Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1)

by Jerry Autieri

They tottered off to the barracks. Yngvar was so tired he couldn't be bothered to change from his clothes. He lay on the pallet, no longer needing to share one with Thorfast, and arranged his boots and swords against the wall. The night was bright with a half-moon that dusted silver light through the outline of the doors. Alasdair slept to his left, and Thorfast to his right. Bjorn preferred a spot closer to the hearth, which had gone cold. Despite the early autumn weather, the night was still not so cold.

  He drifted off to sleep.

  Then he awakened.

  He didn't understand what was happening. Something hard and smelling of mead clamped over his mouth. It was a hand. Next, a cloth was driven into his mouth. He was still in the dark, unable to see anything other than silver-lined forms hovering over him.

  A sack slipped over his head and at least three sets of hands lifted him off the bed. He heard men snoring all around, and heard a muffled curse from one of his captors. Something clanked to the floor and the men carrying him paused. But other than some broken snoring, no one called out.

  Yngvar bucked and tried to spit out the cloth in his mouth. Yet the sack over his head pressed it tight against his face. His nose bent flat against the pressure.

  He bumped through a door and then the set of hands heaved him onto a wooden platform. He thudded head-first against something, then felt others piling in behind him

  Someone clucked his tongue and a horse snorted before Yngvar felt whatever he was in lurch forward. He rolled onto his side and tried to stand. His abductors pressed him flat and he felt cold iron points at his side.

  A low, familiar voice spoke to him. "No sound and no moving, or we clean your guts out right here."

  He went still, realizing he could not fight his way out now. Someone grabbed his arms and bound them behind his back.

  They were headed uphill, and the horse picked up speed as they progressed.

  Yngvar remained still, struggling to figure out who had captured him and why. But no one made a sound as they carried him away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Though Yngvar remained still, his heart raced like he was sprinting across an open field. The depth of night was like a knife against his exposed flesh. In a strange way he was grateful for the body heat of the men who surrounded him. He guessed there were three, and one driving what must be a wagon. He heard the wheels crushing the grass and sometimes bouncing over a hidden rock. More than once he experienced a jolt as the driver hit some hidden rut. The passengers cursed him in low voices whenever this happened.

  The speakers were familiar, but he could not place them. These were Erik's men, for certain. This set Yngvar's hands running cold. Why would King Erik do this? Everything had seemed to indicate Yngvar was a favorite of his. Of course, he knew better. Did Erik realize Yngvar and the others were plotting ways to escape him?

  The others. He suddenly realized he might not be the only victim. Thorfast and Bjorn both could be meeting similar fates. Same for Ander and Alasdair and all the others who had been loyal to him. Perhaps Erik had decided to dispatch them separately without witnesses.

  A man who could murder all his brothers would have no compunction killing more than a dozen men because they had somehow irritated him.

  His escape was paramount, but he also had to ensure the others did as well.

  Yngvar had forgotten most of the surrounding areas after being away all summer. He could not think of where the cart was headed, but from the bouncing and multitude of rocks they struck he guessed it was not on a path. When his break came, he would have to orient himself quickly. Otherwise he could run back into the swords of his enemies.

  The cart rolled to a halt and one of the men with him grumbled. "Glad to be done with that foolishness. Now, let's be about it. Hurry, lads."

  Strong hands gripped his ankles and hauled him to the edge of the wagon.

  "Get him on his feet," said the familiar voice. "Leave the sack on his head for now."

  He held still, straining to see beneath the sack that had cinched at his neck. He was in a world of utter black that smelled like well-used leather. Hands grabbed his arms at either side and dragged him forward. He stumbled and smashed his toes on stones. Without boots, each step cut into his feet. He heard twigs snapping and his captors breathing. Something caught his cloak, perhaps a branch, and nearly pulled him out of his captor's hands.

  "Here we are," said the familiar voice.

  They shoved him forward, so that he crashed to his knees. The blackness flashed white with pain as his left knee drove into a stone. A rough hand seized his head and pulled it back, tearing away the sack.

  The rush of night air was cold and refreshing. However, in an instant a blazing torch both drove off the cold and blinded him once more. He threw his arm across his eyes, and another familiar voice spoke.

  "Don't burn his face off. I can see him just fine."

  The torch retreated and Yngvar at last saw his captors.

  Grimkel held the sack that had been cinched over Yngvar's head. He gave a quick wink, before he threw the sack into the hay cart. Three other warriors surrounded Grimkel, all Erik's men who had been acting as Yngvar's dearest friends for the last month.

  "Shocked to find yourself here?"

  Yngvar turned to the familiar voice beyond the blazing torch. He recognized him now.

  "Erik, what is this about?" Yngvar squinted past the man holding the torch aloft. Erik was wrapped in a black cloak, a contrast to his blond hair glowing with the torchlight. Dark shadows ran into his eye sockets and hollows of his cheeks, casting him as an evil skull. He stood with arms folded against the cold, holding the cloak across his chest.

  "That is King Erik to you, but no matter now." Erik looked to Grimkel and the others. "You have done well. Await me at the edge of the woods. This won't be long."

  Grimkel and the others hopped back into the wagon, with one assuming the driver's seat. Yngvar glared at them, but they just waved and flashed their evil smiles as the cart pulled away. A quick glance around and Yngvar determined he was in a pine woods, both from the thick scents in the air and the density of the surrounding trees. The crescent moon barely topped the serried black edge of the woods. He had no idea where this place was in relationship to the village. But it could not be too far for Erik to have arrived at this place ahead of time.

  "You can never be too sure of who your real friends are," Erik said. "If it helps, I do think they respected you for your endurance under the whip and your generosity. It was a noble moment."

  "The respect of rats is nothing to me. Why am I out here? What about the others?"

  With his arms tied behind his back and his feet bleeding from scrapes and cuts, he struggled to stand. Erik watched him with an amused smirk. The torch bearer's face was lost behind the golden light. When Yngvar did stand, he staggered to gain his balance.

  "You're just going back on your knees again," Erik said. "I do admire determination in a man. It's too bad you did not work out."

  Yngvar stuck out his chin in defiance, but now that he had moved he saw the torchbearer and realized what was happening.

  Gunnhild's giant bodyguard, Hrut, stared back at him with his passionless, clear eyes. He held the torch as if lighting the way through a tunnel to the underworld. Perhaps he was. For now Yngvar understood Hrut had remained loyal to Erik all along.

  "You'll remember Hrut, of course." Erik unfolded his arms, letting his cloak fall aside. In his mighty grip the iron head of an ax glared with the torchlight. Erik Blood-Axe he was called. Yngvar was about to feed his own blood to that foul weapon.

  "She said your prick was too small for her." Yngvar could think of nothing better to say. Tied up as he was, lost in darkness, the situation was as hopeless as it could ever be. At least he would not die groveling.

  Erik's brows raised and for a moment it seemed he believed it, then he smiled. "I'm sure she said many things. I can't blame you, honestly. In fact, let me be clear, I don't blame you. When a queen calls you, what
can be done? You cannot resist, for you will offend. And if you wondered at what offending Gunnhild would be like, I assure you it was wise not to do so. She makes me seem a kitten. So you see? I understand everything."

  Yngvar struggled against the ties at his wrists, hoping they had loosened. Instead, he found them as tight as ever, and his hands were filled with a numb cold.

  "You understand nothing," he said. "Nothing but cruelty and anger. So you will kill me for laying with your wife. But you can't even do it like a man. You have to tie me up and kill me like a dog. You are too frightened to untie me and face me as a warrior."

  Erik's smile widened. "You are determined and brave, but you're not original. Every man who has found himself here has said nearly the same thing. They believe me so easily gulled into freeing them and providing a weapon as well. Really, do you think I can be shamed into untying your bonds?"

  "You do not understand shame."

  "I do not," Erik said. "I have never experienced a reason for shame in my entire life. I am as the gods want me to be. I live as the Norns have decided. No shame in that. But you, you have slept with another man's wife. You are the one who should know shame. Yet where is it in you, my young warrior?"

  The pet name stung him. How much did Hrut know, or had Gunnhild herself surrendered him to Erik?

  Erik nodded as if reading his thoughts. His voice assumed a more paternal note. "Gunnhild has a shameful secret of her own. She likes young men, perhaps even younger than you. Her interest can be passing or, as in your case, it can consume her thoughts for days on end. I've learned that her secret shame can never be curbed, and so must be indulged if only to keep the peace in my own home. She will give me heirs one day, and she herself is of noble blood. So I must endure the inconveniences of her moods. The unfortunate in all of this is the young object of her affections. She is fickle, and when she is finished, her young lovers don't always understand."

  He raised the ax and pointed it at Yngvar. This served as Hrut's cue to shove Yngvar to his knees. Crashing back into the ground, his knees again went cold with pain.

  "You are what's left of Gunnhild's shame. So tonight I will erase it for her as I always do. Your head and body will be thrown into a bog. Men will ask where you have gone. No one will know, but some men claim to have seen you drunk and mumbling about late at night. Perhaps you became lost in the dark woods. Maybe you returned to your ship and fell overboard to join your dear cousin in the sea grave. Who knows? What we will all know is Yngvar Hakonsson has left and will never return. And those who look too deeply will meet the same fate. Soon, no one will ask and you will be forgotten."

  Yngvar glared up at Erik, struggling against his bonds. Tears stung his eyes. "At least let me hold a sword and die a warrior."

  Erik seemed to consider, then grimaced. "Another expected request. But of course I would never put a sword in the hand of a man I intend to kill. One day when I get to Valhalla, I will tell your father you died on your knees, crying like a baby, and that is why his son is being eaten by worms in Niflheim instead of feasting with heroes. He died groveling."

  Hrut put his foot between Yngvar's shoulder blades, forcing his head down. Erik took the ax in both hands and stood aside of him.

  Yngvar grit his teeth and felt the back of his neck tingle, expecting the bite of the blade.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Yngvar stared at his own shadow stretching out before him. It was stark against the earth as Hrut held the torch directly behind him while pressing Yngvar lower with his foot. The cold earth still clinging to Hrut's boot seeped into Yngvar's back, eliciting a dull ache from his still-sensitive flesh. His arms, bound behind him, tingled with cold numbness. The final moments of his life were being counted in heartbeats. His mind flooded with thoughts, his entire young life splattering across his vision.

  His father teaching him how to sharpen and oil a sword.

  Kadlin laughing and dancing in a circle with her friends, her pale hair on fire with golden sunlight.

  Him falling to the ground as he played with a dog that tried to wrestle rope from his hands.

  Thorfast as a boy crying with a bloodied lip as his mother dabbed his mouth with a cloth.

  Too many other disjointed and pointless memories flashed through his mind. Were the Norns dispersing the threads of his life so that each one flew away on the wind? Were they determined to show him he had achieved nothing with his life? Now he would die with a handful of memories that the gods would scorn. Would he have nothing to show at the doors to Valhalla? No great glories to earn him a seat among the heroes and a feast until the final battle of the gods at Ragnarok.

  But he had earned glories. He had defeated enemies with bravery and guile. He had courage to defend his beliefs. He had the fortitude to endure pain that crippled a strong man.

  He was not one to die on his knees.

  Yngvar craned his head over his left shoulder. Erik's ax hovered in the air. It was as if the gods had frozen him in place. Now those shadow-filled eye sockets were alight with bloodlust, and the so-called king showed himself as no more than a debased murderer. Torchlight rolled along the freshly sharpened edge as the ax began to descend.

  You did not bind my legs, you arrogant bastard. I will not die this night.

  Erik stood beside Yngvar now for a better angle at his neck. His legs were braced against the heroic blow he planned to cleave Yngvar's neck. Hrut's foot held him down with less attention than one would give to a lamb. They expected him to comply with their plans and die obediently.

  Instead he rolled into Erik's legs with all the force he could gather.

  Time broke from the slow drip it had been. Now Yngvar's heart thudded against his breastbone and his pulse roared in his ears. Erik's massive swipe, one that certainly would have sheared Yngvar's head from his neck, slammed into the ground with a metallic thud.

  Yngvar pushed through the king's legs and the momentum of Erik's swing carried him headlong into the dirt. Hrut's foot now stamped forward, ironically driving Erik's head into the ground.

  It was all the confusion Yngvar needed. Like a cornered rabbit that had discovered a bolt hole, he snapped to his feet and began to flee.

  If he was as fast as a hare, then Hrut struck as fast as a viper.

  Yngvar had taken a single stride before Hrut had tossed aside his torch and tackled him by the legs. Hrut's hand was like an iron band around Yngvar's ankle. He slammed into the ground, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. With both hands tied at his back, he had no way to bounce up without both of his legs. Hrut was already drawing him across the dirt while his other hand sought to draw his sax, the perfect sword for close quarters killing.

  Both paused at cries that came from all around the night shrouded trees.

  The dark wood was suddenly alight with torches. Men were shouting as the points of orange light bobbed closer.

  Hrut growled and turned back to Yngvar.

  Then he received Yngvar's naked foot directly in his face. He screamed as the foot stamped his nose. Yngvar felt the bone shift and heard it crack, then warm blood and snot gushed onto his flesh. He pulled back and drove his heel a second time. This time he met fleshy, wet softness.

  To his amazement, Hrut absorbed the blows with nothing more than a single scream. He never released his grip, and instead of drawing his sword now got up to his knees.

  The shouts were clearer now. King Erik remained on hands and knees, recovering from having eaten dirt when he had been expecting a spray of his victim's blood.

  Yngvar seized his chance. He kicked up into Hrut's crotch, locking his toes to drive deeper into the softness there. Yngvar's big toe bent on bone, but the giant man only grunted as he fumbled for his sax. The sword had swung around his back and was not where he expected it. Yngvar used the delay to drive another kick into Hrut's crotch.

  "I'm going to pluck out your eyes!" Hrut had certainly felt that kick. He released Yngvar, just so he could at last draw his weapon. Blood flowed do
wn his beard onto his chest.

  Yngvar pumped back as men began flooding in from every direction, torches alight and spears flashing.

  "There they are! Hurry! The king is in danger!"

  Men converged on the dying light of Hrut's discarded torch. Erik was staggering to his feet, his black cloak making him seem no more than a floating white head from this vantage. Yet the dozens of men outlined in jagged black and orange shapes from their torches all seemed to see him. They streamed toward Erik with spears raised.

  "Save King Erik! Hurry!"

  Hrut glanced at the approaching men, but was not dissuaded from his purpose. He drew his short sword with a hiss of iron.

  Yngvar was already shoving away, but he could not retreat far enough to escape Hrut. He failed to gain his feet fast enough as the giant lumbered toward him, his bloody beard glistening in the moonlight.

  "I'm going eat your heart." He voice was thick with mucus and blood, but was surprisingly even for the chaos that swirled around them. Erik had raised both arms and was shouting at the oncoming men.

  Hrut suddenly found himself faced with three spearmen who charged from behind. He had to choose killing Yngvar or preventing the attackers from skewering him.

  Yngvar did not wait for the outcome, but flipped on his stomach then wormed onto his knees. He castled up to both legs and then leapt toward the darkest patch of forest he could see.

  "Halt, you fools!" Hrut's bellow was as nasal as it was furious. Yngvar had no chance to admire his work, but stamped barefoot across the earth. He landed on a stone, absorbed the stab of pain and kept running. Whatever was happening was a gift from the gods and he would not squander it.

  Something darted from the side. It was a ball of white and flashed out of nowhere. Yngvar had no chance to avoid a collision.

  A strong, warm body slammed him aside and they stumbled. With his hands tied, Yngvar had no way to balance himself and slammed onto his side. He had already run so far that Erik and the mass of men around him were too distant to see clearly. The bright light of torches gathered in the center of the field, and other points of light flew toward the others. He did not see who had knocked him down.