My Viking Son’s Two Fathers

Chapter 24

Dawn breaks iron-gray over the fields before Skálholt, and with it comes the enemy.

Ormr's coalition stretches across the horizon like a dark tide—banners of four jarls snapping in the bitter wind, spear points glittering like frozen stars against the leaden sky.

I count the formations from my position in the ranks and feel my stomach clench. More men than the scouts reported. More than we prepared for.

The royal forces are outnumbered. But we hold the high ground, and we fight with the ferocity of men defending home and family. There is no retreat for us. Behind those walls sleep my sons.

I take my place among the warriors, my legendary sword steady in my grip. The mail I wear has been polished to a shine, each ring checked and rechecked for weakness.

My ash-blonde braid is bound tight against my skull, secured beneath a helm that bears no insignia.

I am not a queen today. I am what I have always been—a shield-maiden, a killer, a woman forged in violence.

"They outnumber us nearly two to one," the warrior beside me mutters, his knuckles white around his spear shaft. "The gods must favor us, or we are all dead men."

"The gods favor those who fight," I reply. "Save your prayers for after."

The horns sound. The enemy advances.

What follows is chaos given form—the crash of shield walls meeting, the screams of men whose bodies fail before their courage does, the copper stink of blood melting into trampled snow.

I lose myself in the rhythm of combat, blade rising and falling with mechanical precision, each stroke a prayer written in crimson.

Then the battle turns.

A flanking force emerges from the treeline to our left—fresh warriors who had circled through the woods while we focused on the main assault.

The royal army's left flank begins to crumble, men falling back in disarray as the unexpected attack shatters their formation.

I do not wait for orders.

"To me!" I roar, my voice cutting through the din. "Rally to me, you sons of the North! Will you let them take your homes? Your families?"

Warriors respond—some from duty, some from desperation, all from the primal need to follow someone who sounds certain in the midst of uncertainty.

I lead them into the breach with my sword singing, driving into the enemy's advance like a wedge splitting wood.

Blood streams from a wound on my arm where a blade slipped past my guard. Another gash opens along my ribs, fire and ice mingling beneath my mail. But I cannot fall. I cannot falter. My children are behind those walls.

A massive warrior looms before me, his axe descending in an arc that would split me from shoulder to hip. I twist aside, feeling the wind of its passage, and drive my blade up beneath his guard.

He falls, and I am already moving, already seeking the next threat.

Then Ragnar appears beside me.

We fight back-to-back without a word spoken, our movements synchronizing as though we have trained together for years rather than weeks. Where I am speed and precision, he is power and inevitability.

His sword claims lives with the cold efficiency of a glacier crushing everything in its path.

"You were supposed to hold the center," I gasp between strikes.

"The center holds itself. You needed me here."

When Leif crashes through the enemy line to join us, copper hair blazing beneath his helm, the three of us become a devastating force.

Fire and ice and the storm between them, carving through Ormr's flanking force with relentless fury.

The flank holds. Barely. Bloodily.

By the time the enemy retreats, the snow has turned to crimson slush beneath our feet. I stand gasping in the churned mire, my sword arm trembling with exhaustion, blood seeping steadily from the gash along my ribs.

"You are wounded." Ragnar's voice cuts through the fog of battle-aftermath.

"It is nothing."

"It is not nothing." His hand closes around my elbow, firm and unyielding. "Come. Now."

He guides me toward a supply tent, ignoring my protests, his grip allowing no argument.

Inside, away from the groans of the wounded and the shouts of commanders rallying for pursuit, he settles me onto a camp stool and reaches for the medical supplies.

"I can tend this myself," I manage. "You have an army to command."

"Leif commands the pursuit. I command this." His fingers find the lacings of my armor, working them loose with practiced efficiency. "Hold still."

The mail comes away, then the padded gambeson beneath. His fingers are clinical as he cuts away the torn fabric of my tunic, baring my side where the wound weeps crimson against pale skin.

But his touch lingers as he cleans the gash—pressing against my ribs, my waist, the soft skin above my hip.

His knuckles brush places that have nothing to do with wounds, tracing paths that make my breath catch despite the pain.

"Does this hurt?" he asks, his voice rough.

I shake my head, not trusting my own voice. His hands are warm against my bare skin, and I am acutely aware of how close he stands, how his breath stirs the loose strands of hair at my temple.

The scent of him fills the tent—sweat and steel and smoke, the honest smell of battle.

He bandages me slowly, methodically, his fingers tracing the edges of cloth against my flesh. Each touch sends sparks through my exhausted body, reminder of pleasures stolen in quieter moments.

When he finishes, he does not immediately step back. His palm rests flat against my stomach, just below the bandage, warm and possessive. His ice-blue eyes hold mine with burning intensity.

"You terrified me today," he says quietly. "Charging into that breach without waiting for support. You could have died."

"I did what needed doing."

"You did what you always do—everything, alone, as though no one else can be trusted to share the burden." His thumb traces a small circle against my skin. "You are not alone anymore, Hild. When will you believe that?"

I open my mouth to respond, but the tent flap tears open.

A messenger staggers through, his face ashen, his armor splashed with blood that may or may not be his own.

He looks between us, the king's hand on my bare stomach, our faces inches apart, and the impropriety does not even register. Whatever news he carries has driven everything else from his mind.

"My lord," he gasps. "The prince. The boy who served as runner."

My heart stops.

"What about him?" Ragnar's voice has gone deadly quiet.

"Missing, my lord. Last seen near the eastern woods, carrying a message to Commander Hákon. The woods where enemy stragglers still fight." The messenger swallows hard. "We have search parties forming, but…"

I am on my feet before he finishes, the wound in my side screaming protest I do not hear. My son. My firstborn. Lost in woods crawling with men who want us dead.

Ragnar catches my arm before I can bolt from the tent.

"Together," he says, and the word is both command and promise. "We find him together."