Contents
Title Page
Preface
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
Author's Note
DESCENDANTS OF THE WOLF
Jerry Autieri
Copyright © 2017 Jerry Autieri
Foreword
You are about to embark on a rollicking Viking adventure. Before you do, be advised that this is a continuation of a previous series, Ulfrik Ormsson's Saga, which begins with the book Fate's Needle. There is absolutely no need to have read that series first. This series was written to stand alone. However, characters and history from the prior series do appear in this volume. Again, knowing that history will only enhance your enjoyment of this tale; however, without it you will do fine. These are new characters and new adventures.
Depending on when you are finding this series, it may either be just beginning or completely finished. Reading in chronological order is not necessary. However, if you want to follow a family history you can start with Ulfrik Ormsson's story and continue here. Enjoy the tales of Viking adventure that follow!
CHAPTER ONE
Yngvar crouched in the indigo shadows of the spruce trees that striped the field. He squinted against the late afternoon sun, then smiled. The sheep were as white clouds floating in their pen. The sweet scent of hearth smoke carried in the wind, rolling across his face. The sheep would not detect them downwind.
"We best move before the farmers herd them to the barn," he said. He belched and the honey taste of mead filled his mouth again.
Standing at his back, huddled in the same spruce shadows, Bjorn and Thorfast gave him a gentle push. He turned on them, his vision still wobbling from the mead.
"Don't rush this," he said. His voice was low and his hands were cold and trembling. He grabbed the hilt of his sword for reassurance, and hoped it made him seem more confident than he felt.
"What is it then?" Thorfast asked. His left brow arched in characteristic challenge that set Yngvar's hand itching to slap his friend's face. "Explain what you mean by slowly hurry. I'm confused."
"He never said that," Bjorn said. Though he was one year junior to Yngvar, and thus not yet a man, he was nearly as strong as one. Bjorn even had the start of a beard, and of the three of them he seemed more the raider.
Yngvar turned back to the sheep in their pen. He scanned across the field to the long house where white smoke twirled from the thatched roof. These Franks built square-framed homes from stone and timber. Some Norse had started to construct their homes after this fashion, and Yngvar regretted the change. His people did not need to lose their traditions to make this land their home.
"You're the leader," Thorfast said. "So how are we going to do this?"
Yngvar swallowed. He was no longer certain that this had been a good idea. They had all drunk too much mead and had soon talked themselves into a raid they were ill-prepared to conduct. But what could be done now? They had crossed the border, and Yngvar had led them this far. His mouth was filled with cotton but he straightened up. "My grandfather would have charged in and taken the whole flock for his own. The farm, too, if he had a mind for it."
Thorfast shook his head. His hair was so light as to be nearly white and his pale face was flushed red. "Your grandfather would've been dressed in mail and shield. We're wearing cloaks and shirts, if you didn't notice. And he'd have had an army with him."
"Grandfather was brave," Bjorn said. "He wouldn't be pissing himself in the shadows, would he?"
"All right, then," Yngvar was loud enough to cause all three to wince and look toward the farm. Nothing stirred, and Yngvar let out his breath. "There's only three of us. We each can carry one of the sheep back. Bjorn, you can probably take two. The stupid Franks won't miss them."
"Who cares if they miss the sheep?" Thorfast asked, his hands spread wide. "This is supposed to be a raid, isn't it?"
Yngvar closed his eyes and drew a breath. "Yes, this is a raid. Not much like the tales of old, but the best we can do now. One day, we'll be better than this. This is practice. One day, we'll take to the sea like our grandfathers did and we'll sail to glorious battle. Skalds will write songs of our adventures, I promise."
"That's right," Bjorn said with all the sincerity of a believer. Bjorn was Yngvar's cousin, and equally devoted to the ideals of the Norse warrior.
Thorfast's eyebrow remained cocked, but he said nothing. He made an exaggerated wave at the waiting sheep.
Without a word, Yngvar jogged from the protective shadows of the spruce trees. His steps were straighter now that the mead had worn off. In fact, the burning in his guts had chased off whatever remained of his drunkenness. This was a bad idea, he decided halfway to the sheep pen. His head swiveled like a loose mast, constantly watching for the farmers to appear. Bjorn and Thorfast stumbled behind him, crowding up against him as if he could shield them from their own foolishness.
At the pen, Yngvar unlatched the gate. His hands quaked as if the sound of the wooden bar would bring the cavalry of Frankia crashing down on him. The sheep bleated and huddled at the far end of the pen, clustering into a ball the color of millet.
"Be quiet," he said to the sheep as he slipped into the pen. The ground was soft from the constant tread of the animals and he skidded as he rushed toward the closest sheep. Bjorn and Thorfast followed, each seizing their own prize.
He had not actually carried an unwilling sheep before. For its small size the animal weighed more than he could have guessed. Thorfast could not hold his, and even Bjorn struggled to keep his under arm.
"Three bloody sheep," Bjorn said, his nose wrinkled. "And they all stink like shit. Is this all we get?"
"They won't follow us," Thorfast said. He snatched at a smaller animal, causing the rest to crash into the fence and bleat louder. "This is going to bring the farmers."
Yngvar's sheep escaped his grip and he twisted after it, cursing as it slammed into its fellows. "Odin's balls! This is a waste. Get what we can and go."
"I've got mine," Bjorn said, his head tipped back. "The two of you can't handle a fluffy little lamb?"
"We don't have time," Yngvar said. Thorfast spun in a circle as his sheep eluded him. "Forget it all and let's go."
"This isn't glory," Bjorn said, hiking his sheep on his hip. "We've got to take more."
With his sheep crushed to his side, Bjorn turned toward the other animals. He started kicking at them, forcin
g them toward the gate.
"That's just making more noise," Thorfast said.
Yngvar gave up on the sheep. He looked toward the farmhouse and knew what he would see. A dark shape had just ducked back around the corner of the house. Yngvar spit in anger. "We've been seen. Come on, let's go."
He took two strides to the gate and the shape reappeared. The farmer was tall, dressed in simple gray and black clothing faded from days under the sun. His black beard was thick and hid his face. Yngvar noted nothing more of the man.
All he saw was the bow and arrow on the string leveled at him.
"Put up your hands," the farmer shouted in Frankish. He drew the string to his cheek and Yngvar saw the arrowhead glint.
"It's just one man," Bjorn said. Yngvar dared not turn around, but he could imagine Bjorn standing with feet wide and head tipped back in challenge. He did that at the start of every fight.
"Not one," said another voice. Yngvar broke his stare and saw another figure emerge from the opposite end of the house. A second bowman had an arrow drawn to his chin and aimed at either Thorfast or Bjorn. The man was slighter with a light beard, probably Yngvar's own age. A limp quiver was slung across his hip and a handful of arrows rattled in it. They might not be war arrows, but they were enough to bring down all three of them.
"Put up your hands," the farmer repeated.
Now the farmer's wife appeared, brandishing a wooden pitchfork in her fat hands. She was equal to her husband in size, and her dress and head cover did nothing to disguise her brutishness. She seemed less tentative than her husband, as if she could hardly wait to run at them with her weapon.
Yngvar raised his hands. "We'll do as you say."
"By Ran's rotten cunt! I'm not afraid of dying!" Bjorn bellowed his curse, and Yngvar heard the sheep bleat in horror as it fell to the ground.
A young boy now joined the rest of the family, and he hauled a black dog twice his size by a rope leash. The instant the dog saw them, the boy lost his grip and the dog charged with a snarl.
"For glory!" Bjorn shouted.
Yngvar spun toward his cousin, but he slipped in the mud. It saved his life, for he heard the arrow tear above his shoulder and thud into the barn wall. He nearly landed in a split, his thigh muscles burning with pain. He recovered, grabbing the fence.
The other bowman, likely the farmer's oldest son, released his arrow, but it seemed to vanish. Yngvar did not mark where is struck, but Thorfast screamed and ducked.
Only Bjorn was unmoved by the terror. He struggled with his sword, which still remained in its sheath.
Yngvar's guts blazed into fire. He grabbed his own weapon. The peace straps were still tied there, the leather bindings that men wore on their swords when in another's hall. Peace straps prevented an easy draw. They had all been drinking in Thorfast's father's hall, and so wore the straps rather than surrender their weapons. They had been so drunk when they set out they had not removed them.
The dog bounded the fence and landed on Bjorn. It was all black fur and snarling yellow teeth. Bjorn's scream belied his physical size. He sounded like a terrorized child as he blocked his face with his arms.
"Call off the dog!" Yngvar shouted. "We surrender!"
He dared to stand up. The farmer and his son were already nocking their next shots.
The dog yelped. Yngvar turned to see Bjorn driving his thumb into its eye.
"Come, Goliath!" the farmer shouted, lowering his bow.
The son did not lower and his aim was square on Thorfast, who ran at a crouch toward the gate. Yngvar yanked him down to the dirt in time for the son's hasty shot to pound into the fence post. The shaft quivered in the splintered post as if enraged for not having drawn blood.
"Goliath, heel!" the farmer repeated, then he pointed at his son. "And don't shoot again!"
The dog slunk away, whimpering and its tail hung low. However, Bjorn lay moaning on the ground and clutching his arm. Red blood stained his sleeve. The sheep had crushed themselves into a group so tight it now seemed like a single animal.
"Put up your hands," the farmer said. Yngvar and Thorfast did as asked, but Bjorn remained staring up at the sky and clutching his arm.
The dog now ran back to the farmer, prancing around his legs before the young boy gathered up the leash once more. Only the wife had not shifted her stance. The shadows filling her deep-set eyes seemed to reveal a droop that spoke of disappointment.
After a long stillness, the farmer approached. An arrow remained on the farmer's bow, and the son took aim at Yngvar.
"You're well dressed for thieves," the farmer said. Now that he had come closer, the deep lines and scars on the farmer's face became clear. He was a hard-bitten man, one who had seen battles before and survived to carve his livelihood from the land. Yngvar and his friends were not going to intimidate him. "And I bet those would be fine swords if you could draw them."
Bjorn finally roared, pounding the ground with the fist of his uninjured arm. "We forgot the peace straps."
"Throw those swords out here," the farmer said. "You can save yourself more injury if you behave."
Yngvar's face was on fire. He thought his ears might curl and fall off as cinders. He carefully unhitched his sword and threw it in the grass where the farmer had indicated. Thorfast did as well. Bjorn finally struggled to his feet. His face glistened with slobber and he clutched his forearm where the dog had bitten him. Blood dripped between his fingers.
"Can you help me remove my sword?" he asked. Yngvar pulled the baldric over Bjorn's head, then clanked the sword atop the others.
He gave his most defiant look to the farmer, narrowing his eyes. He ignored the wife and two sons who had converged on them.
The farmer scanned over the group, searching Yngvar head to toe. He frowned and blinked as if trying to clear his vision.
"I recognize you. You're Jarl Hakon Ulfriksson's boy?"
Yngvar did not want to admit it. The surly wife now lowered her pitchfork and the eldest son snorted a laugh.
Face beaming heat, Yngvar gave the farmer a slight bow.
"I am Yngvar Hakonsson. This is Thorfast the Silent and the one your dog attacked is Bjorn Arensson." Yngvar sighed and let his shoulders slump. "And we are your prisoners."
CHAPTER TWO
Yngvar felt the trek back to his father's hall had been twice as long as it should have taken. The springtime air had cooled by evening and raised gooseflesh on his exposed arms. He had given his cloak to Bjorn, who had left his in the sheep pen where it had fallen, and now wished he had not been so generous. The farmer, Ferdegar, walked in front of them and his eldest son followed up with the dog on his leash. The poor animal whimpered the whole way, its eye shut and weeping. Bjorn sneered at the dog, holding his bandaged arm like it would drop from his body otherwise.
Hirdmen from Jarl Hakon's hall escorted them now, seven men with mail and spears. They had given Yngvar sly smiles, glanced at Bjorn's wounds and the armload of captured swords Ferdegar carried. Again Yngvar felt his face going up in flames. This day could not end soon enough. Their trudge through the village drew out onlookers of every age. Most were wise enough to hide their amusement, but Yngvar knew they would snicker at him after he had passed. People liked him well enough, but everyone was happy when the jarl's son made a misstep. He did not understand why people took pleasure in such things. He did not laugh at their failures.
His father's hall seemed grander than ever now that he stood in its shadow, knowing Hakon Ulfriksson was seated at the high table waiting to receive his captured son. The hall seemed as high as the towers of Paris. It was all in shadow, and the hirdmen at the doors were equally black and indistinct like demon guardians of a hole into the underworld.
"No weapons in the hall," said one of the hirdmen. Ferdegar offered the swords to the waiting hirdman. "And the hound remains outside. You can tie him up to that tree."
The hirdman waved at a poplar tree that quivered with tender green leaves. He did not wait for Ferdegar's
response, but carried the swords to the side of the doors. He then disappeared inside to announce their arrival.
"I'll let you explain this," Thorfast whispered from behind. "He's your father, after all."
"For once, then, keep silent," Yngvar said. He watched the farmer's son tying up his dog. He stooped to pet it, trying to get a look at its eye as it twisted away. Yngvar felt a pang of remorse for the poor dog. It had only been defending its home. He blamed himself for all the injuries to the dog and Bjorn.
"Don't forget to tell him I wasn't afraid to die," Bjorn added. "And that we wouldn't be hostages now if I could've drawn my sword."
Yngvar shook his head and filed into his father's hall behind the hirdmen and Ferdegar.
The hearth fire blazed, having been stoked for the evening meal that was now delayed from their imminent disgrace. Heat wrapped his face and the smell of sweat and smoke filled his nose. It was a familiar taste, one that made him feel oddly at ease despite being a hostage. The hall had been cleared of anyone other than hirdmen, who lined the walls on either side. Tables and benches had been dragged aside, scrapping paths through the straw covering of the dirt floor. Servants and slaves lingered in the corners, ready to answer a command.
Yngvar occupied his vision with every aspect of the hall other than the high table directly ahead. He looked at the weapons and hunting trophies lining the walls. From the rafters, banners of vanquished enemies waved in the current of air rushing up to the smoke hole. High above the stage was the green standard with black elk antlers. That had been his grandfather's standard. Ulfrik Ormsson had once been a great hero and master of this hall, which his son Hakon now ruled.
"Welcome to my hall." Hakon Ulfriksson's voice was as loud as a crashing wave in the silent hall. Yngvar turned his eyes down, but not first without glancing at his father.
Hakon sat on his bench, elbows leaning on the table to reveal his strong arms. His gray hair fell over his red cloak and his white beard was braided to his chest. Yngvar could not meet his father's icy gaze, but he saw the irritated expression etched into his hard face. Men said he looked like his father, and they said the same for Yngvar. He did not doubt his grandfather could wither an enemy with a single look.
Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1) Page 1
