The grey sky poured a fine rain over the muddy field, where the clash of swords and the screams of warriors echoed. The battle between Vikings and Englishmen raged in a narrow valley, surrounded by mist-shrouded hills. Bodies piled up on the blood-soaked ground, turning every step into a struggle.
In the heart of the chaos, Eivor, a 17-year-old Viking with short blond hair, moved like a true beast, his twin hatchets slicing through the air with deadly precision. Blood covered his entire body, leaving only his cold blue eyes in stark contrast to the red that painted him.
The clang of metal and cries of pain were his music, and he danced to the rhythm of chaos.
An English soldier, shield in one hand and sword in the other, charged with a shout. Eivor saw him and hurled one of his hatchets at the shield, the impact throwing the man off balance. The young Viking seized the opening, spinning and driving his second hatchet into the enemy's knee. The soldier collapsed, howling in pain, and Eivor finished him with a swift blow to the neck, blood spraying like a fountain, mingling with the rain.
As he tried to retrieve the hatchet lodged in the shield, another Englishman interrupted, swinging his sword. Eivor ducked, feeling the blade slice the air just above his head, and countered with an upward strike, cutting through the attacker's forearm. The man screamed, and Eivor swung the hatchet, landing it on his collarbone with a wet crack.
While the enemy fell, another tried to lunge with a spear. Eivor dodged with a sidestep, grabbed the spear's shaft and pulled the soldier toward him, using the momentum to bury his hatchet in the man's chest. Without pause, he rolled across the ground, retrieved his other hatchet from the shield, and turned to face yet another foe.
This one was a burly Englishman wielding a broad sword. The man advanced quickly and delivered a powerful strike, the blade crashing down with force. Eivor rolled aside, and the sword sank into the mud with a thud, flinging dirt in all directions. Eivor tried to counter, aiming for the man's leg, but the opponent was quick for his size.
He parried with the sword, swinging it upward and forcing Eivor to retreat with an awkward leap. The giant didn't stop, launching a wide slash that Eivor barely dodged, the tip of the blade grazing his tunic and cutting the skin on his abdomen.
Eivor tried not to stay on the defensive, but the giant gave him no respite, pressing on with a series of heavy strikes, each more brutal than the last. Eivor deflected the blows with his hatchets or dodged them, his agility keeping him alive, though every movement drained more of his strength.
Then, a body on the ground made him stumble. The Englishman took advantage, kicking him in the chest and sending him flying. Eivor crashed into the mud, the air forced from his lungs, his hatchets slipping from his hands and vanishing into the chaos. 'Damn it—'
The giant quickly raised his sword for the final blow, eyes gleaming with the certainty of victory. But suddenly, a flaming arrow pierced his skull, killing him instantly.
The Englishman's body staggered, then collapsed on top of Eivor. 'That was close,' he thought, pinned to the mud by the man's weight. 'Let's get out of here—'
"ARROWS!"
Eivor stopped trying to roll the man off him and looked up at the sky, vision blurred by rain and blood. A storm of flaming arrows tore through the mist, fiery streaks descending like burning stars.
'Shit!' Without hesitation, Eivor pulled the Englishman's body back over him, using it as a shield. He curled beneath the corpse, feeling the thud of arrows piercing the dead man's flesh. The stench of blood and burning meat filled his nostrils as the fiery rain turned the battlefield into a vision of hell.
After a few seconds, the arrows stopped. 'Now!' Eivor rolled the body aside, grabbed a random sword from the ground, and stood.
BBBOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!!
A deafening blast ripped through the air, sharper and more unnatural than any thunderclap, as if the sky itself had shattered. The battlefield froze. Vikings and Englishmen, drenched in blood and mud, halted mid-strike, all eyes turning upward.
Eivor raised his face too, eyes widening in shock.
Slowly, a massive purple crack opened in the sky. From it, glowing fissures stretched outward like webs, emitting a pulsing light and a deep sound that hummed in everyone's bones.
"What is that?" Eivor wondered, fear mingling with awe. "Have the gods opened the gates of Asgard?" He tightened his grip on the sword, its hilt slick with mud as he struggled to make sense of what he saw.
Suddenly, a supernatural pull surged from the sky, strong enough to wrench weapons from warriors' hands and lift bodies off the ground. Eivor reacted quickly, driving his sword into the mud to anchor himself, but the force wasn't just physical — it felt like something was pulling at his very soul.
He looked around and saw Vikings and Englishmen screaming, feet lifting off the earth as they were dragged upward toward the purple rift. Bodies, both living and dead, rose like leaves in a storm, swallowed by the pulsing light.
"No!" Eivor roared, digging his heels into the ground. But the pull was irresistible. His boots slipped, the sword tore free from the earth, and he felt his body lift.
The world spun — sky and land blurring together — as he spiraled helplessly upward, until he was completely consumed by the rift.
***
Eivor opened his eyes with a jolt, his heart pounding in his chest. The metallic scent of blood and damp earth was overwhelmed by an acrid stench — a mix of rot and something that burned his nostrils. He was lying face down, his cheek pressed against a cold, rough surface.
Eivor stood up, staggering, his body still aching. His torn tunic was stiff with dried blood, and he realized his hand was still clutching his sword. 'At least that. Now, where am I?'
It was a narrow alleyway, flanked by concrete walls stained with grime and scribbled words in colors he didn't recognize. Metal cans and torn bags lay scattered around, exuding a foul smell. 'This isn't Asgard, nor Midgard...'
His blue eyes looked up, seeing that the stone walls rose as high as any structure he had ever seen before. 'By Odin's beard... where have I ended up?'
"Grrrhh…"
The groan made Eivor lower his gaze, catching a movement at the end of the alley. Something was dragging itself through the shadows — a clumsy figure moving with an awkward gait. Eivor tightened his grip on the sword, the warrior's instinct taking over, even as his mind struggled to make sense of his surroundings.
The figure stepped into the dim light, and Eivor's stomach churned.
It was a man — or something that once had been a man. His skin was gray, torn into strips that hung like rags. The eyes, sunken and milky, stared blankly, and his mouth, stained with dried blood, let out a low, guttural moan. He staggered forward, arms dangling loosely, but moved with blind determination. Each step made a wet sound, as if his bones were rattling inside decaying flesh.
"By Odin..." Eivor muttered, stepping back. He had seen death, had slit throats and crushed skulls, but this was different. This thing wasn't alive — but it wasn't dead either. It was an abomination. 'Is this... a draugr?' The blood on the monster's mouth glistened — fresh — as if it had just fed.
The creature seemed to notice him. Its pale eyes locked onto Eivor, and a guttural snarl rumbled from its throat. Suddenly, it lunged.
"Shit!" Eivor planted his feet and swung the sword. The blade sliced through the air with a hiss, cleanly decapitating the monster. The head rolled across the ground, hitting a can with a metallic clang as the body collapsed, spilling dark, foul blood.
Eivor took a deep breath, his heart still racing. "I need to get out of here!"
***
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, images or songs featured in this fic. Additionally, I do not claim ownership of any products or properties mentioned in this novel. This work is entirely fanfic.