Free Gemini Thunder by Chris Page Page B

exhausted warriors had begun to look up at the two of them. Some of Tryggvason’s own crew had been with him the first time and recognized the figure standing on the platform next to their commander. They began to look in trepidation at the oar in their calloused hands; would it turn on them as it had with their two hundred dead comrades from the first trip?
    ‘I told you that I would take ten Viking lives for every Celtic life you took if you came back. The reason I have not blown every one of these long boats from the water is, due to the obstacles I have placed in your way, you have not been able to ply your murderous trade. And I will see that continues to be the case.’
    The red-haired Viking said nothing. All the advantages were held by Twilight and he knew it. Three thousand Viking in thirty long ships. Sharply honed weaponry and strong, experienced arms to wield it. Impotent and useless against this tall, slim young man with the black piercing eyes and his all-seeing magic.
    Again.
    This veneficus was a curse sent from a place Tryggvason knew nothing about to bedevil his every move. Where were his own twin astounders? Why were they not here to break this demon with their own wizardry?
    ‘Because,’ said Twilight, reading his mind, ‘they are too busy attending your king and his forces in the attack on Winchester, and to where I am about to go to confront them.’
    ‘Then our victory will come from there and will make my suffering worthwhile. Mind your every move, sorcerer. I, Olaf Tryggvason, may be finished, but your magic cannot always protect you. There’s a Viking hammer waiting for your head out there, and Thor will see that it finds its mark . . . one day soon.’
    He lowered his red head to indicate that he had nothing more to say.
    What was left of Winchester was quiet at last. At a safe distance from the Celtic bowmen who lined the ramparts of this solid old Roman castle, the early evening campfires of the surrounding raiders began to glow as food was prepared.
    The smoke from their fires mingled with the smouldering smoke of the fires of the many buildings that had been set on fire by the rampaging raiders. Three hundred and fifty Viking dead had been collected, their eulogies prepared for the feasting halls of their homeland and their pyres lit out of sight of the Celts who had killed them. The shields, drinking horns, and clothing of the dead fuelled the pyres, their weapons shared out among the others who had lost theirs in the battle. Viking culture did not allow for the enemy to see the burial of those killed in battle, and so the pyres blazed behind the surrounding hills.
    Most of the Viking dead came from the assault on the Northern side of the town, the others from the assault on the castle where they had vats of boiling oil poured on their heads.
    The siege was complete; Winchester Castle was caught in a Viking ring.
    Unable to collect their cooling dead, which lay everywhere and numbered nearly two thousand, the Celts could only watch in utter rage from behind their high castle walls as the exultant Viking rampaged through the town. Guthrum had let them off the leash, and the traditional pleasures of rapine and pillage had been taking place throughout the afternoon. Occasional forays by Alfred’s soldiers to alleviate the screaming of the abused women and mindless slaughter of children and the elderly were met with a riposte from the raiders that cut them down as quickly as their comrades earlier. In full sight of the Celtish soldiers in their castle refuge, drunken berserkers paraded naked women around whose genitals and hair had been painted with pitch, then set on fire. Trying to ignore the agonized screams, many in Alfred’s force blocked their ears and averted their eyes. Some were so enraged, they were all for throwing everything at the enemy in one desperate attempt to break the siege and save at least some of the inhabitants and the town, which was disappearing in a wattle,