Before the man could make his first move, she spun, swinging the axe. The blade bit into flesh and his battle cry cut off as his life’s blood spilled upon the grass. Elena tore the weapon free, inwardly shaking. She’d never killed a man before, had never had to.
Don’t look, her mind warned, but her stomach swirled with nausea. The other men emerged from behind her shelter, and when they saw the fallen body of their kinsman, they began to run. All were armed and it was only a matter of seconds before they cut her down; she knew it.
She turned to run, though it was futile. Her lungs burned as she grasped her skirts in one hand, holding the axe in the other. Where was Ragnar? Had they already killed him?
The dull ache within her, the terror at being left alone, was preying upon her courage. She heard the sickening sound of a man’s scream and the thunder of a horse’s hooves.
She reached the edge of the grass where it shifted into open sand. Her footing slipped, and she barely corrected her balance before she continued running. Risking a quick glance behind, she saw one of the Norsemen running toward her. In his hand, he carried a long sword and his hands were stained with blood.
Elena’s sides were aching, and she couldn’t breathe, but still she ran. The sand slowed her footing, yet she had no choice but to keep going.
Her attacker was going to catch up to her soon. And then he would kill her and her unborn child.
It was the thought of her baby that stopped her from running. She’d waited so long for this child, praying nightly to the gods. If she continued to flee, there was no hope at all. Slowly, she stopped and turned back to face the man, gripping the bloodstained axe. He was catching up to her, despite the weight of his heavy armor. Elena stood her ground while a cold chill spread through her spine.
She had to fight for her life and that of her child. No one could save her now. Though she suspected Ragnar had begun attacking the men from the other side, she’d seen no sign of him. With both hands, she held the axe steady, waiting for the moment to strike.
The Norseman stopped his running and began to walk, his dark eyes upon her. “Did you think you could run, little witch?”
“Did you think my curse would not follow you?” she countered as he strode across the sand. “Your men are already dead.”
She would have only one chance to kill this man, and she could not hesitate. He wore chainmail armor, unlike the others. The axe would not penetrate the chain links.
Her panic began to rise up again, gathering in her stomach, until she felt as if she would be physically ill. She swallowed hard, and he took a few swings with his sword.
“Shall I behead you, witch? Or would that be too quick?”
She kept her eyes locked upon him, though she grew aware of a motion from behind. He lifted his blade, adding, “If you run, it will be a slow death. I’ll gut you and leave you to bleed on the sand.”
Elena took a deep breath and waited while he drew back the blade. A split second later, she threw herself to the sand, slicing at his upper thighs with the axe. He made not a sound.
Only then did she see the spear embedded in his back that had pierced his heart. Before he could fall upon her, she scrambled away. Atop the hill stood Ragnar, with another spear in his hand.
Her knees buckled and a rushing noise filled her ears. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Upon the sand, she half choked, trying to inhale a deep breath. In a moment he was beside her, pulling her into his arms. “They’re dead. No one will harm you.”
“Th-there were so many,” she stammered.
“I killed four. You took the fifth.” He gripped her hard against him, stroking her hair. “We’re all right. Are you hurt?”
Her legs were still shaking and she leaned against him. “N-no.” She kept her arms around his waist and then remembered his injury. “What about you? Don’t you need your crutches?”
“It hurts, but I can manage without them,” he said. Whistling to the horse, the animal trotted toward them. “We’re going to spend the night here, one last time. And then, in the morning, we’re leaving this place.”
She nodded slowly. Styr wasn’t going to come back this way. Either she’d been mistaken in what she’d seen, or he’d gone to Dubh Linn. “All right.”
Ragnar kept his hand around her, but she was so caught up in the residual fear that she couldn’t seem to get warm. Never before had she been so close to her own death. It frightened her past all reason and she couldn’t stop shaking.
When they reached their shelter, Ragnar helped her down from the horse. He built up the fire until it was burning hot, and she sat as close as she dared. He moved to sit beside her, and Elena closed her eyes, needing the comfort of human touch.
“Thank you,” she managed at last. “I’ve never been so afraid. I thought they’d killed you.”
His hand moved over her hair, quietly stroking it back. With his fingers, he unraveled the braids until the long wavy strands fell over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, Elena. Not ever.”
His hands were soothing her in a way that pushed back the fear. The warmth of the fire was starting to calm her, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry I was avoiding you these past few days,” she admitted.
“Why did you?” He kept his gaze fixed upon the flames as if he didn’t know the answer.
Her pulse quickened, but she wanted to remain honest. “Because I was...afraid of being too close to you.”
