The raven flew above
the battlefield amidst a bickering horde of his blue-winged brethren, waiting
for victory to signal their turn below. Soon they would feast on the vanquished.
One of the others, too
impatient to wait for the men to quit the field of war, landed at the edge of
the struggle and hopped forward. A warrior sprawled on the ground stained red
with his spilt blood. But when the gluttonous bird would have feasted, a drengr
stumbled back and nearly trod upon the foolish creature.
The man brought his
shield up to block an ax strike aimed at his undefended neck. He moved slowly
and the blade bit into the wooden round, catching on the rim. While the
ax-welder ripped the shield from his hands, he seized the opportunity to sink
his sword into his opponent's gut.
The hot scent of blood followed
by the sour stench of bowels filled the air. Not the last to feed war's
followers this day.
Drawn off balance by
his shield, another's spear point breached the hollow of his shoulder. He fell
forward and clipped his head against the haft before it shattered under his
weight.
The battle raged on
without the warrior. The man would be his.
Valraven from valravn/valrafn. Val means the dead fallen in battle. Valravn is a raven who feasts on the war-fallen. In some versions of the mythos, if a valravn eats the heart of a king, he becomes a knight. For the vikings, this was not as distasteful as it sounds to modern readers. Ravens were revered because this is a culture built on war and glorious death.
The above is a snippet from the prologue of my newest story Valraven, a viking age paranormal story of war and betrayal.
For more snippets check out the Facebook group Rainbow Snippets.
