In Bed With The Viking Warrior. Harper St. George
when he drank, he cupped it in his hands and took small sips, just enough to ease the ache.
‘Halt!’
The word came out of nowhere, splintering his mind with a thousand shards of pain. It was followed by others spoken in a harsh, tangled string that he couldn’t even begin to unravel. A single man ran towards him, emerging from the forest at the exact spot near the ancient oak that he himself had. He must have followed him from the death pile. It was too dark to see clearly, but he was dressed in a dark-coloured tunic, with a sword held in both hands across the front of his torso.
He had no choice but to fight the man, but with no weapon, armour or even clothing, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Rising to his feet, he gritted his teeth, determined to keep himself steady as he backed into the stream to lure the man down the embankment. There was no way he could fight an opponent with a sword barehanded on solid ground and win, especially not while injured. The freezing water came up to mid-thigh, where he stopped, daring the man to come forward.
The man stopped at the edge of the water, sword raised high, but still too far away to pose an immediate threat should he choose to attempt a strike. He spoke again, this time slower and with venom. It took a moment for his mind to catch up to the words, especially because the man spoke them in a way that sounded wrong. With an accent. ‘You die tonight, Magnus. You won’t cheat death again.’
Magnus. His own name? The word was meaningless to him, not causing so much as a flicker of recognition. The gash had addled him...that was certain.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, his own voice rough and unrecognisable. It bothered him how he’d had to turn the words over and over in his mind before speaking them to make sure they’d come out correctly.
The man laughed, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the moon. ‘You’ve gone daft. It’s all right, Magnus. I’ve come to put you down.’
He moved further back into the stream, making his opponent move forward. The man grimaced when the freezing water soaked through his trousers and lunged to try to swipe at him with his sword, saving himself the trouble of walking further into the water. He lunged to the side, but although the move saved him from the sword, it made him dizzy and the world made a horrifying lurch. He grabbed on to the only thing of substance he could find. The man’s wrist.
He yanked, pulling his opponent off his feet and into the water with him. The man still kept his grip on the sword, though, and quickly found purchase on the stream bed in his booted feet, but he swiped out with his leg, catching the man at the bend of his knee. The force toppled them both over, but he quickly gained the upper hand, his grip strong on the man’s wrist to keep the sword from becoming a threat, while pressing his knee into the man’s stomach.
Freeing a hand, the man swiped out with a fist, catching him in his temple just below the gash and opening it up again. Fresh, warm blood poured down into his eye and clouded his vision. The man spoke, but the sound was drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He refused to give in to his weakness, though. This was it. Either he won this fight or his life was over. And he refused to be dragged back to that pile of death.
Letting go of the man, he transferred his grip to the man’s tunic to hold him, then brought his fist back for a well-aimed strike to his nose. The crack of bone and a cry of pain greeted him and on instinct the man dropped his sword. He took the advantage and fell forward, pushing the man underwater. It wasn’t a noble victory, as he’d much rather finish a fight with his fist or a weapon, but already the rush of strength he’d had at the beginning of the fight was beginning to wane. The man fell under his weight, taking in a mouthful of water as he went under. His opponent thrashed and he simply had to hold on until he went limp a few moments later.
His arms were shaking as he dragged the man to shore. If nothing else, he’d solved the problem of his clothing. Taking a moment to clean the stinging blood from his eye, he quickly stripped the man of his tunic and leggings. There was an emblem sewn near the top, a crest of some kind, and he thought he should know what it meant, but he didn’t. Shaking his head, he tamped down his frustration as he retrieved the sword from the bottom of the stream and then donned the clothing. They were snug on him. The tunic pulled too tight across his shoulders and the trousers were a bit short for his liking, but the boots fit well, even soaked through as they were.
Once he was done, he took hold of the man and dragged him back to the stream. Taking a grip on the man’s upper arm, he pulled him floating behind him as he walked downstream. There were bound to be more enemies around from the battle and he needed to at least attempt to hide the body, in case anyone came looking for the man, they wouldn’t be sure of his direction. It would give him a better chance to escape, and if he could stay in the stream as he fled without succumbing to the cold, then they’d never track him.
* * *
He walked for over an hour before his shivering forced him to consider leaving the water. At least the cold had stopped his bleeding. Taking the body to a natural alcove created by two dead trees near shore, he pushed it inside and gave it one last glance. The man’s head was shaved. He touched a hand to his own beard and shoulder-length hair. He should probably cut it. Whoever this man was, whatever his station, he would have to appear to be like him, particularly if he was wearing his clothing. The man’s knife was stashed in his boot. He’d have to take care of that later. Right now he had to get as far away as he could.
He left the stream a little while later when he came to a section of wide, flat rocks that he hoped would hide his footprints from any trackers come morning. Taking one last drink of water, he stepped out on to the shore and made his way into the woods. The night air was freezing now that he was soaked. More reason to keep walking. If he stopped now, as wet as he was, he’d catch his death by morning. The world continued to come in and out of focus for him as he walked, sometimes stumbling into trees and over foliage, sometimes falling to the ground and momentarily losing consciousness only to rouse himself and force his legs to carry him onward.
* * *
Finally, near dawn, his body revolted and he fell to the ground in a heap. When he tried to rise, the ground came crashing up to meet him again and his head cracked against the earth, sending pain splintering through his entire body. He had to rest before he made his injuries worse. Raising his head enough to find a large spruce with limbs low towards the ground, he crawled to it and took cover in the needles. He couldn’t even take the sword from the scabbard across his shoulder as darkness crept over him.
* * *
It seemed he had just closed his eyes when he awoke with a start. His heart threatened to pound out of his chest, but he stayed very still, aware that one wrong move could mean death. Fluttering drew his attention to a bush just past the reaches of the pine’s branches, where two brown finches rolled together briefly in a brawl before one flew off, chased by the other. The sun was high in the sky.
He sighed in relief and lowered his forehead to the ground. He was still in the same position in which he’d collapsed. Dew covered his already soaking wet clothing and his warm breath came out in a puff of vapour as it mixed with the cool air. The first hard freeze was just weeks away, at most. That didn’t leave him very much time to figure out who he was and where he belonged.
Magnus.
The unfamiliar name twisted and turned itself over in his mind, but it wouldn’t stick. If it was his name, wouldn’t he recognise it? Just thinking about it made his head ache even more. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he had to wait for the world to right itself before he could open his eyes. His hand automatically went to the gash on his forehead and he grimaced at how tender and swollen it was. Another knot graced the back of his head, thanks to his fall. There was nothing he could do for the wounds now, though, not when there was every chance he was being chased by his captors.
His fingers moved to the tangled mess of hair. It was caked with blood and fell past his shoulders. If he came upon anyone, he couldn’t risk looking like a wild marauder covered with blood, so he’d have to cut it. All of the men in the death pile had longer hair and beards. Pulling the knife from the strap on his borrowed boots, he set about sawing through the length of his hair. It fell away in dark