THE VIKING

 

THE VIKING

IV

Bibury, United Kingdom

Bjorn, son of Thors, moved through the forest as though the land itself rejected him.

The trees stood ancient and swollen with moss, their roots clawing the earth like buried giants. Rain dripped endlessly from the canopy above, sliding down Bjorn’s hair, soaking his furs until they clung to his skin like cold fingers. Every breath tasted of rot—wet leaves, animal decay, old blood.

He no longer remembered warmth.

Sleep came in fragments, stolen beneath thorn bushes and fallen logs, his body curled tight around his blades. When he woke, his muscles screamed and his joints burned, yet his grip on steel never loosened. Hunger gnawed at him constantly, hollowing his belly until pain became familiar. He ate what he could—raw rabbit torn open with his teeth, berries crushed between fingers already cracked and bleeding.

Odin watched.

Or perhaps Odin laughed.

Bjorn felt the hunt long before he saw it. Erik, the Jomviking general, stalked him like a shadow stitched to his spine. The forest whispered of pursuit—broken branches, disturbed soil, ravens circling too long above. Bjorn did not flee. He adapted. He became quieter. Smaller. Deadlier.

From the treetops, Bjorn learned patience.

English soldiers passed beneath him, boots squelching in mud, armor creaking, voices loud with arrogance. They joked about hanging Northmen, about flaying their backs, about the sound a neck made when the rope tightened. Bjorn memorized their laughter.

At night, he descended.

He dropped silently, weightless, blades flashing only when flesh was already parting. Blood sprayed warm against his hands, steaming in the cold air. He did not kill immediately. He pinned men to the ground, pressed steel against gums, twisted fingers until bones cracked wetly.

Their screams were swallowed by the forest.

When they spoke, Bjorn listened.

When they stopped, he cut.

The earth beneath the trees grew dark and slick. The forest drank deeply.

That was how he found Floki.

Floki smelled of fear and submission—sweat sour and stale, hands soft from labor instead of war. Bjorn dragged him into the underbrush, branches tearing at Floki’s face as he pleaded. Bjorn crossed his twin blades against Floki’s throat, the edges trembling slightly as blood welled.

“Where is my father?” Bjorn asked softly.

Floki wept.

“B-Below St. Peter’s Church,” he stammered. “The cellars beneath Black Castle. Bravos keeps him there.”

Bjorn leaned close enough for Floki to smell him—blood, rain, and death.

“You fled,” Bjorn whispered. “You ran while my father was taken.”

Floki tried to speak. Bjorn cut him—just a kiss of steel. Floki screamed.

“I should open you from throat to belly,” Bjorn said. “I should leave you for the crows.”

He released Floki and vanished, leaving him sobbing and bleeding into the leaves.

---

St. Peter’s Church, Bibury

Bjorn stole rags soaked in piss, grease, and human filth. They hung loose on his frame, disguising the warrior beneath as a starving beggar. He pulled the hood low and entered Bibury.

The village stank.

Ale, manure, sweat, rotting fish. Taverns rang with drunken laughter. Brothels breathed misery through open doors—moans mixed with crying. Bjorn lingered in shadows, listening.

“The Viking hangs at dawn,” a soldier said, slurring his words.

Bjorn’s chest tightened as if a blade had been driven between his ribs.

Rain fell harder as he reached Castle Black. The gallows loomed in the courtyard, its rope thick and darkened from prior use. It creaked softly in the wind, the sound like a throat being cleared.

Bjorn circled the walls, boots sinking into mud that sucked greedily at his feet. He slipped into the sewers—into darkness thick with waste and disease. Rats scattered. The stench burned his nose. Water rose to his knees, icy and foul.

The dungeons were worse.

Vikings lay chained to stone, their bodies broken and swollen. Some stared without seeing. Others whispered prayers to gods long gone. Bjorn unlocked chains, hands shaking not with fear—but urgency.

Thors was not among them.

“They took him,” a man rasped. “To the rope.”

Bjorn stole a uniform and moved through the corridors like a walking corpse. Torches hissed. Shadows stretched and writhed. He slit throats quietly, the sound of blood spilling thick and intimate.

Then he saw the platform.

Thors stood there—unrecognizable. His back was flayed open, flesh raw and glistening. His face was swollen, one eye closed completely. Chains bit deep into his wrists, red and slick.

Bjorn’s vision blurred.

He hurled his blade.

The warden fell, clutching his neck as blood poured between his fingers.

“Intruder!” someone screamed.

Bjorn charged.

Bravos stepped forward.

The Dark Knight was iron given flesh. His sword looked capable of cleaving a man in half. Bjorn struck, dagger ringing uselessly against armor. A fist slammed into Bjorn’s gut, driving air from his lungs. Another blow smashed his face into the mud. He tasted blood and dirt.

“No! Bjorn!” Thors cried, voice cracked and weak.

“Hang him,” Bravos said coldly.

Rain hammered down.

Bjorn roared, something feral tearing free inside him. He stabbed blindly, killed men with shaking hands, crawled through mud toward the gallows—

The trapdoor fell.

The rope snapped tight.

Thors’ body jerked. Twitched. Went still.

Bjorn’s scream tore through the courtyard, raw and animal.

Something inside him shattered beyond repair.

The soldiers laughed as chains closed around him. Mud smeared his face. Blood ran into his eyes.

“I will kill you all,” Bjorn whispered, voice empty. “I will burn your world.”

As he was dragged back into the Black Castle’s depths, Bjorn did not pray.

He cursed the gods.

And the gods listened.