[The British Isles, Wessex — March of 793]
The doors groaned shut behind them, muting the wind and dust of the outside world. Inside the church, the air was cool and dim, broken only by the faint crackle of candle flames and the echo of boots across the timber floor.
The villagers knelt quietly in their seats, their faces softened by candlelight. When the Abbot mounted the pulpit, the voices hushed into reverent silence. He lifted his hands, his voice carrying with warmth rather than weight.
"Blessed are we who wake to the rising sun, for each day is a gift," he said. "Blessed are the fields that give their fruit, and the hands that till them. "Blessed are the children whose laughter is like springtime, and the elders whose wisdom steadies the young, "All these things are small in the eyes of the world, yet they are treasures beyond gold."
A ripple of nods moved through the people. Some closed their eyes, lips moving silently with prayer.
The Abbot's smile deepened as he continued ."Let no man despise honest work, nor woman her care for hearth and home, for these are holy labors. And let none forget . peace is not weakness, but the strength to hold one's hand from striking. Forgive quickly, feed the hungry, and lift your heart to God with gladness."
When the Abbot's prayer ended, he began to chant a psalm in a low, steady voice. The monks at the front joined, their tones plain but harmonious, rising and falling like the sea. It was not the grand music of a great cathedral, but something simpler, closer to the fertile soil.
The villagers echoed softly where they knew the words, their voices uneven yet earnest. The timber walls seemed to tremble faintly with the sound, as if even the wood joined in the prayer.
The last Amen faded into silence. For a time, no one moved , as though the peace within the timber walls was too precious to break. Slowly, the spell lifted.
Neighbors exchanged quiet words, some laughing softly, while others lingered in prayer. Thegn Oswald himself remained, speaking with his huscarls.
A few villagers seized the moment to approach him. A farmer asked him to mediate a quarrel over land dispute. Another woman pleaded for his judgment in a dispute with her brother.
Oswald listened patiently, nodding, promising fairness when the matter was heard. It pleased the people, for to have the Thegn hear them in the house of God felt like a blessing.
Then, suddenly, the doors burst wide open.
A harsh voice rang out, mocking yet strangely cordial:"Amen, Father! A beautiful sermon indeed."
Every head turned.
Six strange men stood at the church doors, each one a giant covered from head to toe in exotic suits of metal.
The villagers thought them lords, for only kings and princes in distant tales might wear such mail. But even then… this was no mail.
It was plate. Full suits of it, polished to a sheen so bright the candlelight danced like fire across the steel. And stranger still, it was painted in garish colors, harsh reds, sickly greens, deep purples, whorled into patterns like the garb of fools.
From their helms hung brass bells that chimed with every step, so that laughter followed them into God's house.
A murmur rippled through the church. Women clutched children. Farmers lowered their heads, afraid even to meet the strangers' gaze.
The Abbot stepped down from the pulpit, raising his cross high. His voice trembled but held steady. "Strangers, you are welcome in the house of God. If you come with restless hearts, lay down your burden. Join us in prayer, and let the Lord's peace temper your spirit."
The tallest of them tilted his helm, bells jangling. The flails shifted in his grip, their spiked heads catching the light. Another rested his monstrous sword upon his shoulder, the motion casual, like a farmer bearing a hoe.
Mark's laugh rang out, sharp and mocking, echoing against the timber walls. "Prayer? Peace? Father, please. Save the fairy tales for the peasants. You think kneeling and mumbling to the ceiling fills stomachs? Pays debts? Buys gear? Nah. The world doesn't care about your blessings , it only cares about gold."
He spread his arms wide, bells chiming on his armor. "You want peace, Father? Buy it. You want mercy? Pay for it. That's the only gospel that matters for all of you now."
Gasps rippled through the pews. Some of the women clutched their children tighter, pressing their faces into their cloaks as if to shield them from the words themselves. A few old men crossed themselves hurriedly, whispering prayers under their breath.
"That… that is blasphemy," someone whispered, though none dared raise their voice against the armored giants.
Abbot Benedict held his ground, though his face was pale. His knuckles whitened on the wooden cross he raised high. "My son," he said firmly, though his voice trembled, "you speak with a tongue weighed by bitterness. Gold is dust, food is ash. It is the soul that endures, not the coin in a man's hand. Even kings will be judged not by their wealth, but by the mercy they have shown."
He looked into the slit of Mark's helm, as if he could pierce through the darkness within. "It is not too late for you. Lay down these weapons. Join us in prayer, and the Lord's grace will soften even a hardened heart."
A huscarl, barehanded and unarmed, leaned close to Oswald. "My lord… we cannot fight them. Look at their iron. It gleams like nothing wrought by any smith. We are sheep before wolves."
Thegn Oswald moved to the front, putting himself between his people and the armored men. He had seen mail, shields, spears, the weapons of his age. But this , this was beyond him. He felt suddenly small, yet his voice was firm.
"You are far from your lord's hall, whoever you are. Speak plain , what is it you seek here?"
For a heartbeat, Mark just stared at the thegn. The slit of his helm hid his eyes, but his posture betrayed disbelief — as though the words had not quite landed.
"Are you serious?" he jeered, his voice dripping with scorn. "Are you dumb, or just plain stupid? Did you not hear me, you inbred bastard? I said we're here for gold."
The venom in his tone struck the villagers like a blow. Some gasped at the insult hurled so casually at their lord , not because they thought Oswald would strike back, but because it was unthinkable.
To mock a thegn a noble before his people, in the very house of God, as if rank and honor meant nothing… it was like watching the world turned upside down.
Mark's gauntleted hand swept outward, pointing to the rafters, the altar, even the cross above the Abbot's head. His voice rang loud and venomous, but beneath it was a note of terrible conviction.
"And here you stand, clinging to your little mud-patch titles — thegn, lord, priest. You think those names protect you? You think they matter?"
He let the silence hang for a beat, then slammed the words down like a hammer.
He spread his arms wide, bells jangling like the laughter of madmen. "That is the only truth left. You can pray, you can beg, but nothing will change it. Your world is over. Ours is beginning."
The villagers recoiled as if the words themselves were blows. Mothers drew children close, some covering their ears. A few of the huscarls instinctively stepped forward, barehanded, shielding Oswald with their bodies though they knew steel would crush flesh. Whispers rippled like a frightened tide.
And yet, behind their helms, the other strangers exchanged startled glances. Jason's mouth hung open. Another nudged him as if to ask if they'd just heard the same thing.
None of them were shocked by Mark's off script speech, nor his talk of apocalypse.
What stunned them was the speech itself. For once, the reckless fool among them had spoken with fire, and to their disbelief, it had landed like thunder.
Jason muttered under his breath, half amused, half unnerved:"Holy shit… since when does he sound like that?"