A Dark Path - Vikings

A Dark Path

 Dark grey clouds loomed ahead, so saturated with rain that a few drops were already falling to the earth.

The hectic streets of the city bustled with sound and smell, the foul and the sweet melding together to produce something that could only be defined as tolerable.

Hand resting at the silver hilt of his magnificent steel sword, Erik sauntered casually through the centre of the madness with stalls of goods flanking him on either side. Up and down, back and forth, through every street there were people, and every person tried at their utmost to bargain with the passers-by.

Salted fish and meats, jewels, jams, tunics, boots and breeches; anything one could imagine could be found at the market of Farruhm.

“Fresh bread, Sir, straight from the oven this mornin’.” Rattled a plainly garbed wench, her blackened teeth exposed from her smile as she pulled Erik aside.

Expecting to be hassled sometime or another, he grinned back at her, only jabbing at her hopes of selling a stale loaf even further.

“Not today, ma’am.” He replied politely, stroking a hand over his black stubble beard before he was shoved away.

“Well, move on then.” She hissed, shuffling to the small-looking gentleman behind him.

As he made his way back into the line of moving people, a clap of thunder rumbled through the oblivion that was the sky causing a momentary silence on the ground as people gawped in wonder of the storm; but after seconds the hum of noise began again.

Rain began to trickle from the ominous clouds, and the water soon poured as if the gods required him to be clean, wearing away at the stains of battle.

Reaching for the inside of his leather tunic, he checked that the parchment he carried was still dry and would stay that way, it being his only allowance for being here.

Heading towards the main square of the city under the bell tower, Erik knew only too well where he was going and what to expect, or so he had hoped...

“These savages shall not prevail!” Hollered Sir Alard, who stood at the high position of the dais above the crowd. Men cheered and shouted, holding their swords, spears and even flagons of ale high into the air, while others bashed weapon against shield as a sign of their support.

Armoured men were everywhere in sight; prepared and ready with so much faith of conquering the enemy.

Sir Erik stood at the rear end of the mighty gathering, observing quietly with no hint of allegiance or defiance. Knighted after the battle of Morrowcome for his loyalty and valour, he fought for a cause that he believed to be true – whether or not it meant winning or losing, living or dying.

Soaked through from the rain, his charcoal hued hair clung close to his face and neck; the waves and curls of it washed down, causing the length to reach the top of his shoulders. His black leather tunic was also laden with the showers of the storm, but despite the dark stains of dry crimson blood being washed away, the fabric still gave away no signs of a family or kingdom held close to him, and in truth there was none yet that had taken place in his heart.

“Come the moon we shall ride, and tear down these beasts where they stand!”

Again men hailed, singing praise for the saintly man that stood before them.

“Their camp shall be their grave, their blood the poison they shall drink in hell and their last words lost in the winds of the gods! May we conquer all!”

Man and woman alike continued to cheer, their fears driven off by the pomposity and confidence of one man who believed that they could have it all.