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Blood for the Gods - ebook
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Blood for the Gods - ebook
An elite unit of Slavic berserkers called the Wolves of Chernobog is devastating Danish lands. Slavic pirates are preparing to attack a Danish city. The defense is commanded by Jarl Sven, a recent Christian convert... The old gods rise to take part in a bloody battle. Let yourself be carried away by an amazing story in which pagans face Christians in a fight to the death...
| Kategoria: | Horror |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 9788397165946 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 343 KB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
MACIEJ SZYMCZAK
BLOOD FOR THE GODS
Denmark, 983
Pribignev turned his face toward the sea. A storm gathered and foamed waves kept hitting the shore. A silver sphere accumulated high in the sky, spreading an ominous aura all around. The Lord of the Night, Khors, has reached his fullness today, heralding a time of wraiths, ghouls and nightmares. The grey-eyed warrior clenched his hand on the amulet suspended around his neck and uttered an incantation protecting him from the forces of evil. The solar shield, carved in a gold-plated disc, guarded him against the creatures of darkness, including those inhabiting the foreign land of Denmark. He was in the search of a sorcerer, who left with his group immediately after having moored in the sandy bay. He needed to be sure that he would keep the alliance terms and prevent the bloodthirsty endeavours of his cursed bunch. With a little knowledge about their habits, he guessed that they were in search of a suitable place to worship their demons. They disappeared without a word, taking their slaves with them.
Shapeshifters, Dogheads, Werewolves - this secret warriors’ society bears many names. The mere mention of them stirred panic both among common people and the nobles. These ruthless brutes, known as the Wolves of Chernobog, the Black God, were outlawed by tribal law. Subject to no one, they formed an armed group modelled upon a wolf pack. Sometimes they enrolled in war expeditions, taking eminent prisoners as their loot. They were interested neither in gold, silver, furs, nor other earthly goods. Nothing but the unfortunates who ended up on the altars of their cruel gods. Pribignev belonged to the ducal dynasty of the Wagri and abhorred the barbaric customs of the shape-shifting warriors. However, he had no choice but to tolerate them, allowing them great freedom, even at the cost of spoiling the morale of his troops. The alliance with the Berserkers effectively protected them from the possessive ambitions of the Saxons, their eternal enemies. They would have conquered them long ago, forcing them to accept the faith in the god of the Germans, Jesus Christ. Thanks to the alliance with shapeshifters, not only do they keep on defeating the Saxons regularly in major battles, but also ventured overseas, plundering and pillaging the kingdoms of the north. Pribignev was an experienced leader and knew that this difficult alliance could bring him great benefits.
– the fumes of death. He participated in far too many a slaughter, many a massacre, waded in a river of corpses, covered in the warm blood flowing off the bodies of his enemies. Cautiously, he approached the campsite to observe the feast from a safe distance. A heavy lead cauldron was hung over the hearth, attached by a brass chain to a branch of a mighty oak tree. The indistinct silhouettes of men sitting around the fire formed a close circle. Near the cauldron, a slave, pale with fear, was bustling around with a wooden spoon. He had a black eye, his skin was pale as frost, and his cheekbones were almost piercing through his face covered with wounds. Frothy blood flowed from the boiling pot, staining the edges of the vessel. Dismembered limbs floated on the surface of the bubbling slush. The sticky slurry of melted human flesh gave off an unbearable stench. The exhausted apprentice stirred the contents of the cauldron, filling the split skull with its contents. The skull of a murdered hostage served as a vessel from which the assembled consumed their ritual meal. The sweating slave served it one by one to the men dressed only in animal skins. With their dirty hands, the cannibals picked the corpse broth, swallowing the shredded intestines, cut off ears and gouged out eyes.
– 'Come out of hiding, Svarozhits’ son,' ordered the devilish sorcerer with a strange-sounding accent. He had a low, throaty voice reminiscent of an animal’s snarl.
– “Don't be afraid, sunny boy,” sneered the shaman. “I gave you my word that tomorrow morning we will appear on the battlefield and turn Hodborg into dust. I swore on my lord that we would keep the agreement! You don't need to spy on us. Now, go back to your men and help them put up the tents, tomorrow there's a battle for you!”
– “Flee, my lord, for when my dogs put on their cloaks, they will become equal to the gods. I won't be able to prevent them, they'll tear you to shreds!” - the tattooed giant warned him, laughing out loud.
– “My Lord”.
BLOOD FOR THE GODS
Denmark, 983
Pribignev turned his face toward the sea. A storm gathered and foamed waves kept hitting the shore. A silver sphere accumulated high in the sky, spreading an ominous aura all around. The Lord of the Night, Khors, has reached his fullness today, heralding a time of wraiths, ghouls and nightmares. The grey-eyed warrior clenched his hand on the amulet suspended around his neck and uttered an incantation protecting him from the forces of evil. The solar shield, carved in a gold-plated disc, guarded him against the creatures of darkness, including those inhabiting the foreign land of Denmark. He was in the search of a sorcerer, who left with his group immediately after having moored in the sandy bay. He needed to be sure that he would keep the alliance terms and prevent the bloodthirsty endeavours of his cursed bunch. With a little knowledge about their habits, he guessed that they were in search of a suitable place to worship their demons. They disappeared without a word, taking their slaves with them.
Shapeshifters, Dogheads, Werewolves - this secret warriors’ society bears many names. The mere mention of them stirred panic both among common people and the nobles. These ruthless brutes, known as the Wolves of Chernobog, the Black God, were outlawed by tribal law. Subject to no one, they formed an armed group modelled upon a wolf pack. Sometimes they enrolled in war expeditions, taking eminent prisoners as their loot. They were interested neither in gold, silver, furs, nor other earthly goods. Nothing but the unfortunates who ended up on the altars of their cruel gods. Pribignev belonged to the ducal dynasty of the Wagri and abhorred the barbaric customs of the shape-shifting warriors. However, he had no choice but to tolerate them, allowing them great freedom, even at the cost of spoiling the morale of his troops. The alliance with the Berserkers effectively protected them from the possessive ambitions of the Saxons, their eternal enemies. They would have conquered them long ago, forcing them to accept the faith in the god of the Germans, Jesus Christ. Thanks to the alliance with shapeshifters, not only do they keep on defeating the Saxons regularly in major battles, but also ventured overseas, plundering and pillaging the kingdoms of the north. Pribignev was an experienced leader and knew that this difficult alliance could bring him great benefits.
– the fumes of death. He participated in far too many a slaughter, many a massacre, waded in a river of corpses, covered in the warm blood flowing off the bodies of his enemies. Cautiously, he approached the campsite to observe the feast from a safe distance. A heavy lead cauldron was hung over the hearth, attached by a brass chain to a branch of a mighty oak tree. The indistinct silhouettes of men sitting around the fire formed a close circle. Near the cauldron, a slave, pale with fear, was bustling around with a wooden spoon. He had a black eye, his skin was pale as frost, and his cheekbones were almost piercing through his face covered with wounds. Frothy blood flowed from the boiling pot, staining the edges of the vessel. Dismembered limbs floated on the surface of the bubbling slush. The sticky slurry of melted human flesh gave off an unbearable stench. The exhausted apprentice stirred the contents of the cauldron, filling the split skull with its contents. The skull of a murdered hostage served as a vessel from which the assembled consumed their ritual meal. The sweating slave served it one by one to the men dressed only in animal skins. With their dirty hands, the cannibals picked the corpse broth, swallowing the shredded intestines, cut off ears and gouged out eyes.
– 'Come out of hiding, Svarozhits’ son,' ordered the devilish sorcerer with a strange-sounding accent. He had a low, throaty voice reminiscent of an animal’s snarl.
– “Don't be afraid, sunny boy,” sneered the shaman. “I gave you my word that tomorrow morning we will appear on the battlefield and turn Hodborg into dust. I swore on my lord that we would keep the agreement! You don't need to spy on us. Now, go back to your men and help them put up the tents, tomorrow there's a battle for you!”
– “Flee, my lord, for when my dogs put on their cloaks, they will become equal to the gods. I won't be able to prevent them, they'll tear you to shreds!” - the tattooed giant warned him, laughing out loud.
– “My Lord”.
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