Valhalla | H.S Short Story

The First Part

Mercia, 798 AD.

Screams. Utter terror ripped from the throats of those in her village. Pleading, begging, crying for mercy. Mercy many knew would not be given.

The putrid smell of burning flesh and timber invaded her senses, her vision clouded as she rushed between two burning houses. She could hear the desperate cries of those inside, but she knew she couldn't help them.

Don't look back. Stop for no one. Head to Wessex, there is a large monastery there that will take you in. Stay away from the rivers, where the Danes roam the currents in their longboats.

Her father's warnings rang in her head, clear as a bell. As clear as the alarm bell that had rung moments before they attacked. She spied a man trying to flee, not even bothering to stay behind and fight before he was taken down by an arrow.

It would be a death sentence to dare try and reach the stables now. Her stallion, black as night and noble, she longed for. But she had to leave him behind. She prayed he was able to flee and stay safe and alive long after the raiders had gone. She would never be able to return here.

She hitched her skirts up as she burst into a sprint, heading towards the tree line of the thick forest. She allowed a single look back, as much as her father would chastise her for it, and felt her heart lurch at the scene.

Her beloved settlement, ablaze with flames from hell. Largely built men and women clad in unfamiliar armour, stealing and murdering. Picking apart her village until it was nothing but embers.

She ran faster.

She would be traveling for days, and on foot, she knew she wouldn't last long. She had to find the nearest town and try to source a horse, or hope she passed someone who would be willing to give her aid.

The adrenaline had worn off and she felt the despair of leaving her home, of her father's demise. Of being chased from it by Northmen who came and took what they wanted.

There wasn't much of a home there for her. Even before. Her father had been old and frail, having retired from being a soldier yet lucky enough to make it to his age. He had been killed moments after yelling at her to run. And her mother... a beautiful woman, she'd been told. She never got the chance to meet her. As her life began, her mother's had ended.

There was a monastery in Wessex that would take her in. They'd offer her refuge and a place in the church where she could devote her life to her beliefs. Prepare breakfast for the priests after morning prayers, and provide what botanical medicine knowledge she had to those wounded. She could do some good.

Her chest felt like it was on fire. She knew these woods well, having mapped them out over the years. But as she got deeper, the more lost she became. She wasn't very fit, her stamina was limited as the most exercise she got was trips to the crop fields or playing tag with the children of the village. The children. She hoped they made it out.

She heard a branch snap behind her and broke into a panicked sprint without thinking about it. She tossed a glance over her shoulder, seeing that one of the Danes had found her. The illusion of safety completely shattered as her chance of survival became a very slim one.

He yelled something obscene behind her, in a language she did not know nor recognise. She clutched her cloak where it clasped around her neck and moved even faster, completely losing her sense of direction as the only thing that mattered became escaping the immediate threat behind her.

She could hear him panting. Hear every step and every sound. He was that close to her and yet she persevered. Freedom was far, and she wasn't sure how she could escape him. But she wasn't going to give up. She had to lose him somehow.