On the Cold Coasts

guard.”
    Kristin looked at her husband, her eyes full of tears. “You’re not going to leave me?”
    “Don’t be afraid, my darling,” Helgi replied, stroking her cheek gently. “I’ll come back soon. You’re safer here. In the morning, when it’s all over, we’ll go fetch our boy.”
    He kissed her forehead and swiftly mounted his horse. They rode back at a gallop.

    Standing on a large rock, Thorkell outlined his plan. His voice was impassioned and unwavering. Their best chance would be to ambush the English while they were in their tents sleeping. They would move quietly along the eastern slope of the mountain, make their way to the upper side of the basin, and attack before the English could seize their weapons. He lifted a vat and the pouches he’d taken along, showing them to the men. “In this we put crushed sulphur, wood coals, and saltpeter lye to create an explosion. We must kill the guards first so we can move to the east of the tents unseen.”
    They nodded, no longer uncertain, spurred on by his intensity.
    “Which of you are most skilled with a bow?” he asked. Two young men, red-haired brothers, stepped forward. They showed their weapons, strong crossbows, cocked with short but razor-sharp metal arrows. Thorkell nodded and asked the best longbow shooters to go ahead of them. It was safer that way; even though the crossbows had a longer range and the metal arrows penetrated deeper than wooden ones, they took a longer time to draw. Also, the large crossbows had a more precise aim.
    They were about to head off when the magistrate, who had been fairly quiet until then, requested a group prayer. Could the priest not say a few words of blessing? Thorkell hesitated a moment, impatient; dawn was fast approaching. Then he agreed, aware that he should have suggested such a thing himself; after all, it gave the men strength to know that God was with them. He dismounted, and the men followed suit. Hats and helmets were removed, and the men lowered their heads. In a deep voice, Thorkell guided them in the Lord’s Prayer, all the while searching his mind for the appropriate scripture. He found it in the Psalms of David and recited it in Nordic, so that they would all understand:
    “Merciful Father, give us aid against the enemy, for human help is worthless. With God we will gain the victory, and He will trample down our enemies! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
    Then they mounted their horses and rode off in God’s name.

    The guards were some distance away from each other, to the east and west of the basin. One was gazing into the mist, the other sitting on his haunches fiddling with his weapon, his back turned to the mortal danger behind him. The third—the one who had held a gun over his shoulder—was nowhere to be seen. The archers crawled closer on either side of the guards, looking for a good place to take aim. The red-haired brothers had their crossbows cocked and roller nuts in place.
    The rest of the men waited on the mountain slope. Silently and anxiously they watched Thorkell mix the powder he carried in his pouches: crushed sulphur and wood coals, and strange yellowish crystals that smelled like old urine. A fine dust rose from the mixture, and they flinched at the rancid stench it gave off. Thorkell handed them a large wad of hemp to tear up and stuff into the horses’ ears. The big challenge would be to restrain them when the mixture exploded.
    The arrows flew from their bows. First two, side by side, and a moment later another two, cutting through the cold air with a low whoosh. One missed its target; three sank deep into flesh. The longbows were drawn again; two more arrows hit their targets. The guards collapsed on the ground, their moans barely audible. One lay still; the other rolled over and over, down the slope until it reached the horses. The ones nearest to him snorted and moved away nervously. Apart from that there was silence.
    A moment later, two men were down in the basin carrying a vat. They placed it near the horses and the corpse, then returned with the metal arrow from the neck of the guard. He was barely out of his teens. A blonde-haired boy.
    The brothers wrapped a hank of tow around their arrows. It was vital now to take good aim. Thorkell lit the tow, reminding the men to hold firmly onto the horses and to sling shield-straps over their shoulders. The shots had to be taken at the same instant the explosion happened.
    The