Two Arrows
Ylva’s world was in chaos. She had no sense of where she was or what was happening; whether she was facing forwards or backwards, up or down. A moment of weightlessness stretched to last a lifetime, and the world tumbled. There was the horrible demonic wailing, and Cathryn’s screaming, but the overriding sound in her head was the sharp crack she’d heard; the sound of something snapping inside Cathryn’s body.
And then bone-crunching impact.
Tangled together, they struck the ground like a fallen beast. Ylva landed hard on her back, the air whooshing out of her lungs, and Cathryn came down on top of her. Before Ylva could take another breath, the two of them were rolling and skidding through the snow. Ice scattered from shrubs and undergrowth as they barrelled through it and slammed into the thick trunk of a sturdy oak.
Muddled and dazed, Ylva wondered if the sky had fallen on her head. But it was Cathryn’s bodyweight that crushed her, and Cathryn’s furs that smothered her. Ylva felt the dreadful closeness of the woman and, in a rising panic, pushed her away with both hands, twisting and fighting for breath. It took a huge effort to move her, and when Ylva was finally free, she sucked in a great lungful of cold, clean air.
But her problems were not over.
Heart thumping like Thor’s hammer, Ylva was lying upside down against the tree. Her head and back were in the snow, while her bottom and legs were pressed against the gnarled trunk. Her muscles were already tender and bruised where she had fallen. She wriggled and slipped sideways into the bracken. Thorns snagged her clothes and pulled her hair. They scratched her hands and face.
She got to her knees and looked about, scanning the forest as if she were deep underwater. Her vision was hazy, her thoughts unclear, but she didn’t have time to waste. Nothing had changed. The warriors were still hunting them. They still had to make their escape.
Cathryn’s horse had deserted them. It was already thundering riderless into the forest, probably terrified by what had happened.
‘Are you still alive?’ Cathryn mumbled.
‘I think so.’ Ylva looked away from the horse disappearing into the night and stared at the woman who had come to her rescue. She was like a beast; huge in her furs, with wild hair full of snow and pine needles.
‘Good. We need to get moving.’ Cathryn grimaced as she tried to stand up. Her right arm was hanging useless by her side. ‘This isn’t finished. Look.’
In the trees behind them, the monstrous half-skull had turned his horse and was heading straight for them.
Ylva wanted to hide, but there was something burning in her. Something that wouldn’t allow her to run away. She was Ylva the Fearless; skalds and wanderers would tell her saga in the great halls of villages all over Midgard. Now was her time for revenge.
She wrestled the bow from over her shoulder. The weapon was still intact, so she knew the gods were with her. And when she reached to take an arrow from the quiver, she was even more sure of it, because although most of the arrows had scattered when she fell, the gods had left her with two.
One more than she needed.
Without thinking, Ylva put an arrow to the bowstring and drew it back. The world moved as if the gods had slowed time. She was about to make history. Ylva the Fearless was about to kill the three-fingered man. The horse and rider thundered towards her, the half-skull lifting his sword ready to strike. Steam bellowed from his horse’s nostrils and he shrieked his terrifying battle cry.
Ylva released her arrow.