Apparently their arrival had been anticipated, for Rhoar Bloodaxe and his forces stood ready and waiting in a massive, heavily armed line at least four men thick that stretched the entire length of the open field where they would do battle.
Gwendolyn felt a cold fear grip her as she scanned the hardened, ruthless faces of Rhoar's men. She said a quick prayer that all would go well, but she was beginning to have her doubts. Though she and the rest of the young arms bearers stood on a crest of a hill well away from where the battle would take place, they had already been told they would be used as reinforcements if needed. Apparently this news had struck great terror in the hearts of several of the youths, though they tried hard not to show it, for they had heard stories of the men in Rhoar's army.
They were outcasts, all of them. Some had defied their chieftains and had been exiled from their lands, while others were murderers and thieves. Rhoar was rumored to have enticed these men to his cause, knowing they would fight with a bloodthirsty abandon that only desperate men who had nothing to lose possessed. It was against this enraged, blinding lust for wealth and power that Hakon's men would be fighting.
Gwendolyn's eyes followed Hakon's commanding form astride his mighty black stallion as he moved about his men, his strong voice guiding them into position.
Suddenly the sun came out from behind the clouds, blinding Gwendolyn as the bright rays hit the white surface of the snow-covered field. Bloodcurdling Viking battle shrieks and terrible, wolfish howling broke from the throats of Rhoar's men at that same moment, shattering the eerie silence of the battlefield as they began their advance.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Gwendolyn watched in horror as they rushed toward the line of Hakon's forces, wildly brandishing their flashing weapons over their heads as they screamed, some even biting upon their wooden shields like mad dogs. And though scores of arrows rained down upon them from the bows of Hakon's men, still they kept coming, a relentless, almost inhuman onslaught. Horns signaled the start of battle from each side, the haunting sound sending a chill through the very marrow of her bones. She looked on with grim fascination, unable to tear her eyes away, knowing that this battle could mean not only Hakon's doom and that of his men, but her own and Anora's as well.
Her breath caught in her throat at the fearsome sight of Rhoar Bloodaxe astride a dappled stallion. He rode fearlessly at the head of his men, his awful triple-edged axe held high. His flaming red hair and beard shone brightly in the sunlight, and she could almost hear his wicked laughter above the din of battle, carried high upon the wind. She watched in horror as he gleefully buried his axe in the back of an opponent, only to wrench it free, dripping with blood.
Patches of bright red soon stained the snow as the fierce battle raged on. To Gwendolyn it seemed everything was happening so fast! Both forces of men were now waged in hand-to-hand, man-against-man combat, a macabre dance of death. She could still see Hakon wheeling his huge stallion about in the wild melee, his black-and-yellow shield raised in front of him, while his broadsword rained deadly blows down upon his enemy.
But suddenly Gwendolyn lost sight of him as he was violently wrenched from his saddle by the arms of a huge opponent. Her heart went to her throat. Sweet Jesu! Protect him! Without thinking, she dashed down the hill. One of the other arms bearers tried to catch her about the waist, but she eluded his grasp. She ran into the thick of battle as swiftly as her legs could carry her.
All around her were the deafening sounds of combat as sword rang out against sword, the agonized screams of the injured and dying filling the air. She nimbly dodged grappling opponents and fallen bodies, her eyes frantically scanning the ever-shifting fray for a sign of Hakon.
It was the evil sound of Rhoar's laughter that caused her to turn her head. Suddenly everything stopped around her, time froze, as she caught sight of the terrible scene that greeted her. Hakon was lying on the snowy ground not more than twenty feet away, his broadsword knocked from his hand. Rhoar towered over him, laughing hideously, his bloody axe raised and glinting in the sun.
All Gwendolyn knew at that moment was that her life would mean naught without him. Acting on finely honed instincts, she pulled the knife from her belt and took swift aim, throwing it with all her strength at Rhoar's uplifted arm. He started in surprise as the long-bladed knife sank into his flesh, taking his eyes from Hakon for a split-second.
It was all the time that Hakon needed. He lunged violently for his broadsword and, grabbing the hilt, in one swift movement brought it up and impaled Rhoar on the shining blade. Rhoar's gleaming eyes widened as he watched his lifeblood spill out upon the white snow, a gruesomely pathetic expression on his bearded face. "Damn you, Hakon . . ." he whispered hoarsely. He was dead before he hit the ground, his eyes staring lifelessly at the cold winter sky.
Hakon staggered to his feet. "Odin!" he shouted with all his might, raising his clenched fists high above his head. Already he could see many of Rhoar's men running from the battlefield, knowing all was lost now that their leader had been dealt a death blow.
Gwendolyn felt a surge of overwhelming relief course through her slender body at the sound of his victory cry, but it was short-lived. Suddenly she felt shattering pain as a long spear hit her just below her left shoulder. The impact knocked her to the ground. She screamed in agony, calling out Hakon's name. Then all went black as she mercifully lost consciousness.
Hakon grimly wrenched his broadsword from Rhoar's body and wiped the blade in the snow. Then he bent and pulled the long-bladed knife from his bastard brother's upper right arm. He immediately recognized the ornately carved hilt. Why, it was one of his own—from his collection of weapons in his chamber, no less! He turned, his eyes scanning the battlefield, which was littered with the dead and wounded. But who threw the knife that had saved him? He started in surprise as he spied Gwendolyn lying crumpled and still upon the ground not far away. Nay, it couldn't have been! Not Garric!
Holding his broadsword poised in his hand, he ran swiftly to where Gwendolyn lay. His mouth drew into a tight line as he saw the spear sticking from her shoulder, and the bright red stain of blood spreading out from the wound. Her face was devoid of color, pale as death.
Sheathing his broadsword and removing his silver helmet, Hakon dropped to his knees and lay his head on her chest. At least the lad was still breathing, though it was shallow at best. Thor, if Garric should die . . . He did not care to finish the thought. He only knew that it would drive a wedge between him and Anora that might never be removed. Yea, she would never forgive him if her brother did not return alive, he thought grimly.
Hakon quickly put one hand over the wound and wrapped his other hand about the wooden handle of the spear. Gritting his teeth, he slowly drew the pointed blade from her shoulder. It came out cleanly. Tossing the spear aside, he then quickly tore off a piece of his woolen tunic to staunch the heavy flow of blood from the gaping hole. He cursed under his breath, feeling strangely helpless, knowing he could do little more. Gathering her limp form into his arms, he strode hurriedly toward the healer's tent that had been erected on the hillside overlooking the battlefield.
"My lord, the battle is won!" Olav called out excitedly, reining in his horse alongside Hakon. He was covered in grime and sweat, and there was blood on his arm where he had suffered a minor slash wound, but his eyes burned with exhilaration. "What has happened to the lad?" he asked, sobering at the hard expression on Hakon's face.
"I believe Garric has done no less than save my life this day," Hakon said, not breaking his stride. "If 'tis so, we shall have him to thank for our victory!" He called out over his broad shoulder, "See that the last of the enemy are routed, Olav. I shall not be long from the battlefield."
Hakon looked down at Gwendolyn's pale features as he hurried along the hillside toward the healer's makeshift tent. Why did the lad look so achingly familiar? It was almost as if he held the very likeness of Anora in his arms. How could brother and sister look so much alike? He tried to shake off his disturbing thoughts, but he could not dispel the feeling of foreboding welling up inside him.
At last he reached the tent. Pushing back the leather flap at the entrance, he ducked his head and rushed in, almost knocking into the stooped figure of the healer as he bent over a wounded warrior.
"My . . . my lord!" the old man stammered, straightening and stepping back in surprise.
"This lad needs your care . . . now," Hakon muttered, concern etched on his face. He looked about the large tent for an empty place to lay his charge. Many of his men already lay on pallets lining the makeshift walls, and from the looks of some of their wounds, he knew there would sadly be no help for them.
A pit had been hastily dug near the center of the tent for a fire, and a steaming caldron of boiling water hung on an iron tripod above the roaring flames. The air was stifling and overwarm, smelling of pungent herb poultices and sweating bodies. Hakon noted the stone pan of cooked leeks and onions set near one of the wounded, and knew the odorous mixture was being fed to the man to aid in diagnosing a possible stomach wound. If the smell of the onions could be discerned escaping an injury, it usually meant it was fatal.
"Lay him there," the healer said abruptly. He pointed to a thick blanket stretched upon the ground near the rear of the tent. Hurrying over to the caldron, he used a wooden paddle to lift out several dripping rags from the boiling water and dropped them onto a platter held in his other hand.