Valhalla Press is proud to announce the Viking
novel by Darci Hannah
Prologue Northumbrian Coast, England, June 8th, 793 A.D.
It was before dawn, perhaps a half-hour yet, when the monk sat up in his bed, the cross pendant swinging wildly on his chest. He paused briefly to pull on his clothes, all his worldly possessions, consisting of a robe of brown homespun and a rather fine pair of leather sandals, before leaving his cell to walk down the cold stone hallway. The brothers would be waking soon, but for now all was dark and silent as he left the monastery, heading for the grassy meadow where the fat sheep would idly graze come day. The grass was damp from the thick dew of the early morning fog. It was a fog so thick he had trouble discerning exactly where he was, yet before long he came to the familiar gentle slope leading down to the rocky shore of his island home. And it was here, facing east, where the veiled ocean lay. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head in silent supplication.
It was not a brilliant dawn. By all accounts the great orb should have been making its presence known some time ago, cresting on the far horizon. But now it was obscured by the prevailing grayness, allowing for only the faintest glimmer of brightness to show through. Yet the monk's heart lightened a small measure, all the same, when he noticed the sky was no longer angry... angry like it had been. The darkness, the whirlwinds whipping up the succulent grasses, the flashes of lightning and fiery dragons tearing through the sky at alarming speeds, were quite gone. It had been an awesome display of the earth's violent protest--one they were all certain portended a great evil. But that evil was not to be seen this dawn, only a great smothering blanket of fog.
After reflecting on these vagaries of nature, the monk began in earnest to purge his soul in the manner the venerable Saint had taught them to so many years ago. And purge he would, for his was a prideful heart. It was a pride born of immense gratification--such gratification as to evoke an unseemly amount of pride, which was loathsome to one who had taken a vow to abhor such unworthy feelings. But it was pride nonetheless he grappled with, for he was an artisan of inspired vision. And it was in recognition of this gift, this God-like ability to put holy images on vellum--to bring the word of God to life for all to see in such a manner as to make his fellow brothers love and revere him above all others--a love and reverence he felt wholly undeserving of, that he was let to wear the holy cross.
But it wasn't just any cross; it was his cross--the great Saint of the Holy Island. And because he was given this honor, it caused an even a greater surging of sinful pride. Repentant, he implored his God, with the humblest of countenances, for forgiveness. It was for His glory and His glory alone, that he performed such works of art and wonder. Yet as these very words left his lips, he knew it was a lie. Deep, deep in his heart, beneath the layers of self-imposed piousness, he was still giddy with pride. It was for his own glory he worked so tirelessly. He had no right to wear the cross. He was most unworthy!
As this truth was known, a hellish vision spawned to life in his mind's eye. It was a frightful, terrible vision, an omen of certain death. His heart beat wildly in his chest, close to exploding in his ears. His eyes sprang wide with fear. To his great relief the world before him remained unchanged. He gulped hungrily at the cool air attempting to dispel the evil before relaxing a measure. It was then he pulled out the magnificent cross pendant from the depths of his humble robe and held it before him. With a secret pride he held it up to the pellucid world, watching as the emeralds came to life, bursting forth from their housing of gold. Such brilliant stones! The most brilliant in all the land! With the crucifix held thus before him, he begged his savior for forgiveness.
At almost the same moment a cold wind rustled the slope behind him and swept out to sea. It overcame him with such force that it had rent a hole in the fog, offering him a glimpse through the mist-a glimpse that revealed a dark amorphous shape lurking just beyond the shore. The monk inhaled sharply, staring at the object while struggling for a logical explanation. But before he could form such a thought, the wind came again. Logic was not needed this time. There could be no mistaking. God had sent the mighty serpent to devour his soul.
He stood up and faced the beast nobly, wrapped in his cloak of spiritual immortality, a cloak he had spent the better part of his life weaving. But when the mighty serpent appeared, slicing through the fog with a thunderous animal cry, his resolve began to waiver. And when he had seen that the serpent was not alone-there was a whole swarming fleet of them-he turned to run. For he knew they would not only devour him, but lay waste his entire beloved island as well.
He ran up the grassy slope to warn them, to tell the others to protect their wealth of holy treasure heretofore unguarded but for the prevailing reverence civilized men held for the sacred. These creatures were not civil! They were a plague upon the land-the very plague the omen had foretold.
It was then a man, a great big beast of a man, swaddled in furs and silver bangles, armed with all manner of blades, sprang from the back of the serpent and pursued him. The heathen then cried out in a guttural, animal voice. A hoard of men answered his cry and poured onto the beach like a swarm of locusts, following in his wake.
The monk had not gone far before a mighty hand grabbed him by the robe and spun him around. Helpless against such strength, he fell to his knees before the heathen and held out the cross before him-his splendid cross-and began uttering loud, though largely unintelligible, pleas for mercy.
The heathen, poised with axe in hand ready to strike, refrained. His wild golden hair swirled about his head, reminding the monk oddly of a male lion. Yet it was then he realized that the strikingly clear eyes were not looking at him but instead were transfixed to his pendant.
The pendant. To even a heathen it was a thing of singular beauty; a design unencumbered by tradition, bedecked with jewels that held the very light of day. With a quick jerk of his mighty hand the chain broke free. The heathen stood regarding his treasure. For some unknown reason it brought to mind his woman, his wild, pernicious, cold-hearted bitch of a woman. Yet like the pendant he now held, she too was a treasure of uncommon beauty. She loathed him. She always had. Yet perhaps this would turn her heart towards him a measure. Then, with no further thought to his domestic importunities, he stuffed the necklace beneath his belt and thrust the scrawny, odd-looking man aside, causing him to reel back down the hill. The heathen pressed on with his men.
The monk, now horrified and outraged that his pendant, the most holy of symbols, belonging to the sacred Saint of the Isle himself, was so casually taken from him. Did he not know? Did the heathen have so little regard for the sacred? Imbued with a purpose, one much loftier than his own, the monk ran back up the hill with inspired vigor, through the throng of marching barbarians, and clasped himself tightly to the tunic of his transgressor, hindering his advancement towards the monastery. He cried out to the man begging that he should have his honor back.
The heathen turned and regarded him with as little interest as one would look upon a dogged fly. The holy brother watched in silence as the axe was raised once again, poised high above him, the razor-sharp blade melding with the omnipresent grayness. Then, with surprising force, the mighty arm came down, the blade, cold and hard upon his head, instantly releasing him from his mortal prison. He was flesh and blood no longer.
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