Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1)

by Jerry Autieri

  "What happened?" Thorfast asked. "Who was that chasing you?"

  Ander explained how after the first day they had come to a larger village led by its own jarl. The village men were away for some reason but returned to catch them looting. A fight broke out, and they traded their loot for safe passage out of the area. But they were betrayed and were ambushed in the rolling plains by the men Yngvar had fought. Their pony riders were herding them onto the enemy spears. They had used the terrain to make an escape, but were about to be caught before Yngvar's ruse spooked the pursuers.

  "So no one has anything except what they might've hidden in their cloaks." Ander shook his head. "We lost three more men too, and a few others took wounds. We're beaten now. Nothing to do but return home. We don't even have supplies enough for the journey."

  Yngvar's heart lifted knowing he would head home. While he had to face his father and find another way to avoid Jarl Flosi's daughter, he was glad for it. He had learned how misguided his dreams had been. Raiding and sailing the open seas was only for the desperate. His father had told him so, but he chose to believe stories instead. Such a fool he had been. Real heroes were not found pillaging helpless villagers, and true adventure was not making one desperate escape after the next. The raiding life as he imagined it existed nowhere but in songs and his own imaginings.

  "There's something more," Ander said, his voice dropping. He pulled Yngvar closer and guided him toward the rail. Others took the signal and left the two in peace. "On that first night of raiding, we had captured ale from a farmhouse on the way into the village. There was plenty of it and we got drunk. That night, Davin's tongue loosened and he bragged about killing Brandr. Not everyone heard him, and I'm not sure his drinking companions even remembered it the next morning. Bregthor certainly did not hear. But I was not so dizzy that I misheard him."

  Yngvar's eyes narrowed as he stared at the sea. He saw nothing but Brandr falling overboard with a lonely splash to mark his passing from the world. He heard it again and again while Ander continued to mumble in his ear.

  "Why did he do it?" Yngvar did not expect an answer, but Ander lowered his head.

  "Bregthor challenges everyone who tries to lead him. He is a strange man that way. He thought Jarl Gunnar old and crazy. Perhaps he was both, but he was still jarl and still had our respect. I think he saw a chance to claim a ship and make his own way in the world. What greater mark of power is there than a ship of one's own? Rather than raise the gold or the manpower to build his own, stealing one was more to his liking. That's the best I can guess."

  Yngvar nodded, then turned to lean back on the rail. Bregthor stared at them across the deck as if he knew what they discussed.

  "I will have justice," Yngvar said. "When we go to my father's hall, you will vouch for what you've said?" Ander gave a slow nod. "Then his days are marked. I will drag him to the hall myself."

  "After this disaster, you'll have my support and more than a few others. Bregthor's ambitions have ruined us." Ander turned with him to face Bregthor.

  Handing the tiller off to another, Bregthor swaggered to the middle of the ship and leaned on the mast. The female captive recoiled from him.

  "Listen, all of you," Bregthor said. He stared directly at Ander and Yngvar. "If you've got complaining to do, you do it to me. Don't cry like women at their looms, gossiping away from my hearing."

  The crew fell silent. The deck creaked and the sail snapped. Yngvar narrowed his eyes at Bregthor, daring him to go further. Bregthor obliged.

  "I think I've had enough of the trouble-making Yngvar and his friends have brought us. His continued life has offended the gods. They had decided to cast him down in the holmgang, but we defied them. You see how it has cost us? We lost everything because we bear this cowardly, slave-loving fool on our decks."

  "Cowardly?" Bjorn jumped forward, and two men behind Bregthor reached for their swords. It did not dissuade Bjorn, who raised his fist at them.

  "You ran like a rabbit while we covered your escape. Every man on this ship is a coward and fool. So if anyone's sick of anyone, it's me that's sick of all you fucking stupid fools. Fuck you and your mother, Bregthor the Craven. You and all your gutless, murderous, pig-loving bitches should throw yourselves overboard and save me the trouble."

  Yngvar's brows touched his hairline and he blinked at his cousin's tirade. Bjorn's neck pulsed and his face flushed. Yngvar knew Bjorn was prepared to back up his curses. Bregthor's face had also turned red.

  "What he's saying," Thorfast said, jumping to Bjorn's side. "Is that you're acting a bit ungrateful for all that we've done to help everyone survive."

  Bregthor put his hand on his sword. "Gratitude? We've got nothing to show for our blood because of you three fools and your family. Men died out here. We started with a crew of thirty and are now almost half, all because of Jarl Gunnar and his fool son and his even more foolish kin. What's to be grateful for?"

  Yngvar's own neck pulsed. He drew Gut-Ripper and stepped forward.

  "Time to cut that vile tongue from your mouth." He raised his sword and pointed it at Bregthor.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The ship swayed on the waves as the sail rippled above the deck. Yngvar held his newly named sax, Gut-Ripper, level at Bregthor's chest. He stepped carefully to the center, beside Bjorn and Thorfast who were both red with fury. The sword felt light in his hand, and a touch of cooled blood from his last defeated enemy rolled onto his fingers. It was as if he were being assured he would spill more blood this day.

  The entire crew dropped whatever had occupied them, straightening up for the confrontation playing out beneath the flat gray sky. Yngvar's left eye twitched and his lip curled.

  "Put down that sword," Bregthor said. His dark eyes, drifting in different directions, narrowed. "Son of a jarl or not, no one threatens me aboard my own ship."

  Yngvar snorted. "It's not your ship. You murdered Brandr to claim it for yourself. You and Davin. I saw you do it."

  "Enough of these lies," Bregthor roared. His voice echoed off the water, and in the distance a gull called in answer. They were still not far from shore.

  "Davin bragged about it while he was drunk. Ander and others will swear to it." Yngvar glanced at Ander, who now lined up with him and folded his arms.

  "That's true," he said. "Davin told how the two of you slipped him overboard while he was unaware. He was proud to be part-owner of this ship with you."

  Bregthor's split gaze fell on fish-eyed Davin, who looked as green as if he had swallowed a bucket of sea water. The two murderers regarded each other, and Bregthor began to smile. Then he turned one malevolent eye at Yngvar.

  "You were never going home, you fool," he said. "Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way. It's all for the best. We don't have enough food left for a journey to Frankia."

  Bregthor's men drew their swords. Those behind Yngvar stood blinking in shock, heads swiveling as if trying to decide which side to join.

  Bjorn and Thorfast drew their own weapons. Thorfast put his arm across Bjorn's chest to stop him from charging straight into Bregthor.

  "Is this the man you will follow?" Yngvar said to the crew that had gathered behind him. "He risked your lives, gambled your treasure and lost it, and now will ask you to murder your friends. None of you have broken any laws other than those of decency and clear-thinking. You side with a murderer and you stain your honor with his crime. Step back from him, and let Bregthor and Davin face justice alone."

  Half the crew was arrayed against Yngvar, and their dark, hard-lined faces offered little hope they would see reason. The other half, if they had wavered, now drew their weapons and stood at Yngvar's back. A true mutiny was at hand. He had heard the tales of such disasters, but had never expected to find himself at the heart of one.

  "The men know you are weak and accursed by the gods," Bregthor said, drawing his own sword with deliberate care. "You are what stains them and this ship. The gods love might and cunning, which you lack. You play
tricks and use words like daggers. Are you a woman? No, you are not even old enough. You are girl. No real warrior would stand with one who cannot fight fairly."

  Yngvar cocked his head. "Who twists words better than you? So, I see you are all intent on becoming masterless pirates, no better than flotsam on the waves. You once were sworn to a noble jarl, and could be once more. If only you will choose wisely. Bregthor will keep you searching for gold in a land where men eat grass and mud. How rich will you become? What glory will you find? This is your last chance."

  "Last chance for what?" Bregthor said. "There are more of us than you."

  "He has saved our lives twice," Ander said. "All of yours as well. Bregthor murdered your lord."

  "Brandr wasn't our jarl," said one of the opposite crew. "And we've nothing waiting for us in Frankia. Time to take our own freedom. No more oaths to old jarls who sit on their gold in their beautiful halls."

  Bregthor's men grumbled and nodded. Davin turned his bulging eyes to the others behind Yngvar. "And we don't have enough food for everyone. So some of you have to go anyway. Looks like you choose sides poorly. We could have scraped by if we got rid of the boys alone."

  The madness of this scene made Yngvar shake his head. These men had rowed shoulder-to-shoulder and stood in a shield wall against enemies, or at least so he had thought. Perhaps Uncle Gunnar's men had always been so divided. But without a strong leader, the men fractured and now courted their own deaths at sea. Whoever emerged victorious, even if it was him, would be faced with a food shortage for the journey home. They would be forced to raid, and in small numbers raids, would be even more dangerous.

  "This is your last chance," Bregthor said, mocking Yngvar's offer. "Lay down your swords or you will not hold them in death."

  Yngvar glanced at Bjorn and Thorfast. Without a word, Thorfast let his arm drop from Bjorn's chest.

  The three of them charged forward, screaming for blood. Bregthor's men surged around him and both sides joined in a clash at the center of the deck.

  Bregthor hid behind others, shouting curses and taunting Yngvar, yet remaining away from danger.

  Without shields, this was going to be a bloody business. Iron clanged together. Men cursed and screamed. Yngvar's short sword availed him nothing against the longer weapons. With shields all on the racks, he had nothing to defend him as he got close. He danced away from a half-hearted swipe.

  Neither side fought with any zeal, despite Bregthor haranguing his crew.

  "Face me, you coward," Yngvar called.

  Bjorn wove between blades with fluid dodges, then brought his sword down atop one man's unarmored head. The skull cracked with a dull, liquid thud and the man collapsed to the deck. He had drawn the first causality of the battle and both sides peeled away from raving Bjorn. The suddenness of the death seemed to quell the fight. Fortunately for everyone close, Bjorn's sword remained wedged in the victim's skull. He struggled to pull it up.

  "Sails! Two straight ahead!"

  Yngvar saw one of Bregthor's men point, but he did not face away. This ruse was worse than a child's. He remained hunched and ready to strike, glancing at the shields racked over the rails. In this pause, he might grab one.

  Yet others did turn, and they shouted the same warning. Bjorn had his foot on his victim's head, trying to wrench his blade from the dead man's skull. Thorfast, however, stood tall and pointed. Yngvar followed the line to where two ships with their sails furled and oars digging the water had glided from behind an island of rocks and pine trees. It was nothing more than a pile of stone for birds and seals, but it had easily hidden the two ships.

  The fight ended. Even Bregthor paused to lean over the rails for a better view.

  Yngvar's vision was sharp. His father had always relied on him to read the distance, and so he did now. His stomach fell at what he saw. Neither ship had shields on the racks. This meant the shields were strapped to the arms of their owners, ready for battle.

  "How did they know we are coming?" Yngvar asked, more to himself than anyone else. But Ander Red-Scar, who had stood beside him in the fight, tapped his shoulder.

  "Look to the shore. The third ship must have signaled them."

  A third ship sped straight for them. The square sail of this one was full and the oars rose and fell with measured intensity. This was the hammer to drive their ship against the anvil closing from the front. Their only escape was the open sea and a bid to outrun them.

  No one moved, each man realizing they were not escaping this time. Yngvar knew it too. They had lingered too long raiding, letting word of their violence spread. These ships were not from the petty jarl that had chased them into the sea. These were either raiders themselves or the real power in the local islands.

  "We've got to row," Yngvar said. Waking to the danger, he pushed to the bow of the ship, where he confronted the slack-faced crew. "We've got a lead on these slower ships. If we reverse into the wind, we might row out of this trap. But we have to act now. Hurry!"

  Bregthor seemed to awaken to the challenge to his authority. "That's right. Row, you bastards."

  Men took in the sails and everyone else jumped on an oar, including Yngvar. Men who moments ago were prepared to kill each other now worked to save themselves from a common enemy. Nothing good could be approaching on those ships.

  Bregthor now stood in what served as the bow as they rowed straight away from the on-coming vessels. He steered a straight course. Yngvar sat beside blood-flecked Bjorn, who rowed with powerful and deliberate strokes. His stared ahead, looking at nothing.

  "This cannot get any worse," Thorfast said from behind. "It's like we knocked over a beehive."

  "We did," Yngvar said. "These are dangerous waters. We should have went to a shore more welcoming of our people. We should've went home. Now unless we slip these ships ..."

  Men were listening to him, he realized. His father had often told him that men needed confidence in their leaders to be of any worth. Even if the leader felt hopeless, he had to show a strong face.

  "We will escape," Yngvar said, forcing his confidence. "We've got the lead. We can succeed."

  Yet even as Yngvar rowed until his arms grew leaden, they could not increase their distance. The three enemy ships were faster and sleeker. The crew around Yngvar began to slow their effort, realizing they had lost to a lighter, better built ship. Bregthor had not steered a true course, either, but had still keep the land in sight. Perhaps it was inexperience or force of habit that told him to keep land on one side. No matter, their only escape had been straight to the heart of the ocean and Bregthor had not steered the course. He remained at an angle to the land, and the fast ships easily closed the distance.

  The first ship to reach them pulled alongside Yngvar's row. The ship was full of crew, at least thirty men, all with spears and mail. Again, these were professional warriors and not raiders. Their shields were freshly painted and their helmets gleamed. They defeated Yngvar and the crew with their beauty alone. Here were glorious warriors.

  A man with wavy gold hair flying in the wind and full beard braided and held with a gold band stood atop the rails. He wore a mail hauberk, but seemed to dance lightly on the edge unworried for falling into the sea. He waved at them and called across the distance.

  "Hail, friends! Where are you going with my ship?"

  Heavy thumps hit the hull on the opposite rails and Yngvar jumped in his seat. The second ship had pulled up and threw hooks to snare them.

  He drew his oar in and let it fall on his lap. He gave Bjorn and Thorfast a desperate look. The two seemed resigned to capture.

  "Well," Thorfast said. "Things just got worse."

  Yngvar turned toward the corpse of Bjorn's enemy lying face down on the deck, his brains and blood spilled like an overturned soup bowl. Bjorn's sword still remained lodged in his skull. Perhaps he had been the lucky one this day.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Yngvar let his feet dig into the cool beach sand as he stood waiting for his maste
rs to disembark their ship. He was tethered to the man before him by a rope around his throat. The line of five men included Ander Red-Scar directly behind him. Two other ships disembarked their captured crew in the same way. He spotted Thorfast's near-white hair among the captives. Bjorn, despite swearing to die before becoming a slave, walked down the gangplank of the closest ship. He too was bound by the neck to a man, and his face was folded up in disgust. Alasdair was too short to be picked out of the crowd from a distance, but he had to be among the dozens of people lining the beach.

  The evening air was crisp, and birds circled the docked ships seeking scraps. Yngvar watched the mad flock squawking and dueling with each other as the crew herded everyone ashore. He cast one last glance at his uncle's captured ship. She was a good ship, a match to the ones that had overtook her, but she had been poorly crewed. No ship could save a fractious, half-strength crew. Unlike the ships that had towed her, she remained floating at sea while her new owners shuffled across the deck tightening rigging and otherwise inspecting her condition.

  Crowds of onlookers came to the beach to marvel at the catch, mostly women in plain blue dresses and white head covers. These were all Norse people, Yngvar noted. His captors were Norse and they had mocked the accents of Yngvar and his fellows. In Yngvar's case, everyone here sounded like his father and his friends. In a strange way he took comfort from the harder accent.

  A bare-chested man yanked on their rope and snarled at them. "Get moving, scum. Don't stand there with your mouths open."

  They marched up a track inland. Yngvar was not certain of exactly where they had been taken, but it was far from where they had been captured. It was still the Hebrides, only the far south. Spruce trees were more abundant here and these waved a lazy greeting alongside the track stamped through ankle-high grass. The women followed, chattering to themselves. Children ran alongside them, making claims on which of Yngvar's companions they would take as slaves. Yngvar apparently would be owned by a girl with golden curls and an upturned nose who was no older than seven. His chores would be combing fleas from her dog's coat. If only his real master would be so adorable, he thought.