Prologue

Prologue

The fog billowed into a misty specter and obscured the twilight glow. The sound of waves lapping at an unseen shore was the only beacon guiding the Norseman. The oars sliced the water in perfect union, giving the ship power to glide effortlessly through the water. The warrior at the rudder raised his hand and the oarsmen all lifted their oars. The momentum sent the dragon ship's bow onto the shore with a hiss. Outlines of the rowers took on frightening shapes as shields were taken up and swords glinted in the eerie glow of the torch lighting their way.

In the distance, a small hamlet lay. Though simple in nature, it boasted the only church on this stretch of Britain’s coast. The small chapel was attached to a large monastery that looked out over the hamlet from atop a small hill. Windows glowed with jeweled color from the stained glass. Bells pealed, sounding hushed in the fog, as they called to the faithful for the evening service.

Two velvet-caped women pulled open the heavy oak doors of the chapel, then hurried up the aisle to slide into wooden benches polished to a high sheen. An elderly monk stood before the candlelit altar, wearing a woolen robe covered with a white tunic that had a simple, satin symbol sewn on the back. A few more monks knelt in the pews. Peasants sat next to the wealthy, rubbing elbows as they kneeled in the plain pews. A small choir began the chants, their voices rising in ethereal waves in the heavy, moist air.

The chanting could be heard faintly by the shadowed forms running through the forest towards the monastery. The red glow from the torch illuminated the small band, creating a fiendish scene. Leather squeaked against battle armor and torch light glinted off metal helmets and broadswords as they approached the chapel.

For a moment in time, things moved slowly. The choir's chant gave rhythm to the running barbarians. Heaven and Hell looked as if they were about to collide in the fogged night. The chant ended just as the horde hit the church doors. Crashing into the sanctuary, fierce Viking warriors stared at the startled faces of the worshipers. The monk had turned from the altar and froze in fear. The ladies raised hands to mouths opened in screams. Wealthy and villager alike rose from their seats to meet the impending battle. With animal-like cries, the Vikings fell upon the trapped people.

Candelabras were knocked to the floor as the horde struggled and fought with those who would stand against them. The broadswords’ bright glint was now dulled by the red of blood from those hacked without pity. A fire licked at heavy, velvet tapestries hanging behind the altar, adding a hellish glow to the carnage.

Several fled only to be met at the door and sent to eternity in a single slash. In the confusion, a blond, petite woman ran to one of the young monks, clinging to him. She screamed as she watched her family and friends die. A second young lady, with fiery red hair, watched in horror as a tall Viking raised his sword to quiet the screaming blond. The redhead stepped forward, shoving the other two behind her, and faced the Viking with her hands on her hips, daring him with a venomous look. The sword hung in midair, as the warrior stared at her in astonishment.

His sword hand was suddenly grasped by another, taller Viking’s, who spoke roughly. "Olaf, cease! What harm will two women cause us? We need someone to warm us on the way home as well as gold. Leave it be!" The tall warrior's blue eyes narrowed as his gaze raked over the redheaded vixen before him. Without a further word, he grabbed her arm and dragged her kicking and clawing from the church.

Olaf looked at the trembling blond who still clung to the monk. Sizing them up with a critical eye, he grunted. It seemed he wasn't impressed with what was left, but he grabbed both of them. Pulling them from the church, he ignored the mortally wounded lying about, gasping their last breaths.

The warriors made quick work of taking anything valuable from the church and monastery. Warning peals sounded from the church, calling for help from the village. The horde made their way back to the dragon ship, going a little slower now for the captives taken and the loot carried. A few Vikings trailed behind to discourage anyone who found the bravery to get back that which was stolen.

The only noise in the fogged night was the heavy breathing of men fired up from the battle and the occasional whimper from the prisoners. Loot and captives were thrown into the small holding space in front of the dragon ship, where a few bearskins provided beds for those taking a break from manning the ship.

The dragon ship slipped silently into the fog, mist rolling around it in a caress, the proud bow disappearing into the gray.

Impressum

Texte: Copyright 2012
Bildmaterialien: Cover Designed by Laszlo Kugler
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.11.2012

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