Green cliffs rise up wet and silent from the sea, from where the dragon ships breach onto stony shores. Cloth clad peasants step out from their thatch hovels onto the muddy streets to watch the northmen approach. They come heavily armed in iron helmets and maille, carry spears, axes, and swords.
The blood runs thick into the drainage ditches as the northmen butcher their way through the village. The elderly are barred in to burn in their homes. The young are taken as slaves and sacrifices or slaughtered where they stand.
The raiders break down the doors of the church and begin to loot its golden trinkets, tapestries, and larder. The holy books they toss in the pyres. They drag the priest from his hiding place and flay him in the doorway of his holy house.
The moon is high when the embers of the burning houses reach the church. The blood of the priest is thickening in the cold. The raider’s laughter echoes between the snap and crackle of burning timber. Smoke slides into the crypt below the church and its thick stench awakens the one who slumbers in death.
He slides the stone lid of the crypt aside, as if it were made of wood. He takes the ancient sword that was laid across his chest and appraises it in the flicker of the roaring flames. Still as sharp as when it was buried with him, eight hundred years ago.
The sleeper glides past the flayed priest and a few northmen turn their heads to see the pale, robed figure shadowed by the burning church. They call out to him in a tongue that is as unfamiliar to him as the tongue of the villagers themselves. He speaks only the old words, but he knows a challenge when he hears one.
Crushing one of their skulls with one hand and slicing another clean through the gut with his sword is enough to draw the ire of the rest of them. It’s only when he has torn through half of them do the other half begin to throw down their weapons and run.
They leave behind their plunder where it lies. So too, do they leave the bound villagers in the mud of the marketplace. They cry out in relief and sing the praises of the valiant stranger.
The sleeper regards them cooly, and feels his thirst needs slaking.
Paddy Dobson
20th December 2022