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Thread: Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)

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    Default Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)




    -CHAPTER ONE-
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    My name is Stigweard Ruadhan of Hereteu and I am a Northumbrian. I am the son of Galenhćst and our family have been raised as Thegns to local Ealdormen for generations. As such our weregild – or our worth to our community; monetarily, militarily and socially – was as such a heavy price, though it paled into mere pittance in comparison with others in the kingdom. We were respected, but never feared. Loved, but never honoured. Our bloodline was first among those who came last. We lived on the savage coast of Northumbria, our bluffs white with the crests of wild waves from the heaving grey seas beyond us.

    We settled the lands of the ‘hćstapa’ or the ‘noble stags’ and they, along with our ancestors bore us great fortune. The gods still walk among those lands for we would make them a great home there. Though now, the gods hide in shadows and the Christ god fills the hearts and minds of men. We are a proud people, though there were little more than thirty of us within our village, we grew strong with that pride, we grew powerful and we made a many great and fearsome enemies.

    But my story does not begin there. It begins many long years back – when the skies thundered above us and the ground shook below us.

    My story begins with an end. It begins with death.

    The festival of Yule was fast approaching and it was the early morn of Modraniht - Mother's Night. Our world was bound by ice and darkness; crops failed to yield, our livestock was devastated and our people cowered in their homes, afraid to venture beyond their doors. A great shadow had swallowed our lands and we prayed that the gods would release us from such a fate, though in truth they had never looked favourably upon us since we had left our homelands of Angeln. I was sixteen years of age and, although my father had impressed upon me the dire nature of our circumstance, I was far too excited to care. I had begun my training as a soldier within our Gedriht - the Bodyguard of the Earl. Yet as I was still to fight in open warfare I was assigned to the Geoguth, or the Young Warriors. I was to fight shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield for my kingdom, for my Lord and for my people. Looking back I was naive, even pathetic. As many others have before, I was soon to learn my lesson; soon to see the abhorrence of battle.

    The brutality of battle.

    As I left our home, the crisp, bitter sting of winter was immediate and I pulled my cloak across my chest as wisps of air danced from my mouth and out into a sky bruised purple, orange and grey. I could hear the waves crashing against the bluffs thick with lichen and frost and the gulls wheeling and crying out above me. This was my kingdom; savage and wild, beautiful and unforgiving. The wind whipped the cloak from my grasp as I set out across the market square and past the Christian abbey that glowered down at me in my insignificance. The only stone building in our village, it dominated without apology. My father, unashamedly pagan in a land of burgeoning Christianity, found it an abhorrence that we should dwell beneath its shadow - but that we did. My mother, eager to please the Earl, had been baptised a year ago during the Yule celebrations. Whilst we drank ale, mead and wine she knelt for hours, paid penitence for things she should otherwise be proud of and was washed by a priest with some water. The abbey itself was named for some sour wench who had knelt for a great deal longer during her life and, as my father pointed out, there are better things for a woman to be doing on her knees than saying sorry to a god. Her name was St. Hild and she had done rather a service to her Christ god by converting many of those in the villages around us. She had died two hundred years ago and so it was decided that her name be used. We have been lumbered with the miserable old hag ever since, as her body lies entombed within the walls.

    Strange people, these Christians.

    As I glanced past the abbey and out onto the sea beyond I was struck - as I was every morn - by the sheer beauty of that sea. Even as wisps of mist curled and tumbled across the marshy grasslands to the east of the village, she bore such spectacle with an awesome beauty. Unforgiving, but unsurpassed. "You're late..." the enchantment was broken by the growl of Harlan, the Lord of the Gedriht and the single most frightening hulk of Saxon I have ever laid my eyes upon. Harlan demanded respect at all times, or at least his appearance did. His stare bore holes into men, black as a wolf and filled with equal menace, his hair falling about his face and a great beard that barely revealed an expression of sheer joy during the throes of battle. His shoulders were full of raw strength and sheer muscle – a bundle of sinew and savagery. He was a man mountain, that was certain, but his true worth as a warrior came from his huge heart. It was once spoken, and indeed still is, of his bravery during the war with the northern Picts many years ago when he held seventeen men of the horde back with his battle axe 'Black Raven'. Many whispered that he hacked and torn at the enemy with such vehemence that he was sodden with their blood by battle's end, their warmth ebbing away from him as steam rising into the northern air. "Are you for whipping, son of Galenhćst? Or are you to offer your blood at Modraniht?" Harlan snarled, an accusatory finger pointed toward me. I dared not respond, but merely quickened my pace and pulled my cloak about me as a child chastised.

    The man mountain was as pagan as I, though he made great efforts to stifle any public displays, lest Earl Allaric find fault in his greatest warrior. Our gods had been stricken from our village by this Christ god for as long as I have lived and we are discouraged to speak their names. Our festivals were deemed as 'uncouth' yet a blind eye was turned, often. Another would be turned this eve when we honoured the great mother - and Harlan would be there, as would I. We had brought our gods many decades before from the lands east of this isle. I was an Angeln, as was the majority of my village, whilst Harlan was Saxon and, though our people now shared a language and had forged a great many kingdoms together, we still thought of one another as elţeodig - foreigners. We would soon think differently. Harlan was in little mood for my insolence that day and I was cuffed about my head many times, so many that I have forgotten the number but never the pain. A great storm tore through our village that day, just as we had been finishing the drills, and we sought shelter in the 'ealuheall' - ale hall. Modraniht would begin with haste for us and it was then that I learned that Harlan could drink, and drink well. His tongue, however, was never loosened, as is the fate that befalls many a man. He remained stoic and brooding throughout countless horns of mead and ale - though I cannot claim such myself for I was found sleeping with the cattle not but a few hours into our sacred night, much to my shame.

    It was to be the last peaceful night of my youth...


    -CHAPTER TWO-
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    I awoke to raised voices and cries of anxiety. Through the gloom came an ominous portent - a rider from the north had brought with him the stench of death, and it would follow with him, fast on his heels. His face was gaunt; pain etched upon it and fear screaming in his eyes. "The fury of the Northmen has returned...may the Lord God protect us!" Father Cenric was beating his chest and holding the cross of Christ within his trembling hands, his hysteria compounded by the growing crowd around him. He was a pitiful man - my father had taken a great dislike to him and that was partly due to his fondness of my mother. Ever since her baptism, that priest had taken great care to visit her with increasingly mundane anecdotes about a seagull that had turned to his god or a seal who had sprouted wings. He could shovel pig dung with that slimy tongue of his and I suspected this was only his latest contribution.

    A voice from behind me, familiar and sincere, "Son, go home to your mother and sisters..." my father had put a hand upon my shoulder and continued on past me towards the crowd, turning briefly to look into my eyes with his, piercingly blue and utterly determined, "and prepare your armour. The Danes mean to take our homes."

    I remember feeling nauseas at that point and I have always maintained that it was the ale turning in my gut. Childish pride would never allow me to be scared or fearful - but I was scared, I was fearful and I had every notion to be. I had heard much talk about the Danes, the great Northmen who rained fire and death upon our lands a century ago when dragons blackened the sun and tore through our skies in a blaze of anger. We had, a long time ago, been their brothers, it was told. We had lived upon the flatlands together, farmed nought but a few miles apart. Yet we had since become very different people. When the Danes came, the monks of Lindisfarena had then been put to axe and sword and Christ had slept that day, unable to save any of them. The Danes had grown fat from their horde on the island, for priests and monks are notorious in their hunger for gold and silver and those on the holy island had been sating their appetite for years. But now they meant to take far more than that. The rider, it would seem, brought grave news. The Danes had taken Bebbanburgh, Lindisfarena and Gyruum in less than five days. Their fleet was said to number in excess of two thousand men and they had made light work of our kingdom thus far. Though Bebbanburgh had held for two days, they had inexplicably sallied forth into the marshes to confront the Danes and had been cut down within hours. The Earl's family had been hung from the castle walls and the women of the household raped and cut from gut to throat - their insolence punished in the most severe manner. Lindisfarena had been a massacre. Though the monks had worked to restore their holy place, it fell in just minutes, their silver, gold, brooches, art and ironware torn from them and their abbey torched. The Danes liked the priests even less than we did and had disemboweled each and every one and left them to the gulls. We had a disdain for those holy men, but no man should die in that manner. As for Gyruum, to the immediate north, the Danes had found the villagers unprepared and had killed many of the men before a blade could be drawn in defence. The survivors were rounded up and herded into the church before it was burned to the ground. The stench of burning flesh, we had been told, was horrific and hung over the village even now. This was the last the man would tell us, for his clothes stunk of smoke and rotting corpses. His clothes were thick with dried blood, brown and crusted. He had hidden amongst the dead in Gyruum to escape and had walked two days to reach us. Which meant the Danes would not be far behind, for a rider had visited his village but an evening before the wrath of the Northmen was visited upon them - just as he was visiting us.

    The order was given that sentries were to be posted every 120 paces around our village. We had hoped that the valley in which we sat would give us good warning of the Dane's arrival upon our lands. I had thought it futile; we were twenty men against an army of countless warriors. We would be butchered and waiting here for the fates to crush us was beyond my comprehension. But then, we would not have to wait long... The Danes made landing to our south where the seals bask in the expanse of sand-dune and mudflats during low tide. As the Shelduck, Knot and Redshank wheeled and barrelled through the murky dawn, three ships with ominous beasts at their prows had been spotted by a scout along our marshland some distance from the mouth of the River Tees. They brought with them weapons of great slaughter - our slaughter. War axes, iron swords, barbed spears and vicious daggers were loaded from the ships along with the Northmen. Our village had hunting spears, farming scythes blunt from use and a scant supply of tree felling axes. The Earl's money - torn asunder along with the man - meant nothing here. We were farmers and fishermen and we were good for tax and tithe, but little else.

    Night had fallen and the men had gathered in the market square, torches illuminating faces etched with apprehension and fear. Our women and children cowered in the abbey of St. Hild. If the shrivelled hag could work miracles, she would now have the perfect opportunity. The building was the most secure in the village with thick oak doors crafted from the forests of our lands and stone walls hewn from the cliffs along our coast. For that night, the abbey was Hereteu and we would die before the North men took her...we would die, or else our women and children would burn in flames as those had done before us. Harlan stood a few steps ahead of me, his eyes fixed upon the pale moon shrouded in creeping mist. He was praying to the gods - there was little necessity in maintaining the pretence that he was anything other than a pagan now, after all, his Earl was hanging from Bebbanburgh's walls, his entrails providing a meal for the crows. His Christ god had failed him. Utterly. "Harlan and I will be by your side son," my father gave me a cursory glance, his eyes wide and darting across the fields to our south, "and if you should see us fall to the blade of a Dane, you must promise me that you will run..." his eyes fixed upon me now, his expression adamant and expectant. I merely shrugged my shoulders, my mouth agape in search of the words. I had not considered that my father would die.

    Until now.

    "I...I would avenge you!" my youthful cocksure naivety had tossed such morbid realities from my mind and I was speaking like an idiot again, drunk on the pretence that I was anything other than a snivelling whelp.

    "You would be butchered. The Danes would rip out that tongue from your head and shove it from where you speak most often!" his eyes burned with disdain for a short time when he spat that at me. But he was right. I didn't appreciate it at the time and instead railed against the barb, but he was right. "You will run,” he said again, and I was sure that his eyes swelled with tears.

    It was then we heard their cries; brutal, feral and horrific in the darkness of the night. They emerged from the gloom as though demons from the pits of that Christian hell, their blades ready for blood, their hearts black with death. Ethelwulf the blacksmith was the first to fall. That I shall always remember. His neck hacked until his head lurched back and deep red gushed onto the crisp white snow. He staggered and fell, his fingers clutching and grasping as blood spilled out into the winter air, steam rising from him. His cries were haunting. A garbled call for his wife, a choking and a sickening gargle as he drowned in his own blood. All I could do was to stare, watch as neighbours and friends sank to their knees one by one, cut down by tools of slaughter. For tools they seemed in the hands of those Danes. Every act deliberate, considered – even meticulous, and aimed to create the most destruction at all times. And their faces always fixed in morbid joy. Their mouths wide and their dead eyes, wide and catching the moonlight, glinting with preposterous pleasure.

    And all about me, death.

    As an axe thumped into my father’s helmet, I felt no anguish. As blood bubbled up from the gaping wound and his skull opened, I felt no remorse. As he crumpled into a heap at my feet, I felt no anger. I turned and I could see flames leaping from the abbey, but I could not hear the screams. Tears flooded my eyes and my legs ached as they pounded through the thick snow. I was running. Numb. I can recollect few details from that night. I remember the cries of a foreign tongue in the distance all around me, mocking and fearsome. I can remember their torches burning savagely through the safety of the solace of a bleak winter's night. I remember the bitter cold of that dark and forbidding forest that had once been the hunting grounds wherein my father had shown me how to be a man; how to kill. Now I was the hunted and all around me was death. I could not have felt less like a man that night - more like a terrified creature; pathetic, weak and pitiful. I remember my legs aching, burning with exhaustion and pain. I remember slumping to the forest floor, mud and sodden leaves beneath my trembling hands.

    Vomiting.

    Sobbing.


    -CHAPTER THREE-
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    That hinterland seemed so very strange - so bereft of any familiarity. Yet in truth I knew it like the back of my hand and the gods took pity on me and granted my safe passage through the abyss and the death. By sunrise, my body grew weak and I fell heavily as my thoughts ebbed away into delirium. Clouds slipped by above me. The canopy of the forest was thinning out. Minutes passed, maybe even hours. I slipped in and out of the darkness flooding my head. Then shadows; figures. They were all I could make out against a billowing grey sky and bleeding sunlight. I awaited death; the sting of blade, the release. I grasped through the enveloping gloom of my aching mind for a prayer to the gods, a wish to carry me back to the family I had abandoned...that I had left to die.

    But death's embrace did not take me, nor did the sting of blade sear through the fever. All I recall from that waking nightmare was a voice, deep and sincere, "You're safe now lad..." Then I slept. Smoke. That was all I could smell when I awoke in the darkness hours later. My demons came stalking through that darkness - death, blood, fire and screams - and I threw myself upright with such vehemence that my heart tried to tear through my heaving chest. My head swam and I had to steady myself. I was in a barely lit room; the only light was that from the flickering flames of a hearth upon which a pot bubbled gently. "You're awake..." the voice was that which I had heard in the forest, staring up at the canopy, acquiescent to the fates. I searched through the gloom and saw a man, thick with grey hair, leaning over a bucket upon the ground - he was washing garments, my garments. "Where am I?" I was shocked by how small my voice sounded in that place. So devoid of that boisterous streak I had inherited from my father. My dead father. "You're in Dunholm, lad. The last Angeln town in Northumbria...for now." He fingered at my clothes and dumped them back into the water-filled bucket. "Bebbanburgh fell first, then Lindisfarena then Gyruum. We were lucky...they seem to hug the coast, look for the rivers. They must have only travelled so far up the river and turned back. Lazy pigs. But still, we're safe, for now. Word came from Eoforwic this eve; they have taken the town and slaughtered every man. They infest her...like rats." The man rose from his stool, the shadow of his frame heavy and broad in the shimmering glow of the firelight. He glowered at my undershirt in the poor light, tutted and dismissively cast it to the floor. "Blood is hard to clean," he muttered from under his thick grey beard. I had been insulted by his treatment of my clothes, for I was the son of a thegn - no, a thegn myself now - and found myself insolent. "Is that not a job for your womenfolk?" I spat, swinging my legs out from beneath the sheep's wool coat and regretting the jibe as soon as it had left my lips. "My womenfolk are dead." His response was flat, his hulking frame turned away from me. "You can rest here tonight, but tomorrow you see Lord Eadric. We need men...but we'll take boys." He turned to me then, his eyes catching the firelight as he grimaced at me and there was little arguing with him at that point. I felt like a petulant child. "I'll wake you in the morrow." He turned quickly and left the room, grasped the sheet that blocked my view and tugged it across harshly, his footfall fading quickly. I wept then. Wept until I fell asleep.

    The old man woke me in the morn as the sun rose through the rising smoke from fires across the town. The streets thronged with life, teeming even though the biting cold of winter had taken hold - preparations were being made for war. Men sharpened swords on whetstones, brushed sand across their bright mailcoats and milled about the smithies of the town. They looked as lost as I, if truth be told. Unprepared for a war that none had been able to foresee. "Lord Eadric will see you right. He is a good man, if a little fond of the wenches in this town. They’re a little too gaunt for me, I like to hold onto a lass...feel the meat, so to speak." The old man strode ahead of me, donned in his battle attire, and somewhat daunting. His black cloak flowed out behind him, billowing like a great serpent in the rasping wind. His helmet, which he carried with him in the crook of his arm, bore a raven's wings about the faceplate that curled to the back and flared out. It was a grand example of northern craftsmanship and this man, it occurred to me then, must have been a thegn himself and a fine warrior. The regret from my petulance in the night gushed from me in a hurried apology and the man held his hand in the air to silence my bleating. "Think nothing of it lad. You can tell me how sorry you are when we return from battle. If you return." My heart thumped then in my throat. I had not considered that I would join this throng of men, this ragged set of farmers and soldiers. I had seen the Danes fight after all. We would be massacred to a man. The man stopped ahead of me then and turned, noticing the silence. His face bore a strange expression of pity and joy in equal measure. "I didn't pick you off the ground to wash your clothes, son..." His huge hand smacked me across the back, knocking me forward and he strode on ahead, a wry smile creeping across his face and a withering snigger in his throat. We neared a large ale hall standing proud in the orange glow of the morning sun. Inside, the hall was as bustling as it had been outside, if not more so. Men busied themselves with armour, shields, helmets and spears. At the far end of the room, a man stood in gleaming mail. His servants had polished him to a fine and crisp white and he bore the regal ease of a man blessed by the fates with a noble bloodline. Just then he turned, casting his stare across the ale hall and stopping as he glanced in our direction. "Athelwulf!!" the cry came from the nobleman, his thick arms opened in a gesture of welcome. "Lord, I bring you a gift," came the reply from the old man, or Athelwulf as I had now understood his name to be. He gestured toward me and slapped the back of his hand across my chest. I was too proud to flinch at the time, but that had hurt. Turning to me, Athelwulf brought his face close to mine. He was etched with scars and the worries of time, age and fate. Grasping me about the back of the head he drew me closer, "This is your Lord now, son. If you want to wander the countryside with those dogs at your heel, be my guest. If you want to live under my roof, bow to Eadric..." his eyes bore into mine, ashen and adamant. And then he smiled. I pushed my way through the crowd, Athelwulf following behind and having much less trouble in his passage to the far end of the hall. Eadric fixed his gaze upon me as I emerged from the crush of the assembling army and knelt before him.

    And all I could think of was home.


    -CHAPTER FOUR-
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    We left the gates of Dunholm by the time the sun had reached the highest point in the sky. Two thousand men; we were an intimidating sight, yet in truth we possessed less than five hundred true warriors within our ranks and had been fleshed out by farmers, slaves and even some monks from the abbey. We were marching to the south east, towards Hereteu, and I found myself insolent again. "Why do we march into the path of the Danes?" I asked, running alongside Athelwulf who was riding a great black steed. A smirk spread across his face, arrogance in his tone. "You would have us run from them?" he raised his voice so that men around us pricked up their ears and began to whisper amongst their ranks. "I would have us prepare. I would have us with swords, spears and shields...not scythes and wood knives!" I spat my reply back at him and gestured to the mass of farmers and petrified slaves behind us. "We face an enemy none of you have ever experienced..." "Our scouts inform us that a raiding party with intentions upon our land stalks the forests north of Hereteu. They number a thousand, but no more, and we mean to show them a good welcome." I was angry at Athelwulf's arrogance; his boastful attempts to curry the favour of his men. "Let us not forget that you ran from them, boy. All that you experienced was the urine running down your legs!" with that Athelwulf let out a booming roar of laughter as did the soldiers who had been listening intently alongside us. I turned away from Athelwulf - indignation and deep regret etched upon my face - and picked my way through the hordes of men, eager to fade into the background then. To hide from the truth. I could see Eadric's banner fluttering in the gentle afternoon breeze up ahead; a white cloth with a brown dragon rampant emblazoned upon it. His bodyguard was a fierce sight in blazing bright mail and helmets. Their swords patterned with intricate detail and their shields impeccably painted with dragons, ravens, boars and wolves. They looked extremely wealthy men, and extremely well-equipped. I, on the other hand, was given a sword pocked with the scars of war, a shield splintered and worn by blade and axe and a mail coat that had seemingly fallen into disuse long ago for it bore the stains of a battle fought long before.

    By the early evening, just as the winter sun was beginning to fall in the sky, we came upon Shotton Bank on the very edge of the forest in which Athelwulf had found me. I remember how my heart wrenched within me as I felt - for one second - that I would emerge from that forest on the other side, walk down through the valley and find Hereteu on the other side of the dunes, smoke rising and ale being poured. My father meeting me at the town's edge with my prey for the day caught and prepared for mother to cook upon the hearth. But, unless corpses did rise from the dead as that of Christ that Father Cenric had promised my mother, I would have no kin to meet me now. My drifting thoughts were suddenly brought to an end as a cry came from our left flank. "DANES!!"

    They streamed out from the depths of the forest, screaming in terrifying anger with battle axes raised above their helmeted heads. We had skirted around the forest, hugging the outer edges, arrogant in our adamant belief that no enemy would ambush an army of two thousand men. But this was no ordinary enemy. An enemy that none of you have experienced. My own words to Athelwulf echoed in my head and I cast a glance towards the massing pack of men in the middle of our army. I hoped he was choking on his boastfulness now. I had hoped he felt the sting of a Dane's blade if truth be told. But he would not that day - not many of us would. The Danes had caught us by surprise and had laid waste to eighty of our men by the time we had reacted and taken a defensive formation. They had taken our rear and were pushing us back into the dense forest, eager to overwhelm us with confusion as much as blade and axe. Northumbrian Ealdormen had sprinted back through our ranks and met the Viking hordes head on, shield crunching into shield as they harried for position in the ice-sodden grass. I was a mere observer, caught in the ranks of farmers eager to step as far back from battle without deserting. I could hear screams, iron smashing against iron and wood. I could hear the roar of men and the fierce cries of warriors hacking at the limbs of one another. The forest floor was soon smeared with blood and it became even more treacherous under foot. Many men were killed as they scrambled on the ground and had an axe thunder into their exposed chest or head.

    Those first throes of battle were brutal. Yet I began to revel in the anticipation as I neared the front line of the rudimentary shield wall we had barely formed before the Danes smashed into us. I could smell blood and my heart thumped in my chest. It was then that I saw Eadric fall. He had ridden his white horse into the midst of retreating Danes across to our right. One of their warriors had hacked wildly at the horse and brought the beast crashing down among five men. His bodyguard were woefully late in the realisation that their Earl had been left exposed in his bravery. My father would never have allowed that. Always protect the Earl, ride with him into the flames of demons if he should desire it. That's what he had told me the night before I had started my training. A gap had opened in the confusion ahead of me and, before I had time to consider the consequences, I had sprinted into the clearing - fire raging in my heart. I embraced the power of my own rage - I had heard my father speak of it. It was a power that made men fight like gods and bathe within the blood of their enemies. I had hacked into the calf of a Dane and crashed into him, knocking him to the ground as he rounded on Eadric. As he clutched at his leg I had drawn my blade across his throat and watched as he choked on his own blood as it seeped from his mouth. I was staring into his dying eyes, unable to speak or move, sat atop the first man I had ever wounded in battle. The first man I would ever kill - but certainly not the last. I did not hear the cries behind me. I did not see the blades swing. And as the fog of battle lifted from my eyes and I took a sharp breath and looked around me, I had failed to notice that the Danes had been defeated.

    And that Harlan the Saxon stood over me with a wry smile upon his face.

    I had never expected to see Harlan again, assuming he had been slain along with my family and every other poor wretch I had ever known in Hereteu. The last I had seen of him, he had been on his knees over my father shielding his blood sodden corpse from the Danes who meant to hack the arm rings from his lifeless limbs. His shield was being mercilessly pounded by the war axe of a huge Dane, splintering into a mangled wreck - and I had turned my back on him to run for the forest. And yet, there he stood before me. I stared at him - still astride the corpse of my first kill - as a cub, jaws matted with blood, seeking approval from a wolf. I wore an expression that lacked any kind of certainty. I was bemused and almost repentant in equal measure; I had abandoned my village in the time of their greatest need. Harlan had been the man who was teaching me to fight for my kingdom - except I hadn't fought; I had left them to die. Moans, wretched and despairing, could be heard in the distance from dying men. A bitter wind impelled a growing mist to roll across the steep gills and whisper through pines and conifers - the wćlcyrie (maidens of the mist) had come to choose their dead and dying and carry them to Woden's hall. Dark ravens stalked the skies ready to feast upon the rest, their cries impetuous and callous. And still Harlan and I stared in silence at one another. "One less," Harlan grunted, nodding his head to the ragged body beneath me. I hauled myself to my feet, only then realising how weary that battle had made me. Taking a handful of material, I ripped a segment of the Dane's undershirt from his body and wiped my battered sword clean, then with my eyes firmly fixed on the ground ahead of me, I sheathed my weapon and said nothing. "Your mother and sisters..." Harlan had stopped smiling now and he was uncomfortable, each word deliberate and forced. I threw the bloodied rag of material onto the chest of my kill, a pool of blood spreading out around him, and held up my hand. I didn't want to know - though I could venture their fate at the hands of the raiders. "It was quick...they were not...touched." This last word was the hardest for Harlan to utter and it was almost incomprehensible in his sullen tone.

    "They burned in flames still, did they not? Whilst I ran?" I raised my head then, my eyes fixed on Harlan's and I spat those words at him, though in truth I was angry with myself, not the Saxon.

    "You are not the only one to suffer, Stívarđr. I was taken as a slave, meant to be traded at the next arrival of Danes in Gyruum. I watched as our men had their eyes cut out of their heads. I watched as bodies were piled high and then burned. I heard those women, screaming, in the church that night. Your mother, your sisters...my wife and daughter." He turned his head from me at that, staring at the man I had killed, his face twisted with resentment. He seemed to surface from the raging torrents of his memories as soon as he had plunged into them and his gaze met mine again. "There are five of us. We were being transported north, likely to Gyruum, when they ambushed you from the forest. As our guard pushed on to the front lines we took advantage of their lust for battle and freed ourselves. It was only then we saw the Earl - or who we assumed to be an Earl..." Harlan gestured to Eadric who was dusting himself down across to my right and busy scolding his bodyguard for the remiss manner in which they had performed their duty.

    In the distance the rest of our army was picking through bodies of Danes strewn across the bank, cut down in their retreat. Eadric was an imposing figure, although not particularly physically. He was tall and slender, though far from gaunt. He was more than capable of holding his own within battle and he seemed to possess an almost tangible eminence and nobility in his mannerisms. He exuded a potent conviction and his eloquence of thought - I was soon to learn - extended to the very intricacies of war, politics and justice. His face, framed as it was by a mass of flaxen blond curls that fell across his intelligent blue eyes, was almost porcelain in appearance and failed to betray his emotions, seemingly fixed in enduring stoicism. "He should intend to thank you, son of Galenhćst. As a thegn of Hereteu you should serve him well. For now, he is the Earl of all Northumbria." Harlan lacked subtly and his suggestion was intentionally meant to fall within earshot of Eadric who turned and stared intently at us. "Boy!" Eadric beckoned me with the wave of a mailed hand. "It would seem that God has delivered to me a guardian this day..." I jerked my head towards Harlan, sighed and gave him an unappreciative glance.

    As I trudged through the mud, ice and blood I could hear Athelwulf in the distance, his voice booming and unmistakable.

    He was pleased to see someone...he was pleased to see Harlan.
    Last edited by Stívarđr Reynitré; August 01, 2014 at 05:54 PM.

  2. #2
    Lugotorix's Avatar non flectis non mutant
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    Default Re: Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)

    I've just taken this in and got up to speed. This is some of the best period writing I've seen on TWCenter, in all honesty. Everything, right down to the language reflects the dark age it is set in. Bravo. And +rep when I'm able.
    Last edited by Lugotorix; August 02, 2014 at 11:04 AM.
    AUTHOR OF TROY OF THE WESTERN SEA: LOVE AND CARNAGE UNDER THE RULE OF THE VANDAL KING, GENSERIC
    THE BLACK-HEARTED LORDS OF THRACE: ODRYSIAN KINGDOM AAR
    VANDALARIUS: A DARK AGES GOTHIC EMPIRE ATTILA AAR


  3. #3
    Stívarđr Reynitré's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)

    Wow!

    I'm really taken aback by those comments and very thankful and humble.

    It has been a blast becoming more involved in this section of the community and I am really enjoying my writing at the moment. The fact that it is also getting recognition is really great. Thanks!

  4. #4
    Lugotorix's Avatar non flectis non mutant
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    Default Re: Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)

    Quote Originally Posted by esaciar View Post
    Wow!

    I'm really taken aback by those comments and very thankful and humble.

    It has been a blast becoming more involved in this section of the community and I am really enjoying my writing at the moment. The fact that it is also getting recognition is really great. Thanks!
    I have to agree with Merchant in part though, Chosokabe trumps Mori, and Uesugi trumps Chosokabe. One day I'll do my Imagawa campaign all the way through. This is just plain marvelous though. Thank you!
    Last edited by Lugotorix; August 02, 2014 at 05:01 PM.
    AUTHOR OF TROY OF THE WESTERN SEA: LOVE AND CARNAGE UNDER THE RULE OF THE VANDAL KING, GENSERIC
    THE BLACK-HEARTED LORDS OF THRACE: ODRYSIAN KINGDOM AAR
    VANDALARIUS: A DARK AGES GOTHIC EMPIRE ATTILA AAR


  5. #5
    Tigellinus's Avatar Citizen
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    Default Re: Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)

    Quote Originally Posted by Lugotorix View Post
    I have to agree with Merchant in part though, Chosokabe trumps Mori, and Uesugi trumps Chosokabe. One day I'll do my Imagawa campaign all the way through. This is just plain marvelous though. Thank you!
    "Stares at you with a devilish smile" Oda trump all :3

    I have to second Lugotorix, your writing is utterly fantastic! Brilliant work! Brilliant!

    Thanks

    Tigellinus




    Proudly under the patronage of McScottish

  6. #6
    Stívarđr Reynitré's Avatar Domesticus
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    Default Re: Northumbria: Blood & Gold (An Anglo-Saxon Tale)

    Again, thank you for those kind words. It is all greatly appreciated.

    I'm sincerely grateful and I just love putting work out there into the community to share it with you.

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