Someone grabbed her waist from behind – arms the size of tree trunks. Aonghus. Fetching her bow and quiver of arrows beside the pallet, she declared, “Aonghus, a shadow-glance has appeared. Lord Kollungr and Svørn are besieging the encampment with dozens of Northmen by their sides in hopes of capturing the king.”
Shouts from conflict began erupting outside loudly, like a battering ram hitting a castle gate. Not questioning the means of how she still held her instinct in sense for declaring the grave event unfolding, his words were heavy as the axe in his fist. “Then we seek him first. Stay beside me and we will reach our lord king.”
Raising Vengeance, he flipped the tent flap back. The surroundings were faintly illuminated by dimming encampment fires giving a pop and hiss from a cloud dripping rain above. Scottish men-at-arms tore about preparing just as Northmen’s silhouettes emerged from the woods, racing and hollering in a way that would have made any berserker proud. The sheer numbers echoing through the trees showed her warning halted a slaughter that must have taken place after she had been knocked unaware in the first shadow-glance.
King’s tent? A hundred paces away. This was the number she counted earlier upon return and now would retrace with a blood trail of any who dared stop them. A flaxen-bearded warrior spotted her raising his sword and bolted their way – Svørn.Bring it, Northman!
Aonghus bellowed over his shoulder, “Keirah, stay directly behind; you are my eyes to threats advancing from the rear flanks! Aim to kill!”Aye!
Turning on her heel, she saw Svørn appearing more a brown bear than man at the animal’s very skin draped across his shoulders as he raced with a wildness bordering on ill-disciplined berserker movements inflicted by mushrooms. He was no longer stumbling like in the glance; aye, he had to have inflicted something on himself before the battle to dull the pain.
Clash!Vengeance met Svørn’s sword as the pair began sparring in death’s final dance.
Her eyes glimpsed a fresh flaxen warrior who bolted for Aonghus. Grappling for her quiver strapped across her chemise-covered back, she ripped the arrow from its keeper. Steady. Hold steady. Wait for the angle. Where to aim? The Northman’s thigh halts the charge first.In a roar that would make the warrior queen Boudica proud, the arrow sailed the air before the Northman collapsed in a painful wail, clutching his thigh. Advancing, she released another arrow into his throat, unleashing the same fate as the one in the tent. No pain behind her eyes. Fate had been cast.
Turning, she saw another shadow emerging from the forest edge, not at a run but a stride befitting a seasoned warrior harboring a mere limp. Oh. Raging. Hell.
“Fálki.”
Backing up a step, she stumbled slightly; the sounds from Svørn cursing at Aonghus in his native Northern tongue as they battled behind her in the far distance faded when she stood facing the one who caused a shadow to cross over her soul.
“My lady Keirah.”
She raised the bow, setting an arrow. “I was never yours!”
The arrow flew. Kollungr easily stepped out of the way, swatting the arrow from his path like a gnat. “You are mistaken; you were always mine.”Get him!She grappled for another arrow, setting it at the ready as he slowly advanced.
He wouldn’t kill her, not yet. Could she use this to defeat him? Possibly. What else was more powerful than the arrows in her quiver?His greed – use the shadow-glance.
“Lord Kollungr, you seek to be the highest ruler in the Kingdom of Norway.” His step paused then quickened eagerly. “I have held a shadow-glance, Fálki, one where this very element was within your grasp.”Look at his eyes– they widened by interest or greed or want, and the sword lowered. He wore no chainmail.Aim for his black heart.
“Tell me.”
She inwardly cringed; the last time she had heard those words were when her Scotsman was in this devil’s grip.
“The missive you have sent to Sir James” – his eyes doubled at her knowledge – “’tis a sound plan.” She paused to pull with all she was on the sting.Don’t miss. “One you will never live to see unfold.” The arrow flew as he snarled, bolting for her.
A whimper of anguish tore her lips as the arrow landed in his shoulder, not heart, after his sudden charge. The weapon caused him to twitch on impact as he gave a hiss of pain before raising his sword. The wound Aonghus had inflicted on Kollungr’s legs aboard the ship caused a slight slowness to his roughened advance. Quick as the wind, she released another arrow. It landed in his other shoulder; this time he howled, then staggered a step forward. She sought another.Aim for the stomach.This time she walked toward him; the mere change in prey turning prowler caused a pause to his step at her boldness.
She snarled the threat: “You will harm nae one else!”Release!
The arrow hit his gut. The wound only seemed to enrage the Northern keeper more as he raised his sword, re-advancing. She reached for another arrow, but her fingers only caught air…only air! No! The quiver was empty! A twisted grin took Kollungr’s bloodied lips.
“If I cannot live to see a dawn in having my kingdom, neither shall you, my fate-seer.”
She stumbled backward slightly over a fallen branch, raising the yew bow higher. A wooden bow against steel? She was good as dead.
Whizz!Something flew in her periphery which blinded her a moment when the massive blade caught the shine from dawn’s first light hinting through the trees…
Vengeance.
The axe had left the hand of its keeper, who gave a Gaelic battle roar somewhere behind her. Vengeance flew the air with such force it ruffled the damp hairs upon her brow, then struck the Northman straight in the chest with such power Kollungr flew like a falcon to land onto the wide trunk behind him. The Northern nemesis was pinned onto the bark with a shocked look upon his face at her as Aonghus stepped by her side.
“I promised you wouldneverleave these shores, Northman,” her Scottish knight huffed under his breath.
Both turned as a cry rang through the encampment from afar in Callum’s voice: “VICTORY TO THE KING OF SCOTS!”
The battle was done. Her eyes focused for the first time on the surroundings. Corpses scattered the ground, including Svørn’s, amid panting Scottish knights such as Sir Brayden, whoraised his sword in acknowledgement at them. The numbers declared the victor in this battle: Scots!
