[right][h3]Gedda Salmundsen[/h3][/right]
[hr]

Gedda had not expected to sleep that night. He never did. Rest, when it came, was short and fitful. In the absence of sleep, he had often thought of drinking himself into a stupor only to recoil at the thought that he might choke on his own vomit—a most ignoble end that could shame even a man who already knew he was a coward. Even sleep offered little solace. His dreams were full of dark waters and starless skies. Sometimes, deep in the grip of slumber, he would find himself standing on the island where he had slain Ulfrik. Ari would meet him there, lingering in silence, and Gedda would open his mouth only for no words to emerge. Even with a year’s time and the sea between them, his boyhood friend still had the nerve to appear, showing that same face that Gedda spent his days trying to forget only to know it all too well in his sleep. In his dreams, those memories which he had locked away slithered free of their prisons, weaving visions of friends’ faces and stormy seas and the black pool of Ulfrik’s blood.

For once, Gedda’s sleeplessness was a blessing rather than a curse. He had been sitting awake in the dark corner where he had made his bed, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his seax, when he smelled something burnt on the breeze. His gaze drifted up from the surface of his blade and towards the doorway of the little hovel where he had sheltered for the night. In two brisk steps, he had crossed the threshold and was peering out at a horizon limned in what appeared to be the first pale light of day. Yet nothing looked odd about the camp save for the distant forms on the horizon. [i]Those can’t be birds.[/i]

Preparing for the worst, Gedda quickly ducked back into his shelter—or hiding-place, a whisper in his mind reminded him—where his few belongings were still packed away. The walls of the little house had already been licked thin by the flames when the Danes had first sacked Thetford, leaving his shelter more prone to icy drafts than most. As a result, he was already dressed in layers to ward off the cold. Digging through his things, Gedda didn’t hesitate to don his shirt of mail before seizing his weapons and shield. His only other burden consisted of what few possessions that had already survived the journey from his former home on the Danish shore to Thetford. Then, with his sword-arm already twitching to strike, he stepped out into the morning’s chill.

As Gedda ran through the camp, heedless of those whom his footfalls might wake, he heard a cry echoing from down the slope: “Saxons!” [i]At least I didn’t have to say it,[/i] Gedda thought. His first instinct was to run for the water. [i]If the Saxons are wise in war tonight, they will surely burn the ships to keep us from escaping. Without our ships, we might as well be trapped like pigs to the slaughter. [/i]Though he tried to banish the thought, it lingered in his mind like a stubborn thorn.

When a few bleary-eyed faces began to emerge, Gedda stayed his steps and raised his voice: “Saxons are on the horizon!” He didn’t wait for an answer before he added, “We must make for the shore!” Then he turned on his heel and took to the burnt paths of Thetford once more with his moss-green cloak flowing behind him. 

By the time Gedda reached the beach, he had cut his way through two Saxons on his way down toward the shore and stepped over the bloodied body of another. The sky had begun to glow with the golden light of dawn, but he had no time to take in its beauty; the distracting clamor of battle rang through the air. A few dark plumes of smoke promised more trouble to come, and Gedda knew they would soon be joined by more blazes. He didn’t have to wait for that premonition to come true. As the enemy ship approached the shore, he watched Saxons spill into the first Danish ship, quickly turning the proud longship to a burning ruin. Fury rose hot in Gedda’s chest as another ship caught fire. Yet even in the red haze of rage, he knew he couldn’t take the Saxon ship alone. 

With the roar of the Danish charge behind him, Gedda looked back over his shoulder to see the throng making their way to the shore. Taking the Danes’ arrival as his cue, he waded into the current, staying a couple paces ahead of the others who pursued the Saxon ship. When Lise fell into the mud, bringing her attacker with her, he surged onto the ship and plunged his sword into the chest of the first man to raise arms against him. When he felt a blow connect with his side, he whirled around and forced his assailant back with a quick sword-thrust. The fear he had once hidden away turned to anger, emerging as a terrible cry that punctuated the next wicked swing of his blade. Forced to raise his shield and expose his side, the Saxon stumbled momentarily before another of Gedda’s comrades—a warrior whose face he couldn’t quite see—killed him.

Black plumes of smoke twisted into the air like dancing serpents as the Danes torched the Saxon vessel. Gedda didn’t bother to look down; he could smell the ship’s belly burning below him and knew it wouldn’t hold for long. The Saxon’s sword that had struck his side earlier had drawn no blood, but he felt the ache of a bruise blooming beneath his mail. Gedda reminded himself not to think about it; it would only be a problem if he survived. Taking two short strides towards the prow, he jumped down into the shallow water and joined the crowd pushing the longships free of the beach. By the time he had clambered onboard, his auburn hair was soaked, hanging in slick tendrils that clung to his forehead and cheeks. 

As the Danish longships slipped from the shore, borne on the glittering current of the River, Gedda turned away from the men beside him and out over the water. When he tried to speak, he found his voice too hoarse from shouting to manage more than a raspy whisper. “May Njord protect us.”