Guthrum's chest burned with each ragged breath as he surveyed his dying men. The poison had gutted his force. All the men were now pissing themselves and choking on their own vomit. The proud retinue had become a parade of corpses.
His nephew Harald lay curled against a tree, shaking like a fever-wracked child. The boy's face was the color of old ash, his lips cracked and bleeding. Every few minutes he would retch nothing but bile and blood.
"Uncle," Harald whispered through chattering teeth. "I can't... I can't stand."
Guthrum knelt beside the boy, pressing his palm against Harald's burning forehead. The heir to two kingdoms, reduced to this. Behind them, another man collapsed with a wet thud, his bowels releasing as death took him.
'Only half is left standing. Maybe.'
Guthrum's own head pounded like a smith's hammer on iron, but he forced himself upright. The poison had touched him too, but not as badly. He'd drunk less from the poisoned stream.
"Listen to me," he said, his breath forming white clouds as his voice cut through the groans of dying men scattered around them. "We can't keep running like this. Helsing's out there somewhere, and probably closer than we think, and he's moving fast. We make our stand here, right now, or we die like sick dogs bleeding out in the snow."
Thorkel, one of Halfdan's most trusted haskarls, leaned heavily against a birch tree and spat a thick glob of blood into the pristine white at his feet. The red spread slowly through the snow like spilled wine. "Here, lord?" He gestured weakly at the sparse woodland around them, his voice hoarse. "What kind of stand can we make? These woods offer us nothing, no walls, no high ground, nowhere to bottleneck them."
Guthrum's eyes swept the forest until he found what he was looking for: a small, rocky hill rising from the forest floor. It was a miserable piece of ground, but its steep incline would force Helsing's men to attack from one direction. It would negate their numbers and give his men a fighting chance.
"There," he pointed. "We climb. They want us? They'll have to come through damn Hel to get us."
He turned to the men too sick to fight, those who could barely lift their heads. His jaw tightened. In the old days, warriors would carry their wounded brothers. But these weren't the old days.
"You know what this means," he said quietly, meeting the eyes of each dying man in turn.
The wounded nodded slowly, one by one. They understood. In this harsh world, sentiment was a luxury they couldn't afford. Better a clean death from a friend's blade than what Helsing would do to them. Better to die as warriors than as broken things left for the wolves.
Guthrum nodded to the men who could still be move, then scooped Harald into his arms, feeling the boy's weight settle against his aching shoulders. Harald's father's sword—his sword now—hung at Guthrum's hip. The blade that should have been wielded by a king would instead die with his uncle.
Guthrum commanded Thorkel. "See to our brothers."
As Guthrum began the climb up the rocky slope with Harald and the others, he heard Thorkel's voice behind him, soft and respectful: "Olaf, old friend. You fought well at Stamford Bridge. "We shall meet in Valhalla soon."
There was a brief moment of silence, then the soft sound of steel sliding into flesh. One.
Another silence. Another soft sound. Two.
By the time they reached the crown of the hill, the forest below had grown quiet. Thorkel and another man appeared at the base of the slope, their faces grim. They climbed in silence, leaving their brothers to the snow and the coming ravens.
-x-X-x-
At the summit, Guthrum laid Harald behind a massive boulder, the boy's breathing was shallow and rapid. Behind them, twenty-five men stumbled up the rocky slope like walking corpses.
Guthrum drew Halfdan's sword and felt its familiar weight. The runes along the blade—Victory, Honor, Protection—seemed to mock him now.
"Form a line," he commanded, his voice hoarse but steady. "Thorkel, you and the strong ones at the front. Everyone else behind. When they come, we funnel them up the narrow path. Make every step cost them blood."
The men moved despite the poison in their bodies.
Guthrum looked at each man in turn, meeting their eyes. "We've stood together through many battles. We've drunk from the same horns, shared the same bread, bled on the same battlefields. If this is where the Norns cut our threads, then by Thor's hammer, we'll make a song worth singing."
"Aye," Thorkel growled, spitting into his palms and gripping his ax handle. "Let them come. I've got five heads to my name already last time we fought. Time to add some of Helsing's dogs to the tally."
-x-X-x-
Below, at the treeline, Helsing emerged like a death incarnate, his war band spreading behind him. Guthrum watched as the berserkers prepared themselves in the old way; crouched in ritual circles, chewing the crimson-capped mushrooms that grew in the deep forest's rot. Their jaws worked mechanically, grinding the bitter flesh as the poison coursed through their veins.
Some began clawing at their own arms, drawing bloody furrows across pale skin. Others bit down on their shield rims until their teeth cracked and blood frothed at their lips.
A massive warrior in a bear pelt tore open his own chest with his fingernails, the wounds weeping red as he swayed and growled. They were entering the berserkergang; that terrible trance that burned away everything human, leaving only the beast beneath.
Guthrum felt his own men's breathing quicken beside him. These weren't green boys facing their first battle. But watching the berserkers transform below, seeing reason drain from their eyes, even seasoned warriors felt their mouths go dry.
"Here they come," someone whispered, his knuckles white on his axe grip.
The berserkers moved up the narrow path. There were no war cries or boasts, just the scrape of iron on stone and guttural sounds that barely qualified as human speech.
Their bear and wolf pelts swayed as they climbed, making them look like the forest itself had come alive to devour them.
Thorkel stepped forward to meet the first berserker at the path's narrowest point; a giant whose bear hide was matted with his own blood from ritual scratches. The man's eyes were completely white, rolled back in his skull, seeing nothing but the red haze of the mushroom trance.
"Come on then, you mad bastard," Thorkel growled, raising his axe.
The berserker's answering swing nearly took Thorkel's head off. The veteran ducked, feeling the wind from the blade part his hair, and countered with his own axe.
The clash rang across the hilltop like a cracked bell. But the berserker felt nothing—not the spear thrust that opened his thigh to the bone, not the blood pouring down his leg to pool in his boot. He pressed forward with mindless fury, his seax finding the gap in Thorkel's guard.
The blade tore through Thorkel's throat, and the warrior's eyes went wide with surprise rather than pain. Blood bubbled from his lips as he tried to speak, perhaps a curse, perhaps a prayer. His axe fell from nerveless fingers as he collapsed, his life pouring out onto the frozen stone.
"Thorkel!" One of Guthrum's men lunged forward to help his fallen comrade. But his movements were sluggish, his veteran reflexes dulled by the same poison that weakened them all. The wolf-pelted berserker who killed Thorkel turned on him, catching the warrior's desperate sword thrust on his shield.
The impact splintered the shield's rim, but the berserker didn't even blink. His spear drove forward, punching through the man's leather armor with a sound like breaking kindling.
The berserker wrenched the spear free and brought his boot down on the man's skull.
Nearby, a man raised his shield against another berserker's charge. This one had torn his own face with his fingernails, leaving bloody tracks from temples to jaw. His shield held for one blow, two, then split down the middle like kindling.
The man breathed, trying to draw his sword.
But the berserker was already inside his guard, abandoning his axe to tackle the older man to the ground. Fingers tore at the man's shirt, finding the gaps, while teeth sought his throat like a rabid dog's. The veteran's screams turned to gurgles, then silence, as his life's blood painted the rocks beneath them.
Guthrum fought like a man possessed. Each swing of his sword was precise, each step calculated. But for every berserker he cut down, another took its place, and his men continued to fall around him.
Another of his man went down with an axe buried in his spine, his last act to drag his killer over the cliff's edge with him.
Another trying to protect Harald's hiding place, took a spear through both lungs but kept fighting until a second thrust took off his arm. Even then, he tried to bite his attacker's throat before the final blow ended his struggle.
The slaughter lasted perhaps less seven minutes. When the last scream faded, the hilltop had become an abattoir. Bodies lay twisted among the rocks, steam rising from their opened bellies in the cold air.
The survivors among Helsing's berserkers wandered the carnage like sleepwalkers, the mushroom trance slowly wearing off as they began to remember they were men.
Guthrum knelt in a spreading pool of his own blood, Halfdan's sword still clutched in his fist. Three spear wounds had found their mark, and he could taste copper with every breath.
Around him, the men lay dead. All of them.
Behind the boulder, Harald's fever-bright eyes stared sightlessly at the gray sky. Whether he had died from the poison or simply chosen not to witness the end, Guthrum would never know.
The ravens were already gathering, black shapes wheeling overhead like pieces of the night that had forgotten to flee with the dawn. Their harsh cries were the only eulogy these good men would receive.
-x-X-x-
Helsing stood over Guthrum's broken body, chest heaving with exertion and bloodlust. The veteran had fought well for whatever made them weak; sick or poison, Helsing did not care.
"Where is he?" Helsing demanded, pressing his boot down hard against the gaping wound in Guthrum's chest. Fresh blood bubbled up around the edges, and the dying man's face went white with pain. "Where is Harald?" He leaned down, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. "Or should I say King Harald now?"
Guthrum's lips curved into a mocking smile, even as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "You are one damn fool, Helsing."
Helsing raised an eyebrow, then threw back his head and laughed. Around them, his surviving berserkers were coming back to themselves, the mushroom madness slowly ebbing. They moved among the corpses, checking for survivors to finish and valuables to claim.
"I'm the fool?" Helsing's boot pressed harder, and Guthrum's breath hitched. "You're the one bleeding out on these rocks. Your precious king is dead. His men are just crow food now. His kingdom will soon start fighting among themselves. And I'm still the fool?"
Guthrum's smile never wavered, though his voice was growing weaker. "Don't... celebrate so quickly. You're just another puppet dancing to someone else's tune. Don't celebrate so quickly, Helsing. Your death... will be far worse than mine."
Before Helsing could respond, one of his men called out from behind the massive boulder. "We found him! We found the boy king!"
Helsing's head snapped up, his pulse quickening. There, curled behind the stone like a frightened animal, was the only son of Halfdan. Fourteen years old, fever-bright eyes staring at nothing. The boy didn't even seem aware of their presence, either lost in delirium or simply broken by watching his protectors die.
Helsing felt a surge of triumph so intense it nearly brought him to his knees. This was what he had lived for since the day his brothers died. This was his redemption, his chance to wash away the shame that had followed him since then, where he had fled rather than die beside his two brothers.
But this would balance the scales. He would look the boy in the eyes as he killed him. He would watch the life drain from Halfdan's blood and know that he had ended a royal line with his own hands.
But first, the uncle would die. The old wolf deserved to see his failure complete.
Helsing knelt beside Guthrum, drawing his seax slowly. The blade was still warm with blood from the battle, its edge nicked but still sharp enough for the work ahead. "Watch, old man," he whispered, his voice thick with anticipation. "Watch your king's son join his father from Hel's cold halls."
He drove the steel between Guthrum's ribs, angling up toward the heart. The blade slid between bone and sinew, finding the vital spot.
Guthrum's body convulsed once; a violent spasm that lifted his shoulders from the bloody stone, then went still. But his eyes remained open, staring past Helsing toward the gray sky, as if seeing something beyond the reach of mortal sight. His lips moved once, soundlessly, forming words that might have been a prayer or a curse.
Helsing wiped his blade clean on the dead man's cloak and stood, turning toward the boulder where Harald lay. The boy was the last thread connecting Halfdan's line to the throne. Once that thread was cut, Helsing would finally be free of the ghosts that haunted his dreams.
He took a step toward his prize, then another, savoring each moment. Behind him, Guthrum's blood continued to pool on the stone, steaming in the cold air as the ravens circled overhead, waiting for their feast.
Just as he reached close to Harald.
Something hissed past him — so fast it left the air trembling.
A wet crack followed.
Harald jerked back as though struck by a god's hand. The rock caught him in the throat with such force it made a sound Helsing would never forget.
The boy had been staring into the sky with unfocused eyes. The stone caught him perfectly, crushing his windpipe and sending him sprawling. Blood fountained from his ruined throat, painting the snow crimson.
Helsing froze mid-step. His mind couldn't process what he'd just witnessed. One moment Harald was alive, the next he was choking on his own blood, killed by... what? A falling stone? Or had the gods just passed judgment right here, before his eyes?
The boy's body twitched once, twice, then went still. His eyes stared sightlessly at the grey sky above.
"NO!"
The word tore from Helsing's throat. He spun in a circle, searching the forest for his enemy. There was no one. No sign of any human presence.
"SHOW YOURSELF!" he roared into the silent woods. "COWARD! FACE ME!"
Only echoes answered. The trees stood like silent witnesses, offering no explanations for the impossible.
Helsing's berserkers gathered around him, confused and wary.
"Lord?" one ventured. "What happened? Who—"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Helsing's voice cracked. He stumbled to where Harald lay, staring down at the boy's ruined throat. A simple rock. A piece of stone that belonged to no man, bore no runes, carried no honor.
This was not how vengeance was supposed to taste.
Helsing threw back his head and howled at the uncaring sky, the cry of a man whose purpose had been ripped away.
His fists pounded the frozen ground until his knuckles split and bled. He kicked at Harald's corpse, but even that brought no satisfaction. The boy was dead, yes, but not by Helsing's hand.
Killed by a rock. By a damn rock.
The shame of it burned worse than any battle wound. He had chased his enemy across frozen wastes, sacrificed his men, abandoned his duties—all for this moment. And some unseen coward had stolen it from him with a child's weapon.
"My lord," one of his berserkers said carefully. "We should leave this place. It reeks of sorcery."
Helsing wanted to scream that there was no sorcery, no magic, only some hidden enemy. But how could he explain the impossible accuracy, the perfect timing? How could a mere mortal make such a throw?
His brothers were still dead. His father was still disappointed. And now his chance for redemption lay bleeding in the snow, killed by a ghost.
The existential weight of it crushed him. What was a berserker without something to kill? What was a warrior without a war? What was Helsing without his purpose?
In the distance, ravens began to gather. They cared nothing for honor or vengeance or the broken dreams of men. They saw only meat growing cold in the snow.
Helsing looked at the carnage surrounding him; Halfdan's loyal men, all dead by his hand. All meaningless now. The victory felt like ash in his mouth.
But as he stood there, something stirred in the darkness of his despair. A new hunger. A new need.
Someone had done this. Someone had stolen his kill, his honor, his redemption. And by all the gods, he would find them.
-x-X-x-
A little farther off now, a lone figure moved through the snow.
Bjorn's tall frame cut a silent path between the dark trees, his silver hair catching what little light remained. He blended with the winter world so well he might have been a wraith, there and gone between the trunks. His breath fogged in the air, unhurried.
He didn't look back toward the boy he'd just killed. There was no need. Harald was gone, one rock, one perfect throw, and the game had ended.
'An unseen enemy', he thought, 'is the worst kind of enemy a man can face.'
The thought stayed with him as he walked. He had proven that since he burned Uppsala to the ground. Halfdan never saw it coming. the other eight kings didn't either — never even thought death could reach them in Uppsala.
But Bjorn won't takes chances.
He knew there would be others, sooner or later. And next time, they might aim not for him, but for those he loved.
Once he reached home, he would begin preparing in earnest. He needed eyes and ears everywhere, some kind of network, men and women loyal only to him. He had ideas about how to start, but ideas were worthless without talent, and talent was useless without trust. That would be the hard part.
His family are still ordinary men and women, but he would not leave them defenseless.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he kept moving.
Today had gone as planned. Better, even than he expected. Now the pieces were shifting on their own. With the royal bloodline dead, Agder and Vestfold would be ripe for chaos.
Soon, there would be civil war. The Jarls who had sworn to Halfdan would begin imagining themselves as kings. Helsing would not sit idle either, no, he would have to move against someone to prove himself worthy of his father's crown. Vestfold was the most likely target. And continue his revenge. And his father's ambition.
'Bjorn's mouth curved in the faintest smile. Let them fight among themselves. He would be ready when the time came.
"A berserker…" he murmured to himself. "Interesting to see them fight again."
He looked up at the darkening sky with a faint smile crossing his face.
Quietly, almost to himself, he began to hum the words he remembered from a song far away in time, "Let me go home…"
The line lingered in the empty forest, maybe carrying a weight of solitude. Maybe longing, only Bjorn himself knows.
------------------
Explanation :
----A peak human's physical strength allows them to throw an object with better force and velocity than a professional athlete. A rock, propelled at high speed, would carry enough kinetic energy to crush the larynx, sever the trachea, or rupture the major blood vessels in the throat. This would lead to a rapid and lethal hemorrhage.
-----Bjorn's peak human reflexes and accuracy would make this a precise act of assassination. He would be able to hit a small, specific target like the throat from a significant distance.