Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1)

by Jerry Autieri

  Yngvar smiled at his former slave. He was like a puppy with a bone. They had not eaten this good in many months, and the roast fowl had been the most succulent Yngvar had ever experienced. Yet Alasdair took it to the extreme, licking his greasy fingers when no more satisfaction came from the bones on his wood plate.

  "You never told me where you learned to swim," Yngvar said. "It's a rare skill."

  "My Da thought I should know something useful," Alasdair said, picking through the bones a final time. "Then he sent me to the priests to learn more useful things. I think he actually sold me, if truth be told, lord."

  "Will you stop calling me lord," Yngvar said. "You've saved my life more times than I care to think about. We are equals."

  "Of course, lord." He plunged a wing bone into his mouth while everyone around him leaned back laughing.

  Ander had finished repeating his story of the battle to the men crowding his shoulder. As everyone had done since returning, he extended his hand to Bjorn.

  "But here's the reason Erik's men fled. This one is a mighty berserk! The bear-god filled him with rage and he killed three men with three swoops of his ax. He carved a hole through the enemy and made them so fearful that they pissed themselves. You should have seen him."

  Bjorn lowered his head and mumbled incoherently. To Yngvar's surprise, his cousin did not covet the attention heaped upon him. For all their childhood, he seemed to want attention and glory, but now that he had both it made him uneasy.

  Yet there could be no doubt, the ferocity of a single man had broken the enemy's will. His father had told him stories of such men. One mad bastard could turn the tide of battle, just as one coward could start men fleeing. Warriors fought as individuals but acted in accord with a single will. Bjorn had proved the old tales.

  "They seem to forget who came up with the plan every time they tell this story," Thorfast whispered. "You need to be sure your name is not lost in all this."

  "Nor yours," Yngvar said. "Your silver tongue and big ears have kept us alive all summer."

  "No one remembers words," Thorfast said, his mouth imitating a frown. "They remember deeds."

  "I'll not forget who carried me out from Erik's grasp, nor who devised the whole plan to escape him." Yngvar threw his arm around his best friend. "We are all together in this. None of us alone would be alive without the other. Let me toast you."

  He grabbed his mug. He learned since returning as a hero that his mug would never remain empty. He held it up to Thorfast, who grabbed his own.

  The crowded hall turned toward them, and Yngvar was suddenly exposed to all with expectant smiles. Yngvar panicked, realizing a key moment had arrived and he had no words to describe the complex emotions he felt.

  His friend winked at him, still keeping his mug raised. Thorfast the Silent knew the right words.

  "This toast is for all of us who dared the open seas. For Yngvar and Bjorn--and me--who left home as children and became men. For Alasdair who lived as a slave and became a hero. For Ander Red-Scar and those who stood loyal to their lords even in their deaths and prevailed against lies and fear. It was a long year. A year of blood. A year of hopelessness. But we prevailed. We are the descendants of the wolf, from Ulfrik to Hakon to Gunnar to Aren. We do not lie down to die. We know only victory."

  The hall cheered and every mug and drinking horn spilled foam as they raised high. Yngvar slammed his mug against Thorfast's. His eyes were wet and a lump formed in his throat.

  "Fine words and all true," Bjorn said, then joined his mug to theirs.

  Yngvar endured the back-slaps and congratulations that flowed from that moment forward. His whip scars throbbed with a dull ache, but he blurred it with drink and smiles. Thorfast's words had raised the spirits of a hall full of hungry warriors who had experienced nothing but humiliation and frustration. They had gone seeking battle and glory, and found neither.

  For Yngvar had learned that Erik's feint was never serious. The storm had scattered his ships, but it was of no consequence. None of them engaged Jarl Alrik and Kar's fleet. They fled at the first chance, leading them on pointless chases until Alrik determined Erik had been lost in the storm. He had guessed the enemy was confused without a leader and so fell back. Of course, they learned the shocking truth when they found Yngvar and his band recovering in Kar's hall.

  Along the high table, Jarl Kar sat with his hirdmen. Kar's sad eyes and stiff mane of hair made him look like a dog that had been caught shitting on a bed. It was an ungenerous comparison, but Yngvar was still not fully over being locked up for Kar's suspicions. At his right, in the seat of honor, the regal Jarl Alrik stared wistfully at the back of the hall. Had Thorfast's colorful words inspired him to recall his own adventures? He worked one thick hand through his white beard. His mustache was limp with the ale that had soaked it, and the gold beads tied into it seemed about to fall.

  Finally, to Yngvar's greatest surprise, Jarl Ketil Ragnarsson sat beside Alrik. He was as muscular as Alrik, but much fatter. His famous beard was raggedly shorn to his chin, and a terrible cut at his neck showed how close he had come to death. Apparently, Ander Red-Scar had the sense to board Erik's ship and untie the captured jarl from the mast. He had been stripped naked, though Yngvar never saw it himself. Tonight he was clothed in a clean, gray shirt and brown pants. He had not stopped smiling since Yngvar first met him on the journey back to Kar's hall.

  When the evening feast had worn on and the humidity of the hall became unbearable, Yngvar felt sleepy. Yet no feast could end while the jarls were still awake, and all three were as excited as if they had truly won a great victory. The night might carry on well past Yngvar's capacity. Alasdair was already beneath the table, sleeping in a curled-up ball.

  Jarl Kar suddenly jumped up on his bench. His hirdmen began beating the table for attention. Despite the late hour, most men had not succumbed to their drinks. The hall gradually silenced as Kar's pine-cone¬-shaped body wavered on the bench. He belched, then addressed the hall.

  "It is time I add my words, such as they are, to this feast. I doubt I can match the poetry of ... of ..."

  "Thorfast," said Thorfast. The hall filled with laughter and Kar's face reddened.

  "Of course, it's the drink." More laughter followed and he waited for it to die down. "I owe a public apology to these brave men. I doubted their intent, and in so doing I almost cost the lives of my people and lost my treasure as well. Were it not for them, I hate to think what could have happened. And of course, Grettir, you and your fellows proved you are brave men. You were wise enough to defy me when it was to everyone's benefit. I am humbled to have you in my service. I've done little to deserve such capable men. But the gods see fit to bless me with the greatest warriors in all of Norway."

  Cheers were met with good-natured challenges from Alrik's men. Grettir himself stood straight and lifted his chin. Yngvar nodded at Kar's words, for they were noble and respectful. They brought honor to all who heard them. What a comparison to Erik's jealousy and spite.

  "Since the gods have decided that I must lose my treasure, or at least what I was unwise enough to keep in a chest--I'll have to fix that later--I am sharing it out in equal measure to all of you who defended it. That is right. Old Kar the Closed-Fisted will hand over his treasures to the men who dared their lives to protect it. For what is gold if it is covered with the blood of noble men? I would rather have you alive and gather gold again some other day."

  The cheers shook the walls. Thorfast and Bjorn both looked at Yngvar between them. He folded his arms and smiled. "Uncle Gunnar did not lie to us, did he?"

  Ander Red-Scar was nearly in tears, hugging his companions for the joy of it. Alasdair was now awake and rubbing his eyes, the only calm face among the crowd.

  Jarl Ketil stood and tapped Kar's leg. It nearly sent him falling over, to the delight of everyone. With a nod, they exchanged places. Yngvar wondered at the creaking bench, for Jarl Ketil was a bear of a man. His rough shorn beard flayed out beneath his chin, but he
still patted at it reflexively though it was no longer there.

  "I've my own words for these men." Ketil didn't seem sure who to look at, but he settled on Ander. After all, he had rescued the jarl. "I was defeated and stripped naked. But your planning saved my life. I must be honest, I have much gold to pay out in blood money to the families of those slain under my protection. And Erik carried away a good portion of my wealth. But what I cannot grant to you in gold, I will grant to you in land. This I can give and I will give. For those with the freedom to choose, I ask you to come to me at any time, and you shall have a farm and flocks such as I can give you. But for those who carried me from humiliation, I must do even more. I will find what I can award you, and do so gladly."

  Ander bowed and the tears on his face glittered in the hearth firelight.

  At last, Jarl Alrik spoke. He did not stand on a bench. He did not need to call for silence. Men respected him enough that he needed neither to command their attention.

  "Yngvar Hakonsson, Bjorn Arensson, Thorfast the Silent, I know these three names now. Your stories have all been told, and I expect there are others to tell still. You are brave men all. Yet Yngvar, you faced Erik Blood-Axe in combat and lived. It is no small feat. I respect such a man. I admire your courage and cunning. I need men such as you. You did not kill Erik, so I cannot pay his bounty. You did not save my life nor my fortunes. But it takes no effort to see the gods have marked you all for greatness. I would have your service, and grant you my deepest respect and honor. I would offer the same to all your men. I am not far removed from King Hakon himself, and I would expect he would offer you the same. But I am the lucky man here, and so I offer you this first. I know you want to return home. If that is any man's wish, I will grant it. I will place you on a ship of my own and sail you to your homes. But I urge you to consider serving me. Tomorrow, you may tell me your decision. Tonight, let us drink until no man remains standing!"

  The hall resounded with cheers. Yngvar, however, did not know what to think. He looked at Bjorn and Thorfast, and both seemed as torn.

  They spent the night subdued until at last sleep claimed them.

  The next morning, Yngvar was up early. Most men were piled around the hall. The place buzzed with snoring. Thorfast was already awake as was Alasdair. Only Bjorn and Ander remained asleep. With a nod from Thorfast, they each woke one of them. Then they went out of the hall.

  Tents spread out everywhere where men slept off their revels. Yngvar led them to where they could be alone among a smattering of small pine trees.

  "Well, what do you think?" Yngvar asked. "We've been trying to go home all year."

  Thorfast shrugged. "I'm no jarl's son. There's no inheritance for me to claim. I've left home and I'd prefer to stay gone. At least until my mother gets settled with the idea."

  "My father don't care where I am," Bjorn said. "I feel bad for Uncle Hakon, though. He was kind to me."

  Yngvar tilted his head and closed his eyes. He did not need to think of his choice. His eyes snapped open immediately. "I feel bad for my father, too. And mother. But this is our time, not theirs. This is our adventure. This is what we left home to find. It's right here, in the land of our ancestors. I don't want things handed to me. I want to grab them myself. Here we are heroes and have a name. At home, people still think I'm a spoiled child to be married off to the hag-daughter of a petty jarl. Now that I am wiser, I am prouder of my father than ever before. But he's had his life. I want mine. I'm staying."

  "Well, I guess we worried for nothing then," Thorfast said. "Bjorn and I were planning to tie you down until you agreed to stay on."

  "He ain't lying," Bjorn said.

  "I'll stay with you, if you don't mind, lo ..." Alasdair's mouth bit off the final word, drawing Yngvar's laugh.

  "Mind? I dare say I might not live long if you abandoned me."

  Ander sighed, and he put his arm on Yngvar's shoulder. "You've shown me more in this year than your uncle did in his whole life. You're a match to the legend of your grandfather. You might do better than him one day. I'll be waiting to hear. But many of us have families back home. We promised to bring them gold. They probably think we're dead. But home will always be Frankia for some of us. I wish I could stay on with you. I really do."

  Yngvar placed his hand over Ander's. "I know it. Will you bring word to my father of what happened?"

  "You know I will."

  "And tell him that his brother accepted his apology and that he loves him and waits in the feasting hall. It's important he knows this." Ander nodded gravely. Yngvar paused and licked his lip. Then he pulled Ander aside, away from the others who looked on with raised brows. He whispered close to Ander's ear. "And would you tell Thorfast's sister, Kadlin, that I'm earning my fortune but that I'll be back for her. She just needs to wait a while longer."

  Ander laughed, patting Yngvar's shoulder. "I wish you luck with that. I'll deliver the message, though, you can depend upon it."

  "Good!" Yngvar clapped his hands, then turned back to gather his companions together.

  "Descendants of the Wolf," he said to Thorfast. "I like it."

  Arm in arm, they strode back toward the hall and toward a future of bold adventure.

  Author's Note

  Our story opens in Western Frankia in 935 CE. By this time, Hrolf the Strider, known better to history as Rollo, had died. His son, Vilhjálmr Langaspjót (William Longsword) had been ruling after his father since 927. The region known as Normandy had already secured two additional land grants since the initial agreements reached in 911. Normandy was nearing its final shape. It was a tumultuous period, despite our fictional hero Yngvar believing the world had become too peaceful for a man to earn a name in Frankia. In fact, William had faced an early revolt from other Normans who felt he had grown "soft" and too "Frankish." A few years of peace would follow, but more struggle and political intrigue would scourge Normandy soon after.

  Yngvar Hakonsson, his father, and all his companions are completely fictional. They call themselves "descendants of the wolf." Considering Yngvar's grandfather was named Ulfrik, which means Wolf Leader in Old Norse, this makes perfect sense. As readers of the first series know, Ulfrik helped Hrolf secure the lands of Normandy after the siege of Paris in 885. Such a man would've been a hero to the local Normans and one many bold young men would want to emulate.

  The focus of our history and the characters that shaped it must necessarily change now that Yngvar has traveled to Norway. We now leave Frankia and Normandy behind to look north once more.

  Erik Blood-Axe is perhaps one of the most famous men in Norse history. His name is writ large across the sagas. The moniker, Blood-Axe, conjures dynamic visions of a berserk Viking. But despite all of this, Erik's real history is not well documented. What we do know of him must wait for later volumes of this story to be told. For his history has now become intertwined at least in part with our fictional characters'.

  Erik was the favored son of Harald Finehair, who was the first ruler of a "united Norway." In fact, Harald controlled mostly the west and southwestern coastal jarls. However, he never had all jarls under him at all times. In any case, Harald was an active man and is said to have fathered twenty sons. Reality was likely closer to eight. The two we are most concerned with are of course Erik and Harald's youngest son, Hakon.

  Erik ruled concurrently with Harald until he died at age eighty. During this time, Erik was killing off his brothers to ensure his succession to his father's authority. Erik may in fact have been the oldest son, but birth order did not determine inheritance. That was mostly decided by who proved to be the strongest. In our story we have Erik called Blood-Axe, but he was probably not called this until many generations later. However, it's easier to recognize him by the name he is famous for, so it is left in the story. Erik's rule was despotic and cruel, and he heavily taxed his subjects. This not only created hostility to his rule but impoverished his jarls. It takes little imagination to realize how that would play out for Erik's reign.


  In the meantime, Hakon the Good (again, a name granted to him much later in history) was fostering in Wessex under King Aethelstan. Sources say he was only fifteen when he returned to Norway, having heard of his brother's deeds. He sought to challenge him for the throne and won by simply showing up. He promised to repeal hated taxation laws and thereby won the support of all the jarls. Erik was chased from Norway without a fight.

  This is where our characters enter the historical stage. Yngvar has arrived shortly after Hakon's rise. Erik and his wife Gunnhild have fled to the west, where they set up a base of operations. Erik was significantly less bold than a nickname like "blood-axe" would suggest. He never fought Hakon, and he crawled off to a life of piracy. Quite a far fall for one from such a bold lineage. Gunnhild is maligned throughout the sagas for cruelty, sexual appetite, cunning, and a raft of other insulting qualities. She is also said to have been a beautiful woman. From what we can surmise, Erik feared his wife and the mighty "blood-axe" may have been more like a hen-pecked husband than our stereotypical ideal of the Viking warrior.

  Much more turmoil is in the future for the northern way. If Yngvar and his companions seek adventure and battle, they will have it in the years to come. Erik will prowl the region as a pirate and more. Hakon has the love of his people--for now. He is still young. There are other players yet to take the historical stage who will bring strife with them.

  Yngvar and the descendants of the wolf have yet to face their greatest challenges.

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