Marauder E-Book

D.W. Roach

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Young Audan sets off on an epic journey across the ancient Norse world.

Soon, he discovers that there is more to the myths and legends of his Viking ancestors than he believed. Crusading with his brothers in arms, Audan faces rival clans, terrifying monsters, and an onslaught of the undead.

The once-revered gods are scheming and meddling in the lives of mortals, whose lust and thirst for power leave the Viking world in turmoil. How far is Audan willing to go to save his land and his people?

Leseprobe

Marauder

Marauder Book I

D.W. Roach

Copyright (C) 2014 D.W. Roach

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Miguel Parisi

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

“To all those who ever stood by me. For my family. For my brothers in arms. For my love. I am forever grateful.”~ David

Professional Acknowledgments

A sincere thank you to American Novelist and Best-Selling Author Cara Lockwood. You are a fantastic Editor and an insightful guide that helped make this project possible!

To my cover page designer Miguel Parisi, thank you so much for the amazing cover! You have brought visual life to my novel and helped to fuel the imagination of my readers.

One: Blood and Iron

The great heavens, so constant and unwavering in their path for hundreds of years, now began to growl and rumble in furious anger. No longer could we navigate the great expansive oceans by the glowing sparks in the night time sky. We were lost, set to wander aimlessly from island to island by All-Father, Odin, and his offspring. For when the gods bicker and scheme against one another, man will inevitably suffer the consequences of their indignation.

These were the dark times the Volva and Seidr had foretold of, the age before the last and final battle promised through the eons, the Ragnarok. Violent men led countless raids upon the lands of the frigid north. The snows melted from the great fjords and the glaciers once again receded as far back as Helheim itself. The power of the local Chieftains had all but ceased during mid-winter by the falling snows, howling winds, and deathly cold, but now winter's grip had loosened at long last and I welcomed its departure. With summer's return, the war bands, fierce and merciless tribes of fighting men, gained in strength and moved freely throughout the land. At land's end, longships were eagerly readied and brothers gathered, sharpening their weapons against the stone wheel. War was not beckoning to the lands of the north, it was already there…

From the fog came a shadowy and sinister creature. It was a dark and ominous behemoth, spit forth from the bowels of Helheim; the long-necked two-headed serpent stretched high into the sky. The creature glided atop the water, searching stealthily for its prey. Bearing gleaming razor-sharp fangs for all to see, the beast appeared ready to strike at a moment's notice; its teeth dripping with murky salt water. A silent hunter indeed, this stalker brought death and destruction to every shore it visited, for it carried upon its back the most deadly and destructive creatures this realm had ever known, the white foreigners, the death-bringers, Norsemen.

“Get the oars up. Shut your mouths. We're getting close now,” Rurik quietly commanded from the rear prow.

The men guided their heavy oaken oars back into the longship, the wood sliding effortlessly along the rails with little or no noise. We waited patiently for Odin to send a mighty gust of wind to send us to shore. If the current and winds were against us, it could slow our advance, giving our prey ample warning and time to rouse their warriors for a sufficient defense. Halldis steadily fixed his gaze on the dark skies, keeping close watch of the weather vane atop the mast for any movement or sign of favorable winds. “My lord,” said Halldis “the winds fail us, but the tide is in our favor. We should move with haste, my lord, before the Aegir in all his power changes his mind.”

Rurik turned swiftly towards me and the men placing his hands on his hips. “Brother Halldis says it is time to attack. What say you?”

We stood to our feet and raised our weapons to the sky, “Aye!”

Rurik tugged on his long braided auburn beard. “Very well, brother. Then it is to battle and glory. Bring down the sail, oars out. Start rowing you stupid bastard sons of dogs.” The men pulled at the ropes and secured them to the decks. We whispered orders back and forth, moving silently on the ship's deck quickly gathering our weapons: axe, spear, shield, and sword. Like a serpent skimming across the water, the ship moved through the dense fog, inching closer to its victim.

“Row quietly now. We wouldn't want to give them early warning,” said my brother Jareth as he steadily worked his oar. Rowing no more than the length of several ships we were once again ordered to pull the oars back in as our longship drift towards the shore.

“Ready your blades men and wait for the signal,” commanded Rurik.

“No sudden movements until I give word,” Halldis quietly repeated Rurik's' order to the men while walking between us up and down the center of the ship. Our hearts pounded, palms sweating, gripping our weapons, waiting for the proper moment to strike. The long and agonizing winter of the North had left us anxious to return to the glorious rituals of battle. Gripping a bone knife handle, my hand bounced and shook anxiously in place; the time for battle was nearly upon me. Well into manhood, this was my fifth season raiding with Rurik and his crew. I waited impatiently for Rurik's order; stroking my dirty blonde beard and cracking my neck from side to side. The harsh and unforgiving winter months had left us fat and lazy with no one to challenge, no glory to deliver unto our Gods and our people. We craved blood at the end of an axe, silver and gold in our coffers, and this night we would have it all or dine in Valhalla.

Halldis strode to the rear prow to speak to the young ones, their first raid, merely boys no older than thirteen. “Listen here, you little shit kickers, out there is your glory, your chance to become men. If you fall behind, I will kill you. If you fall down, I will let you die. Be fearless, be menacing, and show no mercy upon your foe for they will show you none. If All-Father Odin sees fit that you shall live this day and you fight with honor, you will become one of us. Until then, you're fucking worthless.” Halldis stepped up onto a foot locker next to the mast and clung to it with one hand. “Know this,” he said pointing towards the shore, “those sons of whores out there want you dead, to spill your guts on the beach like a pig to the slaughter, so who's it going to be? Who's it going to be? Some of you boys are cowards. You're scared. I can see it in your beady little rat eyes. It's time to become men.” Halldis spit on the deck in front of the young ones and walked back to his station. The young ones said nothing and barely moved for fear of reprisal from Halldis. The dread in their eyes was perfectly apparent. The thought of ending up impaled at the end of a spear point sent chills down their spine and the brief taste of vomit crept into their mouths as they swallowed nervously.

I turned my head and looked at Jareth standing next to me, our eyes met and we each nodded at each other, no smiles, no fear, just the bloody rage that now flowed in our veins. Jareth removed his seax that was tucked under his leather belt and made a small cut upon his arm. “Jareth, what the hell are you doing?” I asked. Jareth opened his free hand wiping the dark red blood onto his palms and smeared it across his face making a long bloody streak. I quietly chuckled seeing my brother now turned into a demon like creature. Extending my hand I said, “Lend me your blade.”

“So brother Audan, I'm not so foolish after all?” Jareth warmed at the idea of being clever. I made a small cut on my forearm, the blood dripping out like tears, one pouring through after another. Catching them into my hand I dragged my fingers straight down my face and neck, the blood still warm against my cool pale skin. The very sight of our faces must have been frightening and gruesome to even the most hardened of warriors. Jareth extended his hand; wiping the blood off the knife onto my pant leg and I happily returned his property. We drifted into a small channel lined with tall grass passing several torch lights along the shoreline. The village beach, our enemy, lay just ahead.

Standing on the front prow Rurik placed a brown leather helm upon his head and lifted his arm straight into the sky. “Get to your fighting positions, let's go, quickly now. Rocks! Brace yourselves!” The ship came to a sudden and blaring stop on the beach head throwing most of us forward. Rurik fell to the ship's hard wooden deck but stood up quickly, gazing at the foggy horizon for signs of resistance. Halldis stood higher at the prow, his eyes scanning the far horizon in darkness. “Halldis?” asked Rurik. Halldis took one more look at the shoreline and shook his head; there was no sign of resistance. Rurik lifted his arm once more into the sky, signaling the archers. Two dark hooded men quietly stepped forward, lifting their yew bows skyward, and drew back their strings, ready to unleash their stingers upon our awaiting victims.

“Give me fire,” Halldis commanded. A warrior quickly stood and handed him a recently lit torch. Halldis waved the fire under the arrows that were wrapped with cod liver oil soaked cloth. The arrow heads now ablaze, lit the rock covered beach below and the tree line in front of us. With the drop of Rurik's arm the bolts of fire roared as they streaked across the sky, casting moving shadows and rained down hot iron tearing through the straw of the village hovels just beyond our sight. The signal to commence the carnage had been given.

“There they are, men! Attack! Get off the ship!” Rurik yelled as he wildly lifted his heavy bearded axe into the air. Warriors arose swiftly from their stations, shields clunking, chainmail clanking, thrusting a thunderous battle cry upwards to cut the heavens. Bodies jumped into the shallow, dismal water below, one by one, each splash was a messenger of death inching its way closer and closer to shore. Warriors filed into two lines working towards the front prow so not to drown in the deeper waters in full kit. Reaching the front prow it was my turn to take the leap; I looked down at the black murky water that lay below and without hesitation, plunged in. Like a million stabbing knives, the cold water soaked my leather armor and pierced my skin down to the bone, my lungs momentarily robbed of their breath. Tripping over a rock beneath the water's surface, my brother in arms picked me up by the back of the neck as one would pick up a dead rabbit.

“Don't die yet, little brother; we may have some use for you yet. Besides, if you drown, who will watch your back in Valhalla?” Jareth said. I smiled briefly, picking up my spear and moving forward to the beachhead. The water weighed down my clothes; I grunted and forcefully lifted each leg as I marched to the beach with my shield in front of me at the ready. Reaching the pebble-laden shore I shook off the water like a stray dog and removed the hair from my eyes.

“Take formation on the beach! Take formation on the beach! Shields! Shields!” shouted Mar the Lesser as he feverously repeated his orders. “Lock your shields and make ready to move forward.” Warriors knelt digging their knees into rocks, shields and spears forward at the ready awaiting the next order. We locked our shields together making a solid defensive wall. Archers formed up behind the wall of shields, quickly scanning the beach, moving our heads left to right, searching for signs of resistance. Alas, there was nothing but darkness and the outlines of small village hovels that lay ahead. The ground was frigid, hard, and unwelcoming under our feet. Muffled screams could now be heard in the distance followed by the sounds of rustling brush, but the warriors had not yet challenged us.

Mar stood next to Rurik bearing his blackened teeth. “It's an ambush my lord. There's no sign of the enemy and yet they must be here.”

Rurik smirked. “Of course, it's an ambush. It's always an ambush. Get the men forward. We take this village tonight, Odin willing.” Mar nodded and looked to the men. Rurik moved to the front of the formation with his shield forward he turned and looked back at us, “Sons of Odin, what makes the grass grow and the rivers flow?”

We replied in unison, “Blood, blood, blood!”

“And how do we get blood?”

“Kill, kill, kill!”

“For glory!”

“You heard your Chieftain! Forward, you dogs! If our enemy does not wish to welcome us with open arms then we shall make ourselves at home,” commanded Mar. All at once, as if one man, we stood and marched forward atop the loose pebbles, increasing our speed as we got closer to the village. Dark shadows moved in the distance and as we approached, our adversaries gradually became visible, taking refuge behind a wall of earth and mud.

Swoosh, swoosh, thwack! Arrows flew invisibly in the darkness. Their deathly shriek could be heard all around us, striking shield and dirt. The villagers were prepared; perhaps they had been attacked before in previous raids. “Keep your shields up lads unless you want to eat iron stinger!” said Rurik. Chieftain Rurik ordered open ranks to break up the concentration of arrow fire. We split up and charged forward, swords and axes drawn. The tip of my ear bent forward, arrows from our archers just behind us passing by my head giving us support to move onward.

“Aaaaaaahhhh!” The piercing shriek from the first kill. Vallis the Ruddy stood up, placing his large foot firmly on the chest of his now dispatched victim. He pushed his foot deep into his victim's cracking ribs and pulled his sword from the villagers' motionless body. Dark blood dripped profusely from his blade. Vallis looked at his cutting edge intently as if to see if his weapon was satisfied with the meal it had feasted upon. Looking back at his Chieftain with a devilish grin, Vallis then returned his attentions forward to track down his next victim. “Valhalla awaits!” yelled Vallis as he charged forward into the darkness.

Thunk! His victory was short lived. A stray arrow pierced Vallis's throat. He grasped his neck tightly around the arrow, desperately trying to keep the blood from rushing out of his body. The sound of blood rushing into a man's throat, gurgling, as he fought for air was like watching a fish flop about on dry land, longing for the water. Reaching outwards for some kind of comfort from his brothers, Vallis stumbled. Quickly succumbing to his wound, he fell, like a cut tree to the earth, eyes still open as he took his final breath. Rurik, our Chieftain, looked down upon the dying Vallis and kneeled next to him. “We will meet again in Valhalla brother. Heimdallr will show you the way.” Vallis' comrades continued to move forward under the relentless hail of arrow fire.

Jareth and I stayed at each other's side; once again we merged our shields to move forward on several peasant archers taking refuge behind the wall. Their arrows hammering at our shields endlessly, volley after volley, littering the ground with broken stingers. Schunk, thwak, shud! With one last yell, we reached the wall throwing our spears into the mass to break up their defense. The villagers braced themselves and were knocked back as the spears struck heavy upon their poorly assembled shields. Jareth reached over his bright blue shield with his battle axe, striking one of our foes, separating his collar bone from his shoulder. Jareth gripped both hands on his axe handle; his shield now hanging by a strap from his arm and severed the archer's head from his body. I kneeled picking up my spear and thrust it at the archer next to him, but it was deflected by his bow, which smacked it away. Lifting my shield, I struck his chest with the front end, robbing him of air and stunning him just long enough for a fatal blow. The archer leaned forward over my shield and I cleaved my spear's edge over his back as he fell. Sinking the blades into his spine the archer's body tensed and became rigid, a brief shriek emerged from his mouth. I pulled and pulled at my spear but could not remove it from his now lifeless corpse.

“Leave it. Get your axe! We need to keep up with the others unless you wish to join Vallis in the afterlife,” said Jareth. “Vallis is pleasuring himself in Valhalla as we speak. I wonder how he's going to get that arrow out of his throat?” Jareth said with an asinine grin. We all knew that when you journeyed to Valhalla you looked as you did in death. We all hoped in vain for a clean death knowing full well our fates would someday match that of the butchery we now proudly inflicted upon our enemies. Jareth was always known for making fun at the poorest moments, but no warrior could have a better comrade in a pitched mêlée. He was as skilled with his words as he was with an axe. He would often confuse those he quarreled with after several horns of mead by spouting some long deep-thinking argument just prior to pummeling him with the nearest object.

Soon we found ourselves in the epicenter of the village. Bodies and random belongings of village life strewn about, huts burning to a cinder leaving nothing but ash in our wake. Where were the rest of the villagers? The warriors? Jareth kneeled in the dirt. “Look there, brother. Their tracks lead outside the village. They've ventured east. We won't be able to catch them without risking our ship.”

“We need to retire from this raid. They may warn others and send reinforcements to avenge them,” I said hurriedly.

We split up and began searching the small earthen huts for treasure, weapons, or anything of value that could be traded back at home. This village was full of simple people, mostly farmers and fisherman; there would be few great treasures here. Approaching one hut that was only partially burning I lifted my right leg and kicked in the door throwing my weight into the blow. I fell forward nearly falling to the ground on the other side as the timber gave way. When I stood upright I saw a simple home with four beds and a smoldering fire in the center of the room; smoke was slowly billowing into the hovel and it was difficult to see. The walls and corners were barren; someone had already cleared this place out before making a hasty retreat leaving their simple meals strewn about the floor. The beds appeared undisturbed and I became suspicious as I walked toward them. I placed the underside of my axe under the gap between the wool bedding and the makeshift wood deck lifting it upward. A glimmer appeared in the dim light and hiding underneath were several iron daggers and a small silver jewelry piece. I placed them hastily in my leather satchel that rested on my hip and headed back to the courtyard to meet Jareth.

“Did you find anything of worth?” Jareth asked.

“Enough for a month of food and drink. And you, brother?”

“I found maille hiding beneath the floorboards and a sword I picked off a corpse! He no longer had any need for it.” Jareth smiled wickedly as he held up his trophies in hand.

“You shit, how do you always come upon the good treasure?” I asked. Jareth just continued to smile and without delay we headed back to the ship to regroup with the men.

From the longship, fire arrows were unleashed and landed on huts and piles of straw creating quite the blaze. The Norse archers were relentless in their bombardment, showering the remaining villagers with fire and metal. The village quickly gave way to our warrior horde. Those not running in terror were already dead, an easy victory this day. Our spearman plunged over the earthen walls and traded their spears for sword and axe in close quarters combat as they slaughtered the remains of the resistance. As we walked among the burning hovels and lifeless corpses a woman villager came running out of a burning hut screaming, in fear that the flames that now engulfed her home would consume her as well. Her gaze fell upon Halldis as she rounded the corner and without hesitation plunged a dagger into his thigh.

Halldis groaned in agony for a moment, stood upright, raised his arm and backhanded the terrified woman, the magnificent crack of bone, her jaw now broken in several places. She fell to the ground and curled into a ball screaming in pain, her blood soaking into the dirt. “Take that creature to the ship. We may have use of her; perhaps as a thrall,” said Halldis in a vengeful tone.

“Or a worthy sacrifice to All-Father Odin!” sneered another Viking.

The woman screamed with blood flowing from her lips, pleading with her captors, we barely understood her words, “No, no, I beg of you!” The warriors just smiled and laughed, picking her up like a sack of grain, throwing her over his shoulder and disappearing to the beach.

“She has spirit this one! She will make an excellent thrall!” hollered Mar. Our warrior brothers gathered their captives together; placing leather collars around their necks tightly and ropes to bind the hands. They were now lifetime servants of the Jarl and would serve at his pleasure until death released them. At any moment their master could choose to take their life without reprisal. Keeping thralls seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. I grew up with many slaves in my lifetime. They fed me, clothed me, and sheltered me as I became a man. In return we clasped them in irons as you would a dog and even branded their hide. It was the ultimate form of disrespect to the families of our fallen enemies and those who would stand against us.

“Rurik, the village resistance has fallen, but the peasants may be warning a nearby settlement, sending reinforcements. What are your orders my lord?” asked Mar with sincere concern in his voice.

Mar was second in command, the personal bodyguard to Rurik. Mar the Lesser as he was known; he and Rurik had fought in numerous battles over the ages. Mar was much taller than Rurik but lacked the intelligence to lead and influence those around him. Rurik, on the other hand, was charismatic, well-liked amongst his peers and respected by those he ruled over. Unlike other Chieftains, Rurik considered himself a shepherd to the people, responsible for their safety and wellbeing. It was the raids that kept his people clothed, fed, and living in modest comfort. As Mar waited impatiently for Rurik's answer he wiped the sweat from his shaved head and crossed his arms.

“Take what provisions you can, load them on the ship, then burn the rest,” ordered the Chieftain.

“And what of the prisoners my lord? What shall we do with them?” asked Mar the Lesser.

“Execute the men. Keep only the strongest of the women and children as thrall. Let loose the old and the weak to fend for themselves like wild dogs.” Rurik turned away and walked back to the ship.

“You heard him!” Mar repeating the order of Rurik as he pointed to the captured men. “Get those dogs down to the beach. Today they meet whatever god they so choose.”

Six men now knelt in front of their Viking captors, knowing very well their failure would lead to death. Our Chieftain walked away and Mar ordered his warriors to execute the prisoners at once.

“But we have family! Children! Show mercy! Please, I beg of you! We are but humble merchants and farmers. We are not warriors like your kind,” cried one of the prisoners. Halldis leaned forward on his good leg, punching the man in the face and sending him to the hard ground.

Mar resting his palms on his hips looked upon the six men with great indifference, their lives dangling in his hands. “They will join you soon in the afterlife,” replied Mar. Turning his back he motioned to the men to execute the captives.

With evil bloodthirsty grins, each Norsemen drew their sword or axe, steadied it from behind the bodies of their soon to be victim and brought them down with great force. The familiar sound of iron cutting through flesh and bone echoed over the water's edge. Blood splattered dark on the sandy shore, flowing downwards towards the gentle waters. It's no easy task removing a man's head. It requires hitting the right edge of your blade, using enough force to break through flesh, tendons, and bones. All but one head fell, the younger of the executioners hadn't had enough practice, and it took three strokes of his blade to sever head from body. With a disgusted look the young Norseman hacked away until his victims head fell into the water. The other men laughed and pointed at him as Jareth and I stood by watching with arms crossed.

The young warrior scoffed. “Cowardly fool,” he said, clearing his throat he spit on the man's corpse and kicked it several times in spite of him. Then the boy bent down and picked up the floating head and kicked it as far out into the water as he could. Jareth laughed loudly at the young man.

“Learn to swing a sword young man. Kicking a corpse does not a Norseman make!” The men burst into laughter once more at the boys expense.

“Fuck you Jareth.” The young warrior shouted as he walked away with the look of embarrassment on his face. Jareth took no offense to the boy's insult and merely continued to laugh.

As they walked away from fresh corpses the heads of their victims could be seen floating in the current as if mere driftwood. Perhaps a stern warning to others who would attempt to cross us. The warriors gathered food, drink, valuables and weapons before boarding the longship. As they waded back to our vessel, the blood on their clothing washed away in the salt water, staining the beach crimson. Bodies were scattered about the beachside and the potent smell of death filled the air, its putrid scent sticking to the back of our throats as the fires raged in the distance.

As we loaded up the ship, we began to laugh, sing, and make jokes to calm the nerves. Within minutes we pushed off from the rocky beach and disappeared into the thick grey fog. The sound of our oars slapping the water echoed through the haze, becoming quieter and quieter as we moved further into the distance. Drums, drums, drums, silence.

“Now where do we go?” asked Jareth as he rowed in unison with the men.

“The next village I imagine, or perhaps our homeland. Rurik will decide. He always decides,” I reluctantly replied.

Village raids were a way of life for us. I could have been a farmer or fisherman, alas, this way of life called to me. We were soldiers, warriors, merchants and marauders. Treasure was of great importance to us, our lifestyle, and we took everything we could to raise the standing of our households. Gold, silver, and weapons were the most valuable. If none of the three were to be found we took trinkets that could be bartered with at market, tools, fish netting, anything of use. Often times I found myself trading farmer's tools for small amounts of food and drink. Not every year of raiding for me was a good year.

“Man your oars! Do not shirk your duties! We need to get out of this damn channel before more warriors arrive to revenge their fallen,” Rurik blared at us. Getting in to the rivers and raiding a village was easy. Leaving the channel unscathed was less so. Our ship was now weighed down with treasure, slaves, and the weariness that comes from battle. My limbs shook uncontrollably from excitement and yet I pushed and pulled at my oar as did each man among us.

“Row, row, row!” shouted one of the men. The longship picked up speed. We would reach the end of the channel soon and be back to the wide-open plains of the ocean; the kingdom of Aegir.

In the distance we noticed a single light dancing in the darkness. “My lord, look. Is it a lantern?” whispered Mar. The light moved, bounced, and quickly multiplied.

“Oh shit! Fire arrows! To your shields! Shields up!” screamed Rurik. We dropped our oars and unlashed our shields from the side of the ship bracing ourselves. Looking through a small hole in my shield I could see the arrows coming. Silently they moved through the black sky and murk, their glow lighting up everything around them. The red death of stingers poured down upon us ripping everything in its path to shreds and setting it ablaze.

Shunk! An arrow landed next to my foot, just slightly missing my large toe. I picked it up by the fletching and threw it over board. “Aaaahhh!” one of the men took an arrow to the thigh near the front prow, another to the shoulder.

“Get the arrows, put out the fires.” Rurik sounded calm and composed despite the hail of fire. The longship drifted closer and closer to the end of the channel. Although the relative safety of the see was near our foes could now see us clear as day with the fire arrows lighting up our decks. Whoosh, swoosh, sssshnap. The archers continued their barrage from the shoreline. With our ship now well-lit, fire arrows became a moot point. There was no warning now as the unlit iron hurled passed and in-between our bodies. I grabbed another lit arrow from the deck and turned to throw it over board hoping to lessen our ship as a target.

Looking over my left shoulder I saw Nias sitting next to me lying there still in the chaos. An arrow had pierced the top of his skull, his hair set ablaze. “Audan! Get him overboard or we will all burn,” Rurik hollered at me.

Pushing Nias over, I dragged his corpse by his arms and rolled his flaming body overboard. With a splash the fire was extinguished and our comrade floated face down to the open sea. A passing thought, that could have been me instead of Nias, but it wasn't. I grinned at my luck and turned back to my station. Our enemy was well behind us now, lobbing arrows aimlessly into the sky hoping to get just one more kill. The fire arrows were extinguished and we were finally out into the open sea disappearing into the night.

So much for heading to the next village, I thought to myself.

We were in no shape for further raids. We needed to head back home to allow the wounded to heal, recruit more men to replace the dead, and resupply our provisions. This was our fourth raid this season, and the most fatal thus far. It's customary to lose several men in a raid, but not a fourth of your crew. I looked about the ship, the blood soaking into the grain of the wood deck. The stains of blood never leave our ships; they merely darken along the planks lines, and are a constant reminder that one day we all die. Odin willing, it's an honorable death in battle. I looked over my shoulder towards the rear prow and noticed several of the thrall we had loaded on board died as well, only three souls remained: two deathly pale women and a child who stared blankly out into the abyss.

A short and stocky Norseman, Eric, threw the dead slaves overboard and then tended to the living, making sure they didn't escape, grab weapons or sabotage the ship. “Are you injured?” asked Eric not in concern for their well-being, but in the interest of protecting our assets. The thrall hesitantly shook their heads and looked down at the ships deck.

Rurik quickly regained his poise and returned to the rear prow to man the rudder. “Back to your oars. Healer! Tend to the wounded, place our dead in between the men so they may receive a proper ceremony at home as heroes that will be welcomed into Odin's home, Valhalla!”

The men cheered and raised their arms in celebration at the thought of our dead comrades ascending to Valhalla, home of slain warriors. Only those who die an honorable death, a warrior's death, may hope to enter Valhalla. Its halls are said to be made of gold, with columns of stone towering on high to rafters of spears and a roof covered in the shields of fallen warriors. Its casks of mead never run dry, its spit of wild boar is forever giving and plentiful.

Orbrecht the Healer quickly hopped over bodies moving his thin figure to the rear of the ship. He fetched his remedy sack, which contained mostly clean cloth and several jars filled with herbal remedies. Orbrecht grabbed my arm, “Audan, start a fire for your friends, you're going to help me clean the wounds.” The healer looked up at me with a mischievous grin and you could tell that although he was a caretaker, he took much delight in causing us pain.

I reached under a woolen tarp and grabbed a small iron bowl placing it next to Orbrecht. Reaching into my pocket, I removed my fire kit: several small fibers, tinder, and a fire rock with fire steel secured by cloth. The fire steel wrapped around my hand with a perfect fit allowing for a quick strike to the fire rock. Chack, thack, chack, thack. The sparks and embers flew setting my hands a glow. I adjusted the direction of my strikes so as to get the sparks to hit just right on the tinder. Smoke and embers at last, the fire started. As I blew slowly on the embers, the smoke grew and moved up the kindling like a serpent climbing a tree. I slowly added more tinder; careful not to suffocate the fire and added bigger pieces until smoke and ember became flame.

“Get it red hot,” Orbrecht scolded as he rubbed his hands together. “You wouldn't want them to die of disease, would you?” He stared at me intently for a moment as a discomfort came of me and I reached for my ribs. “What is this Audan? Are you injured?”

I looked where the healer had motioned. The left side of my tunic was soaked with blood, dripping onto the deck. “Lift up your tunic, and let me see.” I lifted the woolen cloth just enough to see where the blood was coming from. “Ah, a flesh wound,” he smiled, “that will need treatment.”

In all the excitement, I hadn't noticed that an arrow grazed my rib cage. The stinging started to set in and bright red flesh could be seen beneath the skin. The cut was clean and neat, no jagged edges. “Fucking stingers. They always go so damn deep,” I complained to Orbrecht.

“The arrow barely touched you, quit whining like a child.” Orbrecht the Healer scoffed as he went about his duties and provided instruction to me along the way. “Keep working on the fire, Audan. I will treat you last.” A chill ran up my spine, closing my eyes I turned my head to the side to shake off the thought of the coming pain to cure my wound.

The Healer moved from man to man, applying a green paste like herbal remedy and salves of leaves to their wounds. The fire began to roar and crack, hot embers now coated the bottom of the bowl. “Heat up your seax and follow me.” There was only way to clean these wounds; with scorching fire. They had to be burned shut or else be open to infection followed by an excruciating death. A painful experience, most men fainted at the agony and smell of their own burning flesh. Kneelingnext to a wounded man the healer held his thigh next to his wound and looked back at me. “Bring it here, we will start with him.” Reaching over the fire, I grabbed my blade; it glowed red hot under the evening sky. Lifting the poker from the fire, embers flew and were carried off by the wind into the darkness. I followed the glow with my eyes being careful not to touch anything else with it.

“Quickly now.” Orbrecht placed a bloodied rag in the man's mouth, and with a slight giggle, the Healer muttered, “Now, this is really going to hurt. Are you ready?” The warrior nodded and looked away closing his eyes.

“Do it,” he mumbled to me. I placed the hot iron firmly on his thigh. His screams made me jump back but the seax stuck to his smoking flesh. I quickly composed myself and leaned back in towards the warrior so not to tear his flesh further. “Don't just leave it on top, move it around a bit. We have to clean everything or he won't heal properly.” I twirled the seax back and forth watching Orbrecht for further direction.

I hadn't noticed but the warrior's head had already slumped over, at present passed out from the pain and atrocious smell. I removed the dagger and placed it gently back into the fire for the next man. I don't know why, but before I did, I smelled the smoke coming off the tip of the blade. A man's burning flesh, not like the smell of any beast you would eat, it was putrid, bitter, and offensive to the senses. Leaning against the mast I saw Jareth casually manning the rudder. Not a scratch on him. I didn't know how he always managed to remain unscathed in combat; lucky bastard.

I grew up with Jareth; our fathers were great warriors together during much of the Eastern raids. Jareth lost his father at a young age to a battle with the Finns. His fathers' body never made it home. Rurik, my father, ascended to become the leader and Chieftain of our clan. We took Jareth and his mother in as family. Jareth was always a skilled with his tongue. He had a talent for courting even the most happily married of woman. Those who understood him well, knew not ever to bet against him in a game of chance. Even if he loses, he will somehow talk you into returning his winnings through some grand scheme he had envisioned. He was gifted that way.

“It's your turn, Audan. Sit here and whatever you do, don't move.” The Healer reached into a jar with his fingers and removed something green and wet, like a paste, swiftly placing it into my wound.

“That smells awful!” I said with disgust on my face.

“Good, that means it will work well.” Without regard for the pain he would cause, Orbrecht placed it deep within my wound.

“Ah!” It already started to sting.

“Quit your whining, we're not even to the fun part yet.” He stood up and reached for the hot seax. I grasped an oar nearby to steady my arm. “Are you ready Audan?” He shoved the cloth into my mouth and told me to look away.

“AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!” The searing pain, I could smell my flesh, the heat radiated through my entire body. What passed by in mere moments felt like an eternity. Orbrecht the Healer twisted and turned the dull hot blade in my wound, closing it off. I couldn't stop screaming. At long last, he removed the seax and placed it back into the fire. I looked at him with pain and hatred in my face.

“You didn't faint?” the Healer said with a surprised smile. “You should have fainted brother Audan.”

“No shit, you fucking pot licker.” I clinched my teeth and closed my eyes. “Why am I not fainting? I thought I was supposed to faint!” I exclaimed as beads of sweat ran down my face into my eyes.

The other men looked on and laughed at my anguish. I guess if I was them, I would have cackled as well; it's just another scar to add to the countless others. You'd think after all this time that I'd be numb to the pain, a stick still bruised, a rock still crushed, and a blade still cut. You could count the number of battles I'd been in by the scars marked on my young body. Barely the age of twenty-five, my bones ached and cracked like that of much older warriors. Rurik was famous for the scar that cut across his right eye. They say he stopped an axe with his face in a pitched battle; that his skull was made of iron. We all knew better, he was but flesh and blood like the rest of us, tougher than most, but he still bled.

“Drink this, you child. It'll make a man of you,” Rurik said. He pushed a ram's horn into my shoulder. I grabbed it with my right arm, as my other limb would not move, I was so weak. I put the horn to my lips thinking it was water. I took a quick sip to test my palette, and Rurik was good enough to give me his ration of golden mead from his personal cask. I drank it quickly and heartily. The mead flowed into my body, giving some minor respite from the pain. He smiled and returned to Jareth who was standing smartly at the rear prow.

“How long until we reach Bjorgvin?” Rurik asked Jareth with crossed arms,

“About two days sail my Chieftain, if the tide and Aegir is with us,” he replied.

“Two days!” Rurik exclaimed. “By Thor's hammer, can we not get there any faster? Mead is waiting for us in the Great Hall.”

“And the women, my Chieftain, don't forget about the women.” Jareth smiled from ear to ear, probably looking forward to telling his tales of glory, death, and self-sacrifice.

“Are you going to lie again about the size of your cock or do I have to show you up again adopted son of mine?” Rurik and Jareth laughed gleefully.

Practically father and son, they enjoyed competing with one another for the affections of a lady. Jareth always won over the younger of the women, Rurik however had strength, power, and wisdom attracting the more mature or eager types, hoping to supplant Rurik's wife, Kenna. My mother was a striking and graceful woman in her mid-forties. She was beautiful, tall, with fair skin and a tough nature about her. She'd have to be tough to be married to Rurik. Of course, their wedding was arranged. Rurik was the bravest and strongest in the clan so naturally he had his choice of the lot. He chose Kenna above all others. Kenna was a shield maiden once; it was said that she would join Rurik on the raids, cook food, tend to the wounded, and even join in battle when they were faced against a larger force than anticipated. She was not one to be trifled with.

Gazing upward at the clearing in the fog, and beyond the mast I could see the heavens and gods shining clearly above. The wind was picking up now and at long last caught our sail. We now crossed the North Sea, sailing slowly back to our homeland, back to Bjorgvin. When we began our raids, we were forty-two men strong, now we were thirty-four. The ocean came to life as we made our way home. The longship slapped gently against the waves, the sea relentlessly sprayed our faces, and the ocean's salt stung deeply in our wounds.

Two: What Lurks Below

The open boundless sea, a Norsemen's second home. We ventured north by northeast for Bjorgvin, our sacred homeland. Men tended carefully to their bloodied and cleaved bodies, cleansing their wounds with the sting of sea water, they drank heartily of golden mead to dull the pain. Those not injured sat grinding stone against their weapon's edge, staying ready for what dangers lurked around the bend. Orbrecht the healer tended to Halldis, who had been wounded by a knife to the leg. His lesion was small but badly infected by the rusty blade. The Healer leaned closely over the wound and breathed deep into his chest. The awfulness of the smell made Orbrecht gag and cough. “Cheese…damn,” he said under his breath.

“What the hell does that mean? Is he going to be alright?” Jareth asked. Orbrecht looked at Jareth with a heavy heart and dull unflinching eyes.

“It means disease has set in to his wound flowing into his veins, and he is in the hands of the gods now.” Halldis was now with a dreadful fever and death was moving ever closer.

With no way to help his brother, Halldis, Jareth sat with his knife angrily whittling a small piece of drift wood. “If he dies now, he'll never ascend to the glory of Valhalla. It is not a warrior's death. There is no honor in it.” Looking down and shaking his head, I saw that Jareth felt nothing but pity for Halldis, pity that he would be forsaken a life in Valhalla with the gods from mere disease.