The Wall Between Animal And Man Imploded. Shackles Riven, The

The wall between animal and man imploded. Shackles riven, the beast within rent its fury on his body. His blood pumped furiously, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and his muscles tensed, corded stone wrapped around hardened bone. His arms hefted the sword, straight-edged, pommel of burnished bronze, blade of sharpened steel. Shoulders blazed brown and purified by years of rowing stretched taut. Vision narrowed, his legs rippled into motion. His mouth opened in a hellion scream, roaring in the glut of anticipated carnage. He charged toward the low walls of the monastery. Rock and mortar met his fingertips as he hurled past the escarpment and into the monastery proper. Incense fires burned still in censers and the thurible hanging in the thurifer's grip. The monks stayed where they were, kneeling, standing, frozen, paralyzed in this moment, their tranquility shattered. He brought his blade to bear, the shock of impact whipping up his arm, the edge burying itself in flesh. Blood spattered his face and the suck of folded skin as the monk fell away from his sword was as a boot in thick mud. Battle-cries from other warriors behind him ripped the monks from their stasis, and they scrambled back, fleeing in terror from the wild-eyed heathens before them. Axes and swords fell in tandem with the screams of the dying, and he reveled in the dance. When slaughter had abated, he gathered his winnings: gold candlesticks and rings, a golden cross, silver plates and cutlery, a knife encrusted with gems, and a child-slave for work on his lands, and many coins and trinkets besides. All this but the slave he loaded into his sack, and tasked that same slave with carrying the burden. He sat a little ways away from the monastery on a rock, resting, breathing hard still from the fight, his rough chest heaving with the air he brought into his lungs. His companion came up to him, fair hair and beard splashed with blood, and spoke. “Harald, how fareth your takings? Was the battle's rush enough to sate your bloodlust?” Harald grunted and replied, “Nay, Gunvald. These robed weaklings are poor sport, but the bounty to be had is worth such sacrifice. Truly, in trade to those Romans of the East such a fortune is ours! I found yon youngling slave hidden amongst their cots, whimpering. Other such children were found; Enrig took two for his own, and Oleifr slew one, mistaking him for one of the cowardly men.” So Gunvald spoke in return, “Aye, these men possess strange custom, dressed all in uniform with not even a warrior among them. Still, such bounty feeds our families, and all manner of combat cannot do that. Come, we'll be moving upriver on the morrow toward one of their cities. Keep that slave in line!” Gunvald smote the child upon the ear and hauled him into the air, the child having raised his head to meet Gunvald's gaze. The thane dropped the child in a thorn bush lying at the base of the rock, and walked back toward the flames of the monastery. The urchin began to cry, but the back of Harald's hand quashed the squalling. Harald hefted the slave out of the shrub and placed the pack upon the child, and they walked toward the river whence the warriors had come. The other men we busy righting the longboat, a snekke, smallish with shallow keel, which they had pulled up onto the shore and flipped to provide shelter from the elements. Thirty five men in all there were: twenty-four rowers, the coxswain, two strong-arms, and eight slaves they had picked up during raids, three of these being the newly acquired children. Not a one of them had been slain in the past three attacks, and their longboat, manned with the bare minimum, was laden with plunder. With everything prepared for their departure the next day, Harald tossed a crust of bread to the child and laid down on the ground, wrapped in the furs of animals alien to this land. The sun set, and the rest of the men lay down as well, with a few staying awake as guard. He eyed the small figure of the boy, greedily devouring the bread, and considered him. “Boy,” he said, “I shall call you Bekkr, and a fine seat for that pack you do make.” Chuckling at his own joke, Harald turned on his side and fell asleep. Harald was brought out of his slumber by a rustling behind him. He turned his head only to catch the glint of steel in the corner of his eye, a dagger poised above his throat. Lashing out with his arm, he clubbed the hand holding the knife and flipped himself over, drawing his own knife in the process. Bekkr crouched, nursing his hand and staring defiantly at the large barbaric fighter. They held the tableau for a few moments more, each glaring intently at the other, until Harald erupted into laughter. “Bekkr, you're a spirited one, you are. Come come, dawn breaks. We must be going.” Harald clapped the boy on the shoulder and turned about, gathering his things. “Pick up that dagger, boy. No steel should go to waste.” Bekkr picked up the short blade and put it in the satchel. Stout legs pushed the ship away from shore and into the river. The snekke, named Rattatosk, possessed no sail, so the men set to rowing, with the two unoccupied warriors watching the prisoners. It was Harald's turn to sit aside. He studied his axe, unused in these few raids. The wood was stained dark with blood and sweat, the handle smooth with time and use. The head was dinged on the blunted side, some

skull or pauldron having made its mark. Forged of iron, overlain with steel bit, the axe had slain foe, felled tree, and kept his father alive. It had yet to prove itself to him, and he to it. His gaze moved from the axe to Bekkr. The child was studying the longboat, curious, unafraid. This was a hardy child; breaking him would indeed be difficult. Harald smiled at the thought.