THE VIKING
THE VIKING
III
Thors was kept captive by the insidious English men
who mocked him and treated him less of a human being. He was treated like a
rabid dog being fed scraps of meat and the occasional beating. Thors was a mountain
of a man towering over the English men like a huge sentinel.
But his strength could not be matched with that of Bravos,
the dark knight, for Bravos was a skilled swordsman with great prowess and
battle fever. He had tasted the blood of the Vikings and he loved it, he lusted
for it. After securing the prince Ashelstan the English army would rejoice for he
was the heir to the English Kingdom.
Here in the small fishing village of Bibury the
English made a post upon my rock I shall build this church said Bravos
to his subordinates. Their lives were at his behest. Hitherto, Thors and his
men were defeated immensely by the great English Empire Army that joined forces
with the Welsh Kingdom and attacked in the dead of night like the savages they
swore to eradicate from the scum that is known as the world.
There deep in the dungeons Thors sat ruminating and
brooding of his lost battle. He had been bleeding from the gut, a stab wound
curated by the knight himself. He was unable to eat or speak and a great fever
succumbed to his body. Leif his chief commander of the Bifrost managed
to escape the clutches of the English, coward thought Thors. He coughed
only to spurt out blood out of his mouth.
Floki too was captured and they all stayed in the same
cell together with his battalion of Jomvikings, there, the numbers dwindled
from three hundred to less than fifty. There was no hope for Thors to get back
to his family at this time.
In the dead of night, he could hear soldiers keeping
watch, that talked of them being hanged by the gallows in a fortnight, ordered
by Bravos himself. Life had no meaning for Thors at this time. He thought of his
family more often than not. His son Bjorn, his daughter Freya and the love of
his life, the very reason he lived Britania.
There in the pit they awaited judgement.
Days turned into weeks and the time was finally daunting
he must escape the clutches of the notorious English.
How could he? His
battalion was disintegrated, his hammer Mjolr was confiscated and his
ships were destroyed. He prayed to Odin and made a sacrifice of his blood to
the gods as he murmured an old hymnal taught to him by his mother and his
mothers’ mother, passed down from generation to generation.
King Harald sat on his throne defiantly, he was old as
age itself. There on the throne he watched the generals offer strategies and
battle formations with great scrutiny and precision. He grew bored of the
presentations and yawned carelessly.
“My dear King the English have stricken down our
banners and all that remains are the resurgence of a failed war, our people
have been defeated in England and are being held hostage as we speak, we have
no time we must act fast…” said Erik as he bowed only to be cut short by the
Kings hand that was raised swiftly.
“We are not to march on the English” said the King in
cacophony
“Winter is coming…”
he said in a loud tumultuous tone. The people cowering away in fear.
“We must
protect what ships we have left,” said the King.
“But my Ki-” again Erik interjected only to be
overlapped by the Kings words.
“We wait until spring!”
said the King assertively.
With that the Kings’ bodyguards surrounded him as he
stood from the golden throne. He sauntered slowly across the dimly lit hallway,
his old age catching up to him. He limped frantically but majestically as if
like a swan on a frozen lake.
Bjorn deep within the ground was shocked to dismay.
His father was trapped and all he could do was wait…no there must be another
way, he said to himself. He scurried over to Erik pleading and begging to
hear his plea of his plight of his beloved father. All to deaf ears.
There in the middle of winter he trained: axe
throwing, swordsmanship and archery. If no one would assist him in rescuing his
father he would do it himself. He was capable and strong willed. In a few days
he had gotten word from a potter that the King had stationed an emissary voyage
to the Welsh Kingdom to notion a betrayal to the English and join forces with
the Vikings.
He ceased his opportunity…There in the dead of night
he crept up the ship known as Yggdrasill the tree on which Odin hanged himself,
a strong tree, an immovable object and a great ship. He hid at the back of the
stern not making a sound, his hand over his mouth so at not invoke the members.
There inside a barrel he laid stiff as a rock.
Raging storms bypassed them. The ship swayed back and
forth like a moving cyclone. He would not die in the sea for his father was
waiting he sensed he was in grave danger. Bjorn always had a sixth sense a
rare talent.
Armed with a double short sword he waited until the
ship finally docked and the weather was fine as day. He emerged from the stern
shortly after the rest of the emissaries left. There in the dead of night he fled
the ship and into the land ruled by the English.
He would rescue his father
He will be free once again
And they shall reunite…
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