Page 110 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
She nodded. “We’ll find a way to stop this madness.”
Unstrapping the crossbow from her back, Helka passed it to me. “You remember how to use this?”
* * *
Eirik
Eirik gripped his sword—the weapon that had served him through all time, his Heart of the Slain. Raising his prayer to Thor and Odin, he asked for their strength.
There was but one man Eirik sought.
If Elswyth were alive, only this man’s death would free her.
He’d heard of the cruelties of his adversary, and the brute strength which brought annihilation to his enemies.
Running to meet the advancing foe, Eirik sent his blade into a man’s stomach. His axe sliced through another’s neck. Amidst skewered flesh and splitting skulls, he was aware of his warrior brethren and the Bjorgen warriors fighting alongside, but was single-minded in his purpose.
Eldberg!
Who’d brought vengeance to Svolvaen for a crime laid only at Gunnolf’s door. Who’d killed men and women innocent of misdeed. Who’d kidnapped his wife, degrading her as his bed-thrall!
Across the fray of screams, Eirik saw him—taller by far than anyone else, his head without helmet, his hair a wild mass of copper, and his face scarred upon the left side.
The throng of battle seemed to part as Eirik gazed upon Skálavík’s jarl, and his voice rang clear. “Time to taste my blade, Eldberg!”
Those about them fell back, making way for the two whose encounter would shape all that was to come. Through the fading light, each took measure of his foe. It was a meeting long coming.
“Or have you bravery only for skulking in the night, abducting women—like Beornwold before you.”
In reply, Eldberg thundered forward, his sword raised fully above his head, bearing down on his enemy. Fury boiled in his fearful war cry—the wrath of a man who’d suffered pain and loss, and would fight unto death to exact his vengeance.
Eldberg charged and swung, delivering a stroke that might have felled Eirik before he’d offered a single blow, but Eirik threw himself to one side, rolling away. Leaping up, he raised his shield to ward off the next strike. It was swift in coming; Eldberg’s sword ringing from the metal edge.
Eirik kept his feet firm but managed not a single thrust in retaliation, barely defending himself against the attack Eldberg rained down upon him. He was tiring, straining to withstand his adversary’s onslaught. Helka had warned him; his strength was not as it was.
Despite the freezing air, sweat drenched his body, but he needed only one sure hit—a quick motion, stabbing under Eldberg’s raised arm, into the tender, unprotected flesh.
As Eldberg’s weapon fell again, Eirik levelled his sword. Now was the time to strike—between his enemy’s blows, but Eldberg seemed to anticipate his move.
With a groan, Eirik blocked the weight of plunging steel. He staggered, faltering, then dropped to one knee.
Snow had begun falling again, light flakes upon heated skin.
In silent horror, Eirik witnessed Eldberg’s sword enter his shoulder, slicing through muscle, flesh, and bone. The force broke the blade in two, leaving him impaled.
Elswyth, my love, where are you?
From far away, there was a scream.
* * *
Eldberg
Eldberg pulled out the sword and flung it away, then pushed Eirik flat beneath his booted foot. Drawing up his enemy’s tunic, he laid his back bare and, from his belt, took his axe. He’d promised bloodeagle, and this he would deliver. First, the skin peeled back, then the ribs hacked from the spine. As he plunged his hands in this man’s blood, he’d offer the death to Odin. As to the lungs, he’d burn them and let the smoke carry to Valhalla as proof of his victory.
Standing, he raised his axe high above his head and bellowed his triumph.
Many of those who’d been fighting had already fallen back, seeing Svolvaen’s jarl at the mercy of the Beast.
