785 AD
The waterhole glimmered like gold beneath the setting sun. Eadric admired it with a lick of his lips while he guided his steed down to the bank. After a sweltering day spent riding across the savanna the Saracens called Bilad as-Sudan, or the Land of the Black People, even a pond as small as this one was a welcome blessing. While his horse lapped away at the waterhole’s surface, Eadric cupped his hands together and scooped up as much water as he could. He took a swig of the cool, if earthy-tasting, fluid and splashed the rest onto his sunburned face with a satisfied moan.
Thus rehydrated, Eadric unsheathed his iron sword, planted its tip into the muddy bank, and knelt with one hand on its hilt. He murmured his thanks to Woden, the Allfather, and all the other gods for his good fortune. Unlike most of their countryfolk back in distant Saxony, Eadric and the people of his village were never willing to surrender their old faith in favor of the new Frankish god Christ, no matter how the Franks might have threatened him. Alas, they had made good on their threats, and only by fleeing to the ends of the known world had Eadric evaded the same fate that had befallen everyone he knew and loved.
He could still hear, and feel, the hot roaring flames engulfing his village, as well as the screams of men, women, and children fleeing the Frankish ambush. One woman’s scream in particular rang louder than the rest. It might have been Eadric’s dear sister Hilda, whom the Franks ravished before butchering her. He would never forgive himself for not being able to cut down the Christ-worshipers and save her in time.
No, wait, that was not a scream from his memories. It was a real woman’s scream, in the here and now, piercing out from somewhere nearby!
Continue reading “The Seven-Headed Serpent”