Rurik’s Revenge

A Story of Love, Loss, and Legacy

I’m taking a second stab at writing my novella, Rurik’s Revenge. The goal is to complete 10 chapters of at least 1,000 words. I plan to post a new chapter every week or two. Any feedback is appreciated.

Rurik’s Revenge

997 A.D.

My name is Rurik. I am a warrior. The days of my youth are a vivid, distant dream. Yet, the man who killed my father is seared into my brain. Every detail, every line of his face, his scraggly beard, his evil black eyes — void of a soul. One day, I will have my revenge.

The village where I was born was secluded in a dense forest along a rugged coastline, close to a river that flows into the ocean. It no longer exists. One day, I will have my revenge. My early days were simple. Life was guarded by the traditions of my ancestors. Each morning the sun cast a golden light across our fields and each morning I woke to the sound of my father’s voice. “Rurik, rise son. Your character is forged at dawn.”

In peace we tended our crops and livestock. We coaxed life from fertile soil. The lowing of cattle and neighing of horses were a comforting backdrop to our everyday existence. My father taught me the value of hard work. His words echo, “The land gives to those who respect and nurture it.” And though he’d traded his sword for a plow, he was a warrior at heart. He taught me as his father had taught him.

In the afternoons, after the day’s work was done, I would train. My father taught me the ways of combat. He insisted on it. We would spar in an open field until dusk. Our swords clashing, a dance of defense and a fluid motion of attack. He was relentless. But what he taught me, as I learned later, wasn’t enough for the task that lay ahead of me.

Our village was a close-knit community. Families here were intertwined like interlacing branches in a vast forest of trees. Each evening we would gather around a fire and share the stories and songs that had been passed down for generations. I would raise my eyes towards the starlit sky and the crackling of the fire and the sound of our voices gave me a deep sense of belonging.

I heard tales of seas that stretched beyond the horizon, of distant lands, of people who lived vastly different from us. And warnings of danger from people close to our village. There were stories of epic battles and warriors who died gloriously in battle.

My friends and I explored the nearby forest, pretending to be great warriors on epic quests, sailing along the gentle river on homemade rafts, imagining what the mighty ocean might be like. The girls would play Valkyrie, each of us boys vying for our reward — worthy enough to enter the gates of Valhalla. I yearned for adventure, to see the wonders of the world for myself. Those were dreams for another day. Laughter was our companion, simplicity our happiness.

My most cherished memory was helping my father build a boat. We worked together, side by side, shaping each plank and sealing the seams. My father told me, “A boat is like your soul, son. It must be strong to weather storms, yet light to ride the waves.” This life, with its endless cycles of sowing and reaping, taught me the values of patience and persistence.

In the evenings, as I lay to sleep, the gentle whisper of the wind outside gave me a sense of peace. My world was small. Limited by forests, the river, and the sea. But it was my world. Little did I know, as I drifted off to sleep, that this world of mine was about to be shattered. It was about to be broken by a slew of arrows, the harsh clanging of swords, and unforeseen heartbreak.

As I slept, long ships slid silently down the river, carried only by the currents. Their silence was occasionally broken as birds fled from trees along the river’s edge. I awoke to sounds of screams and the whistling of arrows and the sight of fire.

All hell had broken loose. Longhouses all around the village were engulfed in flames. I ran outside and saw my father, bravely fighting with his sword, berserkers all around him. He turned to me and yelled, “Run Rurik! Get to the river!”

I made a beeline for the edge of the forest. The sky was bright orange from the thousands of flaming arrows still raining down on my village. I turned around to look for my father. My vision was obscured by smoke and embers, screams of terror could still be heard. “Father!” I shouted.

“Go! Get to the river!” he said.

I could barely make out my father’s shape, but I saw a flaming arrow had found its mark just above the center of his chest. His long beard smoldered for a second and then burst into flames. “Run!” he shouted one last time before falling to the ground. I had seen where the arrow had come from. The Berserker’s face, lit by the glow of surrounding flames, is the one burned into my memory forever.

An arrow struck the tree I’d leaned on to catch my breath. I dove to the ground as another arrow flew by. My heart was racing, my lungs ached for breath as I rolled into the woods. I sprang to my feet and began running towards the river as fast as I could.

I could hear the shouts of the Berserkers behind me. Volleys of arrows swished through the trees all around me. Sweat and tears stung my eyes, but I ran faster. The exposed root of a tree caught my foot and sent me sprawling over a ravine. I tumbled backwards. I could still hear shouting. Blood began to trickle from cuts and scratches all over my body. I was dazed, but managed to drag myself back on my feet. I began to shiver, finally becoming aware of the cold. Exhausted, I began moving slowly along the river’s edge. I winced in pain with every step I took, until finally, I collapsed unconscious.

My future was now entirely in the hands of fate.