A Viking Raid

-----Warning! High Levels of Gore!-------

The runes had been cast, and it was apparent that the Gods did not want the men to go, but the ships were launched anyways. When water hit the side of the long boats, icy cold water splashed onto the men. The sky was dark, not with night but with clouds from Thor. He was furious that these Vikings decided to sail without the Gods’ blessing, and so he would make it hard on them. The lighting clashed down in the sky, roaring with great power. A lighting bolt light up the sky, showing off the silhouetted bodies of many warriors, and more then one long boat. The beat of the drums was loud and monotonous, but none the less threatening. It had become well known that the particular beat of those drums meant an invasion was sure to happen, and a slaughter would follow it. Rain beat down on the helmets. Keeping with the myths of the Dragon men, the long boats landed on the English shore, just outside of Kent. The ramps were placed down upon the shore and men began to march. The first one to step on Kent’s shore line was a berserker known as Arvid Ingvar. He was a legend among his own people, he has faced the Death many times but the Gods reject him each time because they are afraid of him being in Valhalla, or so the tales say. “This way men, to glory we shall go.” He waved his left hand forward and started creeping through the silent darkness caused by the storm, only occasionally being shown by a bolt of lighting. However, it did not matter. No body ever suspected a Viking raid, even with the drums being played and so there would be few guards, if any, out today.
The Vikings soon arrived at Kent’s gates, the wooden doors were open and only two guards were stationed at that specific gate. Arvid drew back the string on his bow, as did another berserker. The two of them let loose at the same time, not a sound was made as the arrow pierced through soft flesh, punctured hard skull and made a bed of squishy brain. Blood squirted out, the bodies making no noise as they hit the ground. “Now,” Arvid whispered to the warriors near him, several of them rushing to the iron grates, and grabbing hold. They grunted as they lifted and pushed with all their might, opening the grates far enough to allow the others to slip in. The roads were empty; everyone was inside to avoid the storm. Church bells rang from the tall steeples, signaling that it was time for people to pray, whether from home or at the church. However, it was too late for praying to be of any help to the people of Kent. The Vikings were already spread out in the city, swords and axes drawn, archers on the walls and in good spots. Arvid and five other berserkers managed to get into the barracks. Arvid smirked behind his helm and nodded to the others, that it was time to start the slaughter. The door into the kitchen was kicked down by the Vikings who emitted a yell of blood-curdling proportions. Spoons and bowls and cups clattered as they hit the stone floor. Arvid was the first to swing his mighty battle ax, quickly beheading the soldier nearest him. The man’s head flew off to his left side, and blood spurted up and coated the men near him. The headless body stood up perfectly until Arvid’s foot made contact and kicked on top of the table. Soldiers dropped backwards from their seats and scrambled for their weapons, but they were not quick enough in their awkward scramble. Arvid and the other warriors were quick and efficient in their slaughter. Two men stood in the back, bows ready and arrows tight. The Viking bows had enough pounds on them to easily pierce through English metal armor and bone. The ones who were not killed by arrows were viciously flayed by a sword, gruesomely tenderized by a hammer or brutally diced by Arvid’s mighty ax. The dining hall of Kent’s barracks was quickly drenched in blood, decorated with bodies and bones and arrows. So with the slaughter of the soldiers over, Arvid and his group stepped outside of the barracks and let out a mighty roar, “Now my men! Slaughter the village! Take no quarry, spare no man or child. Skewer the woman and smash the babies! Let us show these pathetic Englishmen who the true warriors are, who the true rulers of the sea are! They are nothing but slobbering English dogs who do not even deserve to breathe the same air as we Danes! You are giving them a glory, for they well deserve the noose opposed to the honorable death by our blades!” The warriors cheered Arvid and his little speech before they kicked down doors into houses. Their blades were quick and sharp, slicing and shattering and slaughtering anything in sight.
Arvid had walked away from the barracks and towards the cathedral of Kent. He pushed the large oaken doors open easily and smirked. The candle light flickered about as the wind blew in. His armor was coated in blood, “Hello Fathers of Kent,” said Arvid as he stepped into the church, “I am here to pay my respects to your God. As I am sure the others are doing, paying their respects to a God that abandoned them.” He dragged his ax along the rug of the church.
The bishop of the church, Father Archbold, spoke to Arvid, “What is it that you heathen warriors want from us?”
“Heathen!” scoffed Arvid, “We are anything but heathen! You are the heathen ones, you abandoned the Gods of the Old. You abandoned Thor and Odin and Holdor and Baldor. You do not deserve to die by a Dane’s blade.” Arvid had closed the distance between himself and Father Archbold.
“I do not deserve to die by a Dane’s blade? You do not deserve to live a Christian life. You are heathen barbarians. The Gods of the Old are feeble lies when compared to the one true Lord.” Father Archbold did not flinch as the blood soaked Dane came to stand just mere inches from his face. “I know my place is assured in Saint Peter’s kingdom, but you shall burn forever more in Hell due to your heathen beliefs and the pillaging you do.”
Arvid’s cold hand grasped the Father’s neck and lifted him up with ease. “I will not burn, for I shall live forever more in Valhalla at Odin’s table, fighting with my fallen brethren until Ragnarök. The horn of Heimdall shall be blown, and I with the other einherjar shall march with Odin to fight the giants. Where will you be at this time? You will be cowering in fear as I fight on!” His hand started to tighten around the Father’s neck, slowly squeezing the life out of the priest. “Do say hello to your God for me, I hope he is real for your sake.” And so Arvid snapped the neck of the Father and dropped his body. The man had a strange look of peace upon his face, Arvid noticed as he walked towards the altar. His hand knocked over several candle holders, and a flame quickly shot up. He turned around, smirking behind the iron helm and exited the cathedral to the joyous sounds of babies crying, women screaming, and people dieing. He raised his ax up high, it shimmered in the cathedral’s fire, “Another pitiful English settlement has fallen to the great Danes! Enjoy your boon, for we have well earned it. Soon the pitiful man they call King will pay us to leave and stay out of Kent, as he has done many times before. But for now, let us celebrate in the good graces of the King!” His warriors cheered again for him. As the fire raged on behind him, the steeple collapsed in on it self.