THE MONASTERY |
They took the village by surprise. Heathens from the Northlands seeking to claim the riches; their arrival masked by heavy fogs stagnating over the choppy sea.
The battle, if one could even consider the sacking in such terms, was over before the thought of resisting entered the frightened minds of the people. None could stand against the Northmen. Most were simple fishermen or farmers more at home with their hands in the dirt than wielding a sword. By mid-day, the overcast sky was thick with black smoke as the Heathens set the village to the torch.
But not all were to die. Marched away from the only home they’d ever known by a rogue group of the invaders were two boys, Declan and Thomas, brothers who, up until that morning, had maintained their innocence in a world that hungered for it. Their abductors, six in total, shadowed their footsteps, prodding them with sharp axes and spears coated in the blood of their parents as they stumbled along the narrow path that led to their destination; a bog so expansive it appeared to have swallowed the horizon.
The skies swelled with thick clouds of black and grey as the North-men piled into a waiting ferry, which was little more than rotting planks of wood lashed together with cracked leather. The brothers were set before oars and made to row their captors into the swampy unknown.
“Hey, boy!” a Heathen named Gunnar called. The man’s eyes, black as coal, glinted as they processed the terror in their faces. “Row faster! I’ve been far too long without the sound of gold in my pocket.”
“P-please don’t kill us, sire!” Thomas, a fair-haired boy of only nine, said. “W-we’ve done all you have asked of us!”
“Quiet your mouth, Thomas, you fool!” Declan whispered to no avail. Gasped hysterical breaths billowed out of his brother in loud bleats, much to the amusement of the Heathens aboard.
“Oh, stop all this carrying on! The women I fucked in that shit-pile of a village of yours didn’t cry half as much!” Gunnar grabbed Thomas by his hair and draped the whimpering boy over his round shield and produced a knife. “What say you, men? He can surely row without his tongue!”
Cruel laughter and jeers of encouragement filled the air as his fellow murderers agreed with this course of action.
“Declan! Help me!”
Declan’s breath caught in his chest. He dropped his oar and clutched at the crucifix his mother made for him and prayed. Oh, Lord Jesus above, please don’t let them take my brother. He’s all I’ve left now.
The battle, if one could even consider the sacking in such terms, was over before the thought of resisting entered the frightened minds of the people. None could stand against the Northmen. Most were simple fishermen or farmers more at home with their hands in the dirt than wielding a sword. By mid-day, the overcast sky was thick with black smoke as the Heathens set the village to the torch.
But not all were to die. Marched away from the only home they’d ever known by a rogue group of the invaders were two boys, Declan and Thomas, brothers who, up until that morning, had maintained their innocence in a world that hungered for it. Their abductors, six in total, shadowed their footsteps, prodding them with sharp axes and spears coated in the blood of their parents as they stumbled along the narrow path that led to their destination; a bog so expansive it appeared to have swallowed the horizon.
The skies swelled with thick clouds of black and grey as the North-men piled into a waiting ferry, which was little more than rotting planks of wood lashed together with cracked leather. The brothers were set before oars and made to row their captors into the swampy unknown.
“Hey, boy!” a Heathen named Gunnar called. The man’s eyes, black as coal, glinted as they processed the terror in their faces. “Row faster! I’ve been far too long without the sound of gold in my pocket.”
“P-please don’t kill us, sire!” Thomas, a fair-haired boy of only nine, said. “W-we’ve done all you have asked of us!”
“Quiet your mouth, Thomas, you fool!” Declan whispered to no avail. Gasped hysterical breaths billowed out of his brother in loud bleats, much to the amusement of the Heathens aboard.
“Oh, stop all this carrying on! The women I fucked in that shit-pile of a village of yours didn’t cry half as much!” Gunnar grabbed Thomas by his hair and draped the whimpering boy over his round shield and produced a knife. “What say you, men? He can surely row without his tongue!”
Cruel laughter and jeers of encouragement filled the air as his fellow murderers agreed with this course of action.
“Declan! Help me!”
Declan’s breath caught in his chest. He dropped his oar and clutched at the crucifix his mother made for him and prayed. Oh, Lord Jesus above, please don’t let them take my brother. He’s all I’ve left now.
In the end, it was not the son of Mary, but the leader of the Northmen that provided salvation for the boy. “Let loose of the boy, Gunnar.” his voice was reserved, barely audible over the sounds of battle that were carried on the winds from the village behind them.
Gunnar’s smile dropped into a befuddled smirk. “Come on, Alrek! I’m just having some fun with the lad is all!”
Declan felt the weight of Alrek’s meaty hand clamping down on his shoulder. “Your ‘fun’ is preventing us from moving towards true riches, brother. Unless you find the odor of this place to be agreeable, then by all means, continue. I don’t believe the boy has pissed himself yet, maybe you can achieve that.”
“Aw, the hell with it all!” Gunnar shoved Thomas off his shield and onto the deck of the ferry. “I’ll have his weight in gold and silver and not an ounce less, Alrek! This place best be worth my while.”
The brothers continued rowing on in silence. The bog was ancient; filled with the decayed remains of the great forest that once lived there. The mist that served to be the precursor to the deaths, or worse, of everyone they knew in this life had settled in in the valley around them, limiting their vision to mere yards.
“Boy,” Alrek spoke to Declan after a time. “When your brother was about to be cut apart, did you really expect your God to save him?”
Declan’s cheeks burned hot. He buried his chin into his chest and directed his anger towards the oar, which had become entangled on a fossilized tree stump. “Yes. I believed it with all my heart.”
Alrek smiled. The tales that preceded the arrival of the Northmen--vile men who did not bathe and had with insects in their hair--did not seem to apply to the man. His long blonde hair was neatly combed and the only scent that clung to the man that Declan could smell was that of the sea air.
And the metallic stench of his father’s blood, which coated the front of the man’s tunic.
“You Christians amuse me,” he continued in his hushed tone. “How do you expect your White Christ to defeat our gods? He is one and they are many, and his only weapon is that of two sticks tied together. Why, our god, Thor carries a hammer that can strike down the mightiest of creatures. It was his will that brought us here and continues to bring us fortune, while your little Carpenter-God abandons you.”
Declan touched his crucifix for reassurance. At that moment, it truly felt like nothing more than the two twigs bound with leather that comprised it. “I’m just a boy, sire. I cannot even read the pages in the Bible that the monks teach us from. My father knew more on the subject than either Thomas or I. You could have asked him this question, if you hadn’t killed him.”
Thomas broke down into a fresh round of sobbing at the mere mention of his deceased parents. “Declan, don’t make them angry!” he whined, eyeing Gunnar and the remaining grim faces in the ferry.
Alrek laughed. “That was your father I killed, then? He seemed a bit too young to have sired one so old. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Gunnar’s smile dropped into a befuddled smirk. “Come on, Alrek! I’m just having some fun with the lad is all!”
Declan felt the weight of Alrek’s meaty hand clamping down on his shoulder. “Your ‘fun’ is preventing us from moving towards true riches, brother. Unless you find the odor of this place to be agreeable, then by all means, continue. I don’t believe the boy has pissed himself yet, maybe you can achieve that.”
“Aw, the hell with it all!” Gunnar shoved Thomas off his shield and onto the deck of the ferry. “I’ll have his weight in gold and silver and not an ounce less, Alrek! This place best be worth my while.”
The brothers continued rowing on in silence. The bog was ancient; filled with the decayed remains of the great forest that once lived there. The mist that served to be the precursor to the deaths, or worse, of everyone they knew in this life had settled in in the valley around them, limiting their vision to mere yards.
“Boy,” Alrek spoke to Declan after a time. “When your brother was about to be cut apart, did you really expect your God to save him?”
Declan’s cheeks burned hot. He buried his chin into his chest and directed his anger towards the oar, which had become entangled on a fossilized tree stump. “Yes. I believed it with all my heart.”
Alrek smiled. The tales that preceded the arrival of the Northmen--vile men who did not bathe and had with insects in their hair--did not seem to apply to the man. His long blonde hair was neatly combed and the only scent that clung to the man that Declan could smell was that of the sea air.
And the metallic stench of his father’s blood, which coated the front of the man’s tunic.
“You Christians amuse me,” he continued in his hushed tone. “How do you expect your White Christ to defeat our gods? He is one and they are many, and his only weapon is that of two sticks tied together. Why, our god, Thor carries a hammer that can strike down the mightiest of creatures. It was his will that brought us here and continues to bring us fortune, while your little Carpenter-God abandons you.”
Declan touched his crucifix for reassurance. At that moment, it truly felt like nothing more than the two twigs bound with leather that comprised it. “I’m just a boy, sire. I cannot even read the pages in the Bible that the monks teach us from. My father knew more on the subject than either Thomas or I. You could have asked him this question, if you hadn’t killed him.”
Thomas broke down into a fresh round of sobbing at the mere mention of his deceased parents. “Declan, don’t make them angry!” he whined, eyeing Gunnar and the remaining grim faces in the ferry.
Alrek laughed. “That was your father I killed, then? He seemed a bit too young to have sired one so old. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
A portly Heathen named Rolf chimed in from the front of the boat. “That must mean that the woman was these pups’ mother! I cut the bitch’s throat myself! After I fucked her!”
The barbarous laughter of the Northmen cut the young brothers far deeper than anything their blades could have managed. Thomas swooned, and would have simply laid down on the ground if not for Declan’s hand holding him in place. “Easy now, Thomas,” he whispered to his brother, “It will be over soon.”
“O-okay, Declan. Okay.”
Declan managed a weak smile. For all his stoicism, he was on the precipice of breaking. The attack on his village took place mere hours ago, yet he felt as though he hadn’t slept in days. The dying pleas of his mother haunted him, serving both as a source of inspiration and torment. The scene replayed in his head over and over again. Hearing her voice felt like a physical slap that made his body recoil.
“Spare my sons! I beg of you! They are merely boys! They cannot possibly harm any of you!” she clung to breeches of Rolf, preventing him from pulling them up.
“Get the fuck off me!” A snarl and a blur of flesh split her lips wide open. Droplets of blood arched through the room as she fell. “Shall I kill her now or does anyone else want a turn?”
“P-please! Kill me if you like, but if you spare my sons, I will take you to where the true wealth is hidden. As much as you desi—“
The remnants of the woman’s last words entered the world by way of arterial spray. Rolf’s knife opened the soft flesh of her neck, creating an eye-shaped window through her flesh. She reached not for her fleeing blood, but for her sons, cowering in the corner with hungry blades placed against their own throats. She managed a half-smile and then followed her husband into the next life.
A blurred object dangled before Declan’s weary eyes, snapping him from a past Hell into his present one. “Tell me boy, what does this truly unlock?” Alrek said.
Declan laid the oar against his knees for a moment so he could rub his vision clear; his palms fit perfectly in the dark hollows under his eyes. The bow of the key was sculpted into a pair of curved wings; angelic-looking, yet the cold metal gave them an aura of something far from divinity. “As I told you before we set out, it is the key to the monastery just outside of our village. Where the treasure is.”
Alrek clenched his fist around the key, enveloping the wings in his hard callouses. “Why would your monks give control over their wealth? It seems nonsensical and foolish.”
Declan shrugged and resumed rowing. “It has always been as so. A family is chosen to guard the key and to act as steward of the riches and provide the brothers with food, fresh water and whatever else they require for their studies of God.”
“How far is this damned shack anyway?” Gunnar yelled.
“My father always told us it takes a half-day’s journey through the Maw of the Ogre. The monastery rests right in the middle.” Declan said.
“Why would this place be named after such a horror?” a slender Heathen called Toki spat overboard into the dark waters; his spittle barely causing a single ripple.
Declan shrugged. “This place has a habit of swallowing men whole. Father used to tell us it had a particular taste for those of mean dispositions, trying to scare us.”
“Superstitious nonsense!” said Ulf, a grey-bearded man with only one ear.
“The sacrifices we made to Odin will protect us from this filthy hole!” Gunnar added.
“That’s right! The priests told us it would be so!” Frodi, a man with hair as red as fire, agreed.
The spiritual debate continued; Each of Alrek’s warriors reassuring each other with great vigor until all stood and shouted at each other, and to the skies, of the might of the Aesir.
“Enough!” Alrek unsheathed his sword and rose to his feet. A silence fell over the boat until all but the sounds of the bog were rendered mute. The tip of Alrek’s blade hovered over them until all were rendered docile. He remained standing long after each had taken their seats, until the call of a loon broke the tension. The bog obscured the creature’s position; the echo bounced off itself, amplifying the noise until it felt as if the swamp itself were laughing at them all.
The ferry swayed; a hollow thud reverberated through the damp, moss-encrusted wood, causing each beam to protest against the sudden rough treatment. The shuddering of the rotting craft drove the Northmen, each an experienced seamen, into a near-panic.
“What was that?” Rolf said, lifting his axe.
“Quiet, you fucking idiot! You’ll awaken the ogre that dwells at the bottom of this bog!” Frodi said.
The barbarous laughter of the Northmen cut the young brothers far deeper than anything their blades could have managed. Thomas swooned, and would have simply laid down on the ground if not for Declan’s hand holding him in place. “Easy now, Thomas,” he whispered to his brother, “It will be over soon.”
“O-okay, Declan. Okay.”
Declan managed a weak smile. For all his stoicism, he was on the precipice of breaking. The attack on his village took place mere hours ago, yet he felt as though he hadn’t slept in days. The dying pleas of his mother haunted him, serving both as a source of inspiration and torment. The scene replayed in his head over and over again. Hearing her voice felt like a physical slap that made his body recoil.
“Spare my sons! I beg of you! They are merely boys! They cannot possibly harm any of you!” she clung to breeches of Rolf, preventing him from pulling them up.
“Get the fuck off me!” A snarl and a blur of flesh split her lips wide open. Droplets of blood arched through the room as she fell. “Shall I kill her now or does anyone else want a turn?”
“P-please! Kill me if you like, but if you spare my sons, I will take you to where the true wealth is hidden. As much as you desi—“
The remnants of the woman’s last words entered the world by way of arterial spray. Rolf’s knife opened the soft flesh of her neck, creating an eye-shaped window through her flesh. She reached not for her fleeing blood, but for her sons, cowering in the corner with hungry blades placed against their own throats. She managed a half-smile and then followed her husband into the next life.
A blurred object dangled before Declan’s weary eyes, snapping him from a past Hell into his present one. “Tell me boy, what does this truly unlock?” Alrek said.
Declan laid the oar against his knees for a moment so he could rub his vision clear; his palms fit perfectly in the dark hollows under his eyes. The bow of the key was sculpted into a pair of curved wings; angelic-looking, yet the cold metal gave them an aura of something far from divinity. “As I told you before we set out, it is the key to the monastery just outside of our village. Where the treasure is.”
Alrek clenched his fist around the key, enveloping the wings in his hard callouses. “Why would your monks give control over their wealth? It seems nonsensical and foolish.”
Declan shrugged and resumed rowing. “It has always been as so. A family is chosen to guard the key and to act as steward of the riches and provide the brothers with food, fresh water and whatever else they require for their studies of God.”
“How far is this damned shack anyway?” Gunnar yelled.
“My father always told us it takes a half-day’s journey through the Maw of the Ogre. The monastery rests right in the middle.” Declan said.
“Why would this place be named after such a horror?” a slender Heathen called Toki spat overboard into the dark waters; his spittle barely causing a single ripple.
Declan shrugged. “This place has a habit of swallowing men whole. Father used to tell us it had a particular taste for those of mean dispositions, trying to scare us.”
“Superstitious nonsense!” said Ulf, a grey-bearded man with only one ear.
“The sacrifices we made to Odin will protect us from this filthy hole!” Gunnar added.
“That’s right! The priests told us it would be so!” Frodi, a man with hair as red as fire, agreed.
The spiritual debate continued; Each of Alrek’s warriors reassuring each other with great vigor until all stood and shouted at each other, and to the skies, of the might of the Aesir.
“Enough!” Alrek unsheathed his sword and rose to his feet. A silence fell over the boat until all but the sounds of the bog were rendered mute. The tip of Alrek’s blade hovered over them until all were rendered docile. He remained standing long after each had taken their seats, until the call of a loon broke the tension. The bog obscured the creature’s position; the echo bounced off itself, amplifying the noise until it felt as if the swamp itself were laughing at them all.
The ferry swayed; a hollow thud reverberated through the damp, moss-encrusted wood, causing each beam to protest against the sudden rough treatment. The shuddering of the rotting craft drove the Northmen, each an experienced seamen, into a near-panic.
“What was that?” Rolf said, lifting his axe.
“Quiet, you fucking idiot! You’ll awaken the ogre that dwells at the bottom of this bog!” Frodi said.
A burning sensation erupted in the small of Declan’s back, followed by a trickle of hot liquid spilling out of him. His blood, he knew.
“That better have just been another dead tree we hit, boy.” Alrek twisted the tip of his knife into the tiny wound he’d created, carving a half-moon into the boy’s skin.
Declan bit his tongue hard to keep from crying out, an act born more out of love for his brother than out of defiance. Musn’t let Thomas see me afraid or he will be lost. He looked over the side as much as the leader of the Heathens would allow for. “We are close now,” he said, taking up his oar with a large sigh of relief. “We will be there within the hour.”
“A tiny bump of the boat and you suddenly know our position?” He felt the knife retract from his back slightly. Alrek rested the edge against his spine and held it there. “I find this to be suspect.”
“Look over the side and tell me what you see.” Declan said.
Alrek scoffed. Who was this mere boy to give him orders? He was Alrek Leifsson, skeppare of his own vessel. He’d half a mind to drive his dagger into the boy’s throat and let the final words he heard be promises to sell his brother to the worst kind of perverts he’d had the displeasure of dealing with.
Yet, the eyes of his men—filled with superstitious fear from the unfamiliar place—were watching him; pleading him to show the bravery that earned his family their position and Alrek the right to wear a sword.
“Very well,” he said, sliding his knife back into his tunic. “If this is just some kind of game, then you will regret it ver—“
“What is it, Alrek?” Rolf asked.
“Yes! What is it you see?” Ulf pleaded.
Alrek slumped back in his seat. A smile appeared, followed by an icy laughter that chilled Declan and Thomas to the marrow. “See for yourselves, you cowards! See what the great and horrible ogre has in store for you!”
The dead man floated a foot from the surface; a rope wrapped around his shoulder kept him tethered to the sunken boat that he once piloted. His neck had been broken in the wreck resulting in his dead eyes being forever fixed upwards. The brackish bogwater kept him well-preserved; his skin had just begun to swell and wrinkle. The motion of the bog caused him to sway from right to left, making the corpse appear to be inviting them to come down and visit him in his dank, dark grave.
“That better have just been another dead tree we hit, boy.” Alrek twisted the tip of his knife into the tiny wound he’d created, carving a half-moon into the boy’s skin.
Declan bit his tongue hard to keep from crying out, an act born more out of love for his brother than out of defiance. Musn’t let Thomas see me afraid or he will be lost. He looked over the side as much as the leader of the Heathens would allow for. “We are close now,” he said, taking up his oar with a large sigh of relief. “We will be there within the hour.”
“A tiny bump of the boat and you suddenly know our position?” He felt the knife retract from his back slightly. Alrek rested the edge against his spine and held it there. “I find this to be suspect.”
“Look over the side and tell me what you see.” Declan said.
Alrek scoffed. Who was this mere boy to give him orders? He was Alrek Leifsson, skeppare of his own vessel. He’d half a mind to drive his dagger into the boy’s throat and let the final words he heard be promises to sell his brother to the worst kind of perverts he’d had the displeasure of dealing with.
Yet, the eyes of his men—filled with superstitious fear from the unfamiliar place—were watching him; pleading him to show the bravery that earned his family their position and Alrek the right to wear a sword.
“Very well,” he said, sliding his knife back into his tunic. “If this is just some kind of game, then you will regret it ver—“
“What is it, Alrek?” Rolf asked.
“Yes! What is it you see?” Ulf pleaded.
Alrek slumped back in his seat. A smile appeared, followed by an icy laughter that chilled Declan and Thomas to the marrow. “See for yourselves, you cowards! See what the great and horrible ogre has in store for you!”
The dead man floated a foot from the surface; a rope wrapped around his shoulder kept him tethered to the sunken boat that he once piloted. His neck had been broken in the wreck resulting in his dead eyes being forever fixed upwards. The brackish bogwater kept him well-preserved; his skin had just begun to swell and wrinkle. The motion of the bog caused him to sway from right to left, making the corpse appear to be inviting them to come down and visit him in his dank, dark grave.
“His name was Martin,” Declan said as the Northmen looked overboard. “We came across him about a week ago, Father and I. There was a storm that rolled in from the ocean and he must have gotten stranded and crashed. It took Father less than an hour to row us to the monastery after we found him, and neither has moved since.”
The other Heathens soon forgot their superstitious fear and joined in their captain’s merriment. Soon, all notions of evil and monsters dwelling underneath them in the abyss or in the fog were forgotten in favor of things more pressing; gold, and the promise of lots of it.
.Declan nodded to his brother and they took up the task once more. The ferry protested, but eventually had no choice but to surrender to momentum. The oar brushed against the face of the corpse as they rowed on, shredding off a strip of its flesh, now the consistence of jelly. It floated to the surface, clinging to the moss and fauna before a loon, the same one who’d been watching them, swooped down and spirited it away.
The other Heathens soon forgot their superstitious fear and joined in their captain’s merriment. Soon, all notions of evil and monsters dwelling underneath them in the abyss or in the fog were forgotten in favor of things more pressing; gold, and the promise of lots of it.
.Declan nodded to his brother and they took up the task once more. The ferry protested, but eventually had no choice but to surrender to momentum. The oar brushed against the face of the corpse as they rowed on, shredding off a strip of its flesh, now the consistence of jelly. It floated to the surface, clinging to the moss and fauna before a loon, the same one who’d been watching them, swooped down and spirited it away.
The monastery sat at the top of a craggy hill on what was little more than a slab of volcanic rock too stubborn to sink into the bog. The fog, suffocating and all encompassing, did not touch the building; the wisps curled halfway up the slope before rolling back into its collective.
“Go on, boy. Open the door.”
Alrek nudged Declan towards the ancient metal door. The iron was discolored a sickly brown from exposure to the sea air. No hinges were visible, as if the mighty door had always been sitting there and the monks built the stone walls of their church around it.
“Hurry it up, boy. You don’t want to see what happens when Rolf and Gunnar grow impatient. Limbs tend to get lost when they do.” Alrek shoved Thomas into the waiting arms of his grinning warriors. They poked and prodded the boy until big, fat tears soaked the ground.
Declan took a deep breath. He gripped the key with both hands, thrust it into the keyhole and turned. The door swung open almost instantly, as if the building had been anticipating their arrival. Air belched forth from the interior, kicking up the dirt and dead plants at their feet into a dust cloud. Dim light shone from the end of a narrow hall with a slanted roof that lead down into the island itself.
“What in Lõke’s name are you waiting for? An invitation?” Alrek drew his sword and pointed into the bowels of the monastery. His warriors, filled with avarice, ran forward into the black hole, knocking their axes and spears against their round shields as they descended inside.
Alrek ushered the young brothers together until they stood shoulder to shoulder before him. “If this proves to be nothing more than an empty slimy hole, it will be the last place your screams are heard.”
“Go on, boy. Open the door.”
Alrek nudged Declan towards the ancient metal door. The iron was discolored a sickly brown from exposure to the sea air. No hinges were visible, as if the mighty door had always been sitting there and the monks built the stone walls of their church around it.
“Hurry it up, boy. You don’t want to see what happens when Rolf and Gunnar grow impatient. Limbs tend to get lost when they do.” Alrek shoved Thomas into the waiting arms of his grinning warriors. They poked and prodded the boy until big, fat tears soaked the ground.
Declan took a deep breath. He gripped the key with both hands, thrust it into the keyhole and turned. The door swung open almost instantly, as if the building had been anticipating their arrival. Air belched forth from the interior, kicking up the dirt and dead plants at their feet into a dust cloud. Dim light shone from the end of a narrow hall with a slanted roof that lead down into the island itself.
“What in Lõke’s name are you waiting for? An invitation?” Alrek drew his sword and pointed into the bowels of the monastery. His warriors, filled with avarice, ran forward into the black hole, knocking their axes and spears against their round shields as they descended inside.
Alrek ushered the young brothers together until they stood shoulder to shoulder before him. “If this proves to be nothing more than an empty slimy hole, it will be the last place your screams are heard.”
The Heathens found themselves wandering through a spider-web of tunnels that moved them ever deeper into the island. The network had been in disuse for quite some time. Spiders claimed dominion over the cramped space; thick cobwebs hung like curtains from ceiling to the earthen floor. This did little to stifle the battle cries of the Northmen. Each warrior embraced it and ran through the webbing until it formed ghostly beards upon their own.
After a period of tripping over fossilized roots and broken pieces of ceramics, they noticed the faintest hint of natural light, nothing more than a thin sliver of the gloomy day they had left behind outside. The floor took on an upwards slant as they approached, ending at a door of rotting wood that hung from two hinges barely tamped into the frame.
Alrek patted the back of Rolf’s neck and the burly man turned the door into splinters with a single kick. Light poured into the tunnel as the invaders swarmed into the unknown room with as much fervor as a pack of rabid rats devouring a corpse.
The chapel where the Heathens stood was small by the standards of Christendom. There were three rows of pews--two of which were almost gnawed away entirely by vermin—and a small altar. Books by the hundreds lay scattered upon the floor, each one more riddled with dust and mold than the last.
“What in the name of Hel is this?” Gunnar said, spinning his axe in his palm.
“There’s no fucking gold here!” Frodi screamed.
“Aye. Naught but fucking nothing!” Toki kicked a stack of books over; the pages flew free from the disintegrated binding and were caught on a breeze brought on by the centerpiece of the room, a large circular window that had long since been shattered.
Alrek stared out of the rose window and beheld Declan and Thomas’s village through the swirling mists. The fires they had helped to set raged on. “See that boy?” he said to Declan. “From way up here, the flames almost appear to be devouring the entire country-side.”
Declan regarded the demonic burning below and said nothing. He pulled Thomas close and hid his face from the sight.
“What the fuck, Alrek? You told us this place contained wealth beyond anything we’d find in the village?” said Rolf.
Alrek turned from the window; a peculiar smile affixed upon his face. “Why, Rolf? Whatever are you implying? That I have knowingly led you astray?”
Rolf stiffened as Alrek approached him. He didn’t like the wild look that danced behind the man’s eyes and he most assuredly did not like the way his sword was raised at him. “Where is the treasure, then?” Rolf gripped the hilt of his axe tighter. “No one, not even a stupid worshipper of the White Christ, has dwelled in this place for years. These two little liars were just trying to buy time for more of their kind to escape and you were stupid enough to fall for it!”
The slaying occurred with such swiftness that none of the Northmen realized it had happened until Rolf lay dead upon the dirt-encrusted floorboards. In a single seamless motion, Alrek stepped towards his subordinate, plunged his blade deep into his guts, twisted it and pulled it back out. Viscera and chunks of pinkish meat that were once Rolf’s organs spattered against the pews as Alrek swung his blade in the air, cleansing it of the stain.
“Now then! Is there anyone else here who wishes to question my decision to come to this place?” Alrek pointed his still bloody blade at the remaining Heathens. “No? Shall we continue on with the search of this stinking place or shall I cut you all down until there is no one left to share in the spoils?”
Gunnar stepped forth and spat green phlegm onto the forehead of Rolf’s corpse. “We never really liked him anyway.” he said with a laugh.
Thomas tugged at his brother’s tunic as the Northmen continued on with their disparaging of the dead. “D-Declan? Where are the monks? Won’t they help us?”
A lie perched on Declan’s tongue. I could tell him the monks are simply waiting for the right time to unleash the fury of Jesus himself. He debated the merits of speaking this falsity to his brother versus speaking the truth, and all its horror, as his father spoke it to him upon his first visit to the monastery.
After a period of tripping over fossilized roots and broken pieces of ceramics, they noticed the faintest hint of natural light, nothing more than a thin sliver of the gloomy day they had left behind outside. The floor took on an upwards slant as they approached, ending at a door of rotting wood that hung from two hinges barely tamped into the frame.
Alrek patted the back of Rolf’s neck and the burly man turned the door into splinters with a single kick. Light poured into the tunnel as the invaders swarmed into the unknown room with as much fervor as a pack of rabid rats devouring a corpse.
The chapel where the Heathens stood was small by the standards of Christendom. There were three rows of pews--two of which were almost gnawed away entirely by vermin—and a small altar. Books by the hundreds lay scattered upon the floor, each one more riddled with dust and mold than the last.
“What in the name of Hel is this?” Gunnar said, spinning his axe in his palm.
“There’s no fucking gold here!” Frodi screamed.
“Aye. Naught but fucking nothing!” Toki kicked a stack of books over; the pages flew free from the disintegrated binding and were caught on a breeze brought on by the centerpiece of the room, a large circular window that had long since been shattered.
Alrek stared out of the rose window and beheld Declan and Thomas’s village through the swirling mists. The fires they had helped to set raged on. “See that boy?” he said to Declan. “From way up here, the flames almost appear to be devouring the entire country-side.”
Declan regarded the demonic burning below and said nothing. He pulled Thomas close and hid his face from the sight.
“What the fuck, Alrek? You told us this place contained wealth beyond anything we’d find in the village?” said Rolf.
Alrek turned from the window; a peculiar smile affixed upon his face. “Why, Rolf? Whatever are you implying? That I have knowingly led you astray?”
Rolf stiffened as Alrek approached him. He didn’t like the wild look that danced behind the man’s eyes and he most assuredly did not like the way his sword was raised at him. “Where is the treasure, then?” Rolf gripped the hilt of his axe tighter. “No one, not even a stupid worshipper of the White Christ, has dwelled in this place for years. These two little liars were just trying to buy time for more of their kind to escape and you were stupid enough to fall for it!”
The slaying occurred with such swiftness that none of the Northmen realized it had happened until Rolf lay dead upon the dirt-encrusted floorboards. In a single seamless motion, Alrek stepped towards his subordinate, plunged his blade deep into his guts, twisted it and pulled it back out. Viscera and chunks of pinkish meat that were once Rolf’s organs spattered against the pews as Alrek swung his blade in the air, cleansing it of the stain.
“Now then! Is there anyone else here who wishes to question my decision to come to this place?” Alrek pointed his still bloody blade at the remaining Heathens. “No? Shall we continue on with the search of this stinking place or shall I cut you all down until there is no one left to share in the spoils?”
Gunnar stepped forth and spat green phlegm onto the forehead of Rolf’s corpse. “We never really liked him anyway.” he said with a laugh.
Thomas tugged at his brother’s tunic as the Northmen continued on with their disparaging of the dead. “D-Declan? Where are the monks? Won’t they help us?”
A lie perched on Declan’s tongue. I could tell him the monks are simply waiting for the right time to unleash the fury of Jesus himself. He debated the merits of speaking this falsity to his brother versus speaking the truth, and all its horror, as his father spoke it to him upon his first visit to the monastery.
“Door! Door!” Frodi screamed.
A small door swung open. Three men, cloaked in dark purple hooded robes, walked into the chapel. The Heathens were upon them before they had walked five paces. Ulf smashed into the lead man with his round shield, knocking him to the ground. Frodi and Toki fell upon the last man from behind with their axes, hewing at his body long after the monk stopped moving.
The last was left for Gunnar. He impaled the man with his spear and lifted him off ground. The man’s hood fell away from his head, revealing not a face, but a hideous mask. The leather was cracked and worn. It consisted of two small porticos for eyes and a long, curved nose like that of the beak of a bird.
“What the fuck are these men supposed to be?” Gunnar said, dropping both spear and masked man to the ground.
“Bring the one that still breathes to me.” Alrek commanded. “And the boy.”
Declan and the sole surviving masked man were thrown to their knees before Alrek. The boy tried to see the man’s eyes behind his mask, but the glass was too dark for him to see anything but his own reflection.
Alrek lifted the man’s hood back with the tip of his sword. The mask was more extravagant than those of his fellow monks. The leather was well-polished; intricate etchings of two men ran down either side of the beak; each man held a large open jar, from which, wisps of gold spewed forth.
“I certainly hope that you have not taken a vow of poverty, monk, for your sake and for the sake of these two boys. You see, the pathetic walking bags of flesh that brought them screaming into this world told us such tales of your home. Wondrous treasures barely comparable to our imaginations. Yet, I look around and what do I see?” Alrek picked a strand of gossamer web from his mustache and flicked it into the air. “Dust and memories. It appears that we have both been made the fool, monk. You, from a God that demands servitude and I, by the forked tongues of those who you have allowed into your service. While I can bring you no relief from your choice, I can rectify my problem here and now.
“Toki, bring me the young one.” Toki lifted Thomas off his feet and dropped him at Alrek’s feet. His eyes reflected an entire lifetime’s worth of pain and suffering. He looked to his brother with an expression one that young should not have known.
His quivering mouth opened to form the syllables that made up Declan’s name but were forever silenced as Alrek drove his sword through the base of his neck.
“Thomas!!” A torrent of emotions grew within Declan causing him to lose his senses and make an attempt at vengeance against Alrek. This attempt was halted in its infancy by something hard and blunt colliding with the small of his back. The image of his dead brother tripled in his vision as he was pulled to his knees.
A small door swung open. Three men, cloaked in dark purple hooded robes, walked into the chapel. The Heathens were upon them before they had walked five paces. Ulf smashed into the lead man with his round shield, knocking him to the ground. Frodi and Toki fell upon the last man from behind with their axes, hewing at his body long after the monk stopped moving.
The last was left for Gunnar. He impaled the man with his spear and lifted him off ground. The man’s hood fell away from his head, revealing not a face, but a hideous mask. The leather was cracked and worn. It consisted of two small porticos for eyes and a long, curved nose like that of the beak of a bird.
“What the fuck are these men supposed to be?” Gunnar said, dropping both spear and masked man to the ground.
“Bring the one that still breathes to me.” Alrek commanded. “And the boy.”
Declan and the sole surviving masked man were thrown to their knees before Alrek. The boy tried to see the man’s eyes behind his mask, but the glass was too dark for him to see anything but his own reflection.
Alrek lifted the man’s hood back with the tip of his sword. The mask was more extravagant than those of his fellow monks. The leather was well-polished; intricate etchings of two men ran down either side of the beak; each man held a large open jar, from which, wisps of gold spewed forth.
“I certainly hope that you have not taken a vow of poverty, monk, for your sake and for the sake of these two boys. You see, the pathetic walking bags of flesh that brought them screaming into this world told us such tales of your home. Wondrous treasures barely comparable to our imaginations. Yet, I look around and what do I see?” Alrek picked a strand of gossamer web from his mustache and flicked it into the air. “Dust and memories. It appears that we have both been made the fool, monk. You, from a God that demands servitude and I, by the forked tongues of those who you have allowed into your service. While I can bring you no relief from your choice, I can rectify my problem here and now.
“Toki, bring me the young one.” Toki lifted Thomas off his feet and dropped him at Alrek’s feet. His eyes reflected an entire lifetime’s worth of pain and suffering. He looked to his brother with an expression one that young should not have known.
His quivering mouth opened to form the syllables that made up Declan’s name but were forever silenced as Alrek drove his sword through the base of his neck.
“Thomas!!” A torrent of emotions grew within Declan causing him to lose his senses and make an attempt at vengeance against Alrek. This attempt was halted in its infancy by something hard and blunt colliding with the small of his back. The image of his dead brother tripled in his vision as he was pulled to his knees.
“T-Thomas…Oh Jesus, save him.” Declan muttered the Lord’s Prayer and kissed his mother’s crucifix. Take his soul from this place before they claim it!
“I did warn you what would happen, boy,” Alrek smirked, kneeling down to use Thomas’s tunic to wipe his blade clean. “And yet, you still place your faith in your White Christ. You see that, monk? True dedication to his God. He would make for a good candidate for this place, don’t you think? Or, rather would have, as I have the sudden urge to see it in ashes.”
The masked man turned from Alrek and regarded Declan’s crucifix. The boy’s reflection spun over itself as the monk tilted his head from side to side. The beak of his mask brushed against the symbol of the boy’s faith. A loud snort emanated from within discarding any semblance of benevolence.
Though he had no earthly way of proving it, Declan could swear the man was silently laughing at him.
“The treasure exists, Odin-Son,” The monk finally spoke. His voice sounded corporeal and strained as if the beak of his mask were filled with loam. “As extravagant and plentiful as you were lead to believe. You warriors from the North are welcome to as much as your hearts desire.”
“The treasure is near?” Alrek said.
“Very.”
“I’d press you to gaze upon the bodies of your fellow worshippers, and that of the boy that this one here weeps for, lest you claim ignorance over to the lengths that I am willing to go to claim what is mine.”
The monk looked at the corpses and nodded. “Indeed, Odin-Son, Indeed.”
“I did warn you what would happen, boy,” Alrek smirked, kneeling down to use Thomas’s tunic to wipe his blade clean. “And yet, you still place your faith in your White Christ. You see that, monk? True dedication to his God. He would make for a good candidate for this place, don’t you think? Or, rather would have, as I have the sudden urge to see it in ashes.”
The masked man turned from Alrek and regarded Declan’s crucifix. The boy’s reflection spun over itself as the monk tilted his head from side to side. The beak of his mask brushed against the symbol of the boy’s faith. A loud snort emanated from within discarding any semblance of benevolence.
Though he had no earthly way of proving it, Declan could swear the man was silently laughing at him.
“The treasure exists, Odin-Son,” The monk finally spoke. His voice sounded corporeal and strained as if the beak of his mask were filled with loam. “As extravagant and plentiful as you were lead to believe. You warriors from the North are welcome to as much as your hearts desire.”
“The treasure is near?” Alrek said.
“Very.”
“I’d press you to gaze upon the bodies of your fellow worshippers, and that of the boy that this one here weeps for, lest you claim ignorance over to the lengths that I am willing to go to claim what is mine.”
The monk looked at the corpses and nodded. “Indeed, Odin-Son, Indeed.”
The masked monk led the Northmen through a long hallway with a high ceiling. Ghosts of glorious tapestries hung haphazardly from the walls, all but having been devoured by moths. Intricate paintings once adorned the ribbed vault ceiling, but they too had long fallen into a decrepit state. “Yes, this place was once as grand as your great Vahall,” the monk said. He leaned on Declan, using him as a human walking stick as they shuffled along. “But that was long ago. When your grandfather’s fathers were only possibilities.”
Gunnar showed his interest in the storied history of the monastery by tearing a tapestry from the wall and rubbing it against his crotch. Declan felt the monk tense slightly at the insult; his grip tightened on his shoulder but released the moment they came to a great arched door.
“Here it lies, North-Man. Everything you prize and desire lies behind this very door.”
“Well, then what the hell are we waiting for? Boy! Unlock the door!”
A raspy, strained laughter chased the cheery echoes of the Heathen’s laughter down the hall long-since absent the voices of men. “Why, my dear Odin-son! The door is not locked! It is never locked! The treasure is yours and always has been.”
Gunnar showed his interest in the storied history of the monastery by tearing a tapestry from the wall and rubbing it against his crotch. Declan felt the monk tense slightly at the insult; his grip tightened on his shoulder but released the moment they came to a great arched door.
“Here it lies, North-Man. Everything you prize and desire lies behind this very door.”
“Well, then what the hell are we waiting for? Boy! Unlock the door!”
A raspy, strained laughter chased the cheery echoes of the Heathen’s laughter down the hall long-since absent the voices of men. “Why, my dear Odin-son! The door is not locked! It is never locked! The treasure is yours and always has been.”
Wealth beyond that of the richest of kings filled the room. There was no discernable order to the fortune; it spread from one end of the oval-shaped room to the other. Gold coins were piled as high as a man’s waist and precious gems lay scattered on the ground.
Declan looked at the cavalcade of currencies, each in varying shapes and sized and despised it. My family was slaughtered for this? Precious gems and stones?
The Northmen ransacked the room of treasure with the unbridled enthusiasm of children. All save for Alrek, who lingered on the threshold, studying his conquest. “Monk. What lies beyond that door there?” Alrek said as he peered through an emerald the size of a walnut.
The door was plain and unremarkable save for one glaring characteristic, the same markings that ran the length of the monk’s beak were carved into it. “That door? It is our inner-most place of worship. Where we go to pray to our God. There is nothing within its chambers that is of any interest to you, I can assure you.”
Alrek smiled. “Do not presume to tell me what I find of interest, monk. Did you not proclaim that this treasure was mine? As such, I lay claim to whatever is in that room.
“Gunnar! Break it down.”
The big man lifted his axe and prepared to hew the mighty door when something stayed his hand.
A loud creaking sound filled the air as the door slowly swung open on its own accord.
Alrek shoved the befuddled Gunnar aside and strode inside. A large altar of polished marble took up the majority of the room, leaving barely enough room for Alrek to move. The altar served as a stark contrast to the rest of the monastery. There was no sign of neglect in this place, no state of decay. Instead, vibrant paintings depicted scenes of men holding large jars over their heads while other men cowered at their feet. The smoothness of the granite made the colors pop, as if they were alive. Bright gold and greens spilled out of the open tops of the containers and swirled around the standing men, all of whom had looks of defiant bliss painted on their faces.
As breath-taking as the artwork was, it paled in comparison to the jar that rested in a hollow, dead-center in the altar. Painted black with golden runes etched across its body, it caught the attention of the Heathen lord, hypnotizing him with its beauty.
The Northmen paused in their pillage and encircled Alrek as he walked the jar out and placed it on a small table. Their collective mouths salivated at the idea of what riches it held within as their leader slowly unscrewed the lid.
A hiss of air escaped as the seal was broken; the lid clattered to the floor, landing atop a pile of gold jewelry. Alrek peered into the dark interior of the jar and then plunged his hand inside.
“What’s inside? It is shiny?” Toki asked.
Declan looked at the cavalcade of currencies, each in varying shapes and sized and despised it. My family was slaughtered for this? Precious gems and stones?
The Northmen ransacked the room of treasure with the unbridled enthusiasm of children. All save for Alrek, who lingered on the threshold, studying his conquest. “Monk. What lies beyond that door there?” Alrek said as he peered through an emerald the size of a walnut.
The door was plain and unremarkable save for one glaring characteristic, the same markings that ran the length of the monk’s beak were carved into it. “That door? It is our inner-most place of worship. Where we go to pray to our God. There is nothing within its chambers that is of any interest to you, I can assure you.”
Alrek smiled. “Do not presume to tell me what I find of interest, monk. Did you not proclaim that this treasure was mine? As such, I lay claim to whatever is in that room.
“Gunnar! Break it down.”
The big man lifted his axe and prepared to hew the mighty door when something stayed his hand.
A loud creaking sound filled the air as the door slowly swung open on its own accord.
Alrek shoved the befuddled Gunnar aside and strode inside. A large altar of polished marble took up the majority of the room, leaving barely enough room for Alrek to move. The altar served as a stark contrast to the rest of the monastery. There was no sign of neglect in this place, no state of decay. Instead, vibrant paintings depicted scenes of men holding large jars over their heads while other men cowered at their feet. The smoothness of the granite made the colors pop, as if they were alive. Bright gold and greens spilled out of the open tops of the containers and swirled around the standing men, all of whom had looks of defiant bliss painted on their faces.
As breath-taking as the artwork was, it paled in comparison to the jar that rested in a hollow, dead-center in the altar. Painted black with golden runes etched across its body, it caught the attention of the Heathen lord, hypnotizing him with its beauty.
The Northmen paused in their pillage and encircled Alrek as he walked the jar out and placed it on a small table. Their collective mouths salivated at the idea of what riches it held within as their leader slowly unscrewed the lid.
A hiss of air escaped as the seal was broken; the lid clattered to the floor, landing atop a pile of gold jewelry. Alrek peered into the dark interior of the jar and then plunged his hand inside.
“What’s inside? It is shiny?” Toki asked.
Alrek cried out in excruciating pain. He leapt back from the jar, pulling back an arm coated in a dark liquid. “Get it off me! Get it off!” he screamed as the liquid bubbled, filling the room with the stench of scorched flesh.
Ulf and Frodi held their leader down as Gunnar attempted to wipe the substance free. The ichor sprang from Alrek and coated the big man’s hands. He screamed as it forced itself into his body through the cuticles of his fingertips. Dark crimson leaked from his nose and ears as large swells of his own blood pushed through his tough skin.
“Odin save us!” Toki screamed. He turned from his friends and ran past Declan and the monk, leaving a trail of untold riches behind him. He was greeted at the door by the very monks they had murdered not more than an hour ago. “Draugr! They are the undead!”
The first monk’s body was in shambles; his right arm was missing from below the elbow and his neck clung to his shoulders by a few sinews of veiny blue flesh. His bird mask hung in pieces, revealing a hideous pair of maroon lips.
Despite its state, it possessed a strength that overshadowed anything the Heathen could muster. It clamped its remaining hand on Toki’s shoulder and squeezed. The man’s collarbone was crushed into powder as he was lifted off the ground and thrown back into the room.
“Madness! This is madness!” Ulf frantically stripped out his tunic as Gunnar coughed his tainted blood on him.
“Madness? No, my dear Northman. What you are witnessing is a miracle!” The masked monk said. “Our God has deemed you to be worthy offerings and has granted us with its favor for loyal service.”
Ulf’s hands clawed at his face as the foulness of the jar went to work on him. He made swift work of the flesh of his cheeks and by the time he collapsed into a semi-conscious state, his left eyeball dangled from his fingers.
The monks stood in a circle around the dying Heathens. They removed their bird masks, revealing the true scope of their decay. To Declan, all but forgotten in the whirlwind of greed and death, their heads had the same consistency of rotten apples that had been left out in the sun, stench and all.
“And now, my brothers, we shall honor our great God, whom we have worshipped since the time of the great Exodus. Where once were ten, only one remains, but it is the mightiest of the ten that were visited upon the Pharaoh, and remains so even now.”
Alrek crawled through the blood and bile of his dying men towards Declan. “You! Boy! I will see you suffer the same fate as I for leading us to his demon’s den!”
The main monk placed his foot gently on Alrek’s back, halting his revenge. The Heathen struggled for air as his tormentor ground his heel into his ribs. “The boy is hardly to blame in all this. His fate in this life was determined long before his birth. One bloodline to provide the brothers of this monastery with fresh sacrifices to our God until the sun goes dark. We would gladly seek them out ourselves, as tradition dictates, but alas, we are forever bound to this place by the will of our God. Didn’t you think to question why the doors swing outwards? And are locked from the outside?”
Ulf and Frodi held their leader down as Gunnar attempted to wipe the substance free. The ichor sprang from Alrek and coated the big man’s hands. He screamed as it forced itself into his body through the cuticles of his fingertips. Dark crimson leaked from his nose and ears as large swells of his own blood pushed through his tough skin.
“Odin save us!” Toki screamed. He turned from his friends and ran past Declan and the monk, leaving a trail of untold riches behind him. He was greeted at the door by the very monks they had murdered not more than an hour ago. “Draugr! They are the undead!”
The first monk’s body was in shambles; his right arm was missing from below the elbow and his neck clung to his shoulders by a few sinews of veiny blue flesh. His bird mask hung in pieces, revealing a hideous pair of maroon lips.
Despite its state, it possessed a strength that overshadowed anything the Heathen could muster. It clamped its remaining hand on Toki’s shoulder and squeezed. The man’s collarbone was crushed into powder as he was lifted off the ground and thrown back into the room.
“Madness! This is madness!” Ulf frantically stripped out his tunic as Gunnar coughed his tainted blood on him.
“Madness? No, my dear Northman. What you are witnessing is a miracle!” The masked monk said. “Our God has deemed you to be worthy offerings and has granted us with its favor for loyal service.”
Ulf’s hands clawed at his face as the foulness of the jar went to work on him. He made swift work of the flesh of his cheeks and by the time he collapsed into a semi-conscious state, his left eyeball dangled from his fingers.
The monks stood in a circle around the dying Heathens. They removed their bird masks, revealing the true scope of their decay. To Declan, all but forgotten in the whirlwind of greed and death, their heads had the same consistency of rotten apples that had been left out in the sun, stench and all.
“And now, my brothers, we shall honor our great God, whom we have worshipped since the time of the great Exodus. Where once were ten, only one remains, but it is the mightiest of the ten that were visited upon the Pharaoh, and remains so even now.”
Alrek crawled through the blood and bile of his dying men towards Declan. “You! Boy! I will see you suffer the same fate as I for leading us to his demon’s den!”
The main monk placed his foot gently on Alrek’s back, halting his revenge. The Heathen struggled for air as his tormentor ground his heel into his ribs. “The boy is hardly to blame in all this. His fate in this life was determined long before his birth. One bloodline to provide the brothers of this monastery with fresh sacrifices to our God until the sun goes dark. We would gladly seek them out ourselves, as tradition dictates, but alas, we are forever bound to this place by the will of our God. Didn’t you think to question why the doors swing outwards? And are locked from the outside?”
“Wh-what kind of God is your White Christ to demand sacrifices? A-and to command demons?”
The monks maroon, worm-like lips squirmed into the crude mockeries of smiles. “Who said that we worshipped the carpenter? Our God is the one that courses through your veins this very moment. The one that sickens you and devours all the life in its wake. Our God is Plague!”
Declan watched as the monk descended upon the Heathens, now too far gone with sickness to resist. They hovered around each man, sticking their corpse-blue fingers into the soft points of their flesh. A wet, sucking sound followed as the Heathens lives were slowly drained from them, continuing on until each was little more than a dried-out husk of flesh. The act itself he had witnessed once before when his father brought him along so he could learn the ‘family trade’.
It failed to frighten him then. Now, it brought tears of joy to his eyes.
He felt a presence move aside him. He did not need to look over to know who it was. “I’m sorry that you died, Thomas.”
The living corpse that was once his brother reached out and grasped Declan’s hand. “All is how it is supposed to be, brother.”
“They saved the one who killed you for last. For you.”
Potato-sized boils had swollen up over Alrek’s eyes, yet a tiny opening remained for him to see the newly born Draugr child walking towards him with tiny blue fingers outstretched, hungry to drink his life. His tongue, now too large for his mouth to contain, lolled out and prevented him from screaming as he felt the ten digits enter him like daggers of ice.
The sucking sounds of Alrek’s life being drained from him followed Declan as he left his brother to his new life; his thoughts turned towards the rebuilding of his own.
And to that of the next offering.
The monks maroon, worm-like lips squirmed into the crude mockeries of smiles. “Who said that we worshipped the carpenter? Our God is the one that courses through your veins this very moment. The one that sickens you and devours all the life in its wake. Our God is Plague!”
Declan watched as the monk descended upon the Heathens, now too far gone with sickness to resist. They hovered around each man, sticking their corpse-blue fingers into the soft points of their flesh. A wet, sucking sound followed as the Heathens lives were slowly drained from them, continuing on until each was little more than a dried-out husk of flesh. The act itself he had witnessed once before when his father brought him along so he could learn the ‘family trade’.
It failed to frighten him then. Now, it brought tears of joy to his eyes.
He felt a presence move aside him. He did not need to look over to know who it was. “I’m sorry that you died, Thomas.”
The living corpse that was once his brother reached out and grasped Declan’s hand. “All is how it is supposed to be, brother.”
“They saved the one who killed you for last. For you.”
Potato-sized boils had swollen up over Alrek’s eyes, yet a tiny opening remained for him to see the newly born Draugr child walking towards him with tiny blue fingers outstretched, hungry to drink his life. His tongue, now too large for his mouth to contain, lolled out and prevented him from screaming as he felt the ten digits enter him like daggers of ice.
The sucking sounds of Alrek’s life being drained from him followed Declan as he left his brother to his new life; his thoughts turned towards the rebuilding of his own.
And to that of the next offering.
About the Author:
Kyle Rader doesn’t color inside the lines and thinks the greatest sin a writer can commit is to bore his or her readers.
His short fiction has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies including ‘Masks’, ‘Beneath the Cracks’, and ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion: Tales of the Titanic’. His short story ‘The Countess and the Bard’ was the recipient of the ‘Readers’ Choice’ award on Fiction Vortex. He is also the author of the novella ‘Turn to Page’.
He lives in New England, or at least, the last time he checked, and is currently hard at work at multiple novels of varying genres.
Kyle can be found online at http://kylerader.net/ and @youroldpalkile on Twitter.
His short fiction has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies including ‘Masks’, ‘Beneath the Cracks’, and ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion: Tales of the Titanic’. His short story ‘The Countess and the Bard’ was the recipient of the ‘Readers’ Choice’ award on Fiction Vortex. He is also the author of the novella ‘Turn to Page’.
He lives in New England, or at least, the last time he checked, and is currently hard at work at multiple novels of varying genres.
Kyle can be found online at http://kylerader.net/ and @youroldpalkile on Twitter.