I witness men charging towards the walls of the wooden castle, their fierce shouts filling the air as they sprint forward with weapons in hand. In response, a flurry of arrows rains down from the castle, causing some of the men to collapse to the ground. However, most of them continue their relentless charge. Upon reaching the gates, they pound forcefully on the wood until it splinters and breaks, allowing them entry. Inside, they are met with a barrage of more arrows and weapons.
I watch this scene unfold in horror, knowing that our turn to be deployed is imminent. My heart races, its beats growing faster with each passing moment, as I brace myself for what lies ahead.
Finally, the moment arrives, and we sprint forward. Frida raises her voice, issuing the command, and the entire group erupts in a collective shout. The surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins is overwhelming. I've never experienced anything quite like it. I'm prepared to face death head-on. In fact, in the presence of these inspiring individuals, all resolute in their purpose, I find a strange sense of tranquility in the face of impending doom. Today, dying among these people feels like an honor.
We reach the walls, where an opening has already been created, and we squeeze through, pushed by the men behind us. Inside, bodies litter the ground, and men clash with swords and axes. Women scream and flee, seeking refuge in corners and hiding places. I stick close to Boleslaw and Arne, noticing how they frequently glance over their shoulders, ensuring that I'm still by their side and unharmed.
As they become absorbed in the chaos of battle, we naturally separate, leaving me alone with a heavy sword in my hands and a heart pounding with panic.
My senses become heightened. I can smell the acrid tang of sweat, blood, and smoke hanging in the air. I see everything around me with an unnerving clarity. I hear the clashing of steel weapons, the shouts and grunts of men, and the anguished weeping of women. Amidst the cacophony, a particular scream cuts through.
Sure, there is screaming all around me, particularly from the women, but this scream is different. I detect a tone of shock and pain within it. Intrigued, I decide to investigate. Leaving the main entrance and the heart of the battle, I make my way to a side alley, where the voices grow louder and more urgent. The situation feels grave and concerning. Turning a corner, I come upon a group of men surrounding something, their hands raised in the air.
Cautiously, I approach, still clutching my sword tightly. I see a man sprawled on the ground, his hand pressed against his chest as he gasps for breath. It's evident that he is teetering on the brink of losing consciousness.
Why are so many men experiencing heart attacks during this time? Could the stress of sword fighting be overwhelming for them? I ponder as I witness the man faint. The anguished screams of the men around him indicate that he holds great importance to them, as they choose to stay by his side instead of participating in the fight. I let out a sigh, aware that what I'm about to do will likely not end well for me.
Pushing my way through the crowd, I shout, "Let me through! Let me through! I will try to save him!"
Reaching the man, I cast a disdainful glance at everyone around us and yell, "Step away! He needs some air! Disperse!" They regard me as if I'm mad, but I position his body flat on the ground, tilt his head, and check his airways. Looking up, I see the confusion etched on everyone's faces, prompting me to shout once more.
"I am a witch, and I will attempt to help him. But you must assist! Stand by the wall," I point to a location, and they begin to move, their intense gazes still fixed on me. I commence CPR, delivering rescue breaths, and I can hear the audible gasps of shock from the onlookers. Some individuals begin to approach, only to be held back by others, leading to arguments about whether or not to allow me to continue.
Undeterred, I persist with the chest compressions, rescue breaths, chest compressions, and another rescue breath. As I lift my head to inhale air before delivering another rescue breath, the man suddenly opens his eyes and sits up, his expression one of sheer astonishment. After a few moments, fatigue washes over him, and he continues to breathe heavily. I instruct him to calm down and take deep, rhythmic breaths, which he obediently follows. People collectively sigh, shout, and shed tears. I notice some individuals approaching us, prompting me to realize it's time for me to make my exit.
Standing up, I begin retracing my steps, back the way I entered. As I turn the corner, I catch sight of Frida engaged in combat with another man. Simultaneously, I hear Boleslaw calling my name, his voice filled with concern. He, along with Arne, are running toward me, pointing at something behind me. I pivot, only to feel men gripping my arms and pulling me. I struggle to break free from their hold, but a sudden blow to my head causes me to lose consciousness.
When I regain consciousness, terror courses through me as I feel a cold bucket of water being poured over my head. I'm forcefully pushed to the ground, landing on my knees. My hands and legs are bound, and I find myself soaked to the bone. My hair obstructs my vision, and I gasp for air, my body tricked into believing it was drowning. I shake my head vigorously, attempting to clear the hair from my face. Finally, with a forceful exhale, I manage to move it to the side.
I find myself in a sprawling tent, surrounded by soldiers. A man paces before me while others stand in silent observation.
Finally, he halts and looks directly at me. "What is your name?" he demands.
"Bethania," I reply.
"What clan are you with?" he inquires, prompting me to quickly recall Frida's clan.
"The Tiruer tribe, under Frida the Jarl's daughter," I respond, hoping my answer satisfies him.
"Yes, yes..." he dismissively waves his hand, uninterested in further clan details. Then, he turns to the man standing beside him and asks, "Did you know they had witches in the Tiruer clan?" The man shakes his head in denial. The man in charge returns his attention to me and says,
"Well, Bethania... I've been informed of what you did. The magic you employed to bring Prince Bogdan back to life. Why did you do it?"
Confusion washes over me as I struggle to comprehend his words. "I don't understand..."
"Why would a witch like yourself resurrect Prince Bogdan? Is he so important to the Gods? Has Odin turned against me, sending his witch to bring about my demise?"
Suddenly, it dawns on me what he is referring to—I brought back to life someone he was fighting against. Oh, Bethany, how do you always manage to get yourself into trouble with rulers?
"No, my Lord..." I blurt out without thinking, instantly enveloping the room in silence. All eyes lock onto me, awaiting an explanation.
"My Lord, I meant no disrespect. I possess this gift, and when I see men in need, I can't help but grant them their lives back. When I encountered the prince, I had no knowledge of his identity..." The ruler resumes pacing, quietly repeating everything I've said. Finally, he stops and scrutinizes me.
"Stand her up!" he commands, and the soldiers seize my arms, forcing me to my feet. My legs tremble uncontrollably. The ruler approaches me, staring intensely. He brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and surveys my face up and down before declaring,
"Very well, Bethania... Your gift of restoring life is precious. As a strong and feared king, I shall utilize your gift to bolster my army, assuring them they need not fear death, for you shall be able to bring them back. You are not an unattractive woman... I shall take you as my wife."
"But, my Lord, my gift doesn't function in such a way... I cannot bring any man back to life..." I interject, attempting to reason with him. However, it appears he has made up his mind, as he orders his soldiers,
"Take her to my bed!"
His bed?!
"No!" I shout, struggling relentlessly against their hold as they persistently drag me and fling me onto a bed. The ruler signals for some of the soldiers to leave the tent, and they comply. He then turns to his advisor-like figure, who nods and proclaims,
"With the blessing of our Goddess Reja, may your union be abundant in riches, power, and heirs. I pronounce you husband and wife. You may consummate your union." With those words spoken, he starts to depart. I scream,
"No! You cannot do this!" The ruler advances toward me, beginning to remove my clothes, while I continue to resist and cry out,
"If you proceed, your fate will be forever lost!" He freezes, gazing at me intently.
"What do you mean?"
"I am already married! I am wedded to the Gods, and they will come and claim me at your expense! If you marry me, you will never become the king and ruler you are destined to be! You are meant to marry another, who will bear the heirs that shall become future kings and queens!"
He stands stunned and intrigued, silently contemplating my words for a moment before inquiring,
"So, who should I be marrying then?"
"Release me, and I will divulge everything the Gods permit me to share!" I demand.
He takes a small dagger, slicing through the ropes that bound my wrists and ankles. As I sit up on the bed, I take a deep breath and compose myself, fixing my hair. I gaze directly at him.
"I assume you are Olof Skötkonung?" I state, urging my AI to provide me with his historical background. As he confirms his identity, I continue,
"Son of Eric the Victorious and Sigrid the Haughty," I state, observing his nod of confirmation. I then extend my hand, and he willingly offers his.
"I see... I perceive that you may already have a woman in your life, someone from this land named Edla. She will soon bear you a son named Edmund, who will come to be known as Edmund the Old. She will also bless you with two daughters, Astrid and Holmfrid."
"So, should I marry her then?" he inquires.
"No, you should keep her and the children she bears, for they shall be a source of pride and honor. However, you are destined to marry a Slavian princess, Estrid of the Obotrites. Her father will bestow great riches upon you along with her hand, and she shall become your queen. From her, you will have a daughter named Ingegerd, who will become a grand princess and marry a great king. Their descendants shall carry the greatness of your lineage. Estrid will also give birth to a son, Anund Jacob, who will ascend to the throne of Sweden as your successor."
"So, you are saying I should marry Princess Estrid?!" he exclaims, visibly shocked.
"Do you know her, my Lord?" I ask.
"Yes... she is Prince Bogdan's daughter..."
"I can assure you, my Lord, that you will witness many more springs. Your life will be long and leave a profound imprint in history."
"How so?" he inquires.
"By marrying Estrid, you will embrace Christianity," I reveal.
"What?! No..."
"The Gods desire it, my Lord..."
"Will I still honor the gods of our land?" he asks, his expression conflicted.
"Yes, you will continue to show reverence to our deities, but you will adopt Christianity, and as a result, the whole of Europe will regard you as an equal," I explain.
"They will?" he muses, deep in thought. Then, he looks up at me and asks,
"And what about you?"
"What about me, my Lord?"
"How can I avoid your wrath?"
"I am your servant and, of course, the servant of the Gods. I am where they wish for me to be. Now, they call for my return to my clan. I have served my purpose," I respond, rising to my feet and adjusting my clothing, signaling my readiness to depart the tent.
"Listen, you shall remain in this camp. You may stay with your people; that is acceptable. However, if what you have foretold about Princess Estrid does not come to pass, I will hold you accountable," he asserts, giving me a stern gaze.
"Very well, my Lord," I bow and continue. "Once you are wedded to the princess, I request that the honor be bestowed upon my clan and our formidable leader, Frida."
"Agreed," he concedes, finally waving his hand, granting me permission to leave. I promptly take my leave from the tent.