Meiri Raid II

The ships would dock on a sheltered beach, away from the eyes of the unsuspecting Meirian’s. Though the King had already gone over the plans several times throughout their voyage, they would be repeated once more with the landscape in mind. Scouts were sent out to locate a town, and the Vikings would strike upon their return with news. This left little to no time to rest as Varg sent his force back out into the water, while the Monarch ventured inland with her warband when nightfall finally settled around them. 

The Meirian’s were accustomed to a simplistic attack from the Vikings. They had always known the High King to take centre stage during the attacks, which, along with Varg carrying the most fame, meant that he also carried the highest bounty on his head. With this knowledge in mind, the King would serve as an excellent distraction, while the main attack would actually come from elsewhere. They wouldn’t suspect a child of Varg to lead the onslaught, especially a woman. So as the King’s ships drifted into view of the town, and began making sounds to mimic a siege from the sea, the Monarch’s men would creep through the trees like a pack of wolf’s hunting their prey. 

They’d wait until the towns defences were at their lowest, as the Meirian men moved towards the shore to face Varg. Silent arrows would take out any guardsmen still remaining, and with a single hand gesture the Monarch’s men would bring forth a mighty battering ram. The Meirian walls were thick stone, but their doors, regardless of how thick, were still only made of wood. The Monarch would stride towards the gate in the darkness, her war paint hiding her pale skin. But the moon reflected against her hair, as if setting it alight like a fire, it danced as she moved.

The door wouldn’t stand for long. The Meirian walls were strong, but the Vikings were like giants, as their strength outmatched all. Another smash and they’d swarm the town like hornets in a bee’s nest. Women, children, the elderly and sick, all trapped within the confines of the town. Lambs for the slaughter. The screams would echo off the walls, but by the time the Meirian soldiers heard them, it would be too late. As they turned to flee the beach, Varg’s men would hound them with arrows before rushing ashore to cut every man down. 

The Monarch would flutter about the streets, looking out for anything remotely ‘religious’ to desecrate, and any plunder to take for her own. The Lambs around her were too weak to fight back, so most went ignored. Though it wasn’t a mercy from the Monarch. Their lives were simply too unworthy to touch her blade. At least, until a fight caught her attention, and a flash of blonde fixates her gaze. A small group of townsfolk had the balls to fight back, though not for long. It was pitiful, but entertaining nonetheless. Yet the blonde woman still held the Monarch’s attention, and when she broke free from the scene and fled, the Monarch took chase. 

Until then the Monarch was in her prime, caught up in the chaos and bloodlust of Viking savagery. But now an echo of a conversation with Sigur crossed her mind. The man was against slavery, and although the Monarch had grown up with it as simply being part of her culture, there was something about the Bison’s ideals that seemed to trickle into her mind. The Meirian religion was depriving towards women. So if the Monarch could ‘save’ even one woman from its clutches then maybe it would be the start of something new. 

But it was a foolish thought. The Meirian’s feared the Vikings, and their religion had warped their minds so badly that Runa and her people were nothing but savage monsters, and nothing was going to change that. Yet the Monarch pursued regardless, as if drawn by her fate. She would watch as the blonde woman disappears behind a wooden door. A smile spreads across a red and blackened face. The blood of her victims mixing with the war paint, it makes for a distorted and eerie sight. The blonde woman was trapped.

Sigur’s words echo again however, and perhaps the Monarch’s guard was a little too low as she blissfully kicks open the door that was being barricaded with a weak wooden chair. A step is taken inside before something shiny launches towards the Monarch. A heavy crunch follows and what felt like a shock wave as the pressure ripples through her body. An axe sits firmly in her right shoulder, and the impact sends her staggering backwards for a moment. But as if by reflex, her own axe swings through the air with her left land. Seconds later and the blade makes contact with the blonde woman’s face and her features explode into pieces. The force of the blow sends her body across the room, and like a rag doll it slumps to the ground, lifeless. 

The Monarch too would fall, hitting the ground hard on her knees as she doubles over in agony. She dared not touch the axe that sits so dangerously in her shoulder, out of fear of bleeding out. Yet the blood was already pooling around her. She chokes to let out a scream, but it’s quickly overtaken by something far more terrifying. A baby’s cry. 

Her vision struggles to focus on a corner of the room. There’s a figure holding what appears to be something precious. She knows the figure is talking, but the Monarch hears nothing. Her head finally finds the ground and her sight gives out, though she can sense others around her. A warm nostalgic feeling soon takes over, and though her consciousness is flittering, she knows she’s being cradled in her father’s arms. 

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A slew of nightmarish thoughts plague the Monarch as she passes in and out of this realm. Snippets of conversations echo in her mind along with the vague silhouette of her father. As a child her father often held her in his great bear-like arms, and they’d watch as butterflies danced about in the air around them. 

But there’s a sudden agonising pain. The butterflies’ wings begin to burn and they spiral to the ground one by one. An ocean of blood swells at her feet and before the Monarch stands the bloodied corpse of her sister. Her face is caved in from being struck with an axe, but she’s recognisable by the blonde hair and a single icy blue eye. 

“Ho..w co.ul..d you”

The words are choked as blood gurgles in her throat, and her body suddenly lurches forwards as if to grab the Monarch and pull her into the depths.

A hellish scream from a nearby soldier shocks the Monarch from her feverish dream. A rush of pain is quick to take over, but any attempts to move are thwarted as her body refuses to respond. She can do little but take deep breaths and struggle to make her eyes focus on her surroundings. It takes some time, but finally she realises that she’s laying with the injured and dying soldiers back at the camp on the shoreline. Her gaze manages to find the soldier that’s screaming, and she watches with an empty stomach as his arm is amputated with a searing hot axe.

In a sudden fit of hysteria from watching the scene, she lurches her body to uncover the furs that shielded her from the world. A pitiful laugh soon follows as she falls back, overly relieved to find that she still had her right arm. But she’s dizzy and feverish, and as much as she tries to ignore it, there’s a dread of possible infection already eating away at her scattered mind. With so few in the camp, she can only assume her father has left to continue the raids. There was anger, along with a sense of failure that enveloped the Monarch. But most of all, she was riddled with a guilt that she couldn’t shift. The blonde woman had been identified to be a ‘Bastard’ daughter of Varg, which meant the Monarch had murdered her own sister. 

Too weak to move, it would take all her might to grab a passing servant by their sleeve. And only after knowing the baby was alive and in their care, did she release the woman and resign herself to laying amongst dying and dead men. With the screams and wails that surrounded her, the Monarch’s voice seemed so out of place as she started to sing a lullaby she’d once heard so often from Hlif all those years ago.