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As Stump came barreling into the space with his axe, bare-chested and fucking huge. He swung his curved blade in wide arcs, both hands gripped on the haft. His muscles bulged when he flexed against Guy of Gisborne.
Guy was momentarily caught off-guard. The quick snake of a man slithered back to safer grounds. His eyes watched both of us.
Stump put himself in front of me. “Too many of them, lad. Get out of here.”
“Like fucking hell I—”
Stump’s fist flew off his axe handle and slammed me in the jaw.
I staggered back, seeing white behind my eyes, and thudded to the ground. Staring up at him wide-eyed, I cradled my throbbing jaw.
“No time to argue this time,” he said with a smirk. “You’re too young to die here. I’m too fucking tired.”
And I’m the madman?
He winked. “That sweet little tart of yours would kill me in my sleep if she knew I let you die.”
“Stump, you ignorant fucking idiot—”
“I’ll hold them off. Get John and get the fuck out of here.”
He swung his axe over his head, screaming at the enemies as they advanced toward us—an entire second wing of reinforcements. The Merry Men had decimated the first group after taking some losses of our own during their surprise ambush.
I flared my nostrils, gritting my teeth, and hopped to my feet.
Sir Guy said, “How noble of you, barbarian,” as he slashed his sword in the air and stepped toward Stump.
“Brandon,” I said. “His name is Brandon.” As much as we’ve bickered and quarreled over the years, he’s my fucking brother.
My heart thundered in my chest. Blood pounded in my ears, down my arm, leg. I was wounded. Up against all odds. An unwinnable position.
So I did as Stump asked. Only because he demanded it of me. What kind of a brother would I be to deny him his glory?
Vikings loved that shit.
But me? . . . I wanted to stay alive.
I had a little thorn I needed to pluck free.
I sprinted toward camp, away from the iron wall that was Stump.
Then I heard Guy’s voice: “Two shillings to whoever cuts down the giant.”
He was enjoying this.
I growled, stopped at a tree, and watched for a few seconds. Stump was quickly surrounded. He swung in vicious arcs that kept people at bay, until the spears started to show up.
One man got too close and his head flew from his shoulders. But Brandon earned three quick stabs from another man while beheading that first one.
The others drew in.
Brandon Stump bellowed, shaking the trees and the very foundation of the earth. He fought like an einherjar—one of the warriors of his people he’d told me about over a campfire. The elite warriors who fought for Odin.
“Those who fight alone,” he had translated.
Now I understood. Stump was never a fit for the Merry Men. We were a band, he was a solitary warrior. A lone wolf who fought to the tune of his own howl.
I watched as he cut down another man. His body slowed as blood dripped from his many wounds.
