Chapter 20 - Painting the Night in Blood

Froðe quickly whips my body away from Torsten, shielding it from view. His demeanor has completely changed, a mask of cool, lethal calm replacing the man lost in lust just a few moments ago.

Torsten is the sight out of a nightmare. His armor is coated in blood and he sports a gnarly gash just above his left eye, red trickling down the side of his face. His sword is unsheathed, coated in sticky gore. His massive chest rises and falls quickly from exertion, like he fought his way to get here.

"How many?"

"Abou' twenty," Torsten answers. "Jarl...It's an'o'thr clan...berserkir," he adds, his expression turning dark.

My blood runs cold.

Fuck...it's a raid?! And it's the berserkers?!

As if on queue, howls sound in the near distance. Howls of madness, promising death and far, far much worse.

I go rigid. Not only am I unarmed...I am also naked without suitable clothes to fight in. This is very, very bad.

But Froðe doesn't skip a beat. He shoots a look at Arne.

"Arne, take Beatrix and get her to the tavern. DO NOT LEAVE HER SIDE." Arne nods. "Torsten, can you spare a weapon?"

"Aye," Torsten answers and unstraps a battle axe from his waist.

Arne is already out of the water and throwing on a pair of wool breeches. Froðe takes my face in his hands with a tenderness that would make my heart melt if I wasn't fucking terrified of the situation we are in. The calm, calculating mask is still on, but when we lock eyes, there is a flare of desperation lurking beneath the surface of his ice blue gaze.

"Beatrix, you will stay by Arne's side. No matter what you see. You will go straight to the tavern and wait for me there until we have cleared the village. Do you understand?"

My heart is lurching out of my chest, but I nod. "I understand."

Torsten hands the axe to Arne, who is now fully clothed.

"Do not engage these men unless you have absolutely no choice. They do not fight like normal people. They will stop at nothing."

Arne picks up my sodden cloak, readying it for me to step in.

"Noted."

Froðe looks at me like he's memorizing my face, then quickly pulls away and leaps out of the pool.

"We will clear a path for them, secure the tavern, then take care of the rest," he says to Torsten, who grunts in agreement. Froðe picks up his discarded trousers, sword and mantle and dresses quickly, while I shrug into the wet cloak. The mantle is soon draped over me from behind, and I grasp it tightly to myself.

Shouts of pure rage sound right outside, followed by the clanking of steel and the slashing of flesh. Grunts, then a thud outside the door.

Froðe unsheathes his sword, Torsten stands at the ready by the door, ready to whip it open at Froðe's signal. Arne stays close to me, axe in hand. He gives me a reassuring smirk, of all things, and even winks, like this is just an average Tuesday.

"Don't worry light elf, I won't let anything happen to you," he whispers.

I would feel better if I was armed myself, but obviously they don't think I'm quite ready for real steel, even with the current circumstances.

Froðe raises his finger to his mouth, shushing us. The shouts outside quiet down and footsteps run away, and we wait silently for a few tense moments. My heartbeat is thundering in my ears when Froðe finally signals to Torsten to open the door, and we file out quickly.

The night air is cool and crisp on our skin as Froðe leads the way, Torsten not far behind. Froðe's stature is lethal; hunched over, sword drawn, head whipping side to side as he takes in our surroundings. Arne and I take up the rear, but Arne is watching our flank, axe at the ready.

Suddenly, another howl sounds nearby and a shirtless man charges for us. He's wearing no armor, carries no shield and has a few gashes slashed about his torso that are oozing blood. Wielding a battle axe in each hand, rimmed with red, he immediately aims for Froðe, singling him out as the strongest among us. Froðe growls back in challenge, but there's a gleam in his eye and a feral grin on his face as he effortlessly dodges the first blow, knocks the second axe's trajectory off with his sword then slits the throat of his opponent. The man falls to his knees, blood gurgling from his throat, but still manages to whip one axe forward to try to take Froðe down with him. There's a manic wildness to his eyes, not the slightest hint of fear for his impending demise, and my heart skips a beat.

"FRODE!" I screech, panic overtaking me.

But Froðe catches the man's wrist just before the blade strikes true, a mere few centimeters from his side, muscles bulging as he wrestles with the man, and wrenches it out of his opponent's hands. The man slumps to the ground, eyes open and unseeing.

About five more men come running our way, no doubt because of my screech.

Fuck! I drew them to us!

But none of my companions shoot blame at me. Instead, they brace themselves. Froðe rolls his sword around his wrist, taking the new axe in his other, and cracks his neck before eliciting another growl. He strides to meet them, Torsten following close. Torsten beats his chest and roars, and in moments, metal clashes and sparks fly as Froðe's sword meets another opponent's.

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Torsten lands a nasty slash on one man's chest before swiveling and blocking the blow of another. An arrow whistles through the air and Froðe dodges it with lightning speed before sinking an axe into another man's side. The man does not cry out in pain, but howls like a beast, somehow putting more power into his next sword cut which Froðe blocks with his own. They grapple in the tight bind from meeting blades, but Froðe manages to pull out the axe with his other hand and land a devastating hit to the man's skull in a sickening crack. After he falls over backward, and Froðe savagely steps on the man's throat, anchoring him in place, and pulls out the axe.

More whistling, but Froðe slashes the arrows with his sword before they can land, pivots and hurls the axe a good twenty feet towards the archer. It embeds into his chest and he crumples to the ground. Meanwhile, Torsten has also acquired a second blade and uses it to nearly sever the arm of another Berserker in a single slash. The man howls, and swings wildly with his axe, but Torsten dodges and finishes the kill with a sweeping under cut that slices the man from groin to shoulder, splaying blood everywhere.

In a span of seconds, they took down five men. I should be horrified at the carnage, but I can't help but look at them in awe, and...longing. I want to have that kind of power. It's a selfish, hideous thought, but it still takes root inside of me, festering like something foul.

What is happening to me?!

I don't have time to dwell on this...because Froðe and Torsten continue leading us towards the tavern. Arne stays by my side, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze, mistaking my hesitation for shock or fear, when in reality it's something far more sinister.

More howls are heard in the distance, but we do not encounter any more berserkers as we reach the tavern. As we step inside, we take in the chaotic state of the main room; chairs turned over, blood on the floor, and the body of a dead berserker lying in a pool of it. He's face down, removed of his weapons. Torsten quietly steps up to the body and kicks it, ensuring the man is dead. He does not stir.

Froðe signals for Arne and me to stay while he and Torsten proceed to clear the rest of the rooms. While we wait, Arne paces the room, watching the entryway. I stand next to the dying embers of the unkempt fire, trying to find any remaining warmth to dry my wet clothes.

A scream sounds nearby, making me jump, and Iona rushes in, cradling Sorcha in her arms.

"They'r righ' behind us!" Iona says, her eyes frantic.

"Come here!" I say, reaching for her, while Arne readies to meet her pursuers. He leans back against the wall on the side of the door, and brings up his axe for a strike.

"Where are the others?" I hiss at Iona.

"Skuld ran back to th' hut to defend the othr's...we were....takin a night swim in th' river." A night swim? "She tol' meh to run for the tavern...to find yeh."

Three more berskers burst through the entryway, but not before Arne swings his axe into the chest of the one closest to him, spinning in place and meeting the blade of the one in the middle. But it's still two on one, and though Arne is skilled, he's not as fast as Frode or as brutally strong as Torsten, so they are keeping him busy. Worse, the man who got slashed in the chest is back up and moving, like the deep cut is just a minor inconvenience, prowling his way over to us, battle axe in hand. I instinctively push Iona and Sorcha behind me, and the berserker grins. There is blood all over his mouth and a trickle streaming down the corners, like he bit into someone's flesh recently. It's like something out of the Night of the Living Dead.

I need a fucking weapon!

I glance around frantically, but there's nothing I can really use....except...well, a toppled over chair...

Sorcha whimpers behind me in fear.

No...I don't need a weapon. A fiery pit flares to life deep within me, lifting me out of my despair and replacing it with determination, and I look back a the berserker who is almost upon us. Remember...YOU are the weapon.

"Stay back!" I say to Iona and Sorcha, and assume Chin Hao Ma stance, bringing one foot forward, sinking into my knees and grounding myself to the floor.

Be like water...adapt to his fighting style.

The clash of metal, a slash of flesh and a grunt from Arne sounds nearby, but I dare not lose my focus. It's just me and zombie beserker, now. I can't afford to be distracted. He tries to circle me, but I match his movement, keeping my arms out and centered, left palm slightly extended towards him, ready to act.

The man grins wider, noting my stance, and suddenly charges at me with his axe, swinging a slashing arc from his left. Instead of panicking, a calmness washes over me and all the distractions disappear. Time slows. I step in to his right, shooting my left forearm forward to intercept the slash, deflecting the blow from my body with a tan sao. The impact nearly dislocates my shoulder as I sink it down for the block, but I don't have time to think about that because I'm simultaneously pivoting, moving his axe arm away from me with my tan sao, and whipping out my right hand in a palm strike upward to his face. The heel of my hand strikes true with a crunch, breaking his nose and tilting his head back from the impact. I know he doesn't feel it, he's drugged out of his fucking mind, but it gives me the opportunity to follow up with another strike, this time to his trachea.

He may not feel pain, but he does need to breathe.

The berserker stumbles, reaching for his throat with a confused look on his face, and I whip my tan sao hand down to grip his wrist holding the axe and tug, making him lurch forward. I hook my right arm under his elbow, tucking it into my chest to lock it in place, while I wrench the axe out of his hand.

Yes!

But my victory is short lived, because even though I've obstructed his airway, the berserker still has a free hand and is very, very pissed off now. He roars like a wild beast, taking me down in a tackle, and suddenly I have 200 pounds of muscle slamming me into the ground. My back hits the floor so hard that the wind gets knocked out of me and a sharp pain radiates down my spine. I drop the axe and it clatters away from me.

"BEATRIX!" Arne shouts, but his opponents are preventing him from coming any closer.

Dazed, I try to land another hit to zombie berserker but my vision is blurry and my movements are lethargic.

Fuck, did I hit my head too?

Zombie berserker wraps his giant hands around my throat and squeezes. He smiles wickedly, a coat of red on his teeth and the scent of copper on his breath. My hands shoot to his, trying to claw them off me, drawing blood, but he doesn't feel it. He's too fucking strong.

Spots light up in the corners of my eyes with my air supply cut off, and a floating sensation starts to come over me.

FIGHT HIM! DO NOT GIVE IN!

And animal like scream tears itself away from me, and I slam my right hand to the ground, reaching around for the axe. It can't have gone that far!

A chair breaks over the man's head, sending shards of wood everywhere, but he doesn't even flinch. When that doesn't work, Iona tries again, hammering her fists on his back in a desperate attempt to save me, but the man only shoves her away with one hand like she's a bug and she flies across the room. Sorcha wails.

I keep reaching...though my vision is starting to go black. Then... my fingers brush wood.

There! I...I almost have it....I...I can......do......this....My fingers get heavier, making it harder to move them.

Bloody drool from the berserker's mouth hits my face...the fucker is salivating at this?!

Just when I think this is it...the end...again....fire flares to life within me once more, filling me with rage. Freyja is pissed, and honestly...so am I.

I'm not fucking dying again. Not today.

Another reach, and my fingers finally find grip on the axe handle. A guttural scream rips inside my soul as I sweep the blade across zombie berserker's throat. It severs his arteries and warm blood cascades all over me, blinding my eyes, coating my face and filling my mouth with a metallic taste. The man shudders, his grip on my neck finally loosening enough for me to desperately gasp in air, and then 200 pounds collapse on me.