REVISED VIKING/HORROR Short Story: Bitten Blade

Hey readers and scribes! Just wanted to post a story a wrote a while back when I was obsessed with Vikings and their curses(I went to Iceland and Sweden, it was great-I’ll be sure to write about it in the future). I know I usually write steampunk, but I always find it healthy to step out of your comfort zone in order to keep your writing fresh. So please, let me know what you think about this short story. I do warn you though, GORE AND VIOLENCE in story. Please ‘clap’ it, review it, and don’t forget to check out my other stories and articles!

A dreadful curse spreads through a Viking’s ship, killing all who cross it. Survival in the moonlit-night turns to desperation to see daybreak. Only a brave few are willing to face such a monster head on…

BITTEN BLADE:

A cool mist shrouded their escape. The tattoo of drummers kept rhythm for the longboat’s rowing crewmen. Many seats lay empty, forcing the remaining hunched and weary shoulders to compensate. Their chieftain watched as they closed in on the next longboat.

“Are you sure this is wise, Harald,” asked a nearby raider. “Our men grow weak.”

Harald’s stare didn’t break from the encroaching ship. His bloodshot eyes watched the shadowed heads shifting as they struggled to row faster. A skullcap strapped to Harald’s head did little to ward off the chill. His calloused fingers dug into the gunwale, whitening his knuckles.

“I believe you know the answer to that, Braum,” said the Chief. He placed a hand on the handle of his ax. “After what he’s done…I refuse to let them escape.”

Braum nodded. He placed a hand around the handle of his axe and held it high in the air.

“Press hard men!” Braum marched down between both sets of rowers. “On this night, we take them to Valhalla!”

“Ho,” came the rally of all who heard him, rumbling the wooden planks beneath their furred boots.

Sails shifted with the crew’s adjusted oars. The dragon leading Chief Harald Stergerson’s ship revealed keen fangs to the pursuers.

“Do you trust our numbers will hold,” asked Braum. “We’ve lost many to our last hunting of their kin.”

Harald turned his stretched expression to Braum, his tangled beard widening the Chief’s appearance. Furs wrapped over his tan tunic, swaying in the challenging gust. He reached for his leather-bound ax. A fur-trimmed, oval shield sat firm in his other hand.

“If you are that frightened of death, Braum, you can stay back on your farm with the rest of the women.” The Chief turned to his crew with his ax held high.

“Berserkers, find your strength! You’ll need it this night!”

Three of the remaining dozen rose to their feet. Bear-pelts masked their faces, but not the crimson lust sparkle in their eyes. They roared into the night, drowning out their adversaries rally-cry.

Rage readied Stergurson’s raiders for battle, reddening their faces. He clanged his shield and ax, encouraging the rest to pound the gunwale. The wooden frame dented with each strike their large fists dealt upon it. Those unable to pound the vessel beat their chests, or clanged weapons. With their war pulse at an apex, Stergurson turned bellowed over his trusted berserkers. His broad chest widened with every breath.

“After these long two nights, you may be looking upon a ship to Valhalla, my brothers.” His ax pointed to one of the wooden crates holding their raid’s rewards. “But to the survivors, we shall share a King’s wealth! Join me in heated battle until cold iron takes you!”

“For Valhalla!”

One by one, the raiders lined up, sword or ax at the ready. Shouting from both ships filled the seas. Chief Stergurson peered up at his sails, then back down to his fellows. They had killed so many of his already. Every fallen blade and face surfaced in his mind. A snarl curled his lips. Revenge guided his eyes, up the mast, to a tense line trembling in the wind. He seized a knotted section of it, swung his ax beneath the knot, and ran for the gunwale. His boot found the ship’s edge as he lunged into the air. He felt the rope grow taut as it guided him closer to his foes. Stergurson timed his release, crashing onto the foreign vessel. He tucked and rolled into a man padded with furs. Stergurson’s ax followed, cleaving the man’s skull down to his neck.

Another arcing chop from the Chieftain sent several of his foes stumbling back. Those unfortunate enough to be caught in his swing, were hacked down. Blood sprayed into the dozens of shadows behind. Berserkers aboard roared in rage, threatening Stergurson’s life in exchange for the crimson tides washing over them. Axes swung with wild fury, striking any injured raider too slow to evade the Chief’s assault.

Boards cracked and splintered beneath the invading Chieftain. His feet remained firm with each landing blow, even with foam and spilling gore spraying into his face. A familiar drake’s head guiding his ship, shredded the hunted vessel’s gunwale into floating splinters. The longboat rocked, throwing raiders to one side. Balance restored when Stergurson’s men boarded. Their weapons flailed in wild directions to form a blood-smeared path for their Chieftain.

“Anything you find is yours,” Stergurson shouted. Veins bulged from his neck. “Hurry, for she’s taking water!”

A weight collided into Stergurson’s shoulder. Keen fangs sunk into his exposed bicep, tearing at flesh and muscle. A loud bark defend Harald. Pain hacked into his wrist with enough force to release his ax. Snarling from his furred foe continued.

Stergurson dropped to a knee. Fangs tore into his throbbing arm once more. He opened his eyes to find his wrist had been sliced open. Crimson glistened off an ax blade, held by furred fingerless-gloves. A dark wooden shaft bore four claws as carvings, climbing up to a wolf’s head engraved into the blade. Stergurson’s blood bathed the etching, its teeth tasting his lost. The ax’s wielder smiled through his long, copper beard.

“Ah, she’s got ya’ now, she has,” said the raider. “You got bit by the cursed wolf; Bölvaður Ulfur. A rather painful end is coming, I swear upon it.”

Harald’s lip curled, revealing plaque between his teeth and gums. His body flexed in defiance to the man’s words. The beast over Stergurson lunged once more, revealing stained fangs in its movement. The Chieftain swung his fist back at the animal. His oval shield connected with its teeth. He felt a shift in weight as fangs were forced back against their gummed roots. Pieces and shards crumbled down the dog’s throat. A consistent whimpering came with an ease of pressure off Stergurson’s back.

The copper-bearded raider rose in fur-shrouded vestments, hoisting his wolf-ax over the Chieftain once more. This time, Harald saw the glimmer of the raised weapon. He charged its wielder, shield over head, until he collided into his foe. Both men crashed to the ground, singing weapons marking their release to the deck. Stergurson’s blood poured over both combatants. Whitened knuckles lost their grip beneath splatters and wads of crimson. Beards were stained, but that didn’t halt either from shouting and brawling.

Chief Stergurson threw blow after blow, landing smears of blood across the man’s cheek. A dog’s snarl caught Harald’s ear, stunning him long enough for his copper-bearded foe to gain supremacy. A shift of his hips rolled them, reversing their positions.

Harald felt the throbbing in his arm fall in cadence with the crashing of each strike. His vision blurred with every bone he heard crack in his cheeks and nose. A final thought of survival came over the Chieftain. He reached for the man’s coiling arm, taking hold with his dying strength. Harald pulled on the resistant limb, and reached for the raider’s waist. Two or three pat-downs revealed a carved handle strapped to his belt. Chief Stergurson wrapped his fingers around the weapon, and revealed its blade. He sunk the dirk deep into the mounted man’s hip. A second tug freed the blade, allowing him to plunge it into the man’s side.

The raider pulled away from the Chief, reaching for his injuries. Harald found his feet while searching for a more another durable weapon. The clash of iron and steel in surrounding skirmishes staggered the Chief. He clutched his right arm as blood matted hair and furs around his shoulder.

A familiar wolf-engraved ax glistening in blood, laid on the deck within his grasp. Stergurson’s fingers wrapped around its handle. He waited with a salivating grin as the raider struggled to remove the knife from his side. On the tug to free the blade from its fleshy sheath, Bölvaður Ulfur sunk its teeth into the wrist of its former owner. Bone snapped and muscle spilled out. Tendons dangled in search of a hand curled up and limp on the deck.

Growling tugged at the Chieftain’s attention. The rumble of paws quickened beneath his boots. He looked up to find a dog, bleeding from its lips, charging after him. A sharp flick of Harald’s wrist and a flash of iron found the airborne dog’s throat. Animal’s blood sprayed the men nearby. The dog’s carcass crashed before his kneeling, copper-haired master, who watched with gnashing teeth.

“Thou are less than a heap of shit,” the man’s raspy tone cried out. Blood seeped between his fingers in a failing attempt to suppress his wound. “May that blade’s curse ruin your house!”

Stergurson didn’t wait for another insult. He took a deep breath, and swung the ax with all his might. The blade sliced through the kneeling-man’s neck. Tendons and veins flailed in their new-found freedom. Crimson streaked the man’s neck before his head flopped from his shoulders and splattered along the hardwood. His beard dampened, as twitching eyes rolled to the back of his head. The body collapsed, oozing out onto the deck.

Raiders from both sides tripped over the two new corpses. This new obstacle gave Harald opportunity to hack as they stumbled, ignoring their pleas. Blood flew through the air, dripping into the sinking hull of the ship. Stergurson looked up to his own longboat as their battleground lowered to the sea.

“Take what you can reach in this moment,” said the Chieftain. “We go with haste!”

“We’ve taken nothin’ but blood and lives,” came a voice. “Let us get our loot!”

“They’ve taken too much water,” Stergurson bellowed. “Consider the reward being no chance of revenge!”

The raider rocked against the sinking ship, not yielding until he stood a breath away from his Chief.

“Not ’til we see the share you promised us!”

The submerging longship did not bother Harald Stergurson and his relentless stare. A shift of his body sent the wolf-ax through the air, slicing the man’s head from his shoulders. The leather helm guarding his head and nose separated from his scalp before either landed. Stergurson rose his ax high, and turned to his men.

“Is his share fair enough to return to our ship,” he asked.

Not waiting for an answer, Stergurson made his way back to his longboat. His ax met every defiant or challenging raider in his wake. His ax sunk into the meaty shoulder of an approaching foe. Stergurson’s actions froze when he heard another dog’s snarl. He searched and found a dog standing over the fallen bodies. The Chieftain’s eyes fell upon it, causing his functioning arm to tremble.

A dog stepped from the shadows, blood dripping from the gash in its neck. Crimson stains marked its teeth. The beast’s advanced forced Harald back. He pointed his weapon at the dog. His paled cheeks chattered until he found the words to crack his throat.

“How…do you live,” he asked. “I watched your life bleed out.”

A bark signaled the dog’s pounce. Stergurson fell, crashing back into his own imposing ship. It lunged, biting and gnawing on his already limp, defending arm. The Chief’s raiders did not react to his cries for aid, or the abusive growling from the monster clawing at him.

The Chieftain hurled a punch at the dog, cracking its ribs. The animal whimpered with its descent to the deck once more. Stergurson shifted the weight of his ax and swung down on the dog’s neck. Soft flesh erupted with blood, giving way to the snap of a the dog’s spin. A final cry escaped the beast, leaving it still. Blood splattered Stergurson’s eyes, burning his vision.

After wiping away the smears around, Stergurson searched for his wolf-ax. Burning eyes found it embedded in splinters of the longboat’s deck. No animal, man, or creature within the wreckage. Wood shavings lay in place of blood and spilled organs he once saw from the dog. Stergurson reached for his cheek, swiping at a stain. It’s dark ichor and bitter taste resembled blood, but its owner had been lost to the Chieftain’s eyes.

“Our Chief’s fallen,” shouted a fair-haired raider. “Braum, aid me with him!”

Both raiders wrapped an arm around their chief’s shoulders. They dragged Harald away as he flailed and shouted curses about a dead beast. One deflected assaults with his shield, as the other continued lunging his spear into anything charging at him. A wedged-formation grew from those nearby, walling off any unfamiliar raiders daring for a skirmish. One of Stergurson’s berserkers entered the fray with his ax burying itself in another raider’s chest. Bones snapped inward, leaving him gasping for air. He fell to the floor, pulling at the wound, cascading blood. The opening in his chest allowed his fellows to watch his flailing lungs take their final breath, while Harald’s men vanished onto their retreating vessel.

Moans of those dying drowned in the night’s darkness. Rowing oars splashed in cadence of a tattooing drum, pulling them further from the sinking wreckage. No one spoke until they were far from danger, and Harald had been tended to.

“Told ya’, Thorir,” a voice murmured. “We had no need givin’ chase to ‘em.”

Thorir pulled his fair hair back to examine dozens of bleeding bodies littering the ship’s hull. With eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw many lying still in Odin’s grasp.

“How’s that, Braum?” Thorir made an attempt to wipe a crimson stain from his forehead, only smudging the stain. He dried his hand along his furred vestments and beard, already matted by a fellow raider’s blood.

Braum pointed to Chief Stergurson. The large man rested on his back, blood still glistening within torn furs around his neck and shoulders. Slashes and teeth punctured his arm, bleeding down his torso.

“Must’ve been poisoned by one of them,” said Braum. He pointed to the string of bite marks that climbed up the chief’s arm. “These are whispers to a much louder conversation. Did you see Harald swing his ax in all directions before falling with tears in his eyes?”

They fell silent to watch the Chief reach for his stomach. His groan crawled through the hull. When he fell silent, Thorir continued.

“Did they gut him too?”

Braum shook his head. He inspected his chief from head to foot. He stopped for a weapon laying at the chief’s side. A wooden shaft carved with the body of a wolf, it’s head engraved upon the blade. He only realized a crack in the dark, wooden handle as his fingers wrapped around the weapon. He brought the blade closer to examine the wolf’s head. The Chief’s trembling fingers wrapped around Braum’s wrist.

“C…cursed…”

“Gothi!” Thorir reached for his chief. “Can you stand?”

The Chief shook his head, cringing at the sight of the blade. Both hands returned to his stomach, with whitened knuckles pulling at his tattered vestments.

“Drop it…Braum! Be rid…the accursed blade.”

Braum stared into the wolf’s eye. Its stare flickered from illumination leading up to the ship’s deck.

“Best do as he says, Braum,” said Thorir.

Braum snarled at the weapon’s engraving.

“You do not truly believe this weapon to be cursed do you?” Braum leaned over his Chief until strands of his dark hair draped down around his face. “What proof do you have that it is cursed?”

“He cursed…cursed it.”

Braum looked to Thorir. He smirked and released an echoing scoff.

“Did you say one of those from our attack cursed this blade?” His belly rumbled with laughter again. “Shall we turn back and surrender? Perhaps surrender to the Catholics?”

“Braum.” Thorir pointed to their chief. They witnessed a shudder travel down Harald’s back. He made one last desperate swing at his raiders. Both men leaned back, evading the limp strike.

“Away,” Harald cried. “Away!”

Stergurson’s bloodshot eyes darkened, he sealed them shut, opening once more to reveal golden irises. Crimson ichor oozed from the chief’s pores. His bones grew, snapping with every motion. Slabs of flesh peeled off the Chief and splattered to the floor. Coarse strands of copper fur grew in its place. Blood hemorrhaged from keen nails that replacing Harald’s fingers.

Stergurson reached for Braum’s hand. The raider’s bones snapped beneath the Chief’s enlarged grip. Dark blood poured from between his furred fingers. Braum’s whimper turned to grunts. His free hand scratched and pulled at the Chief’s claws. Copper fur now enveloped Stergurson’s body. Shreds of skin lay in muddied pools along the hardwood floor. Braum pulled and tugged to free himself, but the beast refused to yield.

“Thorir! Thorir,” Braum cried. “Bring your aid!”

Thorir paled. His eyes remained focused on the bottle-shaped nose Harald grew. Ears sprouted from the peak of his head. Lips curled into a snarl, unveiling rows of fangs. A deep tone crawled from its hoarse throat.

“Be rid…my blade. My last plea.”

A shift of the beast’s arm tore Braum’s hand from his wrist with two sharp snaps. Bones protruded from his limb. Blood peppered Thorir and the beast. Braum fell back, his hand clutching at a splintered stub.

“Be rid of it.”

The beast took hold of the fallen ax and hurled it through the air. It’s hissing edge found the soft flesh of Braum’s neck. Snaps of bone marked his head’s departure. A wet clap against the wooden floor splattered blood across the beast’s clawed feet.

The ax continued its cycle through the air until it found the rear of the ship. Moonlight shined down the ladder, reflecting off the engraved wolf. It’s eyes glimmered up at a young boy-first to react to the shouting and pleading below. He descended the ladder’s steps with a familiar ease. A growling burrowed into his ears. Death’s odor caused his nose to flare, filling his throat with bile.

“A-Alek,” came a voice.

The boy found Thorir pinned to the wall, with the raider’s arm extended toward him. The man’s fingers cringed with every movement. Blood dripped from his nails. His feet dangled off the floor. Alek felt his legs give out as he looked upon the bipedal beast holding his fellow raider. Clawed fingers borrowed through Thorir’s rib cage. Ichor dribbled around his lips.

“Run, boy!”

Golden irises turned to Alek. The boy felt for the wall to aid his trembling retreat. As he rose, his fingers found a cracked hilt embedded in the wall. The wood came together again in his grip, pinching his skin. Several sharp yanks failed to free the weapon. Chills streaked his hands in sweat with each tug of the ax-handle.

“Alek!” A voice from above shouted. “Give me your hand!”

The boy looked back to the growling beast. It’s long claws slashed at its already pinned prey. Bones protruded from Thorir’s chest, allowing blood to drip from cavity and claw alike. The man flailed and cried out. His arms slowed as his legs dangled, leaving Thorir’s body to drop with a limp crash.

The beast turned to Alek. His young hands pushed and tugged at the ax’s hilt. It’s eyes glistened from moonlight exposed by thinning clouds. A final yank freed the wolf-ax. The weight of the ax drew Alek stumbling forward two steps. He found his footing in time to face his foe with the wolf-ax held high. His hazel eyes found the creature in time for a rigid forearm to crumple him to the floor. The ax twirled into the sky, crashing somewhere on the upper deck, marked by a thud.

Strings of intestines littered the floor beneath the ladder. Alek’s pallor faded. He looked up to heads and dark eyes staring down at him. To one side lay his legs, mangled and bent in unnatural fashions. Blood pooled around them. His eyes widened with the realization of his hemorrhaging body.

The creature’s head rose to meet the raiders staring down the hatch. It’s ears twitched in recognition. Eyes settled upon a man whose face remained covered by a studded, nose-guarded helm. The wolf’s ax rested in his calloused grasp.

It’s legs bent, further defining the muscles around its knees. The beast sprang upward. It’s claws found the man. The assault stopped when its shoulder slammed against the upper deck, sending splinters into the air. Stained claws swung in all directions, until they sunk into flesh, and snapped the legs of another nearby raider. The man collapsed with a cry.

A sword hacked at the creature’s shoulder. Dark ichor spilled with every swing of the blade. The beast collapsed through the opening and down to the floor below. It’s crash caused the ship to rock along the chopping waves.

“Close the hatch,” said one of the men.

“What if there are survivors down there,” another asked.

A grunt echoed up from the beast. The wooden door slammed, silencing any further noise it made. An almond-haired man stood over the hatch. He took in deep inhales through clenched teeth. He pointed to the raider, lying on the boat’s floor.

The raider he pointed to clutched his leg, bent at an odd angle. His kneecap protruded through skin. Limp tendons were pierced with splinters. He whimpered through threaded breathes. His hands struggled to slow the bleeding.

“Tend to our brother,” said the raider, standing above the door. “Andreas might yet make it!”

Raiders surrounded the injured man. Blood splashed beneath their feet. One of the men turned to the raiders standing over the hatch.

“Henke,” called out a raider. “He won’t live unless we find land soon!”

Henke pulled back strands of almond hair invading his vision to scan the ship’s surroundings. The encroaching mist offered little aid, as a damp chill tapped his spine, forcing a shiver.

“Continue rowing then! Til we find land!” Henke took hold of a nearby ax. The same wolf-carved weapon that had fallen free of Andreas’ grip when he fell. He rose the weapon high over his head, the wolf’s eyes glimmered over them.

“The rest of ya’, be at the ready in case this beast wishes for more blood!”

Several followed Henke’s command and raced to their oars. A rhythm reverberated in their ears, down to their fingers. They froze with a realization: the drumbeat came from below the deck. Each raider turned to another with crashing from below. The noise crept closer to Henke, its thumping falling in cadence with his breathing. The pounding continued until it shook his boots. Henke leapt back, silencing the tone. Once he found his footing, all they heard were waves against their longboat.

The creaking of boards broke through the silence. Wooden fragments erupted towards the sky. Several of the raiders saw the furred claw that chose Henke. Keen nails wrapped around his leg, digging into soft tissue. Claws yanked on him, encouraging his plummet into the darkened depths below. Muscles and tendons revealed themselves from a single slash. Henke fell, reaching out for anything that might save him. His effort came to a stop when his jaw caught the edge of a splintered board. A second sharp yank from the beast below forced the wood to dig deeper into Henke’s jaw. The jagged peak found its way through soft flesh. The beast gave another heave. This time, wood protruded through his mouth with a crimson sheen. His jaw widened as the board kept him in place.

Henke’s attempt to cry out came as little more than whimpers. He swung the ax into the boat’s deck, keeping him from descending into the creature’s domain. The wolf upon his blade bit deep into the floorboard, but its intention was to only save itself. Another pull dragged Henke into the shadows, along with the wooden piercing.

Shrieks echoed from the boat’s darkness. Cries of mercy were cut short. Blood erupted from the hole where the hatch once stood, and rained down upon them with the rolling thunder of the beast’s snarl. Two furred claws slammed against the longboat’s upper deck, scraping boards with each swing.

A nearby raider reached for the wolf ax rattling on the deck, next to the beast’s claws. His fingers wrapped around the cracked shaft. A swift swing sunk the blade into the top of the monster’s hand. It’s limbs cringed with a mournful howl. Only the wolf-axwielder stood to oppose the beast. He freed his blade from the monster’s hand, readying another blow.

Gilt eyes rose from the darkness. Black ichor oozed from its clawed-hand. It lunged for the raider wielding the wolf ax, stopping moments before landing a strike. The raider staggered back, exposing the thin skin protecting his throat. An uninjured claw reached out, finding the ax-wielder’s neck. A threaded beat warmed its boney fingers. As the beast descended back into the darkness, it pulled the raider down past broken planks of the deck.

Soft tissue from the raider’s neck found a keen wooden edge. A choke signaled his body’s sudden stop. Blood trickled down the back of his neck where the board protruded from. His cough summoned further crimson fluid to fill his mouth, spilling down his chin.

The remaining raiders watched their brother plummet into their ship’s depths. A growing shadow rose up to meet the crowd. The raiders stepped back, two not swift enough to evade the airborne monster. Cries and grunts echoed into the night. Blood rose to meet the sky. Those remaining fought to keep their balance as the ship rocked back and forth. Wood whimpered beneath the beast’s heavy weight. Those sturdy enough to stay upright found gilt eyes glaring back at them.

A dark ichor streamed down the beast’s shoulder. The monster flexed the injured limb. Slow puffs of air were seen coming from its nose as it slumped.

“It grows weary men,” cried one of the raiders. “If it can bleed, it can die! Hack it down!”

“Rally to Christof,” one cried. He motioned to the man leading the charge.

A dozen of those still able to swing a blade charged behind Christof. Their foe snarled to meet the challenge. The beast’s show of strength faltered courage in Christof. It’s stronger arm clenched a fist and swung down on him. The armored man barreled into two others, sending them sliding across the floor, leaving them motionless.

Cries of vengeance and agony filled the moonlit sky. Christof’s spinning vision eased at the sight of the two he knocked back returning to the fray. His fingers patted the floor in search of his sword. Nothing but splinters were found. A quick glance to the battle revealed his men’s dwindling numbers. He looked to his other side, hoping for anything with a keen edge. That’s when an eye of the wolf-ax glimmered at him. He rolled to his side, whitening his knuckles around a cracked handle. The night offered no time to inspect his new weapon’s condition.

Christof looked to his side. He searched for the one shouting, then caught sight of the monster’s low shoulders. Every pant widened its chest more than the last. The raiders left standing mirrored the beast’s stance. Their own fatigue weakening their knees.

“Do not halt men,” Christof shouted. “It is weak! Show it no mercy!”

The two men challenged the beast together, with swords held high. Before either of the men landed their blow, a heavy swing from the beast’s claw caught one of them. His helm soared through the air, splashing somewhere into the sea. The raider’s head snapped against the landing blow. His limp neck turned his glazed eyes to the man they rallied behind. Christof willed his knees to lock out as he watched blood dribble from his fellow’s mouth. The mangled body fell forward with a crash, forcing a sharp exhale; his spirit’s departure for Valhalla.

A mass of armor and flesh collided with Christof during his distraction. The wind forced its way out of his lungs. Death’s stench filled Christof’s nose. He coughed on blood trickling into his throat. His head bounced off the longboat’s deck. The mass pressed against his torso, forcing Christof to one side. His hand slipped and found the bloody remains of a dead man’s arm. Its protruded bone tapped Christof’s forehead. Pink stains revealed where flesh had been torn off.

Christof’s trembling hand held the wolf’s ax as he rose. The cry of revenge had silenced. Iron no longer hissed through the air. Christof looked upon his last fellow marauder, pinned down by the monster. The beast took hold of the raider and swung him overhead. His landing sounded with fracturing bones. Teeth scattered across the floor, soaking in nearby crimson pools.

“Release him,” said Christof.

The beast swung the raider once more. This time, his limp body wrapped around the mast. Eyes burst open, spilling down the raider’s face. He made no sound and gave no effort to resist his fall as the monster released him.

Gilt eyes fell upon Christof. The raider took hold of an oval shield, and steadied it below his vision. The wolf-ax rested in his whitened knuckles. Christof bent his knees, mimicking the readiness of the creature. Sweat beaded his forehead. Dizziness reminded him to take in a breath.

The monster lunged. Christof stepped to one side, with his shield pushing the furred shoulder of the beast. It’s impact forced Christof to stagger back several steps. The wolf-ax fell loose from his hand. It rattled as it slid along the floor. Christof glanced back for his weapon. His hand reached for anything that may have been laying behind him and knock against a wooden shaft. Thicker than the wolf’s ax, and far heavier. Christof peered back and found he held part of an an oar. A guttural growl summoned his attention once again.

Claws dug into the wooden floor, propelling the monster forward. It’s bottled-snout opened, revealing pink-stained fangs. Every muscle within Christof begged to swing the oar. His heels dug into the deck, forcing himself to wait for the proper moment. The monster swung its uninjured arm. There, Christof found his opening. An arcing swing caught the beast’s chin, dislodging fangs from bleedings gums.

The beast slid along the floor, with bits of shattered fangs scattered around it. It laid still for several moments, each exhale coming with a whimper. Christof recovered from his spinning strike as the monster struggled to lift itself. Three of its limbs trembled in an attempt to rise. It crashed back to the floor, where the body of another raider laid in waiting. His body caved in beneath the monster’s weight. His crushed friend’s hand reached for Christof, then curled to hold death in a cold grasp. Christof’s nostrils flared, he readied himself again, waiting for the beast to rise.

“Come on!” He swashed his shield against the oar. “Get up! Get up ya, bast’d!”

The monster’s lip curled, revealing several remaining intact fangs. It’s stare stunned Christof. The raider released a warcry, freeing him of his fear as he charged the beast.

The monster rose to greet its incoming prey. Gilt eyes reflected in Christof’s shield. It’s round edge sliced through one of the monster’s eyes. Pus and blood flowed down its snout.

The impact of Christof’s blow forced the monster back to the floor. Nothing but a rise of its chest showed it still lived. Even its uninjured arm remained at ease. Christof dropped his shield, fingers clenched around his oar. The screams of his deceased fellows rang in his ears. Many still looked up to the sky with glazed eyes in search of Valhalla.

Christof howled into the night. His arms flexed as they swung the oar down on the beast’s neck. A grunt escaped the monster’s throat with each of Christof’s blows. The beast reached out, clawing at the floor. It’s arm tensed in an attempt to pull itself away from the raider. Christof’s face reddened.

“Come ‘ere,” said Christof.

The raider swung the oar down with all his lingering strength. The oar’s dented side hacked at the monster’s neck. It’s head snapped upward with the separation of its spine. The monster fell limp. Christof hoisted his oar. Another strike confirmed its death. The oar’s neck cracked. Christof’s vengeful final blow snapped the oar in half.

The raider collapsed to his knees. His legs splashed in puddles of another’s blood. He leaned on his hands for support. Tears swelled in his eyes.

“Is…is anyone…alive?” Christof glanced around the longboat with a quivering jaw. “I beg of you…Thor, answer me!”

A knock on wood stiffened Christof’s ears. Another knock sounded. The rhythm came slow and steady, somewhere far off. The tattoo of his heart sounded in his ears.

“The belly of the boat,” he whispered.

Christof staggered to the edge of the ship. He stepped around mangled bodies and stray intestines. Limbs lay folded in odd fashions. He caught sight of the moon’s reflection in the eye of a wolf-engraved ax. Christof froze. A hand missing two fingers rested on top of it, shielding it from further harm. Blood spilled from the missing extremities and onto the blade. The wolf’s eye still shimmered in crimson moonlight. It’s shaft remained intact, even with a slim crack going down its center. No other weapons lay near it. Christof crouched down. Exhaustion pulled him to his knees. Blood stuck to his fingers as he grabbed the wolf’s ax. The hand guarding it fell to the floor, with bloody streaks and tendons splatting upon impact. Christof looked up, contemplating if he should stand once again. His legs burned, but that knocking from down below meant someone else might be alive.

Christof used the wolf’s ax as leverage to help him rise. He faltered once upright. Tired legs burned with each step, guiding him to the shattered stairway of the ship’s belly. What few steps remained offered enough for Christof to crawl down. The knocking grew louder as he descended.

When Christof’s feet found solid flooring, he searched the room. He took a step forward and heard a splash. His foot felt damp through his boot. Looking down, he found the young boy who started joining their raids not long ago. The child’s torso and legs were separated, kept together by a string of thin intestines. The boy’s pale hand reached out for his legs. Fear still lingered on his face, even after death.

The pounding rhythm Christof had adjusted to, changed. A gargle crept its way between the knocking. He pulled away from the boy.

“Aid…I need…aid”

Christof found a shadow shifting against the wall, drawing him closer. The wolf’s ax rose to the ready. His body chilled with each step, yet sweat continued to bead his temples.

“Who…is still there,” came a voice.

Christof hesitated at the gargled tone. Holes from the battle on the deck allowed moonlight to aid in his search. A blue hue filled the hull. Christof’s eyes widened when he saw Thorir banging against a toppled shield with the blade of his sword. The shock of seeing another raider forced Christof to gasp.

“Thorir…Thorir it’s me,” said Christof. “The monster’s dead. We’re…we’re safe.”

Thorir looked up. The shift in his body revealed a gaping hole in his chest. Organs hung outside his torso. Lungs shrunk and expanded with a quickened pace. Christof felt bile rise in his throat. Still, he approached his dying raider. Moonlight glanced off his lowering blade. It’s reflection caught Thorir. The man shook his head. At first it appeared to be a tremble, then grew to a violent shake.

“Get…that away…from me!” Christof searched for what Thorir spoke of. The dying man pointed his sword at Christof. “I said…away with…with you and…that ax.”

“Thorir, what’s wrong,” asked Christof. “You must let aid you.”

“Cursed…blade,” said Thorir. His rasping tone echoed through the hull.

Christof motioned for his ax, Thorir nodded. The dying raider curled up his body, reaching for his cavernous wound, his eyes slammed shut. A cry of agony filled the ship. Thorir’s mourning ended with a growl. Christof’s ears stiffened to the familiar sound.

“Thorir? Is that-,”

Christof’s words fell short as Thorir’s sobbing turned to snarls. Whether due to the shifting boat or clouds in the sky, the hull darkened. Christof watched through glassy eyes as Thorir’s shadow rolled about. His body flailed in all directions.

“Thorir, do not do this,” Christof shouted. “I will aid you!”

Thorir pushed himself off the floor. A hand reached out for Christof.

“Get…away,” bellowed Thorir. “Now!”

Christof felt his knees give out. He crashed to the floor as Thorir rose. Streams of crimson outlined his growing frame. A bottlenose grew on the man’s face, allowing a deep howl to escape his lungs. When the moonlight returned, Christof looked at a dark-furred beast, similar to what lay dead on the ship’s deck.

“What is this,” he asked. His nostrils flared. He tightened his grip around the ax. Christof willed his body to rise. “Is this some sort of cursed den now? Is that what this ship has come to?”

The creature answered with a growl. It’s broad torso revealed any injuries Thorir carried no longer remained. Fur, matted by blood, had taken place of the hole in his chest. A snarl revealed keen fangs. Claws retracted on the beast’s upper limbs.

“Then the pack dies tonight.”

The two combatants readied themselves for the other. And by the battle’s end, the wolf-ax found itself sinking to the bottom of the sea, never to be used again.

END

Thanks for reading my Viking/Horror, Bitten Blade. I have a part two that is still under editing hiatus. If you liked the story, and want to read part II, let me know by ‘clapping’ this post and letting me know what you thought!

Kyle Newton is an author living in a renovated caboose deep in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. He is Mount Washington Cog Railway’s current, two-time winner of the ‘Steampunk Author of New Hampshire’ award. Once for his #3 daily bestseller, “Revolution’s Reign,” and his steampunk/romance(later turned steampunk/erotica, the “Penny Punkers” series. His more tamed steampunk/adventure stories can be found on Medium.