Chapter 6 Skarth the Godless
Six
Skarth the Godless
“Yer gonna fetch a small fortune at market.” A Wessex soldier laughs as he yanks at the rope around my neck.
I’m being dragged behind his horse to his camp, where fifteen of my people are being held captive. That is the only reason I “allowed” this bacraut to capture me.
No matter how many people I free, ten more will take their place. The Saxons will not surrender. This is the only way they can rule over us in a war against us since they cannot win. We have proven this time and time again.
But they can capture and sell us as slaves to appease their filthy appetites.
This is a new horror I cannot tolerate. I cannot sit in silence as my people are exploited this way. The sacrifices made were not for nothing. I did not give up my family for this. This is not the world I wish for my sons to grow up in.
So I fight.
I fight for my people’s freedom.
I fight for my sons’ freedom.
And in the interim, I sacrifice my happiness. I sacrifice a life with my hugrekki because this is not the England she bled for, and I’ll be damned if her efforts were in vain.
I cannot be with her.
Our story never did end that way, but by doing this, I can help protect her beloved England, the country we have both sacrificed so much for.
The two soldiers who captured me are rogues. They fight under another leader, one I have yet to uncover. No matter who I torture, they are loyal to their new “king.” This troubles me because it means Emeline may be in danger.
Once I free my people, I will ride to Northumbria. I do not expect her to welcome me with open arms. I expect her to want to cut off my head for keeping away for so long. But the fleeting moments with her hurt more than staying away.
She is everything I want but cannot have because she was always destined to rule and rule without a man by her side. A Northman ruling alongside her cannot be. Therefore, Emeline and I cannot be. But being without her, I’ve lost my heart because it’s hers—it always has been.
So I return to Northumbria to share news of my findings with Emeline, but I also return to stay…
if she will have me, that is. I do not expect her to be without any suitors.
But I will have no issues cutting off their arms and beating them to death with them because it’s time I reclaim what is and what has always been mine.
But I know it will not be easy.
Emeline will no doubt punish me for my absence in the most delicious of ways. The thought stirs an insatiable hunger in my belly because I have not loved another woman since Emeline.
I cannot.
No other woman rouses me the way Emeline does. Her looks are unrivaled, but it’s her sharp tongue and heart that leave me her servant—in every way there is. I will happily bow in servitude and do whatever it takes to beg for her forgiveness.
But I know my hugrekki is stubborn.
Although I’m patient with Emeline, I’m still a Viking. I do not like to wait for things I want, and I want Emeline… so very much. She will fight, and I imagine our meeting will be filled with much passion, the type that has two long-lost lovers burning down kingdoms as their love re-ignites.
I will allow her to chastise me until I cannot take it any longer.
When that time comes, I’ll throw Emeline over my shoulder and order her to silence, because her mouth will be busy with other matters.
She will be attempting to catch her breath as I fuck her so hard, the entire kingdom of Northumbria will hear.
The desire to see her only grows, and when we approach the campsite, I vow to make this quick. It’s easier this way because I can strike when the soldiers’ guards are lowered, as they think I am just another brainless, soulless heathen they can control.
But when I fight, who I am is immediately known. So I need the element of surprise on my side.
It’s not failed me thus far.
This Saxon slave camp is like all others—hidden away in the middle of nowhere.
But the air is heavy with anguish and fury.
My kin would rather die than be captured this way.
Some believe they deserve this as punishment for being outsmarted by a Saxon, but sometimes no matter how hard you fight, you will lose.
I do not judge.
I fight because I do not like injustices.
I also fight because I do not like most Saxons.
All I smell is decay, and see the reason is the three decapitated heads of my men on spikes. No doubt they did not conform to the Christians.
Victory or Valhalla, my friends…
I take in my surroundings and am angered that each campsite seems far worse than the one before it.
The Saxons are becoming crueler, and that’s because they have no fear.
Their army grows, and therefore, they are becoming far more powerful.
And whoever their leader is, they have clearly given them reason to fight.
They believe they will win, and a part of me fears they just might.
Men and women are on their knees. They are covered in filth and blood. Their arms are tied behind their backs. A long rope interlaces through their shackles and connects them, as does the thick chain around their necks, binding them to the man or woman beside them.
An anguished scream echoes in the distance.
When a Wessex guard staggers out from a hut, buckling up his pants with a grin, I vow to cut off that disgusting cock.
His friends congratulate him before another guard takes his place.
And the Christians believe us to be the heathens.
The spirit of my kind is broken. They do not fight.
They merely wait for their impending doom.
Their eyes are downcast, too ashamed to even see who approaches.
But soon, they will have their revenge because I plan on killing every single one of these Saxon swines and making an example of them because it will be their heads I display on stakes.
“Tie him onto the end,” orders a guard.
I am dragged by my rope to the end of the line and shoved to my knees. The guard secures me with the others. I do not recognize them, but when one man turns to look at me, it’s clear he knows who I am.
I shake my head discreetly.
He understands.
One guard yanks my head back, his repulsive face inches from mine. “Just a souvenir to remember ye by.”
He cuts off one of my long plaits with a satisfied laugh. I, however, will have the last laugh when I cut off his head because I am swiftly working on the loosely tied rope around my wrists.
I see an iron wand being heated over a burning fire. I know they intend to brand me with their God’s symbol. They have done this to my people to spite our gods.
The men are too busy gloating about their latest conquests to take note of me as I utter in Norse, “Victory or Valhalla.”
The moment I speak those words, something in the air changes, and the broken men and women become warriors once more.
“Skarth the Godless?” a young woman whispers, her eyes wide.
“My name does not matter. What does is making every single one of these Saxons bleed.”
“But how?” a man asks, peering between the guards and me.
I tsk him with a cluck of my tongue. “Even shackled, we outnumber them, and do you forget, you are a Viking. Odin, our father, watches on with fury that you do not fight! Do not dishonor the gods by surrendering to the Saxons.”
“How do we fight them?”
They are young, so I do not judge them. “We work as one, for we are Vikings! We do not surrender. We do not grovel on our bellies to any man. We fight and put our fate in the hands of the gods!”
They all nod, a spark of life flashing back to their eyes.
“You follow me,” I order them. “Do not fall out of formation.”
When the guard with the iron poker approaches, I brace for him to strike. He is heavy-footed. His breathing is hoarse.
I lower my chin, peering at my kin.
Their hands are tied, but mine are no longer. And when the guard steps forward, about to brand me, I yell in Norse, “Now!”
They move with me as I spring to my feet and spin, punching the guard straight in the jaw. He is taken off guard, and the poker falls from his hand. I quickly retrieve it and drive the crucifix brand straight down onto his face.
When I yank it out, it is covered with blood and flesh because his head is no more. I reach for his sword and cut through the rope that binds the wrists of the men by my side. I toss the sword to the next man in line, who cuts through the ropes until we’re all unbound.
Our hands may be free, but we are still bound by the chain looped around our necks. “Don’t fall out of formation!” I remind them again as we charge at the Saxon men who are frantically searching for their weapons.
They are arrogant; therefore, they underestimated our strength in numbers. The sword is passed down to me, and when a guard swings, I stab him straight through the abdomen, prying his own sword from his hand. With my sword still embedded in his guts, I use him as a shield as his men come to attack.
He is impaled on the sword, still very much alive as his men attack, uncaring that they are stabbing their once fellowman in the back.
The men and women punch and headbutt the guards, easily disarming them of their weapons. They stab them over and over, and when the man whose cock was raping one of our own attacks another woman, she thrusts downward and straight through the front of his pants.
She withdraws the sword, only to slice off his head.
The camp is soon a bloody battlefield filled with war cries, and the strong metallic smell of blood soaks the earth. When one coward runs for the hills, I close my eye and line him up in my sight, and when he believes he’s free, I throw my sword in the air, impaling him to the ground.
There is one man alive who cowers in fear with his hands raised in surrender. I toss his limp friend at him as he served his purpose on the end of my sword. “Where is the key?”
He quickly fumbles with a key in his pocket, passing it to me with trembling hands.
I unlock the clasp around my neck and offer the key to the man next to me, who fought like he was possessed by Odin himself.
The Wessex guard interlaces his hands. “Please do not kill me. I am sorry.”
I have no other response than to spit in his face. “You make me sick. All you Christians are the same. You believe us to be the heathens, but look at what you do!”
“We’ve been given orders to.”
“By whom?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Who!” I roar, pressing my sword to his throat because I am sick of his sniveling.
“You will kill me anyway. Why would I tell you?”
“You have my word that I will spare your life.”
“No!” screams a woman who comes stumbling from the hut, naked with blood trickling down her thighs. “He must die!”
I understand her pain, for she wants her attackers to pay. “Bjóeja saett.”
She clenches her teeth but understands that his time will come.
“Tell me, and you will be our prisoner. It is that. Or death.”
I know what his choice is because he is nothing but a coward. “We follow Lord Aethelbald of Wessex. He is the rightful ruler of Wessex. But it was stolen from him. His legacy, his name, his life, stolen thanks to the whore Queen Eme—”
He never gets to utter her name because I cut off his head with an infuriated roar in one swift swing. But it’s not enough. I slice off his arms. His legs. I stab his torso until nothing is left but a bloody, mangled heap of flesh.
Suddenly, the deaths of these Saxons seem too easy, and I run to each corpse, hacking into their bodies with a rage I’ve never felt before. I take the head of each corpse, severing it from their necks and holding them by their hair.
The Christians cherish their church altars, so I decide to erect one especially for them. This altar, however, consists of the mutilated corpses of their men. I place the heads on top of the heaped pile and drop to my knees, peering into the skies.
“An offering, Odin!” I scream without penitence. “All I ask is that you keep her safe until I return.”
Emeline is in more danger than I thought.
I must ride to Northumbria, and I must ride there now.
However, I fear I will not leave Northumbria with my head…as Emeline will take it for what I have done.