A-B post: Part 2, Apostolic Barbarian

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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.

A-B post: Apostolic Barbarian

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Gunter slumped by the stream, mindlessly washing away the blood covering his armor and shield.  His sword lay on the grass beside him, a silent reminder of his part in carnage.

Is this really all there is?  Gunter had asked that question many times these past raids.  The roar of the assault still echoing around him, Gunter stretched tired muscles down upon the lush green.

Rape?  Gunter found the screams of frightened women and children appalling.  What is rewarding about destroying a woman’s hopes and dreams?  With her children cowering in a corner and watching their mother die?

Pillage?  At first the thrill of wealth exulted satisfaction within him.  Now, when that wealth is covered with the blood of its dying owners, pillage was repugnant.  Gunter reached inside his tunic, retrieving a torn parchment. 

An elderly monk had thrust this page into Gunter’s hands just days ago.  With his last gasping breath, the monk whispered, “Take this…”

But, why?  Why did he give this to me?

The Apostolic Barbarian will continue in tomorrow’s post.