TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn

by Poul Anderson

  HARALD, THE WARRIOR

  As he plunged down the slope, Ha raid had a glimpse across the enemy host below. A man ahead of him groaned and fell to his knees. An arrow stood in his eye. He pawed at it, rolled over, and Harald slipped in the blood that ran from his brain.

  Suddenly the enemy front was before him. He saw a face over a shield: thick yellow brows, big nose, coarse pores. The yeoman grunted and struck out with his ax. Harald caught the blow and lurched with the shock. He cut low, striking at the fellow's legs, and saw the calf flayed open.

  Harald pressed on. Teeth grinned at him, another man was there, where had the first one gone? Something clipped his helmet and he stumbled. Echoes flew in his head. He struck out wildly, catching an ax haft on his blade. The hilt was almost torn from his hands.

  Was this battle, he thought dimly—this trampling and slipping and hammering, in a mill of stinking bodies? Why... did you even know, at the end, whether you had killed anyone or not? The only answers were in the blood-soaked fields—and the wretched moans of the dead...

  THE LAST VIKING

  Book 1

  THE GOLDEN HORN

  POULANDERSON

  ZEBRA-BOOKS KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  are published by

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  21 East 40th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 1980 by Poul Anderson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Second Printing: August. 1980

  Printed in the United States of America

  THE GOLDEN HORN

  This trilogy is dedicated to the memory of my father Anton William Anderson

  FOREWORD

  The fullest and liveliest account of King Harald Sigurdharson's* incredible career is found in the thirteenth-century Heimskringla, on which I have leaned heavily. But Snorri Sturluson, the prince of historians as regards style and a compiler who does not lack critical judgment, is demonstrably wrong on many points and omits others. Here one must turn to Byzantine writers: Kedrenos, Zonaras, Glykas, Psellus and others; to the Dane Saxo Grammaticus and the German Adam of Bremen; to the Englishman William of Malmesbury and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle; to the M orkinskinna, Fagrskinna, Flatey jarbok and lesser Icelandic sagas; and to more modern authorities such as Finlay, Oman, Storm and Gjerset. A source of much information is the verse of the contemporary skalds; it should be mentioned that all skaldic poetry translated in this book, including Harald's own, is authentic. Various sites and exhibits, especially those in the Danish National Museum, are a treasury of information about the details of daily life in the eleventh century . . . but quoting sources is a wearisome business.

  * His nickname Hardhraadhi, meaning hard or stern counsel, has gone down in English history as Hardrada (sometimes confused with Harfagr ) and is rendered Hardrede in this book.

  All the major characters except (perhaps) Maria Skleraina and her father are historical, and many of the minor ones are, too; though, of course, the appearance, personality and ultimate fate of several are entirely conjectural. I have tried to respect all established facts, and to fill in the gaps with the most logical guesses. However, when facts are unknown, dates vague, motives obscure, chronicles self-contradictory and equally good authorities in conflict, I have not hesitated to select those events and that chronology which best fit the requirements of a story. Thus, Saxo's yarn of Harald's fight with a dragon is pretty clearly mythical, and therefore omitted; William's tale of his wrestling with a lion contradicts the more reliable Byzantines; but Snorri's story of Maria, while it may only be legend, may just as well be true and is included.

  Sometimes one has only a hint to go on. For example, Harald's Arctic expedition is barely noted by Adam and one runestone. I have dated it at 1061, somewhat arbitrarily, but I think more probably than the 1065 occasionally given.

  In short, events happened more or less as described in this book; how much more or less we cannot say.

  Rather than clutter up the story with unfamiliar words, I have used the nearest English equivalents. Thus: royal guard instead of hird, marshal instead of stallar, sheriff instead of lendrmadhr, yeoman instead of bondir, etc. ("Yeoman" was chosen rather than "peasant," which connotes a servile state and a rigid class distinction that did not exist in Scandinavia at the time.) Likewise, place names which would be familiar to the reader are given in their English forms: i.e., Norway instead of Noreg, or in the modern forms which can be found on a map, e.g., Roskilde instead of Roiskelda.

  Exceptions to this rule are a few untranslatable words such as jarl and Thing, explained in the text, and place names which would in any event be new to the average Anglo-Saxon reader, for example Stiklastadh. Throndheim is used, a form closer to the ancient one than today's Trondheim, because of the importance of the stem. Personal names, which are exotic however spelled, have been left in their original form as nearly as possible. For the sake of clarity and simplicity, some spellings and grammar have been modified a bit. It must be remembered - that medieval orthography was a fearful and wonderful thing.

  The reader interested in Old Norse pronunciations may use the following as a very approximate (caveat!) guide. Otherwise he can use the rules of modern German and not be too far off.

  A :Broad, somewhat as in arm.

  Aa:Somewhat like aw in hawk.

  Ae:Like German a.

  Alf:All letters pronounced, as in Alfred.

  Au:Somewhat like ow in now.

  Dh:Like th in this.

  E:As in end. Terminal e is pronounced.

  Ei, ey: Somewhat like ay in say.

  Gn:Both letters pronounced.

  I:When followed in a syllable by a single

  consonant, or when terminal, as in machine; when followed by a doubled consonant, as in it .

  J: Like y in yet.

  Kn: Both letters pronounced.

  Ng: Always as in thing, not as in finger.

  O: Usually long, about as in obey.

  Ö : As in German.

  R: As in Scottish.

  Th: As in thing.

  U: Approximately as in ruthless; when followed by a doubled consonant, as in gun.

  Y: Like German ü .

  Stress normally falls on the first syllable.

  These rules may also be applied to Anglo-Saxon and, with less accuracy, to Russian—but not, of course, to Greek, where the usual conventions of transliteration apply.

  The quotation from the Agamemnon in Book One, Chapter X, is from Edith Hamilton's translation in Three Greek Plays, by kind permission of the publishers, W. W. Norton and Company, Copyright 1937 by W. W. Norton and Company, Inc.

  In conclusion, I must express my very real gratitude to several people: to my wife Karen, to Marvin Larson, Philip K. Dick and Reginald Bret-nor, for their advice and encouragement; to Willy Ley and Dr. Leland Cunningham for assistance with historical astronomy; to Kenneth Gray, not only for suggesting the title but for using his immense knowledge of Russian and Byzantine history to criticize Book One; to the late Professor George Guins for help with a difficult point of Russian church history. But all flaws and errors are entirely my own.

  Poul Anderson

  EARLY KINGS OF NORWAY

  All were of the Yngling family, descended in legend from the god Yngvi-Freyr and in fact from Harald Fairhair, who completed the unification of Norway about 872 a.d . Some, though bearing the title of king, were local vassals; kings of all Norway are here in italic and the dates of their reigns given. It should be remembered that most of these men had brothers or hal
f-brothers who never bore a title and are not shown. There were three interregna as follows: Haakon the Great, jarl of Hladhi, ruled between Harald Grayfell and Olaf Tryggvason; the sons of Haakon between Olaf Tryggvason and Olaf the Stout (St. Olaf); and Svein Alfifasson as the viceroy of Knut ("Canute") the Great between Olaf the Stout and Magnus the Good.

  THE GOLDEN HORN

  Gaily and right gleeful,

  girls will spy the dustcloud

  raised as we come riding

  to Rognvald's town of Skara.

  Hoy! Let's spur the horses

  hotly, so the maidens

  a long way off can listen

  to loudness of the hoof beats!

  —Sighvat

  Prologue Of Olaf the Stout and his Kin

  Over the land came a troop of men riding. They were the guards of Norway's king, and he was on his way to see his mother.

  Winter still dwelt in the Uplands, but as the band moved southward and down, into Hringariki shire, they felt the first winds of springtime. Here the mountains had sloped off into hills where spruce trees stood murky against snow. The sun glittered from a high clear sky. Louder than hoofs in mud, a river brawled seaward over stones. Now and again a raven flapped off, astoundingly black, as the riders neared.

  They were big men, shaggy in furs wrapped over chain-mail byrnies, reddened by the cold. Sunbeams ran like fire along their helmets and spear blades, that rose and fell with the trotting of their shaggy little horses. Shields banged on cruppers, leather creaked, iron jingled, sometimes laughter sounded. Olaf Haraldsson led them. He was not the oldest, he had not yet seen a quarter century, but he was the king. Of middle height, he was broadly built and kettle-bellied; one could even call him fat, but heavy bone and hard flesh lay beneath. His face was wide, brown-bearded, ruddy, with a blunt nose, a large mouth and small ice-blue eyes. He bore a sword at his waist and

  an ax at his saddle.

  "We are nearly through the forest," he called over his shoulder. "I remember the landmarks. We will soon be there."

  "Will the beer?" asked the nearest man.

  Olaf grinned. The road made a turn, the woods halted, and he rode out across plowland. Here the earth lay bare between snowbanks and the wind raised wavelets on every puddle. Smoke rose raggedly from a house on the left. The dwellers came out to gape at the warriors: burly yeomen, long-limbed women, children whose shocks of hair were nearly white, all in wadmal and winter sheepskins. Weapons sank when the troop offered no threat. Beyond them, Olaf saw their pigs and goats and cattle behind rail fences, and beyond that other steadings like this one and their lands rolli ng southward to the hidden Oslo fjord. And this was his; he was the king. That fact was not yet too old to shout within him.

  Soon he spied the lake he knew, and his mother's home. She had what was a thorp in its own right: barns, sheds, workshops and dwellings on three sides of a flagged courtyard. On the fourth side was the hall, steep-roofed, dragon heads gaping from the beam ends. Messengers had gone before to say he was coming. As he clattered onto the stones, he saw the housefolk in their best clothes awaiting him. His horse snorted wearily as he drew rein.

  Dismounting, he strode to the doorway where his mother stood. He pulled off his gloves and took her hands with sudden awkwardness. She smiled. "Welcome, Olaf," she said.

  "I should have come ere now," he mumbled.

  "Three years was long, yes. But they were three hard years. I well understood you had no time to spare. Now come in, you and your men." Pride lifted her voice. "Come in, king!"

  Aasta Gudhbrandsdottir was a tall woman, still straight and slender though her thick yellow hair was streaked with gray. She looked into his eyes as boldly as a man, and he knew it was not only because he was her son. She had confronted the foes of his kindred, when they ruled this realm, with the same gaze. He remembered how she had always stood for him against his stepfather, Sigurdh Sow, and that it was chiefly her doing that he was not Norway's master.

  Careful as a boy, he wiped his feet. In the entry room he gave a carle his coat, helmet and byrnie. His clothes beneath were good, a blue linen shirt and leg-ginged breeches, a golden pin at his throat and a gold ring on one hairy arm. He and his guards followed Aasta into the main chamber.

  Long and dim it ran, between pillars carved with beasts and heroes. Fire leaped in the trenches; smoke stung men's eyes before curling past the high rafters and out the holes in the roof. Aasta had had fresh boughs laid on the floor, cushions put on the benches, her finest tapestries hung on the walls among the weapons and antlers. Trestle tables had been set up and loaded with food, casks of beer and mead stood close by, the household women waited to serve. Olaf was given the high seat which had been Sigurdh's, at the middle of one side wall. His mother sat on his right.

  First her chaplain must bless the food, for Olaf was a strict Christian and felt that his greatest work lay in uprooting heathendom throughout the land. Then they fell to, hacking off meat and bread with their knives, throwing bones to the dogs, draining horn after horn, till the hall clattered. Only after the meal, when the tables had been cleared away and the men were off to lounge about the garth, did Aasta speak much with Olaf.

  He felt he must take the lead and said clumsily, "It's a sorrow that Sigurdh is dead. He was a good man."

  "Good," she nodded. "Wise and gentle, and we were not unhappy together, he and I. But he lacked the heart of a king."

  Shocked at her bluntness—her husband had died only a few months ago—Olaf said, "Why, he ... it was he who got the chiefs to aid me against the Haakonssons, when I first came home."

  "Because I made him," she answered. "I speak no ill of the dead. Sigurdh Sow was a mighty yeoman, and no coward. But he was not a king, for all he bore the name."

  "My father—" Olaf's mouth closed, for he thought it best to let that matter lie. Harald Gud hrodharson had been king in Vestfold shire and Aasta's first husband, but he had wanted to put her aside and marry Sigridh the Haughty of Sweden. And Sigridh had had him murdered, saying that this would teach those little under-kings not to come wooing her. Later she married Svein Twybeard, Lord of Denmark and conqueror of England. Olaf had never known his father Harald, who died before he was born.

  "Can you run these acres by yourself?" he asked hastily. "I could send a trusty man down to help you."

  "I have enough," said Aasta. After a moment: "You were good to come see me. You must tell me the full tale of how you smote the Upland kings this winter. Now there are none other left who even call themselves under-king, are there?"

  "No," he said.

  "Keep it thus."

  "I will, if God allows."

  Aasta rose. "But would you not like to see the children?" she asked. "Stay here, I'll fetch them in."

  They entered slowly, all but the youngest shy before their grown half-brother. The oldest was Guthorm, about ten; then came the girl Gunnhild, the boy Halfdan, the girl Ingiridh and last the three-year-old boy Harald.

  Olaf leaned forward, smiling. "Be not afraid," he said. "Here, come to me."

  Aasta led the boys forward. Guthorm and Halfdan already looked like their father Sigurdh, the big, slow-spoken man who had been clever with his hands and had himself worked in the fields he loved. One after the other, Olaf took them on his knee, as the custom was. To test them he scowled and glared. Guthorm shrank back and Halfdan broke into a wail. Olaf could see that Aasta was displeased, but he took Harald anyway. The lad was big for his age, with sharp eyes under a bleached mane. His face remained steady when the king frowned.

  Olaf tugged his hair. At once a little hand gave his beard an angry yank. The king laughed and set Harald down. "You'll be revengeful when you grow up, kinsman!" he said.

  The next day Olaf and his mother were walking about the grounds. A warm wind had blown through the night and now the snow was melting with an old man's haste to die and be done. Clouds banked dusky in the south, boding rain, but roofed with sunlight. A hare bolted underfoot and sparrows were noisy in the
fields. On high floated an eagle, two wings and a beak in heaven.

  Talking of old times and everything which had happened since, Olaf and Aasta wandered down to the lake. It was wrinkled with wind, almost black against the last snow, and. smelled wet. A broadness thrust out into the water with ten farmsteads smoking on its back. "Look," said Olaf, "yonder are the boys."

  Guthorm and Halfdan were building toy houses out of clay. Harald was by himself, sailing chips of wood. "Ever he goes alone," said his mother. "His siblings weary him."

  Olaf strolled over to watch. Harald glanced up, meeting his gaze with blue eyes that seemed oddly cold for three years old. "What have you there?" asked the king.

  "They are my warships," said Harald.