He would have yammered more, but she struck him hard with the flat of
her axe. “What of Crune? Where is he?”
The man seemed to return to himself from the country of fear. “I
know nothing of him. They said he was wounded and fell in the
battle, but I have not seen him.” He made to push past her and she
met him with her shoulder, knocked him down.
“Enough of your bleating, get a spear and stand,” she growled.
“Don’t speak madness,” he snarled, getting to his feet. She
saw his wound seemed slight enough now. “We will get on our ships
and get away from this shore! The battle is lost, and we will all
die!”
He seemed ready to keep going, so she put the point of her axe blade
up under his chin and quieted him. “Aye, a great many men will die
if there is no defense here when they reach the shore. If men fling
themselves into ships and cast off as soon as they have enough men to
row, many upon many will die or be left behind. I won’t allow that
to happen.” Valura leaned in close and saw him sweating, licking
his lips as he stared at her.
“Now I won’t have a mad rush to the ships, and I won’t have no
one to man the barricades.” She leaned in until she was breathing
in his face. “Now get out there and find men coming in who can
still fight, and separate them out. Wounded to the rear and aboard
ships, walking wounded and able men to arms and then back to this
line.” She dug the axe into his neck. “And if you don’t, then
I’ll decorate one of these spikes with your cowardly head and find
someone who will.”
Now she saw he knew her, and knew the stories of Valura the
Axe-Bride, and he knew she would kill him in the twitch of the heart
if he pushed her. He swallowed, the apple in his neck digging
against the blade, and then he nodded, very slightly.
“Good,” she said. “I want a pile of spears right here!” she
bellowed pointing at her feet, drawing attention from all around.
“Here we will make a wall and stand on it!”
o0o
They came straggling in through the day, sometimes more, sometimes
less, and Valura gathered them in and sorted them ruthlessly. Any
man who could stand and hold a spear she armed put in the line, any
man too wounded to fight when to a ship, and those who were beyond
help she slew and had taken to a funeral ship. There would be no
time or reason to preserve lives that were already unraveling. Some
tried to stop her and she killed those as well, and by the time the
sun began to set she had a half-dozen heads on spikes near where she
stood.
Six men hastened up, bearing a seventh on a shield, and she saw
Crune’s thin, pale face with his red beard trimmed far too
carefully. She had never thought much of him, and she thought less
now. He had a bandaged arm, and held his side as though it pained
him, but she saw no wound that would force other men to bear him
away.
“Are they close behind you?” she asked, giving no honors, and she
saw he was not so weak that it did not anger him.
“The fog is too heavy,” one of the bearers said. “But we know
they are near. There are few left behind us.”
Valura ground her teeth, and she thought hard on just having Crune’s
head to add to her collection, but the six men with him were all
unwounded and willing to bear him, so they would fight for him. She
had no good cause save for simple contempt. So instead she spat on
the ground. “Get the wounded to ships and start getting us away
from this place. I will hold the beaches.” She looked up and down
the strand, saw she had almost a thousand men here ready to fight.
She could hold any army long enough for the rest to get away. “Have
your retreat, I will cover it.”
Crune said nothing to her, he only looked away and his men bore him
through the line of stakes and past the barricades, and then he was
gone. She wanted to send a curse after him, but she decided to save
it for those who came to face her steel. The inland hills were
growing dark, and she strained to see through the mist.
“Stand ready!” she roared, and men jumped in alarm at her fierce
war-cry. She reached for one of the heads and rubbed her thumb in
the blackening blood. With quick strokes she drew the wedge-shaped
sign of the Speargod on her brow. “Let no man flee who has not
killed! Let no man give way from where he stands! Let no man die
unless I give him leave!” She drew her helm down over her face
again, and she spat on the stony earth. She felt a thunder beneath
her feet, and a shadow darkened the lowering fog.
o0o
The army came out of the fog like a black wave. They did not carry
bright banners or loose war-songs, they only marched with steady,
unhurried tread. They had already tasted battle and victory, so they
bore blooded swords and spears, shields notched and helms dented.
Some of them had blood splashed on their mail, and it might have been
their own, or it might not have been. Valura saw them coming on like
a wave edged with steel, and she held up her axe and roared for the
men to stand.
Already ships laden with wounded were pushing off into the curling
waves. The beach that had to be held was not so large as it had
been, and she was glad to see her men drawn up close behind the wall
of stakes, helms drawn down and weapons to hand. They made a hedge
of iron spears and shields lapping like the scales of a dragon. If
they could hold against the first rush, they could hold as long as
they had to.
Horns bellowed, and she felt the tread of the oncoming foe beneath
her feet. She felt the warriors around her waver, saw some of them
step back, uncertain. They were outnumbered, and many of them had
tasted defeat once before. Fear ran like a stench through the ranks,
and she felt them begin to falter.
Valura cursed and beat her axe against her shield-rim. Before anyone
could try to stop her she burst from the lines and ran out into the
open space between the armies. It was like a dry river channel,
hemmed in and closing, and she planted her feet there and brandished
her axe to the sky. “Is there any man with the courage to fight
me? Is there a man among you with blood still in his veins?’
The oncoming wave of men did not slow, and yet every man watching
held his breath to see if she would be answered. The horns sounded
again, and now a knot of five men broke from the lines and rushed
towards her, running fast to stay ahead of their fellows. Spears
jutted out from them like fangs and their shields clashed together as
they charged her.
Valura laughed and leaped to meet them. A spear splintered on her
shield and then she hacked through another one with her axe. Then
she was among them. They battered at her with their shields and
hacked with their swords, but she was like a bolt of lightning forged
into iron and blood. She dashed them back and her deadly axe whirled
in a terrible arc that clove a man to the breastbone, shearing
through his mail and splattering blood in a torrent.
She wrenched her weapon free and met a rush of swords that notched
and chopped at her shield. A surge of her shoulder dashed a man off
his feet, and then she brought the rim of her shield down upon his
neck and snapped it like a rotten branch. Swords ripped at her and
she parried with the stout oaken haft of her axe, ground her teeth as
the blades hacked at her armor. A blow rang against her helm and she
staggered, but she would not go down.
With hideous strength she split a shield in half with a single
stroke, cleaving off the arm that held it, and then she whirled and
sent her axe crashing against another man’s helm. Blood rushed out
from beneath the iron and he fell back. The last man leaped on her,
tried to drag her down as the line of the enemy came closer, meaning
to hold her until the rest of the army could tear her apart.
She lifted him, strong as a bear, and hurled him to the ground. A
blow from the edge of her shield burst the straps of his helm and
knocked it from his head, and then her axe descended and sheared
through his neck and sent his head tumbling across the ground.
Blood coursed around her boots like the wash of a dark red sea, and
then she heard a great shout go up from her men as they saw her
victorious. They surged in among the stakes and screamed for war,
and then there was no more time, and the lines crashed together like
the waves of legend that swallowed up the land of the gods.
Valura was caught in the tide as the spears clashed and the shields
crushed together and ground men like meat. The enemy hurled
themselves upon the defensive line and men were impaled on the
stakes, trapped against the barricades and trod on by their comrades
who tried to push over them. Spears plunged and stabbed in the
chaos, piercing mail and flesh and bone, until the earth ran with
blood.
She hacked her way through, battering with her axe and her shield,
blows raining all over her, cutting and rending her mail, wounding
her in a dozen places. She left a path of dead behind her and then,
as the lines drew back and men gasped for breath, she forced her way
back through to her own men.
There was the lull, then, and she shook the broken shards of her
shield from her arm and set both hands to the notched haft of her
axe. Her fingers were numb from striking, and she was half-drunk
with weakness and wounds, but she would not give way. The line was
heaped with dead and dying, and she bellowed for the men to pull the
wounded back. The line was withdrawing as more and more men went to
their ships, and she saw more than half the fleet was already out to
sea.
Now was the time of the greatest danger. Now they had to pull back
from the beach and get to their longships without being cut down and
slaughtered. She howled for the men to get to their ships, and then
the line broke apart, and the warriors ran for their lives.
It took a moment for the enemy to realize they were pulling away, and
she saw then that they had no one in command, no one to urge them
onward. Some came forward, probing, climbing over the fallen, and
she rushed up the hill of the dead and dying and hewed at them,
sending three men back with their mail and flesh rent through. Her
arms screamed with weariness, and she felt as drunk as though she had
downed a barrel of honey-wine. Spears flew close past her as she
staggered, and she laughed in defiance of death.
She heard the scraping of the hulls on the stony shore, and the
shouts of the steersmen as they called the cadence for the oars. She
glanced back and saw her own ship close, and she saw the deck move as
it began to pull away, and then she ran.
Like the breaking of a spell the enemy surged forward, climbing over
the dead, chopping down the barricades and the stakes. The camp was
abandoned, scattered with broken spear hafts and splintered shields,
smoldering fires abandoned beside collapsed tents. She ran for her
ship, feeling as though the ground ahead of her was stretching away,
a distance she would never cross.
She reached the rail and leaped for it, pulled herself up without aid
as every other man was bending his back to row them away from shore.
A hail of thrown spears thudded into the deck and the hull, and then
the enemy was all around them, hacking at the oars as they waded in
the water waist-deep, some of them threw torches, and they bounced
across the decks and seared the hardened wood.
Fires bloomed in the gathering darkness, and she saw along the shore
that several ships had been fired, and they blazed up in the low fog,
flames racing along their decks as men leaped into the sea. There
they grappled with their enemies and fought with hopeless
desperation, killing and bleeding until they sank and died.
Men climbed the sides of her ship and she was there, chopping off
hands and fingers, crushing helms until they were free, and she
leaned into the heaving deck as the ravens screamed above and the
oars caught the water. She ripped a spear from the deck and hurled
it back at her enemies, and then she fell against the rail and caught
her breath. Her arms ached as though every bone in them was broken,
and her chest was a smith’s forge.
The ship shuddered, and she felt the deck pitch beneath her as though
it had struck something. It recoiled again, and she felt them slow,
as though something in the water had caught them, and was dragging
them back. It could be a grapple or simply a rope made fast about
the keep, and she had to see.
She dragged herself to the stern, staggered past the steersman where
he beat the drum, and she looked down over the back of the ship. The
night was descending everywhere, and the fog coiled about the
wavetops like the breath of demons. She saw no rope, but something
thrashed in the water, and then a light glimmered, and another. Eyes
looked up at her from below, the eyes of some sea-beast that sank
teeth into the hull and sought to drag them back to shore, or to pull
them under.
Shock lent strength to her failing body, and she knew her axe could
not reach the distance. She chopped the battered edge into the rail
and left it there. A spear was embedded in the deck and she wrenched
it loose. One of her helm-straps was broken and she tore her helmet
off and flung it aside. She thrust the spear up to the unseen sky.
“Spear-Father! Sky-Father! Touch this iron! Let it strike down
the unhallowed!”
She bent out over the rail as the sea below heaved up, and she saw
the terrible, doom-serpent shape as it reached up for her. She drew
back her arm, every muscle and skein tight as a stretched bowstring,
and then she hurled the iron straight and true.
It smote upon the dark shape and one of the great lantern eyes was
gutted out. There was a hiss and a bellow of stinking cold breath,
and then the beast vanished beneath the waves, leaving behind only
the churning waters and the sound of it roaring down beneath, in the
hollow deeps where accursed gods hid their faces from the light of
the sun.
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