A war cry tore from my throat, fueled by the thrill of battle. Dropping my axe, I charged like a bull, unrelenting. My sudden aggression must have caught the brute off guard, for he stepped back, swinging his great axe in defense. But I was faster. Sidestepping the blow, I seized his weapon, yanking it toward me. As he stumbled forward from the force, I drove my fist into his face.
Without hesitation, I pulled my seax from my boot and thrust it upward, the blade piercing his throat. The tip emerged from his eye socket, yet he still clung to life, choking on his own blood. I twisted the weapon left and right, forcing him to drop to one knee, his body trembling from the agony.
Yanking my seax free, I retrieved both my axes and spread my arms wide, muscles tensed, as if preparing to take flight like a raven. Then, in one quick motion, I brought both blades down—severing his head clean from his shoulders.
My Höggskjold was now full. Four trophies. Thor himself would be laughing over his ale, watching the slaughter with Odin at his side.
I tilted my head to the sky, letting the rain wash the blood from my face as I roared.
Then, turning to the struggling guards, I raised my voice. "Do not fear! The gods are with us!"
"Kill them!" a guard shouted.
"Is that a Norse?" another called.
"Kill the bandits! Kill them all!"
A bandit rushed at me, but rage burned in my veins. Moving with the speed of Thor's own thunder, I swung my axe, cleaving through both of his arms. He stumbled back, shrieking, staring at the stumps where his hands once were. Gripping him by the throat, I hoisted him toward the burning house, slamming his head against the scorched wooden wall. His screams grew more desperate as the fire caught his hair, then his clothes. He writhed in my grasp, trying to claw at my arm with the stubs that remained. But it was useless.
I released him with a final shove, sending him tumbling into the inferno. The weight of his body shattered the weakened wall, and the flames consumed him whole.
The remaining bandits lost their nerve, scrambling to gather whatever loot they could before vanishing into the trees. I considered chasing them down but dismissed the thought. Victory had already been claimed.
Not today, Valhalla.
My breathing grew heavy, my limbs weary. Dropping to one knee, I steadied myself with a hand on the soaked earth. "A fight worthy of the greatest skalds."
"Ah—fuck—" John groaned as he pushed himself upright. "My ass… ugh."
I glanced at him. "Are you alive, Priest?" My voice returned to its usual, steady tone. "You took quite the beating."
"I'll live." He rubbed his ribs, then his gaze fell upon my Höggskjold. "What the hell is… that?"
I smirked. "I'll tell you later. For now, check on the wounded. See who's still breathing."
John gave a weary nod. "Thank you, Dane. I'll tell King Ælla what you did here today."
"I don't need praise from your king," I replied. "I need my reward."
"Ah, yes." He exhaled. "Come to the monastery tonight. It will be waiting for you."
"I will." I sheathed my axes and turned to leave.
John hesitated before speaking again. "Are you… not afraid of death?"
I looked back at him, eyes steady. "Why should I be? When I die, I will feast in Odin's hall, drinking and learning from his wisdom. I will fight beside the bravest warriors, die with honor, and rise again. There is no end—only glory."
"Good Lord." He shook his head. "I didn't know you believed in such things. It's… nonsense. Norse nonsense. Your war chiefs made up that god to control you, to keep you fighting. Promised you Valhalla, a place that doesn't even exist."
I smirked. "And you believe in a god who was nailed to a cross, tortured for all to see, and still call it a victory. Your faith is built on suffering, yet you glorify it. How does that make sense?"
"Christ died for our sins. We are but his followers."
I studied him for a moment. "You speak of sacrifice as if it explains everything. But if your god is so powerful, why does he demand endless suffering? Why let people live in pain, only to promise salvation after death? Isn't that just another kind of bargain? One with too high a price?"
John exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He turned away, scanning the ruined village. The wounded needed tending, and I had no reason to linger. Though we had fought side by side, the guards still watched me warily, their eyes filled with unease. I was an outsider—unwanted.Good. I had no desire to stay.
"Tonight, heathen," John muttered. "Come for your reward."
I nodded. "I will, Priest." Then, without another word, I walked away, dropping the severed heads to the ground.
ᚹᚨᛚᚺᚨᛚᛚᚨ-ᚺᛟᚾᛟᚱ-ᚱᛖᚲᛚᛁᛅᛗ
As night fell, I pushed myself off the tree trunk I'd been leaning against, stretching my limbs lazily. My body ached from battle, but my mind lingered on something else—some half-remembered nightmare from the night before. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't recall the details, only the lingering unease it left behind.
Yawning, I shook off the thought and looked around.
I was near the cave where I had spent the night, just outside the city. The rain had not ceased, though the sky had begun to clear, revealing glimpses of the moon behind the parting clouds. Even from here, the remnants of the attack lingered in the air. The stench of burnt wood and blood clung to the wind, carried toward York. Word of the raid had spread quickly—guards now lined the streets, patrols doubled in number.
'The drunken priest is waiting for me,' I thought. 'Time to collect my reward.'
Pulling my cloak over my shoulders, I turned toward the city. This time, I left Mielda behind. She was still shaken by the battle—I'd found her deep in the forest, alone and frightened, ears pinned back in distress. The moment she saw me, she trotted over and nuzzled against me like some overgrown pup, seeking comfort. She wasn't made for this life.
"You're staying here," I said, running a hand down her mane. "Rest, girl. You've earned it."
She shifted uneasily, her hooves shuffling against the wet ground.
"Now, now," I murmured, offering a faint smile. "It'll be fine. Just stay put."
With one final pat, I turned and made my way toward York. The rain continued, each step splashing in the mud beneath my boots. Along the roadside, small streaks of red mixed with the water—blood from the wounded who had fled to the city after the attack.
When I reached the slope leading up to the city gates, I slowed my pace. The guards would never let me pass on my own. But there—standing by the entrance—was John, speaking with one of them.
His gaze met mine. Without hesitation, he stepped away from the guards and strode toward me. We met in the middle of the road, exchanging a silent nod before walking through the gates together. With John at my side, the guards didn't even spare me a second glance.
"You've come, Norse," he said. "Someone wants to meet you."
"Who?" I asked.
"The mother of the girl you saved."
I exhaled sharply. "I don't need thanks. Don't waste my time with such nonsense."
"Oh, but you will want to meet her," he said, smirking. "Come."
I fell into step behind him, following in silence.
As we moved through the city, I passed a small house with its door left open. Inside, wounded men lay on makeshift beds, women of the cloth tending to their injuries. Outside, a handful of priests knelt in prayer. Among the wounded, I spotted a few Norsemen—perhaps festival-goers caught in the attack.
I raised a brow. They're even treating my kind?
"You tend to Norse as well?" I asked.
John glanced at me before following my gaze. He let out a tired sigh. "Ah. That one—he's a poet of some renown."
"A skald, huh?" I mused. "What does he write about?"
"I wouldn't know," John said with a shrug. "Not interested in that sort of thing. Just heard he was famous."
I nodded, my curiosity fading as quickly as it came. Whatever the skald's tales were, they didn't concern me. For now, I had a reward to claim