Harald, once a prince of two kingdoms, now soon to be king, struggled to breathe. Smoke from the burning temple clawed at his throat, forcing out ragged coughs. Each one left a taste on his tongue, metallic and bitter. Blood, maybe. Or maybe just the taste of fear.
His father lay ten feet away with his face down in the dirt with the other eight kings. Just an hour ago, King Halfdan had been arguing with some others kings and jarls about trades.
Now he was gone. Just like Harald's mother, who had died before he ever saw her again. And his grandmother too — the Queen of Agder — taken not long after.
"Harald." His uncle Guthrum grabbed his shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Look at me, boy."
Harald dragged his eyes away from his father's body. Guthrum's face was grim, the same face that had told Harald stories about his mother, Queen Ragnhild, after the fever took her last year. Now that face was streaked with soot and tight with worry.
"We have to go," Guthrum said. "Right now."
Around them, a thousand people screamed and ran and trampled each other trying to escape Uppsala. The great sacrifice that happened every nine years had turned into a slaughter.
Nine kings dead.
"I can't leave him," Harald whispered.
"You can and you will." Guthrum's voice cracked slightly, he had loved and respected Halfdan too, had served his sister's husband for years without question. "He's gone, Harald. You're not. That's what matters now."
The boy looked around at the chaos. Children cried for parents who would never answer. Old women fell in the press of bodies and didn't get back up. A priest stumbled past them, his robes on fire, screaming prayers that made no sense.
"Load the king," Guthrum ordered their men. His voice carried over the noise, with the authority of a man who had led warriors since before Harald was born.
He gestured towards two men. "Get the cart. The rest of you, form up. We're leaving now."
Forty-seven men total. Harald counted them automatically, a habit his father had drilled into him. Thirty haskarls who had followed Halfdan, fought beside him in a dozen battles, bled with him when enemies came calling.
The seventeen others, were servants and friends, the men who kept a kingdom running. All of them looking at a fourteen-year-old boy and wondering if he was worth dying for.
Harald picked up his father's sword where it had fallen. The blade was longer, etched with runes his mother had taught him before she died. Victory and Honor and Protection. Fat lot of good they had done tonight.
"It's too heavy," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
"You'll grow into it," Guthrum replied, but his eyes were already scanning the crowd, looking for threats. "Right now we need to move. We are in a foreign land, with potentiel enemies lurking somewhere."
Harald's stomach dropped. Helsing of Álfheimr. The berserker lord whose brothers Halfdan had killed last year. Helsing, who had run from that battle and never forgiven himself for it. He was here somewhere, and if he saw opportunity in a dead king and a boy heir...
"Let's go," Guthrum said quietly.
But as they pushed toward the forest, someone shouted through the noise: "Harald carries Halfdan's blade, the slayer of Álfheimr's cowards! Their shame lives on!"
Harald spun around, trying to find who had shouted, but the smoke and chaos made it impossible. Somewhere in the crowd, he caught a glimpse of a big figure; Helsing, pushing through the fleeing refugees with maybe ten men behind him. They were Berserkers just like him, though they seemed calm right now. And he will soon regroup with the rest of his men.
Helsing's face twisted as the words reached him, shame and anger flashing in his eyes. But he was no fool. Here in the sacred grove, with Swedish jarls and kings,—what was left of them— and their men all around, he couldn't make his move openly. Instead, he just stared at Harald across the chaos, his meaning clear enough.
This wasn't over.
Harald went rigid under the stare. His chest thudded with each heartbeat, but he refused to look away. Showing fear to his first enemy would be worse than death. Only Guthrum's firm hand on his back forced him to turn and keep walking toward the trees.
"He saw us," Harald said with a grim expression.
"Of course he did. That was the point of whoever shouted." Guthrum's voice was also grim. "Someone wants us hunted and dead. Damn it"
They reached the forest edge as more retinues began organizing their own departures.
Helsing would follow, Harald was certain. But not here, not now. The hunt would begin once they were away from witnesses, out on the forest roads where accidents happened and boys disappeared without a trace.
They reached the forest edge as Helsing began organizing his men for pursuit.
Harald was king now, whether he was ready or not. His first task was simple: stay alive until he reached his lands. Whether he managed that was no longer up to him, but to his uncle Guthrum.
-x-X-x-
The trees swallowed them whole.
Harald couldn't stop looking back. Uppsala was just a red smear now, but he could still taste the smoke, and still hear the screaming.
Guthrum's hand pressed against his back, pushing him forward. They'd been moving for hours. Harald's chest burned and his legs felt weak. The men around them moved quietly, just the sound of boots on frozen ground.
When the road appeared through the trees, pale in the moonlight, Guthrum stopped so suddenly Harald almost walked into him.
"Here," Guthrum said, pointing at the cart.
Harald's father lay there wrapped in wolf pelts. The smell made Harald's stomach turn.
Guthrum looked at his nephew, then at the men. "We are too easy to track like this, so we will split. A small group will take the cart and head east, towards the coast. They will make a clean trail, including a temporary burial of the king's body in a shallow grave. Mark the location, when we survive and reach home, we can retrieve the body and give him a proper burial mound then. And the rest of us will take another route."
A murmur of protest rippled through the ranks, though Harald said nothing. "We can't leave the king," one of the men said, his voice low and pained.
"We can, and we will. He is honored in Valhalla now. We cannot honor him here by having his only heir and son dying foolishly. Our purpose is to ensure he survives. This is the only way." Guthrum's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.
Two of the haskarls and three of the servants volunteered for the decoy. Guthrum gave them his final orders, and some food. "Move quickly and try to make your trail obvious, but not too obvious. If you can draw their attention, you have done your duty. If you make it to the coast, find a ship and don't wait for us."
Without another word, Guthrum took Harald's hand and pulled him into the darkness of the woods. The main group followed, their forms quickly swallowed by the shadows. The decoys, with the cart, moved east.
The first few hours were a grueling march. The ground was uneven, covered in a thin layer of snow that hid roots and rocks. Harald stumbled more than once, his foot twisting painfully in the dark. He carried his father's sword, its weight a constant ache in his arm.
Guthrum kept a hand on his back, a silent reminder to keep going. They stopped only when Harald felt he could not take another step, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
"Give me that." His uncle held out his hand for the sword.
"No, it's mine—"
"It's slowing us down. You want to die for a piece of metal?" Guthrum's voice was sharp. "Your father would laugh at you for being so stupid."
Harald reluctantly handed over the blade. Guthrum slung it across his back like it weighed nothing.
"I should be able to carry my own sword."
"You should be able to stay alive. Everything else comes after."
They moved at night and slept during the day, huddled together for warmth. Guthrum was a an experienced leader, and the men trusted him implicitly. He knew the land, even if it was foreign.
He knew where to find shelter from the cold, where to make a small, smokeless fire to warm their hands and melt snow for water. He taught the men to move silently, to communicate with hand signals, and to always be on guard.
-x-X-x-
Bjorn watched both groups leave. He was the one who had shouted the taunt, and Helsing did not disappoint, he saw the rage and shame in his eyes. Now he just needed him to find the main group so that the rest of his plan goes smoothly.
As the decoy group moved east, Bjorn stayed at a safe distance from both groups. He wasn't interested in a messy fight. His focus was Harald and Guthrum, and the main group.
The decoy was a distraction for his enemies. If he engaged them, it would distract him too.
His revenge required patience. Harald and Guthrum had to die, along with everyone in their group.
He knew their destination: the coast. And he knew they would need water.
The cold air was deceptive and dehydration was a real threat.
Bjorn moved faster, his body handling the cold better than theirs with his peak human body. He went ahead of them, finding a stream that crossed their likely path. The water was cold but flowing softly.
Bjorn knelt by the bank and pulled a small leather bag from his pack. Oily liquid. Nightshade. He poured the diluted poison into the water, watching it disappear into the cold stream.
He'd made it weak on purpose. A lethal dose would kill the first men who drank, alerting the others immediately. They'd stop drinking and know they were being hunted. They'd abandon all water sources and make this much harder for him.
This way, the current would carry the poison downstream. The men wouldn't notice anything wrong until the symptoms started.
Bjorn found a hiding spot to watch.
The third night was the coldest yet. The men's supplies were enough for them to reach their destination, but their thirst was becoming a problem in this cold.
Guthrum, seeing their need, led them to the closest stream, the one Bjorn had chosen. He took a long, hard look at the water, his instincts telling him it was a good source. It was clear and fast-moving. "We will rest here for a little bit," he said. "Boil the water a little. It will warm you."
The nightshade poison is naturally colorless and has no discernible odor, making it impossible to detect in a clear, cold stream. This is why the Vikings, who would only be looking for physical signs of contamination, wouldn't have noticed anything was wrong until the symptoms began to appear.
The men drank eagerly. They were exhausted and cold, grateful for warm drinks and rest. They ate what food they had, their spirits lifting.
But their rest was short-lived. A few hours later, the men began to feel sick.
The first to complain was a the youngest amongst them. He said he felt dizzy, that his head was spinning. Soon after, others began to feel the same. A cold sweat broke out on their brows, and their stomachs churned with a nauseating lurch.
Guthrum looked at his men, and his heart sank. He saw the confusion in their eyes, the fear that was quickly replacing exhaustion. He had faced many enemies, but this one was silent and unseen. This was a war he did not understand.
While Guthrum's plan is the best logical course of action he could take, it is ultimately flawed because he is unaware of Bjorn's unique and insidious threat. He is prepared for the known, not the unknown. And while Guthrum can outwit Helsing ans his group, he cannot outwit a threat he doesn't know exists.
Bjorn watched with satisfaction. Now Guthrum's group was weakened. Soon they'd be easy to take. The only piece left is a certain berserker.
-x-X-x
Harald's guts were on fire. Not the cold anymore, but something was twisting inside him like a knife. His head pounded and the trees wouldn't stop moving, swaying like they were drunk.
He dry-heaved again. Nothing came up except that horrible taste, like he'd been chewing on old iron.
"I can't—" His legs buckled. He hit the snow hard, his hands couldn't stop shaking.
Around them, men were dropping. They were no longer the proud, strong warriors he had known. They were a shattered line, their faces pale and slick with a cold sweat. Some stumbled and fell, their desperate prayers choked by a terrible retching.
A few of the men who had drunk the most water lay in the snow, their bodies shuddering and their eyes staring blankly at nothing.
"What in the Gods' name is happening to us?" Harald's voice cracked.
"I don't know." Guthrum's face was grey, but he was still standing.
Guthrum looked as bad as Harald felt; pale and sweating despite the cold. But he was still standing. Still trying to hold them together.
"Fjolkyngi (means healer)," Guthrum called to the herb-man. "What is this? You've seen everything."
Fjolkyngi looked up with eyes like a kicked dog. "I don't know, lord. My remedies... nothing works. This isn't natural."
"Of course it's not natural," Harald spat. "Someone did this to us."
"Who? How?"
"The stream. Has to be." Harald wiped his mouth, tasted blood. "Someone poisoned the water."
Guthrum stared at him. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" Harald gestured at their dying men. "Look around. Everything's been impossible since Uppsala burned."
More men collapsed. The sound of retching filled the air like some nightmare chorus.
"We have to move," Guthrum said, but his voice shook. "We can't stay here."
"Half of them can barely stand."
"Then we carry them."
Harald tried to get up, but he fell back down, hands still shaking.-x-X-xMiles behind them, Helsing crouched beside churned snow. Vomit. Still fresh.
"They're sick," one of his men said, studying the trail. "Look at this—they're stumbling everywhere."
Helsing examined the footprints. Erratic. Weak. Men dropping gear and pissing themselves as they fled.
"Good," he said, standing. "Easier prey."
"Hardly a fight then, lord," one of his berserkers muttered.
Helsing backhanded him. "Fight? You think this is about fighting?" His voice was cold. "Halfdan killed my brothers. Now his heir is in front of me, sick and weak. I don't care if he's crawling. He dies."
One man pointed ahead where the trail wandered drunkenly through the trees. "They're barely moving. We'll have them by dawn."
"Then we gut them at dawn." Helsing spat in the snow. "Sick or healthy, dead is dead."
He'd waited a year for this. Halfdan's son would bleed out in these woods, and Helsing would watch him do it. The gods had delivered his enemies weak and broken.
"Move faster," he ordered. "I want to catch them while they're still breathing."
One of the men pointed ahead where the trail wandered drunkenly through the trees. "They're barely moving. We'll have them by dawn."
"Then we'll gut them at dawn." Helsing spat in the snow. "Sick or healthy, dead is dead."
He'd waited a year for this. Halfdan's spawn would bleed out in these woods like a slaughtered pig, and Helsing would piss on the corpse. The gods had finally smiled upon him again, and delivered his enemies weak and broken. What a gift!
"Move faster," he ordered. "I want to catch them while they're still breathing."