What would you do if you saw three Viking Ships approaching your shore?
From the riverbank
mere paces beyond them, shouts erupted. The undergrowth creaked.
The soft prickle of
being watched by a predator raised the tiny hairs on her arms. Rovena spun
about and froze.
One of the
northerners pushed through the brush, double-bladed battle axe gripped effortlessly
in his large hands.
The women behind her
cried out in low whimpers.
The raider stared at
them. Glacial blue eyes swept across the women, then onto Rovena and stopped,
fastening onto her.
Unmoving, they took
each other in. He was young, mayhap he’d seen a few winters more than herself
was all. And tall. So very tall. She had heard the rumors of the great height
of the Norse, yet seeing one so close, she felt incredibly small. The top of
her head would barely reach his collarbone. He wore his hair long and loose, streams
of pale gold lifting slightly in the sluggish breeze. Rovena held the
steadiness of his gaze, forcing him to keep his attention upon her, instead of
the other women behind her. A low tremor shuddered down her spine.
The clamor of men
approaching claimed his focus. He looked back the way he came.
An icy clutch of fear
squeezed Rovena’s throat. The women could possibly flee from one man, most of
them would make it, but they could not run from so many. And two of the cooks
were aged. Walking was difficult enough, let alone to attempt to run.
Unexpectedly, the
raider before them placed a finger to his lips, signaling for them to be quiet.
