A Viking's Rage

Prologue

Denmark 873

"Do you want to die?" The young girl shook her head slowly side to side. Her eyes were wide with fear as tears rolled down her soot-stained cheeks. She knew the man before her, she had known him always—but never like this.

Reaching out with both hands,­ the man grabbed her gently, drawing her close to him before covering her head with a coarse wool blanket, which tickled her nose as it enveloped her gaze from the blazing city behind them. The flames from the Longhouses lashing high up towards the smoke-filled night sky. Though she could no longer see the horrors behind them, she could still hear, and smell the desolation of her home and people.

She felt her feet leave the wood of the dock beneath her as she was lifted up and thrown over the man's shoulder, her breath being knocked out of her with every swift step the man took, his shoulder digging into her stomach as he ran to the docks edge—knowing they were heading for the boats.

"Wait!" He shouted, his voice loud in her little ear. "She's here!" He called again to the darkness. She began to hear other voices shouting to let loose the ropes. She was suddenly dropped with a thud, falling to her side on the damp wooden planks beneath her—soaking the plainest winter cloak she owned.

"By the Gods! Pull!" A voice rang out to her right, still blinded by the scratchy blanket over her head, unsure of the scene laid out before her. She could hear the unmistakable sound of water as it crashed into the side of the ship, which swayed and rocked violently as the sound of long paddles splashed into the abyss of the vague, black water below.

Soon however, the clamoring of eerie screams and the banging of drums in the distance began to die out, and the comforting sounds of the sea crept in to fill her senses. The burning city lay far behind them, and only the unknown ahead. The night sky shadowing them in secret, allowing them to silently sail from the harbor.

The blanket was roughly yanked from the frightened child— and kneeling before her were purest blue eyes she could never forget, "Do you know what has happened?" The man said, his voice strained from all his prior shouting.

"Já," She replied, as her vision returned to her, and her eyes began to adjust to the lack of light around them.

"Then you know that your Mor and Far have gone to Valhalla?" He watched her as a single tear fell down her small cheek, "You're a Dansker—a Dane, and you will shed no more tears this night." He roughly prodded her shoulder as she nodded to him in understanding. "Your father and mother fought bravely to protect you, is this how you would honor them?"

"Nej, min Herre." She whispered, turning her eyes towards the eastern sun rise, just breaking over the horizon, the low sails shading her eyes from the dazzling light shimmering off the calm waves. "Where are you taking me, Lord?" She asked, her first question since the chaos began the night before.

"I must take you away from here, but our supplies are low, and my men are well more than half their numbers." Once again, she nodded to him in obedience, knowing she must trust him.

"We have no way to navigate the ocean, and we do not yet know if we are being pursued by our foes. We must be vigilant and remain close to the shoreside. Pray to the Gods there is not a storm to come, or worse, Jörmungandr."

His fierce blue eyes scanned the waters ahead of them, unsure of his next move as his vison fixed on the meager child he had pulled from the flames and swore on his arm ring to protect. As he watched her, he could see the fear in her eyes begin to disappear as they bounced around excitedly watching the waters around them. He watched as courage replaced her expression, and in that moment, he was proud of the child and how like her mother she seemed.

The thought of the giant serpent, rising from the depths to punish them for their passing without the Gods permission, frightened the girl and once again, she wanted to cry. The sun had continued to climb into the sky, allowing them to see more clearly in the distance. She remembered what the man had said to her about her tears. She was a daughter of Denmark; a Dane and she would show no more fear no matter what was to come.

As the sky began to brighten, and the crisp morning wind whipped at her chapped lips, causing her to thrust out her tough and lick at the scaley flesh—feeling searing pain and regret in her action. The girl was now better able to see their condition, and dire the scene was. They were accompanied by only four others. The shouting and stomping of boots she had heard during her escape had sounded as if they had been made by fifty men, not three men and a woman.

They all looked exhausted, as they kept their heads down, mindlessly heaving their heavy oar handles forwards and back—pushing the boat faster through the mild waves around them. Her gaze lifted from their pitiful display, realizing as dread began to fill her, that her eyes were only seeing sparkling grey waters to the west behind them. She shifted her feet to turn herself towards the front of the ship, again—her eyes still only connecting with the silver waves of the water in all directions. "Lord, where is the shoreline?" She asked.

"Let up on the oars!" Panic had rushed the deck of the long boat, as the crew members yanked hard on their individual oars. "By the Gods, where are we?"