Saturday, 1 September 2012

The Dane and the Portal

Running, Running wildley now, the deep wound in his shoulder oozing bright red blood.

The attack had come unexpectedley, primative stone tipped arrows showering out of the dark forest.

His brothers all gone in a moment.

How could this be, they had travelled so far to reach this dark and frobidding place.

Now to be smited by an unseen enemy

But he had no doubt they were there, following him as he crashed through the trees on the slope of the mountain.

Another arrow thuded into the trunk of the tree next to his head.

Loosing his balance he crashed to the ground, his helmet tumbling back down the hill, his  huge battle axe and shield falling into the undergrowth.

He scrambeled up wildley before charging head long again into the darkness of the trees.

He knew he must climb higher, he must find the place.

He was close he could see the snowline now

Blood loss weakend him and clouded his mind.

He must find the place, he must get there!

Running, stumblinng, falling.

They were closer now, he could hear their whoops and cries close behind him.

A wooshing sound, a searing pain in the back of his head.


The Dane lay face down in the undergrowth, the final arrow taking him in the back of the head.

The red skinned natives in the trees watched, but did not come close.

The mist swirled just ahead of the fallen Dane.

For a moment a huge old stone gate could just be seen, almost as if it was beckoning him home.

But in the barren and forbidding land that would one day be called New Foundland, this fallen Prince of Denmark was doomed to never reach Valhalla.