Raven's Feast E-Book

Eric Schumacher

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Hakon Haraldsson returns in this fast-paced historical adventure set in Viking Age Norway.

It is 935 A.D. and Hakon Haraldsson has just wrested the High Seat of the North from his ruthless brother, Erik Bloodaxe. Now, he must fight to keep it.

The land-hungry Danes are pressing from the south to test Hakon before he can solidify his rule. In the east, the Uplanders are making their own plans to seize the throne. It does not help that Hakon is committed to his dream of Christianizing his people - a dream his countrymen do not share and will fight to resist.

As his enemies move in and his realm begins to crumble, Hakon and his band of oath-sworn warriors must make a stand in Raven's Feast, the riveting sequel to God's Hammer.

Leseprobe

Raven's Feast

Hakon's Saga Book II

Eric Schumacher

Copyright (C) 2017 Eric Schumacher

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art: David Brzozowski, BlueSpark Studios (additional art by Reza Afshar and Dominik Mayer)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Marie, Aidan, Lily, and the rest of my family, for your love, patience and support

Acknowledgements

This book may never have come to be without the advise, support and help of a handful of individuals. First and foremost, I need to thank Marg Gilks and Lori Weathers, whose keen eyes helped shape the story for public consumption. I am indebted to Gordon Monks, chief marshal of “The Vikings” re-enactment group, and the rest of the early readers, who served as an invaluable source of insight and feedback during the final days of writing. I want to thank Creativia for taking a chance on not just one of my stories but two. And last but certainly not least, I want to thank my readers, who have asked for this sequel and who have waited patiently for me to finish it. It is to you all, and to the countless others who have gladly accompanied me on this journey, that I owe a huge debt of gratitude.

Glossary

Aesir – One of the main tribes of deities venerated by the pre-Christian Norse. Old Norse: Æsir.

Balder – One of the Aesir gods. He is often associated with love, peace, justice, purity, and poetry. Old Norse: Baldr (pronounced “BALD-er”).

Balder's Eyelash – A chamomile substitute also known as sea mayweed. It is found in many coastal areas of Northern Europe, including Scandinavia and Iceland, often growing in sand or amongst beach pebbles.

bonder – Free men (farmers, craftsmen) who enjoyed rights such as the use of weapons and the right to attend law-things. They constituted the middle class. Old Norse: baendr.

byrnie – A (usually short sleeved) chain mail shirt that hung to the upper thigh. Old Norse: brynja.

Dominica – Day of God. Sunday.

Dreki – Old Norse for “dragon” or “serpent.”

Frey – Brother to the goddess Freya. He is often associated with virility and prosperity, with sunshine and fair weather. Old Norse: Freyr.

Freya – Sister to god Frey. She is often associated with love, sex, beauty, fertility, gold, magic, war, and death. Old Norse: Freyja.

Frigga – The wife of the god Odin and the highest ranking of the Aesir goddesses. She is often associated with love, marriage, and destiny. Old Norse: Frigg.

fylke (pl. fylker) – Old Norse for “folkland,” which has come to mean “county” in modern use.

fyrd – An Old English army made up of citizens of a shire that was mobilized for short periods of time, e.g. to defend against a particular threat.

godi – A heathen priest or chieftain. Old Norse: goði.

Hel – A giantess and/or goddess who rules over Niflheim, the underworld where the dead dwell. Old Norse: Hel.

hird – a personal retinue of armed companions who formed the nucleus of a household guard. Hird means “household.” Old Norse hirð.

hirdman (pl. hirdmen) – A member or members of the hird. Old Norse: hirðman.

hlaut – The blood of sacrificed animals.

jarl – Old Norse for “earl.”

jarldom – The area of land that a jarl ruled.

kaupang – Old Norse for “marketplace.” It is also the name of the main market town in Norway that existed around AD 800–950.

knarr – A type of merchant ship. Old Norse: knǫrr.

Nidhogg – The name of the dragon that gnaws at a root of the world tree, Yggdrasil. Old Norse: Níðhǫggr.

Niflheim – The mist-filled afterlife for those who did not die a heroic or notable death. It is ruled by Hel. Old Norse: Niflheimr.

Night Mare – The Night Mare is an evil spirit that rides on people's chests while they sleep, bringing bad dreams. Old Norse: Mara.

nithing – A person without honor. Old Norse: níðingr.

Njord – A god associated with sea, seafaring, wind, fishing, wealth, and crop fertility. Old Norse: Njörðr.

Odal rights – The ownership rights of inheritable land held by a family or kinsmen.

Odin – Husband to Frigga. The god associated with healing, death, royalty, knowledge, battle, and sorcery. He oversees Valhall, the Hall of the Slain. Old Norse: Óðinn.

Ostara – The celebration of the goddess of spring that bears that goddess's name.

seax – A knife or short sword. Also known as scramaseax, or wounding knife.

skald – A poet. Old Norse: skald or skáld.

shield wall – A shield wall was a “wall of shields” formed by warriors standing in formation shoulder to shoulder, holding their shields so that they abut or overlap. Old Norse: skjaldborg.

steer board – A rudder affixed to the right stern of a ship. The origin of the word “starboard.” Old Norse: stýri (rudder) and borð (side of the ship).

skol – A toast to others when drinking. Old Norse: skál.

thing – The governing assembly of a Viking society or region, made up of the free people of the community and presided over by lawspeakers. Old Norse: þing.

Thor – A hammer-wielding god associated with thunder, lightning, storms, oak trees, strength, the protection of mankind. Old Norse: Þórr.

thrall – A slave.

Valhall (also Valhalla) – The hall of the slain presided over by Odin. It is where brave warriors chosen by valkyries go when they die. Old Norse: Valhöll.

Well of Urd – A well or lake that lies beneath the world tree, Yggdrasil. It is also from this well that the Fates (or Norns) come. Old Norse: Urðarbrunnr.

wergeld – Also known as “man price,” it was the value placed on every being and piece of property.

Yggdrasil – An immense mythical tree that connects the nine worlds in Norse cosmology. Old Norse: Askr Yggdrasils.

Yngling – Refers to the Fairhair dynasty, which descended from the kings of Uplands, Norway.

Part I

Odin's sated birds Afterwards clawed the fliers; The ravens sought their food, And glutted their lust.Hakon'sdrapa

Chapter 1

The Vik, Summer, AD 935

Hakon sank to his knees before the broad trunk of a maple tree and clutched the cross that hung from his neck.

Closing eyes that stung from lack of sleep, he tried to recall a prayer he had learned in the Christian court of his foster father, King Athelstan, but it would not come. Instead, images invaded his thoughts that were neither wanted nor welcome. Images of Erik and his bloodied battle-axe. A crimson-faced Gunnar roaring as he beheaded the youth who had speared him. The glint of Ivar's blade as it slashed Aelfwin's neck and her life poured forth, dark and horrid, onto her killer's hands. Quickly they came, one after the other, uninhibited; and just as quickly, Hakon's bloodshot eyes opened to erase them.

For three days now — ever since the battle against Erik — the visions had accosted his young mind. They came in the quiet moments to torment his thoughts and steal his peace. When he rested. When he slept. When he prayed. Chilling images that varied in their horror, yet whose vividness never faltered. Fighting them was like fighting the mist.

“You curse your luck, boy.”

Hakon flinched at the sudden voice beside him, and his hand instinctively reached for the grip of his seax, but it was only Egil Woolsark, the aging leader of his household guard. He had once been a renowned warrior in the army of Hakon's father, Harald. Now he served Hakon and was the only man in Hakon's employ allowed to call his teenage king “boy.” He usually used the term affectionately, unless it involved the Christian God, as it did now.

Egil nodded at the cross in Hakon's hand, the movement shifting his white strands of hair to briefly reveal his bald scalp. “The battlefield belongs to Odin, not your White Christ.”

Hakon glowered. It was a common rift between them, and he was tiring of Egil's derision. “Save your words for the afterlife, Egil.”

Egil snorted and changed the subject. “The enemy moves.”

Hakon pushed himself to his feet. Though he'd seen only fourteen or fifteen winters — he had lost count of which — his body felt far older. The battle with his brother Erik had battered and bruised him, and the subsequent march to the coast had taxed his limbs, a reality that became even more apparent as he followed Egil through the woods toward the enemy camp.

Egil knelt at the edge of the woods and Hakon dropped down beside him. The camp lay but an arrow's flight away, a few paces inland from a small beach. It was a crude base, home to a motley rearguard whose mission it was to protect the ships that rocked in the nearby surf. Within the camp's protective fencing, warriors scrambled to dismantle their tents and pack their sea chests. Camp women helped gather their supplies.

Hakon eyed the enemy coldly. He felt no remorse for their impending doom. The crushing loss of Aelfwin had frozen him to such feelings. Besides, he had pushed his army hard to get to this place; he could not deny them the weapons and armor and arm-rings of the enemy warriors, for they were the spoils of victory. Nor would he let these nameless men take the ships beached on the shore, especially the one that used to belong to his father. Dreki, or Dragon, was her name. Even from this distance, Hakon could see her tall sides and sweeping prow towering over the other ships resting beside her.

“We should attack now, while all is still chaos,” growled Egil.

“Aye. Bring them forward,” Hakon responded.

Egil flashed a grin full of rotten teeth and moved off to ready the men, including Hakon's allies, Jarls Sigurd and Tore.

Little by little, his warriors crept through the forest and fanned out on either side of Hakon, their weapons drawn but held low. No one wore helmets or metal armor for fear the sound and sheen would alert the enemy. Within the camp, the warriors were oblivious to their peril, for all were intent on leaving.

Hakon pulled his seax from its sheath and squeezed its leather grip. It had a shorter blade than his long sword, which he had named Quern-biter, and was a better weapon for the close-quarters fighting of the shield wall. Slowly he slipped his arm into the straps of his shield, wincing as his bruised forearm slid across the wood. He exhaled slowly, steeling himself for the coming bloodshed.

“Loose!” came Egil's command from somewhere back in the trees.

Arrows arced through the morning air, seeking their prey with a wicked hiss. In the camp, three warriors crumpled to the ground. Another two grabbed at the missiles now protruding from their limbs. Screams shattered the morning calm. Seagulls scattered with angry cries.

Hakon charged from the underbrush as a second volley of arrows sent even more men to their death. Shield up and short sword ready, he sprinted, his aching body now alive with adrenaline, his battle cry joining the yells of his sword-brothers who charged beside him. Ahead of him, Hakon's friend Toralv hacked with his axe at the twine holding the gate shut. Hakon kicked the gate open and charged into the camp, shield high, ready for the missiles he knew would come. And come they did. An arrow ricocheted off his shield rim and lodged in the turf by his feet. A spear followed, slamming into the center of his shield and sending a stab of pain across his forearm. He yanked it free and moved on.

“Shield wall!” Hakon yelled at his men.

With practiced skill, his front rank came together beside him, overlapping their shields with his. To his right stood Egil. To his left, the young giant Toralv. Behind them, the second rank brought its shields up and readied itself. Jarl Sigurd's men fanned out to his right. Tore's line moved left. Before them, the enemy rallied around their leader, a brute of a man who carried only a sword and shield and wore neither armor nor helm. They too formed a shield wall, though in the face of Hakon's army, it looked pathetically small. Still, they did not lack in courage. They pounded their weapons on the shield rims and urged the attackers to come and die on their blades.

“Forward!” Hakon yelled.

His men advanced, their shields locked and weapons ready to strike. The enemy took a step backward, retreating with surprising order. The camp women scattered like rats in a burning hall. Some made for the ships. Others for the safety of the trees. Hakon's army ignored them, concentrating instead on the threat aligned before them.

“Faster!” implored Hakon. He could not let them reach their ships. His ships.

Hakon's warriors began to jog, doing their best to keep their shields even. The enemy continued their retreat. A few of their less seasoned warriors broke ranks and ran for the ships. The leader bellowed for the others to hold the line. He was not a man afraid to die, for despite the overwhelming numbers coming at him, he kept his men focused and ready.

The lines met with a thunderous clash that echoed across the beach. Hakon stared at the youthful face of the warrior before him. After the battle, he would remember that there had been fear in the boy's eyes, but in the heat of battle such things didn't register — all that mattered was surviving. And so Hakon stabbed over his shield rim at that face. His blade struck something, though just what he could not tell, for all was chaos and jostling. He pulled his seax back just as a spear point slid past his shoulder. An axe blade followed, hooking the top of his shield. Hakon pulled back sharply, yanking the axe-wielder forward and off balance. Egil sliced his blade across the warrior's thigh. As the man faltered, Toralv hacked into his neck and the warrior dropped dead at Hakon's feet.

Hakon stepped over the body, locked his shield with Toralv's again, and continued pressing forward. Beside him, Egil roared as he brought his sword down on a man's exposed head, splitting his skull.

A cheer rose suddenly, and Hakon ventured a glance about. The enemy leader had fallen, and so too had his standard. The enemy shield wall crumbled and men broke ranks and ran. Hakon's army pursued them, slicing the hapless cowards in the back as they reached the shore or tried to climb aboard the ships. Around the standard a pocket of warriors fought on, but they too soon fell under the relentless blades of their assailants. Hakon's army swarmed the ships, attacking the women and the few men who tried to protect them, for the battle frenzy was upon them now and nothing would stop them until their anger and lust were slaked.

Hakon watched for a moment, then turned his back to the scene. Behind him rose the screams of the dying and the molested. He closed his mind to it, wanting only to cleanse himself of the blood that clung to his skin and breathe deeply of air not fouled by death.

Tossing his battered shield aside, he knelt on the pebbled strand beside the sea and dipped his hands into the cold water. He scrubbed the dirt and gore from his face and the youthful whiskers that now grew from his jaw, realizing distantly that for the first time, he hadn't vomited after a battle. Though whether that counted as maturity or callousness, he couldn't tell, nor did he wish to know.

Washed and refreshed, he stared at his reflection rippling on the ocean's surface, at the icy eyes, long nose, and wheat-colored tresses. Men said he carried the looks of his late father, King Harald. Whether there was any truth in that, Hakon didn't know, for he had only known his father as an old man, long after his signature “fairhair” had gone white and his eyes rheumy with age.

Calmer now, Hakon gazed at the ships. When he found the one he sought, he approached her reverently, ignoring the corpses draped over her gunwales and floating in the surf beside her hull. Dragon was named for the serpent head that adorned the bow-post in battle and for the long, sloping lines of her oaken hull. She could seat thirty-four oarsmen per side, with room for more in the fore and aft decks. It was one of the greatest ships the North had ever seen, and now it was his. Hakon waded into the surf and ran his hand over the carvings that decorated her lines — serpentine designs that depicted the life and adventures of Hakon's celebrated father.

“It is good to see you again, my old friend,” Hakon whispered, remembering with a pang of nostalgia all the times his father had sailed off in her to some distant land or battle, leaving Hakon alone with the hope that one day he too might follow his father's path. And now she was his. He smiled at that thought, but his gladness was short-lived, for someone coughed behind him. Hakon turned to see Egil standing on the strand, the crimson feculence of battle spattering his white beard and namesake woolen shirt, or woolsark.

“It is done,” Egil said simply. Behind him, the warriors were beginning to strip the enemy dead of their weapons and possessions.

Hakon nodded. “See that the booty is shared equally, and our dead and wounded cared for,” he said. “Then fetch the jarls. We have much to discuss.” Egil nodded and turned to leave. “And Egil,” Hakon called, “wash yourself.”

Later that morning, Hakon sat with his war leaders, Jarls Sigurd and Tore, his nephews Gudrod and Trygvi, and Egil. Before them crackled a small fire, for though daylight now brightened the beach, the sun had failed to break through the clouds.

“Today was a great victory!” Sigurd began in his usual boisterous manner. His thick build and auburn mane reminded Hakon of a bear. He ruled a land far to the north called Trondelag, a land Hakon's father had given to Sigurd's father. He was also one of Hakon's closest advisors and the man responsible for bringing Hakon back to the North from Engla-lond to fight Erik. “We should give a sacrifice of thanks to the gods, eh, Hakon?” He winked at his Christian gibe, but Hakon was in no mood for such jests and did not rise to the goading. Nearby, the gulls had gathered their own army and meticulously pecked and tore their way through the corpses. The sight and sound of it sickened Hakon.

Trygvi scratched at the lice in the depths of his unruly brown hair. “That was no great victory, Sigurd. That was but a skirmish in comparison to the battle with Erik.” He studied his nails for a moment, then flicked something into the fire.

“It was merely a joke,” Sigurd explained, shaking his head at Trygvi's thick-headedness.

Trygvi was the son of Hakon's older half-brother Olav, a brash man who had died for underestimating Erik. Sadly, Trygvi had inherited Olav's propensity to act before thinking, a trait that made him a formidable fighter in the shield wall but not very sensible. What Trygvi said, however, was true: the battle with Hakon's brother, Erik Bloodaxe, and his army of Westerners and Danes had been bitter. Erik's larger force had fought uphill and had eventually broken the shield wall of Hakon's smaller army. Only the late arrival of Jarl Tore and his men had changed the momentum of the fight and crushed the enemy's will.

Hakon looked in Jarl Tore's direction. He, like Sigurd, Gudrod, and Trygvi, was kin. His wife was Hakon's older half-sister Alov, making him Hakon's brother-in-law, which was a strange thing to contemplate, given their difference in age. The past week had been hard on everyone, but especially on Tore, who was no longer a young man and whose tangled gray hair, slumped shoulders, and red-rimmed eyes revealed the strain of two battles in so short a time. Tore caught Hakon's eye and smiled tiredly, stretching the thick scar on his neck, a wound he'd received winters ago that still kept him from speaking, save for well-chosen words, and had earned him the byname “the Silent.”

“Battle or skirmish, it doesn't matter,” Hakon interjected. “What matters is that we did well today. But there is still much to do. Today we have taken my brother's ships. Now we take his wealth.”

Those in the group looked at each other. “What do you propose?” Egil asked as he studied a silver bracelet that had been part of the plunder.

“I propose that we take back Kaupang at Skiringssal.” The comment drew all eyes to Hakon.

Long ago Hakon's grandfather, Halfdan the Black, had erected a massive hall in the Vestfold, close to the burial mounds of his forefathers. He called the structure Skiringssal, or the “Shining Hall.” At some point a marketplace, or kaupang, had sprung up on the shore of an inlet near the hall. It was the closest thing the North had to a trading town, though it was far smaller than Hedeby in the land of the Danes, or Birka to the east. Bjorn the Chapman, another of Hakon's half-brothers and the father of Gudrod, eventually inherited the land and the hall and built the marketplace into a small town.

Ever jealous of the town's wealth, Erik Bloodaxe killed Bjorn when he came to power and placed a Dane named Ragnvald over the land. Ragnvald's father was a Dane of some import in Jutland, with ties to the Danish king, Gorm. Men had questioned the appointment at first, but it had proven to be one of Erik's wisest moves. It repaired relations with the Danes and brought more Danish traders to the town, which in turn put more gold in Erik's coffers.

Hakon looked at Gudrod and Trygvi. “It is time to retake the land your fathers ruled.”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Gudrod said, speaking for both of them. Of Hakon's two nephews, he was the slighter man, with a long, thin frame and straight blond hair he often wore in a ponytail. Now it hung straight about his face, covering the wound on his forehead he'd received in the battle with Erik. Like Trygvi, he was older than Hakon, but unlike Trygvi, he was far more clever and industrious.

Sigurd adjusted his hulking frame on the log where he sat and stroked his auburn beard. “Killing Ragnvald could bring the Danes against us.”

“I would rather take that risk than let Ragnvald rule,” Trygvi said forcefully. “It is our land. Our town.”

“I agree that it may cause problems with the Danes, and I also agree that we can't let one of Erik's men rule there. We should attack quickly, before Ragnvald has a chance to prepare.” Hakon's icy eyes scanned the faces around him. “I have asked much of you these past days, but I will need your support in one more fight. What say you?”

“Aye,” said Gudrod and Trygvi in unison.

Sigurd nodded. “I suppose I have one more fight in me.”

Egil shrugged. “I am your man, Hakon. I go where you go.”

All eyes turned to Jarl Tore, who kept his gaze on the flames before him. “I will put the question to my men,” he responded in his rattling voice. With his damaged neck, every word was a struggle for the graying man. “Those who wish to fight can do so. I will not join them. It's time to let some of the younger whelps earn their fame. I have earned mine already.”

Hakon grinned at the boast and patted Tore's shoulder. “I understand, my friend.”

He turned back to the others. “We sail on the morrow. Egil, take Trygvi and Gudrod to inspect the ships. We have men enough to sail ten of them, I think, so choose the best and see that they are seaworthy.”

“What of the others?” asked Egil. “There are another ten good ships there. It seems a waste to leave them for some no-name to find.” Which was true. A good ship could take years and plenty of silver to build. Plus, as Hakon's army grew, the ships would be needed, or so he hoped. But transporting them would take more time and men than he had, especially if he wished to sail on Kaupang quickly.

“Leave that to me,” Tore interjected. “We still have our ships moored to the east of here. I will take the remaining ships to my fleet and bring them to Kaupang.” He swallowed several times to clear his damaged throat. “Just have the ale ready for me. Getting all of these ships down there will be thirsty work.”

“So it is settled,” said Hakon. “We will divide the ships equally between us when Jarl Tore brings them.” The men grinned at their leader's generosity. He dismissed their grins with a wave. “Now away with you.”

Tore and Sigurd remained with Hakon after the others left. They sat silently for a time, each lost in his thoughts. Tore held his hands to the flames as Sigurd prodded the embers with a stick. Hakon scratched at the blond stubble on his chin, waiting for them to speak. He knew them well enough to know that something was on their minds. Finally, he could bear their silence no longer. “You have something more to say?”

Sigurd's eyes peered out from under his chestnut-colored brows. “Your victory over Erik is just the beginning, Hakon. When men get word of his defeat, there will be upstarts ready to take his place. You must make your victory known and show your strength. Since he prefers not to fight, let Jarl Tore sail to the west in strength to spread the word of Erik's defeat.”

Tore grunted. “That I will gladly do.”

“Is it not strange to send the man we call 'the Silent' to share the story of my victory with others?” Hakon winked at his kinsman to show him he meant no offense.

“Before this,” he pointed to the scar, “my voice boomed like Thor's own thunder.”

Sigurd rolled his eyes. “That was your farting, old man. Not your voice.”

Hakon laughed. “Then it is done. After you bring the ships to Kaupang, you shall carry my victory message west.”

A silence settled back over the group like a winter's snow. Sigurd poked at the fire again. “There is more, Hakon,” he said after a time. The mirth that moments before had danced in his eyes was now gone. “You must also consolidate your power. Quickly. The sooner you marry Groa, the better.”

Sigurd had arranged the marriage to guarantee the support of an area known as the Uplands in the battle against Erik. But the princess Groa had proven to be ill mannered and repugnant. Worse, she was the daughter of Ivar, the self-styled king of the Uplands, and the man who had murdered Hakon's childhood love, Aelfwin, on the eve of the battle with Erik as a sacrifice to the war gods. The very mention of Groa and her father stoked a black fury Hakon had been struggling to suppress — a fury that now began to boil over.

Sigurd must have seen it, for he held up his hands to calm his king. “I see in your face the pain it brings you. Nevertheless, this is your oath and the price of your kingship.”

“You know nothing of the pain I feel, Sigurd,” Hakon spat, then looked away until he could control his rising ire. When he was calmer, he turned back to the jarls. “Besides, I cannot marry her until I have priests here to baptize her. That was the bargain.”

“We may not have the time for that,” rasped Tore. “You must see the marriage through soon. For the sake of us all.”

Hakon rose, his icy eyes skewering one man, then the other. “The marriage will happen, Tore. Never fear.” He strode from the fire, lest he say something he might regret.

As Hakon stormed through the camp's gates, he caught sight of the prisoners from his battle with Erik. They had captured some fifty men in total, including his brother. Four days prior, Erik had sat on his horse, resplendent in his helm and battle armor at the head of an army that numbered more than a thousand men. Now, under the watchful eyes of Hakon's warriors, Erik shuffled among the survivors, bruised and bloodied, his shirt and trousers torn, his armor and weapons stripped from him, his army crushed. Hakon approached him.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance, brother,” Erik said when Hakon drew near. “For now I will haunt you until I've had my revenge.”

Hakon looked up into his gray-green eyes. “I will rest well, knowing I spared your life, Erik. But I do so only once. If you return, I will not be so charitable.”

Erik thrust out his chin with its dirt-matted red beard. “I will return, Hakon. This realm belongs to me!”

“Our father gave you the land to rule, not to plunder and use like a whore. You abused your right, and so now you stand here before me, a prisoner.”

Erik spat in his younger brother's face. It was a snap reaction to Hakon's harsh words, but it was the wrong thing to do, for Hakon still burned with the rage caused by the words of Sigurd and Tore. Hakon turned from his brother, wiping away the saliva with his sleeve.

“Walk away, brother,” mocked Erik. “You have not the courage to —”

Hakon spun and slammed his fist into Erik's stomach with all his might. The air shot from Erik's body and he dropped to his knees, his head bowed as he struggled for breath. Before he could recover, Hakon smashed his fist into Erik's face. His brother's head jerked back and he crumpled unconscious to the ground. Blood poured from his crushed nose. Shaking with rage, Hakon spat upon him as the other prisoners looked on despondently.

Chapter 2

“This is like sailing into Niflheim,” grumbled Egil as the ship crept forward.

Niflheim was the world of mist and darkness, where the goddess Hel ruled the corpses of dishonorable men and the serpent Nidhogg gnawed at the roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil. Hakon crossed himself at its mention and stared into the grayness ahead. Dense billows pregnant with moisture swirled around Dragon, slickening the decks and shrouding the land they now approached. Gathering moisture dripped from the hair and faces of the warriors at oar and the fangs of the prow beast. The lack of wind left room for a maddening chorus of directionless sounds that tormented Hakon's nerves: the soft slap of oars against water, the creak of the ship's strakes, the shrill cry of unseen gulls. It was cold, but Hakon's apprehension warmed him. A bead of sweat trickled down his armored back.

The fog had rolled in the night before as they camped, cold and fireless, on their ships in a cove on the south side of a nearby island, away from the roving eyes of Ragnvald's scouts. Hakon's councilors had cautioned him to wait for the fog to lift. It was a bad omen and a danger, they warned. Bad things lurked in the fog, like evil spirits and unseen rocks and trolls hiding below the water's surface. Hakon feared the fog too, but he had seen scouts during their southward journey and sensed Ragnvald would be waiting. To tarry now was to give the enemy more time to prepare. However frightful, the fog would shield their movements from watchful eyes, and so he had decided to come.

Now, as his eyes peered into the billowing whiteness, he hoped he had been right. The ships traveled in single file with Dragon in the lead, Hakon's nephew Gudrod at the bow-post, listening and watching and guiding with hand signals, for he had grown up with Trygvi in this area and knew it well. The other ships followed closely behind, though Hakon could barely see them. In each rowed a skeleton crew encumbered by wounded and the remnants of Erik's army.

Gudrod lifted both arms. Oars up. He was looking to his right, where every so often the fog would reveal a stretch of rocky coastline. Then, suddenly, he pointed. Egil pulled hard on the steer board. In unison, the left side of the ship pulled while the right back rowed. Dragon turned her head and glided toward land. Behind them, the other ships followed.

Hakon walked to the prow, peering into the grayness ahead. His sword, Quern-biter, was in his hand. A span of beach peeked through the fog, then emerged from the shrouding mist as Dragon slipped nearer. They were in a bay formed by rocky, tree-topped fingers of land on either side. There was no sign of movement.

Dragon bit into the sand and came to rest. Quickly, Hakon and most of his crew disembarked and ran up the beach to form a protective shield wall. Egil came with them.

“Which way, Gudrod?” Hakon whispered.

He pointed with his drawn sword into the grayness as crewmembers from the other ships joined them. “North. There is a track we can follow. It leads through the woods in front of us and will take us to Kaupang from the inland side.”

Hakon saw no trees, only thick, shifting fog. He crossed himself and pulled his cloak tightly over his armored shoulders.

When all the ships had landed, the army moved inland. Fifty men stayed behind to guard the ships and prisoners. About two hundred paces in, they found the tree line. Hakon halted his men and took a knee behind his shield. He waited, half expecting spears and arrows to shoot from the shadow of the forest. Nothing happened. He motioned the column forward.

If they had landed unnoticed, that cover was soon lost within the trees. An army of warriors made noise. Too much noise. Though wet pine needles carpeted the ground, branches still snapped, belts creaked and metal grated – it was inevitable, and nerve-wracking. With each step, Hakon expected Ragnvald's army to materialize before him or to strike from some unseen location, but the only army they encountered was the shadows and tree limbs and the forest animals that scurried in the underbrush.

They walked on, angling inland. Here, the fog thinned and the land funneled into a gap between two tree-studded hills. Hakon surveyed the landscape. If Ragnvald wished to defend himself, this was the perfect spot.

Gudrod motioned him forward and pointed to his right. “Kaupang is over that hill. Mayhap two flights of an arrow from here.”

“And Skiringssal?”

“Ahead. A thousand paces or so.”

“Be alert!” Hakon whispered to his giant friend Toralv, who walked nearest him. “Spread the word.” Toralv moved off to do Hakon's bidding.

In the end, an attack never came. Rather, the landscape opened and dipped into a basin through which a fog-shrouded stream meandered toward the bay off to Hakon's right. On the opposite side of the stream, nestled on a rocky rise of land, was Skiringssal…or what was left of it.

The hall and the structures surrounding it had been set ablaze. Hakon cursed under this breath as he gazed upon the destruction. Though he had never spent time here, he still felt the sting of its loss. The hall had been built by his grandfather and inhabited by his half-brothers Olav and Bjorn. It was here that his father and his nephews had been raised. And now it was gone, reduced to a pile of ash and clusters of blackened beams that reached like broken fingers for the indifferent sky.

“The wood no longer smolders,” Egil commented, suggesting it had been burned days before. Which meant Ragnvald and his warriors were gone.

A sudden chill crept up Hakon's spine. “Gudrod, take us to Kaupang. Use a route not many would travel.”

Gudrod took them along a path that angled up over the tree-lined hill so that they came on Kaupang from the inland side. They approached cautiously, though they need not have, for the town had been reduced to nothing. All that remained was smoldering wood, dead bodies, and swarming flies.

Hakon motioned his army forward and entered the smoking maze of homes and pens and shelters with his arm across his nose to mask the stench. Amid the destruction lay the bloated and beast-torn bodies of gray-haired men and women, young children, and animals, their blood forming dark, coagulated rivulets on the muddy ground. Ragnvald had taken the town by surprise, for most of the people had been sliced in the back while attempting to escape. There were no warriors among the dead and no organized defense that Hakon could see.

“Ragnvald has taken everything of value,” Egil noted sourly, “and destroyed the rest. The bastard probably took it all to Hedeby to sell.” He spat to punctuate his disgust.

Hakon wove his way through the destruction to the shoreline and gazed out at Kaupangskilen, the inlet on which Kaupang lay. Flying gulls protested the interruption of their feasting, casting shrill curses down upon him as rage and heart-sickening sadness wrestled for equal purchase of Hakon's soul. His destruction of Erik's army had prompted this carnage, yet there could be no other way. He could not turn back time, nor would he have wished for any other outcome against his brother. Erik had placed Ragnvald over these people. The blood of these people was on his hands, yet it hurt nonetheless.

Gudrod joined Hakon at the waterfront.

“I'm sorry, Gudrod,” Hakon said after a time. “This is not the inheritance I wished for you, or your cousin.”

“It is not your fault, lord.”

“Oh, this is definitely my fault. If Erik had had the victory against us, do you think any of this would have happened?”

“So you wish you had been defeated by Erik, eh?”

“No. That is not what I meant.”

“That is what it sounded like. Put your guilt aside. Someone else destroyed this place.” Gudrod remained silent for a time, and then suddenly snorted.

“What?”

“The gods love their mischief, eh?” He cursed then and cast his eyes to the sky. “Ragnvald will come again,” he said. “We would do well to plan for that day.”

“You will stay?”

“Where else would I go? I belong here. It is my home.”

Hakon smiled weakly. Unlike his cousin Trygvi, who acted on emotion, Gudrod was far more practical. “You will need men to rebuild this place.”

“We have some. I could use the prisoners though.”

“You can have all of them save Erik. He is mine.”

Gudrod nodded, satisfied.

Hakon sent a party of men to retrieve the ships and sail them up the Viksfjord to Kaupangskilen, though he left ten men to watch from the headland at the fjord's entrance with instructions to light a beacon fire should Ragnvald unexpectedly reappear. He also sent a scouting party north and west. There was a chance that the destruction of Skiringssal was a ruse, and that Ragnvald was still near.

The scouts did not find Ragnvald, but they did find thralls — a group of them — and brought them before Hakon. Blood and mud and soot caked their skin and torn clothing, giving them the appearance of people risen from the grave. They walked together under the watchful eyes of the scouts, unarmed and miserable. There were roughly twenty of them, mostly men and women of middling age, wearing the cropped hair and leather collars of thralldom. They stared at Hakon and he stared back, unsure of what to make of the thralls or why they, and not any townsfolk, had survived. After a time, Hakon broke the uneasy silence, calling to his men for water and food.

“Who are you?” Hakon called to a young man who stood at the head of the group.

The man bowed his head. “They call me Theuderic,” he croaked.

It was a Frankish name, though he spoke the Norse tongue well enough. “Who did this, Theuderic?” asked Hakon.

The young man's eyes turned to the dead. “A lord. He and his men. Two days ago.” He spoke haltingly.

“Why? Did he say anything before he did this?”

The man shrugged. “I don't know. He just came. He and his men. In the early morning. We were asleep…there.” He pointed to a pen closest to the woods. It was a holding pen, the kind where slaves were often kept before going to the trading blocks. Guarded, the pens offered little escape, but in the chaos of battle, it would have been easy to dig beneath the lowest beams and disappear.

“And then they left?”