Fate's Redemption

By A.M. Seacar

The dimness of a cramped stone cell was interrupted by the faint flicker of light from a smoldering fire pit. An old guard with gnarled fingers and ragged clothes hunched over the coals. His deformed hands pumped the bellows, giving life to the fire. The flames began to dance.
A branding iron lay within the open flames. The roughly hammered stamp at the end began to pulse with heat, glowing yellow.
Without warning, searing pain exploded on Teagan’s naked hip. Her screams and the putrid smell of her own burning flesh echoed in her brain as the V brand was etched accusingly into her flesh.
And thus was she captured, branded slave and chained by the Slaver known as Kraven, a slave to the House of Cree, the auction block her future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Seacar
• Release date: Sep 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301253456

A.M. Seacar

A Wall Street trader turned author.

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FATE’S REDEMPTION

from The Book of Teagan

by a.m. seacar

***

Published by a.m. seacar at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 a.m. seacar

The dimness of a cramped stone cell was interrupted by the faint flicker of light from a smoldering fire pit. An old guard with gnarled fingers and ragged clothes hunched over the coals. His deformed hands pumped the bellows, giving life to the fire. The flames began to dance.

A branding iron lay within the open flames. The roughly hammered stamp at the end began to pulse with heat, glowing yellow.

Without warning, searing pain exploded on Teagan’s naked hip. Her screams and the putrid smell of her own burning flesh echoed in her brain as the V brand was etched accusingly into her flesh.

And thus was she captured, branded slave and chained by the Slaver known as Kraven, a slave to the House of Cree, the auction block her future.

CHAPTER ONE

Haunting blue eyes peer out from the darkness of the shadows. A hand moves to brush errant strands of dark hair from an obscured face. She stirs.

Steel coils of chain clink their warning on the hard cruel floor, their clatter a reminder that she was imprisoned in the reigning silence of a dark and windowless cell. And it was then that Teagan shivered, a deep bone-chilling quiver to the sleek graceful body of the once proud forest warrior. It was not that the cold dampness of the slaver’s house, or the icy coolness of the floor on which she lay made much of a difference. That alone could not send a shiver so raw through her. She had been used to the bitter days and nights of the north, and years later had grown accustomed to the frosty weather that had often invaded the forests. No, this now trembling chill came from much deeper, and was made to claw even further into her soul as she once again let herself drown in her memories.

She closed her eyes and drifted back in time. The fires of Gunther’s funeral pyre still burned into her memories, into her very soul.

For a moment she crooked a soft smile, hearing his voice in her heart, knowing he died as he had lived, every bit a warrior, taking down invader after invader, until …

She shook those memories from her thoughts, gritting her teeth, her jaw locking. No, she would not do that to his memory.

And so she had left the north, left her village, leaving with only the barest of cloaks covering her woolen kirtle and a pouch filled with what food she could find, a discarded flint and a simple knife. Her only savior as she made her way from the frozen tundra that had been her home, was a pair of thick soled, fur lined boots and heavy gloves that every young girl had been given.

The village had been alive that summer night as a great feast was prepared. The entire city came out to pay homage to Gunther and those who had fallen defending their home from the raiders of the south.

Snow capped the distant mountains, their soaring height protecting the walled village and the maze of narrow planked streets and alleys of Djord. That night, the streets had been filled with cheering men raising tankards of beer and horns of mead. Women in long skirts swung their children in merriment. Pipe whistles and drums resounded throughout the central square as the flames of the oil lamps flickered, illuminating the revelers. The port was crowded with boats and the piers were amassed with people.

Strong mead and ale flowed like springs of water. Bread was honeyed and offered in generous portions. Platters were heaping with roasted boar and grilled fish. Music and song filled the air. Dancers took to the streets filling hearts and souls with thankfulness for the victory and optimism for the future. Their men had defeated the enemies that had landed on their shores. They had reason to celebrate.

But the young bondmaid, Annika, as she had been called back then, wouldn’t be among the villagers. She was assumed to be aboard the funeral pyre, having given her life to be with the young warrior Jarl as he made his trip to the afterlife, to Valhalla.

The flaming boat, with the imposing dragonhead containing Gunther’s body, had been prepared with offered gifts from the villagers and his possessions. As was their custom, his horse, his weapons and his slaves would all making the journey with him to join the gods and those other warriors whose courage had granted them entrance into Valhalla where the brave would live forever.

Knowing that Gunther would not have wanted her to give up her life, Annika had skillfully avoided drinking the numbing alcoholic potion and feigned sleep as she was lifted into the funeral boat.

Annika had lay quietly as the burning torch lit the boat with its fire. Once the fire began to smolder, the heavy rope that tethered it to the dock was released and a large group of men pushed the boat out into the churning waves.

The pyre slowly drifted out to sea. The crowd at the shore grew louder and began to sing. Men clanked tankards and offered cheers. Women cried and blew kisses.

A distance out from the shore, Annika silently slipped over the side of the boat into the frigid water and began to quietly drift to the shoreline.

Annika was pacing herself when suddenly the night air lit up with a massive blast from the funeral boat, the first engulfing sparks bursting into heavy flames. The fire began to rapidly consume the Viking ship, illuminating the night sky, it’s rising embers challenging the stars as they danced into the heavens.

The young bondmaid began to quietly stroke to the shore. Her legs and arms were starting to weaken. It was summer but the waters of the sea were still cold that far north and the chill was beginning to engulf her young body.

Thankful that the villagers were not focusing on the lone dark figure bobbing in the surf, she willed herself to keep swimming. The icy water started to numb her. She began to struggle to breathe, each torturous breath, ripping the air from her lungs.

After what seemed an eternity, her feet could finally feel stones of the shoreline. She dragged herself the last few strokes out of the water, emerging in the nestled rocks of a small cove.

Annika hadn’t planned for the shore to be so black as she emerged from the water and groped for safety. The night clouds had swallowed the moon and the stars. She was in pitch darkness. The cold began to overtake her and she started to shake uncontrollably. Dropping to her knees, she started to crawl on her belly, fingertips clawing at the stones, inching forward, feeling her way in the blackness until she came to the security of some large safely anchored rocks. Pulling herself onto the lowest one, she sat shivering and exhausted, trying to catch her breath.

She curled up, hugging herself and waited into the night, watching the distant horizon until the last flicker of the pyre melted in the dark mist.

Soon the distant music of the village died down. The streets and the houses went dark.

A single tear escaped down her cheek, the stilled night air swallowing her soft sigh as the hauntingly dark child of a servant bid goodbye to her childhood friend, the blond blue-eyed child of privilege.

Goodnight Gunther, she whispered quietly.

There was no one there to hear them but those simple uttered words were quiet, yet audible in intensity and depth of despair.

Annika now dared to move. Slowly she slid from the stone and crept forward warily, her eyes adjusting to the darkness of the night.

Her mind was blank, her emotions drained from her as she groped in the dark to search for and then dig up a