---

Åse sat atop a rock that decorated the middle of the grassy field that surrounded Thetford on the seventh day since Erik’s funeral. The rock itself was as large as a cow and dark grey in color. It was perfectly smooth, having been exposed to the elements for many years and sparsely covered in lichen. The field itself was now mostly clean from the battle that had ensued a little over a week ago. She gazed out towards the tree line in the general direction of the shores which they landed on some weeks ago while her mind wandered. The young woman had a difficult time with the loss of her husband despite knowing Erik would be welcomed in both Valhalla and Fólkvangr. While out amongst the other men, she would hold face and join them in the remembrance and praise of those who were lost in battle for it was truly the greatest death any of them could ask for, but during her solitary nights, Åse would mourn his absence and often found herself weeping into old clothes while desperately trying to take in Erik’s fleeting scent. It was so incredibly lonely without him.

After the sjaund that was to be held later that night, she would be able to claim mastery of her husband’s ship and be able to move on from this place, giving herself a new purpose. Åse had already started planning her next steps and choose a path much different from most women. With no additional property to inherit or children to raise, Åse had decided to sail west and start a new life for herself rather than trying to assimilate back into society. She heard the stories of lands so bountiful, she was willing to cross the mysterious and dangerous ocean to see if they were true.

The largest problem with her plan was that she would need a crew to help her steer her husband’s vessel and the men that used to work the ship had all left to serve other lords. Whom would she find to help her? Whom would be willing to leave everything they knew behind and journey to unknown lands with no guarantee of glory? At that moment a Raven chose to land in front of her bringing her focus to it’s shiny black feathers. As the bird pecked about the ground, Åse could see deep purple shades reflect throughout the bird's plumage, giving depth to the creature’s dark color. Her breathe caught in her chest. It was a great honor to be visited by one of Odin’s birds and as quickly as it had come, it took flight once more carrying with it the information of the world to bring back to the God.

The visit from the sacred messenger, however short it was, helped to solidify Åse’s resolve. A crew would come in time, she simply had to put out the word and wait. Nodding to herself, she pushed herself off the rock and made her way back into town. Her brown leather boots treaded with purpose through the soft green grass. She had a former brother in law to find.

Of all the buildings to have survived the sack of Thetford, the Church was the largest. It boasted a stain-glass window above the altar, the only one in the area, and villagers had come from far and wide to marvel at the purple and red colours lit by the setting sun. The long wooden benches, once filled with eager faces and earnest prayers, had been dragged off to the sides and a large fire lit on the dirt floor. The smoke was already swirling up to stain the roof beams before trickling out a hole chopped through the thatch by a Danish axe.

The Jesus figure had been hacked from the wall and added to the blaze. The priest lay in a corner, long dried tears staining his face, blood still trickling from the corners of his mouth, hands clutching at a savage belly wound that had killed him hours before. A dozen men filled the rest of the space with their sheer bulk. Weapons had been stacked by the door in order to keep any disagreements from leading to death or serious injury. Kjartan Knudsen was the largest of them all, his broad shoulders hunched despite the heat in the room as he prodded the fire with a captured long sword. There was ale enough for all but he had touched none of it. He was lost in thought.

Money he had, a small horde, all of it still on his brothers boat. The yearning for some sort of adventure was upon him again now that his last tie to this army and island had been severed. Where would he go? Maybe back to Daneland? He wondered if Åse would come with him. He had always fancied her, she was a rare one among the Danish women who fought in Englaland.

There were Jarls who would gladly accept his sword into their service but he was done being another mans strongman. For most of his life he had served another in one way or another. He wanted some land of his own where he owed no man anything. That left the lands of the Rus, or going West in the tracks of Erik the Red. Iceland maybe. Find a wife and settle down. It was time.

As the men inside heaved the priest’s bloody and bruised body out of the building, Åse stepped into the Christian house of worship. A strange religion, lacking in both spirituality and practicality, the young woman had no interest in it’s monotheistic teachings. She came in search of Kjartan and was told he would be there. Her blue eyes scanned the room and it wasn’t long until she recognized his bulk. She would know it anywhere. Her voice caught in her throat a moment before Åse cleared it and called out with a fairly mid tone voice. Only time would help heal the wound that was left behind after her husband’s passing.

“Kjartan!”

At the sound of her familiar voice, he turned and gave her a warm smile while reaching with his left arm to clasp forearms with her.

“Greetings Sister. What brings you here? I thought you would be helping to prepare for the sjaund later.”

“I came to speak with you.” she replied. Gesturing towards the entryway she continued. “Can we step outside?”

“Lead the way.”

Kjartan followed her outside, his foot steps heavily striking the ground as he walked and emerged in the daylight once more. The sunlight danced in Åse’s thick yellow hair that was intricately braided for the celebration. The entryway of the church lead to a courtyard, a cleared area where people likely gathered to hear the now dead priest-man speak. What filled the space now was numerous other Norsemen working diligently to prepare for the feast.

Åse stopped to take a seat at a stone bench, blackened slightly from the battle that had ensued. She did not speak at first, seemingly distracted from the hustle of those nearby, so Kjartan broke their silence.

“What is it you needed from me?”

It was a few moments before Åse replied, “I’m leaving Kjartan.”

“When?” he asked quickly, slightly taken aback by her simple declaration.

“As soon as I can gather a crew.”

“A crew? Where do you plan on sailing that is in need of a crew?

“West.”

“What, Iceland? Greenland?”

“No, farther. I don’t want to try to fit back into another colony. I want to build a new life for myself and experience new things. Something different from all of... this.” she gestured towards the scene before them. It was not so much the people, for she loved them dearly, but the constant strive for battle, glory, and wealth. Kjartan paused before speaking, absorbing the meaning of her words.

“What would you have of me?” He asked softly.

“I... wanted to know if you would want to come with me...” she replied in a similar tone.

He paused a moment, a small smirk starting to spread across his face. “You know... before you found me, I was having the same thoughts and was trying to decide how I would ask you to join me.”

She turned her head to look at him, a similar smile appearing on her face as well. “It is decided then! Now we just need to gather a crew...”

“I will help to spread the word then. See who will bite.”

“It will be nice to have a fresh start.” The young woman stated and Kjartan nodded his head in agreement. They continued to watch their people prepare for the festivities a bit longer before finally chipping in to help their brothers and sisters.

---

In collaboration with @Pagemaster

---

The last words of the dead priest still rang in Segrim’s mind: Alýs ús of efele. ‘Deliver us from evil’ in the English tongue.

The old man had desperately prayed to White Christ as the Danes hacked the church doors apart, crying out first in the strange Latin tongue and then that of the English in turn, fearfully yearning for an answer to his prayers even when the tongue of the Romans had failed him. Again and again, he had chanted, his tears flowing freely all the while. He had chanted even when the doors were splintered and the Danes burst through, even when the blade of a seax rent a long wound in his belly and his guts came spilling out in a bloody mess. And though his cheeks had beem wet with tears and the splatter of blood, the priest had begun to smile and breathlessly laugh before he died.

Even in death, the priest’s corpse still lay there smiling on the dirt floor, his mouth gaping open and his eyes cast up to the dark ceiling of the church as though his lord were truly there. His church ruined, his corpse reeking in a pool of his own bloody filth, his god nowhere to be seen, the priest had still won the last laugh. Segrim swiftly averted his gaze from the unnerving sight.

The Danes began looking for gilded relics and fine treasures to sell, raiders’ bodies filling the nave as they first tore down the Jesus figure in search of gold and then hunted for relics in the church tower and around the altar. Segrim took up the priest’s Bible first, lifting it free from the altar and looking to see if it was illuminated like the finer Bibles they had looted. Those had been rich with splendid colors and gold leaf that gleamed in firelight, giving the Christians’ hallowed book an unearthly glow. This one was not one of those, bearing only the text itself in black ink with red notes in the margins, but still it was a strange object laden with a foreign power Segrim could not understand—though he reminded himself that it had done little to protect the fallen priest. The raider ran his fingers over the smooth vellum pages of the book, tracing the circular Frankish letters with his fingertips. Like the other Danes, he knew neither the secrets of Rome’s alphabet—much less its language—nor the hidden knowledge of reading runes, but still he regarded line after line of the ink-stained words with a strange sort of awe, searching the inscrutable penstrokes for the cause of the priest’s unnerving behavior. What makes the priest of an unmanful god so much braver than many a pagan man, Segrim thought, so that he meets his death as gladly as a true warrior?

Segrim had heard of White Christ back home in Denmark, and heard of him too many times for his liking. His brother Semund had converted in secret nearly a decade ago, taking a new name in the Latin tongue, and welcoming the coming of secret worshippers to his home. Despite Semund’s efforts at proselytization, Segrim himself had trusted the old gods better, though now in his exile, he was less sure of the friendship of even the old gods. Still, he had listened closely to Semund’s preaching out of love for his brother, heeding the strange and wondrous tales of White Christ.

Semund had oft spoken of Christ as the Lord of Glory, as a powerful king who—though he was of less warlike nature than Red Thor—delivered unending life to his followers. Too Semund had spoken of the twelve mighty thanes that followed Christ’s teachings and of the later betrayal of the nithing Judas. But most of all, Semund had asserted to Segrim the truth of White Christ’s powers of healing and resurrection, of his descent into the underworld, and of his rising from the dead three days later like Odin hanged upon Yggdrasil. Frey was a fine friend for a farmer to have, and Njord for a raider upon the sea, but Christ, Semund had asserted, was a friend for all seasons, both more powerful than the All-father himself and less treacherous. And while Christ’s retainers were shamed for not following their lord as best they could, too Christ would forgive those who had turned from him, free them from their sins if they atoned. Segrim had paid little mind to that when Semund spoke of it, but now the thought of atonement was heavy in Segrim’s mind.

Only a foolish lord would knowingly admit such dross into his ranks, Segrim thought. Foolish or desperate. But at least among desperate fools, I would be among my own people. Still, he craved to have his guilt and shame absolved, to have his soul stained with murder be forgiven. But Christ’s love could not be endless, for no man’s was. A wretched creature like Segrim was more alike to the nithing Judas than to one of Christ’s companions, and there had been no doubt in Semund’s mind that Judas was swallowed up in Hell’s maw. He wished Semund were in England with him now.

The pangs of Segrim’s guilt ate at him regardless and he eyed the book once more, desperate for the assuredness the dead priest had shown in death. But still the priest lay dead for all of White Christ’s might. White Christ had not saved Harald King either, and now his pagan son ruled in his stead. What good would Christ offer a murderer if he could not spare the lives of his king and his holy man? But still the corpse of the priest smiled in his death, and it was not any less unnerving than when the man had died.

Segrim had been looking at the book a short while, but still it was long enough that he worried he might seem a secret Christian. He knew well the worth of such a book to a Christian, of the hours labored over copying the text from one codex to the next, but it would fare poorly in the possession of a seafaring people and was harder to sell than silver or gold. Besides, if there was atonement to be found in White Christ’s teachings, it was not in this strange book, indecipherable and artificial and arcane.

“There is no gold here!” Segrim said aloud, offering up the book for kindling. The more devout pagans among the Danes liked that, laughing at the desecration of their enemy’s holy book.

When the priest’s body was removed and the Danes built a fire inside the church, the Bible was laid atop the Jesus figure and both were quick to burn. Flames licked the leather cover of the Bible before it suddenly caught alight, the book soon shrivelling until it was a black lump barely recognizable among the burning wood. Whatever power the book may have conferred the priest was surely dead now, and Segrim would rest easier knowing that. Ale had started to flow and Segrim drank up greedily, eager to douse his guilty thoughts in alcohol.

He lingered outside in the ruined town after he was done, squinting in the bright light of the sun but eager to breathe fresh air. He began honing the blade of his seax, eager to have something to do to keep from ruminating overly much. If there was one thing I am good at, he wryly thought, it is killing.

But still Segrim remained unnerved, his thoughts becoming clearer to him with each pass of his seax over his whetstone. The dead priest and his smiling face and the way his fear has fled from him. The corpse of the man he had murdered in Denmark. And too a strange vision he had dreamt the night before, where Odin had abandoned him on the field of battle, casting Segrim down into the monstrous mouth of Hell where he was chewed to a fine slush and swallowed up.

The scent of a roast pig stirred him from his thoughts. Segrim eagerly sheathed his seax and made his way to the cookfires, still disturbed by the hollow feeling of their victory over the Danes and by his dream of treacherous Odin and of eternal Hell.

“Careful,” Segrim warned as he rolled the sleeves of his sark up and sat himself down besides a younger man dressing another slaughtered pig. “If you pierce the intestine, you’ll foul the flesh with all the shit inside.”

---

"West?"

Kjartan nodded.

"As in, past Ireland?"

Another nod.

"On purpose?"

Two blonde eyebrows rose slightly.

"Alright, I'll go." Jaska Lindholm gave a short shrug and stretched out his long legs toward the fires heat.

"Good." Kjartan, seated next to his friend on the dirt floor, raised his drinking horn in a toast. "Åse is in charge."

"When wasn't she?" Green eyes crinkled in amusement above a bushy black beard as Jaska rolled his eyes toward the person in question, who was talking animatedly with another Dane nearby. "Sailing Eriks boat then?"

"Aye, no one else has any claim to it. It seems we both had the same thought. I have to say the idea of going on a proper voyage intrigues me. I don't reckon I have much time left anyway and I feel like an adventure would make a fine end."

"I can't say I ever gave it any thought until just now, but the prospect of returning to a life pushing a plow while kids ripping around and the woman damning my soul does not appeal to me..." Going unsaid was Jaskas dislike of his third wife. She, a Christian convert, had been a political marriage and was forever badgering her husband to renounce Thor to follow the nailed god. "I could use some time away from the hearthstead." His mug knocked against Kjartans with the toast.

Kjartan was glad the Finn had decided to come. The two men were near the same in height but Jaska was considerably thinner, and a savage with a battle axe. They had known each other the better part of ten years and shared numerous battlefields; their relationship had outlasted two wives and now their sworn lord. Each had a wander lust that had been suspended only by their oath to Jarl Erik.

A slave, newly taken in the raid, approached them and offered up a platter of crisped pork. Kjartan noted the bruise beneath one eye and the slight limp that betrayed a pain between her legs. He took a hunk of the meat, the juices warm as they ran down his fingers, and grunted his thanks. Jaska thanked the slave in flawless English and she looked startled for a moment, then scurried away to serve the others gathered about the blaze.

"Never been one to enjoy rape," Jaska muttered as if reading Kjartans mind. "It seems to lose something of the point, don't it?"

Kjartan nodded as he continued to observe the rest of group gathered in the church. He had made his rounds, as had Åse, to spread the word of their planned journey. The conversations had been short, a quick "That's right, we're sailing west and looking for a crew" before moving on to the next. Some had dismissed the idea outright with a laugh or groan, while more than a few were looking pensively into the flames or their ale. It was not a prospect to be taken lightly, and he knew well the type of person they might attract.

He tore took a chunk of meat free with his teeth and chewed, enjoying the crunchiness of the pork. It made him realize that they would have to lay in some supplies if they were to go. That shouldn't be an issue, there was always a glut of useful items after a battle. Not only from the enemy dead, but their camp as well, which had been plundered shortly after the battle.

Still half lost in thought, he glanced across the flames to watch Åse. Firelight danced off her blonde hair and silver hooped earrings and he felt, as he had ever since he met her, an undeniable attraction to her. Perhaps this journey was going to be about more than adventure, perhaps it could be a fresh start for both of them.

Hey crew, I have seven days off starting tomorrow so I will aim to have another post up by tomorrow night if you're waiting for some inspiration!

---

Gedda had never given much thought to the Christians’ strange god or the teachings that crawled across the pages of his faithful’s books in dark, undecipherable letters that curled like plumes of smoke; the sack of Thetford had certainly not changed that. Yet he could see why English villagers might have come to marvel at the stained-glass window of the church. When the Danes had first hacked down the doors, he had been among them, yet even the heat of battle had seemed to pause when he first caught sight of it. Despite the noisome air—choked by the metallic tang of blood and the reek of death and filth—its majesty had been unmarred.

Now Gedda stood with the others in the chamber, his weapons having been left outside the door. Though Thetford was a ruin, the beauty of the glass still stole his breath and made him pause. The golden light of dusk filtered through its panes, casting a sanguine glow over the walls. Yet now the color recalled the death of the Christian priest, his withered cheeks crusted by the salty tracks of tears. Crimson gore had spilled on the floor beneath his eviscerated body, terrible and red as the light that bathed the walls.

Let me not die like that, Gedda thought, without a sword in hand, abandoned by gods and men, unmanful and laughing like a fool in a pool of my own filth. His lip curled; he looked over his shoulder towards the door. Kjartan was gone now, likely called outside by Åse, and the old priest’s body had been carried out of the corner where it had only sat and stank. At least the path out of the church was clear. Weaving between the others without so much as a word, Gedda stepped outside to grab his weapons from the pile outside the door. With his seax on his belt, he felt like himself. Even with the battle won, it was a familiar comfort, one of the few that had remained the same between Thetford and the town on the Danish coast that he had once called home.

By the time Gedda reached the cooking fires, wind that whipped through the remains of Thetford finally banished the charnel stench from his nose long enough for him to take a deep breath. Though the reek was behind him, his thoughts of the priest and the strange god of the Christians lingered. He remembered the first time he had lifted an oar after leaving home in shame. One of his fellows had been a man who, by the web of lines carved into his face and the grizzled gray beard that he had worn braided beneath his chin, had easily been old enough to be his father, though Gedda had long forgotten his name. Against Gedda’s protestations, the older man had taken him under his wing; Gedda had wondered if the old man’s eyes were failing him, for he had seen all of twenty years and lacked the patchy beard that might say otherwise. His gray-bearded companion had liked to offer avuncular advice on subjects ranging from women to fishing to the craft of battle, but his favorite subject had always been the matter of faith.

The old man had been a Christian, a convert who tried to make the same of every man on the ship. Upon hearing his secret, Gedda had been sure that they would not tolerate his companion for long, but the boat had been filled with exiles and men whose shame followed them like hungry hounds—men like Gedda. Their companions would not have turned on the old Christian lest it create a precedent for the others to draw blades on each of them in turn. Besides, Gedda would have been disappointed to lose him; as tiresome as they could be, his ramblings were preferable to the cold silence of solitude. Hunched over by his oar, he had told Gedda tales of White Christ and the eternity which the foreign god offered his worshippers. Indeed, his god could cure disease with his touch and restore life to the dead. At the time, Gedda had been unimpressed by his great powers. Now, lingering in the warmth of the fire with a slain pig from the town’s pens, he remained unconvinced.

If White Christ was not a sorcerer, Gedda mused, why did the old man tell me no tales of his battles? What god walks the earth only to speak with beggars and men covered in boils, never keeping the company of great warriors? Odin was ever watching the field of battle, and in the crash of thunder he heard the hammer of Thor. When he took to the sea, he heard the wailing of Njord over the water; on days when the waves turned choppy and dark in storm, he had always been quick to offer a word to his patron. If the All-father offered his gifts to wise men, Thor lent his red rage to warriors, and Njord blessed the waters for sailors and fishermen, was White Christ a god of beggars and sick men?

His thoughts drifted back to the gray waters through which he had rowed alongside the old man. Gedda had not feared the chance of a storm, for he knew Njord had always smiled upon him. Yet he knew his companion, who had forsaken the gods, would not earn their favor. For his part, though, the old man had been so calm that Gedda would have sworn he was asleep if not for his bright eyes. He had worn a strange smile, one which Gedda now recognized as not dissimilar from the old priest’s when he died.

“Are you not afraid of drowning?” Gedda had asked.

“No,” the old man had said, “I am not afraid. For if I drown, I shall be saved by Christ and sent to his kingdom where men live eternally. Are you not afraid of drowning, boy? When pagans die, you are cast into the fires of Hell. A fair young man like yourself deserves a better fate.”

Gedda had scoffed then. “Of course not. Though storms often spell the doom of men at sea, I have ever been a good swimmer; Njord would not forsake me. What makes you so certain that you shall not be cast into the fires of your hell?”

“Christ is merciful and forgives all sins,” his companion had replied. “He will forgive mine.”

Would White Christ forgive cowardice? Prodding the side of the slaughtered pig, Gedda struggled to banish the thought. From the old man’s tales of mercy, White Christ’s hands seemed, like the dead priest’s, soft and unbloodied. The strange god was enshrined as a lamb; when he was slain by lesser men, did White Christ cry like a babe? Or would he have laughed like a madman, like the priest who had lain in the corner of the church, his viscera spilling out onto the dirt floor? Regardless, a lamb was an unmanful byname unfitting of a warrior. Perhaps White Christ was a god of cowards. The soft-handed men who prayed to him, worshiping meekness, certainly seemed so; they waited for salvation instead of winning their place in Valhalla or Fólkvangr through their deeds. Yet—if the gray-beard’s tales were true—White Christ was once a man, and no man’s mercy was endless. Gedda knew all too well that love’s well could run dry. Perhaps he, like the gods of the Danes—like the rest of the world—had no love for unmanly nithings, even ones like Gedda who hid their nature well. For he could hide himself from the eyes of mortal men, but the eyes of the gods were not so dulled by ale and age.

A fierce headache throbbed in Gedda’s skull; he found himself glowering as he poked the pig with clumsy hands, dressing it as well as he could remember. If only the old fool had liked to talk of meat half as much as he liked preaching.

Segrim’s familiar voice cut through the mire of his reverie, drawing Gedda out of his thoughts. “I knew that,” he said brusquely, looking up to meet Segrim’s gaze. “How would you do it?”

*whoop, phone error*

---

A large bonfire roared as Åse danced around it, twirling and stomping her feet in a rhythmic pattern to music passed down through the generations. It’s flames soared high into the skyShe was accompanied by the few other Norse women who were among their party, interchanging partners as they made rotations around the flames. Their dance celebrated those who have passed in the battle, having moved on to greater things, and their joys of having triumphed over their enemies. Eventually men started to join in their circle, their veins burned of mead and bellies swelled with delicious food.

She celebrated late into the night, only stopping to catch her breath, eat, and drink. In the coming days the young woman hoped to be setting sail into unknown waters with a ship filled with supplies and an able crew, so tonight was the night for Åse to start letting go of her grief. She had to focus on their journey ahead as her life would no longer be her own.

---

The night was cold for mid-spring, cold enough even that one might see their breath, or the rise of steam from urine as it spattered into the night. The fire in the church had long burned to embers, the coals still glowing red in the centre of the darkened space like some great eye. Snoring came from every angle and slumbering forms shifted, snorted, and passed wind everywhere about the space.

For Kjartan there had been no sleep. Wrapped in thick furs, he stood at the doorway to the church, staring into the darkness beyond. Out there, hidden by the purple dark of night, slumbered a thousand sword danes - drunk near as like - and with them all their dreams of plunder and word fame. They would march in the morning, like as not, south and further into East Anglia to punish those Saxons who had turned against their Danish lords. Most would, at any rate.

He had moved among the revellers that night and spoken to those who would listen. Segrim the Black had been among the first, he had been a loyal man sworn to Erik and it seemed that loyalty had passed easily enough to Åse. Kjartan cared nothing for the mans past for he had proven himself a fine warrior and more than able to stand in a shield wall. He would be a welcome addition to be sure.

Two others, twin sisters who looked so thin they might blow away in a strong breeze, had quickly agreed to the notiin of serving a female lord. Their size prevented them from standing in a shield wall but they had proven savage fighters in close quarters, raven black hair tied into tight braids that were said to be strengthened with steel so they might be used as weapons. He could not say for certain where they were from for the black hair was strangely at odds with intensely green eyes that dared any man to come to close.

Tosti Magnison has sought Kjartan out himself, quietly appearing from the darkness and placing a firm hand on the big mans shoulder. Their conversation had been short, little more than Tosti offering his services and Kjartan accepting gladly. The mans skill with an axe was well known and he plied the oars of any longship with quiet stoicism.

More than a few of Eriks oldest companions had chosen to remain and Einar Haraldsen was among them, and a welcome friend he would be too. He and Kjartan had shared more than a few shieldwalls and even in the most recent battle the two had been at the swines head when it shattered the East Anglian right flank. They had slaked themselves on the blood of their enemies and killed until their arms could barely lift a sword.

Perhaps the most surprising to accept the offer of a voyage west was Fair Gedda. The man was young, quick with a sword, and would certainly have no troubles finding himself a suitable wife. Kjartan had accepted the young mans reasons for joining the voyage - be they true or not - it was of no concern to him. He needed strong arms to pull oars and blades to serve Åse, he did cared little how pretty their wielder be.

There had been others of course, strong men who wanted to be shot of Englaland. Their ship lay ashore nearby in the Wiggenhall Eau. The treacherous network of small waterways had allowed the Danish army to move deep into East Anglia and turned the Saxon flank, forcing this battle at the edge of the great mire. The same mire that now echoed with the small sounds of an army revelling in its victory.

Somewhere beyond the edge of the encampment an owl hooted and Kjartan had to nerve himself not to duck as bats flitted overhead. Men might slaughter each other but the natural world continued as it had for years before, and would continue so for years afterward. It tended to make a man feel small.

He hitched up his furs and scratched at something on his leg, wincing as it turned out to be a scab. He flicked the piece of flesh into the darkness and felt the warm trickle of blood down his leg. He would need to ensure he cleaned the wound, though it would wait till they were at sea. The salt water would do a fine job of it.

---

“You, boy! More ale!”
A thick finger thrust out towards the young boy, who froze in place, the jug shaking in his hands. Einar did not speak the Saxon tongue. Why would he? Besides, these wastrels were no good for more than menial labour. The men whom he had faced in battle some days earlier had proved that. As the rage had taken him, he remembered Englishmen turning tail and fleeing. Hardly fit to be warriors, were they?
“I said ale! Now!” he exclaimed across the field. He stood, his large frame dominating the crowd that sat around him, and shook his mug impatiently. The boy approached, the shadow of the larger man engulfing him. He poured, unsteadily, ale sloshing around the jug and spilling at his feet.
Einar’s club of a hand grasped the handle of the jug and wrenched it away from the serving boy, sending more of it splashing to the ground. With speed surprising for a man his size his wooden mug came crashing onto the boy's head, and he fell like a ragdoll to the beer-soaked ground.
“Damn you English.” with a brutish fire in his eyes he shouted down at the prostrate figure.
“Can’t fight, can’t pour ale! We should roast you along with the hogs!”
He heard a murmur of laughter from the pack of men behind him. He turned to them with a grin.
“Still, he put up more of a fight than most of them!” the men cheered raucously, mugs thudding together as they once again toasted their victory.

“So what now, Einar?” said the man to his left as he retook his seat.
“Now, we drink.” he replied, taking a heavy swig.
“I mean, what of the warband. Erik is dead, what are…”
“The man is not even cold in his grave and you ask ‘what next?’” his fiery glare silenced the man. There was a frigid silence between the two.
“I...I only mean, where will we go? Further south?” Einar fixed his gaze across the camp, filled with men and women, merry-making, but he knew the fighting was far from over.
“We go where Odin takes us, my friend. South, west, east, north, as long as there is more blood to spill and more ale to drink, it matters not.”

In truth, he did not know what the future held. The Norns had yet to make their ruling, but he suspected there would be more bloodletting to come.

Across the way, the women danced with shadows. It was a celebration, a commemoration of victory, but there was a melancholy in the way they moved. Erik had been alongside Einar when he had tasted his enemy’s blood for the first time. He was a great man, a fierce leader; he should have had a great longship carry him out into the North Sea, flames rising high for all to see, signalling his shield-brother’s ascent to Valhalla. But alas, he burned here, his ashes scattering across the mire and mingling with the blood of his soldiers.

Kjartan, his lord’s brother, had been moving among the revellers, spreading whispers of a voyage west. A number of his men had already asked Einar of his plans, if he meant to join this fool’s expedition; he already knew of Kjartan’s intentions by the time he spoke with him. Whispers snaked their way through soldiers like wine through a drunk, each rumour becoming more outlandish than the last, but the one on the warriors’ lips now was that Kjartan was to sail west, find Atlantis and pull it to the surface like Njǫrd himself.
The truth was much more mundane: sail west and find a new life.

Could he bring himself to leave? He was loyal to Erik, not Kjartan. Though the man was a formidable warrior, he hadn’t proven himself in command as his brother had. Besides, Sveinn’s invasion would continue. The King had already united Denmark and Norway, Einar was sure Englaland would fall into his empire before long. If the men in the capital fought with the same spirit as the men at Thetford had, then London’s streets would run red with the blood of Englishmen, with Sveinn sat atop a throne of its defenders, drinking mead from Æthelred’s skull.
Kjartan had paid him the insult of not asking him first. Einar had served at Erik’s side longer than any other on these shores, and he and Kjartan were shoulder-to-shoulder when they broke the English lines.
Yet he chose to hold discourse with Segrim the Exile first? Einar made no issue of it, not now at least, out of respect for Åse. Poor girl, a widow at such a young age. She would have to fight off suitors, some more literally than others.
Perhaps that was Kjartan’s true intention? To take Åse out to sea and dishonour his brother. And did he trust these other men with her? Segrim? A man who kept himself so shrouded in mystery his father’s name eluded even those he was closest to?
Or this “Fair” Gedda? A man of marrying age, perhaps he desired to take the young widow to wife himself?

No. If anything were to happen to her on her voyage he would never picture his lord and shield-brother again without shame overcoming him.

So be it. He would sail west, and crush the skulls of any who thought of standing in his lady’s way.

He rose, steadily for a man who had drunk so much:
“Come, strákar. We’re moving on.” and flanked by four men he made his way to the shimmering pyre.

---

As Åse and the women danced around the roaring blaze and the other men filled their bellies and quenched their thirst, Gedda sat and nursed a cup of wine. He had dressed the pig with clumsy hands, refusing to ask Segrim for any more guidance. Luckily, the meat had emerged unspoiled, even if Gedda had found the experience almost as harrowing as the long, sleepless nights stuck in a boat with exiles, outlaws, and Christians. After enough mead, it seemed that none of the young men could tell the difference between a well-butchered pig and a poorly-finished one. Gedda surmised that, if he had made like his friends and drank himself halfway into a stupor, he wouldn’t be able to tell either. Yet Gedda could not have been less interested in the revels, for an all-too-familiar sense of foreboding was descending over him like a net weighted with stones. Long years spent peering over his shoulder had taught him wariness. Now, though, there was no one with whom he shared whispers in the night—only strangers who laughed, their tongues loosened by drink, and forgot their troubles far more easily than Gedda could forget his.

He was watching the shadows dance, taking different shapes as they flickered over the ground like wicked, form-changing Loki. Now, there was a coward among cowards; no man would ever be as infamous as he who quite literally became a mare. Gedda was just beginning to drift off into his thoughts when the man next to him elbowed him in the ribs.

“What do you think?” It was Abiorn, one of his friends among the young men who had once served Erik. He was not more than a few years older than Gedda, but the beard that framed his grin was already shaggy and speckled with the same ale that stank on his breath.

Gedda flinched away, clutching his cup close to his chest. “Think of what, Abbi?”

“Her.” Setting a hand on Gedda’s shoulder, Abiorn pointed into the crowd. There, serving wine to a boisterous group of Norsemen, was a young woman—almost certainly enslaved, he noted, from the look of her shorn head. “She’s not so ugly, for a thrall.” When Gedda didn’t say anything in return, Abiorn glanced back towards him. His eyes were blown dark, black as a bull’s. “What do you think?”

Gedda quickly looked back to the girl to satisfy his friend’s interest. Yet where Abiorn felt desire, he only felt pity; his stomach tightened at the sight of her.

As Gedda sat in silence, Abiorn’s brow wrinkled with a frown. “Well? What do you think?”

Though he wanted to tear his gaze away, Gedda scrutinized her in the hope that Abiorn wouldn’t ask any more of him. “She looks thin,” he said softly, his gaze flitting over her birdlike, frail limbs. Below the shorn crop of her hair, her cheeks were thin; dark shadows lingered beneath her frightened eyes. “And young, more like a child than a woman.” He turned to face his friend. “Abbi,” he sighed, “are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course!” Abiorn barked. “Do you doubt me?”

“No,” Gedda lied, offering the drunken man a wan smile. “You’ve just been drinking quite a lot.” He lifted his own cup to his lips.

Abiorn’s voice swelled with thunderous anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He lunged, moving to clutch at Gedda’s cloak as the younger man rose to his feet. Yet the ale burning in his veins had made him sluggish; he missed, reaching past Gedda’s arm. Then, with strength belied by his slim stature, Gedda seized Abiorn’s shoulder and pushed his friend away.

“Don’t choke on your mead,” Gedda said, turning swiftly on his heel and stalking off into the gloom. Abiorn had been too drunk to pursue him.

Weaving between men dizzy from mead and wine, Gedda moved to warm himself by another fire. As the flames burned bright as a cat’s eye in the dark; he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Then the broad shadow of Kjartan loomed over him as Erik’s brother approached with an offer.

---

Later that night, Gedda lay awake, grasping for the respite of sleep only for it to evade him like an eel slipping from his grasp. With each heave of his chest, the warmth of his breath turned to mist in the cold air. He missed the fire’s heat, but the light only illuminated what he sought to hide and the crackle and susurrant hiss of the flames were too alike to the murmured words of a friend.

When Kjartan had proposed the voyage west, Gedda had bitten his tongue in a vain attempt to hide his enthusiasm. He had offered his former lord’s brother a measured nod and his loyalty, at least for a time. It was easy to say that he was eager for a chance at adventure and word-fame, the taste of the salt air and perhaps a piece of land to call his own. Yes, he had said, he was young—not too old to find a bride—but the blood that still ran quick and hot in his veins demanded more than a domestic life of fishing and farming, more to chase than laughing children. His story had painted over the shame that spurred him to accept Kjartan’s offer, yet his lies had still cradled a seed of truth: a voyage west was just what Gedda needed.

Hearing of whom he would travel with did not shake Gedda’s resolve, though he had his doubts. Segrim the Black was a fierce warrior whose past meant little to Gedda given his own shame. He had made something admirable of himself; it was telling that their companions asked so little of his past. Tosti, too, was stalwart and well-tested in battle. He knew little of the twin sisters, but chose not to pry just as he chose to give Einar a wide berth lest the berserker’s rage turn upon him, for he had seen Einar glowering and knew not to cross him. Yet his thoughts always wandered to Åse. She was to be his future lord, he reminded himself, yet surely she would be beset from all sides by rivals who doubted a female lord’s strength. There would be a throng of greedy suitors, too, lured by the chance to steal what was hers. Gedda shook his head at the thought; nothing interested him less. Doubt whispered in his ear, reminding him of Kjartan. Would the very man who had trusted Gedda enough to recruit him have less-than-brotherly intentions with Åse? Were the looks they shared more than that of brother and sister? If that is true, he mused to himself, it seems that on every shore some taboos are more acceptably broken than others.

Groaning, Gedda clutched at his head. Perhaps I should have had more wine, he thought, staring into the empty dark. Maybe I could make like Abbi and drink myself to sleep.

---

Lise came awake abruptly, a slim blade already in her hand, eyes scanning the darkness around her. Something wasn't right. Beside her, mouth wide open, her sister Sisse snored with the blissful abandon of one who had drank to much. Lise sniffed the air and noted the aroma of burning - not that this was strange given the town had largely burned during the battle – a fresh aroma, as if someone had just lit the hearth fire.

Keeping in mind the drunken lusts of men, the twins had settled down for the night an odd beehive shaped dwelling near the church. A cluster of them had proved to be the homes of the deceased monks; the small possessions of strange men sworn to their weak god were barely evident. Only the cross above every doorframe and neatly kept bedroll on the rush floor had hinted at the intended purpose.

She slipped carefully through the leather curtain that served as a door and into air that was pleasantly cool. She could make out the huddled forms of folk all about the fire where it had burned down to little more than coals. A dog raised its snout toward her and a hard tail thumped in the dirt until she knelt to scratch it behind the ears while she continued to scan the darkness.

There was a subtle light on the horizon hinting at dawn not being far off; a thin sliver of light that was slowly creeping across the landscape. A gentle wind ruffled her hair, bringing with it the smell of humans, horses, and… Fire! She could see it now, small specs were appearing down near the valley bottom, specs that multiplied and were coming closer.

“Saxons!!” A scream from somewhere in the darkness further down the hill. More shouting broke out across the Danish encampment as dishevelled warriors staggered upright or appeared from the surrounding buildings. Lise ducked back into her small shelter and slapped Sisse across the face - she could not resist – as she shouted as loudly as she could.

“Saxons attacking, get your gear!” She did not have time to enjoy the look of anger on her sisters face as she hurried back into the morning air that was becoming thick with smoke and the clash of steel. She had worn her own armour to bed and needed only grab her shield and she tried to take in the scene.

Dawn was spreading quickly now, the sun lighting the clouds like fire, and she could make out the Saxons swarming across the landscape. Fighting was already occurring further down the hill between and folk were dying beneath the brightening sky. Sisse joined her now and spared a glance down the hill.

“Shit there is a lot of them…” She muttered, quickly rinsing her mouth with water and spitting it into the brush to get rid of the moss she was certain was growing on her tongue.

“Aye...” Lise agreed. The Danes were horribly outnumbered. Less than half of those who had fought the day before had remained – leaving instead on their ships for a fort further downriver.
“The ships!” A cry rang out from the Danes closer to the river and all eyes swivelled to where a single Saxon ship had slipped through the water toward the Danish longships drawn up on the beach. The guard left on the ship, mostly old or wounded men, died quickly as the Saxons stormed the first vessel, smashing oars and jamming burning torches deep into the ships belly. It only took a moment for smoke to begin to curly skyward.

“To the ships!” Kjartan had appeared at the church door, dressed for war. There was no other choice. If the Saxons managed to burn the ships, every Dane there would die. His shouts started a mad rush for the ships as every Dane who was not already fighting threw themselves down the hillside toward the water.

The Saxons saw them coming and began to try and push themselves free of the riverbank but the current held them fast against the third ship they had set alight. A howl of fury went through the Danes as the ships began to burn and Lise, running in the forefront of the charging mass, made for the Saxon ship. The vessel was chaos as some tried to work oars, others to push the hull free, while others dropped everything to take up their weapons.

Lise took a run at the high prow and managed to jump, catching the edge of the gunwale. A screaming Saxon jabbed at her with a spear and rather than trying to fend him off, she grabbed his hand and simply fell backward, dragging him with her into the mud. She twisted as they fell so that he struck the mud face first and she heard something crack as he hit the ground, his weight considerably more than hers. She killed him with a sharp thrust to the neck.

Hot blood gushed over her hand and she jerked her hand back as more Danes flowed past her to overwhelm the Saxons and capture their vessel. It was ablaze now, bumping up against its intended victims as they shot sparks into the air; black smoke curled high above into a sky that had turned a brilliant blue.

More shouting as Danes scrambled into remaining vessels and shoved them free of the beach, drifting out into the centre of the river.

---

Gedda had not expected to sleep that night. He never did. Rest, when it came, was short and fitful. In the absence of sleep, he had often thought of drinking himself into a stupor only to recoil at the thought that he might choke on his own vomit—a most ignoble end that could shame even a man who already knew he was a coward. Even sleep offered little solace. His dreams were full of dark waters and starless skies. Sometimes, deep in the grip of slumber, he would find himself standing on the island where he had slain Ulfrik. Ari would meet him there, lingering in silence, and Gedda would open his mouth only for no words to emerge. Even with a year’s time and the sea between them, his boyhood friend still had the nerve to appear, showing that same face that Gedda spent his days trying to forget only to know it all too well in his sleep. In his dreams, those memories which he had locked away slithered free of their prisons, weaving visions of friends’ faces and stormy seas and the black pool of Ulfrik’s blood.

For once, Gedda’s sleeplessness was a blessing rather than a curse. He had been sitting awake in the dark corner where he had made his bed, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his seax, when he smelled something burnt on the breeze. His gaze drifted up from the surface of his blade and towards the doorway of the little hovel where he had sheltered for the night. In two brisk steps, he had crossed the threshold and was peering out at a horizon limned in what appeared to be the first pale light of day. Yet nothing looked odd about the camp save for the distant forms on the horizon. Those can’t be birds.

Preparing for the worst, Gedda quickly ducked back into his shelter—or hiding-place, a whisper in his mind reminded him—where his few belongings were still packed away. The walls of the little house had already been licked thin by the flames when the Danes had first sacked Thetford, leaving his shelter more prone to icy drafts than most. As a result, he was already dressed in layers to ward off the cold. Digging through his things, Gedda didn’t hesitate to don his shirt of mail before seizing his weapons and shield. His only other burden consisted of what few possessions that had already survived the journey from his former home on the Danish shore to Thetford. Then, with his sword-arm already twitching to strike, he stepped out into the morning’s chill.

As Gedda ran through the camp, heedless of those whom his footfalls might wake, he heard a cry echoing from down the slope: “Saxons!” At least I didn’t have to say it, Gedda thought. His first instinct was to run for the water. If the Saxons are wise in war tonight, they will surely burn the ships to keep us from escaping. Without our ships, we might as well be trapped like pigs to the slaughter. Though he tried to banish the thought, it lingered in his mind like a stubborn thorn.

When a few bleary-eyed faces began to emerge, Gedda stayed his steps and raised his voice: “Saxons are on the horizon!” He didn’t wait for an answer before he added, “We must make for the shore!” Then he turned on his heel and took to the burnt paths of Thetford once more with his moss-green cloak flowing behind him.

By the time Gedda reached the beach, he had cut his way through two Saxons on his way down toward the shore and stepped over the bloodied body of another. The sky had begun to glow with the golden light of dawn, but he had no time to take in its beauty; the distracting clamor of battle rang through the air. A few dark plumes of smoke promised more trouble to come, and Gedda knew they would soon be joined by more blazes. He didn’t have to wait for that premonition to come true. As the enemy ship approached the shore, he watched Saxons spill into the first Danish ship, quickly turning the proud longship to a burning ruin. Fury rose hot in Gedda’s chest as another ship caught fire. Yet even in the red haze of rage, he knew he couldn’t take the Saxon ship alone.

With the roar of the Danish charge behind him, Gedda looked back over his shoulder to see the throng making their way to the shore. Taking the Danes’ arrival as his cue, he waded into the current, staying a couple paces ahead of the others who pursued the Saxon ship. When Lise fell into the mud, bringing her attacker with her, he surged onto the ship and plunged his sword into the chest of the first man to raise arms against him. When he felt a blow connect with his side, he whirled around and forced his assailant back with a quick sword-thrust. The fear he had once hidden away turned to anger, emerging as a terrible cry that punctuated the next wicked swing of his blade. Forced to raise his shield and expose his side, the Saxon stumbled momentarily before another of Gedda’s comrades—a warrior whose face he couldn’t quite see—killed him.

Black plumes of smoke twisted into the air like dancing serpents as the Danes torched the Saxon vessel. Gedda didn’t bother to look down; he could smell the ship’s belly burning below him and knew it wouldn’t hold for long. The Saxon’s sword that had struck his side earlier had drawn no blood, but he felt the ache of a bruise blooming beneath his mail. Gedda reminded himself not to think about it; it would only be a problem if he survived. Taking two short strides towards the prow, he jumped down into the shallow water and joined the crowd pushing the longships free of the beach. By the time he had clambered onboard, his auburn hair was soaked, hanging in slick tendrils that clung to his forehead and cheeks.

As the Danish longships slipped from the shore, borne on the glittering current of the River, Gedda turned away from the men beside him and out over the water. When he tried to speak, he found his voice too hoarse from shouting to manage more than a raspy whisper. “May Njord protect us.”

---

Åse woke early the next morning ready for new beginnings and began to dress herself with her newly found enthusiasm. A dark green tunic showed underneath a leather chest piece with chain mail links hand sewn into the processed hide and the hem of her tunic stopped at the tops of the brown boots she wore, so one could not clearly see the trousers she wore underneath. Atop the armor she fastened her sword belt, empty of the blade which sat on the stolen bed she slept on and across her shoulders she fastened a lynx fur cape.

The young woman took a moment to caress the wildcat hide, it’s spotted hairs running softly through her fingertips. A precious gift from her late husband, but that moment was all she allowed herself. The last thing she did was comb through her yellow hair that was loose from it’s style from the night before and gathered her locks into one singular braid that ran down the middle of her skull. Within that braid, she wove in a leather strip covered in spikes so that any unaware hand that should grab her hair would be met with a painful consequence. She reached a slender hand towards the double-edged sword that sat on the bed and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the the blade. Åse held the sword up to run a final inspection before securing it to her belt, making sure the blade was free of blemishes from previous skirmishes. The weapon itself was skillfully made for someone of her size and strength. Satisfied, she moved towards fabric flap of her lodgings where to the left against wooden poles sat a longbow made of yew wood which she grabbed on the way out along with it’s quiver filled with hawk feathered arrows. It had sat unstrung, allowing the wood to rest and the string that she would use to notch her arrows was tucked away safely in the leather purse that was fastened to her sword belt against her right hip.

Once outside, Åse made her way through the community of tents that had been set up just outside of Thetford to help shelter those that had stayed behind to occupy the town. She couldn’t help but notice the lack of animal sounds that should have been erupting from the woods that surrounded them, but there was nothing. She stopped between two tents to quickly scan the heavily wooded tree line, but saw nothing, which only aided to help further unsettle her. Very few were out and about like she was and those that were also carried worried scowls on their faces. A voice called out suddenly to Åse’s right. It came from a man who sat on a wooden stool outside the tent and he was dressed similar to she was, ready for battle.

“Lady Åse, Good Morning.”

“Good Morning Arne. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.“ The young widow was familiar with the man whom addressed her as he used to serve under her husband.

“Not at all. I have been just sitting here enjoying the morning.” He replied, nodding towards the field that was in front of them as he scratched his long beard.

“Aye.” She said simply. “Keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Same to y-“ As he spoke an arrow wizzed through the air to pierce through his left shoulder. He grunted through the pain as Åse quickly grabbed him to pull the man behind the tent and out of the supposed view of the enemies that lay waiting in the wood. The arrow buried itself in his left shoulder, settling in the meat of his bulk and was not something easily removed due to the arrow’s barbed head. Unfortunately, neither of them possessed a calling horn horn to warn of the incoming invaders so they were left with limited options.

Taking in a deep breath, Åse filled her lungs with the air she needed to warn her brethren of the impending battle to come. “Saxons!!”

As she her voice carried over the town Arne got back to his feet, his right hand applying pressure to his slow bleeding shoulder. Seeing the man could still get to his feet, Åse began to make her way through their camp towards the boats that lay ashore.

“Let’s go Arne, we have to get out of here!”

If the man felt pain from his shoulder, he did not show it as he started running towards the shore at a full sprint and Åse managed to keep pace just off to his right. Neither of them looked back as a roar erupted behind them and the Saxon army spilled forth from the trees. More arrows wizzed passed them as they made their way to the boats. Seeing Kjartan ahead, Åse spurred them to the vessel he occupied and turned to defend their rear as Arne struggled to hoist himself aboard. A man had come up behind her with only longsword in hand and bloodlust in his eyes, determined to rid his country of the Danish invaders. She calmly waited for his attack with a drawn blade as her skills as a fighter didn’t come through beating other men through sheer strength, but rather with the swiftness and accuracy of her strikes in addition to her ability to out maneuver her generally slower opponents. He had raised his sword high overhead and moved his arms as if chop her in two, but as his blade came down she sidestepped his attack and raised her own weapon to slice into his exposed underarm. The man cried out in pain as he doubled over, his red blood seeping into his beige blouse and dripping onto the ground below, leaving himself vulnerable to the lethal blow that Åse dealt him. His body hit the ground with a definitive thud, his life force spilling into the very river the Danes were looking to escape to.

Once she could see that Arne managed to pull himself aboard, Åse joined the others in pushing the vessel out to open water and hauled herself aboard once she could no longer do so efficiently.

---

Segrim awoke to the sound of voices raised in alarm, his head pounding in pain and his eyes blinded by even the slim sliver of sunlight that shone between the flaps in his tent. He had drunk himself into a stupor during the night before, filling his belly with roast pig and all manner of alcohol that he could find until at last he fell asleep still wearing his shoes—and now he was left to savor the bitter aftertaste of his excesses.

Sure of a conflict, the man took a deep breath to steel himself before gingerly rising from sleep and preparing to make his way out into the open. He closed his eyes to shield them from the light and groped blindly for his helm of iron and the cap he wore underneath it. Clumsily placing both upon his head, he did not bother to waste more time tying the chinstrap of his helm. For a moment he considered putting on his looted byrnie too, but he did not think he had it in himself to work the shirt of rings over his head. Besides, he did not want to make a target if it were Saxons that had stirred the camp to commotion today. Such fine shirts were not common among the warriors save for Åse’s wealthiest followers and the lady herself, and even the dead Saxon he had looted the byrnie from had been a warrior of status—there had been a fine sword with the warrior too, but he had given that to the man who helped him kill the Saxon warrior. Still working blindly, he curled his fingers around the handle of his shield, silently praying to any who might hear him that he would not die in such an ignoble state this day.

Something is amiss, he thought as he pushed open the flaps of his tent and winced in the red light of dawn. The spectacle helm he wore did little to blot out the sun’s light, and for the battle-prowess that Segrim possessed, he was dubious of his ability to fight this hour. The air was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and all around him the sounds of battle rang in his ears, the clattering of shields and the marching of feet and the crying of men fated to die.

Saxons, he thought. Saxons for certain. He drew his seax and brandished it, stepping out of his tent despite his dulled senses and the ache in his head, ready to struggle against any who might dare attack him. Thetford smelled like death, the battle already begun while Segrim was caught unawares. Again he thought of his shirt of rings, but he did not wish to waste any more time if the Saxons were preparing to burn the ships.

Segrim was never one to run from fighting, but he was no fool; he knew when the fighting was lost and already he had seen even the bright and decorated helmets of Åse’s housecarls approaching the ships. In the distance, one of the ships was already smoking from the Saxons’ efforts, a black plume rising into the sky above it. He ran for the strand, cutting down what enemies he could in the chaotic conflict, shoving through the returning Saxon army and leaping over both the bodies of the slain and dark puddles of blood.

One Saxon had nearly struck Segrim in the side, but an ally had knocked the spear away and Segrim replied with a thrust to the Saxon’s throat—but then another Saxon came with a bloody axe, killing him who had saved Segrim’s life and biting deep into Segrim’s shield. Fearful of fighting in his half-blind state, Segrim had dropped the shield behind him and cursed himself broke from the fighting. Again he ran from the Saxons, once stumbling over the corpse of one of the first men to enter Thetford’s church but soon scrambling for the shore again.

Segrim grew desperate as more of the Danish ships burned, wading and then swimming through the water at the end though he feared for his seax’s blade in the salt-sea. At last he climbed over the edge of a longship, panting heavily as he slipped his iron helm from his head and set it down, looking out among his companions as he made a grim count of the survivors he knew. He could hear the Saxons crying out for their victory on the shore, but he focused on those still alive around him and their escape from the slaughter.

The Saxons had arrived well-armed and powerful and it was only through desperate struggle that the Danes had managed to escape, much less Segrim. Perhaps White Christ’s power sent them here, Segrim mused, but he did not linger long on the thought for it only reminded him of the jaws of hell and the crimes he had committed back home. Besides, if what Kjartan had promised was still true, they would soon be far from that home; far from the demesnes of Christ and of the Norse gods both as they ventured into the unknown. Whatever gods ruled the West, he prayed that they would not look unkindly upon him and that under their protection, even the mighty hand of White Christ could not reach him.

But theirs would be a long journey, and even now Segrim feared that things would not be as he hoped, that the Saxon attack was but the first of a long line of punishments set out for him by whichever god ruled his fate now. As good of a warrior as Segrim may have been, he was no match for their mighty powers and he dreaded the cursed life of an exile that Semund had told him of; he recalled the exile of the nithing Cain and the unending punishment the mighty Measurer had cursed him with. Segrim grew sick at the thought, stumbling away from his fellow sailors and taking a deep breath to steel himself, but it was to no avail—his nausea quickly overcame him and he thrust his head over the gunwale, hurling a mixture of beer and putrid bile into the waters of the river Thet.

---

The mood in the longships was nothing short of fury mixed with black humour. Danes were not used to retreating, even less so to defeat. Call Thetford what you wanted, a victory one day, certainly a defeat the next and no one was happy about it. Of the seventeen longships that had been on the beach, three had burned, another had eventually sank, and only one Saxon ship had been captured to replace them. The dead seemed likely to number more than sixty and no single oarbank was full as the Danes rode the current northward.

"Well that was shite," Lise was muttering as she cleaned mud and blood from literally every article of clothing and gear she owned by scooping up river water and scrubbing with a handful of straw. "Pure shite."

"Aye, that's a fine way to put it." Her sister agreed, her own equipment immaculate save for the blood that sheeted her axe from blade to rope knotted handle. "A shame we could not stay to kill more of them, though I don't think I am destined for a heroic death on some nameless Saxon riverbank."

Kjartan, pulling strongly at one of the nearest oars, eyed the two with interest. They were identical in every-way save for a small scar on Lises right cheek. Whip thin with long black hair, green eyes, and almost fairy like looks, they were often underestimated by their enemies or mistaken for children. They had joined the crew a year before, rescued from a Frankish slaver, and been valuable members of the crew ever since. He had been present when they took their blood oath to never be taken alive by anyone again. There no doubt among those who had been present that they meant what they said as their bloodied palms joined over their offering to Freya.

"We got careless," Jaska, across the vessel from Kjartan and pulling his own oar, chimed in. Nothing ever seemed to worry the Finn, nothing. It was disconcerting at times and Kjartan had teased him about it on occasion. Jaska would always just shrug his shoulders and smile. "Over confident."

"That does seem to be a problem with men..." Lise muttered as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of mud that had stained the grip of her short-sax. "Always got more confidence in their skills than they ought too."

Jaska laughed. "And yet even you two got caught napping, what's your excuse there, eh?"

"All these beards are rubbing off on us. We were as dozy as you lot." Sisse replied. She and her sister could volley a conversation back and forth between them in a way that left most folk confused. Jaska was the only one who was apparently impervious to their games.

"Right, bearded.."

"Snoring."

"Likely as not playing with your cocks."

"When you should have been keeping watch."

"I won't even ask you what you were playing with." He interrupted them mid-flow and tossed an amused smile at them. There had long been a rumour among the army that the sisters were lovers but Kjartan did not think there was any truth to it. Their stories of being enslaved were chilling to hear and he was certain any experience like that would forge a bond he could not understand.

"My cock, obviously." Lise replied with a sly grin.

The small exchange, though in truth not hilarious, brought out a few more grins among the crew. Going a Viking meant learning to survive setbacks when required; failure to do so would only lead to taking risks that would get you killed and they were short crewed enough as it was.

Kjartan looked around the boat, noting those who had made it, and those who had not. Åse was hunched at the rear, squatting next to the steering oar as she guided the longship down the river. They were picking up speed and she gave a quick command to cease rowing. The river would take them the rest of the way to the sea. It wouldn't be a fast trip, but it would give them time to lick their wounds and not limp into Lynn like whipped dogs.

There they could resupply, re-arm, and discover which of their crew wished to continue the journey.

---

Dried mud and blood flaked off of Åse‘s arms and body as she steered their vessel down river using her weight to maneuver the oar she managed. Taking a quick glance behind her, the young woman saw no signs of a pursuit behind them. Perhaps the Saxon’s decided to celebrate the victory of taking back Thetford rather than chase them completely out of their land. Åse had the mindset to call them fools, but she rather not curse their good luck. The enemy’s lack of the drive to hunt them allowed the Danes to escape, recover, and plan their next move before their enemy could decide it for them. The talk on the boat was a welcomed distraction as her arms worked to keep the boat in her control though it was not necessarily a taxing task as they moved with the current. Many spoke of retaliation as they were not accustomed to the taste of defeat, others spoke of their carelessness, and some did not speak at all, probably wrestling with their own opinions on what happened and what to do next.

The young shield maiden had no such internal struggles, for she had already decided to move on from her life of battle. Feeling the boat settle nicely in the flow of the river along with the remaining ships of their division, Åse took the opportunity to relax next to her place by the steering oar and investigated herself. Save for some scratches and bruises, she had no serious injury to concern herself with and the blood that covered her body was not her own. Åse noticed that another had taken charge of Arne once he was shoved onto the boat and had made quick work of his injury. The arrow had since been removed from his shoulder, an endeavor that resulted in many curses towards the thankless healer, and a bandage now laid in it’s place. The man was expected to recover, though it is too soon to tell for certain.

The fourteen remaining ships of their division were slowly making their way back to Lynn, a decently sized river town that was conquered and inhabited prior to the Dane’s attempt on Thetford. It was there that Åse planned to stock up and head out to world’s unknown. They would reach the town before nightfall so the young women settled into the oar to rest, chuckling with the rest of their troupe as they joked about being to busy playing with themselves to pay attention to their surroundings.

The shores at Lynn burst into life when their approach was discovered by their kin whom had occupied the town and took notice of their colors in the light of the setting sun. Many came to their aid, working to anchor their boats at the river’s edge and carry their wounded to tents were they could be tended to. Åse was glad for this as it meant she wasn’t needed for this labor and her mind could focus on other tasks. She was eager for a bath and a warm bed to sleep in but knew that a meeting amongst the lords on their next course of action was unavoidable given their current circumstances, a responsibility she inherited with the death of her beloved. It would be then that she would declare her intentions to take her vessel and leave, taking whomever wanted out of this venture. The rest would be dealt with in the morning she thought as the heaved herself over the boat and landed softly upon the sandy beach.

Passing by Kjartan on the shore, she placed her right hand upon his left shoulder, squeezing it gently in greeting. She didn’t have a chance to say anything sooner to the man as they both had duties to attend to in order to get their people to safety here in Lynn. Åse thought to ask him to join her, but decided against the notion.

“If anything, I’ll see you in the morning Kjartan.” She said softly while releasing her grip on him.

Her weary legs carried her into the weathered town, trading the soft sand for moist grass that licked away at any mineral particles that stuck to her leather boots.

---

The touch still lingered as Kjartan made his way into Lynn. To call the impromptu community of wood and canvas shacks a town was being generous. In truth it was a collection of wooden shacks built around a Roman ruin that had once served as a storehouse for the salt of an empire none of the Danes who now sheltered amid its grandeur could ever understand. To the Kjartan, the Romans might have been gods. He had once seen the great stone arches that had carried water to Lunden and stood beneath stone that seemed hung in the air, higher and stronger than anything built since. Even the Christian Churches, built of brick and stone, were dwarfed by the ruins of a ghostly empire.

Familiar faces leapt out at Kjartan as he made his way through the shelters; warriors he had fought alongside, merchants who had done business with, and one or two women whose favours he had enjoyed. The muddy paths that crisscrossed the space sucked at his tall boots and more than once he had to step over human shit. Disease would come soon if this continued. Keep to many folk in a space to small for them for too long and people would begin dying.

Canvas roofs twitched in a strong wind that blew in from the ocean and he could see, in the distance, the white beaches where he knew small troupes of Saxon slaves worked a half salt pans to the white crystals as they dried in the sun. The Romans had built hundreds of such pits, enough to need the building in which he now stood, but most had been eroded with time; there were simply not enough people to work them. Not on the scale the Romans had managed.

It was strange to think that he would be sailing away from England. For so many years he had fought to reach the rolling green fields until he had made it, at last, and then he had fought to take his own small portion of it. Now it was all for nothing, of all it, for nothing. Danish fortunes were waning in England, any fool could see it. Even in Northumbria there were rumours of uprisings and more attacks from the Scots. The English were on the march in Wessex; they had at last solved the Danish problem. No Jarl wanted to throw away their men against fortress walls and all of southern England was covered with fortified Burghs now; more were being built every year. Those Danes who remained were converting to Christianity - the nailed God was winning the war.

He looked down at his hands. They were still strong, the hands of a warrior, but a thousand small cuts had turned them into a mess of white scars that cross-crossed everywhere. The tip of his left thumb was missing, lost during a skirmish with the armies of Wessex. He had a limp on cold days - he had been thrown from a horse - that hurt when the worst of weather was closing in. He was not a young man anymore.

The distant wave tops were starting to show white flecks as a grey wall of rain advanced southward toward Lynn. More rain. He was sick of the rain. Was there anywhere in the world that it did not rain? A glance over his shoulder revealed the small forest of masts above the few ships that had arrived so far. Tomorrow they would begin travelling North. A stop in Northumbria, perhaps the Norse settlements in the very north of Pictland, and then West.

West. To the unknown lands.



The storm blew itself out overnight. Only two shelters collapsed and one burned with its occupants inside. More ships had arrived as well, swelling the population to the point where to many folk were crammed into too small a space. Fights broke out as men angry and humiliated by Thetford looked for any excuse to vent their rage. The dead of Thetford, those of the fyrd - unburdened by armour - had begun to float downriver now and some became wedged beneath the hulls of the longships drawn up on the soft sand.

Kjartan shoved one of those bodies clear with a spear as others stood to the gunwales and grunted as they thrust the longship into the running current with their oars. The river snatched at the hull, trying to twist it and drive them backward downstream. He could hear the whisper of sand as it caressed the hull - a glance overboard revealed only a muddy swirling mass that streamed out beyond the longship as it drew into deeper water.

He looked over the crew and was happy to see some new members, mostly women, had joined them during the night. It was evident that they had their own demons, it appeared that no one among this crew could not, but all looked capable fighters. Åse had chosen them well. The lady herself was standing nearby, her own face turned into the breeze, toward the ocean. She must have felt his gaze, turning her head to catch his eye. She smiled and he felt his heart warm.

"North, steersman, north and then west."