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...

...only for it to snap. A cry of rage left her lips as she threw the broken weapon to the floor of the boat. Ragnar and Bjorn were ascending, arms moving quicker than she had seen any other.

She was running before her plan was formulated.

With hands gritted with mud, she climbed the ladder next to theirs, hair pulled tight from her head. The platform had been slick with oil, the bottom of her boots coated in the thick substance. Merida's heart rate quickened as the burning arrow shot down from above, falling like a star to the wood below. Not a moment was wasted watching it. Merida climbed and climbed until the flames threatened to engulf her and she did the only thing she could think of. She jumped.

Jumped, falling swiftly from the ladder to the lowest points of the battlements, fingers only just managing to hold onto the dusty stone. An axe hung at her hip- it took less skill to wield- and the last quiver of bows was strung to her back. Only metres away, the sound of clashing metal alerted her to fighting. She strained to pull herself up, and only when one full arm graced the battlements, did she pull the axe from her belt with the other, throwing the blade into the stone, dragging herself upright. Just in time for a blue to catch her attention.

Up upon the battlements, firey hair catching in the wind, Merida could look across the city like a bird. It was chaotic along those dust-worn walls. A madness of metal clashing against metal, metal against wood, metal against skin. There was no honour in this fight, only a desperate sense of survival as axes hacked down at any target they could strike. Dead or living.

Ragnar was already fighting his way across the space, eyes wild and ready, but Bjorn was nowhere in sight. With a weapon in her hand, Merida fell upon the walkway and advanced toward him, swallowing as the Frenchmen- for they were all men, she realised, much like the soldiers of Wessex and further- ran toward her.

"Where is Bjorn?" Her scream only just reached his ears as she fought beside him.

"He was just behind me."

They were overwhelming them. Bodies so numerous that she was forced against the wall, axe swinging in her right arm as she tried to slice those at her left with the head of a stray arrow. Her anger was useless against the hoards. Ragnar was shouting at her then, a craze on his face as he silently urged her to follow his movements.

One last kick and push hurled his attackers from him momentarily. But then Ragnar was screeching- a terrible, bloodthirsty sound- and he threw himself backwards, back curving over the rock as he fell out of sight.

For the first time since the fighting started, fear gripped Merida whole. She was the only Viking in sight and the image of blue was becoming too intense. The gash on her forehead was bleeding heavily, red blinding her left eye. With one crazed scream, she swiped her axe around again, sending her opponents reeling backwards as she stepped up onto the height of the battlements, glancing back to the water directly below. She begged it would be deep enough as she stepped backwards, letting herself fall.

The first thing Merida felt was cold. Then the sharp stinging of pain spread across her side and she fought her way upwards, surfacing with splutters and coughs. She was numb, skin burning from the blunt impact. Only her arms could work to keep her head above the water. Below, her legs were a dead weight, heavy boots weighing her down.

She could have cried, when a hand reached down to pull her out, drawing her onto the wooden platform of the tall towers, so close to the fire that she could feel her face burning from the heat. Ragnar leaned against the wall beside, chest heaving as he clung to his stomach. He said nothing as she lay her head back against the wood, eyes stinging as she blinked.

They were loosing. The realisation sent another spiral of pain across her chest. From what she could see with one eye, the world around her was burning, the air tainted with the red of blood and flames. For the first time they had lost.

Merida hurried to her knees so she could cough, water passing her lips. And like the air her body was burning with pain.

But that all went cold when her eyes followed Ragnar's gaze and fell upon Bjorn's still body.

"No," she muttered as Ragnar pulled him upwards onto his knee, hissing out against the sting in his own chest. "No. No. No. Bjorn!"

"Is he breathing?" Merida looked to Ragnar but he was unmoving. Her hands found Bjorn's face. "No. Get up you idiot. You haven't heard me say I love you. I love you. Bjorn, wake up!"

She was silenced by Ragnar's shuffling. His hands came away red as he turned over his son, revealing the tails of two arrows protruding from his skin. Bjorn let out a struggled breath- one that she feared would be his last.

But his eyes fluttered, although they remained shut, and his voice came out little more than a whisper. "Don't call me an idiot. I told you this might be my last day."

And if he had been standing and healthy she would have hit him and then kissed him, never letting go. But instead she had to make do with helping Ragnar to pull him upwards, escaping towards the boats as Bjorn fell unconscious again, taking her away her worry with his sleep.

x

Not the best start to updating this book again but something is better than nothing!
Sorry for neglecting this for so long :( updates will be quite slow but they will come x