Going to York
Hwicce - June 4
Locations
Rain drizzles at dawn. We speak of turning north, back to the ruin. Gaetir counsels against it. I heed him.
We turn southwest, into the grass sea. The smell of wet blades. Birdsong drifts, but no beasts roam.
A cry cuts the wind. Shouts. Yelps. No ring of steel. Three voices, maybe more.
We see two Norsemen. They drive a native before them. The hunted man pleads in his tongue. Fear was raw in his voice.
Their names are Eowils and Harek. They come from York. A town taken a year ago.
Harek’s blade bites him again and again. Blood soaks the earth. The man dies begging his gods.
We camp before the march to York. Rain mists the grass. The ground is red.
York — Jórvík. A town of thousands. Seized and held.
Ruled by Ulfr, who was once denied a crown in the homeland. His brother Vagn stole the throne.
Ulfr hungers for more land. Some here bend knee to the Church Messiah. Yet they still pour mead to Odin. Old ways and new in one hall.
Britonic nobles linger, cloaked in Norse cloth. Their tongues still whisper the native speech.
Ulfr greets me. His hall gleams with gold. Boar-feast smoke coils to the beams. Bronze shapes glare from the walls.
He asks of Thrasir. “A scourge,” Ulfr says. “It hammers the walls. Demands a musician.” “It is no man.” “A giant.”
Ulfr leans close. “Thrasir must die. Far from York. And no tongue must wag.”