To Kill A Witch: The Holy Warriors, #1

By Christopher Patterson

Charged with serving God as a Holy Warrior...blessing or curse?

Three warriors hear the Lord's call, a calling to fight evil and the Devil's minions...to subdue all the monsters people believe aren't real.

Evil poisons the land. Thaddeus can smell its very presence. He has been fighting the forces of evil for so long, it is like a second nature to him. Now, he—along with his companions, Asaf and Gunnar—has been called to England, in the midst of post-Norman conquest turmoil.

Something, or someone, powerful has infiltrated Norman nobility as King William II—William Rufus—struggles to subdue the conquered Anglo-Saxon people, appease his own Norman citizens, and deal with his brother Robert—still in France. And those who are the victims of this poison? The common people. The God-fearing, hard-working, law-abiding people of this new, unified England, whether Saxon, Norman, Danish, or Welsh. All the while, talk of unrest in the Holy Land consumes the minds of holy men and adventure seekers alike.

Thaddeus must race to stop the spread of evil in a fragmented land, while struggling with his own inner turmoil and conflicts.

Will evil win the day...or can the Holy Warriors stop its poisonous spread?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Patterson
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998407043

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

A LL THOSE FLOWERS, all that green grass. By the time the sun sets, it will be burnt, trampled, and stained with blood.

Thaddeus Christopoulos sat astride his large, gray horse, staring from his plateau vantage, watching a plain of knee-high, green grass and little purple, white, and yellow flowers.

That is war, Gunnar Sigurdsson replied.

Too much war, Thaddeus sighed.

Through a sidelong glance, he saw Gunnar shrug his shoulders.

Don’t act as if it doesn’t wear on you, Thaddeus accused.

What? Gunnar asked. Thaddeus could hear the insincerity in his voice.

Don’t act as if all this death doesn’t wear you down like a mail shirt.

I don’t feel like my mail weighs me down at all, Gunnar replied. Are you getting weak, my friend?

Thaddeus turned his head and saw Gunnar smiling at him.

You know what I mean.

Gunnar’s smile disappeared.

This is life, he said, and we know enough about that.

Curse this life, Thaddeus muttered.

As the Lord continues to call us to fight evil, Gunnar added, we will see even more death. The world seems more open than ever to the depravity of man.

Thaddeus’s horse snorted.

Easy Polemistes. Thaddeus patted the horse’s strong neck.

Each muscle rippled every time the animal shifted its weight from one leg to the other. Those muscles had carried Thaddeus into too many battles to count. Those muscles had carried Thaddeus away from too many battles to count. Those muscles had saved his life.

This land, the Romans called it Britannia, Thaddeus intoned, reminds me of my home in Laconia. It’s a shame war has ruined it.

Aye, Gunnar agreed. He patted the neck of his own warhorse, Sigurd—named after his father—its fur a golden blond and its hair the white of high, wispy clouds. I have always found the land of the Anglo-Saxons a beautiful place. Rich soil. Clean water. Fresh air. Good farming. Decent people.

That is what drew your people here three hundred years ago, Thaddeus said.

People think we Swedes and our cousins, the Danes, came here for gold and silver, Gunnar replied. In reality, it was the farmland.

The monks of Lindisfarne might disagree with you, Asaf Segal chided.

They did eventually soften the hearts of we Norsemen, Gunnar retorted. Many of us found Christ in this land.

Gunnar looked at Asaf slumped in the saddle of his horse, Phillip, and facing away from the field on which they looked. He had looked grumpier than ever, ever since the Lord had called them to England.

Conquest is always messy, Gunnar proclaimed, and full of atrocities. If I could take back the things …

We all feel the same, Thaddeus interrupted, shaking his head. We would all take back our sins if we could.

Well, my people were the ones being conquered, Asaf said, crossing his arms.

Oh, come now. Gunnar rolled his eyes. The Jews and the Hebrews conquered plenty of people. Your people always act as if you are the ones being stepped on.

And sitting like that you look like a petulant child, Asaf, Thaddeus added.

Asaf groaned and shook his head, but he did uncross his arms.

Tin, Thaddeus said. That is why the Romans came. Tin and taxes. I guess our reasoning was less noble. The poor Celts … they never had a chance.

The conquered were the conquerors once, Gunnar said. That is the way of the world. The Angles and Jutes and Saxons once conquered the Celts and Bretons, and now the Normans have conquered them. One day, someone will no doubt conquer the Normans.

Thaddeus nodded and again looked out over the field below them.

This place seems so enchanting. Thaddeus took in a deep breath as he surveyed the land. More mysterious than a land of fairies and dragons.

Gunnar grunted, and Thaddeus knew his friend had that squinty-eyed, arched eyebrow look he gave when he was amused but irritated at the same time.

You look ridiculous, Thaddeus said.

You don’t even know how I look.

I know too well, Thaddeus replied. It looks like two huge, yellow worms are crawling across your forehead.

My eyebrows look that big?

Thaddeus couldn’t help laughing as Gunnar touched his brows and felt the bushy, blond hair there. He turned back to the field.

More exotic than Egypt, Persia, the Valley of the Indus River, and the lands even farther east, the lands of the silkworm. Yet this place is more brutal than the north and more holy than the Holy Land.

Have we turned to sacrilege now? Asaf said, his voice hard. Thaddeus glanced over his shoulder, then back to the field below.

A Saxon force had assembled below—a hundred or so men—all carrying thin spears and round, wooden shields. Most had long swords at their hips, some axes, and a few of them had shirts of iron mail.

Only six horse. Thaddeus frowned. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gunnar nodding.

Poor bastards.

The sound of marching echoed over the plain, and Thaddeus looked to his left—the south—and within moments, the sun gleamed off the iron, conical helms of two hundred Norman soldiers.

They don’t march like the north men from whom they descend, do they? Thaddeus asked.

No, they certainly don’t, Gunnar replied, and Thaddeus thought he could hear a smile in the other man’s voice. Gunnar leaned forward, squinting. I wonder whose coat of arms it is?

Each one of the Norman’s kite shields bore blue and yellow checkers and interspersed among the troops were long lances bearing a banner with the same yellow and blue checkers.

I don’t know. Thaddeus counted the horses as he spoke. But they have fifty cavalry.

The marching Normans looked like a single, gleaming mass, with their cloth hauberks studded with iron, their iron helms, and their kite shields.

God and Christ and all the saints help those poor bastards, Gunnar prayed. This is going to be a slaughter.

Aye, that it is, Thaddeus agreed.

What are these Saxons thinking? Gunnar asked. They’ve lost before they begin.

Would you so willingly give up your land? Thaddeus retorted.

Maybe not, Gunnar replied, but they have clearly lost. Why throw away your life?

It will take another hundred years for these people to relent, Thaddeus said, and then added, maybe even longer.

Is this why the Lord has called us to England? Gunnar asked. To help the Saxons defeat the Normans?

Thaddeus shook his head.

No. The vision the Lord gave me was one of a woman—dark-haired and beautiful, Thaddeus explained. She held a place of power—a noblewoman maybe. She commanded men. She had someone of importance in chains and, as my dream ended, I saw a road lined with the crucified.

I wish the Lord were a little clearer about these missions He sends us on, Asaf huffed, turning his horse to stand alongside Thaddeus.

A bold statement coming from a priest, Gunnar chided with a smirk.

Former priest, Asaf sneered with a quick wave of his hand.

Aren’t you going to say a prayer for these poor Christian men about to die? Gunnar asked.

Just you leave me alone, Asaf replied. His voice sounded hard, angry.

Is it not your duty, as a priest, to pray for these poor souls and their absolution before they meet our Lord Christ? Gunnar teased.

Thaddeus could sense the smile spreading across Gunnar’s face.

They can pray for their own absolution, Asaf said. Besides, they don’t give a rat’s fart what I do for them.

Now, now, my friend of the cloth. Gunnar laughed. You would let good men go to their deaths with uncertain souls?

Christ’s bones, would you leave me be? You know I don’t believe they need anything but a silent prayer to the Lord God and a right heart to meet Him in Heaven. And they certainly wouldn’t want a damned defrocked cleric praying for their souls. They’d be better off letting some Moorish turd pray for them.

Asaf, Thaddeus chastised. You go too far.

Asaf sighed hard.

So, do we just sit here and watch? Gunnar asked.

Would you have us get involved? Thaddeus replied. You wish us to ride down there and join the fight? You believe this is the thing for which the Lord has called us?

Gunnar shrugged his huge shoulders before he swatted at a fly.

Why England? Asaf asked. "Avignon is beautiful this time of the year.

Thaddeus felt the brush of grey-black horsehair as Polemistes flicked his long tail, joining in the fight against the larger-than-normal flies calling Northumbria their home. That was the only battle he would get involved in that day.

What are the lands like north of here? Thaddeus asked. The lands of Scotland. Are they just as enchanting?

They’re cold, Gunnar replied.

I hear their women are as big as north men.

Gunnar straightened at that, puffed out his chest.

I jest my friend. Thaddeus laughed.

They are a big folk, Gunnar conceded, with pale skin and wild, red hair. And they paint their faces all blue for battle. They look like demons.

You know what a demon looks like, Asaf said, and they look nothing like it.

Oh, so he speaks again, the grumpy turd who won’t say a prayer for doomed men, teased Gunnar

If their hearts are right, they’ll be meeting our Lord Christ today. They don’t need me to help them along.

Your mouth is insatiable priest, Thaddeus said. And you know as well as I do a demon can look like anything.

Asaf grumbled, and Gunnar laughed.

Do you think the Scots are helping the Saxons? Thaddeus asked.

I would bet on it, Gunnar replied. I hear King William II has plans to expand in the north. It’s not that the Saxons and the Scots ever got along, but … well, you know the usual enemy of my enemy situation.

As Thaddeus waited and watched, Polemistes shifted his weight again, flicking his tail before he snorted.

So, are we going to just sit here? Gunnar asked, wafting a hand to clear the air.

Thaddeus eyed his friend, his brother in arms, with a smile that reached his otherwise cold gray eyes. The Swedish warrior rubbed his ruddy forehead with the palm of his callused hand. His wide shoulders slumped, and he sighed with frustration, and his irritation widened Thaddeus’s smile.

That’s exactly what you mean to do, isn’t it? I know that smile. Gunnar scratched the yellow, bushy beard occupying his chin.

Thaddeus continued to watch as the Northumbrian Saxons eyed the men from Normandy as they gathered across the wide plain.

No archers today.

It doesn’t look like it, Gunnar replied. Kind of foolish, if you ask me. This whole thing would be done with a few volleys.

Thaddeus decided the Saxons looked nervous, and he could not blame them. Their lines swayed and twitched while the Normans looked stoic. Still and confident. They should be. In a matter of a few years, they had completely subdued the Land of the Angles—England—with deadly precision. He had seen many armies that looked like that. He had fought in many armies that looked like that.

It meant nothing, though. Too many times, Thaddeus had seen the outnumbered side win. Too many times he had seen the less organized, less equipped, less trained, man slay the giant. Perhaps this would be the Saxons’ day.

David and Goliath, Thaddeus muttered before he shook his head. Not today.

The Normans were too good, too powerful. They bore the blood of the north men, as their name indicated. They had conquered the lands around the Holy city of Rome with little effort. The emperors of the Eastern Empire hired them as mercenaries. They were the descendants of the Rus and the Varangians. They fought the Moors in Iberia. They settled and survived in the coldest, hardest places of the Lord’s Creation. Almost thirty years ago now, and it had taken only three months for the Duke William of Normandy—William the Conqueror—to defeat the Saxons.

What’re you saying? Gunnar asked.

Nothing. Thaddeus shook his head.

If we were to wager, Gunnar asked, who would win?

You would gamble on the lives of these men? Asaf chastized.

The outcome is always the decision of the Lord, Gunnar replied.

Not since Christ, Asaf said, who forbade lot casting. But the Lord would choose the Saxons.

Gunnar looked to Thaddeus, eyes wide, smile gleaming.

Oh ho. I have piqued our clerical friend’s interest.

Thaddeus tried not to laugh.

You are wagering on dead men, my friend, Gunnar added.

You said we weren’t wagering, Asaf replied. And besides, I’d rather wager on dead Christians than men who descend from those pagan animals in the north.

Oh, you cut deep, my canonical partner. Gunnar laughed loudly and Thaddeus, for a moment, worried the armies below might hear them.

Just then, the air went silent, a vacuum as the wind stilled, and with a great cry of voices and shaking of iron, the Normans and Saxons sprang forward. The din of battle rose up like a giant’s scream. Metal against metal sent up a wretched sound like nails on slate, ringing through the air like devilish gongs calling down the heavens right upon their heads. Soon, the wails of dying men melded perfectly with the sights and sounds of battle Thaddeus knew all too well.

At first, much to Thaddeus’ surprise, the cries of defeat and death came mostly from the Normans as the Saxons swarmed over them like angry hornets, their nest disturbed. He looked to his left and saw the small crook of a smile on Asaf’s lips. They drove the Normans back, inch-by-inch, shedding blood as they went. But then, the stampeding hooves of the Norman cavalry shook the earth, thundering like great war drums.

Now he could see the fear in the eyes of the Saxons as the Normans rode in, their lances blazing like fire in the morning sun. They were lowered, ready to spear men on their leaf-shaped tips, and within moments, they tore through Anglo-Saxon flesh like a scythe through harvest-ready wheat.

The Lord have mercy on them, Gunnar prayed and made the sign of the cross.

The Almighty may not be here, Asaf said. He has abandoned them, cursing all efforts to retake their lands. So, what are we doing here?

Neither of his companions answered, and Asaf continued, I’m tired of seeing a bunch of backward Saxon whores die under the iron of an army of horse turds. If we aren’t here to help the Saxons, or Normans for that matter, then let’s go and do what the Lord has called us here to do. Have you seen enough?

Thaddeus nodded and pulled his reins to the side, turning Polemistes around. They rode down the gentle hill from the plateau where they watched the battle, its sounds fading, and Thaddeus was glad for it. He had seen more than a lifetime’s worth of death, but the sounds were always worse, the cursing and the cries and the screams of the fallen.

They turned their horses south, towards where the Lord was sending them. Thaddeus’s vision didn’t tell him, directly, where they were supposed to go, but when they landed in Bamburgh on the Northumbrian coast, he knew their duty would take them south. Sometimes it was a person who led them, and at times it was a landmark he saw in his dreams. But for now, he would have to follow his gut.

As they turned to avoid a thick copse of trees, they skirted the edge of the battlefield and could see the fighting was all but over. It had spread out across a larger area, into smaller fights between individual men as one sought to flee, and an enemy gave chase. However, with the battle over and won, most of the surviving Normans marched northeast.

A loud yell caught Thaddeus’ attention, and he turned to see a Saxon man running towards them. He was a tall fellow with broad shoulders, but the scraggly beard on his face showed youth; despite his age, he wore a mail shirt, something typically reserved for the wealthier Saxon hearthguard. Thaddeus had never mastered the language of the Anglo-Saxons—it seemed to change with every generation—but the man was yelling something to him.

Thaddeus halted Polemistes, turned and drew his sword. Gunnar and Asaf did the same, the Norseman also readying his long spear, and the defrocked priest took up his hammer. The Saxon held up his long sword and his leather-bound round shield, which held a nasty crack as if he was signifying he wasn’t a threat. But before he could reach the trio, a Norman soldier raced up behind the man, swinging his sword after him.

The Norman’s long sword landed haphazardly against the Saxon’s hip. It drew no blood but was levied hard enough to bruise. The Saxon stumbled and fell to a knee and then turned in time to block another Norman attack. As the Norman’s blade struck the Saxon’s shield, the wood split even more, and the Saxon threw it aside.

The Norman swung twice, each time the Saxon gracefully dodging the attacks—the sign of a trained warrior; a hearthguard indeed. The Norman was trained as well, and certainly better than most of the Anglo-Saxons they fought, but not better than this man and, in frustration, turned to attacking with pure muscle and rage. Back on his feet, the Saxon returned the attack, his blade slicing across the Norman’s sword arm. He attacked again, but the Norman blocked the long sword. In response, the Norman swung down hard overhead three times, each time barely missing the Anglo-Saxon, his iron blade hissing through the air like a flaming arrow.

This went on for several minutes, a back-and-forth show of strength and determination versus finesse and training, but it was the Norman who tired first. His attacks became more awkward and careless, and the Saxon pressed his attack, pushing his foe back on his heels. The Norman’s appearance had been of a haughty leader, an important knight, but now his pale skin, glistening with sweat, and his shaped black beard were a stark contrast to the Anglo-Saxon’s sandy hair and ruddy complexion. Thaddeus could see the weariness in his shoulders, the fatigue throughout his body.

The Norman dropped his sword—only for a moment; it was all the Anglo-Saxon soldier needed. He gripped his long sword in both hands, and he swung hard. Thaddeus heard bone crack as the iron fell hard on the Norman’s shoulder and his knees buckled. He stepped sideways, his left arm hanging loose at his side, and the Anglo-Saxon swung again, and his sword caught the Norman in the ribs.

The long sword wasn’t meant for stabbing, with its tip rounded it was meant for slashing and clubbing, but nonetheless, the Saxon thrust. His cheeks puffed out, and his face turning red, the weapon pierced the cloth hauberk, broke through chest bone, and pushed out the Norman’s back between his shoulder blades.

Thaddeus saw the look on Gunnar’s face, contorted and disgusted. He felt the same. He had seen worse, much worse, more times than he could count or remember, but every time a man died right in front of him, it turned his stomach.

The Saxon pulled his sword free, and the Norman fell sideways, staring to the sky for a moment. His glassy gaze turned to Thaddeus, and he couldn’t help wondering if the man silently cursed them for not helping. Then, his eyes rolled back, a trail of blood escaped his mouth, and he breathed his last.

The Saxon turned again to face Thaddeus and his companions and dropped his sword on the ground before he rested his hands on his knees, panting to get his breath back. He lifted his head and yelled something, but Thaddeus didn’t know what he was saying. He looked to Gunnar. The Norseman’s native language was closely related to the language of the Anglo-Saxons.

What did he say? Thaddeus asked.

Help, Gunnar replied, "and something like we are the ones he’s looking for."

Do you think he’s the Lord’s vessel? Asaf asked, but Thaddeus had not time to reply, as Gunnar tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of his spear and then pointed across the field. Three other Normans were running towards the Saxon, the desire for death and revenge on their faces. The heavy shrug and then slump in the Saxon’s shoulders showed acceptance of defeat.

If he’s the one to lead us to the Lord’s mission, shouldn’t we help him? Gunnar asked.

I don’t know if he is, Thaddeus said. I didn’t see him in my dream.

Do we take that chance? Gunnar asked. You have not always seen the one who was the messenger, so can we let these Normans kill the man who might be the one to lead us to the Lord’s work?

No. Thaddeus shook his head. Asaf?

The cleric shook his head and shrugged.

Why the hell not?

Good, replied Thaddeus and nudged Polemistes forward. Do you think they speak Latin?

No, Gunnar said. They are simple foot soldiers.

What language do the Normans speak?

I think the same language as the Franks, Asaf replied.

Back down, Thaddeus said in Frankish.

One soldier laughed, another scowled, and the last one cursed.

I don’t think they want to comply, Gunnar said.

I think you’re right, Thaddeus replied as he nudged Polemistes again, moving his horse in between the Saxon and the Normans.

Move away, he said. Go back to your commanders, go back to your company and live another day.

The Normans replied by laughing, and Thaddeus studied the three soldiers. As Gunnar said, they were simple Norman foot soldiers, not the type to attack, unprovoked, a horsed swordsman, let alone three. Yet, these men laughed. They were different. Something else drove their desire to kill this Saxon. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer, a flash of light, in one of the soldier’s eyes, even though the sun had gone behind the clouds.

You don’t want to do this, Thaddeus pled in Frankish, knowing his words would fall on deaf ears. It didn’t matter what he said; these men would attack even if it meant their deaths. Today is not a good day to die.

One Norman tried to move behind Thaddeus, but Gunnar’s spear struck the man in the chest as another soldier tried to move to the front of Polemistes. Thaddeus pulled hard on his horse’s reins, and the horse reared up and kicked out with its forelegs. One hoof slammed against the man’s forehead, and he crumpled to the ground. The last Norman soldier tried to charge Thaddeus straight on, and a flash of steel removed the soldier’s sword arm just above the elbow.

Thaddeus dismounted and, sword still drawn, stood over the soldier. The Norman held his stump as blood spilled over his hand. He rolled about and kicked out, slamming his heels into the ground as he seethed through clenched teeth. He didn’t cry, and he didn’t ask for mercy. He looked at Thaddeus with dark, furled eyebrows and malice in his dark eyes. He cursed. That strange glint again.

I take no pleasure in this, Thaddeus said, placing the point of his sword above the man’s collarbone. I told you to leave. This man has earned his life today and, if you had listened, you would have earned yours as well. But blood lust cost you your life.

Let the dirty dog suffer, Asaf cursed. He should have listened. He deserves to bleed to death.

And who are we to determine what a man deserves? Thaddeus asked, keeping his