by Peter Fox
Peter Fox
THE WOLVES OF DUMNONIA SERIES
PUBLISHED IN THIS BOXSET
Book 1: The Shadow of Fenrir
Book 2: A Thrall’s Crown
Book 3: Wolf of Dumnonia
FORTHCOMING
Book 4: The Monk’s Sword
Contents
BOOK 1: THE SHADOW OF FENRIR
PART I Britannia Summer, 808AD
1. Serpent of the mist
2. Taken by the Devil
PART II Norvegr Late Winter, 823AD (Fifteen years later)
3. Troll!
4. The beast of Utgard
5. Nothing but snow
6. Sigvald the Blind
7. The plains of Niflheim
8. Leif Avalanche-beater
9. A bland meal
PART III Norvegr Early Spring, 823AD
10. Give him enough rope…
11. Set adrift
12. An eye for an eye
13. An empty cup
14. The Mooncalf
15. Delinquents and troublemakers
BOOK 2: A THRALL’S CROWN
PART I NORVEGR Late winter, 823AD
1. Humiliation
2. The sweet taste of sweat
3. A carpenter’s tools
4. Adopted son of a slave
5. This is home
PART II Westseaxna Ríce Sólmónað, 823 AD (Kingdom of Wessex Late February, 823 AD)
6. Escape
7. Capture
8. No more masters
9. Blacksmith’s apprentice
10. Into the light
11. It must be a sword
PART III Westseaxna Ríce Weodmonað, 823 AD (Kingdom of Wessex Late Summer, 823)
12. Ploughshare
13. Azrael, Angel of Death
14. A thrall’s crown
BOOK 3: WOLF OF DUMNONIA
Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr Heyannir (MID-SUMMER), 823AD
1. A Ferret’s lair
2. Drittsekk
3. To win, you must lose
4. The wrong tent
5. Berserker
6. Stuffed gosling
7. A bleating fart
8. No friend of mine
9. Magni’s Stone
10. Into the void
11. The blazing ship
12. The taste of you
13. Fruit and seeds
14. Wolf of Dumnonia
MAPS, GLOSSARY AND HISTORICAL NOTES
The World in 823 AD
Glossary of Names
Glossary of Terms
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Copyright information
BOOK 1: THE SHADOW OF FENRIR
Peter Fox
For Ethan.
You’d make a great Viking, son.
PART I
Britannia
Summer, 808AD
1. Serpent of the mist
St Nicholas’ Isle, Mouth of the River Tamar, Dumnonia
‘Aneurin, come away from there. Quickly!’ The urgent command drew an instant response from the nine-year-old boy, who sprang from the prow and returned to his seat by the mast. He pulled his mist-dampened cloak around his shoulders and threw an anxious glance towards the shore. He could see nothing in this dense fog, nor could he make sense of the strange sounds, but he knew they marked danger. He had also noticed that their little boat was beginning to drift seaward with the turning of the tide. He looked down at the anchor at his feet, wondering whether they should use it soon. Lord Camus had been away for a very long time.
Aneurin turned to his guardian. ‘Why hasn’t he come, Bear-bear?’
Berec ap Gedyr sat opposite the boy, his chainmail coat clinking softly as he twisted around to survey their surroundings. He frowned into the grey fog, his brows knitting as he too tried to make sense of the muffled sounds. Once tall and broad-shouldered with a flashing grin and hearty laugh, the Berec of before had gone, replaced by a bleak-faced warrior whose red-rimmed eyes, dirt-smeared forehead and haunted expression reminded Aneurin of the beggars and lepers he had just days ago taunted outside the city gates. Berec tugged off a glove and ran his hand through his dark, battle-gored hair. He glanced up at the limp sail, and his frown deepened. He turned to the two men at the oars. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said. ‘Take us out to sea.’
‘Sir,’ one of them protested, ‘Lord Camus instructed us to wait here by the island–’
‘Do it,’ Berec ordered. The Briton glanced at Aneurin, who in turn huddled further into his cloak.
‘But sir,’ the rower persisted, ‘he may yet return.’
‘Row!’ Berec snapped, then, realising he had spoken too loudly, dropped his voice again. ‘Our duty is to protect the boys, and if that means leaving Camus behind–’ He left the sentence unfinished and instead turned towards the fog-hidden shore. After a moment, he returned his gaze to the two rowers. ‘Take off your armour,’ he said. When the men stared at him in alarm, he added, ‘its weight will slow us down, and how well do you think you’ll float dressed in all that iron?’ He hauled off his own tunic and dropped it overboard. The heavy mail sank instantly. The other men quickly followed their leader’s example.
It’s happening again, Aneurin realised, terror grabbing his throat and strangling the breath from him.
Berec reached over and rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘We’ll move offshore for a while,’ he said gently. ‘Just to be safe. I’m sure Lord Camus is all right. He has his own skiff, remember?’
Aneurin looked into his hero’s face, searching for reassurance, but he saw only his own fears reflected in Berec’s dark eyes. ‘It’s Lord Mael, isn’t it?’ Aneurin whispered. ‘He’s found us, and he’s going to kill me like he did father and Owain and Elowyn!’ Although Aneurin knew he shouldn’t cry, tears came as he fought off the terrifying image of Mael’s men coming for him with swords drawn and the bloodlust in their eyes.
‘Of course not,’ came a new voice, firm and resolute. ‘Remember who you are, boy: Aneurin ap Cadwyr, warrior of the wolven standard, Prince of Dumnonia. You stand and face danger with an iron fist and sure heart, certain in the knowledge that our Lord’s Divine Goodness shall triumph over this base treachery.’
Aneurin looked helplessly at the Bishop, wanting to know how the cleric could be so confident when that same God had failed to save Aneurin’s parents, brother, sister, and all the other people who had been so violently slain by his uncle these past few days. Aneurin’s own tunic still bore the stains of his sister’s murder, and no words of comfort could ever expunge what had happened. For although Berec had rescued Aneurin, he had not managed to arrive in time to save Elowyn. Now, even in the deadening stillness of this fog, her screams rang shrill in Aneurin’s ears, and he dared not shut his eyes lest he revive those hideous memories of what they had done to her.
‘You are alive, Aneurin,’ Berec said gently, ‘and in your living rests hope for Dumnonia. That is why we must take you away from here.’
‘But I can’t just run away!’ Aneurin protested.
‘You flee to safety,’ the Bishop said harshly, his pale eyes flashing with malevolence, ‘to raise an army of your own so that you may wreak vengeance upon the traitor. Remember this day of infamy, Prince Aneurin. Take it into your heart, so that it burns–’
‘In Christ’s name,’ Berec swore, cutting off the cleric. ‘He’s only a child.’ He drew his charge towards him, and Aneurin fell into his protective embrace.
‘Coddling him will only encourage weakness,’ the Bishop continued relentlessly. ‘Better to let the pain of this evil feed his desire for retribution. He is regent of Dumnonia now.’
‘Bishop
Mewan,’ Berec warned, his voice a low growl, ‘be silent!’ Aneurin heard the cleric open his mouth then close it again. Mewan, apparently having decided to err on the side of caution, had complied.
Berec looked down at Aneurin’s tear-streaked face. Brushing the boy’s sandy-haired fringe from his eyes, he said, ‘You will go back home Aneurin. It may be some while, for you and your brother are still but cubs, but know that for as sure as the sun rises and crosses the sky each day, the wolves of Dumnonia will return.’
Aneurin glanced over Berec’s shoulder to the stern of their little boat, where Tegen, his infant brother’s nursemaid, sat clutching the babe tightly to her breast. She offered Aneurin an encouraging smile, but he saw the strain on her face. Return? Aneurin thought helplessly. How? He looked back into his guardian’s face, ardently wanting to believe him, but how could he when Berec himself doubted his own words? Aneurin’s hazel eyes fell onto the two wolves emblazoned on Berec’s overshirt. Once the proud symbol of his family, no longer did they charge defiantly towards their enemy. Instead, the two beasts fled, pursued by a ruthless foe who sought nothing less than their extinction.
‘Yes,’ Berec said thoughtfully, seeing the direction of Aneurin’s gaze, ‘I think we’d best take these off too.’ He tapped the wolven design on his chest then pointed at Aneurin’s own tunic, which was just visible between the folds of the boy’s cloak. ‘No sense drawing attention to ourselves.’
Aneurin made no complaint as he unfastened his cloak and let Berec pull the tunic off over his head. He watched silently as his guardian dropped the garment over the side. It stubbornly floated design-upwards beside them, refusing to sink or drift away. It gave Aneurin comfort to see that it would not disappear so easily.
‘We’ll get a new one made for you,’ Berec offered, seeing Aneurin’s sad expression. Then he twisted around and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Lady Tegen,’ he said, ‘I’ll need the babe’s wrap too–’
‘Lord Berec, there it is again!’ one of the rowers interrupted. He stopped mid-stroke and peered nervously into the mist. ‘What is it?’
Berec tilted his head to listen, his stubbled chin jutting out as he concentrated.
Then Aneurin heard it too; a strange, rhythmic sound that rose ominously from within the belly of the greyness. He looked at Berec in alarm. The warrior held a finger to his lips then motioned for the two rowers to be still.
They waited, frozen in silence. The sound grew louder. Aneurin looked about him, panic rising, but still he saw nothing. The sound swelled to a powerful, guttural rhythm, sometimes clear, sometimes muffled, but always unwavering in its purpose and beat.
Then, some distance upriver, Aneurin saw a ghostly image appear from the mist; dark, sleek and menacing. The boy opened his mouth to cry out in warning, but his throat was so dry he couldn’t make a sound. The monster of the sea melted from sight. Aneurin gripped Berec’s arm, too frightened to breathe. Where had it gone? he wondered frantically, hearing its rumbling heartbeat growing louder as it circled ever nearer.
‘Get us out of here!’ Berec commanded.
The little boat lurched forward, and the sail briefly snapped taut as the rowers hauled on the oars to bring them about.
Suddenly Tegen shrieked in terror.
Aneurin looked up to see the arched neck of an enormous sea monster burst from the fog beside them, its serpentine head plunging straight for the nine-year-old, its fangs bared for the kill.
The young prince screamed and threw his hands over his head.
The monster struck.
✽ ✽ ✽
‘Hel’s thighs, what’s that? Hard to port! Turn. TURN!’
The lookout’s cries came too late. The færing had materialised directly ahead of them, its triangular sail looming ghost-like from the fog as it floundered into the longship’s path. The Sea Swift’s captain threw himself at the tiller and shouted his own warning, but driven hard by her crew of thirty-two oarsmen, the Viking warship closed the gap between the two craft in a single stroke. They slammed into the færing’s midriff at full speed and, with a violent splintering of timbers, rode straight over the smaller craft hewing it in two.
The impact knocked Thorvald Wayfarer off his feet, and he fell to the deck amidst the tumbling cargo. His men cried out in shock and pain as they were thrown backwards by the impact, many falling foul of their own oars as the blades snagged in the wreckage. Above it all, Thorvald heard the terrified screams of the færing’s occupants as their ship disintegrated beneath them. Somebody yelled a warning as the færing’s mast toppled with a loud crack. Thorvald looked up to see the heavy beam and its fluttering sail falling towards him. He sprang out of the way, making it to safety just as the mast crashed onto the deck, snapping the Sea Swift’s yard as it fell and splintering the shield rail beneath it.
The tall Viking staggered to his feet, scrambling to gather his wits. What in Odin’s name had just happened? He grabbed one of the loosened stay ropes to steady his balance as he glanced down at himself to check he was still intact. His trousers had been torn at the hem, but his expensive blue tunic seemed to have survived unscathed. If that’s the worst to have befallen me, he thought, then I’ve escaped lightly. As for my crew… Wincing in anticipation, he lifted his eyes and looked over his longship to survey the damage.
The Sea Swift and her company had fared worse than her captain. The ship’s sweeping prow had been pushed in on itself, and a jagged stump was all that remained of her once proud serpent-head. In its place stood the stern of the other ship, impaled at a rakish angle so that its deck rose high above the Sea Swift. Its mast and sail had fallen diagonally across the longship, and several of his crew shouted for help as they struggled to free themselves from the suffocating sail. To Thorvald’s right, the uppermost plank had been snapped off the longship’s hull by the færing’s falling mast, and the Sea Swift listed dangerously under its weight so that only a hand span’s worth of wood lay above the waterline. That rail had also held the men’s brightly-painted shields; they now floated like a mass of monstrous eyes beside the ship.
Thorvald snatched up the leading edge of the sail and called for help as he dragged the heavy cloth aside. Within moments his crew had been freed, and they slowly picked themselves up from the deck, variously cursing and offering prayers to their patron Gods as the ship continued its starboard tilt. The men had been seated two to an oar when they had hit the other boat, and they had been thrown about because there were no fixed rowing benches. Instead, the crews’ sea-chests doubled as seats, and the men now sat or stood amid upturned trunks, spilt booty and a tangle of oar shafts. Too many appeared to have been injured, and one sat in an oddly upright stance. For a moment, Thorvald wondered how young Threlkel had managed to stay on his trunk, but then he saw the bloodied end of a broken oar protruding from the lad’s side. Thorvald swore. The poor boy had only just celebrated his fifteenth summer, and this had been his first raid. Thorvald looked away, stunned that a freak accident had inflicted more harm on him, his ship, and his men than the entire expedition to date.
Beyond the Sea Swift lay the shattered remains of the boat they had just cut in half. One of the survivors – a young boy by the look of it – had grabbed hold of one of the shields and was using it as a float. He frantically kicked at the water, desperate to get clear of the longship. Behind him, two men clung to a piece of their ruined craft. One of the men was trying to push their makeshift raft towards the boy, but the other man–who was clothed in what appeared to be a black dress–flailed about in noisy panic, hindering him.
Thorvald heard muffled shouts from further away in the gloom as the other longships in their little fleet came about to lend assistance. Thank the Gods we’re not sailing alone, he thought, dreading to think what damage lay unseen below the water.
‘Over here!’ Thorvald yelled, then after a moment added, ‘but watch out for us!’ It would be just his luck for one of the others to run into the Sea Swift and finish her off.
He felt a
bump on his elbow and turned to see his long-time friend Sigvald Jötunn-slayer standing amidst the wreckage beside him, shaking his golden-haired head in disgust. Standing nearly a head taller than Thorvald, the huge, barrel-chested Viking turned from the destruction to glare at his companion through clear, blue eyes.
‘Outstanding display of steersmanship,’ he growled. ‘Thorvald Ship-wrecker is a better name for you.’
‘What could I do?’ Thorvald responded hotly, his grey eyes flashing. ‘It came out of nowhere!’
The other Viking rolled his eyes at him. ‘That’s just my point,’ he said. ‘Here we are out in the middle of the open sea, and yet still you manage to run into someone! This could only happen to you, Thorvald!’
‘It’s an estuary.’
‘There was a beach,’ Sigvald retorted angrily, spreading his hands in exasperation. ‘A perfectly good place to come ashore and save ourselves all this trouble, but no, you insisted we row up this complicated bloody river in the fog, and now look what’s happened!’
‘How in the name of Asgard was I going to get out of that ship’s way with my drakkar overloaded with Sigvald Longship-loser and his entire crew? If anyone’s to blame for this, it’s you! Or have you already forgotten what happened last time we left our ships on a beach?’ He shook his head at his friend, struggling to contain his temper. Sigvald really did have a nerve, considering what had happened to him three days ago. ‘Anyway,’ Thorvald went on, trying to calm down, ‘things aren’t so bad. We’ve lost a couple of things overboard, and Threlkel’s been killed,’ Thorvald made a sign for the poor lad’s soul, ‘but if we take it slowly, we should be able to make it back to Hjaltland, where you can prove your skills as a master shipwright and put the Sea Swift back together again.’
Sigvald stared at Thorvald, his eyes flashing with exasperation. ‘We’re sinking, you idiot!’
‘But the Sea Swift is newly made,’ Thorvald protested, genuinely surprised. ‘You said she was the best drakkar you’d ever built.’