“That tells us all we need to know about which side he has taken in this war,” Brynjar replied.
Their men spent the next few hours before dawn in mourning, gathering the bodies of their deceased into a large pyre after they’d removed what belongings they would send home to the families.
That part wasn’t easy, and so much more lay before them.
“We must press onward,” Bryn said, renewed determination in her eyes. “If Ulfgar was foolish enough to attack us, then he won’t give in easily. I fear what we might find ahead.”
Marching by day and resting by night, the journey westward stretched out over a period of two weeks, fragmented with the occasional battle against forces siding with Gunnar.
As they approached the Epleberg farm, a sensation of electricity buzzed across Sigurd’s arms like lightning soon to strike.
A pair of eyes and a wide, toothy smile appeared in the space above Geri’s saddle horn. With a shout, he tried to punch it off, a split second before he realized what the creature was.
The cat leapt onto his gauntleted hand instead and hung on with all four paws.
“Must you do that?” he yelled, drawing the attention of the riders around them.
The cat twitched his tail and grinned. He didn’t know how his sister stood the sight, it was so disconcerting. It had far too many teeth.
“How would you prefer I approach?”
“An actual approach would be nice!”
The others treated the cat with a combination of reverence and fear. Freya, their warrior goddess, was the mistress of cats, and for a cat to appear on the possible eve of their next great battle? It could only be a sign from the gods.
The cat laughed, a rather unsettling sound coming from a feline. “Your sister wishes you to know they have struck the coast, so she will not be able to contact you by mirror until things are more…secure.”
“Ah. Right. It isn’t as if I have a mirror on hand at the moment, either.” Though someone likely had one on their person or in their belongings. One thing he’d learned about the Ridaeron Dynasty was that the men valued the appearance of their hair as much as the women. It was a trait he could appreciate, even respect. Joren certainly would.
Maybe the two cultures had more similarities than differences.
“How did you find me?”
“Now that I know the stink of you,” Minuet said quite scathingly, “I will never forget it. You stand out to me from even the darkest void, a sweaty beacon drenched in blood.”
Sigurd loathed the demonic being. Biting his tongue, he said, “Tell her we approach the Epleberg farm. She should recall the general location as well as the distance to the coast. Grindavik isn’t far from Steinblomst. It’s—”
“It is five days’ ride southwest of Steinblomst as the crow flies,” Brynhildr said, her horse moving to his side. Her expression betrayed nothing of what she thought about the cat. “South by five and west by two. The roads are easy to navigate, and you will know you are on the right path when you see the Blue Mountains.”
“I will inform her.” The cat dipped his head and leapt from Camden’s arm to the ground, growing in size as it did so, until he was nearly as large as the horses. A few awed whispers arose from the column as praises to Freya were uttered.
“Be wary,” Minuet warned. “Liangese ships were moored in your harbor. You may encounter their black powder and magic in your battle.”
“Thank you for relaying this news to us,” Bryn said to the cat. Her eyes grew equally round as those of her father, who came nearer to witness the spectacle for himself. The other jarls stared.
“Freya truly does bless him,” Ivar whispered.
“The goddess is with us!” Revna cried in confirmation.
It couldn’t be further from the truth, but Sigurd had no intention of spoiling that. In a year of living among them, he’d come to learn something about the Ridaeron folk. They feared what they didn’t understand. Magic terrified them when witnessed among the common man, seen in each other. But all they needed to take comfort in the appearance of a demon was to believe it had come from their goddess. Gods they understood as beings of sorcery and infinite power.
That had made a tremendous difference, and the news of the cat spread among them as a rallying cry. That Freya was there watching over them.
With renewed fervor, the army picked up their pace, putting them close to the farm earlier than expected. As they rounded a bend in the road, the smell of smoke prickled Sigurd’s senses. A glance at Bryn revealed she had caught the same scent, her eyes wide with worry.
“The farm,” she whispered, then she dug her heels against Freki’s side and took off. Sigurd rushed ahead with her, while the others called from behind.
Bryn didn’t stop until she crested the rise, and he heard her anguished cry before he reached her. A few seconds later he witnessed for himself the cause of her dismay.
Smoke rose from the village, armored men shoving the villagers into the central square. They wore Gunnar’s colors. A few of the prized apple trees had been cut down.
The village was in disarray and panic. Not far from the center of the square, a wagon waited, with women and children shackled to its bars. A sinking feeling in Sigurd’s gut told him precisely where they were bound, and the horrors they would face after reaching their destination.
No. He’d had it easy. He’d been pampered at Steinblomst and lived in luxury with the other thralls, but he’d seen with his own eyes how the mages were treated. He’d endured the quarry and survived it, when some of his fellow sailors had not.
Anger surged through him and he turned to Bryn, a question on his tongue.
Too late. His wife charged ahead and all he saw was the grass kicked up by Freki’s hooves as the mare raced down the hillside. Bryn rode like a demon down the steep incline. Lagertha chased on Bryn’s tail.
“Sten! Arne!” Sigurd called. “With me!”
Together, the five of them descended the hill to find a grisly scene just around the bend, previously obscured by the edge of a home. A man lay with his head on the chopping block, one of Gunnar’s executioners above him.
Bryn’s arrow flew, igniting mid-air, and sank into his throat. Within a matter of seconds, he’d become his own funeral pyre, gurgling screams of terror and agony as flames raced over his body.
Mayhem erupted. The soldiers charged in, two dozen against the five of them. Sigurd ran the first through and carried his momentum forward, meeting the next man’s battle-axe with his sword. The strike jarred his arms, but he held strong, pushing with all his might until the other man stumbled backward a step.
Bryn and Lagertha swept into the fray, putting themselves between the soldiers and those shackled to the wagon.
“It’s the queen!” one shouted. “Take down the queen and the traitor!”
“I am no traitor,” Lagertha snarled. “I serve the true leader of this kingdom.”
A volley of arrows answered her, several embedding in her shield, others hitting the ground around her and Brynhildr. The women together were an unstoppable wall, bashing away all who came after them.
As the archers nocked more arrows, Sigurd and Arne rushed their line and scattered the panicking soldiers. Sten took aim with his own bow and picked one off seconds before he could let an arrow fly toward Sigurd.