Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

CHAPTER i. 'Leaving Irland'

[Content Warning: Mentions of rape and sexual assault]

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CHAPTER i. 'Leaving Irland'

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They stayed in Linnasburgh for two weeks as Skjorn Arinbjornsson had sworn to his men. Heathens ravaged the sacred halls of the Celtic Pagans, setting fire to Babd's straw guardians, then burning down the Ealdorman's silver to nothing but nuggets for the Norse to use once they returned to Northumbria. The ealdorman and his deadened kin were piked along Archer's Row, their rotting skulls on display for any Irish trader daring to enter Viking-infested Linnasburgh. Freydis refused to bare witness to her slaughtered family as she was thrown into a iron-barred wagon amongst two other conquered slaves, even if it were her last chance to take in the beautiful sight of Linnasburgh, there being a lofty chance she would never return to the Irland continent again in her lifetime.

The young heir sat uncomfortably on top reused swine straw, her bruised thighs aching with every bump in the road. Another woman, a Welsh emigrant, sat with her legs drawn to her chest, rapid tears falling akin to Danu's rushing rivers. The last of the two female slaves was a boy in late adolescence who stood against the iron bars, shouting in gaelic at the heatheneous warriors. There were many other slaves before, but the Dane's had quite a temper. Thus, the numbers dwindled from twenty to three as the women were raped and beaten to death, and the men were overworked without food, water, or an inkling of kindness. The boy, Moray, was practically thin as parchment, and Freydis worried he would overexert himself by insulting the Norsemen. "Moray," Freydis called, "Suigh."

Moray continued his foreign rant, the Dane's riding on horseback laughed at his unintelligible words. "Scagachán tú págánach! Diabhail scum-ithe turd! Lig Balor duit a bhualadh!"

"What is the boy saying?" Inquired the wearisome Welsh woman.

Freydis shuffled into a more comfortable seating position, even if that meant drawing blood from her unhealed wounds. "'You pagan bastards,'" she began to translate, wincing at the pain in her upper thigh. "'Turd-eating devil scum, let Balor smite you!'"

"Balor is the God of Death?"

"Aye," Freydis nodded, adjusting her tunic. The woman was not allowed to bathe, nor was she allowed to change. When she inquired otherwise, Vikar would whip her until his arms grew tired, ergo her punishments would normally last well over an hour. "He is a great beast, a member of the Fomorians. He and His kin are tall enough to reach a finger to the moon from the tallest valleys of the world. But it is not his height that makes him deadly, it is his eye; his single, ogreish eye that spews Dubnos fire upon civilizations when opened."

The Welsh woman turned to her side, cringing at the pain that singed in her pelvis, "Your vengeful God seems to have abandoned us," she stated, her eyes sliding dutifully shut. "Your Gods, for that matter."