brave in the heart. vikings

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
intervals

It wasn't until the following evening that she left his side.

Her earlier worries seemed to ring true. Paris would not be theirs. Oh, but how hard they fought. To the hour of our glory and honour. Perhaps their glory would not be here in this strange city. She thought too of her prophecies and perhaps it was there that honour would lay. But here and now, she would fight for Bjorn. She could still feel his lips against hers, burning her skin, spurring her forward. His love made her burn so deliciously.

The night was dark, the lapping water darker still. The coolness of the air held nothing against the iciness of the water as they waded through, reaching deep enough to swim. The river held the stench of a city but they continued forward still, travelling under the murk of fog and gloom.

From beneath the waves, the walls of Paris looked even taller, towering over them, built by Gods. Lagertha led, tucking them all flush against the great pillars until they were one with the shadows. Merida tucked the carved necklace into her tunic, hiding it beneath layers. It felt like a lucky charm.

At the furthest point, protruding from the water, stood a lengthy watch tower. The light of the torches flickering from the windows looked like mere candles in the blackness of night, a fact of which Lagertha had planned to use to their advantage. The poles were easy to scale, with their edges roughened by waves. Merida was second to follow up, copying Lagertha's movements wisely.

The shieldmaidens took to the shadows like wraiths. It was a smile system, each an extension of the other. When one guard would fall by a woman's hand, the others would snatch him back into the shadows, darkness swallowing him whole. As they reached the end of the guard tower, Merida slipped backwards, pulling out her bow, just as another woman did the same. Legertha led forward.

For a moment they watched, hearing the laughter ring through the night's silence. It felt taunting, mocking. Lagertha surged forward, leading the attack.

Laughter turned into shouting. Merida felt the string loosen in her fingers, the arrow sailing through the roughened air and finding her target. It was too easy to take them down. But it was only as the last man fell to his knees, that the true defence came. Merida had never seen anything like it. From the roof came a dull, clattering sound and then a moment later, a clear liquid was gushing from the ceiling, streaming from a void like a waterfall.

Lagertha pulled her backwards, landing flat against the wall. Screeches filled the small room as the liquid landed on the other archer. It was then that Merida realised what had been unleashed upon them. It was oil. Hot, steaming oil.

The bell still rang, clanging with the sound of doom. The shieldmaiden lay twitching on the floor, body coated with oil. Lagertha reached for her but an arrow stopped her halfway. AT the opposite end of the tower, far past the expanse they had earlier cross, a door was opening, casting a stark light across the wooden hallway. Merida watched them with their stange, sideways bows and drew her own, angling it beside the wall. Her own meagre bow was no match against theirs.

The shouts were piercing, cruel. Such architecture had never been seen before. The whole stricture, though a home, was a fortress. Their torches seemed to be taunting as they watched from their comfort.

A hand pulled her backwards. It was one gesture to the fire pit from Lagertha that had Merida nodding and following her movements. They grabbed a torch each, waiting a moment before they hurled it forward, landing on the glistening expanse of oil that now coated the floor and door.

Like a beacon, the tower erupted into a bout of flames. The sounds of screams defeaned the clanging of the alarm bell. They used their longsword to cast the crumbling doors open. Growling like wolves, the Northmen came into the landing, sprinting with axes and swords held high. Ragnar would have grinned at the sight. The warriors came upon Paris like Christian demons, laughing as the Frenchmen fled back into the second watchtower.

But then, groaning mechanically, upon the clattering of chains, a great structure fell from the lip of the tower, rolling forward like a giant barrel. For a moment, the Northmen kept running at it. But then the jagged, spiked thorns of the wheel came into view and they fought to run backwards. The unlucky were pierced by the spikes, shouts muffled by the floor as they were tumbled.

Then, only as it reached the end, the wheel was drawn backwards, the moans and groans merging with the jangling of chains. This torturous defence would never end.

"Block the wheel with your spears," Merida barked out her orders, pushing the warriors forward. "They'll pull it back only to release it again."

It was Rollo who followed her words, tossing himself over the wheel, metal spear in his hands. For a moment, only grunts of effort could be heard but then Floki's shout of victory came and the Northmen surged forward again, this time unblocked as they piled over the structure.

Merida followed, reaching out for a discarded crossbow, prying it from cold, dead hands. It was heavier than her bows. She held it out, distributing the weight easily in her grasp. There was slight recoil, as she pressed the trigger, sending the arrow flying swiftly, but the shot hit its mark easily.

Merida never missed her target and so the beating of a heart seemed loud enough to call the piercing tips of her arrows, like a wish for death she could only grant. The men of Paris fell down around them as the Northmen pushed past the tower into the initial few streets. The walls of the city were towering around them, foreboding and like nothing they'd seen before. Again, she was reminded of home, of Dunbroch and the stone surroundings of the castle and keep.

In front, Rollo supplanted Lagertha's leading position as he drove the Northmen forward with his cries of battle. But as two french men went down, another three took his place.

It was Floki's voice that broke through the sound of shouting. "Rollo, we can't get through!"

She could have predicted it. The overwhelming of their attack. No matter how many arrows she shot, ten more seemed to rain down around her. Lagertha was wide eyed, angry, having to be pulled back as she raged herself forward, axe in hand. The battle seemed to move with her a moment, before Rollo's cry came through.

"Fall back!" Rollo shouted, his voice carrying through the scuffling crowds. "Fall back!"

The north men fell back through the outer walls of Paris, their shouts no less hopeful. But Merida could see it all happening before her. They would not take Paris, just as they had not taken Dunbroch.

Sorry, just a quick filler!