The Viking’s Sacrifice Read Free

her of warmth, of tears, of everything she was. Dear Lord, take her swiftly to thy embrace. She couldn’t make sense of anything. The heathens were come, were burning and pillaging her home, were murdering even each other, such was their bloodlust. It was everything the friars had told them. She had to run, had to hide, had to try to pretend she could escape.
    The burning barn popped and crackled with a whoosh of air, and a pig screamed as it burned, trapped inside. If she didn’t run, and soon, she’d fare no better.
    Harsh voices in a language she didn’t know grabbed her attention. The big man with the nasty twisting smile, the tangle of dark hair and menace of a bear stepped toward her. She cast about. There was nowhere left to run. All escape cut off by flames or heathens. At least the sword would be quick. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…
    The boy—he was called Einar, she’d heard them say it to him twice now—stuck out a heavy hunting knife and blocked Bear Man’s path. Einar’s head turned a touch, and he seemed to be looking at her.
    “Wilda, renn. Renn!”
    Her breath stopped, clogged in her throat with fear. What did he—he was saving her. A twitch of his hand. A shooing movement. He wanted her to run. She looked round wildly. Everywhere was burning, except in front of her, where two men stood facing each other down. One of them wanted her dead. There had to be a way. Had to. Part of the barn collapsed behind her, showering her with sparks, but a beam, still only smouldering as yet, had knocked a slim path through the flames. Maybe—
    Bear Man leaped forward with a yell, his shield swinging round sideways to connect solidly with Einar’s face and drop him on his back while the sword came round in an arc. Einar managed to bring up the knife, grasping it with both hands to try to stay the blow. The sword scraped along it and stabbed into the earth. Bear Man wasted no heartbeats but kicked Einar’s wrist. The knife skittered over the dank straw of the yard. Another kick, to the head this time, and Bear Man had spun Einar onto his front.
    She couldn’t leave him. Her father taught her that heathens were just ignorant of God, to be pitied not despised for that ignorance, as Saxons had once been ignorant. She should never leave someone who needed her help, no matter whether they were good Christians or not. The Good Samaritan, that was his favourite tale. And this heathen, this one had told her to run, had stopped the Bear Man with his sword coming for her, killing her without a glance as he had her mother. This heathen was sacrificing himself as the friars said Jesus had, had shown her mercy when he need not. She ran, but not for safety. For the knife.
    Bear Man loomed over Einar and she ducked behind him, skirting the burning barn. She tried not to hear the scream as she scrabbled in the straw and dung. Here, she’d seen it here. Her fingers closed over the smooth leather of the grip. She was glad it wasn’t a sword—she could barely lift her father’s—but while this knife was heavier, bigger than she was used to, she’d gutted many a hare, jointed many a sheep or pig. Better than that, she’d used a knife to hunt small things, practiced throwing till she put her brother to shame, just so she could say she was better at one little thing. Her father had whipped her for her pride in the skill God gave her. It might be wrong, sinful, she might not be accurate with this, but it was all she had.
    When she turned, the knife in her trembling, unbelieving hand, Bear Man was pulling his sword from Einar’s back. He swung it up for another blow, the final cut that would take Einar’s head. Wilda shut her eyes at the thought of throwing at a living, breathing man— please God, forgive me what I am about to do —and threw.
     
    Einar lay pinned to the ground by his blood, by the terrible weight that burned between his ribs. By fear. He turned his head, ready to see his end. Bausi stood over