Arjeormas Black'd Bone

VIII

The fire. This was not the fire from five years past. This fire was clever, not barbaric, and it was executed flawlessly. Rows of thatched roofs began to smolder, confusion sung out, and finally fear. The screams cried out to each other, but above all else, they cried to someone above. Their god in sky cried as well, and although he tried, his tears could not quench the chaos. The chaos could only lead the cries to last breaths and then death. The Nord men, the wulvs, each one a dragon, crawled through the town and let loose smoke, not in wisps, but bellowed. The heat emanating from each burning building built up higher as more and more breaths drowned away, yet it was none as hot as the blood rushing through the dragons as they fought. In the minds of these dragons, they were burning paths for the Christians straight to their Hell.

Abjorn the Later's countenance was stern over sadness, unlike the insane expressions of his people. He strained his arm and swung his other, and thus slaughtered dozens in the guise of a heartless heathen. In the flames, he saw the ghosts that had once haunted him in his youth, except now their faces were visible, and many of the same. He saw again, again, and again the face of the boy, Aiken. Turning his cloaked back to the shades, he slew a few, but there, too, was the face, reflecting off of the blood covered battle-axe. Their eyes locked gaze, their panting, gasping breaths became mist in the thick air. Abjorn the Later looked back into the flames. He shuddered and gagged, and for a moment, he lost his senses. In the flames, was the boy, stuck under a collapsed burning wall, like our hero five years ago, but Aiken could not free himself. Abjorn the Later clenched his fist and jaw, but his eyes betrayed his weakness. He would not help his friend, not after he had labored for so long for his people's respect.

Aiken had seen the towne ablaze in the evening, and had returned in an attempt to rescue his sister despite his order to fly. "Forgive me, Arjeormas-" His voice was broken down like the house over him, but there was no fear in it, just sorrow. Abjorn the Later heard it, and to his ears, it was sung higher than all the cries in the night.

Given great grief, he hurried to find the church, and then he saw a steeple. His course had him crashing through the locked doors. Expecting a castle, he was given vacant shelves and a bare floor. The pews were pushed back against the walls on either side, framing an alter in the center, on which was an open book. Gilded manuscript read, "Et regnum Dei est thesaurus ejus." He saw this, and heard in his head a thought that was not his own. It spoke, and said told of treasures beyond measure, and that they were to be found in the kingdom of a lord. With the speed a spark, he knew all too well, that it was Aiken's God.

The edge of the battle-axe, his arm, obliterated anything in sight. He rammed into the alter, cast the book into the staring fever, and let loose a thundering, piercing, searing roar. Hacked his infuriation and excruciating pain into the wood and stone. Blind with rage and steaming seas, he could not see the sister in need, until she reached her hand towards him.