Revenge: Part 1 (Several miles outside Thetford, East Anglia: 869 A.D.)

“King Edmund of East Anglia!” Ivar bellowed, his brow creasing in mock consternation. “I am humbled to be in your presence.” As he spoke, a gust of wind tugged at his beard and ruffled the fur of his coat. He placed his foot gently on Edmund’s chest as his contingents chuckled. “Where is your God now, Edmund?”

“With me, as he will be to my last breath.”

“As he was with your men?”

“You’re learning.”

Ivar sighed. “You’re pathetic.”

“You’ve killed thousands!” Edmund yelled, straining against Ivar’s boot.

“You English are the real murderers. No all-loving God would stand for what you’ve done. But, of course, he is not standing. He is with you, apparently, rolling in the mud like a pig.” He prodded at Edmund’s side with his sword.

“You would know what that’s like.”

Ivar rolled his eyes lazily. “Only a fool follows a god who never shows himself.”

“God shows Himself to His believers every day. He answers our prayers to perform miracles. I won’t do what you ask. I won’t betray my people and my God to be your puppet. Strike me down if you wish. But I know that God will not stand for your treachery.” He spat the last word at Ivar’s feet.

Ivar’s eyes lit up at that. “So what would your God do if I shot you down right now?” He stepped back and waved his archers into place. Several men came with rope to tie Edmund up against a tree.

“God will protect me, if he wills it,” Edmund said, as his feet were bound by Ivar’s men. But his wavering voice betrayed his fear.

Ivar gestured with his hand, and an arrow thudded into the tree next to Edmund’s left ear, causing it to ring.

“Wait! Alright, alright. Fine! I’ll do what you want!” he pleaded, struggling with the ropes.

Ivar grinned, and gestured again.

The next arrow landed with a hollow thump in Edmund’s chest, shaking him like chills from head to toe. The sound echoed for what seemed like an eternity and, all of a sudden, he had a vision, a memory of a moment two years past when he had seen the touch of God.

It was the day of his twenty-sixth birthday. He had been standing in the square outside the priory in Beodricsworth, the town of his youth. The night was quickly approaching, the sun sinking slowly behind low, sparsely wooded hills in the distance, the river Lark reflecting its orange glow.

As the sky darkened, stars began to emerge in the vacuum, each one vying for power after their overlord had fled. A cold wind whipped through Edmund’s hair, bringing with it the scent of winter rain from far away.

It was then that one of the stars, just under Ursa Minor, began to move. It grew longer, and very slowly stretched out across the sky like a stream diverting from its course. It descended like it intended to reach the Earth.

He knew immediately that the comet was a sign from God. A sign that the Viking invaders would soon be vanquished, that Christ would once more rule over England. He smiled at the thought, and turned down the dark, moonlit street toward destiny.

Thump.

The third arrow broke his mind and thoughts in two.

He didn’t hear the fourth arrow hit. He was too focused on the pain.