Still clutching the
parchment, Gunter held up his battle scarred hands and gazed at them against
the leafy oak and rowan trees. How many
battles had he fought? How many had
these hands slain?
Battles against
worthy opponents differed from the slaughter of peasants fighting to protect
their families. Gunter had done both,
willingly following the clan’s orders.
Vikings were trained from birth to be warriors who conquered, slayed,
and returned home triumphant.
The parchment in his
hands gleamed as sunlight glowed through it.
The colors of ink, the drawings done by a now-dead hand, and a silent
message in the strange letters—all intrigued Gunter. Why
does this parchment seem more precious than any silver goblets from the church
we destroyed?
Abruptly Gunter arose
as he stripped off the bloodied armor and reverently tucked the parchment
safely inside his linen tunic. Leaving
the sound and stench of the settlement behind him, Gunter strode off into the
forest. There had once been a monastery
some distance inland, one the Vikings had sacked years ago.
The sword lay
forgotten by the stream.
Maybe the answer will be there…
Gunter, the apostolic
barbarian, now searched for answers.