Blood Moon| The Last Kingdom| Sihtric Kjartansson

ONE

☾

[892 A.D. Dunholm]

Whispers echoed in my ears, words illegible and torn between languages.

My body swayed from side to side, water lapping at my feet, cold and crisp. I was in the forest somewhere, standing in the creek.

"On the path..."

I whipped my head to the side, straining to hear the voices of the Gods again, "Where?"

The wind picked up around me, the water growing colder. The skies darkened with clouds.

"Freyja, show me where to look?" I asked as my heart slowed its beat, quieting so I could hear the world around me.

"The path... look to the path..."

I shut my eyes, and I searched for a raven in the skies.

"A frail one is amongst them..." The song-like words echoed in my ears, "he is dying."

I shivered slightly, casting my power to the skies, catching an unsuspecting raven in my grips, stealing its eyes to see. 

I looked down from the skies, along the path to Dunholm; there was a group travelling along it.

"You have found them," the Gods spoke in soft unison, "the frail one is with them."

I urged the bird to fly downward, trying to stay in control as the cold of the water on the skin of my body grew painful.

There was a man, his hair long and dark, sticking to his face, laid in a cart, his sword gripped between his hands. The frail one.

"Uhtred Ragnarsson," Freyja whispered in my ears, "heal him."

Confusion bloomed inside me; the Gods were rarely merciful with dying men to allow them to keep living, lacked amusement for them. "Goddess?"

"Heal him."

"Blasted bird." A hand swatted the raven form I had stolen, and the bird rushed to fly.

"It is waiting to eat him," a woman from the back of the line spoke, pale and painted. A seer.

"Be gone!" The man yelled again, his cheeks flushed with anger, his voice twinged with an Irish accent.

"Heal him," Freyja repeated as she realised my focus had been broken.

The raven flung me from its body, and my heartbeat jolted. My eyes snapped open as my back arched unwillingly, fire coursing through my blood.

"Uhtred Ragnarsson is cursed," the Gods muttered, "all those in his path are cursed with him,"

Images of the man in the cart crossed my mind, him in battle wielding a sword with a yellow stone at the top. The images quickly changed to the Saxon King, coughing blood in his chambers.

"Two hearts frail, only one will survive the battle."

"The Saxon King?" I grit out, my body bending and falling into the creek.

"The king will die," Freyja whispered in my ear, "before the next summer. Uhtred must know."

My body grew colder and colder by the second.

"Save him!"

I lurched forward, my eyes open wide, all traces of exhaustion fading from my body.

My tent was dark, the candle I had lit before passing out, burnt out, wax spilt down on the leg of my table. 

I raised my hand, wiping the sweat off my forehead and throwing the bear fur off my legs, "Saga!"

The tent flap opened immediately, and Saga's pale face peered into the dark, "Lady?"