Natural Consequences by Elliott Kay Page A

direction lay the sea, and escape, and survival.
    It isn’t right, said the voice. You’ll never forgive yourself.
    Skorri grunted. That voice had told him to go on this stupid raid in the first place. It had not gone well. The Danes had started this feud. Skorri and the others came to end it, but slaying a rival chief was one thing. Getting away from his angry allies was another.
    He should have stayed home with Halla.
    The younger warrior lifted up one leg and rolled off the back of the horse. His landing was unpleasant, but he ignored the pain and scrambled to his feet. Gunnar shouted something after him as he continued on.
    Skorri was glad Gunnar kept riding. The brothers really were bastards. Abandoning them wasn’t right, but neither was risking more than one life for their hides.
    Some of the Danes rode with torches to supplement the light of the full moon. Others rode with spears in hand. Two lead riders spotted Unferth as the bearded raider struggled to free himself from his fallen horse. Bjorn lay stunned and disoriented nearby. The one with the spear leveled his weapon at Bjorn and urged his mount into a charge. Unferth cried out to him, but with his leg pinned and his axe out of reach he could do nothing to help his blond brother.
    Skorri’s sword lay among fallen warriors in a field miles from here, but he had one last axe and a good throwing arm. He hurled his weapon as he ran, striking home to knock the Dane from his saddle. The horse trotted past Bjorn and then Unferth and his ruined mount, plainly uninterested in fighting on anyone’s behalf.
    Sure enough, the other rider closed in on Skorri, swinging his torch. Searing pain erupted across Skorri’s left shoulder, but thankfully not his head. Stepping back and away bought the raider time as the horseman turned his mount around again.
    Skorri rolled his left shoulder. It hurt like hell but seemed to work fine, though he often underestimated his injuries when the rage took hold like this. At least he could still think this time.
    His eyes darted left and right. Unferth was finally free, limping over to his brother. Bjorn rose to his hands and knees, his long blond hair dangling over his face.
    The other Danes hadn’t caught on to this struggle yet. They could all still make it out of this mess alive.
    The Dane charged in at Skorri once more, intent on running the raider down with his mount this time. Skorri dodged to one side and then grabbed for the rider’s leg.
    Naturally, the Dane tried to batter Skorri away with his torch. Skorri grabbed at his wrist with both hands and then lifted his feet off the ground, pulling the Dane from his horse in a tumble.
    Skorri recovered first. He also had the torch. He leapt upon the Dane, pinning his shoulders to the ground with his knees, and then brought the flaming end of the torch down on the Dane’s face with brutal force.
    “Crazy bastard,” Unferth said as he helped Bjorn to his feet. He wiped blood and spittle from his ragged red beard. “I thought we were both dead.”
    “We may all still be,” Skorri half-growled and half-grinned. “Better that than to tell Halla that I left men behind.” He rushed to the riderless horse, grabbing its reins and tugging it over.
    “More of them,” Bjorn gestured breathlessly into the darkness beyond. “Right on top of us!”
    “You’re both hurt,” Skorri said. “Take the horse and go. Hold a boat for me. I’ll be right behind.”
    Neither Unferth nor Bjorn hesitated. They both mounted up and rode down toward the fishing village beneath the hill without a backward glance.
    Skorri found the fallen spear amid long, thick tree roots and then looked toward the approaching torches and the sound of hooves. He needed a horse of his own, and the other raiders needed time.
     
     
    They only made it to the village before dawn and ahead of their pursuers because of Skorri. Everything had gone wrong on this raid, culminating in the death of Thialfi and the seizure of