Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

PROLOGUE. 'The Fall of Linnasburgh'

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PROLOGUE. 'The Fall of Linnasburgh'

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The Celtic village of Linnasburgh scorched beneath the starlight, Norse warriors lighting fire to every home of hardened clay and straw, dressing the night sky in soot thick as a boar's winter coat. Women were forced to lie in the road and face their rapers wrath, those who were able to grasp it withheld the broach of their goddess of protection Brigit, wishing no destruction on their bodies that would follow them into Albios, the Otherworld of white glory and eternal pristine. Other women, those with more bitter hearts, withheld the broach of Balor; the God of Death. They sought Him to strike the Norsemen where they stood, desiring their cocks to shrivel and minds to shatter. Wanting them to suffer as they all did combined. Whereas the women of Linnasburgh proved necessary as trinkets of victory, the sons and husbands of Linnasburgh weren't so lucky. They were either dead already, or fighting to their deaths; Freydis, the middle-daughter of Ealdorman Cìan, fought alongside the few remaining Irishmen. She swung an axe that had been stolen off of a fallen corpse, loud squelches confirming the accuracy of her hits as she fought through the thick blinding smoke of Dubnos fire. Quick and without shame, the young shield-maiden was taken by the backside, feeling the outline of a man's cock through her wool breeches. Her movement was unpredictably fast as she swung the axe again, first chopping off the man's lustful mechanism and next taking off his head.

Freydis wasn't raised as a warrior, nor was she trained to bear anything heavier than a sæx, but her ability to fight like a Norseman was staggering. Many of the Norse went as far as to mistaken her as one of their own. It wasn't long into the Battle of Linnasburgh when her biceps began to weep, and wearisome was it to raise the axe above her jaw. Alas, the Norse didn't care for her, or her companions exhaustion—they were blessed by their Gods. Untrue Odin and his son Thor may be, the Norsemen didn't know that, and so their morale was unbroken. The Celts otherwise appeared to have been abandoned by Morrígu, the warrior-goddess of war, wrath, and death in Her foreseen annihilation of Linnasburgh.

Freydis stuck her axe into the spine of a heathen who beat the wits out of a young Irish boy. "Irish whore!" His companion shouted, swinging a longsword toward Freydis' neck. The Linnasburgh heir ducked as the blade grew close enough to shave the stray hairs of her braid, and swung the axe she wielded unto his unarmored belly. Blood spilled through his wool to, and Freydis struggled to pull the axe from the rib it embedded itself in. The Norse, still living, moved his sword-arm and Freydis was forced to abandon her weapon if she saw fit to maintain her livelihood.

The ealdorman's daughter ran lethargically through the bloodied  upturned roads of Linnasburgh, she ignored the pops of battered brains beneath her boots, and the cushioning she felt whenever she stepped on a detached limb. She had one target on her mind; to the hall, to her home. The doors were wide open, and ealdorman guards fought the heathens who dared to enter. One of the guards, recognizing Freydis, allowed her to swiftly pass without any rejection, preserving the girl's life another moment to find her family. "Athair?" She shouted, searching desperately for her father. "AAthair, cá bhfuil tú?" Father, where are you? There weren't many rooms in the capital to hide in as Linnasburgh was recognized as one of the safest townships in Airgíalla. Never before had it been breached, not until Skjord Arinbjornsson and his tribe of heathens sailed into Irland a fortnight prior.