To my left, I heard Turid shriek. She had fallen to the deck and lay on her back. As an Estlander stepped forward to finish her with his hand axe, I hacked into the man's spine. So deep did my blade bite that it would not dislodge. To my right, another warrior lunged. I had time only to raise my shield as his blade flashed. The force of his blow knocked me sidelong. He pursued me as I staggered but made it only a step before Turid hacked into his leg from her place on the deck. I smashed my shield rim into his nose as he bawled his pain, then fumbled for the axe that Turid's attacker had dropped. I turned to finish him, but there was no one to attack. Klerkon had managed to get his crew to return to his ship, and the surviving Estlanders were now scrambling to their sea chests and oars.
Without thinking, I tossed my axe at the slaver as he called to his men. It spun over the heads of the Rus and thudded, blade first, into Klerkon's armored chest. He staggered backward, shocked at the blow. But then the blade dislodged and fell to the deck. His armor had saved him, though I am certain my axe had pierced his skin. It certainly got his attention. His eyes found me standing on the knarr. No recognition crossed his face, but he raised his blade and pointed it at me in challenge as his men pushed their injured vessel from our ship and pulled away.
The fighting had ended on our ship, leaving in its wake a sickening weave of carnage. At least ten of Klerkon's men lay in warped postures of death, their limbs at strange angles or strangely absent. Intertwined in those corpses lay six of Sigurd's men. Raban lay near them in a puddle of blood, an Estland warrior across his legs. There was a puncture hole in his chest and a deep gash across his forehead. Crumpled beside him was Sigdag, her arm across his chest. Egil sat against the mast, his arm half-severed and bleeding profusely. Sigurd and six of his Rus warriors stood in the human wreckage with hands on knees, gasping for breath but alive.
“Turid. See to Egil!” I yelled as I scanned the deck for Olaf.
My eyes found him up near the foredeck. He lay face down, unmoving. I ran to him and knelt by his side, the hand of panic gripping my heart, a lump of grief in my throat. I rolled him over and searched his gore-slimed body for a wound but could find none. All I could see was a deep dent on his helmet. “Olaf!” I called.
Nothing.
Across from us, Klerkon and his men started to row, their oars smacking our hull as they clumsily pulled their listing craft against the current. I hesitated, caught between my desire to exact my revenge and my fear of losing Olaf. I turned back to my charge and shook his shoulders. “Olaf!” I yelled at him. “Get up!”
The port wale of Klerkon's ship crashed hard into our stern, throwing our vessel off-kilter yet again. Several of the crewmen stumbled backward, as did I. It was only when I recovered that I realized that one of our own dragon ships had arrived, cracking oars and timber as it scraped along the steer board length of Klerkon's vessel and drove it back into our knarr.
Lines flew from the Rus ship onto Klerkon's deck. Rus warriors streamed over the gunwales and onto the enemy vessel. The Estlanders grabbed their own weapons and flew from their sea chests. Seeing my chance, I quickly found my feet and rushed toward the prow, sword and shield in hand. I hauled myself up and onto the aft deck of Klerkon's ship and yelled at my prey.
“Klerkon!”
He spun and studied me with those calculating blue eyes, a hand axe in each hand, no shield in sight. He wore his byrnie and a helm, but it was those eyes that held my attention. They brought me back to the day that my father fell and we were enslaved. I could tell that the bastard had no clue who I was. It pained me to realize that, for I had dreamed of this moment for so long and yet I was no one to him — just one of hundreds whose lives he had destroyed.
“You do not remember me,” I spat at him.
“No,” he sneered, “though I will enjoy capturing you and selling you.”
“You already did, you bastard. And for that, you will die!”
If he was intimidated by my words, he did not show it. He came at me with his hand axes swinging. He was lower than me and swung at my legs. I blocked the hack low to my left, then shifted my shield to the right, barely catching his second swipe with the rim of my shield. As his left arm came back, I swung down with my sword at his left shoulder, but he must have known the swing was coming, for he sidestepped right to avoid my blade, then slammed his axe down onto my blade. The blow was meant to knock the blade from my hand, and it nearly did, reverberating up my arm to my shoulder. I hung tight and moved right, jumping from the aft deck to give myself some space.
It was the wrong move.
Rather than stepping back and making him climb up to me, which would have proved difficult with my long sword and his hand axes, he was now on the same level and coming fast. As soon as my feet hit the deck, I spun and raised my shield to block his right axe, then jumped back to barely miss the swing from his left. But as I leaped, my feet landed against a sea chest and I fell backward over it. He came down hard with his right axe, barely missing my left leg, which lay awkwardly across the sea chest.
I now lay between two sea chests, my head propped against one and my legs draped across another. Klerkon yanked his axe from the chest near my leg and readied himself to finish me. And I knew that if I moved — if I removed my eyes from him even for a moment — he would kill me. And so I waited.
He smiled then, for he knew I was a dead man. To my right, I was vaguely aware of the fighting on the ship as his arm rose, then came down. I jerked to my right, just enough for his blade to find the wood of the sea chest instead of my skin. At the same time, I swung my blade across the deck and into Klerkon's ankle. It was not a hard blow, but he hollered nevertheless and leaped back, favoring the fresh wound.
I took that instant to roll over my right shoulder and come to my feet. Only it did not happen as I envisioned. My shield impeded my roll, as did my sword, so that I came to my feet awkwardly and much slower than I'd expected. Knowing Klerkon would be coming, I lifted my shield even before I stood. His blow struck so hard, it ripped through the wood planking and bit into my forearm and in the process, knocked me back once again. And once again, I found myself on my ass and looking up at my executioner.
“Rot in Hel!” he bellowed as he lifted his axe to strike.
But the blow never came.
Chapter 30
Before he could bring his blade down, Klerkon suddenly lurched forward.
I did not know what happened, but I did not hesitate. I drove my sword up into that bastard's stomach with all my might, a scream of fury on my lips as I felt his chainmail give way to my thrust and my sword slip into his body.
He looked down at the sword, at his blood seeping from his gut, then at me, those calculating blue eyes now squinting in outrage. He tried to swing his blades at me, but his arms would not obey his mind, and I grinned at his helplessness.
“Long ago, you killed my father and enslaved me and my friends. I claim your death in the name of my sire, Toralv Loose-beard, and my foster sister, Astrid Eriksdottir. May the fish feast on your corpse.”
I yanked my sword from his belly and watched him stagger toward me, his hand axes still in his grip. He took a feeble step in my direction, then crumpled to the deck of his ship. With a roar that embodied every injustice, every pain, every loss that the Norns had woven for my life, I hacked my blade into that sorry creature's skull and finished him.
It was only after I ended his life that I saw the axe protruding from his back. There, on the aft deck, stood Olaf, wobbling on his feet but alive, an awkward grin on his face. “You are welcome,” he called, then he, too, crumbled to the deck. Klerkon forgotten, I rushed to Olaf's side. His eyes were open, and his face stretched in a wide grin. “My head hurts,” he mumbled.
“Better that than split by a blade,” I countered, remembering the deep dent in his helmet. He was helmetless now but there was a mighty purple knot where the blow had struck and where a shallow crease in his skin seeped a dark rivulet of blood. He was lucky.
&n
bsp; On Klerkon's ship, the fighting had stopped with the appearance of our second vessel and the death of Klerkon. Seeing their peril, the Estlanders had tossed their weapons to the deck and surrendered. Lord Sigurd climbed to the aft deck and studied the remaining Estlanders. He then looked down at me. “Tell them what I say.”
I nodded.
“Which of you is Klerkon?” he called.
At the mention of their leader's name, the Estlanders looked at each other. I understood their confusion and pointed my sword at the corpse. “He is there, lord.”
Lord Sigurd looked at me, then at the dead man on the deck. He stared at Klerkon for a long time, until finally he spat and turned back to the Estlanders. “We were here to kill this man, who enslaved my sister and my nephew. It is done now, and he has paid for his crime.” He nodded to me and I translated. When I finished, he raised his index finger and continued, “But you lot have not paid. You have aided in his slaving and so you are partly to blame. And so, I will give you the choices you gave my sister and my nephew: death or thralldom. Which will it be?”
As soon as the Rus heard their leader's words, they stiffened between their shields, for they knew what his words meant. When the Estlanders finally heard my translation, they raced for their weapons. None made it. Two of the Estlanders turned and dove into the sea, choosing a watery grave. I stood watching from the aft deck, too tired and too blood-sick to join the slaughter.
“Search the dead for wealth,” Lord Sigurd commanded as he gazed upon the deck of the ship and the carpet of corpses that now covered it. “Then toss the Estlanders into the sea. Igor,” he called to one of his men, “Inspect Klerkon's ship. If it is seaworthy, we will take it. If not, we will use it for kindling and to burn our own dead.”
“What of their fort, lord?” asked another of his men.
Sigurd gazed at it and at the men gathered around the second ship that had not yet set sail, then shook his head. “We have not come to take the fort. We have come to kill Klerkon, and that we have done. I want us gone soon. Let us not give those Estlanders a reason to come for us again.”
We left on the slack tide, leaving the badly damaged knarr to sink in the channel and dragging Klerkon's dragon behind us. On it lay our own dead, waiting until we could find a suitable place to burn them. Turid, Olaf, and I offered to ride on Klerkon's ship to keep the swooping gulls from the corpses. I did not like riding with the dead, for it was common knowledge that their restless souls could wander. But I liked less watching the birds pick the skin from their bones, especially the bones of our friends. Their deaths seemed punishment enough. I just prayed we would reach a suitable mooring before dark and give our friends and comrades the burial they deserved.
At that thought, my eyes fell on Raban and Sigdag, who lay next to each other. And Egil, whose bleeding had not stopped and who had died despite Turid's efforts to save him. I had thought myself incapable of grief after my treatment as a thrall, but there it was, rising from some unexpected well with such force that I was unable to control the tears that filled my eyes and bathed my cheeks. I gazed at my lap, ashamed of my weakness but incapable of suppressing it. Turid placed a gentle hand on my arm, which only made matters worse.
“They fought bravely, you know,” she said, meaning our friends. “The gods will be kind to them.”
I looked up at her and blinked away my tears. “I hope so. This was not their fight, and I feel the weight of their deaths on me.”
“It was so their fight,” Turid responded. “Klerkon enslaved them too. You must not carry the burden of their deaths.”
I did not feel as resolute as Turid in that thinking. Still, I forced my mind to another thought that had been troubling me. “Where are the children?”
“They are safe on one of the ships,” said Turid.
I sighed with relief, for I had forgotten about them. At least they still lived.
My eyes turned to Olaf, who stood amid the corpses, staring down at them with a strange detachment, as if they were dead bugs he had just discovered on the ground. It made me uncomfortable.
“Do you ever wonder why the Norns cut one man's life-thread and not another's?” He rolled a dead man over with his boot and stared into the man's white face.
“Aye, sometimes,” I offered hesitantly.
“I do also,” he admitted as he came over to us and sat. “I wonder, too, if they know their life-string is shorter than most. If they feel it, in here.” He tapped his chest.
I did not know what Olaf was trying to say, nor did I want to be discussing some strange philosophy at that moment and so I held my tongue.
Turid broke the uneasy silence. “Do you feel it?”
“Aye. Only I do not feel the weight of doom. I feel something different. I cannot explain it, but the Norns have great things planned for me. They always have. My father used to tell me such things when I was little, but it is only now that I understand his words and feel that calling in my bones. And here.” He patted his chest. “It is as if the Norns have woven a better path for my life.”
I snorted. “The Norns have a funny way of showing their favor. They clip your father's threads. Enslave you. And knock you senseless in your first real battle. Had it not been for your helmet, you would be lying over there among the corpses.” I motioned to the deck with my whiskered chin. “If you ask me, you wear the mark of a man who is lucky, not the mark of one chosen by the Norns for better things.”
Turid laughed. “I agree with Torgil, Olaf. Besides, it is not wise to tempt the gods with all of this bluster about great things.”
Olaf frowned and looked away. “You do not understand, but you will see.”
I did not know how to respond to that, so I let the silence stretch and my memories waft back over the days and months and seasons I had spent with my friends in the bogs. They had been so close to freedom. So close.
“So we sail to Holmgard?” Turid asked, interrupting my sad reverie.
“Aye,” Olaf responded, suddenly excited. “You will like it there. It is very cold in the winter, but the summer is beautiful. Uncle Sigurd has a large estate near the town. There is plenty of room and comfortable beds. No more sleeping on the ground in the cold.”
I smiled at the thought.
“That does sound nice,” whispered Turid.
“Uncle Sigurd is a good man. He lives well and treats his people fairly. It will be the same for you both. I am certain of it.”
“What will we do there?” I wondered aloud.
“I suppose you will fight beside me, in Sigurd's guard. After his losses here, he will need more men.” He nudged me with his elbow and grinned, seemingly unaware of the callousness in his words.
“What makes you think I would want to fight beside you?”
Now it was Olaf's turn to snort. “Because you made an oath to your father to protect me and you cannot break that oath.”
I grunted, remembering my father's words about oaths and how they were like the strongest iron. “I have an oath to your mother, too. We should look for her.”
Olaf nodded. “Sigurd has expressed no interest in it, so it will be up to us. And now is not the time.”
I nodded. “We will go together to find her,” I offered, then added, “When it is time.”
“And me?” asked Turid. “What will I do on Sigurd's estate?”
Olaf shrugged. “I am certain you can find work. It is large and there is plenty to do. You will see.”
“What if I do not wish to milk cows or serve ale to drunken warriors?”
Olaf and I looked at Turid. She returned our gaze but spoke no words, leaving the two of us to wonder at her meaning.
“We will discuss it with Sigurd,” Olaf finally suggested.
And so we sailed for a mooring to bury our friends, and then to Holmgard, which the Rus called Novgorod, where I would join Sigurd's guard and Turid would find something to do besides milking cows or serving drunk warriors. And where Olaf would seek greatness, as the Norns had preordai
ned.
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Historical Notes
There were several historical tales written of Olaf's birth and flight from Norway, though all of them paint a slightly different picture. Nevertheless, through them runs a common storyline to which I tried to adhere. Olaf's father, Trygvi, died at the hands of Erik's sons. Olaf fled Norway, heading east with his mother and her foster father. The foster father's son, Torgil, was with them. During that flight, they were captured and enslaved by the Estlanders and eventually saved by Olaf's uncle on his mother's side, a man named Sigurd.
First, to those who know this saga, you will recognize that I altered the age of Olaf. While the sagas aren't clear on Torgil's age, they do state that Olaf was born while fleeing the agents of Harald Eriksson. I chose to make Olaf older at the start of the book. The boys will go through life together, and I wanted their interactions to start early on in this first book. In addition, if I adhered to the sagas, King Trygvi would have been rather old by the time he had Olaf, and it seemed just as plausible to make him slightly younger at the birth of his first child.
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