Adrian did not look back.
The scarred Viking was already pressing forward, his short axe sweeping low above the stream.
Adrian dodged to the side, slid his sword along the axe handle, and snapped the tip back, cutting a bloody gash across the man’s wrist.
The Viking’s attack faltered.
Adrian immediately drove his shoulder into the man’s chest and smashed the hilt of his sword toward his face.
The scarred man tilted his head aside to avoid the blow.
Just as he began swinging his short axe horizontally, Adrian seized his wrist and drove a knee into the back of his leg.
Both men tumbled into the stream.
Although the Viking was clearly stronger, Adrian had pinned his axe beneath the water.
The man tried several times to pull it free but could not.
Taking advantage of the opening, Adrian twisted his right arm around the Viking’s wrist and forced the weapon from his grasp.
The current immediately carried the short axe away.
The scarred man reached for the dagger at his waist, but Adrian regained his footing first and thrust his sword forward.
The Viking had only just drawn the dagger when the blade forced him back two steps.
A dull thud came from Alfred’s direction.
The Viking with the one-handed axe had fallen, Alfred’s sword buried in his chest.
However, Alfred himself could no longer stand.
His left arm hung limply at his side, his face was covered in blood, and a fresh wound on his forehead continued to bleed.
He knelt in the stream, supporting himself with his right hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
Seeing his second companion fall, the scarred Viking released a low growl.
Adrian seized the opportunity and drove his sword into the man’s ribs.
The Viking grunted, and the dagger slipped from his hand into the water.
He looked down at the blade embedded in his body, then slowly raised his head and stared at Adrian.
He could no longer win.
Yet instead of trying to pull out the sword, he suddenly lunged forward, wrapped both arms tightly around Adrian, and dragged him backward.
Adrian tried to wrench his sword free, but the Viking’s full weight pressed against him.
The man growled deep in his throat and deliberately threw himself backward while holding Adrian in his grasp.
Dragged along with him, Adrian lost his footing.
The stream ended in a drop.
It was not especially high, but there was no pool of water below.
Instead, a dark mountain ravine opened beneath them.
The bottom could not be seen.
Only the roar of water crashing against the rocks below rose from the darkness.
The scarred Viking’s heels reached the edge.
He released Adrian’s collar and desperately tried to grab hold of something.
His fingers caught only a piece of chain mail on Adrian’s shoulder.
The iron rings burst apart, and the torn fragment slipped through his grasp.
The man’s body tilted backward.
His eyes widened, and the scar across his forehead appeared as a pale line beneath the moonlight.
Then he fell into the ravine.
Adrian fell with him.
As he plunged downward, he heard Alfred shouting from above.
The voice was broken apart by the roaring water, and Adrian could not make out the words.
Wind rushed past his ears, mingling with the sound of falling water and his body striking stone.
Then came a heavy thud.
His back slammed into something, and pain shot up his spine before exploding through the back of his head.
His vision flashed white, as bright as lightning, before everything turned black.
Water poured down from above and struck his face.
Cold.
Bitterly cold.
After that, he felt nothing.
…
Adrian opened his eyes beside a river.
The back of his head throbbed as though it had been struck with a heavy hammer, while the roar of water still echoed faintly in his ears.
He tried moving his fingers.
They responded.
He drew a cautious breath, and a dull pain immediately spread through his ribs.
Even so, he managed to fill his lungs.
He was still alive.
River water flowed gently past his feet, its sound faint and distant, as though he had already been carried far from the ravine where he had fallen the previous night.
The sky was gray and hazy.
He could not tell whether it was dawn or dusk.
Adrian turned his head and saw a human-shaped depression pressed into the mud beside the riverbank.
Water seeped slowly into its edges before draining away again.
He had no idea how long he had been lying there.
The thoughts inside his mind no longer fit together properly.
He remembered that his name was Adrian.
He remembered Baron Reed, the collapse of the battle line on the beach, Alfred, the three Vikings in the valley, and the scarred warrior dragging him over the edge.
Those memories remained clear and distinct, each scene preserved in vivid detail.
But there was something else inside his mind.
Another person’s memories.
Or perhaps another life.
It felt as though someone had forced an entire book into his skull, its pages wedged between his bones and sending waves of pain through his head.
He saw a room he had never entered before, with white walls, painfully bright lights, and a glowing glass object.
Something called a mobile phone.
Something called the internet.
Something called the modern era.
Those memories might not have belonged to him, yet every scene was as clear as though he had experienced it only yesterday.
The smells, the sounds, and the cold, smooth sensation of his fingers touching the glass screen all remained vivid.
Two lives now overlapped inside him.
One belonged to Adrian, while the other seemed to belong to someone else.
Or perhaps they both belonged to him.
He did not know.
However, one thing had become clear.
He could no longer live as he had before, believing himself to be nothing more than a knight who knew how to ride, swing a sword, and obey his lord’s commands.
His battlefield skills might keep him alive, but they would never allow him to live truly well.
Within those foreign memories were ideas about farming, houses, roads, iron tools, and countless other things he had never considered before.
The knowledge was still disordered, tangled together inside his mind, but it was enough for him to understand that there might be more than one path open to him in the future.
Adrian slowly raised his right hand and touched his waist.
His sword was still there.
That small certainty brought him some relief.