Page 1 of The Warrior and the Monk

Chapter One

One early morning, strangers in longships silently stepped onto the shore, their presence casting a heavy weight upon the land. Their arrival had been anticipated for days, maybe longer, and was no surprise to those who dwelled in the monastery overlooking the coast. The ships had been visible for miles as they drifted slowly, languidly, along the sea's edge, cutting through the waves like beasts with a purpose. They moved in their long, narrow vessels, which seemed both too large and too lean, with sails woven from thick cloth and dyed in bright, garish colors that stood out against the pale sea and sky. The sails themselves were like beacons, drawing attention, and signaling to all who saw them that these strangers were coming—coming like wolves in a pack, hunting, looming, watching. The monks had watched them for days, knowing the inevitable would soon arrive.

The prolonged approach had given them time—time to move past their initial panic and fall into a somber, almost lethargic resignation. Arguments had risen and fallen in the halls of the monastery as they debated what to do. Could they flee, and if so, to where? The village lay not far, but even there, no guarantee of safety awaited them. Should they take what they could? What was more important—the sacred relics and books that filled the monastery’s archives or the food and water that would sustain their bodies? Could they bear the thought of abandoning their home, the monastery that had been theirshelter and sanctuary for so long? Or worse, should they stay and face whatever it was these strangers sought? What would they be willing to surrender—if surrender became their only option? Could they offer food, water, and shelter? Or would these invaders demand more—treasures, relics, their very way of life?

Yet amid the debates, Wilder, the youngest of the monks, noticed one thing. No one seemed to be offering up prayers, at least not aloud. The arguments had drowned out any thought of spiritual solace. The fear of losing their worldly goods had eclipsed their faith. Wilder, troubled by this, quietly moved toward the altar, his heart heavy with uncertainty. He knelt, bowing his head in solitude, and began to pray.

"God, see us through this day safely," Wilder whispered, feeling the stillness of the air around him, the weight of the moment pressing down on his spirit. "As these strangers cross the sands, let us meet them in peace and understanding. May these shores remain unblemished by bloodshed, may this monastery continue to be a place of quiet study and contemplation." His voice wavered, but the words were firm, filled with hope. "Amen."

But his prayer, though spoken softly, did not go unnoticed. Brother Ellion, standing nearby, heard the faint murmur and whirled around, his expression sharp. "Something to add, boy?" he asked, his voice edged with impatience.

Wilder, still kneeling, shook his head slightly. "No, Brother Ellion. I agree with the abbot," he said, his voice respectful yet steady.

At this, Brother Ellion scoffed, his frustration thinly veiled. He had been one of the most vocal in the earlier discussions, strongly advocating for the monks to gather the relics and flee while they still had time. He had argued that it was better to save the treasures of the monastery than tostay and face an uncertain fate. But the abbot had disagreed, reminding him that such an action would leave the elderly and infirm brothers behind, unable to keep pace. The abbot's decision had been final—if they fled, they would do so together, not abandoning anyone to face the strangers alone.

The abbot, standing at the head of the room, inclined his head slightly toward Wilder, a silent gesture of thanks for the young monk's quiet prayer. "This does not mean," the abbot began, addressing the room again, "that we will not prepare for the worst. We must be ready, should we need to flee. But if we do, we will go together. No one will be left behind."

A heavy silence fell over the group. The tension hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears and the weight of decisions yet to be made. Outside, the strangers' ships continued to loom on the horizon, drawing closer with every passing moment. And the monks waited, caught between faith and fear, hoping that whatever was to come, they would face it united.

In the end, it was a small party of three that ventured near the monastery, but every figure trudging through the sand was armored and armed, their very presence a reminder of power and violence. Helmets gleamed beneath the overcast sky, chainmail clinked with each step, and heavy shields rested on their backs like burdens they carried with ease. Swords hung at their waists, ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. These men were tall, broad, and strong—obviously stronger than anyone who lived within the quiet walls of the monastery. Wilder watched them warily from his hiding place, crouched low in the tall grass, every muscle tensed, ready to bolt at the first hint of danger.

One of the warriors nudged his companion and muttered something in their strange tongue, gesturing toward the monastery. Wilder strained to hear, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. Their language was utterly foreign to him, rough andguttural. He listened as closely as he could, hoping against hope that one of the words might suddenly become clear, that perhaps he could understand their intentions. But for all the languages the monks had made him study in the rectory—Latin, Greek, and even a bit of Old English—this was not one he had ever encountered. It was alien to him, and frustratingly so.

Yet, despite the ominous sight of these heavily armed men, the two warriors who were talking seemed more interested in the beach than the monastery. They pointed toward the shore, where birds bobbed in the tide, and one bent down to pick up shells from the wet sand. Wilder watched in disbelief as they crouched and examined their finds, chattering to one another like children, not conquerors. At one point, they even let out amazed and disgusted cries as they held up what Wilder recognized as a mermaid’s purse, the leathery egg case of a shark or ray. Weren't these men seafarers? How could they marvel at something so common along the coast? For all the intimidation their towering frames inspired, they were scrounging through the sand like they’d never set foot on a beach before.

Wilder couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—quietly, he thought. But the third warrior, the one who hadn’t joined in the beachcombing, heard him. His head snapped toward Wilder’s hiding spot, and his dark, piercing eyes fixed on the tall grass. The man stood apart from the other two, uninterested in the shore’s offerings. His silence had made him seem the most dangerous of the three.

Wilder cursed himself, his heart leaping into his throat. He pulled his hood lower over his face, trying to shrink into the earth, pressing his face into his arms as if that would somehow make him disappear. He held his breath, praying fervently that the warrior wouldn’t see him, and wouldn't come closer. But the sound of heavy boots crunching through the sand grew louderand nearer, and Wilder's panic swelled inside him until, without thinking, he bolted to his feet.

He froze, breath caught in his chest. The warrior was only a few paces away, closer than Wilder had realized, and he loomed over him like a shadow, towering and broad. Wilder had never seen a man so massive. Were all these strangers giants? A cold gust of wind whipped across the beach, and Wilder’s robe billowed out behind him. His hood fell away, revealing his wild, untamed curls flying in every direction.

The warrior, who had been unmoved by the wind up until now, suddenly started as though something had spooked him. His sharp intake of breath was audible even above the roar of the waves, and his eyes—dark as ink—locked onto Wilder with an intensity that made his blood run cold. The look in those eyes was not one of anger, but something else entirely, something that Wilder couldn’t quite place. But whatever it was, it terrified him. He stumbled backward, his feet slipping in the sand, and without another thought, he turned and ran.

He fled across the beach, weaving between dunes, the tall grass whipping against his legs. His breath came in short gasps, his heart pounding as though it might burst from his chest. He didn’t dare look back, certain that the warrior was right behind him. But he knew the dunes well—he had played among them as a boy, running along the beach in far happier times—and he used that knowledge now to put distance between himself and the stranger. His lighter clothing allowed him to move faster than the armored men, and for a brief moment, he dared to hope that he had escaped.

Just as he was about to leave the beach and reach the safety of the monastery’s grounds, Wilder nearly collided with Brother Ellion. The monk was on his knees, frantically digging at the sand with his hands, and for a moment, Wilder thoughtthe older man had gone mad. But then he saw it—a glint of gold, quickly covered by sand as Brother Ellion worked to hide it.

"Brother Ellion, they’re here!" Wilder gasped, still breathless from his sprint.

Ellion whirled around, his face a mixture of fury and suspicion. "What are you doing out here?" he demanded, his voice sharp.

"What am I doing? They’re here!" Wilder repeated, trying to shake off his frustration. "Three warriors on the beach. We have to tell the abbot."

"You led them straight to us?" Brother Ellion spat, his voice rising in anger. "You little fool, you—" Whatever scolding he had prepared died in his throat. His face drained of color, and he stared past Wilder, eyes wide with fear.

Wilder turned slowly, dreading what he would see. The warrior had followed him. He was walking toward them, his steps measured and slow, his gaze fixed on the two monks. But his hands were raised, palms open in a universal gesture of peace. Wilder’s heart continued to race, even though the man didn’t seem to be reaching for his sword. Peaceful gesture or not, the sheer size and presence of the stranger made Wilder’s blood run cold.

For a long moment, none of them moved. Wilder’s heart pounded in his chest, and Brother Ellion remained frozen in place. The warrior continued to approach, his eyes never leaving theirs, until he finally came to a stop just a few feet away, his hands still raised, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet.

What did he want?

Voice shaking, Wilder offered a tentative, "H-hello."

The stranger, towering and intimidating in his armor, responded with a short wave—a gesture surprisingly awkward for a man of his size and bearing. He didn’t say a word, and Wilder thought he saw the man squeeze his hands into fists athis sides, as if wrestling with some internal debate. His silence stretched on for a few moments, but then he seemed to make a decision. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hands to his helmet and pulled it off.

Dark curls tumbled free, and a thick beard framed a strong, rugged face. His nose appeared to have been broken more than once, and his eyes were deep, dark pools—sharp but filled with a weariness that caught Wilder off guard. There was a sadness in the man’s expression, a vulnerability that Wilder had not expected to find behind the hard, armored exterior. The contrast left him speechless, unsure of how to respond.

Brother Ellion, however, saw vulnerability as an opening. He pounced, his voice sharp and accusatory, as though he were chastising a misbehaving novice. "Well? What business do you have here?" he barked, his authority bolstered by his indignation. "This is a holy place—a place of God! State your business!"

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