Free Catla and the Vikings by Mary Nelson

black tunics. She thought they were the same men she’d seen below Elder Bush Hill and in her village, although their faces were obscured by their helmets. Snatches of muted laughter floated up from the path. The Nord-devils huddled close together, but they seemed relaxed and confident, unaware of the trap.
    One man said something, his words sounding as harsh as a seal’s bark, and they turned and looked toward the villagers. Fear held Catla’s body rigid. She heard no outcry. The villagers had not been seen. She ducked her head slightly, her heart pounding. A man jerked his head toward the ship and two others shook their heads as if to argue, but they turned and climbed back into the ship, likely for lookout duty. That might be a problem. They all had to be captured.
    Catla was so absorbed in the scene below, she almost shrieked when someone slid in beside her. The whisper of a familiar voice brushed her cheek. “Easy. Be calm. I thought you might like company. This must remind you of home.”
    She turned and saw the kindness in Edith’s face, then nodded her head once, hard. Dropping her rock for an instant, she put her hand into Edith’s, squeezed it and felt the answering pressure. Some of the tension in her back eased. Edith settled her catapult in front of her within easy reach and they turned to watch.
    The Nord-devils formed a close, silent cluster as they advanced up the path to the village, forming a wall of shields. Catla remembered a traveler talking about such a thing, and her father said he, too, had fought like that. Catla fixed her eyes on them and tightened her fingers on her stone. The sun glittered off the flat planes of the axes. The sword blades glinted as they slashed at low-growing bushes. She felt a nervous tremble as she thought of the ambush of stones and bushes matched against their enemy’s weapons and warrior skill. The invaders came closer, their helmets hiding their eyes, their shields at chest level.
    The trap would only work if the Nord-devils stayed close together. Her eyes kept snaking between Fergus and the men below as the invaders drew closer. They were almost at the oak sapling. Were they too close? She shifted her eyes and fastened them on Fergus. He signaled and picked up the rope. The silence held. The rope-pullers jumped up, braced their feet and pulled. Muscles bulged; the ropes stretched tight. For an instant nothing moved. Nord-devils would swarm over the river cliff and look straight into her eyes. The men heaved again.
    Abruptly, the netting parted.
    Catla jumped to her feet as the dirt, rocks, boulders and bushes plummeted onto the enemy, filling their eyes and mouths. She flung her rocks, aiming for the open flesh of their arms and faces. The boulders and rocks bounced off the Nord-devils’ helmets and backs and tumbled down the incline to the shoreline. They lurched and scrambled, trying to stay on their feet. Loose rocks tripped them. They cut each other as they swung their swords to keep their balance. Shields clashed. The air resounded with cries, curses and snarls.
    Then the fishermen flung their nets. The ropepullers dropped the slack ropes over the edge of the riverbank for later. Villagers hurled rock after rock. The empty nets flipped down over top of the Nord-devils, who howled, struggled and shouted in rage, ensnared in the nets, a seething mass of tangled arms and legs. Norse curses vied with shouts of triumph from the villagers when a rock struck a target.
    Catla couldn’t keep track of everything that happened. From the moment when the invaders had been so close to the villagers, to when the nets had caught them, she’d hardly taken a breath. Now she realized all her rocks had been thrown. She leaped about and shouted in joy, until Edith reminded her their job was not done.
    Catla slithered down the bank with the rest of the villagers. The rope-pullers wound the ropes around the netted Norsemen, then pulled both ends