High atop a sea side cliff sits the unsuspecting target; a monastery, dark and sleeping. No one stands guard to protect her. Inside, the monks who lovingly care for her are performing their evening rituals. The sounds of their monotone prayers echo down her halls. Candlelight pours out of open windows, and the flickers of light allow glimpses of her cold stone walls. As the holy men prepare for slumber, they are ignorant of the danger that is creeping toward their fortress.

Far below the serene sanctuary of their god, a formidable ship filled with greed and heathens glide through the moonlit waves. The craft is unlike any sailed by the men on whose land they are invading. Her stem and stern each flaunt an extravagant dragon’s head. She is long and slender and can carry her men far across the oceans or glide along narrow inlets. Her freeboard is shallow, allowing her warriors to land on any flat beach.

Oleg, their chieftain, stands at the bow navigating his ship to a flat rocky beach between the towering cliffs. The men time their rowing to the lap of the inky waves, hiding their advance from the ears of the marked men. As they approach the shore, they withdraw their oars and ready themselves to land. As the ship glides up onto the beach the men leap over the edge into the shallow water to heave her up onto the foreign land. Her sturdy keel scrapes along the rocky shore. The sailors lay her gently to one side. They gather their shields and weapons, leaving her to rest in the moonlight. She has traveled a long distance to deliver her cargo, and her journey is only just beginning.

The invaders are from another realm, a severe frozen land that produces large brawny men who battle the elements and each other to survive. The doomed monks have no defensive tactics for the tenacious men who are sneaking up the sloping banks.

They bide their time, inching their way to the main building. Restless, they wait for the last flicker of candlelight to fade. Their eyes have adjusted to the darkness, an advantage they want to keep as they creep up on their prey. Several silent minutes pass as they crouch outside the monks’ doors. They wait with bated breath until the last candle is extinguished. Oleg’s faint whistle signals the men to attack.

With a mighty roar, they burst through the heavy wooden door with ease. Hacking it to pieces with their enormous axes, the door crumbles as if it is made of twigs and straw. The fearsome shouts of the warriors strike panic in the hearts of the monks, jolting them from their peaceful dreams and quiet slumber. The invaders scatter throughout the monastery with orders to kill with any means they see fit. With no sympathy, they methodically check each room and move toward the central hall. They murder the sleepy monks with no regard to their age, rank or humanity. The raiders are cloaked with the desire for gold and precious jewels; they have no need for mercy. The screams of dying men and murderous heathens fill the halls and echo into the night. But no one else is listening. The nearest village sleeps on, leagues away. No one is coming to save them.

As the intruders plunder their way through the monastery several surviving monks gather together in the central hall. Desperate, they mumble prayers under their breath as they search for weapons. Finding a few old rusty swords, they stand their ground as their attackers enter the hall.

The contrast of the two groups of men is stunning. On one side; meek and mild men determined to defend their books and holy relics. Draped in brown muslin, girded with a simple rope, these humble men live a poor existence to serve their god. On the other side; a band of thieves, dressed in leather armor, hungry for the gold that could buy them a better life. They worship a god of war, and a god who rules with a mystic hammer.

An invader named Stigr advances to lop off the head of the nearest frightened monk.

“Stop,” Oleg commands, “tie them up. We would get more by selling them.” He knows the value of a human life, the value of selling that life. The others agree and gather the monks together. Their hands and feet are bound with their own rope belts. He assigns a young warrior to watch over them.

“Veraag, if they try to escape, run them through with my sword.” Oleg hands his sword to his son. He kneels down to face the cowering monks, their hands bound and sitting on the cold stone floor of the central hall. With a grin he adds, “I just sharpened it.” The monks can see the glint of the blade with the moonlight pouring through the windows. It is smeared with the blood of their fallen comrades. His intent is clear, and he means it. The monks remain quiet and pray. Helpless, they watch as the pirates raid their precious shrines.

They gather silver cups, gold crosses and pry precious gems out of the monks’ sacred shrines. They search every building, leaving no loot behind. When the men are finally satisfied, they gather their bounty and lead the weary monks to the ship. They load their plunder into the hull, place their shields back into the rack and heave the boat into the sea. They load their captives and the raiders board their precious ship. They fit the oars back into the oar ports and as silently as they came they return back to the sea. As the vessel sails back to the northern lands, the monks gaze up at the monastery they love. The nightmare is real, their friends are dead, and their prayers have gone unanswered.

The invading men are silent and stern. They have been successful, although they
know it is not over yet. They need more raids to get the gold they seek. More gold, more raids, more death. Oleg decides to keep the shore in view; if they find another monastery or a sleepy village they will raid it too.

Half the men sleep and the other half row as the ship glides along the coastline. The moonlight reflects off the sea like dancing fairies in the night. The land casts a black veil over the fairy light, completely void of magic. It makes following the coast easier though, and Oleg keeps his eye on the dark shadow.

* * *

The first light of morning signals a change of rowers, and the men shuffle to their places. Soon the sound of snoring fills the ship’s salty air, drowning out the steady beat the oars make as they glide back and forth in the sea. Oleg appoints his son as watchman and settles down for a nap amongst his men.

As Veraag watches the coastline his mind wanders to his future. All the answers he knows will come with time, but still he dreams. He does not yet have the knowledge his father holds of the trade routes to the south. He lacks the connections he needs to travel to distant lands unharmed. And he does not have the loyalty of the men he needs to help him succeed as a king. As for love, he’s unsure if he’s ready for the pain it often brings.

He signals to his man at the steer board to follow the coast south, and gazes back out to the open sea. Mindlessly stroking the promise stone she gave him in his belt pouch, he thinks to himself. One day I will leave this sea behind and find adventure and loot of my own. I will make my own name known and I will be a king. But today he will guide his father’s ship and his father’s men to their next raid. And he will learn as much as he can from the closest thing to a king he knows.

As the ship sails south along the coast, the sun rises over the eastern cliffs of the island they are circling. As the early morning sun’s glow breaks the shadow of night, the black veil lifts from the land, revealing forests and open meadows. In the distance, Veraag spots what might be a group of houses. He rouses his father to look at it.

“Father, I see our next target. A village sleeps ahead,” he whispers to his king.

“How far away is it?” Oleg rubs his eyes, his voice groggy with slumber.

“We should approach it by mid morning,” Veraag answers.

“Wake me when we’re closer. Keep an eye out for scouts.”

“Aye father.”

Oleg returns to his dreams and Veraag to his post. As he looks on at the sleeping target, he feels his heart quicken at the prospect of an exciting morning after all.