Hefnd: 444, #1

By Relvin Gonzalez

They came in the dark, silent as shadow walkers, deadly as giants.

On the last night of Yule, savage raiders ransack a Viking village.

Only a few survive.

Years later, Eindride, the Jarl's son, sets on a fruitless quest to avenge his clan. Upon his return, he confronts the devastating reality that he has unwittingly led his people to the same fate. His village lies in ruins, his kin slaughtered.

A wanderer, who claims to have witnessed the devastation, guides the Viking to the attackers. Now Eindride's chance at revenge lies in the hands of an enigmatic stranger.

Will this treacherous path finally lead to vengeance, or his death?

 

As part of the 444 Universe, Hefnd offers backstory depicting events occurring before Path of the Hybrids and Messengers Rising.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relvin Gonzalez
• Release date: May 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9781964803029

Book preview

Hefnd

Hefnd

A VIKING REVENGE STORY

444

BOOK ONE

RELVIN GONZALEZ

BIRTHMARK PUBLISHING

Copyright © 2023 by Relvin Gonzalez

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For the giants of my life. Thank you for always urging me to move forward.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Path of the Hybrids

Chapter 1

Continue the story

About the Author

Also by Relvin Gonzalez

Chapter 1

Slaughter brought me to life on the last night of Yule. I was thirteen years of age, but whatever had happened before existed only beyond the fog of that night. The festivities had ended, and the entire settlement reeked of mead. I had tried to tell my father of my visions, of the shadow walkers arriving under the moonlight, but I knew he would not listen. Not that day. My words were lost to the memories attached to the festival, for it also signaled my birth many years ago, when my father gained a son, but lost a wife.

Why must we do this? I said, looking for a candidate for the Yule log fifty steps outside our settlement. The muffled sound of drums indicated the farmers had arrived at the temple with their sacrificial animals.

Because your father asked us to, Bjarke said, a strong man with a serious face whose only job was watching over my every breath. Now keep quiet and look. I want to be back before nightfall.

I touched every felled trunk, knocking on it, picking it up with Bjarke’s help and inspecting it. Not good enough, I said. None of these are.

Bjarke stared at me for a long time. Will you force me to take down a tree in this cold?

It is not that cold.

He exhaled. Very well. And he readied his axe.

Wait, I said.

What?

Don’t you hear it? I meant the sound of rushing steps on the snow.

Bjarke motioned his hand with a stern look and asked me to stay put without uttering a word. He strengthened his grip and ventured out with his axe, disappearing into the white forest.

Bjarke? I said. The drums seemed louder now, and so did the beating in my chest. And in the rhythmic silence, the steps were clearer than ever, coming closer. I reached for a weapon even though I knew there was nothing there and shivered.

I gasped at the whooshing sound that flashed in front of me at a hair’s distance, striking a nearby tree.

That one, Bjarke said, spreading leafless branches with one arm and walking toward me. We can take that log to the celebration. He pulled the axe from the trunk. Have you frozen, boy? It is not that cold. He said, his lip slightly rising at the corner.

Bjarke had me carry the log by myself. He said it was about time I began my journey to manhood. And so we headed to the celebration and arrived at the grotesque killing of the animals over the altars—the same animals we would eat at the feast later on.

I carried the log as close to my father as I could, and let it fall and roll a few inches in front of him. Its rough bark had scratched my hands, but I did not allow the pain or the cold to show.

He did all the work, Bjarke said and winked when I turned to him.

With the log now burning in the hall, a symbol of the return of light and the lengthening of days, the feast began.

My father sat next to me, following his toast to Odin.

Eat, boy, he said, his voice slight under the music of the skalds.

I put a piece of meat in my mouth but spit it out under the table when Bjarke spoke in his ear, a routine I repeated until my plate was empty. Once the feast was over, I crept out of the great hall with a stomach full of throbbing hunger.

After an hour in bed, tossing and turning under the wool, I rose and looked at the moon. I found it soothing when it appeared cut in half, its light coming into the longhouse and falling over me. I was mesmerized by the moon’s beauty when I heard it once more. The crunching sound of footsteps focused my attention on the snow outside, every nerve in my body thrumming. I rushed to wake my father, but I found him already standing, peaking out the door, his majestic sword in one hand, and the