Blood Moon| The Last Kingdom| Sihtric Kjartansson

PROLOGUE

"Take the bitch to the yard," the Welsh man demanded, kicking my mother as she clawed at the ground, still trying to light her cloth on fire. Then, the man's eyes fell on me.

I had a blade, under my skirt, small and round, a gift from my grandfather.

"How old are you, girl?" The man demanded.

"She looks old enough to hump," another man spoke, his grin lewd.

"She is a child!" My mother yelled, "A child of ten!"

"Why is she still here?" The leader demanded, stepping over her before his men came forward and grabbed my mother by her arms, pulling her out of the room. He stood in front of me, watching me with cold eyes. "Do you know what it means to be a Christian, girl?"

I did not answer him. I looked behind me instead, at the glittering cross.

"She is a fool," a Welshman scoffed.

The leader said nothing for a moment as I turned back to him before he nodded, "She is. Take her to the yard with the others."

I was marched like a dog through the corridors, falling time after time against the cool stone and the wet blood of my father's people.

It snowed softly outside, the moon round and white, stars coating the sky. The sky so white and the snow so red.

"We will give you a chance," the leader spoke loudly, walking in front of women who were crouched in front of the doorway.

Their hands were bounded and they all stared straight ahead.

I was left with two other children, by the trees.

"You may surrender and repent your sins, welcoming our God into your lives," the man offered, "or we will kill you."

I did not hear what anyone said but I watched as blade after blade sliced pale skin and the snow melted with the heat of the blood.

And then, my mother was left. My mother who still prayed to the Gods, her mouth moving silently.

"This one is a witch!" Someone yelled. "We must light a fire!"

The Welsh did not know how to build beautiful fires; they just threw together sticks and bound my mother to a tree.

She did not cry and she did not beg for her life.

"Your father will come," one of the children beside me whispered, his eyes dark and his cheek blackened from someone's blow. "The men will come."

He was a shipmaster's son, Olav. I had beat him with a rock once when he had pushed my sister from my father's first wife.

"Odin!" Marlena's shriek echoed through the night. "If you hear me, take me now! Take me to Valhalla!"

"Light the bitch before she throws anymore curses!"

"Odin!"

I swallowed and watched as torches neared my mother. "Móðir?"

"Be quiet," Olav hissed.

"Móðir!" I yelled, getting to my feet, "Móðir!"

Marlena strained her neck, her dark eyes finding me, not a trace of fear behind them. "Do not cry for me, little Raven! I will be somewhere better!"

The torches touched the branches and the smell of ash flit through the air almost instantly.

"Móðir!" I tried to run towards her but something hard struck my head and I fell into the snow.

"Quiet down, mutt!"

"Odin! Hear me! Take me to you!"

I raised my head, my vision spinning.