I slice one down the spine with Unferth’s sword and stomp at another. Some turn to me, and I unsheathe my seax to wield a blade in each hand. A cat wight tears at my leg and I brain it with the pommel of the sword. I turn and scream at two more, swinging Unferth’s sword, slicing with my seax.
Fire burns across the back of my neck, my hair pulls, and I bend, rolling hard against the ground to crush the thing clinging to my shoulder, then back to my feet with a groan. I taste blood-black earth, and my old cracked ribs suddenly dig at my lungs.
Thank Fate the surviving wights begin to disperse. They flee south, and I lower my weapons. With a shaking hand I wipe pinkish blood off the seax blade onto my jeans and sheath it. I press my hand to my ribs, let the tip of Unferth’s sword brush the flattened grass.
The man’s labored breathing makes me turn my head just as he rushes me.
I curse in shock, raise my arm, but he hits me and the sword flies off. I smash into the ground with a scream and kick up with both feet. I catch him in the chest and he grunts but grabs my ankles and throws me.
My shoulder slams into the ground first and I roll, hitting rocks hidden beneath the moss and grass. The incline drives me down, skidding and rolling. I spit blood and my eyes are full of grit, but I climb up just as he swings the branch at me. I duck, unsheathing my seax to strike out as I spin away. The blade rips through his shirt and cuts his side. He staggers back slowly, as if he’s surprised but not hurt.
I run.
Up the hill, tearing between the trees, gasping and scrambling until I reach the truck. I climb into the bed, tripping over the canvas-covered supplies and onto the roof of the cab.
I breathe deeply, carefully, and tears spring to my eyes from the wretched pain in my side.
There’s no sign of him.
Silence from the forest but for a gentle wind that blows through it. I could get into the cab and drive away, return later, but the berserker could be hurt. I cut him, certainly, and the cat wights probably bit and scratched.
Seax gripped tight in my sweaty hand, I spit blood and grit off my lips, then call out, “Berserker! I am Signy Valborn. Get ahold of yourself and come speak to me.”
Nothing but the echo of my voice and the whoosh of wind through the valley.
“Are you one of the Mad Eagles?” I yell.
Still there is no response.
I wait, legs spread for balance, seax at the ready, and scan the shadows spilling down the forested hill. Twilight approaches and I don’t want to be here if this is the cat wights’ territory. But I don’t want to leave the berserker, either. Besides being injured, who knows what he’s seen?
I count to one hundred, lengthening my breaths, pressing my side with my free hand. I count again. My head is beginning to ache, and just as I decide to hop down out of the cold evening air, I hear him coming.
The pace is sedate; he must no longer be mad.
The berserker appears through the dark green with one hand up in peace; in the other he holds Unferth’s sword, blade down. “I’m well,” he calls with a deep, shocked-sounding voice.
I lower my seax with relief.
He’s young, my age, with dark skin and eyes and buzz-cut hair. His hands are massive and possibly he could wrestle Red Stripe and win. A red T-shirt is in bloody tatters from the cat-wight claws and my seax, but he seems mostly intact himself.
When he reaches the truck, he sets the sword down reverently, then raises his face and looks at me, displaying the berserker’s spear tattooed straight down his cheek. It bends as he twists his broad face into regret. “I am sorry; I was lost.”
I grit my teeth against the pain of my ribs. He will see no fear or sympathy from me, another child of Odin. “You seem to have found yourself, then.”
Something like a smile shifts over his luxurious mouth. It’s incongruous on his otherwise rectangular face: hard jaw, wide nose, broad cheeks, heavy brows. His eyes are mottled brown and slender. He certainly isn’t Asgardian. An Asgardian Islander, maybe, or with some of the old native blood, but the berserkers are supposed to be pure.
That’s when I recognize him. This is Soren Bearstar, the young man from Nebrasge who rescued Baldur the Beautiful. The berserker who forsook my mad god.
“Odd-eye,” I say, surprised. “The Sun’s Berserk.”
He has the grace to wince.
I crouch, then hop to the ground, hitting slightly too hard. He steadies me, but I catch myself against his chest. The whole left side of his shirt is plastered to him with blood. I offer my hand. “Sanctuary for the night, berserker?”
His sticky hand connects to mine and the last shine of sunset skims across his face. I see a golden rune in his pupil.
It says hero.
FOURTEEN
IN THE GLOW of my truck’s headlights I clean Soren Bearstar’s wounds. He stares up at the darkening sky as I pat alcohol onto the gouge in his ribs. It’s not as deep as I thought, and bled so much because of the berserker rage heating up his heart. I use Band-Aids to hold the worst part together and then wrap gauze all around his torso. He’s so wide I only have enough to go around three times.
“At least you’ll finally have a scar,” I mutter, eyeing the rest of his perfect body. Except for a few nicks and scratches, there’s nothing dramatic marked on him. “What kind of berserker has no scars until he’s eighteen?”
Soren pulls a new T-shirt over his head. “I won’t be eighteen until the middle of the summer.”
My hands find their way to my hips and I study him. He moves deliberately, even just putting on a shirt. He reaches for the alcohol and cotton pads, then meets my gaze. “May I?” He nods toward my left arm.
Awkwardly I roll up my sleeve, not wanting to lose the shirt. He doctors the three parallel claw marks drawn bright scarlet down my forearm. It stings, but he’s incredibly gentle. I lift my drooping braids to let him see the back of my neck. He cleans the cuts there, too, and my arms tremble from effort because it’s difficult to breathe with them raised and my ribs smarting.
At least I’m not cold, despite the frigid night. Soren’s like a walking radiator.
“Done,” he murmurs. “Except your ribs. I … I apologize. You’re lucky I didn’t crush them more.”
“A troll did that.” I turn and poke him in the chest. “A greater mountain troll, three weeks ago.”
Soren takes a step back from me. “You’re the survivor.”
“There were others.”
“Baldur and I heard a story about you—about the girl who charged an entire herd of trolls with nothing but a sword in her hand.”
It makes me smile. I was hardly charging at that point, but I prefer this version to the reality.
We drive to higher ground and make camp at the edge of a cliff. I haven’t seen any troll-sign, but to be safe I suggest we don’t build a fire. Soren nods and pulls three flat brown cardboard packages from his SUV. They’re self-heating MREs. I watch as he adds water to a chemical pouch and slides it back into the box. It silently but effectively warms up the beef ravioli. All three boxes are different flavors, and he lets me choose. I decide the stew will be the lesser evil, and he eats both other packets. Mine is thick and sticky, but I haven’t had a hot meal in over a week. I miss the sloppy oatmeal Unferth used to make, when it was the two of us.
Starlight and a soft sliver of moon keep the night dark, but as I eat, my eyes adjust to the layers of nighttime, to the distant peaks and darker valleys. To the undulating shadows of the ocean in the west. Ghost-gray clouds drift low, and the longer I rest the better my ribs and stinging cuts feel. I stretch out on my sleeping bag, and Soren does the same. We make a V with our heads together near the cliff, feet pointing at the trucks. The half of me nearer to him remains warm, though my outer arm and leg feel the ice still hanging in Vinland’s spring wind.