Éire’s Captive Moon (25 page)

Gerda was tending the fire, but did not hinder her as she slipped out the door to stand a little way from Cowan. What she saw made her clench her jaw and grip her cloak so her knuckles showed white through her skin.

Fire raced along the top of the thatched roof across the village square from where she stood. Older children were racing with buckets from the harbor to the longhouse to put that fire out and saturate the neighboring house. Charis hoped that no water would come farther into the village, or threaten this temporary house of healing, so different from the beloved round home she had shared with Devin and Devlin.

Men were firing arrows, alight with flame, over the fence to strike at Vigaldr’s men. Spears were landing on the village side of the fence, so far missing the warriors, but Charis knew that soon she would have her first patient of the battle.

Some women ran from warrior to warrior, bringing water in ladles. The water dribbled out onto the dirt, leaving muddy trails. Tiny children would occasionally dash out into the village square, near the harbor’s end, but one of several young women and matrons chased them and brought them back, kicking and squalling, to the farthest houses from the wooden barrier—thus were the children protected.

A heavy pounding began. It was the same sound that had proclaimed Agnarr’s warriors’ invasion into Ragor, and Charis would never, ever forget the awful, rhythmic creaking of wood. The gate was being attacked directly. The enemy must have brought a mighty weapon, something that was used for pushing open a locked entrance.

A chant began on the other side of the fence. Strange how it seemed so small and low, with the enemy on the opposite side, pounding their way in.

“Ho! Build the fires!” One of the newest fighting men dashed through the village, kicking up moist earth with his feet as he passed. “Get the children to the boats! Now!”

“Charis, get back,” Cowan urged, his hand slamming on top of her shoulder before jerking her toward the longhouse. “Now!”

She darted indoors, but not to hide. She had seen a spear, lodged in a crack between the wooden planks that made the walls of the house. Had it been forgotten or was it there in case of an emergency? She neither knew nor cared; all that mattered was that she could throw it.

Appearing oddly amused and exasperated, Cowan managed to smile crookedly. “I thought you had decided not to try to kill him yet,” he commented with a nod at the spear’s iron tip.

She snorted. “I have promised not to strike at him with iron, Cowan, but that is all.” With a look, she invited him to join her in an attack.

He shook his head. “I plan on obeying, Healer. Tuirgeis told me to stay here and defend you and the wounded. I’ve no wish to rouse his ire.”

“There are no wounded yet, Cowan,” she retorted, shrugging off her cape as her temper warmed her. “And I’ve no need of your defense.” Her nostrils flared slightly as she moved closer to the fiery center of conflict.

And the gates exploded inward.

Charis gasped and charged forward, hefting her spear the way Devin and Devlin had shown her so long ago. She bit her lip, keeping her battle cry to herself so as not to draw any unwanted attention. She only had one spear and no shield. Her focus narrowed, and she heard nothing then but her feet slapping the ground and her breath heaving in and out of her mouth.

The Northmen had swarmed around the splintered gate, but the healer did not hear their war cries or oaths to their gods. She was seeking. Thinking fast and hard. Last time she had been in battle, she had been forbidden to show herself. She had only carried a spear, before, and had aimed for—

For Agnarr. The iron-helmed invader of her
rath
. Charis pulled herself up short, looking for him, but then she remembered her promise. “Not with iron,” she breathed. “Not now.”

Beyond him then. Beyond. To the enemy.

Curling her lower lip between her teeth, she sought her prey. That one there, with the black hair? No! That man was struck down by one of the men of Balestrand. Charis nodded in vicious satisfaction, her hair skirting around her shoulders, back, and arms in the rising wind.

Who? Who should be the one to fall to her spear?

Ah!
A man with muddy blond hair and an axe. His face was contorted in rage, but his eyes—she could see them as she focused on him—were alight with a lust for blood. It was something she instinctively understood.

Eyes narrowed, she pulled back her arm, hefted the spear once more for balance, felt the wind blowing against her, against the spear’s projected path, and heaved it toward her target. Did the air whistle around it as it passed? Charis could not have said, for she only had attention to pay for its flight. Over the heads of the warriors she knew, into the mass of barbarians who invaded Agnarr’s home. Much as she wanted and intended to escape, it was her home, too, for now, and she couldn’t fail the children here as she had failed those of Ragor.

Agnarr saw the spear just as it penetrated the eye of the axe-wielder, two men to his left.

Momentarily distracted, he mentally saluted the throwing arm of the warrior who struck the enemy then refocused on his own opponent.

Shield strapped on his left arm, Halvard’s son pushed forward. Leading with his left, using his father’s sword in his right. “Hah!” he shouted at the man who faced him now. The other was lunging with his axe, but Agnarr knew well how to counter that. Shield up, the metal boss deflecting the axe head, but also covering his body as he raised his sword with a swift motion, only to bring it slicing down onto the other’s arm.

The man screamed, his axe falling from a hand that fell immediately after. Blood spurted from the stump above the elbow as the enemy clutched desperately and fell to his knees.

Agnarr showed no mercy, but skewered him through the gut. The invader was not honorable, attacking a settlement of his own kind. He did not deserve glorious reception in Valhalla.

Tuirgeis appeared on Agnarr’s right, sword flying so that Agnarr saw a head roll off the shoulders of another dog-faced enemy. The noise—shouts, screams, and someone, perhaps a berserker, singing—was such that Tuirgeis had to shout to be heard.

“Your men fight well!”

Agnarr nodded, but turned to meet another foe. Up went his shield, down came his sword to the unprotected head of his enemy, right over the ear. Brains appeared in the huge crack of the skull as the man toppled sideways. Between them and more of Vigaldr’s men, the young warriors Agnarr had been training stood and fought. Agnarr grunted in satisfaction before taking a lung-filling breath and answering Tuirgeis.
 

“They’ve worked hard, and Thor and Odin are on our side,” Agnarr said, remembering his patron god. “Valhalla will welcome those who fall this day.”

A wild scream preceded the breakthrough of another invader. “I have him!” Agnarr cried, his muscles tensing once more. Tuirgeis helped him, and the two of them succeeded in piercing the stranger through the chest, gut and groin.

He would die, slow and painfully.

Agnarr nodded his thanks to the raid leader, and they parted ways. Agnarr turned to find the thickest point of the fight, for it had moved somewhat to his left.
 

“Agnarr . . .” The guttural exhalation came from the ground near Agnarr’s booted feet. “Help . . . please . . .”

Shaking his head to clear the surrounding shouts of men, clangs of iron on iron, and dying moans, Agnarr knelt at the wounded man’s side. “Snorri,” he said, gripping the man’s uninjured arm. It was almost the only place visible that wasn’t running red with blood or spongy with flesh. “Come. Let me take you to the healer.”

Snorri protested, but Agnarr lifted him up, knowing that a healed man was one more to fight the next day, or next battle. “Silence!” he snapped, as Snorri continued. “Stay awake.” Agnarr dodged splinters from a shattered shield and finally made it behind the battleground. Then he noticed the frigid bite of the wind and snow as they pierced his clothes and boiled leather and metal armor.

Els’s house was just ahead. Kingson was there in front, a knife in one hand, a shield in the other. “Kingson. Open the door.”

The interpreter pushed open the wooden door, backing out of the way instantly so that Agnarr could enter. Warmth spilled out of the house like warm, mulled wine, carrying scents of herbs and healing. Agnarr smiled with encouragement at Snorri. “Here. Let the women care for you.”

But Snorri had lost consciousness. “Eir!”

She was there, all pale skin, eyes, and hair, save for that blue bird on her cheek. That bird reassured Agnarr for some reason. It looked warlike, and he needed every good omen he could find.

The healer pointed, indicating where Snorri should go, on the nearest bench, on the right side of the central fire. There were three fires in Els’s house, and their abundant light shone on four other wounded men, as well as the women who were healing and making teas and compresses. Eir moved quickly to Snorri’s side and began ripping the warrior’s clothes from his body.

“I’ll leave him to you, then,” Agnarr said as he turned.

She said nothing, but he smelled that distinctive mint fragrance as she waved him away.

Confident that the warriors were in good hands, Agnarr took a quick run outside, down the length of the village to the harbor. The
skipniu
had been untied from their moorings and were out in the
fjørd
.

“Agnarr!” It was Arknell, his youngest brother. Light brown hair flying behind him in the building winds, Arknell hefted his spear. “What are you doing here?”

“Seeing to the safety of the children. You?” Agnarr pushed the hair and snow from his face as he studied the ships from a distance.

Arknell shielded his eyes and did the same. “Getting them to the ships, brother. They’re safe. Are we?” he asked, nodding to the clashing fighters as the two of them started back to the battle at a jog. “Will we be able to get the children back?”

“I will not let them take our village,” Agnarr vowed. “Not while I’m alive.”

“Good enough.”

Upon reaching the warriors, the brothers split up and Agnarr again headed to the thickest part of the fighting. Blood lined the ground in ugly, matted trails. He kicked a decapitated head back and out of his way. His blood warmed again as he met his next foe.

“I am Vigaldr!” the white-blond warrior declared, pride etched into his features as if with a knife. “You are the battlechief. By the Eye of Odin, I shall destroy you!”

Agnarr didn’t waste time with boasts, but his gut clenched in tension as he and Vigaldr squared off for a protracted fight. He hefted his shield to meet Vigaldr’s sword. A fine blade, but it dripped with the blood of Agnarr’s kinsmen and neighbors and he felt a red mist come over him. Battlerage.

But before he could move, the bloodied sword swept toward Agnarr’s head. He briefly remembered his long gone, ill-blessed helmet, but managed to duck to avoid the blade.

He came up from under, on the right, with his own blade and tried to catch Vigaldr’s thigh to disable him. But his foe was canny and countered his strike.

Lunge, block. Slash, parry. The men fought, their feet slipping in the mud made from melted snow and dirt.

Sweat dripped in Agnarr’s eyes, but he blinked it away. He felt himself tiring.

“Thor!” he howled, hoping his god would hear and give him strength.

He had backed his opponent to the well in the center of the village. Vigaldr bumped to a halt at the low stone wall that lined the well’s edge. He lost his balance and flung his arms out instinctively.

Agnarr moved in for the kill, but Vigaldr countered with his shield, bringing the worn, notched edge down on Agnarr’s skull with a dull
thunk
. Agnarr saw the shock on Vigaldr’s face. Then the world receded into a long black tunnel, and he believed he glimpsed the glowing halls of Valhalla before he saw nothing more.

Chapter 19

“Like that,
ja
,” Charis said, nodding to Gerda. The two of them had cleaned Snorri, Gerda insisting on helping since her son had brought the warrior to them. Charis had focused on gauging the depths of the wounds, finding one that needed stitching together on Snorri’s upper left arm. His other wounds were numerous, proof that he had stamina, but they were so numerous that it served as a reminder of his ignorance of defense. Charis estimated that he had collapsed due to loss of blood.