We will. Now go!
Hakon and Gunnar covered the distance quickly, leaping over tent lines and twisting past obstacles. Hakon noticed that there was none of the disorder and panic he associated with a night attack; instead, thewitches moved with determination and purpose. As they reached the southern end of the encampment, it became very clear why Gunhilde had sent them there. The witches were lethal when they had the time and space to cast their sorcerous energies. However, once the enemy managed to close the distance, the women were in danger, too busy dodging spears and swords to concentrate on spell-casting.
“Get behind us!” bellowed Hakon, as he linked shields with Gunnar and pressed forwards to create some space for the witches. The beleaguered women quickly retreated behind them, but one witch was not quick enough. An enemy spearpoint burst through her chest as she screamed and fell. Hakon snarled as he bashed the spear-wielding enemy in the face with his shield. The man staggered backwards, stunned, and Hakon slashed the man’s throat with a vicious backhand stroke.
The remaining enemy warriors faced the arrival of the brothers more cautiously, pausing to regather themselves. However, that proved to be their undoing, as the recovered women sent witchfire crackling past Hakon and Gunnar to wreathe the enemy warriors in green ropes of fire.
To the west, fifty meters. Quickly!
Hakon and Gunnar turned on their heels and bolted to the left, their feet given wings by the audible screams of women. The brothers arrived in time to see two witches crumple under the savage axe strokes of a group of warriors. Hakon shouted in fury and held his shield close to his body as he blindsided one warrior, sending the man flying. Before anyone could react to his presence, he killed another man with a backhanded slash that opened the man’s throat. Gunnar chopped the weapon hand of another axe man then swung the edge of his shield in a flat arc to break the man’s nose.
Stunned, the other warriors tried to flee, but the brothers were among them like foxes in a chicken run, causing chaos and confusion. Hakon took an axe stroke on his shield and responded by thrusting his sword into the man’s guts. Gunnar kicked the man with the broken nose to the ground, hacking a lethal blow at the man’s head. Hakon dodged a sudden spear thrust and stepped inside the weapon’s range, head-butting the spear wielder in the face before dispatching him with a lethal blow.
The final enemy warrior turned to flee. Hakon stuck his sword into the ground, picked up the spear of his fallen enemy, hefted it for a moment to test its weight then threw it in a flat trajectory towards thefleeing man’s back. The spear took the warrior between the shoulder blades, and he dropped without a sound.
Gunnar looked up from his examination of the two witches, locked eyes with Hakon, and shook his head. Hakon cursed.
Thorulf. His farmhouse. Swiftly now!
“Gunnar, we—”
“I know!”
The brothers raced across the fields which were, thanks to the wards, bathed in a magical light. Sounds of battle rang in their ears, along with the hissing crackle of spells flying through the air.
“There!” cried Hakon as they neared the farmhouse. He could see a circle of warriors with Thorulf in the middle, holding attackers at bay. Hakon bellowed a war cry in an effort to buy some time, and just as the enemy warriors turned, Hakon and Gunnar were on them like a pair of wolves. In the work of moments, three of the enemy lay on the ground and the rest were fleeing. Thorulf was panting and holding his left arm, which was bleeding heavily.
“You got here just in time,” rasped Thorulf, breathing heavily. He tried to chuckle but ended up ina burst of coughing. “I was just about ready to sing my death song.”
“We need to get you seen to,” said Hakon. “Hold on to me, man, and let’s get you to the witches. They must have some kind of healing art.”
“That would be good,” replied Thorulf, just before his eyes rolled up in his head and he passed out. He would have fallen to the ground if Gunnar had not caught him.
“Odin’s beard!” cursed Hakon, as Gunnar hefted Thorulf over his shoulder. Not knowing how to communicate with the Elder Sisters mind to mind, he simply shouted, “Gunhilde! Thorulf will die without aid!”
Bring him here to the middle of the camp. We will see to him.
“Let’s go,” said Hakon to Gunnar, and the two of them began a shambling run back to the center of the camp. Bodies of both witches and warriors lay tangled on the ground. The center of the camp featured a kind of treatment area for the wounded. Hakon looked on amazed as both Baedi and Sif leaned over the injured, softly singing and passing their hands over wounds. Those who had fallen were bathed in a diffused golden light.
“Gods,” murmured Gunnar as he carefully lowered Thorulf’s body onto an empty cot. “They look like battle angels.”
It was true. Both Baedi and Sif looked like Valkyries from the sagas, hovering over the fallen. For a brief moment, Hakon felt as if he was looking at a scene from some ancient story. Then Sif caught sight of him, and the illusion was broken.
“Sacred Freyja!” cried Sif, rushing forwards and running her hands over Hakon’s body. “Are you hurt? Where are you injured?”
“I am whole, praise Thor,” replied Hakon, “but Thorulf needs your aid.”
Sif looked down and made a noise of dismay. Then she laid her hands upon Thorulf’s wound and sang softly. As she sang, she moved her hands back and forth, and they glowed. The glow flowed through the air from Sif’s hands to Thorulf’s wound. The bleeding slowed then stopped, and finally the wound itself closed before their eyes. Sif stopped her song, and the glow faded. She looked down at Thorulf, who appeared to be sleeping. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” she said. “He will need rest.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Hakon slowly. “Truly, you have been given a gift.” Sif blushed and looked down.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” observed Gunnar, rubbing his palm. They all laughed as the moment of wonder passed and they returned to a sense of where they were. Sif kissed Hakon, briefly but intensely then stepped back and said, “There are others who need my aid.” She returned to the injured.
Gunhilde walked up to where Hakon and Gunnar were standing. Hakon looked at his brother, took a deep breath then said, “Lady, where do you need us now?”
“The attack appears to be over, thank Freyja,” replied Gunhilde, and even as she said it, the keening sounds of the witch-wards faded, and the bright lights of the flares dimmed, replaced by the growing light of the dawn. The battle fury passed from Hakon, and he suddenly he was terribly thirsty. He looked for and found a leather canteen and drained it. A thought that had passed through his mind during the fighting took root.
“They do not look like Skraelings,” he said slowly. “Nor do they fight like them. At least, not according to the stories I’ve heard.”
