“It is done because it is what must be done,” Ivar agreed. “Gunnar cannot be allowed to pervert our ways any longer. My greatest shame is all the time we have spent turned the other way. That we saw suspicious behavior but did not question our king. That is not honor. We have betrayed our ancestors.”
“If anyone is to blame, it is I,” Revna admitted. “My clan has always kept the history of Ridaeron. I knew it best that his greed for more thralls was not normal. I was a coward.”
“It is safe to say we were all cowards. Now, our penance can only be paid in blood,” Ivar said. “If I die in the coming days, may that provide atonement for turning a blind eye.”
“Thank you. Both of you. All I want is for the best for our kingdom and its people. All of its people, jotuns included. Though I wonder… Revna, are there no histories regarding the transgressions between our peoples?”
“While you were gone, I asked my historians to send me a report on what they could find. There is nothing of broken treaties with the jotuns, but as you well know, history is written by the victors. I did find evidence of friendlier times between our peoples, however, then nothing for a span of years. Almost as if someone wiped the archives clean.”
Bryn wouldn’t put it past Gunnar’s ancestors to have done such a thing.
“We’ll make it right. But first we must rally the kingdom behind us. They must all know the truth—that I am not dead, nor undead.”
“Are you ready?” Revna asked, a small smile on her face. She’d been a shield maiden herself in her younger days and earned glory on the battlefield against the barbaric desert nomads to the deep south where their people didn’t dare to tread.
There, south of the Ridaeron Dynasty, lived cannibalistic clans of wanderers who worshipped darker gods. For a while, they had attempted to encroach northward, only to be beaten back again. Revna’s people had won that war.
Now they were to fight in another for the soul of their kingdom.
“I am more than ready,” Bryn replied.
A signal went up, a flare of bright gold against the blue-gray sky. Either her father, one of his housecarls, or Sigurd would have lit it, indicating the time had come to gather their forces and ride to the west.
“Ah, there it is,” Ivar said. “It is time.”
Three dozen warships were en route to the shores of the Ridaeron Dynasty, the majority of them occupied by marines who would storm the beaches and march eastward to take Grindavik. She’d watched her husband coordinate with his sister via her magical spell. If they were lucky, they would meet in the middle to overtake the castle.
Moving an army took time. She rode with Revna and Ivar at the back to start, making her way up through all the ranks so that all their warriors had a chance to see her and hear her encouraging words. By the time they reached the front of the army and joined up with Sigurd and her father, she had talked to nearly every man and woman.
Sigurd offered her a waterskin without asking, and she slaked her thirst with sweet mead.
“We’ve sent scouts ahead to prepare camp at Hindgard,” her father said, “If the army continues at this pace, we’ll reach them by sunset. They’ll also ask the town elders to wait for our arrival so you can speak with them.”
“May the gods bring sense to them,” Sigurd muttered, sounding, as well as looking, more of a Ridaeron than ever. Bryn couldn’t help but slant an appreciative glance at her new husband.
Other brides may have lamented spending the days after their wedding on a march to battle, but Bryn relished the moment. What truer way could a couple of their cultures celebrate their new bond, than in conquering their enemies together?
Sigurd must have caught her looking, because a sly smile came to his face. “Admiring the view, wife?”
“Admiring everything,” she replied without shame. Behind them, her father chuckled.
As planned, they reached camp set up beyond the town of Hindgard before the sun began its nightly descent. The elders were wary, but willing to listen, and when they agreed she was no draugar, pledged their own warriors to the march.
Thus their days passed. Long marches by day and camps at night. Three nights after Hindgard they came upon Odinsia and repeated the process, once more convincing the town elders of the truth and gaining their allegiance.
“We pass through the edge of Ulfgar’s lands now,” Revna said on the seventh morning.
“Will he cause trouble?” Sigurd asked.
“I wish I could say. It is my hope he will simply wall himself in his castle and wait until the end, at which time we can deal with his reduced forces, but he may be coward enough to run to Gunnar.”
“Then onward,” Jarl Ivar said. “Let us determine the depth of his cowardice.”
Bryn and Sigurd had a tent of their own composed of thick animal hides as a buffer against the night’s chill. The farther they marched from Koldgrun, and the deeper west they traveled, the warmer each day grew until their furs were no longer necessary and most had been shuttled into the possession of those who accompanied the armies into battle.
He dozed on and off beside his gorgeous wife, one arm around her middle and his face buried in her hair. They didn’t dare do much more than unstrap the heaviest, bulkiest pieces of their armor for resting on the bedrolls, and it made for burdensome sleep.
Then the battle horns began. Deep and resonating horns echoing against the deep silence of night. He jerked out of bed as Bryn stirred beside him.
“We’re under attack!” she cried.
“We are.” He grabbed his sword and rushed from the tent, already in his boots, to find the enemy upon them, big and burly beasts painted black with soot to conceal them in the dark.
Bryn was steps behind him, her shield in hand. They moved together, fighting in tandem as if they had always done so. A darkened warrior charged him from the left and met an unfortunate end on Sigurd’s sword, but before he could draw the weapon free, another man came in from his right.
He wasn’t fast enough. He couldn’t turn fast enough, though his senses alerted him to the man’s raised blade coming down toward him. That he had less than a split second before the inevitable cleave of metal into tissue.
Sigurd was not fast enough, but he didn’t need to be. Bryn hit the man with the force of a draft horse’s kick, using such tremendous power he flew backwards into the approaching horde and bowled a dozen of the painted men over.
“They fight like cowards!” she roared to their people, who were all rousing and joining them in battle. “Let us show them how true Ridaerons battle!”
They answered her in shouts and calls. The smell of blood and death filled the air as they fought beneath a moonlit sky.
The men rallied around him and they battled their way through the attacking forces, until only silence reigned in the night. It was over, at least for the moment.
When he sought out Bryn to check on her, he found her beaming, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. She looked on him with pride and respect, and before he could utter a word, she kissed him, the touch full of passion.
“A fine battle,” she said when she finally pulled away. “You are a warrior worthy of Odin.”
“That he is,” Ivar agreed, stepping over with the other jarls. He kicked over a body and spat on it. “These are Ulfgar’s men. I recognize a few of them.”