The Raider by Asta Idonea

THORSTEIN DUCKED down, raised his shield, and braced against the impact as the volley of arrows descended. One punctured the wood, its point stopping just short of his eye. The groans that filled the air told him others had not been so lucky. Hefting the broken shield away, he adjusted his grip on his axe and rose to meet the enemy.
    The native warriors extended their swords and charged en masse. Instinct took over as Thorstein swung his weapon, crushing the skull of one opponent and slashing into the neck of another. The smell of blood filled the air now as men fell on both sides.
    The blow to his leg caught Thorstein by surprise and he sank to his knees. As he fell, he twisted his torso, embedding his blade into the side of his attacker just before the other man could strike again. He tried to stand, leaning heavily on his axe, but then he was struck on the back of his head and everything went black.
    HE BECAME aware of the distant calls. Voices of his countrymen uttering words of celebration and talk of home. Then the scent of burning flesh hit him, and he struggled to open his eyes.
    On the beach his friends had built a funeral pyre. The flames, fueled by flesh, cloth, and wood, rose high, ending in a plume of smoke. It had been a fierce battle and he had no doubt his fallen companions were now feasting in Valhalla. He wondered why no one had fetched him, but then he realized that the tall grass into which he had fallen must be concealing him from their view.
    He struggled to sit up and was rewarded with a jolt of pain from the wound in his leg. The ground around him was soaked with his blood, and even now more bubbled forth from the gaping hole in his thigh. He would not be leaving here without assistance.
    He called out to his friends for aid, but no one answered, and he watched with growing panic as they made their way down the beach, toward the sea and their waiting boat. Some carried weapons and shields, others the spoils they had acquired from their raid on the village. All chatted amongst themselves. None looked in his direction.
    He kept his gaze fixed on them as they boarded the boat, watching helplessly as the men took up the oars and the boat began to slip away, cutting through the waves and heading out to sea.
    Thorstein stared at the horizon long after the vessel had disappeared from view, willing them to realize their mistake and come back for him. Had no one noticed he was missing? Had no one thought to look?
    His leg throbbed and his vision began to blur, shifting back and forth like the waves that had brought him to this cursed shore. How had he offended the gods? Why would they leave him stranded here?
    He wished that Odin had granted him the honor of dying in the battle. If only he had died, axe in hand, and gone to Valhalla. Instead, here he lay, his life slowly slipping away—an ignoble and pathetic end that he doubted would give him entry to Odin’s halls.
    It was then he heard it. Movement in the grass. Someone was approaching. He fumbled for his axe. He had little chance of defeating anyone in battle, but if he went out fighting, perhaps he could still die well.
    He raised the weapon, thankful his arm at least still obeyed his commands, and waited as the stranger drew nearer. When the grass parted and he saw his adversary, Thorstein nearly lowered the axe in surprise.
    This was no warrior. The young man did not even look strong enough to wield a sword, and he was dressed in a simple tunic that offered no protection from a blade. When he saw Thorstein, he jumped back and half turned, ready to flee, but then appeared to change his mind. He looked Thorstein up and down, his gaze finally settling on the wound in Thorstein’s leg.
    He started to speak quickly. The voice was soft, and had an attractive lilt, but Thorstein couldn’t make out what he was saying. The man suddenly seemed to realize this, breaking off mid-word and biting his lower lip.
    For a moment, the two men just looked at