A boot slammed into my face, snapping me back into reality. I gritted my teeth, licking the blood that dripped from my nose. Then, I moved.
Like a storm breaking free, I sprang up, seizing one of the bastards by the throat. He barely had time to react before I tore his sword from its scabbard and drove it deep into his stomach. With a shove, I sent him to the ground, then drew both my axes, my eyes darting to the remaining two.
One lunged at me. A swift swing of my axe caught him across the throat—not deep enough to kill him outright, but enough to drop him to his knees, clutching the wound as blood gurgled from his lips.
I kicked him aside and raised my axes just in time to deflect an arrow, forming an X with the blades. Another arrow came, but I ducked, then hurled one of my axes toward the archer. The blade sank into his thigh, wrenching a scream from his throat as blood poured down his leg.
"Oh God," he whimpered, shaking his hands in desperate plea. "No! Please, let me go! Please... please!"
I didn't answer. Instead, I grabbed a fistful of his matted hair and dragged him across the dirt. He clawed at the ground, leaving desperate trails in the dust, but it didn't matter.
Placing one foot on his shoulder, I leveled my axe at him, then turned my head, glancing toward the wounded girl. Her leg was injured, and she remained unconscious, in dire need of help. Help that this village could no longer provide, as everything lay in ruins.
"You pathetic bandit trash," I muttered, leaning into his ear. "You deserve no mercy."
I pressed my axe deeper into his leg. He trembled, his fists striking my shin with all the force of a dying man—weak, desperate, meaningless. I pushed harder, the blade sinking further, carving through flesh and bone. Not satisfied, I raised my boot and kicked the embedded axe, severing his leg completely. His scream tore through the night, raw and agonized, as he clutched at the ruined stump, blood gushing between his fingers.
I wrenched my axe free, sliding it back into its sheath. Then, placing my foot against his throat, I leaned in, applying slow, relentless pressure. His face darkened, red to purple, veins bulging, eyes rolling back as he clawed weakly at my leg. The last sliver of sunlight vanished beyond the horizon, and with it, his final breath.
From the forest, a white horse emerged cautiously. She glanced left, then right, before slowly approaching me, as if anticipating danger… Mielda. My friend. Fearless as ever.
"Well, Mielda," I murmured, looking toward my horse. "Today was not the day."
She shifted uneasily, sensing the lingering violence in the air.
"Let's help her, huh?"
I turned to the girl and lifted her onto my shoulder. Hopping onto Mielda, I nudged her forward, guiding her out of the desolate village and toward York. She needed aid, and there were no nuns left to tend to her wounds.
Though, something about her struck me as odd. Her clothes—soft, richly embroidered with gold thread, the fabric itself of fine wool, dyed deep crimson. A delicate fur trim lined the edges, something only nobles or royalty could afford. Even her shoes, though now scorched, had once been crafted from supple leather, decorated with silver buckles. Her small hands bore no calluses, and on her left ear gleamed an earring—gold, adorned with a heart-shaped diamond. It was worth more than anything I had plundered since coming to England.
She stirred slightly, a faint murmur escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered half-open, unfocused, hazy with pain. Then, weakly, she reached up, her tiny fingers brushing against my beard before slipping back into unconsciousness.
I pulled the reins, urging Mielda to pick up her pace. The girl's breathing was shallow, unsteady. Her shoes had burned through, and her left foot was slick with blood—her own, without a doubt.
I lowered my voice, softening it. "Rest, little one. I will get you the help you need."
ᚹᚨᛚᚺᚨᛚᛚᚨ-ᚺᛟᚾᛟᚱ-ᚱᛖᚲᛚᚨᛁᛗ
I dismounted, gathering the child carefully in my arms. After securing Mielda's reins to a sturdy tree branch, I pulled my cloak tighter around us and set off toward York. Entering the city on horseback would only invite unwanted eyes, and Northumbria was no place for a Norseman to linger. Too many people. Too many enemies. But it was the nearest city, and turning back to Norwich wasn't an option. The girl wouldn't survive such a journey.
The road leading to York stretched before me, its gates standing open, flanked by two guards. My hood concealed most of my face, and my cloak hid the weapons at my side. The child stirred in my arms, her fevered breath brushing against my chest. I had to get her inside without trouble.
One of the guards raised a hand to stop me. I obeyed, bowing my head slightly as I waited.
"Mm." His gaze fell to the girl. "God help her. Pass through."
I nodded once. "Thank you."
Inside the gates, I lifted my head, taking in the city. York was a sprawl of timber-framed buildings, stone roads slick with the remnants of rain, and the scent of damp wood mingling with that of roasting meat from market stalls. The streets pulsed with life—merchants calling out their wares, blacksmiths hammering steel, and beggars lingering in alleyways, hands outstretched in silent plea. Above it all, towering spires of the monastery reached skyward, their candlelit windows casting a soft glow against the night. That was my destination.
A monastery meant safety. Shelter. And most importantly, healers. I had no desire to stay in the city longer than necessary. I would leave the girl in their care and vanish before anyone could ask questions.
"Almost there, little one," I murmured. "You'll be safe soon."
"I…" The girl's voice was barely a whisper. "Cold."
I pressed a hand to her forehead. Burning hot—like Muspelheim's fire.
"Ah," I muttered. "Curse it. Just hold on."
I quickened my pace, weaving through the streets until I reached the monastery's courtyard. Just as I neared the heavy doors, a figure stepped in front of me. A priest. He blocked my path, his weathered hand resting on the hilt of a small dagger at his belt. His eyes flicked from my weapons to my face, and I saw the shift in his expression. He knew what I was.
He unsheathed the blade, holding up a cross in his other hand. I halted, tightening my grip on the girl but taking a step back to show I meant no harm. This was not the time for a fight, and the death I sought would not come from an old priest with shaking hands. If it did, Odin himself would drag me from Helheim just to mock me for eternity.
"Friend," I said, my voice low and even. "I am not here to fight."
His lips curled in disgust. "What did you do to the girl, you Dane bastard? Rapist."
"I am Norse." My jaw tightened. "And I did nothing to her. I found her like this. Can you help her?"
The priest hesitated, lowering the dagger slightly. "Did you, now?"
I exhaled sharply. "Like I said. Not a threat. Can you help her or not?"
He studied me a moment longer before nodding. "Aye. Give her to me. Let me see her wounds. What happened?"
He was older, perhaps in his fifties, with white hair and a short goatee. His frame was small, but his arms were strong—like those of a man who had once wielded a blade but now clung to the cloth. A warrior who had laid down his sword.
I hesitated before handing the girl over. "Bandits," I said simply. "They burned her village."
The priest took her carefully, his expression softening as he cradled her against his chest. Then he turned on his heel, pushing open the heavy monastery doors. The warmth of candlelight spilled onto the stone steps.
"Come, heathen," he said. "Get inside."
"No," I replied, shaking my head. "But thanks for the invite."
"Of course," he mocked, an angry smile twisting his lips. "You think a good monastery is a pillaged one, don't you? Blood staining the holy ground?"
I turned away. "Help the kid, priest," I said. "She's suffered enough. Don't make her endure any more."
"I won't, Dane." he said. "Come back tomorrow. I'll reward you."
"Not Dane. Norse."
The door shut in my face. I took a deep breath, exhaling as I stepped away. This city was vast, ripe for plunder, but the death I sought wasn't here. I wasn't meant to die in York. I could feel it in my bones.