Chapter One: Northmen

Clouds crested the horizon in waves. First came the low, thin clouds, turning the sky grey. Then, deeper, darker thunderheads rolled in above, bringing with them lightning and the echoing roar that signalled rain was soon upon them. This storm was as furious as it was blackening. Before the sun had even set, the land was fading into shadow. Winds howled enough to bend trees and even break those that ventured too close to the coast. The sea was whipping up into a maelstrom, beating the waves against the rocky shore. Fishermen had long forsaken their craft for the day, and most folk had hunkered down, not wanting to be out in a winter storm such as this.

In his bed, Aeron heard the alarm bells and panic-stricken voices. “Northmen!” they were yelling.

He leapt groggily from bed and clamoured to his feet, shaking off the shroud of sleep. His father was already in motion, taking his sword belt and bow from an iron hook driven into the wooden beam that acted as the central roof support. Not wanting to be left out of whatever was going on, Aeron picked up his bow from the rough straw floor where he had left it after they had returned from their most recent hunting trip. The three rabbits, their trophies, were still slowly roasting over the cook fire in the very centre of the building.

Aeron pulled his thick winter cloak on and eagerly followed his father out of their house. The village of Raeik-Cove was a sprawling arch of huddled roundhouses, all facing the village green—although it did not look very green now. It was muddy from the winter snows and torrential rain, with only a few patches of grass peeking from the wet muck to suggest the origin of its name. Each house was almost identical: squat, round, wooden constructions with a daub wall and a thatched roof.

Surrounding the crescent-shaped cluster of houses were the utility buildings: barns, granaries, a smith-wright, and the communal longhouse where the women and young girls were currently gathering. The men, meanwhile, were madly rushing around the green to light all the torches, and the air hung heavy with the smell of burning animal fat. In the centre of the green, someone was ringing the bell—pulling as if they wanted to bring it crashing down. Though it was difficult for Aeron to make out who it was through the haze of rain and smoke. Another bell echoed from over near the forest, calling out to those still in the fields or making charcoal.

The wind tore wildly through the village, making the flames dance furiously, inches above the heads of the torches. Loose debris and dead leaves swirled in vortices between the houses. With a shudder of his teeth, Aeron watched his father fasten on his sword belt. The icy wind cut straight through the coarse wool jumper he was wearing, pricking his flesh with goose pimples. He pulled the damp fabric tighter to keep out some of the icy gusts. Over the ruckus of the disturbed village, it was still possible to hear the crashing waves and the hissing spray.

"Go help gather up the women and the children, and make sure that they are well hidden," his father instructed, swinging a full, bristling quiver over his shoulder.

"But—" Aeron started.

"No ‘buts’, lad, you do as I say! They will have heard the bell, and they know what to do. You're needed there, lad. Your job is to keep them safe."

Aeron turned around, shoulders slumping, and he kicked at the ground as he watched Petr hurry off over his shoulder. His father jogged to the village green, where the men were gathering next to the tortured bell. I’m seventeen now, and there is no bloody way in Hell that I am going off to hide with the women and children. I would be useful, and I am old enough to make my own decisions. Just because I am unmarried, they treat me like a child—and I had finally got away from her for the evening, Aeron thought. He skirted around to the back of his house and climbed the wattle and daub once his father was far enough away not to see. He pulled himself up onto the thatched roof, careful not to disturb the thatch by gripping large handfuls of straw. The rain made it slippery, but years of practice compensated for this. Straining his eyes, he could just make out three blurred shapes. When lightning illuminated them through the winter maelstrom, Aeron realised they were three wide, white sails. They tossed about violently, rocked by the angry sea, and it was hard to get a good judgement of their distance from the shore through the storm and strobed lighting. They can be only a mile away, thought Aeron, otherwise I don’t think I could see them at all in this downpour.

Aeron moved his attention to the village green; an argument had broken out among the older men that made up the village council. He could see his father waving his arms emphatically toward the longships. He couldn’t make out any sound other than the rushing white noise of the wind and spray. Further off, down toward the roiling sea, he could just make out a small group of men raising wooden fences from their usual resting place, laid flat to the ground. It was not uncommon to have raids in the summer, but Aeron could never remember having to raise the defences in the winter months. Looking up, Aeron could see both moon and storm star shining full in the sky—it was also a high tide. And three ships! Reaver ships of the Northmen usually came one at a time. It was almost unheard of for more than one to arrive at such a small village together. Shit, this was bad. He weighed his options. The older men would probably ignore me... At worst, force me to go off and babysit. I wonder if Edmund or John are down there… Each of his friends’ faces swirled before Aeron’s eyes as he worried about their safety.

He pushed himself across the thatch on his stomach, mind made up. He slipped off the roof and landed softly on the sodden ground. I can head to help the children later. They won’t need me if we can force the Northmen off. I am going to help at the barriers. Aeron headed down to the sea, moving in a sweeping arc around the edges of the longhouses to avoid his father. He was careful not to attract the attention of the other council members. As he came parallel to the green, he saw that the men there had resolved whatever the controversy was. With longbows slung over their shoulders, they carried small barrels in pairs. Aeron could only assume they contained oil to make flaming arrows. In the distance, the longships crept closer as they fought the current of the receding tide, now visible against the dark horizon regardless of the lightning. Aeron sprinted to the flimsy barricade with his cloak raised to protect his face from the fierce wind. He crouched down behind the shelter and pulled his hood tight to yield maximum protection.

"What are the Northmen doing here at this time of year and in this high storm?" Aeron shouted to the man next to him, who was wrapping cloth around arrowheads and then dipping them into a drum of oil.

"I ain’t too sure, Aeron, but what I do know is that you should be with your mother and your sister and the rest of the women and children, under Edric’s barn!" the man shouted in reply, raising an eyebrow.

"I am not a child, Therros, and you know you could use my bow here. I will not hide with the children anymore. I may be unwed, but I will come of age this summer festival! Even my mother won’t be able to stop that," Aeron replied forcefully, as he tore the cloth for his own arrows.

"I do not think that is quite how your father sees it," Therros said. "The women may need the protection of your bow, but methinks you’re right. You people have some strange customs. Here." Therros positioned the barrel of oil more centrally in a gesture of solidarity. Unlike Aeron, Therros was wearing armour—a polished steel breastplate over banded leather. A river bird, perhaps a heron, was etched into the metal surface. He wore greaves and bracers also made of steel, and a helm rested on a circular shield to one side. The armour was unlike anything anyone had seen in the village, where iron chainmail was the height of their technology. Steel was occasionally imported, but only in small quantities. Therros had once said to him it came from a long way from here. Aeron imagined Therros would look fearsome to the raiders—an idea that almost made him smile. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and his skin felt tight around his temples. He ripped the cloth and dunked the strips into the oil with more fervour.

After half the arrows from his quiver were soaked, Aeron crouched and watched the Northmen’s longships approach, their oars ferociously combating the tide. They’re getting close now, he thought, raising himself to a standing position. He looked down at the shore where the village men stood ready, their bows notched.

"Will fire arrows even work in this weather?" Aeron asked.

"Oil be waterproof. Still, they mostly go out at long range, but no one in a boat do like the sight of fire. Aim for the sides of their boats and the oarsmen, lad. We want to drive them away, not strand them ’ere," Therros said, lighting a torch that quivered frightfully in the wind.

An arrow arched into the air, streaming fire and thick black smoke behind it. A heartbeat later, a dozen others followed it. Aeron watched with a sinking feeling as the arrows bounced off kite-shaped shields wielded by Northmen at the front ends of the ships, before releasing his own quarrel. His nerves must have overcome him at the last moment. His arrow fell well short of his target. This does not look good. Swallowing hard, he let loose another fiery arrow—then another, and another. These at least reached as far as the shields. Shockingly, the longships were now getting very close—so close that he could look straight into the steely eyes of one of the wildly snarling Northmen. His teenage bravado slipped, and he felt his stomach sink to his knees. Panic gripped his mind, and his bow slipped from his shaking fingers. Dismayed, he looked down to see water soaking into its pullstring. He instinctively drew his long belt dagger—one of a pair his father had given him.

"Hold steady, lad. If you panic at a critical moment, you’re a dead man," Therros said, drawing a non-wrapped arrow from his quiver and calmly firing it into the chest of an off-guard Northman. The arrow found its mark. The warrior lurched unsteadily, then tumbled back, disappearing behind the hull of the boat.

With a sudden jerk and a horrendous creak, the lead ship ran aground, and axe-wielding Northmen came pouring over the sides at a sprint.

"Get back to the barn, lad, you won’t do us much good ‘ere with your dinner knife," Therros barked, picking up his circular steel shield lying against the barricade and drawing a hand axe from its recesses. His eyes narrowed and his mouth became a tense split as he threw the axe end over end into the surprised face of an advancing Northman, separating his left cheek from the rest of his face with a sickening thunk and spraying his eye across his helm. Then, without further hesitation, Therros drew his sword from his belt and jumped over the barricade.

"Now, lad! Before I put down my sword and beat some sense into you," he shouted back at Aeron, bashing an oncoming Northman in the face with his shield and then smoothly piercing into an exposed armpit.

Aeron gulped and took one more long, painful look at the ensuing melee before turning sharply and scrambling up the beach. He could not see his father and did not stay long enough to find his familiar shape amongst the carnage. This looks bad, he thought to himself, almost tripping on a loose stone as he forged ahead. When he entered the village and was halfway to the barn, he chanced another glance behind him. It was enough to see that the Northmen had broken through the ranks of the villagers and were now heading up the beach in his direction. Aeron’s stomach sank further, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest. At the very least, this meant that some of his friends were dead.

In fear and desperation, he slid under a dense patch of scrub and held onto his dagger for dear life. Charging at full speed, Northmen came up the beach carrying torches. They were hurling them onto the roofs of the houses as they passed. Aeron was sure they were going to ignore the old barn, as they seemed to head for the newly raised granaries. Silently, he let out a sigh of relief, but as they passed, he heard the piercing cry of a babe.

The Northmen stopped and stared. Bile erupted into Aeron’s throat as thoughts of his sister and mother came to his mind. Blossom! He called out his sister’s name before swallowing hard to stop himself from emptying his stomach right there and wiped away the acidic residue from his mouth with a leaf. Every muscle in his torso clenched so tightly it was as if someone had winded him. Thick grey smoke was filling the village, and there was a strong smell of burning thatch. He could hear the pained bleating of disturbed sheep from other parts of the village. Probably the Northmen killing our herds.

He could see the Northmen struggling to prise open the doors to the old barn, but the wood and iron held solid. Abandoning their efforts, the Northmen placed lit torches at the bottom of the doors and seams of the walls. Aeron’s stomach gurgled and hot fear gripped his chest.

At first, the sodden wood only steamed and hissed, but after a moment, flames licked up the gaps in the timbers. Shrill, panicked screams emerged from the barn as the women and children inside saw fire and choked on the smoke.

Overtaken with unprecedented bravery, Aeron rushed headlong out of the bushes. Before the closest Northman even saw Aeron’s rapid approach, he sank his dagger with several wild thrusts into the Northman’s unarmoured neck. Aeron staggered back, brandishing the bloody weapon, the red liquid staining his hand. The Northman fell—first to his knees, then limply onto his face. The others turned to face Aeron, weapons raised. What was I thinking. I can’t fight them. I took them by surprise and now they are going to murder me. Shit!

The front man looked down at his fallen comrade, his face transforming into a savage snarl. Aeron felt empty inside and the bile in his stomach burned. This is it. I am going to die. They may treat me like a child, but I am going to die a man. He gripped his dagger firmly in both hands and stared back in what he imagined was a defiant pose. There was a sudden hollow thud as an arrow impaled itself deeply into the throat of the snarling Northman. Recoiling from the impact, he took a step back and raised his hands to the wound as vitae gushed through his fingers and down his leather jerkin. Aeron gazed in amazement in the direction the arrow had come from and saw Therros standing there, notching another quarrel about his bow. I have got to run. Distract them from the barn. If Therros is here, maybe others are coming too.

Six of the Northmen turned towards Therros while the remaining three continued to advance in Aeron’s direction. He threw his dagger as hard as he could at them, not even bothering to see if it hit anything before bolting into the heavy scrub and heading for the woods. The undergrowth there, in the oldest part of the village, was thick with stinging nettles and blackberry bushes that clawed at his woollen cloak and ripped the legs of his trousers. The wild, bramble-choked trail soon gave way to trees, but that did not make it easy going. Several times he had to resort to diving to his hands and knees to crawl under rope-like brambles or walls of rhododendrons. He had played hide-and-seek here all his life—this was his territory—and he knew getting in deep was a winning strategy.

There was a cracking of the undergrowth behind, accompanied by the thrashing sound of people attempting to cut their way through it. Aeron sprinted towards the thicker woodland. The crashing sounds continued behind him. He pounded with his legs when the undergrowth allowed and crashed face-first into the brambles when needed, twisting off the vines. The sound of the Northmen grew more distant in the heavy undergrowth. I am faster than them here. The scent of damp vegetation and rotting leaves replaced the smell of smoke. His stomach burned even more from the exertion, and a knife of pain stabbed just below his ribs, spreading down to his navel. Tiny slashes covered his hands and forearms, and blood dripped steadily from gashes in his cheeks, dribbling tiny drops into his parted lips and filling his mouth with a salty, metallic taste. The strands of wool trailing behind him would make him easy to track, and if the Northmen caught him, they would surely kill him. I know these woods better than anyone. I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right, he silently screamed to himself repeatedly. He kept running, jumping across a stream that the storm had bloated and soaking his boots in icy water, his lungs burning with exhaustion.

Aeron launched himself over a fallen sycamore, wayward branches bashing his shins. His knees jarred, hitting the ground. He straightened up and his legs burned and shook. Looking left and right, he realised he was nearing the deepest part of the woods where the ancient oaks grew. If only I can find somewhere to hide, somewhere to rest awhile, but the crash of breaking branches behind him shook the fatigue from his body and he plunged into a sprint again. The sound was not close yet. He was ahead of his pursuers, but clearly he was easy for them to track. He feared he’d be unable to outrun them, as they seemed unwilling to give up and had the stamina to match, and maybe even surpass, his own. The problem with this part of the forest, he thought to himself, is that it’s far from flat. Old oaks brought down over decades of storms and not cleared. As the thought gripped him, his right foot caught on a fallen branch, tripping him mid-gait. Aeron tried desperately to regain his balance, but all this achieved was to twist his body so that he fell hard into a submerged log buried in the dead leaves.

"Fuck…" was all he could manage as the air was driven from his lungs. He lay there breathing hard into the leaves, their surface wet to his skin. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears counting away the seconds. The smell was earthy but not unpleasant, and the forest had gone strangely quiet. I just need a minute. Get my breath back…

The silence was then ruptured by the stark call of a crow. Is Sceadigenga himself coming for me? The sound caused his heart to miss a beat and adrenaline surged through his body, giving him a burst of energy. It was enough to allow him to scramble to his feet. As he took a step forward, he felt a whoosh of air—only a hair shy of his left ear—then an axe hit a large oak in front of him, lodging itself deep in the gnarled bark. Shit, they are going to kill me. I need to lose them. Run faster than them. Charging forward with speed he thought himself incapable of, his mind went oddly peaceful—a void, with his thoughts suddenly quiet. Everything was clear, and the world seemed to slow down around him. He could anticipate the branches on the ground, weave through gaps in trunks that grew in clumps, and skilfully navigate the uneven ground. Second after infinite second, he sped up through the trees without missing a step.

Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. Fatigue wracked his body as he had never experienced before. Staggering, he stumbled into an oak tree and tumbled to the forest floor once again. The storm had made the forest undergrowth swampy, and his momentum caused him to slide into a hollow between two massive roots. He felt the weight of his body drag him down a sudden incline, not capable of dislodging himself from the sloped rut. Aeron realised that he had fallen into what must have once been a tiny tributary, but was now a mucky, forceful stream. He struggled against the force of the muddy water, but it was no use. The current was carrying him down the hill, fast, towards a larger stream. He was out of control. He flailed with his arms and legs to slow himself. A sudden vision came to mind as he spun: the ordinary morning before he had gone hunting with his father. His mother braiding Blossom’s hair and preparing her favourite green dress. The next moment, he was hurtling into an oak and struck it at an odd angle.