The Frisian Slaughter: Nordic Heroes, #9

By Christopher Webster

A bitter feud between the Angles and Frisians begins with a raid on Wederby. Hengest, a young dreng, takes revenge and is exiled for it. He enters service with the Half-Danes, who are also feuding with the Frisians, but doing their best to build bridges. However, at a Yuletide feast in Finnesburh in the year 449, all hell breaks loose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Blitz
• Release date: Jun 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224886319

Christopher Webster

In Conisbrough, in the West Riding, I spent most of my childhood, where there's an old castle, presiding over the local neighbourhood. The castle teased me with its mystery and got me interested in history. Later, at University, I took a Literature degree, choosing an option on Jane Austen and Regency Society, and also one on poetry: worlds which I loved to get lost in – and now I show appreciation by trying my hand at narration.

Book preview

The Curse of the Crow

THE MOON HUNG LOW, casting a spectral glow over the desolate landscape. Hengest and Horsa, brothers bound by blood and fate, rode wearily through the night. Their cloaks, tattered and stained, bore witness to their recent hunt—a futile pursuit that seemed insignificant compared to the inferno that awaited them.

With Wihtfrith, their uncle, and his men trailing behind, they rode toward their village, nestled in the heart of the ancient forest. The air carried the scent of pine and damp earth, but something else tainted the breeze—an acrid tang that set their nerves on edge.

And then they saw it—an orange glow, fierce and unyielding, as if the very earth had erupted in flames. Wihtfrith dismissed it as the fading sunset, but Horsa, ever the jester, laughed, No, no! It’s a dragon, breathing fire of yellow and red! His words hung in the air, half jest, half warning.

Hengest squinted, studying the colors anew. The blackness that blotted the starlight was no mere cloud—it was smoke. Panic surged within him. The village! he cried, his voice raw. The village is burning! Without hesitation, he spurred his horse into a desperate gallop, the others following suit.

But the flames had already consumed the thatched roofs and timber walls. Bodies lay scattered—battered and bleeding, or charred beyond recognition. Women and children screamed, their voices lost in the inferno’s roar. Hengest’s heart clenched; he recognized faces—neighbours, kin, friends—all now victims of the merciless fire.

He tried to reach the high hall, where his family might have sought refuge. The door, once sturdy oak, now glowed like embers. Desperation fuelled his strength as he pushed against the searing wood. But it was too late. The flames danced, mocking him, consuming everything he held dear.

Wigheard, his father’s war-chief, held them back from the fire. There’s no one inside, he said, his voice heavy with grief.

But my father? Hengest’s voice cracked.

Your father’s already dead, Wigheard replied. It was Frisian raiders who did it.

Tell me... murmured Hengest in a low voice.

"THEY TOOK US BY SURPRISE. Their war cries echoed across the marshlands, and their shields formed an unyielding wall. We tightened our ranks, our shields interlocking like the scales of a dragon. But the Frisians were relentless, encircling us like wolves closing in on wounded prey.

"The clash was brutal—a tempest of steel and sinew. Shields splintered, and blood-soaked earth swallowed the fallen. Uhtric fought with the desperation of a cornered stag, each swing of his sword a prayer to the gods. Wilfrið fell, and Wulfnoð followed, their names etched into the annals of sacrifice.

"Brythwold, his grizzled face etched with lines of sorrow, rallied the remnants. ‘To die beside Wihtgils,’ he declared, ‘is to ascend to Waelhal and Woden!’ His blade danced, but the odds were insurmountable, our dead were heaped around us, the ground sodden with their blood. Then Wihtgils slipped and fell, and was finished by a Frisian spear, betrayed by the very earth he defended.

"Uhtric’s’s eyes blazed. ‘I will not retreat!’ he shouted, his voice lost in the cacophony of battle. He carved a path through the enemy, his sword seeking vengeance. But death was indiscriminate—a cruel reaper claiming both friend and foe, and even the heroic Uhtric was forced to give