In his peripheral vision, in the middle of the fray he saw Bolthor, rendered weaponless, lower his head and charge at a menacing Saxon who aimed a crossbow his way. Knocking the bowman to his back like a headbutting goat, Bolthor proceeded to strangle him with his bare hands. After that, Toste saw Bolthor pick up a Saxon broadsword and lop off a man’s head as neatly as slicing a sausage. Without skipping a beat, Bolthor then took a young Saxon’s face between his massive hands and crushed his skull like a walnut. About them, the stench of sword dew was overpowering.
Shaking his head to clear it of the fuzziness that assailed him momentarily, Toste felt a sudden disturbance.
An odd prickling tingled at the back of his neck. Vagn. Where is Vagn? Scanning the field, he located Vagn a considerable distance away. They must have become separated some time ago in the melee.
As if in slowed motion, Toste watched helplessly as a Saxon long sword pierced his brother’s chain shert, passed into his chest, then all the way through his back, directly through his heart. There was blood everywhere—on his face, his body, at his feet a pool of blood.
Toste’s eyes connected with Vagn’s in that unusual way they had of sensing each other’s presence. Vagn screamed out to him, mentally, TOOOSSSTTTE! Several quick hand gestures in the silent language he and Vagn had developed said, “Farewell, brother. I have loved thee well.” Then Vagn sank to his knees, both hands clutching the sword that his attacker—a huge man with bright red hair and a livid scar running from crown to chin—was attempting to pull out with one booted foot braced on Vagn’s shoulder. Once the Saxon removed the sword from Vagn’s chest, he stood over him, grinning. With hysterical irrelevance, Toste noticed the bright silver eagle embossed on the villain’s shield. Vagn was still alive, but barely. His attacker laughed and left Vagn for dead, obviously wanting him to die a slow death.
A black mist came over Toste, and he went berserk for the first time in his life. Baring his teeth with savage fury, he howled with rage, then fought his way toward his brother. But, alas, though he battled valiantly, hewing down foemen right and left in his path, he had no protection at his back. He knew he was in trouble by the expression of alarm on Vagn’s face. When Toste felt the violent impact of a weapon against his skull, he fell to his knees, just as his brother had. But, nay, Vagn was lying on his back now, eyes closed.
Dead! His brother was dead. How would he be able to bear the loss? Toste agonized as unconsciousness overcame him. Then he laughed inwardly as another thought came to him. He would not have to grieve over his brother’s death because he was probably dying himself. In truth, the prospect of life without Vagn held no appeal.
Ah, well, he had never wished for a straw death. No Viking wanted to die in his sleep upon the rushes. Still, he would have liked to discuss this happenstance with his brother afore they entered the afterlife.
Will we meet this day in Valhalla? Or even in that Christian heaven? he wondered. I hope so.
‘Tis said that the Einberiar, the brave warriors killed in battle, see the flashing swords of the Valkyries just before death. The helmeted maidens ride white horses and escort the dead heroes to Valhalla, Odin’s great mead hall in Asgard.
I cannnot wait.
He died with a smile on his face then, envisioning the lovely virgin Valkyries who would soon carry him off. Imagine Vagn’s delight when we meet up in Valhalla with all those untried wenches.
Yea, death might not be so very bad.
Sometimes girls (even nuns) just wanna have fun …
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” confessed the young woman kneeling on the hard wooden bench. She shivered as she spoke with foggy breath; it was damp and chilly in the stone chapel of St. Anne’s Abbey at the best of times, but in the middle of November in Northumbria the cold was enough to turn one’s blood to ice.