Saga [IC]

[HeySeuss]

The Livorno Coast, along the Via Francigena, Summer 922

Loker

The longship could be dragged ashore, so they did it, at low tide and under a nearly full moon, the sand crunching beneath boots and the keel dragging along. No torches, just the light above to guide them along. Italy's coast was broken up, lots of rocks and many small beaches, like this one, that one had to climb along to reach. But they scouted the approach previously, hiding the longship along those same rocks while learning the lay of the land. They weren't caught by some sheep herder or fisherman on the way in, knowing well the habits of fishermen and avoiding the waters during those times.

He found that it was a much easier than the English coast, which was usually cliffs, or even Norway, which was the same. These were hills, and hills were easy to climb. There was an entirely different smell in the air; it had been a long time since Loker first was blooded on raids against England, and he only remembered it all dimly. This place, by contrast, smelled more of citrus and herbs, even in the grass of the hill they were on. It was a small band that was going to make the raid, smaller still with some of Gunnar's men left with the ship to keep it guarded -- it wouldn't do for the raiders to lose their only means of travel in a very hostile land.

The climb was not that intensive; once in a while, he had to sink hands into the dirt a bit to keep himself steady, but he made it up just fine. He stayed crouched low in the moonlit darkness, noting that it was warm -- he'd gone without armor and he'd gone wearing only trousers but he could still feel the sweat running over his back and chest. You only put on armor when you were actually expecting to fight hard, and he wanted to be able to move fast and run, if it came down to that. He brought his axe along and his sword was sheathed at his side, and the seax went without saying. But for the trousers, his boots and his weapons, he carried rope and a hook, for pulling down walls or for scaling them.

He wasn't a hirsute specimen, so the sweat tended to pool around the belt. He found it hot, and all the warmer for the breeze that seemed to be blowing hot air on them, so his countrymen must have been sweltering -- the seas at least offered some form of relief from the heat, here, very little.

He wore his wife's cross, which seemed strange when the others had different sorts of religious icons about their necks, but he assured them that it was simply a memento; in time, perhaps he would have Christianized more, but he'd only really done it initially to get between Mariam's legs, and then he'd married her in a Church, but he was not a very good convert. The life he'd envisioned with her didn't involve this; then, he never envisioned that her god would take her away on a birthing bed, either. It'd been a healthy pregnancy, up until that day. By night, in Antioch, he'd lay his head on her stomach and listen to his son, he knew it was a son now, kick and punch.

"A warrior," he'd tell her, and she'd smile to see him happy at the verdict. Old Hassan loved the match for whatever reason; the Norseman's prowess was well known in Antioch, where he'd used a position in the city's garrison to help protect his father-in-law's business dealings, and to learn some of the business of trade himself. She knew his culture prized prowess, because he'd told her the pagan legends. Much as she was a Christian, she loved the tales, and he'd told them to her as much as that bulging stomach over the nine months. They were strange and fantastic to her, something from a world so far away she had to work hard to imagine them. Like her father, she had a weak spot for curiosity, for strange things and tales.

When she'd died on the birthing bed, a priest said it was the will of God. That was what set Loker off; but for Hassan, he would have struck the priest -- the much smaller man held back the Norseman when he was nearly berserk and wanted nothing more than to kill the smug bastard for such a pronouncement.

No, it hadn't been a hard choice when he found old Haakon's children in Mālaqah of all places. Going viking against Italy seemed like a better option than living out his days in Värmland and dwelling on it all his life. This, at least, offered a chance at glory. He'd done it before, of course, though the truth was that Haakon seemed bitter, mad and driven when he sailed down here, and Loker split off amiably to pursue the option of playing the mercenary for the Byzantines. Now he understood old Haakon's nihilism better; he could relate to the old man in a lot of ways. Now he knew what bitterness was like.

Now, it was Haakon's unbalanced daughter calling the shots, though the traitor son was given nominal command of the situation, and Loker was a lot less worried about things like risk or danger or weighing them as a rational man might. That's why he was as far away from home as a Swede could get, about to fall upon the town below.

It looked prosperous enough, which is what they'd been scouting for, but it seemed that they felt themselves far enough north that they didn't have to worry as much about Moorish raiders from Sicily. They didn't even consider that it might be the Norse coming down, for they were stories from the North, where the British Isles lived in fear of a raid and the French even made Rollo a duke to have their own man on a leash to fend off the others. Kievan Rus in the north was carved out of the Steppe and the Byzantines sometimes hired men from there to serve them.

It was a virgin land, as far as they were concerned.

The town below slept; it sat along one of the pilgrim roads that ran from France into Italy, down to Rome, and that meant that there were inns and hostels for travelers. Those travelers had offerings for the Pope and that meant more plunder. This was all explained to the rest of the crew by Loker, who seemed to sense that this would be the most profitable method of gaining treasure as well as likely slaves. They only had so much room on the longship to carry human wealth away, but gold and silver and other offerings were more compact, easier to bring along. Italy didn't do wooden houses for the most part, so the homes were made of stone. The streets were actually paved with stone. There was a church at the center of town, a modest one without much embellishment or height to it.

The plan was simple; get in the town before the defenses could be raised, sow confusion and subdue the garrison. Then, shake down the pilgrims.

Once the others were in place, it was a matter of making the approach, stealthily and carefully. This was why he didn't bother to wear armor -- even though his was made of leather scales, it was stiff and not useful here, where the opposition was figured to be minimal. And if they had to make a break for it, he didn't want to be weighed down. If he had to swim for it -- oh, he knew how -- he didn't want to carry too much ballast, either. These raids could go wrong, there could be a sheepdog among the bleating lambs.

There was a sentry; he was sleeping. Loker grabbed him quickly and put a knife in right in, shearing through the muscle of the heart and out again, bloody as could be, but for all the violence of his action, he was gentle in lowering the young man down to the ground, so as to not make too much noise. There wasn't a wall around this place worth mentioning. He knew that the others were there, nearby, but by then, the dogs started barking and there was chaos and alarm, screaming and wailing, and then, smoke and fire as someone among the raiders thought to set some fires -- that was a good improvisation, it would create confusion. Loker, chest heaving from the adrenaline and the output of energy on his part, already was moving well away from it, toward the town center. He knew the church was where they'd take refuge, the ones that thought to run there. The treasure would be there, and so would the pilgrims. Loker knew his job; get there before the door could be bolted.

He moved at a steady trot, keeping an eye out for an armed individual among the villagers running about; they didn't know to stay in place or hide, and that was a good thing -- they thought it was a fire rather than raiders, and that was the best thing of them all. When he saw an armed man, he took them with a two-handed swing of his axe, which he carried specifically because it was symbolic and scary, far more intimidating than a sword down here. He knew the spectacle he presented -- that of a barbarian, sweat mingled with blood in torch and moonlight, a grimace on his face and his flaxen hair worn wild -- and used it to his advantage. Generations of Italians feared this image, through centuries of invasion, but few came by ship. There weren't that many people to hack through, this was a soft town, and he made rapid progress.

When he came near the church, a squat, small sort of building, but still the biggest in town, he slowed his approach and took to the shadows. He'd gotten through light on his feet. It looked as if the local pastor was the one directing the effort to organize things; one of the fellows had a mail coat and a sword. Loker found his way along the church walls, staying low, staying in shadow, and skulked there patiently until the armored man was close enough to set upon; the fellow's sword wasn't out of its sheath, and that gave him the advantage, despite not being armored. He trusted his axe's edge.

His heart pounded in his ears as he strained to listen to the speech -- he didn't understand Italian, though he had a fine gift for acquiring languages, but he could tell they were pointing at the fire and gathering buckets, which was ideal -- they were more worried about the fire than anything. That wouldn't last.

When they finally were close enough, it was a simple matter to jump out and swing the axe, to cleave the armored man in two -- the chain mail wasn't that high quality, and it wasn't made to stand up to the heavy cleaving of a Norseman's axe. It split under the pressure and the man beneath spurted blood from the sudden furrow in his flesh that wasn't there a moment ago. He was already slumping to the ground and gurgling his feeble last when Loker grabbed the priest and told him in Greek, "You will tell the town to surrender or there will be no town left by the time we are done."

"Will the townspeople be spared?" The priest looked wild eyed and fearful, but willing to fight, he seemed the sort that would hurl his frail body against the inevitable in a display of courage. He was desperate, that was natural.

And Loker knew what to say in a searing flash of insight, "Look to my chest," he told the priest; Mariam's cross.

He thought Loker was a Christian. He thought that the rules that governed what Christians could do to one another applied here and that certain safeties were assured. He thought the shrine would not be desecrated.

The priest bought it, just as Loker intended.

Summary

• The raiders land outside a coastal town in Tuscany and move up a hill
• They come down; Loker kills a sentry in silence, but once they're in the alarm goes off.
• Someone (pick up the cue) sets a fire as a distraction.
• The raiders make their way through town with the Church as the objective because it contains wealth and pilgrims with offerings.
• Loker takes the priest hostage, demands surrender. Pretends to be a Christian.

[Outcast]

Henjak felt panic grab at him again. He was shaking slightly, his blue eyes were wide and staring, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Beads of sweat were running down his face and into his eyes. This was the moment he had been waiting for, for as long as he could remember. His first battle. The first time fighting with real weapons, instead of fists or carved sticks. Soon, he could be dead. He might kill someone - or worse, find out that he couldn't kill anyone, that he would just freeze, scared out of his wits. Henjak wiped the sweat of his brow, and realised he was struggling to breath. He had to calm down.
The battle had yet to begin. At the moment, he and the other warriors were sneaking through the night towards the town. The full moon shone a lot of light, so it was difficult to stay hidden and they made slow progress. But finally, Henjak crept up to the back of a large stone building. He couldn't hear any of the other Vikings, nor any of the townpeople. He wondered were Gunnar was. Then he wondered how he was going to get into the town. It seemed too risky to sneak through the streets. Noticing a window high above him, Henjak decided to try and climb the rough stone wall. Climbing swiftly to the window, he cautiously peered in. It was a barn, with a wooden gantry running around the edge. There was a lit lamp sitting on a desk in the middle of the barn. Henjak crept through the window onto the gantry and looked down. The barn was full of piles of hay, and Henjak lightly dropped down into one. He clambered out and strode towards a small door in the far wall. Just before he reached the door, it swung open towards him. Startled, Henjak jumped back and bumped heavily into the desk. He dimly heard something crash, but he ignored it. Framed in the doorway was a man, looking startled. The man turned and drew in a breath to call out. Henjak drew his seax and lashed out at the man. The man dropped to the floor with a thump. Henjak stood there, chest pumping. He looked at the blood on his seax, then at the pool of blood seeping out from the dead man. Suddenly, Henjaks guts heaved and he bent over to throw up. As he stood back upright, he felt a heat at his back. Turning, he realised what had made that crashing sound. When he had stumbled into the desk, he had knocked over the lamp. The lamp had shattered, and the burning oil had leaked out over a pile of hay. Which was now an inferno. Henjak swore, sheathed his seax, and ran out the door.
The hay had caught fire fast, and already the street outside was full of smoke. Henjak ran through the streets, ignoring the townspeople. He wasn't wearing any armour, and didn't look much like a big Viking warrior. He didn't feel much like one either. He hoped the others wouldn't be mad at him for accidentally setting the town on fire. As he ran, he noticed other columns of smoke rising, besides the one behind him. The fire couldn't have spread that fast. Other Vikings must have been lighting fires as well. This had a reinvigorating effect on Henjak. He laughed and started walking. As he slowed, he heard a horse whinnying. The town stables must have been close by. Henjak ducked down a side street, and saw the stables. He jumped through a window. Noone else in the stables, other than a bunch of horses. Henjak remembered Loker, after they had landed but before starting the raid, telling everyone the battle plan. Part of it was to capture the stable, to stop anyone raising the alarm. Henjak ran over to the door and shut it, propping a chair against it to stop it from being opened. Then he sat down on another chair, and waited for some other Vikings to show up.

[Gunther]

Gunnar left instructions with four of his boys to watch the Longship. Henjak, young and impetuous took off without him. Even Loker was nowhere to be seen. Somehow that seemed suspicious to Gunner. The 6'4" one eyed Swede waited for several others to gather up, then followed the path up to the town. One group went off to set fires while Gunnar lead a group up into the center of the village.

Gunnar turned his back on the others and headed up the hill toward the village. He expected them to follow and didn't look back to see if they had. He expected them to. He didn't care if they did or did not. He was already starting to see red and had his one good eye set to kill. He drew Hode-ut, the double edged broad sword, handed down to him by his father, holding it firmly in his right hand. He moved swiftly with a purpose.

Upon arriving in the village, he saw Henjak run through the village. At first he didn't know who it was, but a barn caught fire and illuminated the background. This helped make it easier to recognize Henjak. The other group was setting fires as well. Gunnar looked at his group of Swedes. He put his finger to his lips, to keep the others quiet then whispered, "countrymen, If anyone comes out of these buildings, kill them. Don't show any mercy. We didn't come here to play a round of Hnefatafel with the. We came to send them to Hel!" Henjak didn't have his armor on, but Gunnar and the others did.

A small group of locals formed. They were undoubtedly drawn out of their beds by the sounds and smell of the fires. Their curiosity got the better of them. They were unarmed and only half awake. The Swedes on the other hand were wide awake. Gunnar was blind to the normal mores most humans operate under. He cared not for the feelings of his enemies whether they chose to arm themselves or not. He was a killer and killing was good. It mattered not if they were seven or seventy years old, they would fall under his blade. He did not care if the others approved his behavior or detested it. He was not there to win their approval. He sought only to support the children of Haakon. Since that meant killing these people. That was by Thor's hammer what Gunnar intended to do.

His first victim was a woman about fifty years of age. He plunged his sword into her back. She let out out a slight scream and dropped to the ground. The gathered crowd began screaming and running. Gunnar began hacking and slashing anyone who he did not already know from the longship. In no time at all his blade was covered with the blood of his victims. The blood of at least a half dozen innocent people, but not innocent in his eyes. To him, they harmed his friend, or a friend of his father's and that was as good an excuse to kill as any.

It warmed his heart to kill. Gunnar enjoyed this moment. He had no confusing desires to be fair or worried whether her killed an old woman or a hardy young man armed with a proper weapon. A fair fight is for fools. When your mission is to kill and then loot; which defines a raid, then kill. Gunnar was filled with the lust of killing. It was not a battle to him. It was a slaughter. He would continue to kill until told to stop. He loved this. His heart filled with joy. The more screams he heard. The bodies he witnessed fall beneath his blood drenched sword, the better. Gunnar Fisker would not stop until there was no one left to kill.