The good townsfolk rush helter-skelter, fleeing their homes, and I see them grab their most treasured items on the way, whether they be merchants with their goods or parents with their children. Many of them rush in the same direction as the church, perhaps seeking God in their prayers, hoping he will shed some of His divine powers on them and provide His holy protection.
I too turn toward the church, not as a shelter to keep safe in these trying times, but to seek my mama as this was the last place I had seen her. I pray to God to reunite me with her—that there is some chance she is waiting for me at the church. I don't know what to do if she isn't there.
The worst thing is the closer I move to the church, the more crowded the streets become, filled with panicking townspeople, trying to escape this new danger. I find myself constantly bumping shoulders with them and getting pushed further away. A shove here and a shove there, the scared folk don't bother about who gets hurt, so frightened of death they are.
And the whole time, the bell continues to toll its ominous warning, which reminds me of the old seer and her prediction about how my fate would be sealed with the ring of the church bells. The sound is slow and rhythmic; each peal softens the roar of my heart.
The throng gets raucous, and I come to a standstill. Getting angry, I yell, "Move! Now!"
I don't care if I am rude to my people. I just have to see my mama. Unfortunately, no one hears me as everyone is too busy worrying about their own selves. I am sure they will be punished by God for their selfishness.
I clench my teeth in frustration, shoving back at them, and try to wedge past those blocking my way. My struggle with them ends when I hear a scream from a man. I whip my head in that direction, and what I see makes my limbs tremble and my heart shudder to almost a stop. The crowd has parted to show me a sight I will never forget as long as I live.
Most of the townspeople make the sign of the cross; some fall to their knees to pray for protection. There is silence as we take in the scene in front of us.
A group of men, including a few women, appear at the end of the road leading to the church, just behind the chaotic mass of townspeople swarming around me. They are definitely not the citizens of my kingdom.
Dressed oddly, like the savages from the stories narrated by mother, they carry weapons and shields. An air of frenzied excitement shimmers around them, their faces set alit by their manic smiles. There is an intense fervor in the way they walk together, their hearts not marred by fear or cowardice. Some of these armored strangers are more giant than men, though not all of them wear armor. There are those who carry shields, banging on them with their swords, spears, or axes, making a rhythmic beat similar to drums, but not like the music heard in our dining halls.
Many of their faces are painted blue with the devil's mark, and some of them have jewelry and bone entwined in their hair, giving them an otherworldly appearance. These adornments seem to be most certainly the gifts from the devil himself. They shout words in a foreign tongue almost joyfully. The townsmen and I can only stare in awe and fear.
These savages are probably the so-called "Vikings" that the ladies would gossip about while doing needlework and dining on cream and honeyed cakes.
They are indeed as frightening as their stories, which I thought were only told to scare me into obedience. What they said couldn't be truer. The savages are tall and well-built, and they tower over us like beasts as the one that now loomed over the man who was the first to scream.
The poor man's head is tilted as far as it could go to watch the encroaching Viking, who is now practically breathing down his neck. There is nowhere for him to escape, and he stumbles and falls, landing on his hands and knees. The crowd around me flees on seeing this, and the fallen man reminds me of a wounded deer, a prey. All I can feel is the pity of God for him as he is yanked up from the ground by his hair.
The Viking, with short blond hair and a long decorated beard, laughs at, what I can only guess, the man's feeble resistance and before I know it, a sword is plunged through the screaming man's chest. His terror at last ends with the blood gurgling from his mouth.
My stomach roils at this, and I start to feel sick. I quickly make the sign of the cross, praying for the man's soul to reach heaven. But I do not have much time to pray as I feel myself being shoved around again, the crowd more in an uproar after seeing one of our own being brutally killed by the giant's sword.
The man dying is the only trigger needed for the rest of the Vikings to follow, and they spread out, some bellowing what sounds like a war cry. I notice one of the Vikings setting a bow, stringing an arrow to it, and getting ready to shoot at the crowd around me. And just like that, I hear the arrow whiz past my head at an ungodly speed before embedding itself into a man's skull behind me.
A few inches short and the arrow could have shattered my head; I pale at the thought and barely dodge past the man's body which crumbles immediately to the dirty street. I don't even have a chance to pray for him, this time being more concerned for myself, because I nearly joined both the men by tripping over a rock.
The marauders will get me, or I will be trampled by those behind me. These are the only two thoughts in my head, and I am left with a haunting visage of death. The last sound from the dying man on this earthly kingdom is a pained gasp before his eyes roll to the back of his head. Fearing for my life too, I keep my head lowered and body bent, knowing more arrows would follow the first.
I glance back once and see the Vikings charge forward into the townspeople and slaughter them one by one. Their faces are aglow with ecstasy, seeing us scatter like ants, confused and terrified, with no one to protect us. Their laughter echo around us as they chase the innocent people. They truly are hunters who find joy in killing. My heart sinks, and a tremble starts deep in me. I didn't know such men... beasts... existed. Tears fall down my cheeks as I hear my people cry in pain.
Their deaths are not always quick. Some are left to die slowly, impaled by a spear to the stomach, their guts spilling out from their bellies. Their bodies remain for the reaping angels to carry them to heaven while they suffer on this earthly kingdom a little longer, one gasp after another.
Not even the women and children are spared. I lift my head slightly, my eyes searching for a way out of this slaughterhouse. I then see a skinny man ahead of me, trying to escape this crowd, and unlike me, he seems to have found a new route. He slips into a narrow alley, melting into the shadows of the neighboring buildings. I follow him, sidestepping the falling bodies and injured people. I enter the same alleyway, walking briskly, trying not to come to the notice of the Vikings.
I keep my head bent and eyes open, fearing if I close them even for the briefest of seconds, the savages born of hell would be in front of me, dragging me into the inferno with them, from where they were spawned by our sins.
Crouching lower to the ground, I try to melt into the shadows, just like the man in front of me who darts into the next street. As I watch him about to enter the light of our father, his head is cleaved off his shoulders in one stroke. I quickly cover my mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping as I see his severed head fly up into the air and away from my view, and his body drops to the dirty street like so many men before him.
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