Highlander’s Winter Rose by Fiona Faris

Chapter Five

Gavin could feel the sweat pouring down his neck as he fought against the Norse. It came in droplets, dampening his tunic and making his chain mail stick to his arms. It mingled with the spray of the rain and the ocean waves. In the sheer heat of his armour, helmet, and the fight, his skin was burning. He absorbed the heat, feeling the thrill of the battle engulf him as though it were flames itself.

With Findlay at his side, the two fought together, protecting one another from the Norse's underhand tactics. He took down one of the Norse warriors, delivering a strong blow of his sword between the man’s leather armour's quilting. He looked away from the blood pooling as he turned.

It was not the death in battle he liked; it was the honor of defending his people. He turned his head to scan the beach as Findlay finished with his own opponent.

“They are outnumbered,” Findlay called, as he pushed the warrior to the floor and struck him with his shield, “Why daenae they concede? Look, some of their ships are even sailin’ away! Weaklin’s.” Findlay laughed as he pointed to the horizon.

“Maybe they are just realistic. They ken they cannae win.” Gavin nodded towards the ships. “They can see they will die if they come ashore. Just as their friends have. As for why the warriors here daenae concede…”

“Foolhardy?”

“Nay.” Gavin’s eyes moved between the warriors, squinting through the slats in his great helm. “Honor, me friend. I cannae deny them that. We would do the same.”

He raised his sword again as a Norse warrior charged towards him, bearing a battle- axe above his head. Easily he blocked the warrior with his sword, drawing the attacker nearer before delivering a firm elbow to the man’s nose. He fell back into the shallows of the sea, clutching his face. Gavin did not let up, and with the hilt of his sword, he struck the man’s helmet, knocking the man unconscious. He drifted down into the shallows of the sea. Still breathing, but hardly conscious.

“Aye, suppose so. To the death it is, then. It will warn them nae to attack the Clan of Comyn again.” As Findlay walked forward into the fray, lifting his triangular shield as though it were a trophy of victory, Gavin followed slowly, continuing to scan the crowd with care. He was never as confident as Findlay in battle; though they matched each other in skill, Findlay had the greater strength.

The thought made him search for someone else, someone who might have struggled against the Viking warriors' strength.

He was looking for Tadhg amongst them, but he was nowhere to be seen. He could have been hidden from view beyond the many helmets of the Scottish soldiers or masked from sight by the sheer number of people. Still, Gavin could not recognize the stance or build of his brother. He began to panic, fearing his brother lay amongst the fallen bodies in the sand. He searched the faces closest to him, but only grew more afeared by seeing men he knew amongst them.

Forcing his gaze upwards to the sky, he felt the patter of rain seep through the holes in his helmet. He shook his arms free of the tension of fighting, lowering his eyes toward another in the crowd.

It was a Norse warrior woman. She was perhaps not the tallest but was toned with muscles beneath her cattle-hide armour, and her arms wielded the sword better than many a soldier he had seen. Beneath her helmet, a long blonde braid swung freely over her shoulder as she struck her opponent.

She did not roar as many Vikings did, but her lips were pressed firmly together in determination, her large eyes ablaze. Gavin watched her, observing her ferocity in battle as she took on two of his men at once. She parried with both - simultaneously, her lithe body keeping the men from outnumbering her. Without a shield, she used her sword to both attack and defend with agility.

As she delivered a cruel blow to one of the men’s shoulders, the other managed to strike back, belting her helmet with his bare hand - having already lost his sword to her skill.

She staggered a step back, reeling from the blow, and raised her head again, revealing her nose guard was twisted from the strike. She removed the helmet and tossed it to the side, letting it splash into the oncoming waves, displaying her face for all to see.

Gavin found his body fell still as he watched her through the fray.

She stood with legs apart in leather fitting trousers. There was a long cloth tunic below her armour, covering her hips as though it were a short dress. She planted her boot-clad feet solidly to the floor and raised her sword. By removing her helmet, she had revealed even more of her large eyes and prominent features. Her blonde hair reached the middle of her back. It was braided but was coming loose in wisps. Her full lips curved into a smile as her attackers paused. One of them passed a second weapon to the other, an axe they had salvaged from a dead warrior. They charged towards her – she dodged the first blow easily and was soon back into the heat of battle. Her body moved back and forward with ease and athleticism and was well-matched beside the men.

A clang of metal sounded beside Gavin’s head, drawing him away from his observations.

“Gavin! Can ye return to the land of the livin’?” Findlay stood in front of him, having blocked a Norse warrior’s attempted blow on Gavin.

He shook off his thoughts and returned to the battle, moving his mind to notions of victory and what they would do with the Norse warriors that survived the fighting. He moved between the warriors, consumed with the thrill of the fight and determination to win.

As he knocked another Norse to the floor, he heard the swish of metal through the air close to his helmet. He ducked and dived to the side, turning in time to see who had attempted to strike him around the head.

He paused, his body bent and coiled, ready for retaliation.

It was the woman warrior he’d been watching. She stood, bent forward, legs apart with her sword raised, waiting for the first strike. When he made no move, the corner of her lips turned in a smile, and she raised a single eyebrow in challenge, as though she was taunting him to come and get her.

She is… captivating.

As the word broke through his battle-fuelled mind, he lifted the sword and took his first blow to her. He should not be thinking of someone from his enemy’s ranks so, he should despise her on sight. She was a Norse warrior who had come to loot their land. He could not let himself be bewitched by her ferocity and figure.

She sparred with him easily, blocking each of his blows and attacking back. At one point, they were in the rockpools; her swipes at his legs, forcing him to jump out of reach of her sword. Yet a minute later, they were back in the shallows of the water. As Gavin took the upper hand, he pushed her back until she was knee-deep in the water and knocked her from her feet. She used the moment to her advantage and struck back at his ankles, causing him to retreat without harming her.

She regained her footing, and they stared at one another, both poised, ready for the next attack.

Gavin was aware of the clamoring sounds of battle around him. Axes struck shields, swords against swords, bones against rocks on the beach. He should be helping his men and finishing the warrior woman quickly, yet he could not.

Firstly - she could match him in battle; her skill was just as great, though her tactics were different. Secondly, and altogether a more concerning reason; he did not want to harm her.

She is the image of a warrior goddess.

He shook off his admiration, forcing his eyes closed with a hard blink as though he could force the image of her from his mind. However, when he opened them again, she was still there – with the same ferocity, determination, and beauty.

This time, she was the first to strike. After a minute of back and forth, with neither one of them gaining ground, he managed to control her sword with his, catching it at the perfect point on the hilt. He drew her sword around in a circle, bringing her towards him.

It was a traditional move, a well-timed one that would give its orchestrator the advantage. She stumbled forward, baffled by the action but reluctant to release her weapon. They stood, almost nose to nose, the hilts of their swords pressed together and the blades pointing upwards, parting their faces. Gavin had a hand on the hilts, controlling her and refusing to release the sword.

She looked between their weapons and the slits of his helmet, clearly trying to see his eyes.

He had the advantage; it was obvious. With any other opponent, he would use the hilts of both swords to strike their face, forcing them to release their weapon and deliver a horrifying injury, yet he did not.

Instead – he watched her.

She was breathing deeply, her chest beneath the armour rising and falling quickly, her full lips parted as her eyes darted between the slits in his helmet. Those eyes were a mixture of blue and green – a color he had never seen before. It was as though the two colors were swirled together by a paintbrush.

Those same eyes narrowed, watching him with curiosity.

She is a warrior. She knows I have the advantage.

The woman was wondering why he was not taking advantage; he could see it in her eyes.

Gavin grew aware of a new sound echoing behind him. It was a battle cry. He looked up to see Norse warriors charging towards them, and to his right were his own Highland soldiers. He looked back to the woman in time to see the same panic on her face at being caught in the middle of the charge.

Pushing against the hilt of her sword – he forced her away from him and out of the direct colliding point. She stumbled into the sea, casting one curious glance at him before she was pulled into a new fight.

Gavin did not have long to watch. Another Norse warrior had caught his attention, and he was quickly drawn back into battle.

* * *

Idunn ignored the strange behavior of the Highlander soldier and moved onto her next opponent.

Já. The Highlander is weak. He cannot strike a woman.

It was clear the Norse were losing, and the thought drove her mad with fury as she tussled with her new opponent. The Norse had never lost to the Scots before.

I will not give up.

She repeated this mantra in her head as she fought. Her mind drew to where Einarr was and if he were safe, but she could not see him. The fight had grown too messy, and there were too many Highland helmets in the crowd for her to discern the Viking warriors. She darted between sword blows, searching the crowd for any sign of her betrothed. A momentary glance away from her opponent was enough for him to take advantage.

His sword struck her thigh – the iron was cold.

She cursed herself at her lack of attention, but it was too late for regret. The damage was done.

The sword cut deep, slicing through the leather covering on her leg and through her skin with ease. She growled in the back of her throat and bit her tongue so hard to prevent herself from screaming that she could taste blood. Spitting the blood away, she stumbled back a step, pulling her leg free from chance of further injury; her opponent too busy in delighting in his blow to take advantage of her retreat.

He followed her with a swagger in his step, his chain mail swinging with the action. He enjoyed the splash of his boots in the sea, making a performance as he built up to the fatal strike. He was hunting her, as though she were an animal, not a warrior.

He made another swipe, but she dodged out of the way, hissing as the splash of salty seawater splattered against her thigh. The dodge was sluggish, hindered by her wound, forcing her to hop in the water and remove her weight from the injured leg. Her opponent laughed and pointed to her thigh.

“That could be fatal. Ye ken that. Ye cannae fight on. Surrender!” he called to her, holding his sword back.

She had one chance left. The blood was now pouring down her thigh in streams, the liquid turning the shallows red. The blood echoed in her ears, furious at herself for meeting her comeuppance against a Scottish soldier. She had to take the one chance she had. It was her only option to survive. Even if it meant staying alive only a few more minutes before the next Highlander found her.

She faked a loosening hold on her sword and let the tip drop down to the sea, offering the smallest of nods to her opponent, pretending to surrender as she slackened her shoulders.

The soldier stepped forward and lowered his own sword with a nod, preparing to take her prisoner. As he moved, she lifted her sword sharply – he was caught off guard. She sliced his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon as he bellowed in agony, allowing her to deliver a lethal blow to his chest. Pulling the sword away, she backed away from his falling body.

Her wound was too great for her to move very fast. She staggered through the shallows, fighting against the injured leg that was weighing her down. She stumbled from the battle between the Norse and the Scots, further down the beach, hoping for safety as she clutched her thigh, the blood seeping through the lines of her palms.

Idunn was losing too much blood. She had seen it enough times in battle to know the end result.

She tried to walk out of the sea, but her leg capitulated under her. She collapsed into the water, biting her lip again at the sensation of the salty water drenching her wound. Burying the fingers of one hand in the wet sand, she dragged herself forward, holding her sword close to her chest. Crawling forward, only her feet were left in the sea with the waves bobbing to her knees.

The pain in her leg tore through her body, forming a knot in her chest. Her hands began to tremble as dark spots grew in her vision. She fell forward onto her elbows and turned her head back to the fray, squinting to try to see what was happening.

In the shadows that danced in front of her eyes, she thought she saw Norse warriors running back into the ocean, as though they were retreating, but she couldn’t be sure. One shadow passed over her, as though someone had come to look at her. It bent down briefly. She tried to open her eyes wide to see the face of the stranger, but with a flicker of eyelids, the task was too great. The figure stood and moved on quickly, leaving her fading gaze to stare at the grey clouds above.

A world of black enveloped her as she sank into the wet sand, sensing the scratch of the grains against her cheek as she lost consciousness.