Chapter 8: The Lindisfarne Raid - Part 1
The North Sea stretched endlessly gray beneath an overcast sky that promised either rain or snow—or both. Five days out from Kattegat, and the horizon still showed nothing but water meeting clouds in an unbroken line that made the world feel infinite and empty.
I gripped the ship's rail and tried not to think about how far we were from any land, any help, any possibility of rescue if things went wrong.
"What kind of man am I becoming?" The question had haunted me since we'd left shore, watching the familiar coastline disappear behind us. "A month ago I was a structural engineer worried about building codes and project deadlines. Now I'm sailing toward my first Viking raid, carrying weapons and planning violence against people who've done nothing wrong except exist in the wrong place at the wrong time."
The improved longship cut through waves with the efficiency I'd designed into it, but efficiency in service of what? Every innovation I'd contributed—the superior keel, the optimized rigging, the perfectly crafted rivets—had brought us to this moment where I was complicit in whatever violence lay ahead.
"You look like a man contemplating his death," Ragnar said, appearing beside me at the rail with that unsettling ability he had to read thoughts from expressions.
"Just wondering what we'll find when we reach land," I replied, which was true as far as it went.
"Riches beyond imagining," Ragnar said with the confidence of a man who'd never encountered anything he couldn't take by force. "Monasteries fat with gold and silver, protected by men who've never lifted sword in anger. The western lands are soft, Thanos. Ripe fruit waiting to be plucked."
The casual way he spoke about attacking defenseless people made my stomach clench. "And if the fruit fights back?"
Ragnar's laugh was sharp as winter wind. "Then we'll remind them why wolves hunt sheep, not the reverse."
A sudden gust caught our sail, and the mast groaned under increased stress. I felt it through my enhanced senses—every joint and fitting in the rigging system responding to forces that would have destroyed a conventional ship. But our collaborative design held, distributing the load exactly as Floki's experience and my calculations had predicted.
"Excellent work," Rollo called from his position near the stern. "The foreigner's improvements seem to be holding. Perhaps eastern nonsense isn't entirely useless after all."
It was the closest thing to a compliment I'd ever heard from Ragnar's brother, and it came at a moment when the crew most needed reassurance. The crossing had tested everyone—cramped conditions, spoiled food, waves that regularly sent icy spray across anyone who wasn't quick enough to take cover.
But we'd weathered two serious storms already, and the ship had proved itself seaworthy beyond anything the Vikings had previously experienced. My engineering modifications had given them capabilities that bordered on the supernatural by their standards.
Which reminded me uncomfortably of my actual supernatural capabilities.
I'd been careful to use my powers sparingly during the voyage, limiting myself to subtle repairs and adjustments that could pass for skilled craftsmanship. But twice now I'd been forced to prevent serious damage through metallic manipulation—once when a critical fitting threatened to fail during heavy seas, and once when ice formation nearly cracked a crucial support beam.
Each use left me exhausted and nauseous, but more troubling was the way Athelstan watched me whenever I worked. The monk had kept his promise about my secret, but his knowing looks made it clear that he was cataloguing every impossible repair, every too-perfect solution.
"Land," Floki called from his position in the bow, his voice cutting through wind and wave-sound with sharp excitement. "The western lands rise from the sea!"
I joined the press of bodies rushing toward the front of the ship, straining to catch my first glimpse of what history would remember as the target of the first great Viking raid. What I saw made my blood turn to ice water.
Lindisfarne.
The monastery rose from morning mist like something from an illuminated manuscript—stone towers and wooden halls arranged on a tidal island that spoke of peace and contemplation rather than defense. Even from this distance, I could see figures moving between the buildings, monks going about their morning routines with no awareness that death was approaching across the waves.
"These aren't abstracts from a history book," I realized with sick certainty. "These are real people. Living, breathing human beings who are going to die today because I helped build the ship that brought their killers to them."
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Ragnar's voice held satisfaction and anticipation in equal measure. "Rich, isolated, defenseless. Everything we hoped for and more."
"The monks," I managed, fighting down nausea that had nothing to do with sea-sickness. "They'll be armed?"
"Monks?" Ragnar laughed. "Men who spend their lives on their knees, praying to a god who teaches them to turn the other cheek? They might have a few guards, but nothing that can stand against proper warriors."
I watched the peaceful island growing larger as we approached, and felt something die inside me. This wasn't warfare between equals—this was slaughter. And I'd helped make it possible.
"You look troubled," Ragnar observed, his tone shifting to something more serious. "Have you never raided before?"
"Eastern builders don't typically..." I struggled for words that wouldn't reveal too much. "Where I come from, we don't often participate in military actions."
"Ah." Ragnar's expression softened slightly. "Then stay near the ship when we land. Tend the wounded, guard the boats, make sure our escape route remains secure. Do not shame yourself by attempting what your heart cannot bear."
The understanding in his voice hit me like a physical blow. Somehow, this man who was planning to attack defenseless monks had recognized my moral conflict and offered me a way to avoid direct participation while maintaining honor. It was kindness from someone I was trying very hard to see as a monster.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"Thank me by keeping our ships safe," Ragnar replied. "A successful raid means nothing if we can't sail home with the spoils."
As we approached the landing beach, the monastery's morning bells began to ring—not alarm bells, but the gentle call to prayer that marked the canonical hours. The sound carried across the water like a funeral dirge, and I found myself wondering how many of the men answering that call would live to hear the next one.
The landing was terrifyingly efficient. Within minutes, thirty Viking warriors had disembarked and formed into a disciplined assault force that moved with the precision of men who'd done this before. I watched them disappear over the dunes toward the monastery, and then there was nothing to do but wait and listen.
The sounds that carried back across the island made my imagination paint pictures I tried desperately to erase. Screaming—human voices raised in terror and agony. The clash of weapons against whatever desperate resistance the monks could mount. The crackling of flames as buildings began to burn.
And through it all, I sat beside our beached ship and tried to reconcile what I was hearing with the men I'd shared food and stories with during the crossing. Warriors who'd shown me pictures of their children, who'd taught me drinking songs and laughed at my terrible attempts at Viking humor. How could the same people who'd been kind companions become instruments of such casual brutality?
"The nature of man," Athelstan said quietly, appearing beside me like a ghost. During the raid, he'd been forgotten—just another piece of cargo to be guarded while real warriors did real work.
"What?"
"You're wondering how good men can do evil things," he continued, his Latin accent thick with sadness. "I've wondered the same thing. The answer, I think, is that good and evil aren't as separate as we'd like to believe."
Before I could respond, shouts arose from the direction of the monastery. Not the sounds of battle, but the triumphant calls of men who'd found something valuable. Soon, warriors began returning to the beach, their arms laden with treasures that gleamed even in the overcast light.
Silver chalices, golden crucifixes, illuminated manuscripts bound in covers studded with precious stones. The accumulated wealth of generations, torn from its sacred context and reduced to tradeable goods.
"Richer than we dreamed," Ragnar called as he approached, his arms full of silver plate. "The Christian god clearly favors his servants with earthly wealth. How generous of him to share."
But it was Rollo's approach that caught my attention. The big warrior was half-dragging, half-carrying a young monk whose brown robes were torn and whose face was pale with terror.
"Found this one hiding in their treasure room," Rollo announced. "Cowering behind the altar like a child. Might be valuable as a thrall, or we could have some sport with him."
The casual way he suggested torture made my vision narrow to a tunnel. Here was evil made specific—not the abstract concept of raid and pillage, but an individual human being about to suffer for the entertainment of bored warriors.
"I'll take him," I heard myself say.
"What?" Rollo's expression shifted to confusion.
"As my thrall-share," I continued, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice. "If he was in the treasure room, he might know where other valuables are hidden. Better to question him than kill him immediately."
It was a weak justification, but it served. Rollo shrugged and pushed the monk toward me, his attention already shifting to other spoils.
The young man—he couldn't have been more than twenty—stared up at me with eyes that expected nothing but pain. When I didn't immediately strike him or bind him with ropes, confusion joined the terror on his face.
"What is your name?" I asked in what I hoped was gentle Norse.
"A-Athelstan," he whispered. "Brother Athelstan."
"Well, Brother Athelstan, you belong to me now. Stay close, do as you're told, and you'll live to see another sunrise."
It wasn't much of a promise, but it was all I could offer. And as I watched some of the terror fade from his young face, I realized that maybe—just maybe—I'd found a way to salvage something decent from this nightmare of violence and greed.
The smoke rising from the burning monastery painted the sky black as we prepared to depart, and I tried not to think about the bodies we were leaving behind or the lives we'd shattered in pursuit of silver and gold.
But at least one life had been preserved. In a day defined by destruction, I'd managed to create something—protect someone—worth protecting.
It would have to be enough.
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