Blood Moon| The Last Kingdom| Sihtric Kjartansson

PROLOGUE

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[880 A.D. Powys]

"Leave no one alive!"

"Dreamed me a dream last night, about silk and honest stake..."

I remember that night like it was my every night. It had been cold, three days before Yule, the snow thick and heavy. We could not run because of it, because where we ran, our footsteps could be traced.

"Wore a suit so light and smooth, in the rayback of sunfall..."

My mother had sung a Dane song in the Saxon tongue as we hid in a Welsh church, her hand wrapped tightly around Thor's hammer.

"Móðir?" I had asked her something, my whisper travelling across the dark stone of the frozen building. I do not remember what.

My mother, Marlena, the noble second wife of Jarl Brynjar and a fearsome witch, shushed me. She shushed me and held me to her breast, the song dying on her lips, replaced by prayers to the Gods.

"Here, Lord! Some are hiding in the church!"

The shouts of Welsh men grew louder, their scarred hands tearing at the wooden doors, barrels of ale blocking them from bursting inside to kill us.

"My Lady, they have found us," hissed my mother's handmaiden. I did not remember her face, only that she was missing two fingers from her hand. "We must flee."

"There is nowhere else to run," Marlena chocked out, rocking me back and forth, her hands stroking my hair almost painfully. "Odin, God of Wisdom and Battle, you who resides in Valhalla, you who is the wisest of the nine realms and gave to us the Runes. I honour you, I beg of you for your protection."

"Heave!"

The ale barrels rattled.

"Tyr, God of War and Justice, you who resides within Asgardr, Bringer of Victory, I honour you. For my daughter, I beg of you for victory for my husband and his men."

"Heave! Put your backs into it! Kill the heathen filth!"

The doors shook and three barrels fell, dark liquid spilling over the floors, slipping into the cracks.

"​Freyr, God of Peace, you who resides within Asgardr, I pray to you for peace. I look to you for guidance and for―"

"Heave!"

I never did hear the end of my mother's prayers to Freyr as the barrels fell and men dressed in red flocked into the church.

"No!" My mother yelped, jumping to her feet, bundling me into her arms and running in the other direction.

I watched over her shoulder as women were slain, their blood splattering the walls; not all made it to Valhalla that night, there were not enough blades.

"Gyda!" My mother yelled, "Gyda, you will close your eyes and pray to the Gods!" We stopped in a room where a large cross stood at the end. It glittered against the moonlight. My mother set me on the ground and began to tear strips of her dress, mumbling under her breath.

"This way!"

"Surtr, lend me your flames..."

I watched as smoke rose from the cloth in her hands, her blood smeared over the violet silk, but the fire did not light.

"Surtr!"

"In here!"

A group of men flocked the room, no more than ten.

"I will burn you!" Marlena shrieked, holding out the cloth in her hands, "I will send you to the Hell you fear so greatly!"

A few of the men laughed and one stepped forward, sheathing his sword. He turned back to his friends before he struck my mother so hard, her head hit a pew as she fell.