Page 7 of Viking Unchained

In one swift movement, he gritted his teeth with unleashed fury, crouched, then lunged with sword held high in both hands. Coming down hard, he cleaved the first man from head to heart. Blood spurted everywhere, dimming his vision and stunning the brothers.

He fought valiantly after that, but made no more kills even after an hour of swordplay. All of them had wounds, though none mortal. A warrior must needs hit a foeman in the fat line, the area betwixt neck and groin, in order for the injury to be fatal, but these men were weapon-skillful, and his stamina was wearing down.

Bloody hell! It appears that I will be in Valhalla this day. Ah, well, my demise must have been destined; no doubt the Norns of Fate have been busy on my behalf.

In the distance, he saw some white objects floating down from the sky. Mayhap it was the Valkyries come to escort him to Asgard.

At first he wished his brother was there, fighting at his side, but then changed his mind. He did not want his brother to make that final journey with him . . . not yet.

The only sounds now were the clash of swords, the loud panting of seven men’s breaths, himself included, the occasional curse in Arabic or Norse, and a raven overhead heralding that someone would die this day.

One of the men slipped in the blood on the ground, and Thorfinn was able to swing his sword in an arc, lopping off his head. Not a pretty sight but not unknown for a seasoned warrior.

The head lopping enraged the remaining five brothers, who came at him as one.

The side of one of their swords hit his head. Oooooouch! He staggered backwards, dazed. Through his pain-ridden, blurred vision, he saw a group of men tossing the white objects off their backs . . . the selfsame objects he had seen floating from the sky. Was this a death-dream? They wore strange garments of mottled pale brown colors that nigh blended in with the desert sand. Who were these men who seemed to be coming to his rescue? For a certainty, they were not of his hird, or his brother’s.

He gasped when recognition hit him. Praise the gods and bring on the mead, ’twas his cousin Torolf, whom he had not seen for four years and who was supposed to be living in a far-off land. No matter! I will welcome help from any quarter.

“To the death!” he bellowed. Then, to his self-shame, fell back in a stone cold faint.

Hey, Cuz! Long time no see! . .

.

Lt. Torolf Magnusson, better known as Max, raised a hand to halt the small team of five SEALs behind him, then scanned the bizarre scene in front of them. “Holy crap!” about summed it up.

Some distance ahead of them stood a lone man, about six-three, wearing a belted, short-sleeved, suedelike leather tunic over matching narrow pants. Etched gold bracelets, two inches wide, glinted on his upper arms. Ankle boots were cross-gartered up to his knees. His black, shoulder-length hair had two thin braids framing a face of chiseled fury. In his hand was a broadsword, which he was wielding with great expertise against the six Arabs.

He looked like a freakin’ Viking warrior of old. And Torolf ought to know, being of Norse background himself.

As they watched, the “victim” raised the heavy weapon with two hands and chopped one guy in half, through the skull, between the eyes, giving him a permanent cleft in his chin, all the way to his belly. The body fell in a puddle of blood. One down, five to go.

“Mon Dieu! Did I just see what I think I saw?” asked Justin LeBlanc, even as they began to run in a leapfrog fashion toward the kill zone, SEALs working in pairs, covering each other’s advance. One crouched and covered his partner’s six ’til he moved forward and passed him, over and over. “Me, I thought I’d seen it all, but this takes the Mardi Gras cake. Talk about!” LeBlanc, or Cage, was a Cajun from Southern Louisiana and a longtime SEAL.

“I think I might just hurl, and I have a strong stomach.” This from Sylvester “Sly” Simms, who ought to have a belly lined with steel. The black dude had grown up in one of the worst blood-gang neighborhoods, blood being the key word.

They were getting closer, but still not noticed, thank God. For a long time, they stayed hidden, letting the Norse Rambo duke it out with the five remaining Arabs. Were these Arabs the ones Torolf and his team were after? Probably.

The nitwit should have run like hell in the beginning instead of trying to face off a small mob. But then, to everyone’s amazement, said nitwit raised his broadsword high, then swung it in an arc, lopping off the head of another one of the assailants. Two down, four to go.

“Holy shit!” Sly did gag then. In fact, Torolf would bet they all had bile rising in their throats at that gruesome sight.

“Who the hell is this guy? A freakin’ gladiator?” asked JAM, or Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, who had once studied for the priesthood.

“You got the wrong country, pal. He’s a Viking,” Torolf said, more than a little impressed with the guy’s strength and expertise with a sword.

“Oh, crap! The Viking bullshit again!” Cage jabbed Torolf’s upper arm playfully, a reminder that the men had heard more than enough from him about his Norse background.

Torolf’s small squad was in Iraq, attempting to jimmy the works of some al-Qaeda tangos who were about to buy Russian nuclear arms from an Iranian intermediary. And these numbnuts fighting the lone Viking numbnut were presumably those al-Qaeda terrorists. The whole mission, which was supposed to be hush-hush with a quick in-and-out, was about to go FUBAR, if they didn’t stop this berserk, sword-wielding idiot from screwing up the works.

But then everything changed as Torolf got his first good look at the face of the victim who staggered at a sharp blow delivered to his head. Pale silver eyes connected with his for a second.

“Oh, my God!” he murmured. It was his cousin Finn . . . Thorfinn Haraldsson, to be precise.

Why was that kinship curse-worthy?

Because Finn was an eleventh-century Viking warrior.