Grey Waters Chapter 1

The longships cut through the dark grey waters with only the quiet splash of the oars to accompany them. Valrknut Eight-Eyes stood at the prow of the lead ship and looked out towards the coastal fort barely silhouetted in the grey mist by the slowly breaking dawn. Valrknut was an imposing figure in his furs and armor, his fiery red beard’s braids blown back by the wind. He was perhaps 26 fjórðungr of solid muscle, and a bit over six feet tall. He looked back at his warriors, grimly rowing towards their goal. The plunder would be great this day, whether or not the soft nobleman gave into his Jarl’s demands.
The hirdsmanner had stopped bawling their bawdy rowing song, and now simply seemed to be preparing themselves for what was to come in their own ways: Úlfarr with his charms and mumbled litanies to the gods to grant him rage, Tryggr worried at his oar with his thumb until the nail was ragged and bloody, the rest of the crew went through their rituals in silence. Valrknut checked the magazine in his rifle for the third time. This was the first time the Jarl had entrusted him with one of their precious artifacts. Etched with three hundred years of victory markings and runes, the weapon was a sight to behold. Its last wielder, Ulli Urlsen Goldtooth had strung a belt of kraken’s teeth in place of the bracing strap after a successful raid and it made the black rifle look even more sinister.
Valrknut’s ship’s prow glided onto the rocky beach , its flat bottom allowing it to slip almost entirely out of the water. The men quietly jumped out and hauled the ship further up the beach. The beach rustled with activity as the other twelve ships ran aground.
“Úlfarr, you come with Bjorn and I, let’s see how hard this overfed cow wants to make things” Úlfarr fell into step with Valrknut and Bjorn, the scarred rune priest and the closest thing Valrknut had to a diplomat on this raid. Úlfarr raised the banner of Freya and the trio began their climb up to the fortress.

Chapter 2
Eduard Lac-Lorn Duke of the East March was not what most peasants would think of when they thought of a noble. Eduard was lean with ruddy skin and had an intense gaze in his dark eyes that only softened when he spoke about his lady, Marie. He was a far cry from the arrogant, vapid nobility of the West lands. He also genuinely cared what his ‘fellow countrymen’ as he called them thought of his rule. All of this was because Eduard was not of noble blood, nor of any privileged background. A dragoon in the King’s Army, Eduard was the last survivor of the LeChamp massacre and was granted peerage and a title by the King himself.
Now though, Eduard had to deal with the two hundred odd raiders not far from his fortress. He already knew what was to happen. The raiders would ask him to surrender, and he, being a simple minded nob would negotiate his lands and treasure vaults for his own life and the moment the gates were unlocked he and his people would be taken as slaves or killed.
Eduard stood in his old dragoon dress armor, now polished to a mirror finish, but still with all the dents and burns intact. He crossed his pistol brace across his hips and then his sword. He strode out of his dressing room and into the main hall where his advisor Augustus waited nervously.
“The marauders are in the antechamber, lord.” Augustus was in his late sixties and was the most composed man Eduard had ever met, he was quite sure he would use the same tone of voice if the Vikings had decided to storm the gates right that moment.
“Bid them come in, we may as well get this over with as soon as possible, instruct the Captains to ready the militia, I don’t see this ending without bloodshed.”
“Yes, lord,” Augustus shuffled out of the main hall and into the antechamber. Eduard sat on his ‘throne’, really a converted dinner chair, and tried to look as bored as possible. The three marauders strode in, clad in fur and splotched green cloth. All three were hulking in comparison to Eduard’s lithe frame, but they were not the eight foot giants he was half expecting. The apparent leader was a good hand taller than he and had a mass of braids for a beard. There was an older man with shaggy grey hair and a glazed, odd look in his eyes. The third man was so young Eduard thought him still a boy, with shoulder length pale blonde hair and the beginnings of a beard.
“We want to speak to your Duke!” The oldest bellowed.
“I am Eduard, Duc du Ostmerr, perhaps I am not the fat bellied blue blood you were expecting, neh?”