Tide of Shadows and Other Stories Read Free Page B

wounded sojourn through the wreckage. He could have played dead among the other warriors, whose souls rested now in Valhöll. Instead, he had reached out to the dark-skinned youth. He is not stupid; he knew of the need for companions in his harsh homeland, no matter the colour of their skin. If they killed him, well, better that than a slow death from freezing.
    He does not want to die with them. What happens upon death, without the proper rituals to send his body to Valhöll? The warriors who died on the battlefield were drinking now—the nectar of the gods warm and sweet on their lips. What awaits him if he dies alongside dark-skinned heathens? He is terrified to find out. He is also afraid to let go of this world, no matter what promises the holy men make of the afterlife.
    He is a coward, a disgrace to his family, to shun death and glory so.
    He had opened himself on the battlefield, thrown himself with vigour and vehemence at the black army and had slain many men. Despite his abandon, he lives when so many other warriors are dead—cold, sober corpses on the ground but warm, drunk spirits in Valhöll.
    Perhaps , he thinks, I was not meant to die there. The gods in Valhöll, they have some plan, a higher purpose for me than to die as one among many.
    He thinks of the boy. He should have died, a child in a battle of men. He knows so little of living, even less of killing. Yet he lives, too. What justice is there—that a young heathen was spared when the great warriors of Valhöll were not?
    The gods are unjust or blind.
    Which is it? And how can he know?
    A yell rings hollowly through the trees, like the keening call of a banshee. The words are unintelligible, but the meaning is clear, a warning of a death descending.
    Eyvindur is on his feet faster than thought, fuelled by instinct and fear. The wooden handle of his axe is smooth in his callused hand. He does not remember picking it up. It is nearly a part of him, always within easy reach. The dark blood of heathens stains its notched blade. He grips the axe with white knuckles and scans the darkness for the source of the cry.
    The others are awake. Two of the heathens are missing—the weak one, skinny as a girl, and the tall one that the others look to as their leader. Beside him is the gruff one, his own blade drawn. He looks at Eyvindur with all the hate and distrust of an orphan forced to take food from a hand that's as likely to beat him bloody. The boy looks terrified.
    The boy and the gruff man yell at each other. Eyvindur cannot understand them. They don't know where the sound came from, either; that much he can tell.
    A heavy thump sounds in the distance followed by a fleeting moment of silence.
    The gruff one yells at Eyvindur, gesturing wildly into the darkness. Why are they just standing there? They are not warriors—afraid of the dark as much as death. Eyvindur runs toward the sound.
    Another thud, then a cry of pain and the gurgle of a slit throat.
    Eyvindur can hear the southerner behind him, crashing heavily through the trees. He makes enough noise to wake a bear. The cover afforded them by the darkness is blown. Eyvindur lifts his axe above his head and releases all the anger and fear within him in one savage cry.
    He bursts into a clearing and pulls up short, startled, the blush of battle suddenly draining. The dark-skinned leader of his band of misfits is impaled on the end of a sword. Arrows jut from his body like extra limbs akimbo. But he still lives, holding weakly to what life he has left until seconds later, when his head is lopped from his body.
    Two men stand by the body, both tall and blonde, one holding a ridiculous jewelled sword with a blood-spotted blade. He picks up the head. There's an air of wealth and arrogance to him, a casual disregard for the danger surrounding him. He's a man of Eyvindur's blood, one of Valhöll's warriors. Relief floods Eyvindur. He is saved—though the others are as good as dead. His gods are not blind and