Descendants of the Wolf (Descendants Saga Book 1)

by Jerry Autieri

  Once away from the shore they came to a thriving village, as big and full of life as anything he had seen in Frankia. The buildings here were new as well, built from fresh logs and bright, tightly woven thatch. The tangy scents of life overwhelmed him and the clamor of so many people confused him. Every strange face seemed to search his as their captors pulled them through the village. He kept his eyes focused ahead.

  At last they came to a long set of buildings, barracks from their appearance. The man leading Yngvar's group opened the door and pointed them into the dark beyond. "In there for now, you Frankish dandies. None of you are lovers, I hope? King Erik doesn't have a place for man-lovers."

  Others of their captors laughed as if this were the pinnacle of humor. Yngvar raised his head at the name. Though they had been at sea for a day with these men, he had no idea who they were. "King Erik? Where are we?"

  "Ack, your accent hurts my ears, boy. Get inside and don't let me hear you again." The bare-chested captor shoved them all through the door. Inside was spacious, more than what was needed for five men. Pallets lined the walls and fresh straw covered the dirt floor. The door slammed shut, and a bolt or spear rattled against the other side. One of the men with Yngvar, a fool who had sided with Bregthor, shoved at the door immediately.

  "I'm sure they'll let you out if you ask," Ander said. They were still all tied by the necks. Yngvar decided to pull the man back, and he fell away with a yelp. He was the only one who had sided with Bregthor. The other two men had stood with Yngvar and Ander.

  They all sat in a row on the pallets. They remained silent a long time. Yngvar had resigned his fears after being captured. The first moments when these enemies boarded their ship filled him with terror. His newly named sword, Gut-Ripper, was pulled from his hand and thrown on a pile with all the other weapons. At that moment, fear left him and defeat filled its place. But now, after his sea journey and march through the thriving town, he had found a new purpose that left no room for doubt or fear.

  He had to figure a way to escape this place. This King Erik was obviously taking them as slaves, either to sell or for his own use. So Yngvar had to determine where they were, how they could escape, and where they could escape to. He swallowed at the prospect. It was too soon for definite plans, but he had to keep his wits sharp and be on watch for opportunities.

  After about an hour of uncomfortable silence, Bregthor's man sitting as far as his tether would allow, they had all begun to doze. They had been fed, barely enough, and Yngvar was both tired and hungry. He soon leaned on Ander, who pushed him back with a twist of his shoulder.

  "Do you want some advice?" Ander asked, looking down at Yngvar.

  "You sound like my father. He never cared if I wanted the advice or not. He just gave it."

  "Smart man," Ander said. "You needed to build your relationship with the crew more than you did. You let Bregthor beat you at that game, and so the men believed him more than you. You were an outsider to us and spent all your time with your two friends. Yes, you saved our lives and we were grateful. But you were not one of us. That's important, you know."

  Yngvar bit his lower lip and thought. "I can see that now. Thanks for the timely advice. I'm sure it will do me good as a slave."

  Ander nodded. "Slaves need leaders too."

  Yngvar shifted on his seat, the hard wood making his back sore. "You served my uncle for a long time?"

  "Since before you were born. I knew Brandr as a small boy."

  He looked at Ander, and his beard was still dark for a man of his age. "Do you know what happened between Uncle Gunnar and my father? I never understood why they did not get along. No one in my father's hall ever spoke of it, even in private. I tried to learn more but only ever got rumors."

  Ander leaned on his knees and let his breath go in a long stream. "I was just a warrior under Jarl Gunnar in those days. He never confided anything in us. But I know the stories. They're just rumors, nothing more."

  "The stories of Ulfrik's children were always that they worked together. But I've never known them to speak to each other. Uncle Aren, Bjorn's father, never leaves Rouen. It's as if he is not family. My father said he is only a half-brother, that he was born when my grandfather was thought dead. I don't know what to believe, but I guess it doesn't matter."

  "He is Jarl Vilhjalmer's favorite man," Ander said. "Consults him for everything, as I hear it told. But what happened between the brothers, I don't know for sure."

  He bent his mouth at Yngvar, as if he wondered whether to continue. Yngvar nodded. "I want to hear what you know."

  "It was a terrible scandal." Ander leaned back and rubbed his legs. "After Jarl Gunnar's wife died from the pox that killed so many, he became inconsolable. Apparently, Jarl Hakon's Frisian wife tried to comfort him and I understand it went too far. Jarl Gunnar denied it. Your mother denied it as well. But your father accused them both. I don't know what he based his suspicions upon. From what I saw myself, your father later regretted his accusations but there was no forgiveness from Jarl Gunnar. He did not go so far as to break family ties, but he made it clear no one from Jarl Hakon's hall was to be given any special treatment. I guess he never forgave his brother, until the moment of his death, at least."

  Yngvar had heard a similar tale, but had never believed it. He stared at the straw beneath his feet, trying to imagine his mother at the center of such turmoil. She was so timid, Yngvar could not see her imbued with any passion strong enough to sleep with her husband's brother. But what did he know?

  "Thank you for telling me. What was the timing of that?" Ander frowned at him. Yngvar pulled at this rope collar and cleared his throat. "Was I born yet?"

  Ander laughed. "You're Jarl Hakon's son. Never doubt it. I never knew you, of course. I just knew she had a baby boy and was accused of sleeping with Jarl Gunnar. The scandal was all kept away from us and I've told all I know. But the sons of Ulfrik never did cooperate again after that. A sad fate, I say."

  "It's a shame," Yngvar said. "My grandfather left all of us a fortune and a kingdom. Now here I am tied up in a foreign hall, enslaved to some strange king. It seems all of us have squandered what he built."

  "Well, rebuild if you can." Ander fingered his own rope, likely understanding that neither of them would live out the year to make rebuilding possible.

  The door rattled and voices mumbled beyond. Yngvar shoved the man at his side to awaken him, and all five were alert when guards opened the door. They were square-jawed men with cold, determined eyes. They wore helmets and leather hauberks, four of them all together, and carried spears. The lead man handed his spear off and began to untie Yngvar.

  "You're to go before King Erik," he said, roughly untying the loop around Yngvar's neck. His flesh rejoiced at the cool air when the rope lifted over his head.

  "Where are we?" Yngvar asked. "Who is King Erik?"

  The man took back his spear and stared at Yngvar if he were mad. Another of the guards answered.

  "They're not from here, so they must not know." He turned to Yngvar, a gentle smile on his hard face. "You are in the lands of King Erik Blood-Axe. We are his hirdmen."

  Ander and Yngvar shared a glance, and the others drew a sharp breath. Yngvar risked the question, "Isn't he king of Norway, after Harald Finehair?"

  The first man shook his head. "He no longer rules there. For now. He has moved his kingdom here. Enough questions. Get outside."

  The remainder of Yngvar's crewmates were already gathered in the field between buildings. Most were rubbing their necks in relief at having their ropes untied. Bregthor stood with Davin across the field, and the two sneered at him. Yngvar glided past them to where Thorfast, Bjorn, and small Alasdair gathered. Thorfast raised his hand for Yngvar's attention.

  Twenty of King Erik's guards, all in heavy leather coats with full cloaks, surrounded them. They rested on spears and some carried torches. The sun had vanished, leaving a night of perfect black without stars or moonlight.

  "This is hopeful," Thorfa
st said as Yngvar joined them. Ander Red-Scar had followed, along with the other two. But Bregthor's men gathered around him.

  "Do you know we are prisoners of Erik Blood-Axe?"

  Both Thorfast's and Bjorn's eyes went wide, but Alasdair brightened. "He was king of Norway once," Alasdair said. "But he became a sea king. I did not know he claimed these lands for himself. The Norse have ever claimed these lands as their own."

  "Shut up," Bjorn said. "You're worse than Thorfast, and he never stops."

  "I don't think I deserved that," Thorfast said. "Besides, this little one has better things to say than you. What've you done but grumble about killing everyone before you die? At least he taught us something."

  "I'll teach you to live up to your name, Thorfast the Silent."

  Yngvar waved them to silence. "If King Erik wanted to kill us, our heads would be on spears by now. But our guards told us we're to be summoned before him. So that means he will either sell us or keep us as his own slaves. We can't let that happen or we'll never get back. If we're sold to slavery, we won't remain together."

  That thought seemed to strike both Thorfast and Bjorn hard. They both leaned back and frowned.

  "I'll kill King Erik before that happens," Bjorn said. Thorfast rolled his eyes.

  Yngvar paused at Bjorn's boast. "Right, well, he was king of Norway. He is probably well guarded. What we must do is make ourselves too valuable to be sold as slaves." He avoided Ander's gaze, since he had no plan to help him directly. "If we can do that, then perhaps he'll ransom the entire crew."

  "Do we claim to shit gold, then?" Thorfast said, his eyebrow cocked. "We'll be lucky if he blinks before he decides to either enslave or sell us. When do we have time to impress him with our value?"

  "We have to let him know we are the sons of wealthy jarls who can pay more for our release than he can make by selling us." Yngvar gave a hopeful smile to the blank expressions he received from the others. "He might have even heard of my father and grandfather."

  Thorfast grimaced. "Will he believe us? What can we show for it?"

  "What can any man show to prove who he is?" Yngvar said, hoping the aggravation he felt did not reach his voice. No one else was offering a plan to escape this mess. "The crew can vouch for us. We just tell him the truth of how we came to be here. Otherwise, we're not fighting our way to freedom, and King Erik is not going to allow us to sail off. So what other hope do we have? A ransom is the best way to get us back to Frankia and away from the slave markets."

  Bjorn and Thorfast both looked at the ground. If Alasdair had any hope of freedom for himself, he said nothing of it. Ander nodded. "We will vouch for your story. Hopefully he'll believe the whole crew will be better ransomed than sold."

  "The king is ready," announced one of the guards. The rest of them lowered their spears in the direction they intended everyone to march.

  Yngvar swallowed. He had this one chance. As he followed the rest of the crew, he realized how lowly he appeared. His cloths were limp and torn. White patches of sea salt obliterated the color of his clothing. His hair was tangled and matted, and his thin beard felt like an old cloth over his chin. He hadn't groomed himself in weeks. He would have an easier time convincing King Erik that he was a slave.

  Perhaps soon he would become one in fact.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Yngvar roused from his thoughts as a guard prodded the back of his arm with a spear. The cold sting got him moving faster. Torchlight gleamed in the guards' spear blades. Yngvar shared a nod with all of his companions as they followed the rest of the crew. He would press their case with King Erik and pray to the gods for aid. If he had time to make a proper sacrifice, he would have gladly offered up his silver armband. It was the total of his wealth now, and the best he could give. He had to entrust the Norns were not weaving a fate for him to die in slavery.

  Their crew came shoulder to shoulder as the guards forced them together. Bregthor had worked his way to the front, as if he were leading this sad procession. In fact, two men carrying torches led them through the town where more shadow-filled, quizzical faces stared out of doorways as they passed. Yngvar suddenly felt how small their number had become. Their guards alone outnumbered them. The proud war band Uncle Gunnar had hastily assembled had whittled down to a fractured, diminished rabble. Had Bregthor not murdered Brandr, no one would be prisoners. Yet another reason Bregthor deserved hard justice.

  At last they came to a steep hill topped with a large hall. Constructed from the same fresh timbers and thatch as the other dwellings of this village, it was by far the tallest building here. The double doors hung open and cheerful bright light and laughter tumbled out of it. Shadows flickered in and around it, imparting an air of festivity. Yngvar's heart lightened for it. Perhaps King Erik Blood-Axe was a good man after all. As if to confirm the thought, two men emerged from the warm light laughing each with an arm over the other's shoulder.

  The guards pricked any stragglers with their spears as they all filed into the hall. Thorfast yelped when a spear blade touched him, and Yngvar laughed. Everyone else glared at him.

  "Remember who we are," he said, keeping his voice low. "We are not frightened by this. We are noble sons of mighty jarls."

  The hall was warm and bright, the hearth fire blazing as if it were the dead of winter. The familiar scents of home greeted Yngvar, further setting him at ease. Sweat and smoke battled the pungent odors of men who had feasted over-much. The hall had been cleared of tables and benches, leaving scrapes in the old straw and dirt of the floor. Hirdmen in full war gear filled the hall. Their helmets had faceplates that looped around their eyes, making each one's stare shadowy and inscrutable. That they bore spears inside the hall made Yngvar's chest tighten. No one carried weapons into the hall without good cause. Perhaps King Erik would have them all killed rather than deal with them. Would such a thing be possible, he wondered. Everything else seemed so welcoming.

  "Kneel before your king," a guard shouted, emphasizing with a prod of his spear to another man's back. Bregthor went to his knee so fast Yngvar thought he had fallen. Others did the same, their cloaks sweeping behind them as they knelt.

  Yngvar did not instantly take his knee. Instead he regarded the man who must be King Erik Blood-Axe, sitting on an unadorned but high-backed chair at the rear of the hall.

  King Erik remained unmoving, like a man carved from wood. His eyes were bright and fierce, almost glowing beneath a tangle of golden hair that flowed freely over his broad shoulders. He relaxed against the back of his chair, but the muscles of his thick body radiated power like a viper ready to strike. His clothes were plain but fastidiously clean, and on both thick arms and heavy fingers gold and silver winked in the firelight.

  Yngvar dropped to his knee the moment those smoldering eyes drifted over the heads of the others to meet his. He lowered his gaze a moment, but looked up again to find the king still lingered on him. He smiled like a man who was about to spoil the end of a long and carefully told story.

  "King Erik Blood-Axe," announced one of their guards. "This is the crew of the captured ship we delivered this morning."

  The hall had grown silent. Yngvar focused the ground before him. He felt the heat of the bodies close to his, Thorfast on his left and Bjorn on his right. Behind him Ander's breathing sounded labored, as if remaining on his knee was a great strain. Yngvar chanced a second glance around. The guards along the wall remained as still as their king, strong hands wrapped around their readied spears. Between posts throughout the hall more guards stood with swords at their sides. At least two men for each of Yngvar's own were ready to strike them dead if King Erik wished it.

  Two imposing hirdmen in chain shirts and faceplated helms flanked King Erik. Yngvar wondered at the show of strength. Wearing a mail shirt in a stuffy, crowded hall was more a punishment for the man wearing it than anything else. Did King Erik believe Yngvar and his companions warranted this display of might, or did he always surround himself with a show of power?

/>   "Is the leader of this sad crew alive?" King Erik's voice was powerful and smooth, but not as deep as his thick chest suggested. Rather than the roar of a bear it was the growl of a wolf.

  "I am." Yngvar and Bregthor said at once.

  A smile flickered on Erik's face, but he did not move other than to lift one finger from the armrest of his chair and point at Bregthor. "You speak to me on behalf of this crew."

  Heat flushed through Yngvar's guts as Bregthor subtly turned his head as if resisting the chance to leer at him. The king let him hang for long moments as his smoldering eyes shifted from man to man. When he came to Yngvar again, the subtle smile returned. At last he shifted on his chair, raising his left hand to support his head as if he were so bored it might fall off his shoulders.

  "You've done a shit job raiding. One woman and two cooking pots? I'm told you've come all the way from Frankia in search of treasure. I wonder at the point of all your effort."

  "Luck was against us, lord," Bregthor said. "From the beginning, we have had an ill run. Your ships overtook us at our lowest moment."

  "Indeed." Erik's single word hung over Bregthor like an ax. Yngvar had never heard a word more packed with meaning. His tone and wry smile said he knew of the conflict among the crew and perhaps even more. Could he have coerced one of the others to say more? What would they say about him, Yngvar wondered.

  "Well, I ... I am in command of this crew, lord, such as it is. They need a strong hand to guide them."

  Bjorn's face had turned red and he had closed his eyes. Yngvar gave him a slow nod, though his cousin couldn't see it. He knew the struggle, for it was his as well. Yet to speak up now would invite Erik's wrath. Whatever cozy feelings Erik's hall had produced had merely been relief from weeks at sea. This king and his hall were full of threat.