****Graphic material warning****
**** COVID update: I hope everyone is staying safe. As a nurse, I'm working an extra shift a week so I may not update as frequently as I want. Writing is hard on my off days but I'm trying to do things that give me joy. I hope you find joy in these trying times. ****
She woke with the rest of the camp to the raven's call. Her head was pounding after the night of ale and she begrudgingly rose as the men around her pushed off with excitement. She hardly had a moment to say anything before they were off, giddy with the thought of vengeance.
"Are you ready, Lhyrie?" Sigurd asked her as she rose, shaking the sleep from her eyes. His smile was wide, and his eyes gleamed even in the early sun.
"As ready as Odin and Thor," she responded, trying to summon a smile.
In truth, she was anxious. It was had been some time since she witnessed a battle and she knew the gods wouldn't be as forgiving as their last venture. She tried to settle her nerves as she dressed, pulling on her small tunic of mail she took from Frankia. The weight heaved on her shoulders and she adjusted it awkwardly. She should just wear her layers of leather, she thought. They were much more comfortable to move in, but she was sure when she met up with Ragnar's sons they would protest she wasn't protected enough. Huffing, she pulled on a layer of hardened leather over the mail and nearly buckled with the weight against her lungs.
"By the Gods," she cursed, throwing off the extra layer. The mail and her tunic would need to suffice. She wasn't going to not move while in battle, even with aligning with the archers.
Grabbing her bow and counting her arrows, she passed through her tent and took in the commotion around her. The bow felt strange in her hands; she's never used it much and hoped her aim wouldn't be too terrible. Draping her belt and sword around her hip, she steadied her breath.
Most men had seen battle at this point, but the unmistakable look of the first time loomed in some men's eyes. Generally it was the boys, freshly shaven and no braid in their hair. She envied them and sent a prayer to Thor that their first battle wouldn't be their last. She hoped they wouldn't see those die before them either. Death in battle was gruesome, much more than a typical raid or duel. The thirst in men was greater, stronger than a simple excursion and even the sheer number of dead related to battle was grisly. She hated it. She much preferred to be healing men than killing them.
She, herself, had been in battle twice before, while in Frankia – mainly land disputes with Vandals and other territory hungry tribes, but ranked toward the end of the fray. Being a healer, and a woman, she was plainly pushed to the side, but took up her sword anyway. This assault would be different, of course. The unique strategy would maintain everyone have their vital place within it, providing relief and attack at key moments of the fight.
"Let's move!" Someone boomed, probably Bjorn. It echoed eerily through camp, bouncing off the trees and tents still erect. The soundwave jolted something in her, and the nerves jumped again.
The pack of bandages, herbs, and small instruments she needed for healing swung over her shoulder with ease, despite weighing that of a child. She was getting used to lugging around the tedious extra weight of caravanning. Scanning the exodus of soldiers, she looked of anyone with their bow, and half-jogged back toward the road to the ridge, fighting against those going to join the initial chase.
"May the Gods be with you," someone trembled as she pushed by them.
"And you," she mustered back.
As they moved, fog descended lower to greet them. England was always foggy, Lhyrie decided. The three rows of braids she placed in her hair were already loosening from the moisture and strands peaked out to tickle her neck. A loose strand wasn't what she needed to focus on during the battle, and quickly tucked it back into place, hoping it would stay as she set up her supplies.
"This is it!" Someone called as they approached the steep slope of the ridge. Only a small group of them came to set up early. The rest would break off after the first chase and join them. Most were healers, or the women looking to not to fight, but help.
"Good morning, Lhyrie," Hakon greeted her, joining her as she struggled up the sharp bank.
"Good morning," she huffed. She could really feel the weight of her mail and her supplies now.
"I do hope we have plenty of time to set up prior to the activities," he smiled.
"One can only hope." She looked for Ellisif in the small band. Where was her friend? She certainly wouldn't have gone with the first group. Needing to focus on the upcoming chaos, she pushed the concerns of Ellisif and Vik from her mind. She would speak with King Harald if he survives the day.
Two horns blew in the distance. The armies met for the first time. She gulped down her rush of adrenaline and hurried her work. They would break, of course, doubling back on the English army, driving them down the valley they just raced up, but then it would be a matter of time before they made their way through the trap.
Another two horns blew. This was happening quicker than she thought, or time was racing to match the heartbeat in her ears. The tarp she had laid out was pooling water from the fog already and her bandages weren't going to stay dry much longer. She needed those to be fresh to prevent any complications for the survivors. Tucking them under the tarp, she hoped they would stay as she heard soft feet running toward her spot. Her breath caught in her chest. No, not enough for the English army: they had horses and heavy armor. Viking armor was lighter and their boots not as dense.
Bjorn burst through the tree line to her right, followed by two or three hundred other Vikings, panting behind him. They were so quiet it shook her. This might actually work. On the opposite side of the valley, the other portion of the army situated themselves, led by King Harald, equally as quiet.
Despite the near thousand men and women around her, if she closed her eyes, Lhyrie wouldn't have been able to tell. Except for the occasional muffled cough or heavy breathing, it was an average late winter's day, the fog encompassing them and the birds still singing, as if nothing was going to change. Her side of the army looked tired, worn down from running the rough landscape. She hoped they recovered quickly before the battle. It would be a shame to be beaten by one's own breath in battle instead of a sword. She anticipated the English army to look just as rugged and breathless.
Anxiety radiated through the people around her. Already hyped with excitement, they were restless, silently traversing the soft ground, marking caverns with their boots. They formed a wall between her and the edge of the ridge, ready to strike and start their battle. Hakon slid through the barrier of people crowding around her and offered his hand to help her off her knees.
"It doesn't matter if we're ready now," he whispered gently in her ear and steadied her hand to her bow. She hadn't realized it was trembling slightly.
Four blasts echoed. Were they finally coming?
"Get ready," whispered person to person, each nocking an arrow to their bow and tiptoeing to the edge of the ridge, careful not to be seen from the road.
There was no mistaking it this time. The roar of hoof prints and metal armor clinking could be heard almost immediately, and the cacophony only grew in strength as the English army bellowed unseen toward their hiding spot. Lhyrie inched herself forward between two men. Digging her feet into the soft ground, she laid her shield at her feet and drew a collective breath with the army around her.
Time stood still. The birds forgot to sing. The breeze was the only thing moving around them. The road narrowed near the mouth of the valley, as it was surrounded by a large brush and it was there the army exploded behind the dense wall of fog that covered their path.
The leader, she presumed Aethelwulf, and his army had the fire of their hell behind him as they tore through the road, charging the horses as fast as they could carry them. Unsuspecting, they made no notice of the high walls surrounding them, arrogance of the landscape they thought they knew so well. Halfway through, Bjorn raised his arm, but no words escaped his mouth. A silent attack would devastate them more.
She raised her bow. Feeling the soft fletching between her fingers, she pulled the bow into place, just barely brushing her cheek. Her hands were no longer shaking; she was no longer nervous. The months of anticipation boiled to this moment, this arrow, this battle. Her sight line narrowed to focus on one of the English soldiers. His neck was exposed, and he wore no helmet. His shield was lackadaisically hanging to his side, both of his hands on his horse's reigns. Her fingers ached in anticipation against the force of the bow.
Bjorn's arm curved downward, cutting the air. She released her breath coolly and loosed the string from her grip. Lhyrie watched as her arrow pierced through the fog, swaying back and forth as if swimming through the clouds, until it collided with the bare, pale neck of the English soldier. At first, no blood gushed from the site. As if his mind didn't want to believe it, a hand left the horse's reign and came up to the arrow piercing to the side of his Adam's apple. She could see his eyes widen and his breathing quicken to the point he would soon stop breathing completely. He gasped and instinctually gripped the arrow.
Stupid man, Lhyrie thought in that millisecond. His horse jolted suddenly. The arrow tore out of his neck and the blood spilled like a waterfall onto his chest and horse. Buckling over, the red river flung to the other riders near him. The look of bewilderment on their faces as the hot liquid reached them only amplified as they too were battered with arrows. The first Englishman sloughed off his horse mid-run, falling under the hooves of the other riders. Lhyrie lost sight of him in the muddle and blinked her sightline away, but despite the roar of hoofprints, she heard the unmistakable sound of bone snapping and flesh being pulled apart.
Arrows thick as rain came whistling over the rest of the riding English soldiers. They cowered on horseback, drawing their shields to guard their heads like an impromptu shield wall.
"Cover!" Aethelwulf called, rounding his horse back to his men.
More arrows loosed around him, but the Viking army began to move. They broke into four groups, two each on either side of the ridge. Parading down the entrance of the valley and cutting the English off at the other, they closed in their scrambling prey. Lhyrie was rushed down the side of the valley, moving effortless with the tide of her Viking counterparts. Flinging her bow over her shoulder, she unsheathed her sword and gripped her shield hard against her. They gathered together and waited. She shifted her feet anxiously, feeling the soft grass turn to mud already.
"Charge!" Aethelwulf cried.
Running like fire, her feet moved without her knowing, toward the screaming Englishmen, toward danger. "For Ragnar!" Erupted around her, she joined their battle cry.
One breath…
Two breaths…
Three –
The dull thud of shields ramming into one another boomed in the valley as the armies collided, like two unmovable waves. Lhyrie slammed her shield into one Englishman and knocked him onto his back. It was only as she ran into him did he notice she was a woman and he froze in his spot. Certainly he had never fought a woman in battle before. Without hesitation, she wielded her sword to his unprotected belly and cut through to his bowel. From his groan and the smell that erupted from him, she knew she had perforated his colon. She looked down at the sad figure at her feet. Blood sprouted a little too quickly from his wound. She had torn his vena cava; that gave him merely seconds.
She stepped over him and faced a foreign sword. She brought hers up to meet it and forced it down. The soldier knocked her shield into her, and it caught her breath in her chest. She quickly regained herself and cut across his thighs with her sword. He limped and howled in pain. Slipping in the mud, he too succumbed to a sword in his abdomen.
The chaos around her was overwhelming. Too many swords swung. She thought if the English didn't kill her, the uncouth yielding of Viking steel would undoubtedly strike her. They must have outnumbered them two to one, as everywhere she turned on her spot, she saw Viking. The mud squished under her foot and she dredged forward, slashing at those who crossed her path.
Suddenly an English man was on top of her, tackling her to the muck. He was completely covered from head to toe in mud. How could he grip her with as much filth caked to his fingers? Then his fingers were around her throat, banging her head into the soft earth, splashing dirty water everywhere; it was burning her eyes. Or it was the lack of oxygen. She gasped against his touch; his press against her jugular. His eyes were dark and full of hatred toward her and his smile grimaced into a wicked sneer as he squeezed harder. Lhyrie tried to kick her feet up at him, but the strength left her. Her vision went fuzzy and dark around the edges.
I can't breathe. One of her hands grappled with his at her throat. If this is how I'm going to die at least put a sword in me. She pleaded to the Gods.
She tried to beg with him, but only gurgles bubbled from her lips. Her head was pounding. She couldn't feel her feet or her fingers. Her fingers still held her sword, maybe, possibly. With all the strength she could muster, she rammed her fist and butt of sword, into the man's side. He loosened his touch just enough for her to choke the cold air down into her lungs and she whacked him again. Rearing from the blows, he attempted to regain his hold on her neck. She quickly rotated her fist and jammed her sword anywhere she could hit him. It went through his side and out his back. Withdrawing it quickly, she squirmed out from underneath him and let him rest face down, gagging in the puddle he forced her in.
Stepping over bodies became normal in the muck. One man grasped her by the calf and nearly pulled her over. His breathing was ragged, she could see the strain of his Wessex yellow tunic pull with every gasping breath he took. Did he get the end of her sword in his lung? She thought as she ripped his clench from her boots. Pulling her sword up to end his suffering, she paused. She might be able to help him. But he was English. How many other Englishmen could she help as they lay struggling on this battlefield? How many Englishmen had she faced and not given a deadly blow?
She looked helplessly around her, despite the chaos enveloping her. She couldn't do this. She wasn't a killer. Slowly, she watched for any threat coming toward her and retreated. She needed to get back to her supplies. She needed to start healing.
But as she almost slipped in the mud, she saw him: Ubbe. Blue eyes shining bright, he was waving a freshly decapitated head in his hands. It was still spurting blood, mouth and eyes open wide. It was as though the lanes opened for her to see him, directly in front of her. Him and the English soldier charging him with his sword high. He couldn't see him. His back was turned, flaunting his victory. She couldn't intercept the blood thirsty soldier, Ubbe was between them. If she yelled would he hear her? She had to try, as the man continue to charge like a raving dog toward him.
"UBBE!" She shrieked with all her might. Her breath came fast, her vision again became dark around the edges. "UBBE!" His eyes suddenly met hers, wide and unknowing of the threat just inches from him now. Then, her hand was on her bow. Automatically nocking an arrow, she pulled back and loosed in one movement. It flew by Ubbe's ear and hit the man in the shoulder. She let out the breath she was holding.
Ubbe turned away from her to look at the man directly behind him. Her arrow had pierced his shoulder that was carrying his sword above his head, so the Englishman paused to switch hands, giving Ubbe just enough time to bring his axe through the man's neck and decapitate another target. With the man safely sank in the mud, and head severed, rolling in a puddle, he turned back to her, axe dripping crimson. His chest was heaving, and his victim's blood trickled on his muddy face.
Their eyes locked for only a moment as a rider-less horse barreled toward her and she jumped out of its path. Mud drenched her as it galloped past and she wiped it from her eyes with the back of her hand. When she looked back to him, his spot was empty besides the headless Englishman in the filth. Ubbe was facing another sword, his axe clashing with it in the middle. He shoved his opponent backwards and imbedded his axe in the soldier's chest. Moving on to his next target in the confusion of battle, he didn't turn to face her again.
Turning on her heel, she met the back of an English solider. He turned slowly to meet her; his sword raised. He slashed at her side, but she blocked it with her sword. Twirling, she caught him in his back and sliced his skin. The man buckled and she shoved her sword into his back. She could feel the squelch of kidney as her sword slid through it. No, she couldn't save this one.
She stumbled past a Viking woman who wasn't as fortunate as her. Her neck was snapped and plastered in mud. Forcing her eyes shut, she pushed her image from her mind and turned toward the ridge. She needed to get up there, to grab her supplies, to start healing, not continue killing or be killed herself.
"Swedrian!" An Englishman cried, covered in mud somewhere to her right. He latched onto a horse. The English slowly rose from their defenses, scared to move, afraid to die, afraid to stay. She could hear the lull of Ivar's carriage being pulled in the distance and the march of footsteps arriving to the battle. Their reinforcements were here, and the English scrambled off.
A Viking cry rose from around her. "We won!" Someone laughed, slapping her on the back, white teeth shining against the darkness coated to their face.
But what did we lose? She wanted to ask somberly. While others rushed together, celebrating in arms, she stood and stared, looking into the muddy field and slain men laying it in, trying to find any movement, anybody alive, anybody to save. Just then, Hakon arrived at her side, slightly bloody from battle, but looking younger than his years. He handed her a spare cloth and she quickly wiped her hands free of the dirt.
"We should begin," he said. He already carried his satchel on his hip. Had he worn it all battle?
"I need to grab my things," she huffed, exhausted from the fight. But her work was only just starting.
"What are you celebrating for?" She heard Bjorn boom, as she climbed the steep angle of the ridge. Lifting the tarp where she had left out her bandages, they were remarkably still dry. Throwing her satchel over the shoulder, she nearly tumbled down the slick valley walls. "Regather. Heal. We move on to Wessex shortly!" Bjorn called through the troops.
The Ragnarssons were huddled by Ivar's chariot, always plotting. She was surprised they would attempt to capture Wessex today. Maintain the momentum of battle, she thought. She knew men often had stamina after combat, but all she felt was fatigue. When they did move on later today she wouldn't be able to join them. There was far too much to do here and to move those injured back toward the boats.
Despite her feelings toward Ubbe after the ordeal with Margrethe, she wanted to see the happiness restore to his face again. It would be a shame to miss that moment while they were in Wessex. There was a flicker of it there now, linked to his brother's chariot, laughing with Sigurd. Hopefully it would still be there when they return to the boats, so she could celebrate with him.
His eyes met hers and he smiled. He pushed Sigurd out of his path and knocked him off Ivar's chariot. Strutting through the sloppy field, he dodged countless bodies until he was right in front of her, smile in his eyes. He scooped her face in his hands and pulled her into a deep kiss. He tasted like dirt and blood. Her whole body surged at his touch and arched against him, wanting to get closer.
And then he was gone.
Or rather, still with his brothers, leaning on Ivar's chariot. She was too exhausted, she thought. Too exhausted she was having visions. But that felt so real. She could still feel his lips and body against hers. She could taste him on her lips.
"You look pale, Lhyrie," Hakon looked over at her.
"I just had a very odd sensation," she whispered, bringing her fingers to her lips. It was hard to tell if the layer of mud was new or from the battle.
"The realities blend around battle as the Valkyries descend," he stated simply, placing mistletoe in the hands of an unmoving Viking. Her neck was rolling to the side and blood pooled on her tunic at her chest. Lhyrie felt a pull of guilt draw her to the woman. That could have been her at any moment in this battle. Why did the Gods spare her?
"It was almost an alternative reality," she said, shaking her head and bringing her thought back to Hakon and then to Ubbe, who was still laughing with his brothers. He clearly wasn't experiencing any survivor's conundrum.
"The Gods showing you what should have been," he said, following her gaze toward Ubbe. Lhyrie hadn't discussed her situation with Ragnar's sons with Hakon, but she was sure someone would have gossiped with him about it while in Kattegat. It was the talk of the town. She felt a stone form in the back of her throat and swallowed it down.
"Could have been," she corrected him as she pulled ascaria from her bag.
"If it is the will of the Gods."
She tilted her head in a silent question toward Hakon but as a man quickly trotted up to her with his arm bleeding profusely, she stuffed his wound with the plant in her hand and forgot to ask Hakon his meaning. Those that could walk, or limp, found their way to them to fix their wounds from battle. She bandaged more wounds than she could count; set a record of shoulders, arms, and fingers; and generally pushed her limits as a healer in the aftermath of the battle. If she wasn't exhausted before, she desperately was after.
She was grateful for the men who stayed behind while the rest of the healthy army moved toward Wessex. They procured trailers for horses to draw the injured back to the boats and she laid next to a man who had his femur tearing his trousers earlier in the day. With Hakon's help and the help of several other men, they were able to set his bone back to its rightful place. She prayed to Eir as she wiped enough mud from the bone and from his skin, that he would survive to return to England. As the trailer bumped along the road, his groans next to her didn't comfort her fears and she sent Odin a prayer to take him quickly. By the time they made it back to the boats and the dawn was peaking above the horizon, his chest was no longer rising and his heart silent within him.
He wasn't the last Viking to die away from the battlefield as fevers pushed through camp when they arrived at the boats. Those small wounds she thought were simple, caused their victim to convulse and burn up. The cursed muddy field seemed to be culprit, as Lhyrie too felt flushed after the fight, despite only acquiring scrapes herself. Unlike so many of those around her, her fevers faded, and she was able to continue to help with the mounds of the deceased gathering on the shores of the river and wait for the arrival of the army from Wessex.
She saw the procession before she heard it. The horizon darkened with their presence and their slow, solemn stride. Just like the boats, the capture of Wessex was unable to pass without a few casualties. However, the fact of their deaths coming from Viking hands haunted Lhyrie. Ragnar's sons passed her without as much as a glance when they arrived in camp, the body of their brother in tow. The joyous celebration she so desperately wanted to see on their faces, was replaced by the sad scowl plastered on them. Her heart ached for them. Just when she thought the tides were turning, the Ragnarssons were doomed for sadness.
The tension in the air surrounding Sigurd's funeral could be cut with a sword. Lhyrie squeezed herself next to the boat and painfully watched as Ubbe placed grave gifts around his brother. She situated herself on the opposite side of the boat as Ivar and was in full view of the piercing looks Ubbe shot at him throughout the ritual.
As a mass of men shifted the boat into the river, the remaining Ragnarssons slowly followed in its path. She could feel the tears begin to ache under her eyes as the archers lit their arrows. Too many people she has loved have died since returning to Kattegat. She prayed this would be the last for some time. The arrows gracefully traced the sky and landed with a hollow notch on the boat just offshore. The tide hesitated in taking the boat, as if uncertain of these foreign customs. What seemed like ages, the boat bobbed in the water until Njord helped push it downstream with a gust of strong wind. The two ravens that circled the camp the initial day of battle danced around the flaming ship as it disappeared around a bend, lost in the trees. She hoped it wasn't an ill omen from Odin.
Turning back, she caught a glimpse of Ubbe and Bjorn walking together, huddled in thought. Forcing through the dispersing crowd, she wanted to catch them, comfort them in this time of sorrow but the mass of people made her lose them from her sight. Certain she would meet up with them shortly, she turned toward her tent and hoped Vik and Ellisif returned from Wessex with them. Pouring herself a glass of ale she traded for, Lhyrie relaxed in front of her fire and hoped for a better tomorrow.
