Arjeormas Black'd Bone

IV

The morn of departure came in a blink. A moment. Blink. Blink. Blink. Everything moved swift. Bejor found his place on the long-ship, and Abjor the Later followed and found his own place in the rear. Bejor's countenance was drained of color, a thin blanket of snow over stone, yet upon any eye contact with he who sat behind him, somehow managed a scowl.

The ship had been carved into the likeness of a dragon, but after years of departing into the waves, the features had been softened, muted, and the paints faded beyond recognition. This, which had helped forge battle tale after battle tale, was battered and beaten blank, already silent as a grave at sea and ready for the burial. Ships are stories written in reverse. The more chapters it sails through, the less words are written down.

They traveled Nord and Vest, to finish what had been begun with the last venture. The water was wild, whipped by the western winds. One small storm passed over, and at last, the ship arrived on a cold coast. The need for thick cloaks would not last for long, however.

Abjorn the Later sat, shocked, in the back, while comrades all around became berserk, at the moment of hitting coast. Blink. Battle-axes appeared from seemingly nowhere. Blink. They had moved a mile inland, and piercing screams filled the air. Blink. And then there was fire.

Abjorn the Later found himself wielding his own battle-axe, running. First, because he must stay with and do as all his people. Second, from fear of failing and falling father from Valhalla. The others all had, in the moment, self-assigned themselves duties, duties of setting fire to every house and building, duties of plundering riches, duties of taking women before the other duty, the duty of slaughtering everyone and everything. Fires were melting woman, and children who had just witnessed the death of the only family they had, like icicles becoming water in the sun. The red, hot blood came from everywhere and went everywhere, like bodies made into rain, or hail. Bejor was mistaken for villager rather than a Viking, and his body too rained down. Heads, amongst all else, flew through the air to the ground. An idea hit Abjorn the Later's head, and he fell to the ground. He had to learn, and he was learning quickly. Stay below the swift lethal blades, and find his duty, in the moment. Light reflected into his darting eyes. A family had hidden gold in the wall of their now smoking house, the wall freshly cracked, and he now had his duty. He ran inside the hut, and swung his battle-axe far back, then chopped it into the wall, no different than chopping wood. As he chopped away, he split the head of a villager, unaware, who had been crouched and hidden behind him. With the last blow of his axe, all the gold was free, but the house was now entirely engulfed by flames. The thatched roof and rafters and remaining wall collapsed onto Abjorn the Later.

The hero found his storm. All of his silence was silenced. He found his berserk burning out of him. He found his berserk in his arms. The rage within him pushed himself free, and slaughtered thirteen men, biting some as though possessed by a wulf spirit, screaming above his victims, all while the death-light licked his clothes and the skin. The fire gnawed away all the flesh of the left forearm, charring the bones black as the path to Hel. With one mighty swing, he relieved his shoulder off the excess weight of the useless limb. He howled for all of Valhalla to hear. He had not failed.