Black Monastery Read Online Free Page A
Author: William Stacey
warriors pulled at a dripping oar, their excited eyes shining in the moonlight. The night was silent, expectant; the only sound came from the waves crashing against the pebbled beach ahead of them.
It was already hot; a promise of the scorcher to come, and Asgrim wedged a finger beneath the eye guard of his helm to wipe stinging sweat away from his eyes. Peering past the wooden prow of his ship, he watched the dark forest beyond the beach, but saw no sign of life. He glanced up, his eyes drawn once more to the flaming tail of the red dragon burning in the night sky.
The dragon had first appeared two days ago, when they were still following the coastline south. Bjorn had told the men it was an omen, a sign that Odin was pleased with their raid and that he would watch over them. Asgrim sighed, and that moment, Hopp, his vallhund, rose from where he had been resting between the seated rows of men and came to him, rubbing his thick body against his legs. He reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears.
Bjorn was wrong. Odin didn’t favor cowards and murderers. The flaming dragon was an omen, but not a favorable one. It was a promise of doom, of red death; his fate. And what could a man do to change his fate?
Nothing.
Fate was inexorable, like the tides.
The longship’s deck creaked as Bjorn moved to stand beside him. Asgrim was a tall man, a large man, but Bjorn towered over him. In his bearlike hands, his little brother held a great two-handed Dane ax, its edge sharpened keenly, its wooden length studded with iron rivets. Both men wore their finely crafted chain mail coats and full iron helms, with the fur-lined cheek flaps tied in place beneath their beards. Only the two brothers, however, possessed chain mail armor. Most of the men wore only padded leather or reindeer-hide coats, even though each Dane carried a serviceable wooden round shield with a sturdy iron boss.
Sea Eel’s prow scraped against the sandy shoreline, coming to a jarring stop, and Asgrim roused himself, forcing his attention back to where it needed to be. He didn’t know what destiny his crimes had bought him, but whatever it was, he would face it like a man. If murder and misery were all the Nornar would give him, he would play out his part and drown the world in blood.
Hopp pushed against his leg, anxious to go, and Asgrim slapped the coarse flank of the hunting dog. In a moment, Hopp leapt over the prow of the longship and was loping across the sandy shoreline before disappearing into the trees. Had anyone been waiting in ambush, Hopp would have barked.
But the vallhund made no sound.
“Go!” snarled Asgrim.
Without a word, eighty-six Danish raiders launched themselves over the side of the longship, splashing through the water to the shore. Asgrim felt the excitement of coming battle surge within him. He gripped the handle of the iron boss on his shield and drew Heart-Ripper from its sheath before dropping over the side of his ship and landing in the wet sand. His men had already fanned out, forming a half ring to defend the ship, but there was no need, they were alone on this beach.
The Franks called this island Noirmoutier , the Black Monastery. It sat just off the coast of the Kingdom of Frankia, at the mouth of a great river . The island and its monastery were named for the Christian holy men who dressed all in black and resided here in their great stone home, worshipping their ridiculous One God. Asgrim and his men had sailed for weeks to get here, past the Kingdom of Wessex to the north before turning south to follow the coast. And it had been an unpleasant voyage, plagued by violent summer storms, blistering hot sun, and short tempers—especially Asgrim’s. But there had been no choice: the earl had leveled a monstrous wergild on Asgrim. In order to pay it, Asgrim needed profit—else his war band would fall apart as each man felt the pull of home, a home now denied Asgrim. And here on Noirmoutier there was silver, a hoard
It was already hot; a promise of the scorcher to come, and Asgrim wedged a finger beneath the eye guard of his helm to wipe stinging sweat away from his eyes. Peering past the wooden prow of his ship, he watched the dark forest beyond the beach, but saw no sign of life. He glanced up, his eyes drawn once more to the flaming tail of the red dragon burning in the night sky.
The dragon had first appeared two days ago, when they were still following the coastline south. Bjorn had told the men it was an omen, a sign that Odin was pleased with their raid and that he would watch over them. Asgrim sighed, and that moment, Hopp, his vallhund, rose from where he had been resting between the seated rows of men and came to him, rubbing his thick body against his legs. He reached down and scratched behind the dog’s ears.
Bjorn was wrong. Odin didn’t favor cowards and murderers. The flaming dragon was an omen, but not a favorable one. It was a promise of doom, of red death; his fate. And what could a man do to change his fate?
Nothing.
Fate was inexorable, like the tides.
The longship’s deck creaked as Bjorn moved to stand beside him. Asgrim was a tall man, a large man, but Bjorn towered over him. In his bearlike hands, his little brother held a great two-handed Dane ax, its edge sharpened keenly, its wooden length studded with iron rivets. Both men wore their finely crafted chain mail coats and full iron helms, with the fur-lined cheek flaps tied in place beneath their beards. Only the two brothers, however, possessed chain mail armor. Most of the men wore only padded leather or reindeer-hide coats, even though each Dane carried a serviceable wooden round shield with a sturdy iron boss.
Sea Eel’s prow scraped against the sandy shoreline, coming to a jarring stop, and Asgrim roused himself, forcing his attention back to where it needed to be. He didn’t know what destiny his crimes had bought him, but whatever it was, he would face it like a man. If murder and misery were all the Nornar would give him, he would play out his part and drown the world in blood.
Hopp pushed against his leg, anxious to go, and Asgrim slapped the coarse flank of the hunting dog. In a moment, Hopp leapt over the prow of the longship and was loping across the sandy shoreline before disappearing into the trees. Had anyone been waiting in ambush, Hopp would have barked.
But the vallhund made no sound.
“Go!” snarled Asgrim.
Without a word, eighty-six Danish raiders launched themselves over the side of the longship, splashing through the water to the shore. Asgrim felt the excitement of coming battle surge within him. He gripped the handle of the iron boss on his shield and drew Heart-Ripper from its sheath before dropping over the side of his ship and landing in the wet sand. His men had already fanned out, forming a half ring to defend the ship, but there was no need, they were alone on this beach.
The Franks called this island Noirmoutier , the Black Monastery. It sat just off the coast of the Kingdom of Frankia, at the mouth of a great river . The island and its monastery were named for the Christian holy men who dressed all in black and resided here in their great stone home, worshipping their ridiculous One God. Asgrim and his men had sailed for weeks to get here, past the Kingdom of Wessex to the north before turning south to follow the coast. And it had been an unpleasant voyage, plagued by violent summer storms, blistering hot sun, and short tempers—especially Asgrim’s. But there had been no choice: the earl had leveled a monstrous wergild on Asgrim. In order to pay it, Asgrim needed profit—else his war band would fall apart as each man felt the pull of home, a home now denied Asgrim. And here on Noirmoutier there was silver, a hoard