Chapter Seven: Earl Ingstad
Ragnar's sons—and Guthrum, that year—were not the only men to go hunting during the days when late summer bled into fall. The brothers just tended to go on their own jaunts during the hunt. In truth, it was like a mass exodus of men from Kattegat, the last big hunt before the winter. What remained of the fall season upon the men's return would be spent in harvest and preparation. Rúna stood with Helga, Torvi, Aslaug, and Lagertha on the edge of town, to see them off.
The famous shieldmaiden, Earl Ingstad, Björn's mother, Lagertha. She came to Kattegat several times throughout the year, and always to see her son off for the hunt. Typically, the earl only stayed a day and a night, but this year she was staying long enough to help Torvi.
Björn kissed his wife, tiny son, and mother goodbye in turn. Floki gathered Rúna and Helga into a big hug, crushing both to his chest. "How does a big, fat reindeer sound to get us through the winter, hmm?"
Aslaug kissed each of her sons on the forehead. "All of you be safe. Guthrum will be learning from you."
Ivar rode in the back of a cart for the yearly journey, sitting among food stores, tools, and spare weapons. Rúna slipped away from the others, climbing onto the axle so she could talk to him over the lip of the cart.
"Try to be good," she reminded him, offering him a leather pouch from the palm of her hand. He smiled, eyes lighting up, knowing well what was inside: dried strawberries. The fruit—fresh or dried—was Ivar's favorite, and Rúna gave him a pouch full every year as a hunting trip send off.
"You make the same threat every year, yet none have quite stuck yet." He popped a strawberry in his mouth, eyes shining with unconcealed mischief. "Perhaps this year."
She rolled her eyes when he tugged her braid. Rúna was going to admonish Ivar again, but a set of arms caught her about the waist, lifting her off her feet and spinning her away from the cart. "Do you doubt my abilities to keep Little Ivar in line?"
Hvitserk. He set her, laughing, on her feet. His happiness was contagious, excitement over the hunt and his healed shoulder shining from his face. Putting that healing to good use, Hvitserk caught the side of Ivar's head. "You'll listen to me, huh, baby brother?"
"When have I ever?" Ivar lunged over the edge, catching Hvitserk in the ribs despite his attempt to dodge. "Why should I begin to now?"
He must not be too bothered by Guthrum, Rúna mused, watching the brothers berate each other. Björn's call silenced all the chatter and goodbyes, signaling the time for departure. With a final smile for Hvitserk and Ivar, Rúna backtracked to her spot beside Helga to wave everyone off. She knew what came next, after the send-off: soon, the women of Kattegat would lapse into the routines of fall cleaning, the very tradition Lagertha was staying to assist Torvi with. It was the last opportunity to do a huge, deep-clean before the autumn snows began. Once the caravan of hunters were out of sight on the horizon, Rúna knew her days would be consumed with moving furniture, scrubbing floors, mending bedsheets, and washing laundry in the stream.
And, to be honest, she couldn't wait.
Miles away, Ivar bounced with each rock the cart rolled over. His legs ached the higher they climbed, the air growing somehow thinner and heavier at once. Hvitserk jumped into the cart from time to time, to keep him company, but most of the journey was spent alone, watching the other boys close to his age running and roughhousing with one another.
Nibbling on another strawberry, Ivar tried not to feel too sorry for himself. Sure, at home, he could be playing hnefatafl with Rúna. Mother would rub his legs for him, if she knew how stiff they had become. He might stop by Floki's, where Helga would give him buttermilk and honeyed bread.
Not jostling around in this cart, his legs growing numb only to be jolted by holes and ruts in the ground. He laid his arms along the edge of the cart, to pillow his chin. Sigurd and Hvitserk were having a race, jumping over rocks and pushing one another to try to stay ahead. The way legs worked fascinated Ivar just as much as it infuriated him. Unless Floki was manipulating his limbs, never had he been able to lift his leg high enough to step over a pebble, let alone jumping over a small boulder.
It was not until splinters bit into his fingers that Ivar realized he had been gripping the cart as his anger brewed inside him. He felt feverish in his clothing—thick, to withstand his crawling. Though Ivar had refused to bring his crutches along, he had agreed to wear his full braces for the trip. This left his legs unbound, so he was easier to carry when need be, but now the braces felt smothering and restrictive.
Had he not known how many hours Rúna had spent sewing the pieces for the stupid braces, he would have ripped them from his skin. As it was, he removed them properly, albeit with shaking, clumsy fingers. When his legs were finally free, Ivar threw himself back against the wooden planks of the cart.
The jolts from rocks, ruts, and holes reverberated painfully through his hips and down the long bones of his legs. Still, he pressed his legs as flat as he could, ignoring the way he could feel this heartbeat thudding in what leg muscles he had. You are not Ivar here, he reminded himself. You are a cripple. They will only see you as a cripple.
He used the pain to remind himself. Staring up at a cloud-covered sky, gray as Rúna's eyes, he made his body and his mind numb to the truth he told himself. They will only see you as a cripple.
As his resolve hardened, he added lines to his mantra:
Make them forget that you are a cripple.
Make them see that you are Ivar. Ivar the Boneless.
Make them see you.
Rúna was elbows deep in creek water, scrubbing bedsheets against the washboard, when she heard Lagertha's voice behind her.
"You've grown so much." The earl crouched down beside her, setting up her own washboard. "And brought Helga and Floki much happiness, I've heard."
Smiling at the compliment, Rúna pulled the sheet from the water to inspect it. "They have been nothing but good to me."
The two worked together in silence for some time, washing sheets or bits of clothing before spreading the laundry across the grass to dry in the intermittent sunshine. It wasn't awkward or uncomfortable, to Rúna's surprise. There was a calmness to Lagertha, a quiet confidence that put her at ease as they worked. Besides, it wasn't like Lagertha was a stranger, exactly. She had been a regular figure in Kattegat all Rúna's life.
"You are close to Björn's brothers, yes?" Rúna helped Lagertha lay a sheet flat along the grass, pulling at any bunching to make sure it dried properly.
"Yes," she answered haltingly, at length. If her reluctance threw Lagertha at all, the shieldmaiden didn't show it.
"And what of the queen? Do you spend much time with Aslaug?" There was no doubt in Rúna's mind that Lagertha saw the stiffening in her movements at the question. Unsure where the older woman was going with her questioning, Rúna already began to choose her words carefully.
"I suppose so," she answered honestly. Not bothering to look up, Rúna shook out one of Floki's shirts before laying it flat in the grass. A nightgown—Helga's—and a set of curtains were shaken out and set to dry by the time Lagertha spoke again.
"My son tells me that Aslaug does little to help in the running of Kattegat. That his brothers, save for Ivar, have raised themselves." The way Lagertha said it was soft, kind, gently prompting, but despite this, Rúna felt herself stiffen again. Her heartbeat quickened and her face heated. Helga had drilled it into her head to stay quiet where Queen Aslaug was concerned, and though Lagertha was only speaking truth, Rúna's mouth went dry around any response she might have given the older woman.
Instead, she looked away, back toward Kattegat, unable to think of a way to tactfully reply to Lagertha's probing. Sometimes, Rúna forgot that Lagertha had been the wife of King Ragnar before Aslaug. She forgot that, despite her earldom, Kattegat was Lagertha's home as well. The shieldmaiden knew the town's history much better than Rúna—Aslaug had always been queen, in Rúna's time in Kattegat. She could not remember a time before Ragnar was king, either.
But Lagertha could. She could see the changes in the now-bustling trade town; she could see the differences in how Ragnar led Kattegat and how Aslaug—with significant help from Björn—had carried on the rule.
"Björn says…" Lagertha tried again, dropping her voice to nearly a whisper though she was confident they would not be overheard. Aslaug was overseeing her slaves carrying out the substantial work it took to deep-clean the great hall, of course. "He has explained to me that Aslaug is not wholly kind to her older sons."
What Lagertha saw beside the creek that day was a teenage girl with flame-red hair and gray eyes staring determinedly at the grass beneath her feet, refusing to confirm the abuse she had undoubtedly witnessed. No; abuse she had undoubtedly bore, if the way the girl seemed to fold in on herself was any indication.
The way Rúna startled beneath her hand confirmed that suspicion for Lagertha. Still, the earl's hand came to rest on the young girl's shoulder. There was no way Rúna was going to give Lagertha the information she was seeking, so she was thankful the hand on her shoulder was the only form of comfort being offered.
Instead, Lagertha only asked, "Do Helga and Floki know?"
"They know what they need to," she said, shrugging her shoulder beneath Lagertha's hand. Unfortunately for Lagertha, Rúna wouldn't betray the secrets she kept with the sons of Ragnar and Aslaug, secrets not even Björn knew.
"Was she terrible this last time?" Ivar whispered to Hvitserk, his breath misting into a white cloud in front of his face. Nights were already cold along the mountains, so that everyone hunkered beneath fur cloaks they had no need for during the day. There was never any hunting on the first afternoon. Everyone was tired from the trek, even Ivar, though Sigurd complained every year he had 'no right' to be as exhausted as the rest. Never mind that the rough path was just as hard on Ivar's legs…
Hvitserk shrugged, making Ivar's head bob with the action. The cold was always more brutal for Ivar, with half his body lacking sufficient fat and muscle to keep him warm. He and Hvitserk lay huddled together, Ivar's head on his shoulder, their cloaks doubled up on top of them. "Don't worry yourself over it, Little Ivar."
But he did. Ivar stared at the brilliant stars above them, thick and bright and deceptively close on the mountain, and he worried. The first time Ragnar had brought them up the mountain—all of them too young to hunt, then—Ivar had thought if he reached up high enough while hoisted in his father's arms that he might be able to catch one of those stars in his palm. He sighed, forcing the memories from his mind while watching his breath puff before him again. "Was she?"
Sometimes, Ivar thought their mother's ire justified. Like the time, when he was twelve, his brothers had thought it might be funny to all jump from the little boat they were fishing in and leave him terrified and alone among the waves. Other times, he did feel bad about Hvitserk and Ubbe getting pulled into the maelstrom of Aslaug's anger…though he never quite felt bad about Sigurd.
It was Hvitserk's turn to sigh, cloaking the brothers temporarily in mist. Ivar's head rode the rhythm of Hvitserk's breathing while he considered. "Well, she didn't hit me or Ubbe this time."
So she had screamed. And hit Sigurd, on top of the screaming, though he didn't feel bad about that. Sigurd deserved worse than their mother's slaps for the words he had said, in Ivar's opinion. He had been right, then. He didn't mind the hitting so much, but he hated the screeching his mother was capable of. That was what had kept him at Floki's that night, wanting desperately to avoid that screeching.
"You are not stupid," Ivar said softly, knowing his words likely held little weight to his older brother. "Or a bad brother. Or a bad son. Father would be proud of you."
It was almost like Aslaug had a list she went through when she was railing against her three older sons. The order never changed. The insults never changed. Yet, the routineness of the queen's outbursts made it no easier for her sons to bear.
Hvitserk sighed again, snuggling deeper into their cloaks. He threw an arm over Ivar's chest, offering more of his body heat. "You should tell Ubbe and Sigurd the same."
I will tell Ubbe, anyway. Ivar thought, mind slipping into sleep as he turned toward his brother's warmth.
Aslaug was a good entertainer. That was the only compliment Rúna could ever muster for the queen. She had been a princess born, after all, only knowing the life of royalty, and that showed in the court she held at Kattegat. Especially when the men and older boys were on their yearly hunt.
Typically, Rúna loved the evenings during this time, when Aslaug would open the great hall to entertainment. It was a time of dress-up, feasting, singing, and dancing, all encouraged by a smiling Aslaug. Seeing Queen Aslaug smile was exceedingly rare. She was in her element when she held court in the great hall, even more so when it was just womenfolk.
Torvi had braided her hair that night, using her considerable hairdressing skills to twist and braid Rúna's hair into a thick, winding mass that took a serpentine path along the back of her head. She wore her new dress, her green one with the intricate floral embroidery she and Helga had sewn into the hem and along the sleeves.
Now, though, seated at the long table between Helga and Torvi, with music beginning to fill the great hall as Aslaug's slaves brought out sweet bread as a first course, Rúna felt trapped. She dared not meet Lagertha's cool gaze, deceptively blank of any of the calculation she had seen there earlier that afternoon. It was suddenly stuffy, Helga and Torvi's proximity feeling suffocating. She was thankful when one of the slave women filled her cup with the red, fragrant honeyed wine that Aslaug preferred.
"I think she is old enough now, don't you, Helga? Our Rúna is nearly a woman grown. Some wine won't hurt her." Aslaug's eyes were glassy in the firelight from the same honeyed wine, her smile easy for once as she met Rúna's gaze.
"Of course," Helga said with a tight smile of her own. "She has seen fourteen summers now, after all."
But Rúna could see through the obedience. She sipped at her wine tentatively, knowing without being told that Helga expected her to eat far more than she drank. Getting drunk to dispel her unease wouldn't do, then. She tore off a chunk of her bread instead, gaining an approving nod from Helga.
The weight of Lagertha and Aslaug's combined presence was almost enough to make Rúna forsake Helga's expectations. She would have liked nothing better than to drink the whole cup. Trapped. That's how she felt. Like one of the animals Ivar and Floki and the others would be hunting down. What if Aslaug knew? If she had a vision of Lagertha's questions beside the stream? Even if she had not, Rúna did not think it was unreasonable to assume she may find out another way.
Rúna focused on making herself small between Helga and Torvi.
It's only seven days, she reminded herself. Only seven days until the others are back.
'Until Ivar is back', is what she really meant, if she were being honest with herself. Ivar was the only shield she would have should Aslaug learn of Lagertha's inquisition. His anger was the only true roadblock Rúna had ever seen for the queen's volatile moods.
The bow glanced off Sigurd's thigh. Ivar's reach was impressive, considering he was confined to the ground. His little brother was strong enough, too, for the edge of the bow to catch and cut through his pants, dragging and splitting the skin beneath. A long, curving cut on the outer side of his thigh, blood oozing hot and thick down his knee and calf.
"Ivar!" Sigurd raged, catching the bow in his palm when his brother went for a second hit. He tried to yank the bow from Ivar's grasp, but the younger boy proved too strong—and too cunning. Ivar let go when Sigurd rocked his weight back on his heels, sending him falling to the ground.
That would have been the beginning, rather than the end, of the altercation had Floki not intervened. Grabbing Ivar beneath his arms, Floki pulled him up and backward, onto his legs…which were entirely useless to him without someone's support or his crutches. Ivar huffed like a little boy rather than the almost-fifteen-year-old that he was, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's enough, Ivar."
He did not take scolding from many people. In all honesty, he never took it from Aslaug or from any of his older brothers, only Floki. Ivar did not complain as Floki dragged him away, but he didn't help, either. He let his legs go entirely limp as he glared at Sigurd while Ubbe helped him off the ground.
"Move your legs, boy," Floki instructed him, but Ivar only scuffed. He had already guessed where it was Floki was dragging him.
"I cannot even walk forward, and now you expect me to walk backward?"
"I expect you to give an old man some help." Floki grunted, though for show or from genuine discomfort, Ivar wasn't sure. "Unless you want to see me stuck on the ground with a broken back."
Ivar sighed, but did as Floki bid, lifting his feet so they no longer carved ruts into the ground. Without this impediment, Floki quickly pulled Ivar into his tent for a scolding. The young boy knew this was coming, however, and cut into the conversation before any scolding could take place.
"That deer should have been mine," Ivar raged, slapping his hands open palmed against his thighs. The resulting tingle in his hands helped him focus that anger. "I tracked it for miles."
It was Floki's turn to sigh. "I'll not deny you that, Ivar." For it was the truth. With his perspective so close to the ground, Ivar truly was an exceptional tracker. He noticed things no one else did—broken twigs, small tufts of hair caught on brambles, prints ever so slightly visible in the earth. Ivar had tracked the deer, a massive buck, but Sigurd had tracked Ivar.
Using a bow and arrow from the ground brought a unique challenge. Even after pulling himself up to lean his back against a tree, thoroughly concealed by bushes, it took Ivar longer to aim his arrow to hit at just the right upward angle. While he was lining up a fatal shot, Sigurd had sent an arrow flying, piercing the deer right through the eye.
Floki, like Rúna, was never much affected by Ivar's cold blue glare. A solid tap on the head didn't weaken his glare, however ineffective it was. "You cannot hurt your brother over this."
"Why not?" Ivar argued, ignoring the stern tone. "Sigurd took something that was mine. Do Björn and Mother not punish thieves in Kattegat?"
Steepling his fingers beneath his chin, Floki leaned forward. Ivar was covered in dust from his tracking trek, legs defiantly tied together with a spare length of rope. Perhaps Floki shouldn't have had Rúna talk the boy into wearing his braces rather than his bindings; he knew well which were easier for Ivar to move around in.
"Ivar." Floki made sure to meet the boy's gaze, despite the radiating anger there. "Have I told you about you father and your uncle?" Ragnar and Rollo, respectively, were not so different from Ivar and Sigurd…though the love and loyalty that sometimes existed between the first set of brothers was largely missing from the current set.
Chin raising, eyes dropping, Ivar's expression became closed and guarded. "Rollo betrayed Father. Björn has told us the stories."
"Ah, I'm sure he has, but Björn has not walked through Midgard so long as this old man before you, hmm? There are thing Björn does not remember that I do, and I remember Rollo and Ragnar nearly killing one another over Lagertha."
"Lagertha?!" The surprise and disgust were evident on the boy's face. He thought of Lagertha, so proud and cold during her visits to Kattegat, acting as if she were the queen rather than Mother. Ivar would not deny her the title of famous shieldmaiden nor her respect as a leader of her earldom, but favorable opinion didn't go beyond that for him.
"Yes, Lagertha!" Another tap on the head. Sometimes Ivar forgot that Floki and Helga were fond of the earl, nearly as fond of her as Björn himself. "Her father raised her to be fierce and independent, and both Ragnar and Rollo were drawn under the spell of the young shieldmaiden. Naturally, Rollo felt he had the bigger claim, being the older of the brothers…"
From there, Floki described the battle between brothers for Lagertha's hand in marriage. The retelling made it sound fierce, with considerable bloodshed and multiple potentially mortal blows. In the end, Ragnar had won triumph with Rollo's neck pinned beneath his axe. Of course, Ragnar applied only enough pressure to leave a thin scratch along his brother's neck, rather than a fatal wound.
"That fight started a life-long battle between them," Floki wrapped up his story. "I haven't seen Rollo nor Ragnar in years, but I would wager the feud would be as strong as ever should those two ever reunite."
"Sigurd and I do not fight over girls," Ivar argued, though his mind tried to drift to Rúna. But that was ridiculous; Rúna was Rúna. Most of the time he didn't even think of her as a girl. "We fight over everything. Our whole lives."
Sighing, Floki ran a hand over his face. The motion smeared some of the black smudges around his eyes, trailing the pigment down his cheeks. "I know. Ivar, are any of the things you fight over with Sigurd worth either his life or yours?"
At that question, the boy's face reddened. Most of the things they fought over were inconsequential: the deer, disputes over winners of brotherly competitions, who deserved the bigger piece of bread during dinner. Ivar knew, though, that those stupid reasons were just a front for the deeper feelings there.
"He hates me, Floki. He has always hated me." Initially, Floki had thought Ivar's cheeks had flushed with embarrassment. Rather, he saw the anger in the shake of Ivar's hands and the petulant set of his jaw. "My whole life, Sigurd has hated me. Do you think I should lie down like the cripple I am and allow him to hate me without reason?"
Ivar's cold gaze bore into Floki. "I won't do it. I won't."
She had been dreaming of sailing. Floki took her, sometimes, on small sailing journeys around the fjords to test new boats to make sure they were seaworthy for Björn and Ubbe. The sun was shining, warm and bright on her face, sea wind tangling her hair. But then, suddenly, the waves began to swell and crash against themselves, sending the boat rocking violently. She turned to Floki, eyes wide with fear.
"Rúna!" She heard her name, but it wasn't Floki's voice. It wasn't Floki's face—it morphed into Lagertha, and she heard her name called again, louder this time. "Rúna!"
When her eyes flew open, it was indeed Lagertha's face she saw swimming into focus above her own. "Wha—"
"Come, Rúna. We need all the shieldmaidens we can get." Lagertha hauled her from her bed. Rúna hadn't undone Torvi's intricate braiding, so she only ran a hand over her hair to be sure it was still done up before quickly changing into her training clothing. Heart racing, head fuzzy with sleep and confusion, she pulled on her boots and stumbled into the front room.
"She's too young!" Helga was arguing with Lagertha, even as the earl was pressing Rúna's shield into her hands. "She's never fought, Lagertha, only trained with Floki and the boys. I am begging you, do not take her."
Rúna shook her head, trying to clear it. "What's going on?"
"Aslaug had a vision." Despite Helga's protestations, Lagertha grabbed a piece of boiled leather armor off the table and began strapping it to the girl's torso. It was loose in the chest, meant for a grown woman. Likely a piece of Lagertha's own armor, she figured. "It's not many. A handful of raiders, taking advantage of Kattegat while the men are away for the hunt. They will be here just before sunrise."
This had never happened before. Never.
"I will keep her with me," Lagertha promised. Helga pushed the shield aside, enveloping Rúna in her arms and pressing her face into the girl's red hair. "I will keep her safe, Helga. We need her. I would not take her if we didn't."
Helga kissed her, leaving Rúna's face damp with her tears. She made the girl promise to stay beside Lagertha, to stay safe. That was all the time for goodbyes; Lagertha took Rúna's hand and pulled her along behind her.
"What are you most comfortable fighting with?" They raced across the beach and through the town, heading for the front gates that surrounded and protected Kattegat. A throwing axe thumped against Rúna's thigh as they ran, and she was hyperaware of the knife strapped to her belt. But she hadn't grabbed either her quiver or bow, and suddenly she very much wished she had.
"Um, my bow, but—" Lagertha cut her off once again, all but tossing a bow at her before pushing her toward the ladder.
"You'll use mine. Torvi is already on the archery wall; go up to her." Rúna did so, breath puffing in the cold night. She found Torvi crouched behind the parapet, lifting a finger to her lips for Rúna to be quiet. Only when Rúna herself was crouched down with an arrow in hand did Torvi begin to whisper to her.
"Did Lagertha tell you the plan?" She barely waited a beat for Rúna to shake her head. "We will let them in. Aslaug only saw ten; we don't have the numbers to take them on one-on-one. The gate is unlocked. You and I will shoot from above while Lagertha and the others ambush them below."
The whinnying of a horse cut through the night, too loud amid all the frantic silence. It was almost like a cue. Torvi and Rúna nocked their arrows, aiming toward the gate. Rúna knew Lagertha and the mysterious 'others' Torvi had mentioned were lurking below, but the shadows were so thick below that she could scarcely make out any figures.
Their unexpected guests must have abandoned their horses. Rúna heard nothing but her thundering heartbeat until the gate creaked below to signal their arrival. She thought she counted ten men, as Aslaug had foreseen, but she couldn't be entirely sure. Instead, she focused hard on one figure, lining up her aim.
"Loose," Torvi breathed beside her.
Rúna's arrow sailed through the night, hitting her target with a dull thud and a scream. "Again!"
They aimed and took another shot, but after that, Torvi put a hand on Rúna's bow to still her. Though the stars were heavy and bright on the cloudless night, it was also a new moon, the light far too dim from above to differentiate the intruders from the shieldmaidens. "Back down the ladder. We need to help them on the ground."
Torvi sent Rúna down first, and her plan for assistance would have been fine, had one of the intruding men not already spotted them. He tried to storm up the ladder to force them back up, but Rúna caught his face with the side of her shield. The blow stunned him enough that he lost his grip, landing flat on his back on the ground.
"Make sure he's dead," Torvi instructed her as they finished their descent. "Then come join the fray."
A roiling lump had formed in Rúna's stomach. She had never hit anyone to intentionally hurt them. There were bruises and scrapes to be had in training, sure, but her blows had never been meant to kill. She found the man groaning on the ground, cursing under her breath while she gripped her knife.
I don't want to do this, was her first thought. Then the man made a weak attempt to swipe her legs from beneath her, and the thought quickly changed to I have to do this.
Blood ran hot and thick over her hand when she sunk the blade into his neck, her other hand holding her shield aloft to block an axe blow. No one had ever hit her shield so hard, the blow sending a shooting pain along her arm and into her shoulder through the heavy shield. This new assailant was quickly felled by a shieldmaiden she couldn't identify.
It was all over in a matter of seconds, though it didn't feel that way. Rúna could feel the blood soaking the ground beneath her thin boots, turning the dirt to gruesome mud. There was a ringing in her ears, making Lagertha's voice sound far away and distorted as she instructed a few shieldmaidens to go retrieve the men's horses.
What an odd night. Walking to the firelit great hall felt dreamlike, her limbs heavy in the aftermath of adrenaline and fighting. Her hand was stained red, she realized, stained with that man's blood. She had quite a lot of his blood on her. How had so much blood come from one man?
There had been deadly altercations in Kattegat before. Errant, violent travelers. Crimes committed punishable by death. Sacrifice. Rúna had seen death before, but she had never pondered how different it would feel to be the harbinger of it.
She didn't realize she was shaking until Helga pushed through the crowd of waiting, frightened women to pull Rúna into her arms once more. Helga cradled her head, not minding the blood becoming smeared along her back when Rúna clung to her.
Rúna had always known there would be a day she saw combat, but she had never dreamed it would be under the leadership of Lagertha, Earl Ingstad.
A/N: Long time, no update! I'm sorry about that! Going back to work in this Covid world is... something else. I'm staying safe, just adjusting. I hope all is well with each of you! Thank you for continuing to show this story some love. I always have so much fun writing and working on it.