Tove | A Viking Tale

Chapter Eleven

Always be aware. Always know your surroundings. The moment my blade slashes the flesh of an opponent I'm already reacting to the following two attacks. Protect my back, protect my brother's back, and protect the back of the messenger's. Acting as a unit each one of us take turns protecting the Stag-born messenger. If he dies we might as well turn back home and accept our bloody fates with the Bjorn clan.

Severely outnumber, and combating the darkness — along with the útlagi, we hold our ground, expertly. The more my blade washes in the blood of the outlaws the more the adrenaline spikes throughout my body. It's as if I'm fed through my axe. I react and in tandem also become a vessel for my weapon to feed from each of my victims. While others scream and grunt I fight silently, in a blood-lust trance. Even my breathing is in a tempo and steady. My muscles warm and pulsing, each wave filling my body with a sort of high.

"Tove!" My brother's voice warns as my blade disembowels a man before me, his guts spilling in a crimson mess to the dirt ground. Spinning, I fix my wide eyes to Leif who slams his dual-axes into the shoulders of a wailing Skogarmaor. Leaving the lodged axe he points to the tree line, I follow his line of sight and narrow my eyes to see Anders sprinting towards the woods.

The corner of my lip tug upwards and I turn my body, take aim, and fling my short axe.

It impales in the trunk of a tree merely centimeters in front of Anders face, forcing him to slide to a halt and turns out of breath and covered in blood.

With one last slice, Ultred the smallest of us but just as skilled slices down the last of the outlaws. My hand raises to Anders then my finger curls beckoning the Irishman back from the wood line, "What kind of escape attempt was that, Rottur?" I taunt him and he shuffles back towards the group as we take inventory of the damage.

"Skogarmaor." Gorm muses, crouched next to one of the dead men. "The symbol, here." His hand painted in blood gestures to the brand on the man's forehead. It's a diamond shape rune with the converging two lines extended out, centered on the bandits forehead for all to know of his dishonor.

"This one, as well." Ultred sheaths his sword and confiscates a bow and quiver from the dead lying at his feet.

"They've been banding together somewhere within the forests and pillaging all who attempt to trade with us." Erik informs the rest of us as Anders returns to the group. I click my tongue, scanning the darkness for Hefna, then click louder. "They take anything they can, the goods, weapons, and the horses." Erik adds just as I realize they've taken the mare.

A pang of sadness hits me and I find myself at the wood line searching for any signs of the mare while the voices continue behind me, "How far until we reach Birka?" Leif asks.

I bend down placing my finger tips into a fresh hoof print indented in the spongy moss. Whispers of flapping feathers sound above, so I shoot my narrowed gaze to the trees, finding the raven landing on a branch above.

"From here on horse, a half day's ride—."

"Faen!" Leif curses.

"Hello, little friend." I greet the bird in a hushed voice then return to my scan of the forest floor. Hoof marks carved into the ground scamper into the darkness leading Hefna into the thicker and wilder woods.

"We could track them, the trail leads deeper into the forest." I stand from my crouched position and turn back to the group.

"And then?" Ultred snorts clasping his fists to his narrow hips. With an eye roll I turn back to the face the woods tempted to go off on my own.

"I'm with the berserker." Gorm strokes his long blood-clad beard and wipes his hands onto his trousers. The group cued by the name look to me still lured by dark forest. If Leif wasn't among the group I'd go off alone, without a second thought. But I can't leave his back unprotected. With a growled grunt I grip the hilt of my axe stuck in the tree and rip it out.