by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer
Link to Part II: http://sturgisstormwatch.blogspot.com/2012/03/head-of-dragon-part-ii.html
Eric walked down the path to the smithy, where he worked with Asvald, the village blacksmith. It was a dark day, and the clouds hung low in the sky. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the huts. It was an unusually cold day, so Eric wore furs and leather to keep warm. Odin’s totem stood in the center of the village square. It was a carved pole of wood that depicted Odin wearing a deer skull mask and two ravens on his shoulders. In times of need, the village would gather around it and ask Odin for the wisdom to fix their problem.
The steady ringing of steel resonated from the blacksmith’s shop as always. The past few days seemed to have gone by very slowly. Eric couldn’t wait for his sixteenth birthday. It was then that he would receive his first weapon. Eric had practiced with many swords before, and he was a fine sword fighter. However, he wasn’t as skilled as he would have liked—not as good as his father. He loved nothing more than to listen to all the tales of heroes that slew frost giants in the north, or blessed by Thor, the god of thunder and war. One of his favorite stories was Beowulf and Grendel. When he was little, he always wanted to be Beowulf. He would spend hours pretending to be strong heroes that would vanquish monsters with their bare hands.
Eric knocked on the door of the blacksmith once, but there was no answer. He just stepped in.
Asvald was hammering an axe into shape when Eric came in. He looked up from his work and greeted him.
“Eric, how good of you to come. Are you ready to get started?” Asvald asked.
“Sure,” Eric replied.
“That’s my boy!” Asvald said. “Get those young muscles of yours pumping!” He went about his daily job of pumping the bellows and refueling the fire.
Eric finished his work late. The moon was shrouded by the clouds, and the lights were out inside the houses. He was about to head back home when he heard something behind him. He froze in his tracks and slowly turned around. There, crouching behind him was the dark shape of a wolf. It’s ragged silver fur glistened in the moonlight and its amber yellow eyes glared at him. Eric looked around for something to fend it off with. He had dealt with wolves before and he knew how dangerous they were. They used to kill the village’s sheep and chickens. However, this one seemed angry. Its eyes were hungry for him.
The door of the smithy was only a few paces away. If he moved, the wolf could pounce. He was about to wait it out when the wolf suddenly dashed towards him. He only just had time to doge the beast as it leaped at him. He stumbled and backed up to the smithy door. The wolf rolled over and charged him again. Eric grabbed the torch by the door and threw it at the wolf. He hit his target, but the wolf shrugged it off. It leaped straight at him. He rolled out of the way and picked up the nearest object: a hammer.
Eric brandished the hammer and waved it in the air, trying to scare the wolf away. Just then, another wolf appeared behind him. The first wolf leaped at him. Eric’s hammer struck the wolf and the the beast hit the wall of the smithy. The second one tackled him to the ground, and he kicked it off him. It charged him again, and he spun around and hit it in the shoulder. The wolf collapsed on the ground with a whimper. Eric ran for his house, the hammer still in his hand. He could hear the howls of more wolves coming for him. He knew he was in trouble.
Three wolves were behind him, sprinting after him at an incredible speed. Eric ran as fast as his powerful legs could carry him. He started yelling, trying to spread the alarm. The wolves were almost upon him, and he knew no one would help him now. A sudden surge of bravery hit him. He stopped in his tracks and swerved around. Just as a wolf leaped at him, he swiped it out of the air with the hammer. It flew sideways into the wall of a hut and rolled on the ground, whimpering. The other two wolves kept coming.
Eric ran to the nearest hut and ran up the wall. He grabbed the thatch roof and hoisted himself up just before the wolf’s jaws snapped shut by his heel. The wolves jumped and snapped at him while he regained his breath. He looked around him. He could see more wolves running into the village from the forest. All of a sudden, they stopped and backed up. They ran at the wall as if trying to scale it. Eric panicked for a second, but his battle instincts took over.
He ran and jumped off the roof of the hut, his hammer raised above his head. He yelled a war cry and smashed down on a running wolf. He stood up to face the other wolf, but it backed away in fear. Behind him, he could see half a dozen warriors from the village emerge from the huts with torches and swords. A dead wolf lay at his uncle Bjorn’s foot. The last wolf retreated, and was joined by three more. Eric stood, breathing heavily, and watched them dash back into the darkness of the forest.
Showing posts with label Head_of_the_Dragon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Head_of_the_Dragon. Show all posts
Monday, March 26, 2012
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Head of the Dragon: Part II
by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer
Link to Part I: http://sturgisstormwatch.blogspot.com/2012/03/head-of-dragon-part-i.html
The frozen grass crunched under the feet of a young boy. The early morning sun cast its waking gaze over the twinkling grass. The boy plodded up the hill, enjoying the warmth of the sun from the east. When he reached the top of the hill, he was standing on the edge of a sea cliff. To his right was the fjord that led to the docks of his village. To the left, the untamed coast stretched south for miles.
Eric always loved to come here. He was fifteen years old, and he stood tall and proud. He was rather muscular for his age. He had matted blond hair and piercing blue eyes, like the half-melted ice in the later spring months. His thick eyebrows rested on his low forehead. Some people said that he didn’t look at all like his father.
Eric tried not to think about his father, Hrothgar. He had been lost at sea when Eric was only eight years old. Other ships had returned from his father’s expedition, but every time Eric asked them what had happened, they said his ship had been caught on an iceberg. They seemed to shun the question whenever it was asked. When they did talk about Hrothgar, they did so in hushed voices. Ever since the day he had awaited Hrothgar’s return on the docks, Eric had come up to this point. Every morning, he watched the sea, as if his father’s ship would appear.
Deep inside, Eric didn’t believe that his father had hit an iceburg. Hrothgar was the finest warrior for miles around. He had wrestled a bear naked, driven out an enemy Viking village, and swam from the pier to the docks in the middle of winter. He was also an excellent sailor. Hrothgar was appointed the leader of a raid on some villages far up the north coast. He never returned. Eric sighed and walked back to his village. On the way there, he met his uncle Bjorn.
“Oh hello, Eric,” he said. “Up early again, eh?” Eric nodded. “I see. By the way, the blacksmith wants you there early today, so I suggest you get going,” Bjorn said.
“Okay, goodbye uncle,” Eric said. He headed down the slope.
Eric’s village was at the mouth of a fjord leading into the North Sea. On land, it was surrounded on three sides by a dense forest that the villagers called “Wolfwood”. To the south, the faint ghost of a road wound down a cliff and disappeared into the hills. No one ever left Eric’s village except to hunt or cut wood. They had set up a permanent, though small, residence.
Eric worked as the blacksmith’s assistant. He enjoyed the job. It was hard work, but it was worth it. He pumped the furnace and watched the flames melt and twist the hot iron into weapons and other items. Then the blacksmith would bend and hammer, bend and hammer until the iron changed shape into tools ranging from horseshoes to swords.
As always, smoke billowed in a thick black cloud from the small building ahead of him. Eric walked in the door and began his work. The forge rang with the sound of strong hammers on steel, like the song of the Valkyries when the Aurora Borealis lit up the sky.
Link to Part I: http://sturgisstormwatch.blogspot.com/2012/03/head-of-dragon-part-i.html
The frozen grass crunched under the feet of a young boy. The early morning sun cast its waking gaze over the twinkling grass. The boy plodded up the hill, enjoying the warmth of the sun from the east. When he reached the top of the hill, he was standing on the edge of a sea cliff. To his right was the fjord that led to the docks of his village. To the left, the untamed coast stretched south for miles.
Eric always loved to come here. He was fifteen years old, and he stood tall and proud. He was rather muscular for his age. He had matted blond hair and piercing blue eyes, like the half-melted ice in the later spring months. His thick eyebrows rested on his low forehead. Some people said that he didn’t look at all like his father.
Eric tried not to think about his father, Hrothgar. He had been lost at sea when Eric was only eight years old. Other ships had returned from his father’s expedition, but every time Eric asked them what had happened, they said his ship had been caught on an iceberg. They seemed to shun the question whenever it was asked. When they did talk about Hrothgar, they did so in hushed voices. Ever since the day he had awaited Hrothgar’s return on the docks, Eric had come up to this point. Every morning, he watched the sea, as if his father’s ship would appear.
Deep inside, Eric didn’t believe that his father had hit an iceburg. Hrothgar was the finest warrior for miles around. He had wrestled a bear naked, driven out an enemy Viking village, and swam from the pier to the docks in the middle of winter. He was also an excellent sailor. Hrothgar was appointed the leader of a raid on some villages far up the north coast. He never returned. Eric sighed and walked back to his village. On the way there, he met his uncle Bjorn.
“Oh hello, Eric,” he said. “Up early again, eh?” Eric nodded. “I see. By the way, the blacksmith wants you there early today, so I suggest you get going,” Bjorn said.
“Okay, goodbye uncle,” Eric said. He headed down the slope.
Eric’s village was at the mouth of a fjord leading into the North Sea. On land, it was surrounded on three sides by a dense forest that the villagers called “Wolfwood”. To the south, the faint ghost of a road wound down a cliff and disappeared into the hills. No one ever left Eric’s village except to hunt or cut wood. They had set up a permanent, though small, residence.
Eric worked as the blacksmith’s assistant. He enjoyed the job. It was hard work, but it was worth it. He pumped the furnace and watched the flames melt and twist the hot iron into weapons and other items. Then the blacksmith would bend and hammer, bend and hammer until the iron changed shape into tools ranging from horseshoes to swords.
As always, smoke billowed in a thick black cloud from the small building ahead of him. Eric walked in the door and began his work. The forge rang with the sound of strong hammers on steel, like the song of the Valkyries when the Aurora Borealis lit up the sky.
Head of the Dragon: Part I
by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer
The little boy stood on the docks, waiting. Waiting for the head of the dragon. The waves splashed against the frozen shores and rocked the moored karfi and other boats. Mist spread out across the fjord, reaching halfway up the steep, rocky cliffs. Smoke from thatched roof houses rose into the air above one of the cliffs. This was where young Eric’s village lay.
His mother stood next to him, holding his shoulder. They waited and waited like all the others on that shore. The longboats and karfi should have been coming by now. The sun hung low in the gray sky. Eric looked up to his mother. She just stared blankly out into the open ocean, waiting as he was. Eric’s uncle, Bjorn, walked over and stood next to them. He towered up about six feet and three inches tall, and he was built like a bear. He stood there, hand in his thick, blond beard, waiting.
Just then, a shape could be made out approaching the fjord. It was a ship. The sails were being rolled up. People—tall, strong people were running about on the deck. On the prow of the boat stood the figure of a mermaid. The ship beached ashore, and the people cheered as the men jumped out of the ship. Each held treasure of some kind. It ranged from rice, salt, and meat to gold, jewels, and weapons. Each man had an axe at his belt and a heavy wooden shield on his back. They held horned helmets in their arms. They walked victoriously onto the shore. One walked right past Eric as if he wasn’t there. Eric’s uncle ran up to the man.
“Sven! Sven! Do you know the tidings of my brother?” The man shook his head.
“Thought ‘e was ‘ere,” he replied, and walked off. Ship after ship came into the harbor, but none of them belonged to Eric’s father, Hrothgar. The sun soon set over the ocean, and Bjorn and Eric’s mother turned away and headed back to the village. Eric stared out at the open ocean, and a small tear ran down his cheek. He stood there for a while, before trudging through the snow back to the village. Eric was only eight years old.
To be continued...
The little boy stood on the docks, waiting. Waiting for the head of the dragon. The waves splashed against the frozen shores and rocked the moored karfi and other boats. Mist spread out across the fjord, reaching halfway up the steep, rocky cliffs. Smoke from thatched roof houses rose into the air above one of the cliffs. This was where young Eric’s village lay.
His mother stood next to him, holding his shoulder. They waited and waited like all the others on that shore. The longboats and karfi should have been coming by now. The sun hung low in the gray sky. Eric looked up to his mother. She just stared blankly out into the open ocean, waiting as he was. Eric’s uncle, Bjorn, walked over and stood next to them. He towered up about six feet and three inches tall, and he was built like a bear. He stood there, hand in his thick, blond beard, waiting.
Just then, a shape could be made out approaching the fjord. It was a ship. The sails were being rolled up. People—tall, strong people were running about on the deck. On the prow of the boat stood the figure of a mermaid. The ship beached ashore, and the people cheered as the men jumped out of the ship. Each held treasure of some kind. It ranged from rice, salt, and meat to gold, jewels, and weapons. Each man had an axe at his belt and a heavy wooden shield on his back. They held horned helmets in their arms. They walked victoriously onto the shore. One walked right past Eric as if he wasn’t there. Eric’s uncle ran up to the man.
“Sven! Sven! Do you know the tidings of my brother?” The man shook his head.
“Thought ‘e was ‘ere,” he replied, and walked off. Ship after ship came into the harbor, but none of them belonged to Eric’s father, Hrothgar. The sun soon set over the ocean, and Bjorn and Eric’s mother turned away and headed back to the village. Eric stared out at the open ocean, and a small tear ran down his cheek. He stood there for a while, before trudging through the snow back to the village. Eric was only eight years old.
To be continued...
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