brave in the heart. vikings

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
no honour in desperation

The bells rang out like a warning of death. A haunting tune with gaping meaning, its pace too slow for the chaos it caused. Only the sounds of war cries could match its depth, the shouts of the Northmen on their boats rising high above the battlements of the walls that gave lone protection to the inner city. It was like a song. One made special for battle.

Looking upon the metal-cloaked men on the walls with their strange weapons, Merida's bow was made to feel flimsy and useless in comparison. What good would her arrows have against the mechanical shots that rained down upon her companions? How could her practised and swift manoeuvres match the automatic working of the foreign bows they used above? And there were so many of them, all with the advantage of height and the protection of thick slabs of rock. The youths she had taught were lacking and few in numbers, fingers loosening arrows slowly. But they were the first line of defence for the Northmen, and they would have to do.

Paris was a tempting treasure, looming just out of reach. The Vikings scampered to claim it, their chaos somehow organised in their hoards as Floki's tall ladders landed against the ramparts. Bjorn crashed down into the shallows of the water, arms bare of a shield for he had no need of one. Merida was more effective in carving out his pathway than any piece of wood could ever be. She found her arms working faster. Take down the archers on the wall and the raiders would be able to mount. Once on land, fighting sword to axe, the Vikings could not fail.

Bodies were piling, staggered like steps onto the ladders. But they were breaching the walls, slowly but surely, swords and axes glistening in the cold, dull light of the sun.

The King stood far out of reach, his belly rounded and face hidden by dark hair. The crown on his head was heavy and cumbersome, if the size was anything to go off. No words of encouragement left his lips. That was left to the Princess.

The French woman's voice lifted above the screams and shouts of those around. She looked like a goddess then- one both Englishmen and Vikings and Scots alike would prey to- with the golden flag rippling in the wind behind her head, the stitched red sun angled like a halo around her crown. Her words inspired like that of a Queen and had they not been enemies, Merida might've kneeled down in front of her, sword lain to her feet.

She swallowed, the direction of her arrows shifting to that of the Princess on the battlements and when her shot found the target on the post of their sacred flag, the women's eyes shifted to land on her. Fingers trembled around the string of her bow. Upwards she was aiming now- to the Princess that stood just out of reach and to the archers that crowded around her. Smother the fire beneath the stove. Kill their motivation.

"Aim for the Princess!"

From where she balanced at the tip of the long boat, she could see the look on Ragnar's face. She recognised it well. Her father had held such face the morning a bear had come across her playing in the fields. A lamb to the slaughter...

Ragnar was hopping from boat to boat then, rope swinging beneath his weight as he rushed to the very end of their territory, where Bjorn had already reached halfway up the last ladder. He looked back at his father, eyes blazing with something dangerous, something that was mirrored in Ragnar's expression. They rose up the ladders together.

Her pathway followed Ragnar's, pushing through the wounded who clung to the edges of the boats. The injured were growing numerous now. Nimble steps carried her forward, arms working with her bow and arrow, felling as many archers as she could before she neared too close to the wall. Eyes narrowed lastly on the figure of the princess once again, and her fingers pulled back against the string...