The Year of the Warrior
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Cover art by Gary Ruddell This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. First printing, March 2000 Distributed by Simon & Schuster Printed in the United States of America |
ISBN: 0-671-57861-8Erling's Word copyright (c) 1997; All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. A Baen Books Original Typeset by Windhaven Press Electronic version by WebWrights |
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List of Main Characters & Pronunciations
The wind blew colder, and clouds rode in on it, shrouding the stars. The men sat back to back, sharing warmth. It was as black as Judas' grave.
There was one light in all the world.
It came towards us, over the meadow, from the direction of Thorolf Skjalg's grave.
We all saw him. The warriors groaned. They wept. They yammered like dogs. Some shouted, "Thorolf! It's my Lord Thorolf come out to walk again."
He was a tall man, dressed in full armor, with shield and spear and sword at his belt. He glowed all over with blue fire. He was coming to us.
"It's the battle-fetter!" someone cried. "Run! We've got to run!" But no one ran. No one stood on his feet. A few tried to crawl, but most stayed in their places, watching the walker-again come nearer and nearer.
I could see Thorolf's eyes now. They were green-yellow, round and cold.
Then a hand fell on my shoulder. Erling said, "A psalm, Father! I don't ask you to fight, but sing me a psalm that I may fightthat one about the mountains falling into the sea and shaking!"
I found I still had the crucifix in my hand, gripped so tightly it was wet with my blood. I tried to moisten my lips. "Deus noster refugium . . ." I croaked. God is our refuge and strength . . .
I saw the demon cast his spear, and saw his mouth open in something like laughter. I saw him fend Erling's spear in return. I heard the whacking of blades on shield, and saw the dead man lean and whirl; and his leaps were head-high and his whirls faster than birds' wings.
I spoke my psalm again and again, gripping the crucifix as a drowning man clings to driftwood. . . .
Wolf Time