Edit: The title has been changed and the first chapter is...done...hopefully. At least, it's done for now.
It all started on a rainy day…
The weather forecasts had predicted clear skies and warm days through the end of the week. It was the kind of weather that would be perfect for nearly every outdoor activity. From traipsing about the nearby lake to simply lounging around the backyard, the residents of Fairhaven knew they were in for a rare treat amidst the usual rainy-day chaos of autumn on the east coast of England. The inhabitants of the peaceful fishing village liked to joke about the irony in their village’s name. Mostly because, nine months out of the year, Fairhaven was blanketed by extremely temperamental storms that caused the ocean to swell tumultuously. The town historian, Layne, believed that the quiet village was founded by a, decidedly, less than peaceful group of raiders turn the height of their reign of terror across the British Isles. This particular band of raiders won a fearsome and infamous reputation as they pillaged and burned a swathe across England. The legends that surrounded this band were as diverse as they were numerous, with one exception. All the stories agreed that these savage, iron-clad warriors aboard their sleek vessel appeared out of thin air. While most raids were difficult to spot and nearly impossible to predict, much like the weather, there was always at least some warning for the people of the coast. The vast majority of coastal villages and towns quickly adopted an efficient system of watchtowers and signal fires in an attempt to give the villagers at least a small chance to flee with their lives.
The ship that came ashore near modern-day Fairhaven, however, was different. The songs, poems, and sagas of this event all describe a great wooden vessel that materialized before the eyes of the awestruck townsfolk. After the band of raiders had wreaked havoc from coast to coast, they returned to the inlet from whence they had first appeared. They salvaged the timbers from their once-proud sailing craft and constructed a small wooden fort close to the beach. From here, they established a small kingdom for themselves, a land of peace maintained through the strength of the men clad in grey. It was said that the fort, while small, was exceedingly beautiful. Each building was a canvas for a great work of art that would have been at home in the Louvre. Not only were the buildings breathtaking, but the inhabitants were said to have been of equal beauty. Men, fair of skin and of hair, strong and handsome with blue eyes that matched the twilight of the sky before darkness. The women were as fair as their male counterparts, soft of body and delicate, blue eyes like the ocean on a calm and clear day. Bards were forced to create new words when they glanced upon one of these maidens, for words failed to give justice to their radiant beauty. The songs called them fae, faerie peoples from a magical realm, and perhaps there was some truth to that. Both men and women of this race became known throughout the land for an inner strength. In some lands, this quality would be attached to the ideals of nobility, but among these it was something entirely different, something more. Those who came into contact with this people knew what it was to behold a person who has both outer and inner beauty. They were the epitome of virtue, in every aspect of their lives. The local rulers knew not how to handle the situation. They were frightened due to the band’s savage warpath, but they became confused by the now seemingly peaceful, noble nature of this people.
It was this legend that had drawn Layne, the historian, to Fairhaven. Layne was a young man in his early twenties, who recently finished his bachelor’s degree program at a small university outside Manchester. It was during the years of university life that he had found his calling to study history. He loved to visit the campus library and just walk down the aisles, his fingers lightly brushing the spines of all the old, musty books. On one such trip, down an aisle that had seemed to have been forgotten by the world, he stumbled, quite literally and unintentionally, over a small volume that would change his life. Layne took a step forward to regain his balance, and his eyesight went dark as a sharp pain flared through his skull. His vision slowly returned as the pain suddenly vanished. His thoughts spun as he tried to understand the implications of such a sharp pain simply disappearing. He glanced towards his feet to see what had caused him to trip, or, at least he tried to glance towards his feet. Neither his head nor his eyes responded to his intended action. It was then that his mind registered what his sight seemed fixated on. It was a man, standing but a handful of feet away. What was more, the man was standing atop a grassy knoll. The wind whipped across the top of the hill and bent the blades of grass towards the wet earth. Layne’s mind nearly exploded from the millions of different thought processes that instantly began. His first thought was that he had hit his head and been knocked unconscious. Perhaps this was just a dream? Layne wondered to himself. He prayed that that was so, yet, there was some part of his consciousness that told him he was not dreaming. He couldn’t comprehend how this possible, but he just knew that the earth, the man and the wind were too real to be a dream. His next thought, then, was to flee from this place, for the man opposite him was emanating hatred from his narrowed eyes. Plus the gleaming axe that the man held in clenched fists wasn’t helping the mood one bit. Unfortunately for Layne, the body that was hosting Layne’s consciousness apparently had no desire to turn tail and run. Layne’s mind fought futilely to break free from its captor. Alas, it was not to be. Layne gave a mental sigh and finally resigned himself to his host body’s fate.
Suddenly, the world burst into color. Before his acceptance of fate, his surroundings had seemed dull and lifeless. Now, however, the greens of the earth and the blues of the sky shone with a brilliant passion. Along with his newfound sense of sight came sound, taste, smell, and touch. While he still had no control over the motions of the body, Layne realized that he was feeling and sensing in tandem with his host. And Layne was astounded by the clarity and perceptiveness of his body’s senses. He took a moment to truly observe the opposing man. He was tall and muscular, stripped bare to the waist, where he wore a pair of loose, brown trousers. The man held his weapon, a vicious-looking axe with a spike opposite the blade, with the ease and grace of a veteran warrior. The man’s hair was as yellow as the noonday sun, pulled tightly behind his head into a tail that was bound by a leather thong. Then, Layne noticed that the fair-haired warrior had a thin coat of sweat that covered his exposed skin. The slender rivulets of blood that flowed freely down the man’s arms and chest were of even more interest to Layne. They originated from several moderately large gashes. Two smaller ones were on his right bicep, one jagged wound ran across the man’s chest, and a fourth gash on his cheek was liberally coating his jawline in scarlet. Layne could clearly tell that this man had been fighting, and for a considerable amount of time at that.
For the moment, the man of war seemed passive and docile, as if he were waiting for something. It was then that Layne heard a deep, rumbling voice. He listened closely, hoping for a clue that would help him decipher the tense situation.
“There shall be no mercy for you, Sven Thorksen. Your actions today have finally condemned you for living a life of ill-repute. The Council was crystal clear on the terms of your banishment. Mercy was shown to you, but, by returning to this land, you have sentenced yourself to death. Furthermore, for your attempt to besmirch the honor of my wife, Bronwyn,” at this point, Layne’s host’s eyes flicked towards a group of people standing a few yards away. Layne could tell that his host, clearly the man speaking, was looking at one person in particular. This person, a woman, was the most beautiful being Layne had ever laid eyes upon. She was tall with blonde hair, blue eyes, and an indomitable bearing, shown clearly in her straight back and the fierce glare she was directing towards Sven. Layne could only presume that this was the wife of the host. Bronwyn.
His host continued speaking.
“I have a personal score to settle with you. Accept your fate and die.”
“Come now, Athelred, you and I both know that my banishment was unwise to say the least. The Council is full of old men, stuck in their ways. Lay down that ridiculous cloak so you and I can chat amiably. I have a rather lucrative proposal for you.” His opponent’s voice was smooth and careful, a cunning viper in the grass.
“The day I give up the cloak is the day I die. But that will not be today. Today you die.” Athelred, Layne’s host, spoke these words in a near whisper, but they were full of malice and authority. With a roar, Layne’s body leapt into motion. Athelred covered the distance between himself and Sven in two strides and a heartbeat. Layne’s mind braced itself for the impending clash, trapped in a warrior’s body. Sven shrieked like a madman and propelled himself backwards, narrowly Athelred’s swift strike. Athelred’s axe sang through the air as he swung again. Sven raised his axe handle in front of his face, deflecting the force of the blow. The air rang with shouts, thuds, and clangs of metal on metal as the two men competed in the deadly dance of combat. Flashing blades and flapping clothes. Athelred’s wooden shield, strapped firmly to his left arm, prevented his foe from causing more than superficial damage to his body. Yet, his shorter one-handed axe wasn’t long enough to allow Athelred connect a solid hit on Sven. The heroic struggle continued long into the day. The axe blades of both men appeared to have been dipped in crimson paint. The crushed grass underfoot was quickly turning from green to red, as both champions sprayed their life force over it. Layne, who had never even punched someone before, was in shock. His mind hazed over to protect him from the pain of the wounds that Athelred had received. He wanted to empty the contents of his non-existent stomach onto the stained earth.
Once again, the warriors stepped apart. There had apparently been some unspoken signal that Layne had missed. For both men seemed to be willing to let the other take a break. Even with his wounds though, Athelred’s breathing was slow and steady. Layne was truly amazed at the fortitude of his host. One glance at Sven told him that even men familiar with war should be tired. Yet, oddly enough, Athelred seemed almost as strong as he had been when Layne was rudely shoved into his body. Sven, on the other hand, was nearly gasping for air. His chest heaved in and out, and his axe drooped. Without warning, Athelred’s muscles tensed. His solid, passive form became one of grace and deft activity. He moved with inhuman speed. A blur of motion. Athelred’s body became a projectile of ruthless efficiency as he narrowed the distance. Sven’s axe snapped to the ready, held out to his side. For Layne, the world lurched to a halt. While it wasn’t his body, his mind had kicked into overdrive, feeding off the adrenaline that was rushing through Athelred’s veins, freezing the world. Sven’s face was locked in a permanent sneer, his muscles straining to lift his axe and bring it down on Athelred. Athelred’s legs were stretched in a stride long enough to be have been three strides for a normal person. His right hand clutched his axe tightly before him; his shield in his left was by his hip but appeared to be in motion. Layne noticed that, in his peripheral vision, he could see Bronwyn still standing tall and proud. Her face showed both her concern and her defiance. And then, the world snapped back into a loud commotion of activity. Athelred’s lungs vented his rage as his axe turned into the outlet for his fury. Sven swung.
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~The Piebald Penguin
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