Thousands of oars plowed into the steady sea off the coast of the legendary kingdom of Kattegat, the home of the Scandinavian heroes Ragnar and his conquering, exploring and warring sons, eternal idols in the sagas of the Norse.
Heaving men panted and gasped under the strains of seafaring, their muscles soaked and fatigued from the long voyage across the untamed, violent North Sea. Having fought against the clock and the storm, they persevered through the hardships of sailing and crashed through the waves at an unprecedented pace, traversing the sea in minimal time to aid their Norwegian allies.
From the valley between the steep hills, long trails of black smoke rose towards the sky, the blazing city beneath devastated and ruined from the visibly victorious enemy army, Olaf the Traitor swifter than the righteous Danish reinforcements for their brethren in Kattegat, the future kingdom of King Sweyn's son, Canute, King of England and Denmark.
Alongside the rowing men and the groaning muscles, stood Sweyn Forkbeard, Kingfather and Warlord of the North, his graying beard spun into a braided form hanging low with a fine golden piece of jewelry adorning the bottom which spiked towards the end.
Looming at the front of the first boat, ready to dive into action and slaughter, the veteran warrior grimly stared ahead past the furious dragon head, the painful aches in his heart reverberating at the sight of the beautiful ancient pilgrimage site consumed by flames.
Nervously swaying behind the imposing giant of a man were his young grandchildren, Harald and Swein, who nonetheless attempted to sternly glare at the ravaged town, a faint glint of determination to be found beneath the unhideable facade of fear.
Feeling their discomfort and realizing that soon they would pass the seagates of the Ragnarssons’ city, Forkbeard wordlessly ordered Harald to give his grandfather the mighty battleax, Kranieknuser, the weapon which longed for blood, craved for slaughter and demanded to tear through skulls in tribute to the Gods.
“Let this be your first lesson,” resolutely proclaimed the King through his thick beard, the people around him listening with one ear to their intimidating leader’s words while plunging the oars into the water, the impressive longship propelling towards the seagates.
“Never let traitors go unpunished.” An image of a one-eyed crow flashed inside Forkbeard’s mind as he lifted Kranieknuser towards the Heavens.
From the bottom of his heavy lungs, the old man yelled in determination and wrath: “Death to all traitors!” A cry which was picked up at first by the surrounding men, then by the surrounding longships until the whole fleet screamed in unison: “Death to all traitors! Death to all traitors! Death to all traitors!”
Invigorated by his men’s eagerness, Forkbeard added in a triumphant thundering tone: “Death!”
“DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!” It resonated off the Fjords flanking the ships, the Vikings’ cry roaring across the landscape in a victorious, imposing manner, before Forkbeard, without turning around, his gaze everlasting on the target ahead, sternly commanded: “Blow the horns!”
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Within moments, several horns burst through the tense atmosphere, animating the harbor and city beyond into a frenzied panic, the invaders initially fleeing by scores and then by the hundreds from the rapidly approaching invasion force of marauders and berserkers.
Eventually, the thundering quaking horn signals subsided, the sails were retracted and placed in a secure, dry spot and the longships harshly crashed into the sandy shore of Kattegat, the wood groaning throughout its way on the sizzling sand.
Arriving at the shore, the giant army of raiders met no resistance, the gray beach abandoned and the defenses and artillery unmanned, their frightening display of valor and bellicosity enough to scare Olaf’s invaders back to Norway, back to their craven hollows.
Disembarking from their longships under constant screaming and roaring, the Dragonwarriors jumped into the shallow water and harsh sand before stomping across the empty area towards the main town, the backs of the retreating enemies facing them in an act of Norwegian cowardice.
Forkbeard, accompanied by his grandsons and bodyguards, strolled along the walls of the burning city, commanding the unoccupied men to gather buckets to quell the fire while simultaneously ripping commonfolk out of their houses to aid the efforts of saving the legendary capital of the North.
Savagely barking at the passing men and women, he yelled: “Extinguish the fucking fire! Get moving and plunge those buckets into the water for all that your puny life is worth!” The contempt towards the people who allowed their own city to be pillaged not once hidden in his straightforward manner, the iron King pushed several young teenagers against a corner, trapping them between himself and the shore as he glared at them with insanely ripped open eyes, wiggling his tongue in front of his black beard, his soldiers following their chief’s example.
“I am Sweyn Forkbeard, Uniter of Scandinavia and you fools shall feel the wrath of me!” But the threat remained hollow as he erupted into roaring laughter, barely able to breathe while his men clasped each others’ shoulder and joined in on taunting the youths of Kattegat who in turn utilized the moment and pushed past the bulky warriors, fleeing from their destructive, unpredictable whims.
Suddenly several men burst through a thatchen door into the alley the King and his entourage were in. Both parties were surprised to see each other, yet the King’s men grasped the initiative and charged the still divided youngsters whose necks were adorned by golden chains and plunder from the wealthy trading hub.
Axes high, swords drawn and shields firmly intertwining with each other, the Danes who had assembled an organized shield wall in record time, charged in a thundering manner at the last defenders of Kattegat, the marauding King joyfully chirping in a deep voice: “King fockin’ Forkbeard has returned for his claim! Give! Me! MY! FUCKING KINGDOM!”
“Forkbeard!” Was the last exclamation from his loyal followers the Warlord noticed before his everything was drowned out by the sound of battle at the clash with the energetic youths, his senses sharp yet numbed momentarily upon the painful impact of shield on shield, of metal on metal, of life on death.
Flashing his teeth, Forkbeard stared into a frightened boy’s face, no older than 16, as the two men engaged in melee, the old King lurching forward to push the boy out of formation for a duel according to the old ways, full of honor and gallantry between two Vikings.
The soldier stabbed with his sword at the veteran, only for the blade to be blocked and repelled by the oaken shield, the metal clanging on the reinforced rim before sliding into nothingness.
Utilizing the chance presenting itself on the silver plate, Forkbeard plunged the head of his ax into the boy’s stomach, the blade cutting through the rudimentary chainmail and light tunic without much effort. It tore through skin and flesh easily until halting at the ribs, the yelps of surprise and terror from the boy silenced by the blood pounding in Sweyn’s ears, the sword clattering onto the muddy filth, as the boy desperately grabbed the fur of the King.
But his time had come.
Life fading from his eyes, the boy slid down the proudly standing figure of Forkbeard, North Sea King.
Towering over the squirming carcass, the veteran remorsefully remarked on the brevity of their fight before swinging his ax round to engage in the next duel against the decimated, lacerated youngsters who had probably missed the signal to retreat since they had been busy raping and pillaging instead of thinking.
In his mindless frenzy while slaughtering the last enemies, the last sacrifices for his conquest of Kattegat, Forkbeard glanced around, swinging his blood-dripping battleax in a large arc through the alley, allies and foes evading alike. His bloodshot eyes fixed on the distant apex of the mountains encompassing the divine city in their protective yet trapping embrace.
On the snowy peak stood a man.
A man whose aura was both ominous and alluring simultaneously.
A man whose mere presence tantalized Sweyn, his rage and wrath perishing within an instant, only to be replaced with admiration and reverence, with shame and guilt at his previous denunciation of the old ways in favor of Christ.
A man whose eye was covered in an eyepatch.
The Gods would repay their devout followers …
And punish the sacrilegious believers who chose life and political gains over glory and an eternal seat in Valhalla.