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Prologue to Perthro: The Rune of Mystery

Jeff Kinnard

Jun 29, 2023

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Perthro: The Rune of Mystery

Prologue

June 8th, 793 AD

Sweat rolled off the brows of men and women as they heaved large oars that sliced through the water. The stench of unbathed bodies, rotting fish and saltwater could make even the most seasoned of sailors scrunch their nose in disgust. Skin laid bare beneath the sun grew taught, giving the appearance of worn leather. Lips peeled and throats parched by the dwindling supply of water, for it had been nearly a fortnight since the last rain. The lack of wind forced the use of oars rather than sails, leading to quicker fatigue. Many of the oarsmen winced in pain as the sea lashed at their splinters and scrapes; a grim sight indeed for a voyage headed nowhere.

Only a tale of riches and new lands provided any glimpse of motivation for the weary travelers. A tale told by the leader of this doomed voyage – Halfdan the Heroic. A warrior of old and new, drenched in the blood of many battles and soaked by many seas. He was a large man built like a bear, but with the speed of a wolf; sporting golden locks weaved into a long braid that reached the small of his back. Truly the word Viking was reserved for men such as him.

Three years have passed since Halfdan wandered back into the village of Avaldsnes half mad and rambling about rich lands in the South that were controlled by feeble people. Thought to be lost on his most recent voyage, his return drew the attention of their King. It took no more than a story to convince King Erik that a voyage must be taken, for his greed and lust for fame trumped all. They built a great many ships and forged even more weapons, preparing for the raids that would be sung among the sagas for all of time. Newly promoted to the leader of this great raid, Halfdan prepared his mind and body for the battles to come – victory firmly planted in his head.

Now dwelling beneath the salt-crusted cloth that was hoisted up the mast to cover roasting vikings, he wasn’t so sure. Was it just pure luck that the tides and currents took him straight to these promised lands or was it the will of the Gods? Could this luck have run out, or is it his favor with the Gods that has run out? Frivolous questions. Halfdan the Heroic does not question his destiny.

“Do you know where we are?” croaked a hoarse voice from behind Halfdan.

Turning around he saw his best friend and blood brother Frode sitting up against the mast looking sickly. A smaller, yet wiser man than Halfdan, it was worrying seeing him in such a condition. He winced at the pain in his dry throat as he spoke, “Truly brother, I do not. Only the Gods know and they will guide us, like they did for my travels before.”

“I am unsure.” Frode mumbled. “Do they only condone these travels through suffering?. Njord does not grant us the winds or rain to aid our travels. Men and women fall ill and die daily, a trail of dead behind us for Hel to claim since they are unworthy of Valhalla. Surely Odin watches over and sees the troubles we face. Why do they do nothing?”

“Brother, do not be so quick to speak of the Gods in this way. They work in ways we will never understand. If we are meant to perish on this voyage, that is our destiny. Go into death unafraid and you will not be denied Valhalla, same as the ones who have fallen before us.” Halfdan reassured his brother. “Tyr rides with us, eager to raid these new lands and reap their benefits. He shall see us through.”

“I wish I shared your confident insight for our situation. If we do not reach land within the next few days, I am unsure we will ever step foot on Midgard again. Who’s to say where we are headed is not a different realm entirely?” Frode sighed, “I just want to make it back to my life at Avaldsnes. I no longer care about these promised lands.”

“I understand, brother, but what do you have to look forward to back there?” Halfdan’s face suddenly twisted into a smile, his skin looking as if it would tear. “See, Frode, the Gods do watch over us.” He gestured towards the clouds forming near the horizon.

Frode looked over his shoulder and smiled weakly at the thought of true shade and rain falling on his dry skin. He even mustered the strength to stand and lean over the side of the long vessel to stare into the storm. HIs eyes wandered, taking in the large cloud formations. He pondered the strength Njord and Thor must have to create such powerful forces. Surely this was a large storm, possibly even a dangerous one for the travelers.

Remember to comment at the end which choice you want to see for the next part

A little while later the wind picked up and the clouds grew closer – a dark and unsettling view. Relieved oarsmen retracted the oars and stretched their weary bodies, while the rest of the crew raised the sail for the winds to grab hold of.

Frode remained in the same spot since the storm appeared, unwaveringly focused on what seemed like a single spot. “Halfdan!” he shouted, an act much harder than it should have been. “Come here and tell me I am hallucinating.”

Halfdan hurried over, and squinted his eyes in an attempt to see what Frode was talking about. Deep within the dark cover of the clouds a black mass seemingly floated on the ocean. “Frode you idiot, you are not hallucinating! Land awaits us!” Halfdan shouted at the top of his lungs. The excited cheers of the crew quickly filled the air, followed by Halfdan shouting to the closest ships about their newly discovered destination. The fleet now had a direction and they were moving fast into the storm. The once dead looking crew was now revitalized and making preparations for landfall.

Speeding through the water the land grew nearer, the waves grew larger and the wind grew fiercer. The Gods were joining them in this glorious discovery. They could feel Thor's electricity and the wind that Njord manifested to sail their ships to riches and fame.

Halfdan and Frode stood at the bow, watching the land grow near. They both held on tightly as the boat was now being thrashed around by giant waves and hurricane strength winds. Halfdan let out a bellowing laugh, basking in the glory of the Gods and the land he promised everyone.

Less than a mile off the coast of the newly discovered land, they directed themselves at an island that seemed to have a giant structure on it. Surprisingly most of the fleet had remained together and intact, give or take a few ships.

“Are you ready brother?!” Halfdan yelled over the strong winds.

“Always broth–” Halfdan paused and a look of confusion sprouted on his face. “What… is that?!” He pointed at the beach of the island, where lights were spreading from end to end – torches.

“No one could have known we were coming! We didn’t even know where we were headed!” Halfdan bellowed in his deep voice, fighting the shrill wind. “Either we have been betrayed or we underestimated the natives! I do know this brother; Valhalla awaits!”

The war drums started beating, a fast and intimidating rhythm. The shouting of warriors, men and women, that have pledged their lives to battle echoed in the screaming wind. Fear was not known to them, only a warrior’s death. They pulled their weapons and beat them on their shields, maddened from weeks at sea and bloodthirsty for the riches they were promised.

“Death is ours!” Halfdan started menacingly chanting. Before long hundreds of warriors were chanting along with him – a truly frightening sight to behold.

The beach was a stone's throw away now, and it was easy to see what they were up against. A heavily fortified army that was well prepared for this fight. A few thousand men protecting an old church sitting atop a hill. Unbeknownst to them Lindisfarne was a holy island to the Christians, something they would fight tooth and nail to protect. They were vastly outnumbered, and these men were in much better fighting shape; a perk of not being lost at sea.

Suddenly there was movement on the beach from archers lighting arrows aflame. They nocked and fired their arrows, a majority hitting the boats and sparking fires. A flaming arrow whizzed by Halfdans face and smacked into the man behind him, instantly engulfing him in flames. He looked at Frode and nodded before hopping into knee deep water and charging at the soldiers, with an army of Vikings behind him.

Halfdan charged the closest soldier and cleaved right through him with his oversized battle-axe before the poor man could even swing his sword. Frode ran up the beach attempting to close the distance between him and Halfdan but was cut off by a group of soldiers that took an interest in him. They did their best, but Frode was trained by Halfdan – no way they were getting through him. After quickly dispatching them with little effort, Frode attempted to locate Halfdan in the fighting. No luck.

Vikings were falling quickly all around him, as they were not prepared for this battle. Their normal tactics were impossible to use in a fight like this. Arrows whistled through the air near him, screams of pain carried by the wind met his ears and friends he was just laughing with lay in the wet sand in their death throes. All of this faded when he was struck by a flaming arrow in the side of his abdomen. Luckily the flame went out, but the heated arrowhead instantly cauterized his wound. Frode could barely breathe from the immense pain and fell to his knees.

When he looked up his eyes locked onto Halfdan, who was currently fending off a group of soldiers all at once. He had been wounded, sporting a bloody gash across his face that seemed to impair his vision. His shield had been lost somewhere on the battlefield and been replaced with an enemy's sword. Dual wielding his battle-axe and the sword, he effortlessly sliced through the soldiers before noticing Frode.

Halfdan ran up to him and looked at the arrow in his side. “You let that stop you?” He joked, wincing from the gash when he smiled. “Come on brother, Valhalla awaits.”

Frode nodded and stood up with his brothers help, just as a sword pierced straight through Halfdans chest. He looked down at the blade that stuck out of his brother and looked back at him with tears in his eyes. Halfdan only smiled at him before slowly falling out of his arms and into the arms of the Valkyries that would take him to Valhalla.

Frode collapsed as the man that killed his brother started towards him. At this point he noticed that there were no other Vikings fighting – he was the last one. There never was a chance to win this battle. The soldiers approached Frode with weapons down. The man that killed Halfdan reached down and grabbed him to lift him up. Before the soldier knew what hit him, the arrow that was lodged in Frodes side was stuck straight into his heart. He fell over, quite dead. The other soldiers yelled at him, but he couldn't understand their language. It didn’t matter, he was ready for Valhalla now having avenged his brother.

To his surprise the soldiers did not draw their weapons, or attempt to attack him. He lay in the sand waiting for his death, but it never came. Out of nowhere he was struck in the head by a blunt object, nearly causing him to pass out. He winced and pushed himself back up. Before the last blow was struck and he was knocked out, one thought rang through his mind.

“I swear to you Odin, I will find the traitor responsible for this slaughter or I am not worthy of Valhalla.”

Choices from the author for Part 1

Immediately continue story after Frode wakes up from being knocked out.
Pick up after Frode returns back to his home, Avaldsnes.
Start from the perspective of another Viking that survived the battle.
Continue into the afterlife with Halfdan.
Use the perspective of one of the soldiers that captured Frode.

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