Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1)

by Jerry Autieri

  Yngvar's stomach lurched at the thought of Kadlin being married off to another. But with his father selecting a political marriage over one of Yngvar's choosing, there was no way for Kadlin to be his.

  "If Uncle Aren can't or won't help me, then there is another choice."

  Both Bjorn and Thorfast looked at each other. Yngvar paused, hands still on his head.

  "You're talking about your uncle, Gunnar the Black," Thorfast said. "He frightens me."

  "He's got a temper," Bjorn said. "But maybe that's what will do us some good. Get him riled up for Yngvar. Maybe he'll give Uncle Hakon something to think on."

  "There's something to that," Yngvar said. "Uncle Gunnar has been actively going to sea until just a few years ago. His men are all named raiders."

  "I think you mean to say they're all named madmen," Thorfast said. "Doesn't he have a berserker in his service?"

  Yngvar shrugged. He knew his father and Uncle Gunnar had cooled off their relationship. From what he remembered, they ended up disputing many things after grandfather Ulfrik's death. His father always said Gunnar was too easy to anger and caused more troubles than he settled. Something had happened between them to cause a split so that they rarely spoke. Yngvar didn't even know his cousins well because of their rift.

  "Uncle Gunnar will understand us," Yngvar said. "I'm certain of it. If anyone might speak out for me, it would be him. Even if he didn't care, he might be willing to try just for mischief's sake."

  "I don't think old jarls like your father and uncle play those sorts of games," Thorfast said. "Besides, when was the last time you visited your uncle? How do you know he'd even take you into his hall?"

  "He and my father are at odds, but they don't hate each other. He'd open his hall to us. He might even take us on raid with him. Now wouldn't that be something?"

  Bjorn stood up and nodded, but Thorfast's frown deepened. "Isn't he a hundred years old? I doubt he raids anymore."

  "He's not that old," Bjorn said, throwing his last handful of grass over Thorfast's head.

  "That's settled," Yngvar said. "I'm taking this to Uncle Gunnar."

  "Why is not talking to your father even a choice?" Thorfast brushed the grass from his hair, flicking errant blades back at Bjorn. "Maybe if he understood you better he would change his mind."

  Yngvar laughed. "A fine joke. My father change his mind? My father is jarl. My father's word is law. He'd cast us out from his protection if we raided without his leave. He just told us that this morning, eh, Bjorn?"

  "That is what he said. Uncle Hakon is a stubborn man," Bjorn said. "But I like him."

  "It's not about liking him," Yngvar said, pacing once more. "It's about making sure we get what we want from life before we are all locked down forever. Our grandfathers did not worry for their freedom. They took to the waves and sailed where their hearts led them. They plundered the rich and made themselves fat on their spoils. They didn't fret about boxy wives with moles on their chins, or what the neighboring farmers thought of their lives. And all of them rose to great glory. They must weep to look on us from Valhalla and see us shoved along the safe paths of life. For how will we ever join them in the feasting hall if we live the lives of sheltered husbands on land won for us by greater men?"

  "Well said!" Bjorn's eyes glittered as he stood tall before Yngvar. "I don't want to live a sheltered life."

  "And you think I am the one gifted with words," Thorfast said. He too stood straighter after that talk. "It's a fair point you make. We must build a life on our own deeds, for there is no other path to glory."

  "So are you coming with us to my uncle's hall?" Yngvar asked, and Thorfast clapped his shoulder in affirmation. It was a warm, hard squeeze.

  Together they walked to the front of the forge where thin, balding Davin sat on an old stump mopping sweat from his brow. The forge pulsed beside him, as tired as he was after an afternoon of work. Davin broke into a smile, his few yellow teeth showing beneath his copper mustache.

  "Secret meeting all done, boys?"

  "You mentioned my Uncle Gunnar was late in shipping you something?"

  "Not your uncle, but his traders promised me the leather I need to complete these swords. Not much use waving swords around by the tang. Need good leather for the hilts, and they're late in sending it."

  "Could I take word to my uncle for you? I have not visited him in ages and wish to see him myself. So I thought I could help you."

  Davin wiped his forehead again. "Don't make me seem too impatient. But I would appreciate it if you could hurry them along. Your father is eager for this order to complete."

  Yngvar smiled at his companions. Now he had his excuse for visiting. Uncle Gunnar the Black would surely help him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Yngvar rejoiced at his fortune. His father had not only accepted Yngvar's wish to help Davin, but was supportive of sending him and Bjorn to Uncle Gunnar. He assigned two men to escort them, and before leaving he took Yngvar behind the hall where no one else stood.

  His father's eyes softened as he pulled Yngvar near. "Your uncle and I were not always at odds. We loved each other as only brothers could. I still love him, though he's a fool. Let him know we are both too old for the ice that has grown between us. Tell him you will be married, and that he should come to my hall for a celebration. He is welcomed here."

  Hakon stared past him as if reliving a distant memory. "Yes, tell him I'm a fool as well. I would go with you and tell him myself were I not needed here."

  His father's request dogged Yngvar's journey north, where Gunnar held a sliver of land that accessed the Seine and therefore the sea. Yngvar wondered what had divided the brothers. Crossing fields of dark pines and traversing the thin woodland tracks, he began to doubt himself. His father had asked for reconciliation yet he sought to exploit their division for his own benefit. With every step he took north he felt his heart sinking. Was he truly going to pit them against each other when his father sought peace?

  They traveled in a thin column and on foot. Their escorts went before and after them, wearing heavy leathers and carrying spears and shields. Both he and Bjorn had rich clothes and fur-trimmed cloaks, but carried only their swords. Thorfast was the poorest of all, dressed in common clothes with a plain wool cloak he had removed during the day. His sword was shorter as well, more akin to a sax than a normal longsword.

  "How did you get your father's agreement?" Yngvar asked him.

  "I told him Jarl Hakon picked me for the role of escort. It seemed to make him proud. And he was drunk when I told him."

  Gunnar the Black was not a rich jarl. Yngvar realized this was why he probably raided as he did. He needed income to keep his hall and hirdmen. Wisdom held that anyone with access to the Seine would prosper, but Gunnar the Black seemed to defy the notion. When pox had scoured Frankia, killing all of Yngvar's siblings and hundreds of others, Gunnar had also lost all but one of his children and his wife. The children of Ulfrik Ormsson and Runa the Bloody were too strong to be taken down by a pox. Yet their descendants had not been, and it was a hard blow to the wider family. Yngvar wondered if something that happened during that time had divided Gunnar from his father.

  Gunnar's meager hall was visible atop a high, bald hill. As they drew closer, it flitted behind treetops with the rise and fall of the terrain. What he could see of it showed old, gray thatch and dark, rain-stained wood. Nor did it appear large, but without anything near it for reference, Yngvar hoped it was just a trick of is sight.

  The surrounding village was no more than a handful of farms and ranches. Being proximate to the Seine and the traffic it produced between Rouen and Paris, people here did not scatter at the sight of a small band crossing their land. Nor did they hail them or otherwise recognize them. Their drab, thin forms continued at whatever duties commonfolk performed. Yngvar's eyes glided over them.

  "Shouldn't escorts meet us?" he asked the guard in the front. The sandy-haired man was thin, not much taller than Yngvar, and spoke with a v
oice that sounded as if he had just been screaming. The entire journey the hirdman had said nothing beyond his name, which Yngvar had forgotten. He did not know all of his father's men. There were too many.

  "No, lord, Jarl Gunnar does not patrol his lands or set a watch."

  "Oh?" Yngvar glanced back at Bjorn and Thorfast as they picked their way through the last stretch of a light woods of gray-trunked trees. Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet. "You've been here before?"

  "Twice, lord," the man paused to check his bearings, then continued without looking back. "No need for guards on Jarl Gunnar's lands."

  "Why is that?" Yngvar asked. He actually did not know his uncle well. His father had preferred to talk of something else whenever Gunnar's name was raised. The sandy-haired man glanced at him. Yngvar thought he looked like a dog that had been caught shitting under its master's bed.

  He looked around, and his friends were concentrating on their footing and the other hirdman was too far back to hear them.

  "Why does my uncle not require guards on his land?"

  They stopped and he pointed at the trees dotting the end of the woods. Dozens of skulls swayed from old, black ropes in their branches. The cheery new growth of spring contrasted with the brown and yellowed bones. Beneath one thin tree part of a rib cage rose out of the ground.

  The rest of the column stopped, wondering what they looked at. Thorfast sucked his breath when he saw what Yngvar did.

  "That's why, lord," the hirdman said. "Gunnar the Black has no patience for trespassers or fools. Neither live long in his lands. Small trouble avoids this place. Anything larger than that he could see from his hall."

  Yngvar squinted at the vague shape of the hall atop the bald hill. It did command a view that left no hiding place. All the trees had been cleared off the hill and surrounding area. Judging from the stumps they skirted on the way up the hill, deforesting the area had to be the work of years. Yngvar knew his uncle was called Black not only for his dark hair but for his wretched temper. He would not treat his own family so poorly, would he?

  At the hall, guards stood ready for them. Yngvar's escort raised his hand in peace. He also carried a smoothed piece of deer antler with Hakon's runes upon it to prove they came in his service. These men were craggy, stooped figures that used their spears like old men use walking sticks. It was a lazy display and they blinked at their approach like two sleepy cats by a hearth fire. Yngvar's escort motioned that they stay back, then climbed the rest of the distance to talk to the guards. The antler piece traded hands, then one man went inside while Yngvar's escort returned.

  Yngvar waited, his stomach tightened and nostrils flaring. The air was cool for late afternoon, smelling of grass from the wide fields surrounding them. He searched for a good sign that he had done the right thing in coming here. Yet only a few clouds hung in the pale blue sky and any birds or other carriers of omens were far off dots. Thorfast and Bjorn huddled behind him. Thorfast's breath was hot on his shoulder as he leaned in.

  "Do you think I should wait outside? This is family business, after all."

  "Don't tell me you're afraid of my uncle?"

  "I won't then. I'll let you figure it out yourself."

  "It's just some bones," Bjorn said. "Probably bandits, is all. You worry too much."

  The door burst open and a stronger, taller man exited. He had long golden hair cascading over his shoulders and a flowing beard to match it. His heavy brow pulled down over his shadowed eyes as he looked over the visitors gathered at his hall. He wore plain clothes of brown, and a large grease stain marred his shirt. Gold and silver rings decorated his strong arms.

  "My cousins?" His voice was coarse and strong. "You're still alive?"

  Yngvar swallowed at that. He expected them to be dead? He felt Thorfast step back from the powerful man who now marched down the hill. He was neither threatening nor welcoming. He carried no visible weapon, but seemed capable of danger with his knuckles alone. He pointed a thick finger at Yngvar.

  "You're the very image of him, just like they say. It raises my neck hairs to see it."

  Yngvar's stomach knotted and he inclined his head. "People say I look like my father."

  "No, you look like our grandfather. You never saw him, did you? Well, look into a still pond one day. He'll be looking back at you."

  Yngvar liked his cousin. His stomach unclenched and a warm glow drove off his fear. His cousin, Brandr, had once been a hostage to Jarl Hrolf the Strider. He could not have been but a child when grandfather Ulfrik died, yet he still seemed to remember him.

  Brandr stood before them, hands on his hips, but still did not smile. His face was lost behind the silky beard and his expression remained hard to read. He glanced past Yngvar to the others. "Cousin Bjorn. Big for a lad your age, aren't you? What happened to your arm?"

  "A war hound attacked me."

  Yngvar turned at the comment. Bjorn had not flinched at his exaggeration and ignored Yngvar's dubious look.

  "I hope you killed the beast," Brandr said. "The rest are your escorts, then. This white snowflake melting behind everyone? Who are you?"

  "I am Thorfast the Silent, a good friend of your cousins."

  "Excellent. Friends are good, and silent ones are best. Live up to your name and we shall get along fine." Brandr finally extended his arm to Yngvar, and they both gripped the other in a formal greeting. Brandr finally smiled and it was surprisingly warm. Up close he smelled of beer and sweat, and his grip was strong and sure. Yngvar decided his cousin was a decent man despite having only just met him. Brandr did the same for Bjorn and extended the same courtesies to rest.

  "Come inside," he said, extending an arm toward the opened doors. "My father is preparing to receive you. I admit it is a surprise that Uncle Hakon has dared to send you here. Yet you are family, and so I promise you all the hospitality of honored guests. Come now. The hall is a modest place, not what you boys are accustomed to."

  Yngvar wanted to ask about that division, but thought better of it. Instead he rounded on Bjorn as they followed their cousin uphill. "Don't mention the troubles between my father and Uncle Gunnar."

  "I was just about to ask him," Bjorn said, seemingly surprised at Yngvar's timeliness. Yngvar rolled his eyes and followed Brandr to the doors. Everyone surrendered their weapons, leaving them with the ragged men who seemed as likely to steal them as they were to safeguard them.

  Transitioning into the hall, Yngvar's eyes failed to show him anything. It was dark with the hearth unlit and the smoke hole closed. Only low burning lamps shed illumination in thin puddles of yellow. Every hall was laid out the same, though, and Yngvar could navigate by that familiarity while he stayed close to Brandr. The cramped hall was filled with benches pushed to the walls and heavy with the scent of urine and smoke. Several hirdmen crouched in the corner tables, playing dice or drinking. All rose at their entrance, each one a hard man with scars and deep lines filled with shadow. No wonder fools were frightened of this land, Yngvar thought.

  "My brother sends his son and fosterling to me for no reason. This is a surprise, though one I've expected for some time."

  Yngvar followed the commanding voice to the front of the hall, where the high table had been pushed aside. Seated in a Frankish-style chair, Gunnar the Black leaned on his knees as if straining to see them. He began to cough and fell back with his fist over his mouth.

  "Uncle Gunnar," Yngvar said, bowing before he had a chance to study the man in the chair. "I am Yngvar. Thank you for receiving me after a long journey."

  "Couldn't send you by horseback or wagon." Gunnar stopped to cough again. "Made you walk, did he? Well, straighten up. You're family, don't act like a stranger."

  Gunnar the Black was no longer a dark-haired man. His wavy hair remained full and long, but was now white with only telltale traces of the original black. His beard was short but not well groomed. It seemed he had just cut it square when it grew longer than he liked. He leaned back in his chair like a man who had run a l
ong race and needed to catch his breath. He reinforced his name by wearing all black clothing that set off the armbands he wore.

  Yngvar could not help but stare at the stump of his right hand, which rested on the chair. He did not hide it, and the old flesh was dark and ruddy with the cauterizing burns used to seal the stump. A Frankish warlord had cut off his hand in his youth. Yngvar did not recall the story other than that act had changed his uncle forever. He was legendary for fighting with a modified shield and ax, and for removing hands from his foes whether dead or living.

  After greetings were done, Yngvar faced his first decision since leaving home. His father had asked him to carry a message of peace. Yngvar planned to fan Uncle Gunnar's anger with his father to get help in escaping his marriage. The two plans were opposed.

  Gunnar coughed again, and Yngvar noticed how sunken and red Gunnar's eyes were.

  "Are you well, Uncle? Did we come at a bad time?"

  "I am well," he shouted. Yngvar jumped as did all the others. "Why does everyone ask after my health? When I'm dying I will tell you."

  Yngvar bowed in apology. Brandr moved to his father's side and put a hand to his shoulder.

  "We are all anxious to learn why you have come," Brandr said. "It cannot be an enemy at the borders, for we'd have known. Is your father well? Did something happen?"

  "In fact, I was asked to remind you our blacksmith is awaiting leather he needs to complete his work." Both Gunnar and Brandr frowned at this. Yngvar decided he better give a good reason, and only the truth would do. He was not a skilled talker like Thorfast was. He could not come up with words he did not believe. The silence extended, and Gunnar's dark eyes glittered as he leaned forward.

  "Your father needs leather? He sent the two of you here to tell me this?"

  "Not exactly, Uncle. He ... well, I contrived to come on my own." He looked at Bjorn and Thorfast, who stared at him with wide eyes. Did that mean they disapproved? It didn't matter. He better not look at anyone but his uncle. "My father has arranged a marriage for me. I've no desire for his choice. I want freedom, Uncle Gunnar. I want to sail the seas as you and Grandfather did. I want a life of glory and adventure and not be a piece my father pushes along a game board. I thought I might use the anger between you and my father to gain your help in escaping my marriage. I see now how wrong that would be.