War King E-Book

Eric Schumacher

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Hakon Haraldsson took their father's throne. Now the sons of Erik Bloodaxe have come to get it back.

It is 954 A.D. and a tempest is brewing in the North.

Twenty summers before, Hakon Haraldsson wrested Norway's throne from his murderous brother, Erik Bloodaxe, but he failed to rid himself of Erik's family. Now the sons of Erik have come to reclaim Erik's realm and avenge the wrong done to their father and their kin.

They do not come alone. With them marches an army of sword-Danes sent by the Danish King, Harald Bluetooth, whose desire to expand his realm is as powerful as the lust for vengeance that pulses in the veins of Erik's brood.

Like storm-driven waves, the opposing forces collide in War King, the action-packed sequel to God's Hammer and Raven's Feast.

Leseprobe

War King

Hakon's Saga Book III

Eric Schumacher

Copyright (C) 2018 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 Conor Burke 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 my family and friends, for your love, patience, and continued support.

Acknowledgements

This is the third book in the story of Hakon the Good, and there are many people to thank for its existence. I again want to thank Marg Gilks and Lori Weathers, whose keen eyes and attention to detail honed my thoughts and words into the story you are about to read. I am also indebted to Gordon Monks, chief marshal of “The Vikings” re-enactment group, and all of the early readers, who served as an invaluable source of insight and feedback during the final days of writing. I want to thank my graphic designer, David Brzozowski, whose masterful artistry helps my covers stand out in the crowd, and my publisher, Creativia, for taking a chance on not just one of my stories, but three. And last but certainly not least, I want to thank you, my readers, for nudging me, encouraging me, and patiently waiting for me to finish this novel. 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.

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

bragarfull – A ritual drinking cup or drinking horn upon which men swore oaths and made promises. Also known as the “promise cup” or “chieftain's cup.”

burgh – A fortified settlement.

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

Danevirke – A defensive earthwork “wall” that stretched across the southern neck of Jutland. The main portion is believed to have been built in three phases between AD 737 and 968 to protect the Danes from the Franks. Old Norse: Danavirki.

dragon – A larger class of Viking warship. Old Norse: Dreki.

Dubhlinn Norse – Northmen who live in Dublin.

Eastern Sea – Baltic Sea.

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 – She is the highest-ranking of the Aesir goddesses. She's the wife of Odin, the leader of the gods, and the mother of god, Baldur. She is often confused with Freya. 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.

glima – A form of Viking wrestling, which can also be used as self-defense. It is still practiced in Scandinavia today.

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

greave – Armor worn on the shin (or forearm) to protect that part of the leg. These were most likely “splint greaves”, i.e. strips of metal connected by leather straps.

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.

Hogmanay – The feast preceding the Yule, which has come to be associated with the last day of the year.

infirmarius – The monk or nun attending the sick in a monastery.

Irland – Ireland.

jarl – Old Norse for “earl.”

jarldom – The area of land that a jarl ruled.

Karmoy (or Karmøy) – Karm Island. The island on which King Hakon's estate, Avaldsnes, is located. Old Norse: Kǫrmt.

Kattegat – The sea between the Northlands and the Danish lands.

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.

Midgard – The Norse name for Earth and the place inhabited by humans. Old Norse: Miðgarðr.

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

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

Norns – The three female divine beings who influence the course of a man's destiny. Their names are Urd (Old Norse Urðr, “What Once Was”), Verdandi (Old Norse Verðandi, “What Is Coming into Being”), and Skuld (Old Norse Skuld, “What Shall Be”).

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.

Orkneyjar – The Orkney Islands.

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

seter – A simple wooden cottage in the mountains with a barn where farmers (bonders) brought their livestock (cattle, goats, and sheep) to be milked after a day of grazing in the mountain pastures.

Sjaelland – The largest Danish island.

sjaund – A ritual drinking feast held seven days after a death to celebrate the life of the person and to officially pass that person's inheritance on to his or her next of kin.

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).

skeid – A midsize class of Viking warship.

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

Terce – A service forming part of the Divine Office of the Western Christian Church, traditionally held at the third hour of the day (i.e., 9 a.m.).

thane – A word used to describe a class of military retainer or warrior. Old Norse: þegn.

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, and 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.

valkyrie – A female helping spirit of Odin that transports his favorite among those slain in battle to Valhall, where they will fight by his side during the battle at the end of time, Ragnarok. Old Norse: valkyrja (pl. valkyrjur).

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

woolsark – A shirt or vest made of coarse wool.

Yngling – Refers to the Fairhair dynasty, who descended from the kings of Uplands, Norway, and who traces their lineage back to the god Frey.

Yule – A pagan midwinter festival lasting roughly twelve days. It later became associated with Christmas. Old Norse: Jōl

Part I

The fire-spark, by the fiend of warFanned to a flame, soon spreads afar.The Heimskringla

Prologue

Ostfold, Fall, AD 954

The old man was tied to a flame-blackened post. His matted gray beard rested on his chest and his legs were splayed out before his body. He leaned forward so that only his arms, which were pulled behind him and tied to the post at the wrists, held him upright. To Hakon, he looked as dead as the corpses lying around him.

“He lives,” called Toralv, Hakon's champion, whose massive frame dwarfed the man he knelt beside as he felt his wizened neck for a pulse.

Hakon exhaled loudly with relief. This was the fourth razed settlement they had found along the Ostfold coast. A survivor had been left in each of the other villages in a similar manner, but this old bugger was the first they had discovered alive. Now, hopefully, they could learn more about the raiders who had lain waste to this stretch of coastline.

“He will wish he had died when he awakens to this,” commented Ottar, who was the head of Hakon's hird, or household guard. And he was right, for there was nothing left in the seaside settlement save for smoke and ash and bloated corpses on which an army of flies feasted. Ottar was the nephew of Hakon's longtime friend Egil, who had held his same position before him. Ottar had joined Hakon's service when Hakon was but a whiskerless teen, and he not much older. Now, deep grooves lined the commander's hawk-like face and his forehead, highlighting the keenness of the eyes that studied the destruction.

“Untie him,” called Hakon to his champion as he ran a dirty hand through his sandy hair. “And give him some water.”

Hakon need not have wasted his breath, for Toralv was already pulling his knife from its sheath. They had known each other so long, the one knew what the other would say long before he said it. Toralv cut the man's bindings and gently lay him on his back, cradling his old head in the crook of his muscled arm so that he could pour some water over the man's chafed lips.

“A silver coin says he dies before nightfall,” wagered Bjarke, who rested his thick forearms on the head of his long axe. He was a thick man with a mane of wheat-colored hair that encircled his round head. Among Hakon's hird, only Toralv was taller.

“I'll take that wager,” said the smaller man next to him. Garth was his name. He was a good man, but a better scout, whose red hair, big ears, and small, dark eyes often put Hakon in mind of a harvest mouse. And like a mouse, something on him was always moving. Busy fingers. A tapping foot. Active eyes. At the moment, it was his head, which swiveled on his neck as he took in the grisly scene around him. “This man is lucky. The birds have made a right feast of the others, but there's not a peck on him. Aye, I'll take that wager.”

“Have some respect,” growled Ottar, “and make yourselves useful. Bjarke, search inland for survivors. Garth,” he called to the harvest mouse, “take some of the others and check the corpses and dwellings. See if there is anything here left to claim.”

“Mayhap you will find the silver coin you will owe me,” Bjarke quipped as he hefted his axe onto his shoulder and moved out. His friends, Bard and Asmund, went with him, looking like gods of war in their byrnies and helms, which gleamed in the pale autumn sunlight. They had also been with Hakon a long time, and had profited handsomely in his service. But they deserved it. They all did. Those in Hakon's hird were the finest of the fine when it came to warcraft, and to Hakon's mind, deserved every ounce of the riches they wore.

“You mean the one I will be adding to your lost wager?” Garth called after him.

Bjarke waved away the back talk with a grunt and wove through the wreckage in the direction of the tree line. Garth headed in the opposite direction, using his foot to poke at the corpses while batting at the angry flies that swarmed about him.

“Danes, do you think?” asked Ottar.

Hakon shrugged as his blue eyes swept over the smoke-shrouded bodies. “Danes. Swedes. Some bold sea king trying to make a reputation for himself. Only God knows. Hopefully now we shall find out,” he said with a nod toward the unconscious old man.

“Whoever they are, they grow bolder,” his nephew, Gudrod, said as he sleeved beads of sweat from his high forehead. Long ago, he'd been a thin man with wiry muscles and a shrewd face, but summers of wealth and peace had rounded his cheeks and softened his body. He wore a patch of cloth over his left eye to cover the wound he had received in a battle many summers before, so that it was with his right eye that he now appraised Hakon.

The renewed attacks could not have come at a worse time. For Gudrod's cousin, Trygvi, who ruled this area and who relished a good fight, had tired of the peace that had graced his realm these past summers and had just sailed west in search of adventure.

“Your cousin has picked a poor time to raid in the West,” remarked Hakon, giving voice to his sour thoughts.

“Do you not find it strange that raiders should come now, after so many years of quiet? It is as if they knew Trygvi was gone,” Gudrod said with a suggestive lift of his brow.

The thought jolted Hakon, for it suggested something larger than a series of random attacks was at play. “How long has Trygvi been gone?” Hakon asked.

“Not long, lord. Mayhap half a moon,” Gudrod said, then swatted in annoyance at the flies attracted to his sweating face. “Damn flies.”

Hakon grunted. “Long enough for word of his absence to spread.”

“Aye,” Gudrod confirmed. “Word often travels quicker than man.”

“Lord!” called Garth, drawing Hakon's mind from Gudrod's troubling suggestion.

Hakon and Gudrod picked their way through the carnage and stopped by the hirdman, who was now kneeling beside a partially burned shield, running his finger over a painted black rune that stretched from the shield's top rim to its bottom. Garth's eyes shifted from Gudrod to Hakon, then back to Gudrod. “Have you ever seen the like?”

Gudrod scratched his beard. “No. Never,” Gudrod said.

“Do you know anything of this rune? Or its design on a shield?” asked Hakon.

Gudrod shook his head. “It is the rune of the one-handed god, Tyr. But beyond that, I know not what it could mean. I will ask the traders in Kaupang. Mayhap they have seen the like before.”

Gudrod ruled the only trading town in the North, Kaupang, which lay north and west of their current location. For the right price, a man could find all he needed in the town, including information.

“Do so,” Hakon commanded.

The search revealed no more clues, so Hakon ordered his warriors to burn the villagers' bodies. Their bloated carcasses were filling the air with their stench and the birds were returning to the scene. He could not leave them for the animals and the maggots to devour.

The warriors dug a shallow ditch in the center of the settlement, which they then lined with logs. These they covered with fish oil before placing the bodies onto the wood. Hakon ran his eyes over the dead. There were eighteen in all. Most were old, though some infants also lay in the grave. All had been brutally killed. Butchered, then burned by the flames that engulfed the settlement's structures. The young and healthy had been captured and carried off to a grim future of thralldom. Though he had seen such atrocities too many times to count, he had never grown accustomed to the wickedness and injustice of it all. It was a cruel fate indeed for these villagers, and one they certainly did not deserve.

Ottar touched a flaming brand to the oil-slick wood, which responded instantly to the heat. Fire snaked across the logs and the bodies while the warriors looked on silently. Grimly. Some clutched the amulets at their necks. Others spat in the turf to show their ire. Hakon said a silent prayer for their souls, then turned from the flames and stalked to his ship.

The old man's haunting scream shattered the still night. Hakon sat up with a start and grabbed his weapon, the hair on his arms standing up straight. That is, until he realized it was just the old man, at which point he cursed. Around him, his men grumbled. They had brought the man on board and wrapped him in furs to keep him warm, and these he now threw off as he peered about him with a face full of fear and confusion.

“Balls,” Bjarke grumbled as he put his head back down.

Near him, Garth allowed a smile to stretch across his face. “I will collect my coin in the morning, Bjarke.”

Hakon approached the old man. “Peace,” he said. “You are among friends now.”

“Who are you?” the man croaked. His lips had split, so that he spoke with a mumbling dullness devoid of enunciation.

Hakon offered him a skin full of ale. “I am King Hakon, and these are my men. We saw the smoke from your settlement and came to investigate. We found you there.”

The man's fear evaporated, replaced instead by a mask of grief. “My settlement,” he croaked, the ale in his hand forgotten. “It is gone.”

Hakon kept his eyes on the man, knowing that many of the people in that settlement had been his friends and his kin. He could see that truth in the old man's eyes. “It is gone,” he confirmed gently. “I am sorry.”

The man drank then, and Hakon could see his hand shaking. When he finished his swig, he looked back at Hakon and narrowed his eyes under his gray brows. “They left me alive so that I might tell my rescuers what I saw.”

“And what did you see?” Hakon asked.

He looked at the crew, then back at Hakon. It was clear in the way he swallowed and cast his eyes about that it troubled him to say it, but he knew he must. “They told me that their father is dead, and that they have returned to take back what was once his.”

Hakon stared at the man for a long moment, trying to untangle the riddle of his answer. “Who has died?”

“Erik Bloodaxe.”

Hakon did not try to hide his shock, nor did his men, who had heard the old man's words and sat up to hear more. “Bloodaxe? Dead?” Hakon muttered. “When? Where?”

The man nodded. “I know only that he is dead. Nothing more.”

With effort, Hakon regained his wits and raised his hands for silence, for the old man's words had sparked disquiet among his crew. “What was the name of the man who told you this? Did he give his name?”

“Aye. He said his name was Gamle Eriksson, lord. That is who told me this news.”

Hakon knew what this man's answer would be, but it still hit him like a punch to the gut. Long ago, Hakon had captured his half-brother, Erik Bloodaxe, who had then been king. At the time, his men had urged him to kill Erik and his family and end the feud that was sure to come. Hakon had not, instead driving them from the realm. Hakon had been tired of fighting, and tired of killing. He would not raise his sword to his kin. It was a mistake that Hakon long knew would return to haunt him.

And now, it seemed, that time had come.

Chapter 1

Avaldsnes, Rogaland, Spring, AD 957

Hakon woke with a start. He had been dreaming, and like so many of his dreams of late, it had turned against him. An attacker had come to his bedchamber, a bloody sword in hand, ready to strike. Hakon had scrambled in the darkness, tried to rise, but his feet tangled in the bedding, and the villain's sword came down.

Hakon's gaze shifted to the closed door, the very same one through which the attacker of his dream had just come. The light of the dying hearth fire in the great hall seeped beneath it and cast a soft glow over the oaken walls and the blade-sheath that leaned, point down, against the bedframe near Hakon's head.

Slowly, he slid from under the bearskin and sat on the edge of his bed. As he worked the stiffness from his muscles, he became aware of the sounds and smells of early morning: the faint scent of beeswax candles that had long since surrendered to the night air; the stale stench of the previous night's feast; the snores of his hirdmen in the great hall; the fragrance of his mistress Gyda, who lay curled under the bearskin beside him.

He pulled on his clothes, then crept from the room, past his slumbering warriors, and out into the receding darkness. The night sentries mumbled a greeting to their lord as Hakon passed through the north gate of the palisade surrounding his hall and worked his way down a well-worn path to one of two burial mounds that sat like warts on the top of the nearby hill. No one knew for sure who was buried in the mounds, though the skalds liked to say they covered the remains of the first owner of the estate — a king named Augvald — and his son.

Winter had not yet released its purchase on the land, and the frost-covered grass glistened and crunched as Hakon climbed the mound and sat on its crest. He gazed out at the waking world with eyes that watered from the air's chill. Below him, the waters of the bay quivered in the gentle breeze and lapped against the two warships tied to his dock. Beyond the bay, the Karmsund Strait stretched north and south toward the sea like a dark vein. And beyond the water, east, stretched the rolling hills and valleys and waterways of Rogaland, the fylke to which Hakon's estate at Avaldsnes belonged. It was only a fraction of the realm he controlled — a realm that now reached from the snow-mantled fylke of Halogaland far to the north, to the rocky tip of Agder in the south, to the forested border of the Uplands far to the east. All of it was under his control or the control of his oath-sworn jarls, and most of those were his kin.

He rewarded the jarls richly for their fealty and in exchange, they fought vigorously to keep peace in the realm. But peace was never constant so long as men sought fame and silver and land. It mattered not that Hakon had restored trust in the laws that his brother Erik had spurned or that, in recent years, he had built a system for coastal defenses to protect his people. Raiders still came to his shores. Men still stole and murdered each other. And feuds raged on. It was the way of things, he knew. Yet the strife left in its wake an older king with streaks of gray in his sandy hair, scars on his body, and lines of worry etched on his face.

Time brought with it more than just physical strife. It brought hard memories of people and places that cut just as deeply as any blade. Memories such as Hakon's childhood love, Aelfwin, who long ago had sacrificed herself for the sake of Hakon's army. Memories of his long dead foster-father, King Athelstan, who had raised him as a Christian in Engla-lond and was the first to plant the seeds of kingship and legacy in Hakon's youthful mind. Memories of his kinsman and counselor, Jarl Tore the Silent, with his damaged throat and his big heart that had just stopped beating in his chest not one moon before. A man whose life he would soon celebrate on the northern island of Frei. Memories of his half-brother Erik, with his wild orange curls and mighty axe and brood of sons — sons who even now terrorized the Northern seas, gaining wealth and power and men, and who would eventually bring their death to Hakon's realm in full force. Hakon wiped the sleep from his face with a calloused hand and the memories vanished.

A tempest was brewing. Hakon could feel it in his bones, and in his gut, and in the ravens that landed each morning for the past month on the burial mounds where he now sat. Ravens were the messengers of Odin, who brought the news of the world to the Alfather's ears. Though Hakon clung to a different faith, he had lived long enough to know that the earth held its own secrets and that something was amiss — something beyond his control. Something greater than winter's thaw and spring's bloom. The elders, who for decades had held the North in balance, were dying; the young and the brash were gaining strength. Old. Young. Order. Chaos. Like storm-driven currents, the opposing forces were colliding, and when they did, Hakon would have no choice but to face the tempest and resist.

“Sleep robs you too, boy?”

Hakon turned his gaze to the shadowed figure at the base of the burial mound. He wore a long cloak with a hood that concealed his face, though Hakon didn't need to see the man to know it was Egil Woolsark, who had once commanded the king's hird and now helped train the younger warriors in sword craft. He had been old long ago. Now he was ancient. Which was why he still called the middle-aged Hakon, “boy,” a nickname he had used for Hakon since Hakon had been but a stripling.

“Aye, Egil. Sleep comes less easily to me these days.”

Planting his walking stick in the earth one step at a time, the old man worked his way slowly up the slope of the mound. Hakon rose to offer him assistance, but Egil knocked his hand away. When he reached the crown of the mound, he sat with a grunt beside his lord and huffed. “That is not as easy as I remember it being.”

Hakon laughed, but chose not to tease his aging friend. “How go the preparations?”

“From what I gather,” Egil began as he rested his walking stick across his lap, “your ship will be ready to sail before the sun is directly overhead. The thralls and men have everything assembled. It needs only to be loaded.”

Hakon nodded as his eyes moved to the dock and the warship they would be taking north, which was called Dragon. The mighty ship had once belonged to his renowned father, Harald Fairhair, and now was his. Once it was loaded, Hakon and half of his hird would sail to More to attend a feast celebrating the life of Jarl Tore. That thought weighed on Hakon like a wet cloak, for Tore had been more than the husband to Hakon's older sister; he had been an unfailing friend who had helped Hakon win the realm and keep the peace in the North. Now he was gone.

“It was no way for a man such as Jarl Tore to go,” Egil grumbled, referring to the way the old warrior had died. According to the messenger who had delivered the news, Jarl Tore had been surveying some work on his estate and had simply fallen to the ground, dead. It was not a hero's death, to be sure, but at least it had been quick. “I hope that old One-Eye and his valkyrie see him for who he was and that he is feasting with his kin in Valhall right about now.”

According to the Northern faith, the valkyrie chose the heroes worthy of fighting by Odin's side in the battle at the end of time, Ragnarok. Until then, they trained, fighting each day and feasting through the night in the hall of the slain, Valhall. “Death is a mystery, Egil. You may pray for Valhall. I will pray that Christ is in need of some good and valiant souls to take on the demons of this world.”

Egil spat. “Curse your Christ.”

Hakon smiled. Even in his mid-thirties, he loved ribbing his old friend, who had never adopted Hakon's faith. It was not a requirement for serving Hakon, though most of the men had allowed themselves to be baptized in the faith, if only for show and the shiny silver cross Hakon gave them to wear. If asked, most of his men would proclaim the name of Jesus, but when facing their enemies in the shield wall, it was to the old gods that men turned with their charms and mumbled supplications.

Down below them, the first of Hakon's thralls began to appear on the strand, carrying pots and barrels and coils of rope to the dock for the long journey north to Jarl Tore's estate. Hakon turned his eyes to the sky and marked the sliver of orange above the mountain range far to the east that men called the Keel. Like the sun, his men would be rising in the hall to tackle the tasks of the day.

“Have you spoken to Ottar?”

Egil nodded at the mention of his nephew. “Aye. He has agreed to stay, though he is about as happy as a coinless drunkard to be missing the action.”

Hakon nodded. “I do not blame him. It is a hard thing, being left behind and missing something like this.”

Egil grunted. “He will do what you ask, as he always has.”

Hakon held his lips tight, for Egil spoke the truth and there was nothing more to add.

“Well,” said Egil, pushing himself to his feet with a long moan and a popping of knee joints, “I will leave you to it, then.” He retreated down the slope with all the grace he could muster for his age.

When Egil was gone, Hakon rose and made his way to the church that stood on the western side of the palisaded estate. The place had grown from a simple structure with a dirt floor and makeshift stone altar to the most conspicuous hall on the island, with a high-beamed ceiling, beautifully carved pews, and a raised altar behind which hung a magnificent rood carved from an old oak. It would never compare to the massive stone churches of Engla-lond where Hakon had been raised, but its rustic charm spoke to Hakon's soul just the same.

A single candle burned on the altar as Hakon entered, its glow dancing on the rood and the bent shoulders of Hakon's priest, Egbert, who knelt in prayer. Hakon crossed himself and knelt beside his friend. He closed his eyes and willed his ears to focus on Egbert's whispered words.

“Blessed is the man who has not followed the advice of the impious, and has not stood in the street among sinners, and has not sat in the company of complainers.”

Hakon picked up the trail of it, then joined his priest in reciting Psalm 1 as Saint Benedict had commanded for the Prime service in his Rule.

“But his will is with the law of the Lord, and he will meditate on his law, day and night. And he will be like a tree that has been planted beside running waters, which will provide its fruit in its time, and its leaf will not fall away, and all things whatsoever that he does will prosper.”

The words sprang from the recesses of Hakon's mind and flowed like water down a well-worn path until the prayer reached its conclusion and his voice faded into nothing, leaving only the images the words had conjured in their wake. Slowly, Hakon opened his eyes and glanced over at Egbert, whose gaze was on the rood. After a moment, the priest crossed himself and acknowledged his king with a nod.

“You leave again,” he said by way of greeting.

Hakon's joints cracked as he rose. He was not yet old, but a life of battle and movement had already taken its toll. “Aye, Egbert,” he confirmed as he wiped the floor dust from his trousers.

“I suppose a priest such as myself would not be welcome among Jarl Tore's people?” Egbert pushed himself to his feet and faced his king. Hakon marveled at how little the man's clean-shaven, freckled face and mop of orange hair had changed since they'd first met in the courts of Athelstan as young teenagers. Save for the slight creases at the corners of his hazel eyes, he did not look nearly as old as Hakon felt.

Hakon shook his head. “No. Jarl Tore worshipped the old gods, as do his people. Your presence would be an affront to them and a risk to you.”

Egbert's eyes betrayed his disappointment. Long ago, as an idealistic teenager, Hakon had clung to the dream of bringing the light of the Christian faith to his people, but that dream had died with the deaths of Egbert's brother monks early in Hakon's reign. Other missionaries had come over time, but they had had about as much success converting the Northerners as a spider has trying to move a boulder. Christianity had seeped up from the land of the Franks to the Danes, and even to the Swedes. But here, in Hakon's kingdom, the old gods clung stoutly to the minds of men.

“It is a shame that even now, after all this time, his people could not look past my faith. Jarl Tore was a good man, and I would have liked to pay my respects.”

Hakon nodded into his gaze and patted his friend on the shoulder. “He was a good man,” Hakon agreed. “I shall pass along your condolences.”

“When will you return?”

Hakon scratched his beard, which, unlike most men, he wore short to keep it from getting in his way. “A moon from now. Mayhap sooner. While I am gone, I leave you in Ottar's care. Do as he says.”

Egbert's right brow rose. “Do you expect trouble?”

“There is always trouble,” Hakon answered with a smile. “That is why I forced you to train with weapons and shields, and why I expect you to stay alert and follow Ottar's commands.”

Egbert had not wanted to learn the way of weapons, but Hakon had refused to acquiesce. Warriors had murdered Egbert's brethren and many of the missionaries who came to the North. Hakon would not have Egbert's blood on his hands too, so he had issued an ultimatum: learn to defend yourself or leave the North. Egbert had chosen to learn. He would never be a king's champion, but he could protect himself well enough if it came to a fight. Even so, it was a skill he did not like to own, which was why he now blushed under Hakon's gaze.

“I will follow Ottar's command, lord. And I shall pray for Jarl Tore's soul and for your safe return.”

“Keep that between you and me. I doubt Tore's people would be comforted by your prayers.” He winked at his friend and left the church.

“Father!”

Hakon jumped at the shrill voice of his daughter, Thora, then relaxed when he saw the smile on her young face. She was running toward him, her long tangles of blond hair shooting in all directions as her slender legs carried her toward her father. She was tall for a nine-year-old, and athletic, and when she smiled, as she did now, her blue eyes put Hakon in mind of a spring's crisp sky. Hakon smiled at that thought, and at her, and bent down on a knee to receive her.

But she did not hug him as she normally did. Rather, she grabbed his thick forearm and yanked. “Come!” she commanded.

“What is it?”

“Come see!” she urged with another yank on his arm and earnestness in her eyes. “I will show you.”

He laughed and glanced back at Egbert, who leaned on the doorframe of the church, arms crossed, a grin creasing his freckled face.

Thora ran off and Hakon chased her. They skirted the inside of the palisade and nearly toppled two thralls who were carrying a barrel of fresh water between them.

“Where are you going?” Hakon called as they passed the door of the great hall where Hakon's woman, Gyda, stood.

“The sow is giving birth!”

Thora disappeared through the open door of the barn and stopped before a pen. Hakon came up beside her and gazed down through the gloom at the sow lying on her side in the straw. One of the thrall women — a woman named Siv — knelt by the sow's hind legs, humming quietly as she gently coaxed a tiny piglet out of the sow's womb. Another women knelt by her side, ready to rinse the blood and birth from its tiny body with a damp woolen rag. Two piglets already lay by the sow's front legs, sucking contentedly from their mother's teats.

“It is remarkable, watching these new lives come forth, eh?” Hakon commented above the din of lowing cows and grunting pigs that filled the barn. The animals were hungry and no doubt sensed the excitement of new life in the air.

“How many do you think she'll have?” Thora asked as the head of the newest life slipped from her mother's body.

Hakon shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can no more answer that than I can fly,” he said. “That is for God to answer.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes. He laughed.

“Come,” he said. “Let us let the women do their work. Have you eaten?”

“No, but I want to stay,” she said firmly. “I want to see how many piglets the sow has.”

Hakon knew her well enough to know that when Thora made up her mind, it was a difficult thing to sway. So much like her mother, Frida, God rest her soul. And himself, he supposed. “Very well,” he responded after a moment. “But come along in a bit. I do not want to leave without a farewell hug.”

Hakon left the barn and joined Gyda at the main hall. She had not moved from her spot at the doorframe. “Your daughter keeps you busy,” she said with a grin that pulled her round cheeks up and made small crescents of the blue eyes that shone under her brown tresses. Hakon couldn't help but notice how much she glowed this morning. It was the glow of pregnancy, and it brought a smile to Hakon's face.

Gyda was the daughter of a wealthy bonder named Arvid who lived across the Bokna Fjord on an island called Fogn, not far from where Hakon's own mother hailed. Gyda was Arvid's youngest child, whom Hakon had noticed two winters before at the annual law-thing. She was a striking beauty whose wit, laughter, and grace had finally broken through the icy layer of grief that had gripped Hakon's heart ever since the death of Thora's mother, Frida, six winters before. Sensing the attraction between his daughter and Hakon, Arvid quickly blessed the relationship, as much for his benefit as for theirs.

A summer later, Hakon brought Gyda to Avaldsnes to live, but not to marry. As a youth, Hakon had been forced into marrying the daughter of a king named Ivar, whom Hakon despised. Though the marriage never came to fruition, Hakon swore then that he would never bind himself in such a way again. He held to that promise with Frida, and now with Gyda. Whether Gyda liked the arrangement, Hakon knew not, for she never raised the issue again.

“Life keeps me busy,” Hakon responded now as he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “How is my boy?” Hakon rubbed the small mound of her stomach and smiled.

“So it is a boy now, is it? I thought you said you had no opinion on the matter. That you would put your faith in God.” She winked at him.

He felt the heat rise in his cheeks with the reminder of his words. “I —”

“Hold your tongue, lest you say something to make matters worse.”

He shut his lips and scratched stupidly at his beard. Gyda grabbed his calloused hand and leaned in close to his cheek. “Come. There is something I must show you before you leave me.”

They stepped into the gloom of the main hall. Most of his men had left, leaving the place empty save for a few thralls who toiled in the cavernous space, cleaning the remnants of the previous night's feast from the floor rushes and eating boards. They glanced briefly at their lord and lady, then made a show of their labor as Gyda pulled Hakon to the bedchamber.

Dragon and her crew were ready to sail by midday, as Egil had predicted. The wind had picked up nicely and the sun's rays danced on the rolling surface of the bay. Overhead, gulls called as they hovered on the air currents and searched for a meal on the crowded dock below. Hakon could only pray that this fine weather would last. As bright and cheery as spring could be, it could also be a fickle lover and bring with it sudden storms strong enough to flood newly seeded fields and force ships aground. Which was why Hakon's men who called themselves Christians ignored their king's dour gaze and cheered as Egil brought forth the blood of sacrifices in a wooden bowl.

“Do my sermons have so little effect on them?” Egbert grumbled from the side of his mouth.

Hakon glanced at his friend, whose orange mop of hair danced in the wind like a strong hearth fire, then sighed. “Sometimes I think they do these things just to vex me.”

Out on the dock, Egil splashed the blood onto the hull of Dragon so that it dripped down the strakes and into the sea. Hakon and Egbert crossed themselves.

“Go with God, my lord,” Egbert said with a final pat on Hakon's shoulder.

“Be safe, Egbert,” Hakon countered before he scanned the growing crowd. Seeing the man he sought, he yelled, “Ottar!”

Ottar broke off his conversation with Asmund, jogged across the dock to the beach, and nodded in greeting to his lord. Hakon put his arm over the man's shoulder and walked him away from the crowd. “Egil tells me that you are not happy to be left behind.”

Ottar stopped and peered at him. “My uncle has a big mouth. I meant only —”

Hakon held up a hand to cut him short. “I know what you meant and why you said it. But I need you to remain here with my family,” he nodded his chin toward Gyda, who stood nearby with her hands resting on Thora's shoulders. Both of them gazed out at the ship and the men saying their farewells to family and friends. Hakon turned his eyes back to his hirdman. “I understand your frustration at being left behind, but the task here is important, which is why I am entrusting it to you. I would leave it to Egil, but I fear he might keel over at any moment” — he smiled — “and I want to be near him if that happens.”

Ottar grinned through his graying beard. “If that is your worry, then leave Toralv.” Ottar jerked his thumb in the direction of the black-haired giant positioning a barrel on Dragon's deck. “Egil is my uncle, so I too should be there if death comes to find him.”

“Nay. Toralv would just empty my stores of ale and food.”

“You speak the truth,” Ottar conceded. “Very well. I will do my best.”

Hakon squeezed his hirdman's shoulder. “Thank you.”

They walked back to the group and Hakon joined Thora and Gyda. He knelt before his daughter and tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. She smiled. “I have a gift for you,” he said.

The girl's eyes lit up. “Truly?”

He reached into the pouch at his belt and extracted a dagger. “This,” he said, holding the blade up before her, “belonged to your grandmother, whose name, as you know, was also Thora. See here?” He pulled the dagger from its sheath and pointed to the runic etching on its blade. “That says 'Thora.' ” He handed the dagger to the girl, who took it reverently in her small hands. “It is yours now.”

“It is beautiful,” she said as she waved it in the sunlight.

“And it is dangerous, so be careful with it,” he said as he took her hand and guided the blade back into its sheath. He then hugged her tightly. “Be good, Thora. Do as Gyda says. Understand?”

She nodded.

He rose and kissed Gyda's soft cheek. “I will miss you.” He rubbed her extended belly gently. She smiled bravely at him despite the tears welling in her eyes. “Listen to Ottar.”

With a firm nod, he turned to go. He had planned all he could and said all there was to say. It was time to pay his respects to an old friend.

Chapter 2

Frei Island, North More, Late Spring, AD 957

Frei was the name of the island. Hakon had seen it a handful of times on his journeys to Sigurd's estate in Lade. It was hard to miss its craggy peak, Freikollen, which towered over the rest of the island and its flat neighbors like a slumbering giant. But Hakon had never been here. For on the island, in the shadow of Freikollen, was Jarl Tore's private estate at Birkestrand, the place he came to escape the pressures of ruling and matters of state, and to which he invited very few people.

As Dragon pulled into the bay on the east side of the island, it was suddenly clear why Tore clung so jealously to its privacy. The place was serene and stunningly beautiful, with a bay lined by a sandy beach, near which several ships lay at anchor. A broad pasture dotted with grazing sheep and split by a glistening stream sloped gently upward to Jarl Tore's hall and its outlying buildings. Behind the hall stood a forest of birch that rolled toward the rocky top of Freikollen, where streams and waterfalls cascaded like glistening strands of silver hair.

Jarl Tore's final resting place was on a small rise just to the north of the bay. There, under a large howe marked by a giant stone and surrounded by a line of birch trees were buried the remains of Tore, his ship, and what household items he had taken with him to the afterlife. Hakon felt a pang of remorse at having missed the ceremony honoring his friend, but it simply hadn't been possible for him to be there. By the time the messenger had reached Avaldsnes, Jarl Tore had been dead for many days. Best to bury him while he still resembled the vital man he'd been in life.

A throng of people approached the beach as Dragon glided closer. Hakon studied the crowd and a smile stretched across his face, for in the group he saw his friend, Jarl Sigurd, and the auburn curls of Sigurd's tall daughter, Astrid, who long ago had shared Hakon's bed. The smile faded as Sigurd's priest, or godi, stepped from behind the jarl. His name was Drangi, and he was a dwarf-like man with a bone-ornamented beard of gray and shifting eyes that never seemed to focus on anyone or anything longer than an eye blink. In the North, dwarves were thought to possess magic, and mayhap it had been that magic that had earned him a spot as one of Sigurd's chief counselors. Hakon had never witnessed Drangi's magic, which made the dwarf nothing more than a meddler in Sigurd's affairs.

Dragon bit into the pebbled sand and Hakon leaped from the gunwale, landing with a splash in the ankle-deep water. Such a leap had been easy for him as a young man, but now it took every ounce of self-control not to grunt with the jarring impact of his grand arrival.

Sigurd stepped forward with his arms wide and a wry smile on his weather-etched face. His auburn mane and beard were now silver with age, which complemented the jarl's torc that wrapped his thick neck. His bearlike shoulders and chest had shifted some to his belly, but there was still much strength in the crushing hug with which he received his king. “Welcome to Birkestrand, my friend. You are well met. And you too, you old dog,” he called up to Egil, who stood beside the mast, surveying the scene on the beach and probably wondering how he was going to disembark.

Egil's gaze settled on the jarl. “Old dog?” he snarled, then spat poignantly. “Did your father never teach you to respect your elders?”