I waved an arm to catch their attention. “It’s a spell! Viking magic! This is not our king!”
The Banamaðr who looked like my father, struck and his curved blade slashed around my shield, slicing my forearm.
“Shield! Wall!” My voice was low and tinged with desperation. Would they trust me? Would they stand and fight with us?
Behind us, shields clanged together, and the men began to thump a rhythmic beat as they stepped forward, one pace at a time. The Banamaðr dropped their illusion, turning once more into monsters who struck terror into the soldiers.
Sigrid screamed as she ran at the assassins, launching herself into the air to rain down a punishing axe blow on the smallest one, who still towered over her. His shield cracked where her axe lodged, but she had to release the weapon to dodge from the sword of another.
She ducked, picking up a short knife from the ground as she stood. The Banamaðr was still in the middle of his swing, so for a breathless second, she had an opening, a chance to drive her knife into his heart. It was only when she hesitated that I realized the Banamaðr had cast an illusion to look like me. She only paused for a second, but it was long enough for him to recover and the other two to jump back into the fray.
“Fuck!” she screamed, her eyes wild with fury and fear.
I threw my shield in front of her and used it to pull her back. She fought me, thrashing to get out from my protection. even as my shield rattled with blow after blow from the eyeless assassins.
“They came forme!” she yelled over the thumping of the Saxon warriors behind us. “They’ll leave if they kill me!”
Against her ear, I said, “They’ll have to kill me first!”
The line behind us parted to allow me to drag her back behind the safety of the shield wall, and then they reassembled just in time to block the Banamaðr in the maze.
As soon as I released her, Sigrid dropped to her knees, panting on all fours. She was spent, her head hanging inexhaustion while blood seeped from at least a dozen small wounds.
She’d stood against them alone and survived. It was the stuff of legends.
Legends that would only be told if any of us survived to speak of it.
Our line was at least ten deep, but only ten or so could fit across the entrance of the maze, so the small number of men at the front faced the punishing onslaught of the Banamaðr alone.
I turned to the archers behind us. “Godric, can you get a clear shot?”
He eyed the scene grimly and nocked an arrow, aiming it high. He paused when his fingers reached his cheek, then exhaled and released it. The arrow shot high and came down two cart lengths behind the assassins.
He moved his men back, shouting orders to ensure they wouldn’t hit any of our men, and I turned to shift my focus back to the maze.
Screams from the front were followed by the entire Saxon formation shifting back three steps like they’d been hit by a battering ram. The ranks parted, and four soldiers were dragged back, two unconscious and two grievously wounded.
Sigrid got to her feet, shaking her head as she picked up the discarded swords of two fallen soldiers.
I got ready to drag her back if she tried to throw herself straight into the fray again, but she stepped back and studied the scene.
“We have them outnumbered, but our numbers count for nothing like this. Pull them back!” Her voice was low and hoarse, but she sounded like she was back in control, not like she was considering throwing herself onto their swords to save the rest of us. “We have to move back without letting the line crumple andwithout letting one of them flank us. If we can surround them, we might have a chance.”
Another scream. Another three men dragged out of the formation.
The devastation on Sigrid’s face as she looked at them told me she’d do something desperate if we didn’t turn the tide soon.
“Saxons! Fall back one pace on my signal! As one!”
To move a shield wall forward against a foe was challenging, but mostly a matter of resolve and brute strength. To fall back even a few paces while under attack required much more discipline to stop the line from simply buckling.
I thumped my shield, and the men around me picked up the beat.
“Saxons! Back!”
As one, the men stepped back, but the Banamaðr were ready too, and they struck like a battering ram once more, crashing into the line with their shields and immediately slashing with their blades. Instead of being braced for it, the men at the front had been midstep, and the outcome was devastating.
This time more than a dozen men were dragged out, one of them screaming incoherently as blood gushed from his arm.
