Harper St. George - One Night With The Viking

Any flickering hope he’d carried within him that he might one day claim her had died out that night. He’d been a fool to let it persist as long as it had. There was nothing left of him. Death was the only cure for the excruciating pain. He’d let out one last bellow of rage and then hung his head as the snow fell around him, collecting on his hair and shoulders. His father had been right. A warrior is all that he was ever meant to be. So a warrior he would be. From that moment onward, his entire life became the fight and nothing else mattered. He had pushed Kadlin from his mind as much as he could and waited for death to claim him.

It hadn’t helped that he knew losing her had been his own fault, somehow. Gritting his teeth to stifle the cry of rage that the memory brought with it, he rammed his left fist into the base of a fir tree and watched the bark splinter beneath the impact. He cradled the hand against his chest and threw his head back to take a deep breath as he savoured the momentary numbness before the pain exploded in his hand. The tree was a poor substitute for the crunch of bone a Saxon nose would have provided—he knew he should have waited for the upcoming battle to vent his anger—but the pressure in his chest had been too great to carry into a fight. There was an aching relief to be found as the pain shifted from his chest to his hand. Blowing out through the pain and then sucking in a deep, wrenching breath, he made his way to his men and forced Kadlin out of his mind.

Motioning a boy over to wrap his hand, he gathered them all to go over the plan for battle. In moments, he was mounted, leading the small group to their location behind the Saxons. He knew the forests in this land so well now that he rode on instinct, knowing the best place to attack, knowing exactly where they would be hidden even if he didn’t know how many there were.

The scream came from nowhere and then it was all around him at once. The Saxons had been circling them, preparing an ambush. His horse, though well trained, reared in surprise just as a spear broke free from the trees. It landed in the beast’s chest, making him scream in pain and lose his balance. Gunnar was unable to jump free as the horse fell backwards. Pain exploded in his legs and head when they landed, then everything went numb and quiet. A strange peace crept over him as he watched the Saxons flood out of the forest to surround his own men. He smiled because he knew that they had given themselves away prematurely and Magnus would surely crush them with his larger group of warriors.

Blackness pulled at him, but it didn’t take his smile. It might not have happened with a sword in his hand or a sword in his belly, but he was dying in battle, a welcomed relief. He closed his eyes and waited for Odin to greet him.

* * *

Light flashed behind his eyelids and sent shards of pain shattering through his skull. Or it should have been pain, like every other time he’d awakened to pain so sharp that it had sent him hurtling back into unconsciousness. Instead, it was darts of light that roused him enough to open his eyes and it took an extraordinary effort to accomplish that minor task. Almost too much effort, as the need for slumber pulled him under again. But the sensation of falling was enough to make him finally open them. The light that had teased him before had disappeared to a hazy golden crest on the horizon. It was dawn or perhaps dusk and he was floating in the sky, which was absurd.

Gunnar turned his head to the left and then the right and realised that it wasn’t him that was floating, but everything else around him. The horizon wobbled as if the world itself had shifted. A man’s head drifted into his line of vision and then moved out again. Soon, more heads followed, but none that he recognised. These weren’t his men.

The realisation brought with it the awareness that he was on a ship. Only it wasn’t his ship, because these weren’t his men. His gaze travelled over the vessel, trying to identify it, but he was having trouble keeping his gaze steady to look for markings. There was no figurehead on the prow.

‘Where are we going?’ he called to the man nearest him. He hardly recognised his own voice and it was delayed when it came to his ears.

‘Up the coast, Brother.’ Eirik knelt beside him, his face looking solemn and grim in the morning light. It must be morning if they were setting sail.

Gunnar jerked, not expecting to see anyone appear so close before him. Brother. The word rang around in his head and he had trouble holding on to it. ‘Brother,’ he whispered the word as if he’d never heard it before. As it found purchase, he was able to capture it on his tongue. ‘You are my brother.’

‘We haven’t been good brothers, not in a long time. I regret that.’

Gunnar smiled, though he couldn’t understand his compulsion to respond in that way. Perhaps it was because his body was finally numb from the endless pain that had gnawed at him, though he had no memory of what had caused the pain. He felt heavy and weightless all at the same time. He raised his hand and, after an attempt or two, it landed on his brother’s shoulder. ‘Aye, Brother. But there’s not much comfort in regret. What use is it?’ The soft leather of a well-worn tunic met his fingers, not the chainmail of battle. He thought it curious Eirik wouldn’t arm himself properly for battle and he meant to comment on it, but another figure he’d not noticed before materialised at his side. ‘Vidar, little brother. You are a man now. Do you go to this fight with us?’

Vidar glanced at Eirik before shrugging. ‘I go, but Eirik is staying.’

The unfamiliar smile stayed on Gunnar’s face and he couldn’t make it leave no matter how he tried to summon a scowl. He struggled to keep his eyes open as that strange heaviness tried to claim him. His head drooped and he noticed that his legs were covered in furs. Did they think he’d go to battle like a woman, wrapped in blankets and furs? His legs wouldn’t obey his command to kick them off so he yanked at the coverings. And then he stared because one leg was wrapped tight in rags and appeared twice as big as the other. But that didn’t seem possible, so he considered the fact that the appendages weren’t his legs at all but something foreign from his body entirely.

Eirik grabbed his hand, drawing Gunnar’s attention back to him. ‘I thought you’d like this back.’

Gunnar frowned down at the lock of hair Eirik had placed in his palm. He immediately recognised it as Kadlin’s, but wondered how it had become separated from his tunic. A feeling of unease sat heavy in his stomach. ‘How did you get this?’

Eirik was quiet for a moment, drawing Gunnar’s wavering attention back to him. Only then did his brother raise his troubled eyes from the blonde lock. ‘I never knew Kadlin meant so much to you. I should have realised.’

An image of her beauty swam before his eyes, bringing back that bizarre smile he couldn’t seem to shake. ‘She is everything.’

Eirik looked down. Something was troubling him, but Gunnar had no idea why that would be true. He’d gone off to battle numerous times without this concern from his brother. Deep down, he realised that it must be linked to the strange memory of pain, but he couldn’t hold on to the thought long enough to formulate a question. Finally, Eirik met his gaze again and said, ‘I want you to live, Brother. Remember that when you awaken.’

Gunnar intended to ask what he meant, but then Eirik pressed a small wooden barrel of mead to his side and draped Gunnar’s arm around it. It was the kind they would strap to their horses when out on a short campaign. He pulled out the cork and pressed it to Gunnar’s lips. Gunnar obliged him and took a long draught, but something didn’t feel right.