“You are pathetic,” I manage to wheeze between laughter. “If that is your scare tactic, then you’ve got some growing to do, sweetling.”
“Do not patronize me!” Bodil slaps my cheek, and when I continue laughing, she grips the small blade from her belt and stabs me in the shoulder with it.
I peer down at it, only laughing harder.
Bodil yanks out the knife, only to stab me in the ribs.
Flesh wounds, but they hurt nonetheless.
The women expect me to beg for my life, so when I gesture for Bodil to come closer, she does so with arrogance. That is her downfall because I headbutt her the moment she is within reach.
Inga screams, angered that I am not backing down, and lets me go to retrieve her sword. But that is her error because I yank the blade from my ribs and stab her in the middle of the forehead with it. Her eyes dart upward as blood slowly trickles from the wound down the slope of her nose.
Her mouth opens and closes as she is robbed of speech when I pull out the blade and stab her in the face with it. She tumbles backward and is trapped between the wall and me, and has nowhere to go as I repeatedly drive the sharp blade into her face.
Bodil latches onto me, but I spin. Yanking the knife from Inga’s eyeball, I drive it into her neck, severing her jugular. She drops to the ground, clutching the bleeding wound and gasping for air. I savor the sight for a moment before I return to Inga and drive the knife into her skull and face repeatedly until her skin, muscle, and tendons hang like a grotesque meat artwork.
She is still alive, her tongue unable to retract into her mouth because I have cut off her lips, resulting in her tongue just lolling forward like the dog that she is.
The soldier is long gone, so it’s only us girls.
Inga begins to pray in Norse, but she doesn’t get that privilege as I yank out her tongue and slice it off. I scoop out her eyeballs and slice off her nose. Nothing will pacify this rage inside me, a rage she initiated when she touched what is mine.
Her face is merely meat, and her empty sockets morbidly peer up at me from the ground. I stomp on her head, her brains splattering under my boot and painting the stones red.
Turning over my shoulder, I see Bodil crawling toward safety, but a sword is soon embedded in her back, impaling her to the ground, and that sword belongs to Alruna.
Old scores have been settled here today.
Alruna looks at my handiwork and nods in respect.
I am happy to see her because this means Aedan, Ulf, and his men have made it inside the castle.
“Kill anyone who isn’t on our side,” I order, picking up my sword and going in search of Aethelbald.
There is only one place a coward would hide. I stalk the familiar hallways, memories of when I was a child floating in and out of my mind; the childlike, innocent laughter replacing the bloody gurgles of dying men.
Kicking open the chapel door, I am greeted by my former ealdormen and, to my utter surprise, my once “husband” King Beornwulf.
Seeing him surprises me because I believed he was safe in Mercia.
“I failed you, dear husband,” I sincerely say because I feel nothing but affection for King Beornwulf.
“You did nothing of the sort. It is good to see you again, Emeline. It has been too long.”
“It is good to be seen,” I reply, allowing nostalgia to show.
King Beornwulf is one of the good guys, and it saddens me that this is how it ends for him.
I had to take all factors into consideration as I knew Aethelbald would use anyone who meant something to me as collateral. And that is why I instructed Ulf to kill anyone if they were used as bait.
Lord Rufus places a knife to King Beornwulf’s throat. “Why? I have already appointed Aethelbald king of Mercia and Wessex!”
“Yes, but without the church's blessing, your word is worthless. And that is why we must punish those who sided with a heretic.”
Lord Rufus slashes a knife across King Beornwulf’s throat, killing him where he stands.
“No!” I scream, rushing forward, but it’s too late.
