Donald Reaver
Donor
Your Christmas break is coming up, relax when that starts and when getting tired of relaxing you can write. We will be here.
American Viking: a timeline
- Thread starter Odinson
- Start date
No worries!
Don't feel pressured to write after going through a grueling finals week. Take a break and have some rest before trying to write.
Chapter 29
1300, the last days of summer: Deeper into the lands of the Kanien'keha:ka
Gunnar followed Ivar and the rest of his war party west, the army mostly following along the Tenonanatche River (OTL Mohawk River). Though well drilled, Gunnar could tell that majority of the soldiers were exhausted, primarily those who had already engaged with the enemy previously. Gunnar for instance was seemingly stressed everyday. Fear of falling ill, fear of getting killed, those were always gnawing at the back of his mind like beaver at the base of a towering tree. He needed a mental break, a day to forget that he was swept up in a war between his confederacy and that of the People of the Flint. When the sun dipped behind the horizon, the great army settled down to make camp, dividing itself into a collective of fire pits, each typically being shared by two war parties. Gunnar sat with his group, holding out a stick as he roasted squirrel as he listened to the crackling of the fire. The soft clanking of chain mail announced the presence of a messenger.
"Huskarl Ivar Gormsson?" The party collectively looked to the new comer, curious of what he had to say to their leader. Ivar's teeth ripped away the meat from a bone before swallowing to answer.
"Aye?" The messenger held out a small scroll.
"You and your company have been granted leave for a fortnight for valiant conduct against the Kanien'keha:ka. There's a settlement a few miles up the river from here called Ogsadaga. You and your men can relax there. The town is under occupation so you won't have to be on your guard. Once your leave is over, converge with the rest of the army at the Osseruenon Forward Camp." With a bow, the man turned away, likely to go distribute more scrolls. The other members of the party looked to each other, rather excited. Ivar grinned and announced that he was looking forward to some relaxation.
While the army moved on. Gunnar's War Party stopped at the village on the hill along with other groups for some much needed relaxation. The village sat atop a great hill, granting it a wide vantage of the area. Several houses sat clustered together along with trading huts and a mead hall. Despite the animosity towards the Algonquian speaking tribes, they clearly enjoyed certain advancements brought to Vinland by the Norse. A collective sigh emerged from the group, the prospect of not having to worry about an arrow in the back being very exciting. Their eyes scanned the settlement, noting the remnants of a wooden wall, a reminder that this was not a Mahican or Wampanoag village. Gunnar glanced to Ivar, wondering what to do. Ivar smiled and placed his arms around Gunnar and Agnar in a brotherly fashion.
"Well lads, lets get drunk and make questionable choices!" Gunnar happily agreed. Ivar led Gunnar, Olaf, Agnar, Becan, and the twins Tatoson and Wamsutta towards the mead hall. The party grabbed a table, placing their weapons down beside it. A server came to the table with a tray of wooden goblets for them, the sweet smell of mead permeating from over the top. Gunnar took off his helmet and set in on the tabel, only to look up at her and become captivated. The Mohawk woman sported a braided pony tail of shiny black hair that sprouted from the back of her head and rested over her left shoulder. Her smile dazzled with perfectly white teeth contrasting to her tanned red skin. Below that was a buxom chest. Gunnar smiled like a moron at her, continuing to do so as she walked away. The others took note of his face and laughed. Ivar took a big swig on his cup before commenting on the smile.
"When I said make questionable choices, I didn't mean as soon as we sat down ya know?" This produced another round of laughter, prying one out of Gunnar as well.
"Aye, but it would be worth it, don't cha think?" Gunnar, still giggling, decided to take a sip himself as Ivar called out a Norseman who had just entered from the other doorway.
"Kjotve!" Standing up, Ivar's red beard aggressively shook as he embraced the man.
"Nice to see you again! I heard you got wounded a few weeks back during that skirmish."
"Aye that I did," the man laughed, pulling back his collar to reveal a wrapping across his collar bone. "Bloody savage damn near killed me with a club. Too bad for him he hit me in my shield arm!" He mimed a stabbing action with his good arm, slightly wincing at the speed of the movement.
"Come drink with us, my lads won't mind."
"I thank you for your offer," he said as he took a seat on the bench with the group.
"So, will you be joining us for the upcoming attack?" Kjotve sadly shook his head.
"'Fraid not, old friend. I'll be out of commission for a while. I'm not a young cock you know, don't heal as fast as I used to. This may be my final campaign. Might retire to the family farm, court a maiden from the tavern. My grandmother, bless her old bones, has been nagging me to produce a child to inherit the land."
"A noble idea, though I will miss your sword arm on the battlefield."
"My nephew Gorm will lead my party to glory in my place, don't you fret. He's not as green as he once was."
Gunnar attentively listened to the two men talk. Well, he did. He lost interest when the servant came back around with full cups. Knowing full and damn well that skirt chasing had gotten him mixed up in this mess, the young lad still couldn't help but fantasize about her figure. Even Ivar's warning about Kanien'keha:ka brutality and distaste for Norsemen and their half skraeling offspring couldn't dismiss the feeling. He rested his chin on his knuckles, ignoring Kjotve and Ivar debating whether or not the Oneida would get involved with the conflict. The serving girl's rounds were interupted by another woman, speaking in nervous tones in the native language. Gunnar didn't speak any of the Iroquois dialects, so he understood none of it. The other members of the party evidently did as they stopped chattering to ease drop. Wamsutta got up and went to the two, speaking in rudimentary Mohawk. Nervously looking to each other, the two women divulged information to him, prompting him to nod and return to the table.
"What did they say," asked Ivar. "I couldn't make out the whole thing from here."
"The other woman's brother has been gone for eight days, and nobody in the village has seen him since he went hunting."
"Sounds ominous," replied Tatoson.
"What's more, they said they're worried that it might be the work of a Skudakumooch."
"A ghost witch? Really? Next you'll be telling me the Puckwudgie stole your boots," said Olaf in a skeptical tone. Ivar stood up.
"Nevertheless, myths don't kidnap people. Wamsutta, go inform them that we're going to find that boy and bring him back. We're occupying them, it falls to use to keep order. Men, grab your gear. It's after mid day and I hope to be back before dark."
"Now who's making questionable choices, grumbled Gunnar, who very much did not want to deal with dark magic.
Once they had reached the dark center of the forest, Gunnar could suddenly understand the fear of a Skudakumooch preying upon the region. Leaves crunched underfoot, sunlight filtering through the branches in sporadic places. More frightening was the presence of bones. Mostly animal from the looks of it, including deer skulls mounted to trees.
"So what exactly is a Skudakumooch," asked Gunnar.
"Its a Abenaki legend. Likely imported here by some superstitious traders." Replied Agnar. "Supposedly its an undead practitioner of dark magic. They feed on people at night or something."
"Bloody Seidr..." grumbled Kjotve darkly. "I've seen some odd things in my life, and the occult is something I am not partial to."
"The women said that this "Ghost Witch" is recent, only just now reemerging since the war touched their lands." Agnar stopped to study a small talisman of bone hanging from a tree branch. "Likely a band of bandits who are feeding upon fear and opportunity. Perhaps even cultists of some kind." As the probed deeper into the forest, the bones became more frequent. More worrying, the group came upon a male body hanging from a mighty tree, rope tought about the neck. Arrows protruded from the chest.
"What were you saying about a cult?" asked Ivar as he drew his bearded ax from behind his back. Suddenly an arrow whipped through the air, striking the trunk of the tree.
With a shrill cry, warriors clad in bone and smoke emerged from over the ridge, brandishing axes and swords. Gunnar, shaken, raised both arms, wielding both his blocking shield and his jagged edged one. One warrior closed in on Gunnar, a skull mask coated in dried blood covering the face as smoky tendrils drifted out from the head, swinging his ax wildly. Gunnar's shield met his attack, iron blade bouncing off the polished metal knob in the center. Twice more iron rang on iron as he tried to break Gunnar's defense, throwing more power into his slashes before switching to an overhand swing, only for the ax head to be caught between the jagged iron coated ends of Gunnar's unique shield. With a shout, he ripped the ax from the cultist's hands, arm rearing back before ramming forward, the points puncturing through the cracking bones and through the leather hidden underneath. Blocker poised in a striking position, he bashed the flat edge into the face, shattering the skull and shoving him off the blades. Eyes darting, he saw a tomahawk twirling through the air, barreling at Ivar. With a warring, Gunnar alerted his commander. The great bear of a man performed an about face, turning on his heel and cathcing it in mid air, blade only an inch from his face. With a grimace, he flipped the weapon, catching it by the handle, and returning it to its owner with a flick of the wrist, finding its mark in the man's skull. Ivar rolled his shoulders and drooped his arm, ax sliding down until the curve at the bottom of the shaft was caught in his hand. He placed both hands on the handle and roared as he swung, cleaving the head off an enemy combatant clean off, and bursting through a pine, bring down the tree upon a cultist, crushing his legs and crippling him. As another came at him, Ivar swiftly jerked the bottom of the handle upwards, cracking it against the jaw of a rival before jabbing it forward into the man's face.
Gunnar lunged backwards as a new target set him in his sights. His ferocity pushed Gunnar back until he came to the edge of a ridge, tumbling down a slope to a creek, the warrior quickly following. Becan watched and shouted at Ivar while attempting to ward off his own attacker.
"Ivar, the boy!" Ivar grunted as he wrenched his blade from the profusely bleeding shoulder of a cultist.
"I can't reach him! Trust the boy to hold his own! We'll get to him when we kill these bastards!"
With an inhuman moan, a figure clad in elk antlers arose, smoke billowing around them. Several figures flanked them, chanting. The cultists suddenly broke off as quick as they had come. The group banded together, ready for another attack. But rather than another wave, the figure pointed a gnarled finger as fire shot across the clearing, surrounding the group and herding them together.
"Ivar, what the Hell is this?" Ivar's mouth opened and stayed open for a moment before finally admitting "I don't know." A quiet whiff whiff sounded off as each member fell to the ground, softly moaning, eyes closing.
Gunnar, in his rush to grab a weapon, accidentally grabbed his blocking shield to stab the cultist in the chest, only to find it unexpectedly blunt. A quick slash to the fash knocked Gunnar back, holding his hand to a bleeding cheek. A sudden shot of adrenaline prompted him to swing wide, smashing the blunt end against the man's head, forcing him to the ground. He climbed atop and repeatedly smashed the shield into the man's face, the creek running red with blood and teeth. Panting and crying as he brought down the shield a final time, he shakily clambered off, picking up his weapon as he climbed back up the hill, suddenly very tired. As he crested the hill, he saw his party laying on the ground, an antlered figure ordering the warriors to pick them up and drag them away. The fire was stamped out. The elk horned figure barked orders in a commanding tone, giving the impression of who was leading. His friends were tied up and drug out of the clearing. Gunnar, very much afraid, elected to follow.
As he stealthily crept through the undergrowth, taking care not to step on any twigs, he suddenly made a mental connection that had eluded him previously.
They were speaking in a dialect of Norse.
Gunnar followed Ivar and the rest of his war party west, the army mostly following along the Tenonanatche River (OTL Mohawk River). Though well drilled, Gunnar could tell that majority of the soldiers were exhausted, primarily those who had already engaged with the enemy previously. Gunnar for instance was seemingly stressed everyday. Fear of falling ill, fear of getting killed, those were always gnawing at the back of his mind like beaver at the base of a towering tree. He needed a mental break, a day to forget that he was swept up in a war between his confederacy and that of the People of the Flint. When the sun dipped behind the horizon, the great army settled down to make camp, dividing itself into a collective of fire pits, each typically being shared by two war parties. Gunnar sat with his group, holding out a stick as he roasted squirrel as he listened to the crackling of the fire. The soft clanking of chain mail announced the presence of a messenger.
"Huskarl Ivar Gormsson?" The party collectively looked to the new comer, curious of what he had to say to their leader. Ivar's teeth ripped away the meat from a bone before swallowing to answer.
"Aye?" The messenger held out a small scroll.
"You and your company have been granted leave for a fortnight for valiant conduct against the Kanien'keha:ka. There's a settlement a few miles up the river from here called Ogsadaga. You and your men can relax there. The town is under occupation so you won't have to be on your guard. Once your leave is over, converge with the rest of the army at the Osseruenon Forward Camp." With a bow, the man turned away, likely to go distribute more scrolls. The other members of the party looked to each other, rather excited. Ivar grinned and announced that he was looking forward to some relaxation.
While the army moved on. Gunnar's War Party stopped at the village on the hill along with other groups for some much needed relaxation. The village sat atop a great hill, granting it a wide vantage of the area. Several houses sat clustered together along with trading huts and a mead hall. Despite the animosity towards the Algonquian speaking tribes, they clearly enjoyed certain advancements brought to Vinland by the Norse. A collective sigh emerged from the group, the prospect of not having to worry about an arrow in the back being very exciting. Their eyes scanned the settlement, noting the remnants of a wooden wall, a reminder that this was not a Mahican or Wampanoag village. Gunnar glanced to Ivar, wondering what to do. Ivar smiled and placed his arms around Gunnar and Agnar in a brotherly fashion.
"Well lads, lets get drunk and make questionable choices!" Gunnar happily agreed. Ivar led Gunnar, Olaf, Agnar, Becan, and the twins Tatoson and Wamsutta towards the mead hall. The party grabbed a table, placing their weapons down beside it. A server came to the table with a tray of wooden goblets for them, the sweet smell of mead permeating from over the top. Gunnar took off his helmet and set in on the tabel, only to look up at her and become captivated. The Mohawk woman sported a braided pony tail of shiny black hair that sprouted from the back of her head and rested over her left shoulder. Her smile dazzled with perfectly white teeth contrasting to her tanned red skin. Below that was a buxom chest. Gunnar smiled like a moron at her, continuing to do so as she walked away. The others took note of his face and laughed. Ivar took a big swig on his cup before commenting on the smile.
"When I said make questionable choices, I didn't mean as soon as we sat down ya know?" This produced another round of laughter, prying one out of Gunnar as well.
"Aye, but it would be worth it, don't cha think?" Gunnar, still giggling, decided to take a sip himself as Ivar called out a Norseman who had just entered from the other doorway.
"Kjotve!" Standing up, Ivar's red beard aggressively shook as he embraced the man.
"Nice to see you again! I heard you got wounded a few weeks back during that skirmish."
"Aye that I did," the man laughed, pulling back his collar to reveal a wrapping across his collar bone. "Bloody savage damn near killed me with a club. Too bad for him he hit me in my shield arm!" He mimed a stabbing action with his good arm, slightly wincing at the speed of the movement.
"Come drink with us, my lads won't mind."
"I thank you for your offer," he said as he took a seat on the bench with the group.
"So, will you be joining us for the upcoming attack?" Kjotve sadly shook his head.
"'Fraid not, old friend. I'll be out of commission for a while. I'm not a young cock you know, don't heal as fast as I used to. This may be my final campaign. Might retire to the family farm, court a maiden from the tavern. My grandmother, bless her old bones, has been nagging me to produce a child to inherit the land."
"A noble idea, though I will miss your sword arm on the battlefield."
"My nephew Gorm will lead my party to glory in my place, don't you fret. He's not as green as he once was."
Gunnar attentively listened to the two men talk. Well, he did. He lost interest when the servant came back around with full cups. Knowing full and damn well that skirt chasing had gotten him mixed up in this mess, the young lad still couldn't help but fantasize about her figure. Even Ivar's warning about Kanien'keha:ka brutality and distaste for Norsemen and their half skraeling offspring couldn't dismiss the feeling. He rested his chin on his knuckles, ignoring Kjotve and Ivar debating whether or not the Oneida would get involved with the conflict. The serving girl's rounds were interupted by another woman, speaking in nervous tones in the native language. Gunnar didn't speak any of the Iroquois dialects, so he understood none of it. The other members of the party evidently did as they stopped chattering to ease drop. Wamsutta got up and went to the two, speaking in rudimentary Mohawk. Nervously looking to each other, the two women divulged information to him, prompting him to nod and return to the table.
"What did they say," asked Ivar. "I couldn't make out the whole thing from here."
"The other woman's brother has been gone for eight days, and nobody in the village has seen him since he went hunting."
"Sounds ominous," replied Tatoson.
"What's more, they said they're worried that it might be the work of a Skudakumooch."
"A ghost witch? Really? Next you'll be telling me the Puckwudgie stole your boots," said Olaf in a skeptical tone. Ivar stood up.
"Nevertheless, myths don't kidnap people. Wamsutta, go inform them that we're going to find that boy and bring him back. We're occupying them, it falls to use to keep order. Men, grab your gear. It's after mid day and I hope to be back before dark."
"Now who's making questionable choices, grumbled Gunnar, who very much did not want to deal with dark magic.
Once they had reached the dark center of the forest, Gunnar could suddenly understand the fear of a Skudakumooch preying upon the region. Leaves crunched underfoot, sunlight filtering through the branches in sporadic places. More frightening was the presence of bones. Mostly animal from the looks of it, including deer skulls mounted to trees.
"So what exactly is a Skudakumooch," asked Gunnar.
"Its a Abenaki legend. Likely imported here by some superstitious traders." Replied Agnar. "Supposedly its an undead practitioner of dark magic. They feed on people at night or something."
"Bloody Seidr..." grumbled Kjotve darkly. "I've seen some odd things in my life, and the occult is something I am not partial to."
"The women said that this "Ghost Witch" is recent, only just now reemerging since the war touched their lands." Agnar stopped to study a small talisman of bone hanging from a tree branch. "Likely a band of bandits who are feeding upon fear and opportunity. Perhaps even cultists of some kind." As the probed deeper into the forest, the bones became more frequent. More worrying, the group came upon a male body hanging from a mighty tree, rope tought about the neck. Arrows protruded from the chest.
"What were you saying about a cult?" asked Ivar as he drew his bearded ax from behind his back. Suddenly an arrow whipped through the air, striking the trunk of the tree.
With a shrill cry, warriors clad in bone and smoke emerged from over the ridge, brandishing axes and swords. Gunnar, shaken, raised both arms, wielding both his blocking shield and his jagged edged one. One warrior closed in on Gunnar, a skull mask coated in dried blood covering the face as smoky tendrils drifted out from the head, swinging his ax wildly. Gunnar's shield met his attack, iron blade bouncing off the polished metal knob in the center. Twice more iron rang on iron as he tried to break Gunnar's defense, throwing more power into his slashes before switching to an overhand swing, only for the ax head to be caught between the jagged iron coated ends of Gunnar's unique shield. With a shout, he ripped the ax from the cultist's hands, arm rearing back before ramming forward, the points puncturing through the cracking bones and through the leather hidden underneath. Blocker poised in a striking position, he bashed the flat edge into the face, shattering the skull and shoving him off the blades. Eyes darting, he saw a tomahawk twirling through the air, barreling at Ivar. With a warring, Gunnar alerted his commander. The great bear of a man performed an about face, turning on his heel and cathcing it in mid air, blade only an inch from his face. With a grimace, he flipped the weapon, catching it by the handle, and returning it to its owner with a flick of the wrist, finding its mark in the man's skull. Ivar rolled his shoulders and drooped his arm, ax sliding down until the curve at the bottom of the shaft was caught in his hand. He placed both hands on the handle and roared as he swung, cleaving the head off an enemy combatant clean off, and bursting through a pine, bring down the tree upon a cultist, crushing his legs and crippling him. As another came at him, Ivar swiftly jerked the bottom of the handle upwards, cracking it against the jaw of a rival before jabbing it forward into the man's face.
Gunnar lunged backwards as a new target set him in his sights. His ferocity pushed Gunnar back until he came to the edge of a ridge, tumbling down a slope to a creek, the warrior quickly following. Becan watched and shouted at Ivar while attempting to ward off his own attacker.
"Ivar, the boy!" Ivar grunted as he wrenched his blade from the profusely bleeding shoulder of a cultist.
"I can't reach him! Trust the boy to hold his own! We'll get to him when we kill these bastards!"
With an inhuman moan, a figure clad in elk antlers arose, smoke billowing around them. Several figures flanked them, chanting. The cultists suddenly broke off as quick as they had come. The group banded together, ready for another attack. But rather than another wave, the figure pointed a gnarled finger as fire shot across the clearing, surrounding the group and herding them together.
"Ivar, what the Hell is this?" Ivar's mouth opened and stayed open for a moment before finally admitting "I don't know." A quiet whiff whiff sounded off as each member fell to the ground, softly moaning, eyes closing.
Gunnar, in his rush to grab a weapon, accidentally grabbed his blocking shield to stab the cultist in the chest, only to find it unexpectedly blunt. A quick slash to the fash knocked Gunnar back, holding his hand to a bleeding cheek. A sudden shot of adrenaline prompted him to swing wide, smashing the blunt end against the man's head, forcing him to the ground. He climbed atop and repeatedly smashed the shield into the man's face, the creek running red with blood and teeth. Panting and crying as he brought down the shield a final time, he shakily clambered off, picking up his weapon as he climbed back up the hill, suddenly very tired. As he crested the hill, he saw his party laying on the ground, an antlered figure ordering the warriors to pick them up and drag them away. The fire was stamped out. The elk horned figure barked orders in a commanding tone, giving the impression of who was leading. His friends were tied up and drug out of the clearing. Gunnar, very much afraid, elected to follow.
As he stealthily crept through the undergrowth, taking care not to step on any twigs, he suddenly made a mental connection that had eluded him previously.
They were speaking in a dialect of Norse.
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Glad you liked it! Tried to go for something interesting for the next few chapters. (And Don't worry, everything will eventually be explained. I'm not j j Abrams)
Oh crap! Sorry, I didn't notice your post! Whoops! Um, questions you have?
Hm, keeping your theories to yourself are we?
Ah! Nope lol, i just was confused myself with something related to the dialect, i don't even remember what it was now
Chapter 30
1300, the last days of summer: Somewhere north
The mysterious cultists carried Ivar and the rest of Gunnar's companions a fair distance, each man lashed to a pole and treated like a wild boar. Gunnar tailed the figures, just far enough to keep out of their area of perception. Following them, Gunnar was forced to travel further north in hopes to free his party. The further north he went, the more scared he felt. The area permeated darkness. After nearly a day of walking, Gunnar began to smell fire. Most likely a camp nearby. Creeping along the underbrush, Gunnar stealthily reached the location the cultists had been traveling to. An encampment sat in a clearing, a number of huts dotting the outer ring while shrines to old pagan gods hugged the base of a mighty tree, bark black as night, leaves already vanished, leaving the branches bare and skeletal. The smell of roasted venison rose and drifted on the wind as men drank broth greedily from wooden bowls, frightening paint obscuring their features. From a distance, Gunnar could make out several figures milling about the camp, most wielding an ax. Gunnar laid on his belly and watched, fear twisting his stomach into knots. A low horn blow announced the war party, peaking the interest of the camp's cultists. An old, frail figure emerged from an opening into the hillside, dirty robes clinging to the thin frame. Gunnar inched forward, unable to make out specific words. With a huzza, the war party moved his friends to a wooden cage at the end of the encampment. Inside were ten other victims. The cult cheered and returned to their merriment. Gunnar, perplexed by all of it, simply muttered to himself.
"What on God's green Earth is this?"
Gunnar waited until nightfall to try and sneak to the cage. Being on the outer edge, the back side of the cage was bordered by shrubbery. Pushing through the branches, he found the bars and lightly tapped at the structure. The others jumped and looked at him. Ivar quickly rushed to the back.
"Boy," he said in a hushed tone. "You survived!" Gunnar smiled and pulled up his bladed shield and placed the iron points on the bars and started to slowly saw.
"Don't worry, Ivar, I'll get this cage open if it takes me all night." A sudden beating of drums forced Gunnar to stop. The antlered figure from the attack stood in front of the pagan idols as the cult gathered around him in a semicircle. He hushed the crowd with a sweeping arm gesture, robe billowing.
"Silence yourselves for the great Chief, Jon, Son of Jon!" The cultists bowed as the frail figure took the center position, his faced cloaked in shadow from his hood before slipping off the head covering. Under the hood was an aged face, one eye blind pale, the other fierce blue. Thin wisps of grey hair clung to his head. He motioned for them to rise. The semicircle parted, leaving a pathway to the cage. The chief pointed a gnarled, bony finger at one of the previously captured victims.
"Bring him," he said in rustic Norse. The cage was opened and two burly men clad in bone and skull grabbed him, dragging him kicking and screaming to the old man. The old man produced a dagger and pressed it against the man's throat.
"Glory to Odin! May he continue to bless us with luck and wisdom."
"Glory to Odin," shouted the cultists as the elder chief used the dagger to carve out the man's right eye. The captive screamed in pain, the guards restraining him. The old man held the eye in the air.
"Praise Odin, for his protection saved our forefathers from the destruction of Nyhöfn by the Christ worshipers!"
"Praise Odin!" The guards drug the man to the tall tree in the center of the clearing and slipped a rope around his neck and pulled, raising him off the ground. The antlered man nocked an arrow and let lose the taut string, the missile striking the victim in the chest, causing more pain. As the body wriggled and jerked, the chief raised his arms, calling yet another prayer to Odin. As the cultists began to chant the name of the All Father, the chief interrupted the ceremony by pointing at the cage once more and shouting.
"Interloper!" Gunnar looked up from trying to saw through the bars as the crowd turned to face him.
"Run boy!" Gunnar leapt to his feet and bolted, bone clad warriors chasing after him.
"Kill the interloper and bring him to me!" The old man roared as the cult broke up and ran into the woods, like hunting dogs pursuing a frightened deer.
Gunnar ran madly, not caring for the branches swatting at his face, nor the roots that threatened to topple him. He could hear the loud hoots and howls of the cult, their footfalls echoing like a bull in the pottery shop. Heart hammering and palms sweaty, he didn't stop running. Stopping meant death at the hands of psychos dressed like devils. But Gunnar knew he couldn't run forever. Looking backwards, he ran smack into a thick trunked tree, hard enough to leave an imprint of the bark on his cheek. Falling to his rear, he looked up at the towering oak. Not having many options, he slung the blocking shield over his back and started to climb, using the spiked shield to grip into the bark, hoping to get to a high branch before he was spotted. He reached a sturdy branch and swung a leg over it and pressed his back against the trunk as cultists walked below. Gunnar could hear them talking, looking for him, and what they wanted to do to him, should they find him. He waited in the tree until they left, and their torches faded in the distance. Owls hooted and screeched in the night. And Gunnar, stuck in the tree, was alone for the first time since leaving home.
The mysterious cultists carried Ivar and the rest of Gunnar's companions a fair distance, each man lashed to a pole and treated like a wild boar. Gunnar tailed the figures, just far enough to keep out of their area of perception. Following them, Gunnar was forced to travel further north in hopes to free his party. The further north he went, the more scared he felt. The area permeated darkness. After nearly a day of walking, Gunnar began to smell fire. Most likely a camp nearby. Creeping along the underbrush, Gunnar stealthily reached the location the cultists had been traveling to. An encampment sat in a clearing, a number of huts dotting the outer ring while shrines to old pagan gods hugged the base of a mighty tree, bark black as night, leaves already vanished, leaving the branches bare and skeletal. The smell of roasted venison rose and drifted on the wind as men drank broth greedily from wooden bowls, frightening paint obscuring their features. From a distance, Gunnar could make out several figures milling about the camp, most wielding an ax. Gunnar laid on his belly and watched, fear twisting his stomach into knots. A low horn blow announced the war party, peaking the interest of the camp's cultists. An old, frail figure emerged from an opening into the hillside, dirty robes clinging to the thin frame. Gunnar inched forward, unable to make out specific words. With a huzza, the war party moved his friends to a wooden cage at the end of the encampment. Inside were ten other victims. The cult cheered and returned to their merriment. Gunnar, perplexed by all of it, simply muttered to himself.
"What on God's green Earth is this?"
Gunnar waited until nightfall to try and sneak to the cage. Being on the outer edge, the back side of the cage was bordered by shrubbery. Pushing through the branches, he found the bars and lightly tapped at the structure. The others jumped and looked at him. Ivar quickly rushed to the back.
"Boy," he said in a hushed tone. "You survived!" Gunnar smiled and pulled up his bladed shield and placed the iron points on the bars and started to slowly saw.
"Don't worry, Ivar, I'll get this cage open if it takes me all night." A sudden beating of drums forced Gunnar to stop. The antlered figure from the attack stood in front of the pagan idols as the cult gathered around him in a semicircle. He hushed the crowd with a sweeping arm gesture, robe billowing.
"Silence yourselves for the great Chief, Jon, Son of Jon!" The cultists bowed as the frail figure took the center position, his faced cloaked in shadow from his hood before slipping off the head covering. Under the hood was an aged face, one eye blind pale, the other fierce blue. Thin wisps of grey hair clung to his head. He motioned for them to rise. The semicircle parted, leaving a pathway to the cage. The chief pointed a gnarled, bony finger at one of the previously captured victims.
"Bring him," he said in rustic Norse. The cage was opened and two burly men clad in bone and skull grabbed him, dragging him kicking and screaming to the old man. The old man produced a dagger and pressed it against the man's throat.
"Glory to Odin! May he continue to bless us with luck and wisdom."
"Glory to Odin," shouted the cultists as the elder chief used the dagger to carve out the man's right eye. The captive screamed in pain, the guards restraining him. The old man held the eye in the air.
"Praise Odin, for his protection saved our forefathers from the destruction of Nyhöfn by the Christ worshipers!"
"Praise Odin!" The guards drug the man to the tall tree in the center of the clearing and slipped a rope around his neck and pulled, raising him off the ground. The antlered man nocked an arrow and let lose the taut string, the missile striking the victim in the chest, causing more pain. As the body wriggled and jerked, the chief raised his arms, calling yet another prayer to Odin. As the cultists began to chant the name of the All Father, the chief interrupted the ceremony by pointing at the cage once more and shouting.
"Interloper!" Gunnar looked up from trying to saw through the bars as the crowd turned to face him.
"Run boy!" Gunnar leapt to his feet and bolted, bone clad warriors chasing after him.
"Kill the interloper and bring him to me!" The old man roared as the cult broke up and ran into the woods, like hunting dogs pursuing a frightened deer.
Gunnar ran madly, not caring for the branches swatting at his face, nor the roots that threatened to topple him. He could hear the loud hoots and howls of the cult, their footfalls echoing like a bull in the pottery shop. Heart hammering and palms sweaty, he didn't stop running. Stopping meant death at the hands of psychos dressed like devils. But Gunnar knew he couldn't run forever. Looking backwards, he ran smack into a thick trunked tree, hard enough to leave an imprint of the bark on his cheek. Falling to his rear, he looked up at the towering oak. Not having many options, he slung the blocking shield over his back and started to climb, using the spiked shield to grip into the bark, hoping to get to a high branch before he was spotted. He reached a sturdy branch and swung a leg over it and pressed his back against the trunk as cultists walked below. Gunnar could hear them talking, looking for him, and what they wanted to do to him, should they find him. He waited in the tree until they left, and their torches faded in the distance. Owls hooted and screeched in the night. And Gunnar, stuck in the tree, was alone for the first time since leaving home.
You're welcome! Always good to see a new post up, no matter the length. Interesting to see the Nyhöfn brood are still around in some form.