Viking Dawn
National Flash Fiction Day (15 June 2024)
I wrote this months ago, a planned submission for National (UK) Flash Fiction Day on 15 June 2024. Distracted - blissfully - by our grandchildren, I missed the submission date. I found the story buried in my [drafts], waiting patiently for … today.
The helmsman roared. Oaths vied for the ears of the Gods with bellowed appeals as mountainous waves threatened to dash the longboat on Northumberland rocks. They were men of the sea, salt-encrusted and hardened to the wrath of turbulent waters. They had confidence in the man hauling the rudder, guiding them to shore. They trusted their jarl who stood on the prow, calm and assured, always the first to hurl himself forward. In a moment of unexpected quiet, the vessel soared beyond the febrile churn of coastal waves. Six more mighty strokes and they beached. Different roars now, as fur-clad tattooed warriors flew onto English soil. Hands reached for the earth, rubbing it on calloused hands that gripped Viking iron. Feet shod in deer skins from the frozen North gained traction on shifting sands, muscled bodies throwing themselves forward. Norman shields blocked their path to promised riches. One fearsome warrior nodded to his lord, looking left and right to acknowledge the twins, his sons, on their first raid. The hilts of swords that had passed through three generations banged on shields crafted while they sat by fires in the jarl’s great hall. The warrior’s beard was flecked grey, and the scars on his face and body told tales of blood-soaked victories. All aches were forgotten as they surged forward, the young men beside him feeding off his fearlessness. Along the jagged cliff top, braziers signalled a fiery resistance, arrow tips dipped in flames before arcing skywards. As one, Norse shields rose, interlocking, their impenetrability mocking the longbows of the English archers. Primal roars drifted on the sea breeze. Viking swords swept across the shafts of willow embedded in linden wood. The North Men broke through the line of fighters recruited by a local baron. They swarmed up the cliff path, racing towards the last line of defence. The warrior stumbled, dew-soaked grass rushing up to meet him. He rolled onto his back, surprised by a peaceful moment that felt out of time and place. Sounds that were magnified minutes before seemed muted now. He felt an unexpected weightlessness. Lying back, cradled in the lush green carpet of the hill they had raced up, the adrenaline dissipated. He felt lightheaded and his spirits soared. He wanted to talk but no sound came. Early morning sunshine dazzled him as his eyes were drawn to the open sky. A raven perched, head cocked, watching the unfolding scene. The warrior felt himself floating, carried into the air. He shared the view with the black birds swirling around him. He watched the ebb and flow of the tide, noted the scorched earth around overturned braziers. He saw the glow of fires by the monastery wall. He looked down on himself, a fallen fighter, slain bodies strewn in his wake. He saw his sons charging, the fires of revenge raging in their hearts; “Messengers of Odin”, he whispered, “send Valkyries to carry me to Valhalla. Bring my sons to feast with me when their day comes”.
(500 words)
