“He’s dead?” Rangvald narrowed his eyes as he looked at his former brother-in-law.
“No. Not yet.” Gressa answered.
“You had the chance, and you didn’t take it? You had the right,” Ivar questioned.
“Blood eagle.” Gressa’s two words brought everything to a halt. They considered the form of execution barbaric even among their tribes and one they reserved for the most heinous of enemies. Gressa raised an eyebrow at the two jarls.
“He lives,” Ivar grunted. “That is the only requirement at this point.”
“Very well,” Rangvald shrugged.
“Who has he wronged the most?” Gressa asked.
“Who hasn’t he wronged?” Erik returned her question with his own. “He was complicit in Hakin’s plans, taking them several steps further. He helped orchestrate Sigrid’s kidnapping not once but twice. He captured Tyra and Bjorn and you and Strian. He led Freya and me on a merry chase that nearly got us killed more than once. He swore to kill all of us and steal my father’s and Ivar’s land. But you are the only one he’s touched. You are the only one who has suffered the most at his hand.”
Gressa looked around the group and saw several heads nod. She looked at Strian, fearful of what she would see. While Erik may have been accurate that she had suffered most directly from Grímr’s evil, it also pointed out a part of her past she wished never happened, or at least that no one knew of. She was embarrassed to meet Strian’s gaze, but he stepped forward and raised her chin. He brushed his lips against hers before kissing her in front of everyone, their friends, family, and tribe members along with the others present. Strian once more pronounced her as his wife with a kiss that left no one doubting his devotion to his wife.
“Kill him, so we can go home and make those babies,” he murmured against her lips.
Thirty
The moon rose over the treetops as the last of Grímr’s most loyal men hanged from a tree limb. Their bodies no longer writhed or twitched. They swayed in the light breeze. They had waited until Grímr awoke before binding and gagging him then forcing him to watch. The antipathy showed Grímr had never cared for anyone but himself. Perhaps once he had loved Inga, but his wife destroyed that with her affairs. He never loved his brother nor the children who carried his name. Once the last of his men were dead, it was his turn to die. He would die alone, befitting his life and his legacy.
Leif and Bjorn rushed to stretch him prone against the ground, his arms tied to stakes they hammered into the dirt. They pulled his legs apart to leave him spread eagle. Gressa looked to Strian who passed her an axe he had spent the past two hours sharpening to a fine edge that could split a hair.
Gressa looked around at those who watched. Lorna had explained to the four Highland lairds what would happen. They had each insisted they would watch, but the Norse warriors wagered how long they would last before they looked away, vomited, or collapsed. Her eyes came to rest on Ivar and Lena, the only parents she had known. She looked at the man who had tried to steal their home and end the lives the couple had spent decades building together and for their people. She glanced at Rangvald and Lorna who had proven to be the best of allies. She even looked at the Highlanders who valiantly fought alongside people they did not trust nor understood. They had formed their own alliances within the group of extended family and friends. Finally, Gressa looked once more at Grímr. Someone had removed the gag, so all could hear the howls of his pain.
Gressa raised the axe over her head, prepared for the first cut when two ravens cawed and landed on a stump nearby. The Norsemen and women went silent as the two birds turned to watch Gressa.
“See,” she lowered her axe and pulled a fistful of Grímr’s hair to raise his head enough to see the two blackbirds. “Odin is here. He is here to be sure that no one confuses you for anything but an honorless pile of shite. No Valkyrie shall look for you. The goddess Freya will not be looking for you in Folkvang. The doors of Valhalla will remain locked to you, and you will never see the inside of the great feasting hall. Instead, you shall rot until the end of days in Helheim. Not with the ordinary people who die a less than valiant death. No, you shall reside with the other cowards and weaklings. You will live in fear of the cold and dark until there is nothing left of you. But first, you shall soar like an eagle, or at least your bones will.”
Gressa swung the axe, making the first cut along his spin, splintering several ribs from his spine. She brought the axe down again on the same side, shattering the connecting fibers between Grímr’s ribs and spine. She repeated the process on the other side, cutting through meat and bone in between his howls of pain. She paused again when the sound of two wolves echoed his wails.
“Do you hear that? Geri and Freki call to Odin. They tell him that your death is only moments away. They laugh along with your screams of pain. You cannot even die with pride and dignity. Even in death you show your weakness and cowardice. A real man would bear the pain and praise Odin for the chance to feast with him. But you know,” Gressa’s laugh was harsh. “You know you are nothing. A níðingr.”
Gressa swung twice more, releasing the last rib from its bindings to the man’s spine. Gressa dropped the axe and plunged her hand beneath his right ribs. She pulled several times before she withdrew his lung. She held it above her head as Grímr’s blood dripped down her arm. His cries of agony grew louder when his own lung landed beside his head, but the last of the air that filled his single remaining lung escaped, and he could not make more than a whimper, a gurgle in the back of his throat. Gressa reached beneath his left ribs, but this lung did not want to break free. She drew her knife and sawed through the connective tissue until she felt it give way. She speared the second lung and pulled it out, sitting upon the tip of her blade. She raised it for all to see before dropping it next to the other. With both hands, she pried Grímr’s ribcage open, making it look as though his ribs were a set of eagle’s wings.
Leif and Bjorn whipped away the rope binding his legs to the ground, then they pulled the stakes free that pinned his arms to the ground. Both men tugged on the ropes wrapped over tree limbs, lifting Grímr’s body from the ground. Suspended in midair, Grímr’s body swung and twisted as his lifeblood drained from his body, and the last of his life slipped away.
Strian took Gressa’s hand and weaved through the crowd until they came to the shore. He had thought ahead and brought a bar of soap from his own belongings to the execution. He guided Gressa into the lapping water until they were far enough out that the waves crashed against their knees. He pressed her hands under the water then lifted them and began scrubbing. He watched her face for any clue to what she felt. She seemed dazed, not from battle lust nor shock. She appeared to be both deep in thought and without a thought in her head.
“He’s really dead. It’s really over,” Gressa looked at Strian as though it surprised her to find she was not alone. She watched him continue to scrub the blood from her hands and arms. The water was frigid, but Strian pressed her down until she dipped below the surface. He was quick to scrub her hair, her chest and clothes, then her face before easing her beneath the water again. She was too tired to say the saltwater would only make her hair worse. She had an overwhelming need to curl up next to Strian and go to sleep.
“As soon as we get you dry. Then you can sleep. I won’t move from beside you.”
Gressa nodded, vaguely aware that she must have spoken aloud.
“Gressa?” Strian watched as she turned towards him, her eyes growing more focused each time he spoke to her. “Do you regret being the one?”
“No,” she was emphatic and shook her head to reaffirm her point. “He deserved it. It just seems anticlimactic now that he is dead. We have been through so much, and now it is all over.”
“Do you fear that now there’s no danger, there will be nothing pushing us together?” Strian was slow to speak and watched Gressa even though he tried to sound casual.
Gressa was sure a wave had just crashed into her face as Strian’s words sank in. Whatever cloud she had been floating upon gave way.
“There will always be something pushing us together. Fate decided long ago, and our love reaffirms it. We are meant to be together. And if it’s not fate, then is will be me wrapping my legs around your waist with you deep inside me that pushes us together.”
Strian let go of the soap as he pulled Gressa against him. His mouth devoured hers as their need overcame them. It had been days since they had made love, but it felt like yet another eternity. Strian lifted Gressa into his arms then marched to his boat.
