strike true.
He waited for the man to make the first move, for in that motion he could determine his enemy’s weaknesses.
‘Your wound will slow you down, Olafsson,’ the man remarked, eyeing the reddish stain on Ragnar’s thigh. His enemy tossed his battleaxe and caught it again, the silvery gleam of steel revealing a sharp blade. The man was fair-haired with a reddish beard and wore a hauberk made of whalebone.
‘Wounded or not, the gods favour me.’ He nodded towards the sky, which was transforming from sunshine into a darker hue. Large clouds drifted into a grey mass, forming storms. ‘In a little while, Thor will show his lightning and you will be in Valhalla to greet him.’
‘Or you will,’ the man countered.
Ragnar glanced back towards Elena, but was startled to see that she’d disappeared. It was for the best, he supposed. At least if she’d gone, he would not have to worry over her fate.
But he’d known her too long. She wasn’t one to run from a fight. It was more likely she’d gone to fetch a weapon herself.
Better to end this quickly, then.
Instinct took over and he let the blood course through his heart, pushing back any trace of mercy. This man would die and soon.
Ragnar raised his shield to defect a blow from the battleaxe, biting back a gasp when the man kicked his thigh. Pain shot through him, but he slipped into the blur of fighting, no longer feeling anything. He was aware only of the weapon in his hands and the movement of his enemy. Blood seeped against his wound, but he dulled his mind against distractions.
‘You’re stronger than you look. But not for long,’ the man said. He renewed his attack, using his own shield to press hard against Ragnar.
Ragnar’s muscles tensed as he refused to surrender ground. He was a warrior, a man sworn to live and die by the sword. Wounds and pain were a part of the fighting and as he pivoted to dodge another blow, his father’s words came back to taunt him.
You’re weak and soft, boy.
He tasted blood in his mouth when his enemy’s fist ploughed into his jaw, but he willed himself to feel nothing, just as he’d endured years of his father’s beatings.
Pain was a part of him. He knew how to isolate himself from feeling anything at all, letting the hollowness claim his spirit.
You’re worthless.
Every blow, every bruise brought out a ruthless side to him where there were no emotions to make him human again. He became predatory, slashing hard with his sword. He was blinded in this moment of battle, fully immersed in the kill. Anyone who dared to come near would suffer the consequences.
Metal bit through flesh and he was rewarded with his enemy’s gasp.
They stood back, circling each other. Ragnar tasted blood and sweat, and he saw the moment of uncertainty in the Norseman’s expression.
He gritted his teeth, feigning weakness. Waiting for the moment when his enemy would strike hard. Abruptly, the man shoved his shield against Ragnar’s wound, lifting his axe high for a killing blow.
Ragnar threw himself to the ground, lifting up his sword at the last second. With all his strength, he forced the blade upwards, impaling his enemy.
Blood spilled from the man’s lips as Ragnar’s blade remained in his gut. It was not a clean death and he forced the man over, rising to his feet before he struck hard and ended the fight.
He kept his sword in hand, anticipating a second attack. The haze of fighting was still upon him, like a veil of red. Dimly, he grew aware that no one was going to approach him now.
‘Take your men and go,’ Ragnar ordered, his gaze fixed upon the leader.
‘I never agreed to leave,’ Alfarr countered. ‘And now the rest of my men will fight. You cannot kill all of us—’
‘No,’ a woman’s voice interrupted. ‘But I can place a curse upon you, making you wish you were dead.’
The hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end, but Ragnar forced himself not to turn around. From the way the men
He waited for the man to make the first move, for in that motion he could determine his enemy’s weaknesses.
‘Your wound will slow you down, Olafsson,’ the man remarked, eyeing the reddish stain on Ragnar’s thigh. His enemy tossed his battleaxe and caught it again, the silvery gleam of steel revealing a sharp blade. The man was fair-haired with a reddish beard and wore a hauberk made of whalebone.
‘Wounded or not, the gods favour me.’ He nodded towards the sky, which was transforming from sunshine into a darker hue. Large clouds drifted into a grey mass, forming storms. ‘In a little while, Thor will show his lightning and you will be in Valhalla to greet him.’
‘Or you will,’ the man countered.
Ragnar glanced back towards Elena, but was startled to see that she’d disappeared. It was for the best, he supposed. At least if she’d gone, he would not have to worry over her fate.
But he’d known her too long. She wasn’t one to run from a fight. It was more likely she’d gone to fetch a weapon herself.
Better to end this quickly, then.
Instinct took over and he let the blood course through his heart, pushing back any trace of mercy. This man would die and soon.
Ragnar raised his shield to defect a blow from the battleaxe, biting back a gasp when the man kicked his thigh. Pain shot through him, but he slipped into the blur of fighting, no longer feeling anything. He was aware only of the weapon in his hands and the movement of his enemy. Blood seeped against his wound, but he dulled his mind against distractions.
‘You’re stronger than you look. But not for long,’ the man said. He renewed his attack, using his own shield to press hard against Ragnar.
Ragnar’s muscles tensed as he refused to surrender ground. He was a warrior, a man sworn to live and die by the sword. Wounds and pain were a part of the fighting and as he pivoted to dodge another blow, his father’s words came back to taunt him.
You’re weak and soft, boy.
He tasted blood in his mouth when his enemy’s fist ploughed into his jaw, but he willed himself to feel nothing, just as he’d endured years of his father’s beatings.
Pain was a part of him. He knew how to isolate himself from feeling anything at all, letting the hollowness claim his spirit.
You’re worthless.
Every blow, every bruise brought out a ruthless side to him where there were no emotions to make him human again. He became predatory, slashing hard with his sword. He was blinded in this moment of battle, fully immersed in the kill. Anyone who dared to come near would suffer the consequences.
Metal bit through flesh and he was rewarded with his enemy’s gasp.
They stood back, circling each other. Ragnar tasted blood and sweat, and he saw the moment of uncertainty in the Norseman’s expression.
He gritted his teeth, feigning weakness. Waiting for the moment when his enemy would strike hard. Abruptly, the man shoved his shield against Ragnar’s wound, lifting his axe high for a killing blow.
Ragnar threw himself to the ground, lifting up his sword at the last second. With all his strength, he forced the blade upwards, impaling his enemy.
Blood spilled from the man’s lips as Ragnar’s blade remained in his gut. It was not a clean death and he forced the man over, rising to his feet before he struck hard and ended the fight.
He kept his sword in hand, anticipating a second attack. The haze of fighting was still upon him, like a veil of red. Dimly, he grew aware that no one was going to approach him now.
‘Take your men and go,’ Ragnar ordered, his gaze fixed upon the leader.
‘I never agreed to leave,’ Alfarr countered. ‘And now the rest of my men will fight. You cannot kill all of us—’
‘No,’ a woman’s voice interrupted. ‘But I can place a curse upon you, making you wish you were dead.’
The hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end, but Ragnar forced himself not to turn around. From the way the men
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