Page 3 of Heart of the Wolf
It intrigued Brielle, their lives, beliefs, and customs; all so different from her own. She craved to know more, and after asking her father once about the Norsemen, she never did it again. He scolded her, pinching her jaw until his nails bit into the skin, telling her never to speak of such things, that it dishonored God. That it was the word of Satan, whispering sin into her ears, luring her into temptation.
Not one to be quelled, Brielle refrained from speaking about it again with him, using other outlets to find answers. Sometimes, through neighbors who kept her secret. But mostly by observing them each time they visited, absorbing as much information as she could with each winter.
Once in a while, she caught her gaze wandering, lingering on the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man from her youth.
He still visited her dreams, but not as frequently as he once had. She wondered if he called to her from Valhalla. If he experienced honor with death in battle. Her heart ached with the loss of something she never had and could not put a name to.
From the brief exchange she heard last year between her father and the jarl with dark braids, their king commanded all the surrounding clans.
The threat in his deep baritone was clear. It would not do to anger this Konungr; Brielle’s town would be wiped out in moments. The lucky ones would be killed, and the others would be taken as thralls. A cruel shiver shuddered along her spine.
If she could not gather more supplies, there would still be enough to meet the clan's demands. But what of them? Their people. Brielle would be unable to craft salves and poultices, and many people would succumb to illness during the dark days of the long night.
Shaking away the unwanted thoughts, she pushed her knotted curls to one side. The threadbare wool of her dress snagged on a stick as she scavenged through her favorite spots. Her stomach twisted, angry with her for giving her morning meal to a child who needed it more. Ignoring the growing ache, Brielle worked well into the evening, filling her basket with bunches of yarrow, juniper, and chamomile.
A brilliant, yellow sun exploded beyond the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple, orange, and pale crimson. She enjoyed the changing of day to night; it was a simple pleasure she reveled in when she could.
Twigs snapped under heavy feet, shattering her quiet work. Brielle wrenched her head toward the sound, her heart hammering in her chest like a war drum. Two men circled her, pale and broad-chested. Far bigger and, no doubt, stronger than her.
Delicate fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword, drawing it. Saliva turned to ash in her mouth, her throat tightening until it was hard to breathe. Brielle was not a fighter; her father refused to train her, and the boys in her village sneered at her whenever she asked to practice with them.
So, she taught herself, stealing the blade in her hand. She frequented the woods alone; she needed some way to protect herself. Initially, she thought to guard herself from wolves and bears. How naïve she had been. Wild animals would be the least of her worries.
Deep down, part of her wanted to be like the women she saw with the jarl. While unusual, two fierce women had joined the ranks of war-painted men the previous year. They were as inspiring as they were terrifying.
All the women in her village depended on their husbands or fathers, as if by design. Subservient to men. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Her attackers stalked closer, circling her like a hawk would an injured fox. They resembled the Norse but were more untamed. Mud marred their scarred faces, their weapons were dirty, and their eyes were crazed.
Her heart froze, forgetting how to beat for a moment. Icy tendrils of fear slithered around her chest, squeezing out the last remnants of air from her lungs until it burned to suck in gasping breaths.
Hollow laughs fell from their cracked lips, corralling her until she was pinned against a rocky outcropping with nowhere to run.
“What do you want?” she hissed, knuckles turning white around the hilt of her blade.
They shared a twisted, unsettling smile. Something ominous shone in the yellow of their bloodshot eyes. Unfamiliar words rumbled into the stale air. Acid rose in her throat, making her retch when their sinister stares raked over her.
Brielle did not need to understand Norse to figure out their intentions. An axe dangled in one man’s outstretched hand, while the other trained his spear on her, its points glittering with fresh blood.
They taunted her, swinging their weapons and chuckling as she stumbled. She shuffled through the crunchy leaves, her gait unbalanced. Sweat trickled down her face, sticky and cold on her nape where her hair stood on end.
A chilling revelation settled in the pit of her stomach; there were two options for her, neither appealing.
Bile churned in her stomach as her nose twitched. Death would be a mercy. One, they wouldn’t give. Not at first. They would toy with her before taking what they believed was their right.
Or she could fight with all that she had and ensure there was nothing left of her for them to claim.
Brielle straightened her shoulders and held her chin aloft. A fire blazed in her golden eyes as resolve seeped into her bones, warming her like the first rays of the summer sun. All she wanted was to fell one man, to take him with her into the afterlife, for she had no intentions of letting them do whatever they planned for her.
Perhaps, if she did just enough, she would go to Valhalla, where she would see her handsome warrior again, welcoming her after her last battle.
Out of the corner of her eye, a mass grew larger in the distance, consuming the trees.
Ignoring it, she raised her sword and advanced on the smaller of the two, slicing cleanly over his calf. An agonizedbellow roared through the forest, scaring birds from their boughs as the man collapsed to the ground, a pool of crimson swirling at his feet. Her chest heaved with each labored breath as she blew a curl off her face.
The pleased smile she smirked vanished when the other man wrapped a meaty hand around her hair, dragging her to the ground and kicking the sword from her hand.
“No!” she shrieked, clawing and kicking at his mottled skin.
