Chapter 1 – The Raid
"A true initiation never ends." - Robert Anton Wilson
Ragnar son of Einar stood proudly before Shaman Kadir as the blade sliced across his forehead, blooding him as a warrior of the Eagle Clan. Tonight, in the dark of the moon, he would dance the fire with the men of the ships. In the morning, he would sail in his father's ship to raid the lands of the vámr for goods and slaves.
The sting of the knife was nothing; Ragnar had borne far worse in his warrior training. His blood flowed down his face.
"The blood of the Eagle flows in your veins. Fear not to shed it for the Clan, for you will drink the blood of our enemies to replenish you." Kadir intoned before he moved on to the next young man.
When the last of the eight were blooded, the Shaman stood back. He waved his arms high over his head. "Fly now. Fly as the Eagles you are! Swoop down upon your prey!"
The eight young men spun. They ran sunwise around the fire, circling it. They brandished their swords and spears as they danced the Eagle Dance, swooping and spinning in imitation of their totem. Nine times they circled the fire, sweating in its crackling heat.
Ragnar reached his father's position. Before any of the others could claim the pride of being first, he swooped around his father. Waving his sword and shield, Ragnar leapt high in front of his father and made the ritual cry "I am the son of an Eagle!" He landed on one foot and spun.
He sprinted towards the fire. Its heat scorched him as he planted his foot bare inches from the burning logs and leapt through the flames. Tongues of flame licked him as he flew over the fire. Landing on the other side, he tumbled, coming to his feet with his weapons in hand. The men of the clan hooted and applauded his flight.
Ragnar resumed his dance. One by one, the others followed Ragnar's lead. None disgraced themselves by tumbling into the fire, though Kagan burned his foot and Togran dropped his sword when he landed, a very bad omen for Togran.
The ritual complete, the eight young men sat by their fathers' sides. Their fathers cut strips from a haunch of venison and held it for their sons to take in their teeth. Ragnar chewed his meat and washed it down with a mouthful of kvas.
"A good flight, young Ragnar. Well danced. You will be a fine warrior for the Eagle." Old Angsar smiled, his scarred face bore witness to his many raids. Angsar's raiding years were long past; his left foot, crushed between a ship and rocks, had been amputated.
"I will loot the vámr and take their women." Ragnar waved his sword.
"Boast after the raid, not before it." Einar chided his son.
"Do not scorn the Val-de-mar-ans. Their warriors are brave." Old Angsar pronounced the name carefully.
"Vámr!" Ragnar insisted. "Their very name means vermin."
"We call them that, but that is not their name." Angsar shrugged. "We raid villages for loot and slaves. We do not attack their warriors."
"Who hide themselves behind their walls and only come out when we are gone!" Ragnar sneered.
"We do not wait for them to come out." Angsar pointed out. "And when we have met them, our ships often do not return."
"How can they be true warriors?" Ragnar demanded. "They are ruled by a woman!"
"Who slew her husband and a score of his henchmen with her own sword!" Angsar replied. "They must be a fearsome people to breed such women."**[Author's note: We know this is not the way it happened, but such are 'traveller's tales.' ]
Ragnar almost called the old man a coward, but caught himself. Angsar had proved himself on raids; Ragnar, an untried eyas, should show respect. "I will taste their blood!" Ragnar said instead.
Angsar smiled. "I am sure you will, young eagle. Just do not underestimate them. Especially, beware of their Spirit Riders."
Ragnar felt a chill down his spine. Tales of the Spirit Riders and their Spirit Horses were whispered, even at mid-day. It was said that, if the Spirit Horses looked you in the eye, they would steal your soul.
"Get on with you, old man!" Wulfden scorned from Angsar's other side. "The Spirit Riders and their Spirit Horses bleed and die like any other." Though Ragnar disliked Wulfden for his boastful arrogance, he nodded at the warrior's words. In his twenty second year, Wulfden was already a sub-captain.
Ragnar turned back to his father, who was talking of famous raids with his neighbor.
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Ragnar's waited at his father's side, hidden in the bushes as the west face of the moon sank into the waters of the Great Lake. His heart pounded in his chest so strongly that Ragnar worried it might be heard amid the silence ordered by the captain.
He started slightly at the signal – three owl hoots, a pause, two more – and watched with the others as the turncoat in the village flashed his lantern in the same pattern. The captain repeated the signal and the turncoat responded again.
Ragnar moved silently forward with the band, treading surely so as not to make a sound and alert the village.
They neared the village. Ragnar could see the gap in the wall a darker shadow within the shadow.
The band paused twenty feet from the gate. "Hewkin, 'ave you done it?" The captain whispered hoarsely.
Ragnar felt contempt as the turncoat replied. "Yah, guard's dead. Come on." The foolish vámr believed that his treachery would earn him a place with the Clan. Such filth deserved a knife in his back.
Wordlessly, the men broke into a trot. They made no cry; the villagers would know nothing until the slaughter began.
The men at the front were barely a yard from the gate when a voice ahead cried "Now!" An instant later, a score of lanterns blazed in Ragnar's eyes. Ragnar did not see the arrows until they struck all around him. Togran screamed at his side as blood spurted around an arrow in his throat.
"Forward." The same voice said. Ragnar saw two men on huge horses charge toward the clansmen. The horses of the clansmen were mere ponies compared to the gigantic beasts. Beside the riders, footmen with swords and shields met the first line of the clan. Behind him, Ragnar could hear horns sounding.
The leaders did not flinch as the horsemen charged into their midst. Ragnar saw his father flattened by the massive animal as it struck the line. The rider slashed down with his sword across Wulfden's face. Wulfden screamed and lifted his hand to the wound before the rider chopped his neck. Wulfden gurgled blood and dropped to the ground.
A space opened briefly in front of Ragnar. In the light of the lanterns, Ragnar saw his father lift his hand to fend of the hooves of the horse. The gesture was futile: The hoof descended on Einar's face, smashing it in. Einar jerked and went still.
"It's a trap!" Borsan shouted. He turned to flee. An arrow took him in the back.
The Clan broke, trying to escape, only to meet a wall of Valdemaran troopers surrounding them.
"Throw down your weapons!" Someone shouted from the darkness beyond.
"To hell with you!" A clansman shouted, throwing a knife in the direction of the unseen voice. An arrow cut him down a moment later.
"Finish them!" Another man shouted. With a roar, the Valdemarans closed on the surrounded clansmen.
Ragnar and several others turned again to face the village. Ragnar would die fighting. He aimed himself at the rider. Einar would be avenged.
The huge animal reared to strike at Ragnar with the hooves that had killed his father. Ragnar ducked beneath them and drove his spear into the belly of the beast.
The animal reared higher and screamed – an unearthly sound like none Ragnar had ever heard. It toppled, still screaming, knocking Ragnar down as it fell. The huge animal's body landed over Ragnar's legs, pinning him to the ground.
As the battle raged around them, the beast thrashed and screamed, grinding Ragnar into the dirt. The men still standing fought over the spot where Ragnar lay, trampling him and kicking him in the head.
The sounds of fighting subsided until Ragnar could hear only the horse's cries of pain.
Around Ragnar, the clan lay dead. Away from the gate, more Valdemarans came into the light. In the center were a man and a woman – obviously captains of some sort – mounted on horses nearly as big as the animal that still struggled atop Ragnar.
"Well done, all of you." The woman said.
The rider of the wounded horse came towards Ragnar. He could not be many winters older than Ragnar himself. Ragnar was surprised to see tears streaming down the man's face.
The rider drew his dagger. He gently stroked the horse's neck, then thrust the dagger up under its chin. The horse jerked, then died, still lying across Ragnar's lower body. Ragnar moaned at the weight.
Lanterns shone in Ragnar's face. The Valdemarans looked down on him with hate in their eyes.
The rider turned towards Ragnar. He raised his dagger. "You killed my horse." He said in Valdemaran. Ragnar had learned the language from his mother, who had been taken by his father on a raid many years before.
"He killed my pa." Ragnar said in the same language. He braced himself for the death stroke.
The rider paused. He looked at Ragnar strangely. He lowered his dagger and sheathed it. "Take him and tie him up." The rider ordered. He turned away as his men rolled the horse's body up and dragged Ragnar from beneath it. Roughly, the men bound Ragnar and placed him with a dozen other clansmen who still lived.