Dawn did not break over Black Falls; it leaked in, a slow seep of grey light into the deep shadows of the gorge. The thunderous roar of the waterfall was the only sound, a constant, pounding heartbeat that masked the softer, more sinister noise of oars dipping into the fjord's dark water.
From her post in the infirmary cavern, Astrid heard the first shout of alarm from the watchtower, high on the cliff face. It was not a cry of surprise, but of confirmation. The beast was at the gate. A single, sharp horn blast answered it from within the fortress, a sound that coiled through the stone passages like a venomous serpent, stirring the Svartfjell warriors to their positions. There was no panic, only a cold, grim readiness.
She tightened her grip on the bundle of linen strips she was holding, her knuckles white. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. Somewhere out there, on the lead longship cutting through the mist, was Eirik.
The first sign of the attack was a hail of arrows, arching high over the palisade and clattering harmlessly against the rock face or embedding themselves in the timber roofs of the outer buildings. A probing shot. The response from Black Falls was a volley of their own, loosed from hidden crevices and wooden platforms, a deadly rain falling on the attackers scrambling up the steep, narrow path from the shore.
Then came the real assault. A thunderous THUMP echoed through the mountain as a battering ram, sheltered under a roof of overlapped shields, slammed against the main gate. The sound was a physical blow, each impact shaking dust from the cavern ceiling. The shouts outside transformed from disciplined calls to the raw, animalistic screams of men killing and dying.
Astrid’s world shrank to the cold stone of the infirmary. The first wounded were dragged in—a man with an arrow through his shoulder, another with a deep gash on his face from a splintered shield. Her hands, which had so gently applied a poultice to Eirik’s leg, now worked with a brutal, mechanical efficiency. She snapped the arrow shaft, instructed a helper to hold the man down, and pulled the head through with a sickening tear. She packed the wound with moss and bound it tight. There was no time for gentle words, only the stark economy of survival.
Each time the heavy hide curtain over the cavern entrance was thrown back, her heart stopped. Was it him? Was he being carried in, broken and bleeding? Or was it news that he had fallen, that his life had been extinguished on the sharp rocks of her home?
The battle raged for what felt like an eternity. The air in the cavern grew thick with the coppery smell of blood and the low moans of the wounded. Astrid’s dress was stained crimson, her arms slick to the elbows. She moved from pallet to pallet, a figure of calm in the center of the storm, her face a mask of concentration that hid the tempest within.
Then, a new sound rose above the din—a roaring cheer from the Stórbrodir. The great gate, with a final, splintering crack, had given way.
The fighting spilled into the main courtyard of the fortress. The clash of steel became sharper, more personal, echoing off the stone walls. The Svartfjell, fighting on their home ground, gave no quarter. They fell back in good order, turning the courtyard into a killing field, funneling the invaders into choke points where they could be cut down.
It was from this new, closer maelstrom that Gunnar stumbled into the infirmary, his face a mask of sweat and soot, his axe dripping gore. His eyes scanned the cavern and found Astrid.
“They are inside!” he roared, his voice triumphant and furious. “The Stórbrodir pup leads them! He fights like a man possessed, trying to earn your favour even as he kills your kin!” He spat on the floor. “He is making for the great hall. My father and his huscarls will be waiting. It ends now.”
He glared at her, a final, searing accusation, before turning and plunging back into the fray.
Eirik was inside the walls. He was here. And he was heading for the Wolf’s Den, for her father.
A cold clarity washed over Astrid. She could not stay here, waiting for him to be brought to her in pieces, or for the news of his death. She had to see. She had to know.
Ignoring the startled cries of her assistants, she grabbed a clean linen cloth and a skin of water and ran out of the infirmary, into the chaos of the courtyard.
The scene was one from a nightmare. The ground was slick with blood and trampled snow. Men wrestled and died in the shadows, their screams short and sharp. Arrows whistled through the air. Through the swirling smoke and confusion, she saw him.
Eirik.
He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of controlled violence. He stood at the head of a wedge of Stórbrodir warriors, his father’s black-and-gold banner held high behind him. He had discarded his helmet, and his sun-bleached hair was a bright banner in the gloom. His face was set in a grim rictus, his ice-blue eyes narrowed in focus as he parried a blow from a Svartfjell axe and countered with a brutal thrust of his own sword that sent the man stumbling back. He was magnificent. He was terrible. He was the enemy, carving a path of destruction through her home.
Their eyes met across the carnage.
For a fraction of a second, the world stopped. The noise faded. The battling figures blurred into insignificance. In that frozen moment, she saw the same torment in his eyes that she felt in her soul—a bottomless well of agony and despair. He was not a conqueror; he was a man being torn in two, his sword arm moving by a will that was not entirely his own.
Then the moment shattered. A Stórbrodir warrior beside Eirik took a spear in the gut, his roar of pain snapping Eirik’s attention back to the fight. A Svartfjell counter-charge slammed into their flank, and the battle swallowed him once more, pushing him relentlessly towards the entrance of the great hall.
Astrid stood, rooted to the spot, the linen and water forgotten in her hands. The breaking was not just of gates and bodies. It was the breaking of her heart, of his spirit, of the last, fragile hope that had flickered between them in the silent wood. They had met on the battlefield, just as he said they would. And the sight was more devastating than she had ever imagined. The love that had bloomed in a quiet croft was now being put to the sword in a courtyard of blood and stone.