Mark Maker #3

Posted: December 29, 2012 in Viking novel
Tags: ,

The carved doorway presses itself into my cheek. My hands grasp the edges and pull so that I fall down into our house, onto its sunken floor strewed with summer rushes now dark with mud and blood. Though the grit in my hazy eyes is obscuring my vision, there is no need to see where my brother is because his bellowing is shaking the foundations of our turf-roofed hut. He is a wolf trapped in a snare howling in the night. The sound is more unbearable than my pain. Finally I crawl to his broken body and see what they have done to him. A sword skewers his calf to the bed platform and the other leg is broken and twisted in a strange way. “Asmundr,” he screams, ” the sword!”

I pull out the sword. Swords are my life. I forge them endlessly folding and folding the metal into more and more intricate patterns and into a  harder and more durable instrument of torture. Heat, beat, heat, beat. Clang, clang on the anvil. Just like Thor and his hammer. The sword I pull from my brother’s leg is heavier than the most massive sword I have ever forged. Not the same size though, because only to lever myself up high and long enough to pull it out is an unbearable agony. I collapse next to him and my screams shake the walls so hard I hear snow fall from the roof…


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