Odin's Ravens (Descendants Saga Book 2)

by Jerry Autieri

  Contents

  Title Page

  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

  Author's Note

  ODIN'S RAVENS

  Jerry Autieri

  Copyright © 2017 Jerry Autieri

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Yngvar scratched his beard and stared up into the tree. Light glared through the lattice of branches and he squinted. He scanned the boughs but saw nothing.

  "Are you certain he's up here?" he asked.

  "There he is." The young girl extended her slender, white arm and pointed. "He's too high for me to climb."

  Yngvar shielded his eyes from the sun and saw the dark outline of the cat. Its ears were upright as it gazed down on them from his perch, his tail curling in a gentle rhythm. The leaves of the elm tree rustled in the afternoon breeze as if fanning the cat.

  The girl, Thora, smiled hopefully at Yngvar. She spread her young hands across the lap of her green dress, as if explaining how she could not climb a tree. Her sweet smile convinced him to hold his arguments.

  "Mind my sword," he said, shrugging the baldric from his shoulder. He caught the heavy long sword in one hand and presented it to Thora. She cradled it like a hundred-pound hog and seemed ready to fall over. "What are you doing out here with your cat, anyway?"

  "I take him on walks," she said. "But sometimes he runs away and won't listen to me."

  "What a surprise," Yngvar muttered. He pulled up into the branches, the stinging scent of new leaves engulfing him. The cat continued to curl its tail in indifference. Now he could see its orange fur and half-closed eyes. Arrogant beasts, cats were, but useful mousers. So he climbed higher, intent on the cat.

  "Be gentle with him," Thora called from below. "He's old."

  "I'll be nice as long as he is." Finding the right branches, he pulled up level with the cat. Its tail swished now, batting leaves and branches. Yngvar knew better than to try to grab him. So he waited with the cat, carefully extending his hand for him to sniff. The cat pulled away as if ready to flee, but Yngvar gained his trust enough to begin stroking his back.

  From here Yngvar could survey the whole area--the field, the thatch roofs of Alrik's village to the south, and the black hedge of distant trees encircling everything. Ragged blue mountains hung across the eastern horizon. He could also see over the folds in the ground.

  He stopped petting the cat. He held his breath as he stared out across the distant field.

  Sunlight sparked off men in mail shirts and iron helmets. A spear gleamed.

  At least three men were marching directly toward him. From the way they tucked their heads down, he knew these were enemies. He shot a glance back toward the village, but no smoke or fire showed over the hills. These enemies had just arrived.

  He was all alone out here, fetched to this spot by Thora. He stared down at her, hands clasped tight over his sword as she leaned back with the weight of it. There was too much innocence in those eyes for a betrayal.

  The cat did not protest beyond an indignant yowl when Yngvar plucked him by the scruff of his neck. He climbed down then jumped past the lowest branches.

  "You did it," Thora exclaimed. She dumped his sword into the grass, forgotten in the joy of receiving her orange cat.

  "Danger's coming," he said, crouching beside her as she hugged her cat. "Go warn Jarl Alrik. Tell him to bring warriors here."

  Thora's smile vanished and she stared at him. He nodded and turned her around with a slight push. She started to run, then turned back with her cat dangling from her arms. "Aren't you coming?"

  He shook his head. "Don't worry about me. Hurry."

  He faced the rise where he had spotted the three strangers. They were approaching from the direction of the sea. Raiders? Norway's west coast was prime raiding for desperate men, but only fools landed in the heart of power that Jarl Alrik represented.

  So they had to be a scouting force or part of a larger army. Yngvar needed to learn more before he returned to the others.

  The three men crested the hill, their dark beards and shadowed faces cast them as devils crawling into daylight. Swords remained sheathed, but round shields were on their arms and hands were flexed to draw. Their mail shirts announced them as no friendly visitors. No one wore mail unless expecting a fight.

  They paused and one man put his hands over his eyes to scan the field. Yngvar ducked behind the elm, hoping he concealed himself. He toyed with drawing his own blade, but an errant gleam would betray him. Otherwise, he was in light linen clothes suitable for springtime. No shield or helmet, nothing more than his swords to carry him in a fight.

  The strangers spoke among themselves, their voices murky bass notes from this distance. Yngvar held tight to the trunk as they approached. Was Loki himself guiding them to his hiding place? They were on a straight path for him.

  Then he realized they planned to use this tree the way he had. It was alone in the field, straight and tall. The elm was an observation post for them to climb.

  "Damn fool! Couldn't have hidden somewhere else, could you?" Yngvar cursed himself, but in truth he had no other option than the shadow of this tree.

  The sky remained cheerfully bright and birds sang in the distance. Such happy spring days were often the backdrop for violence, as if the gods wanted to ensure a good view of the battle. They would have a fight today, for Yngvar had no path out that did not reveal himself.

  Were they truly enemies? Maybe they had been shipwrecked. Was he being overly concerned? All winter had been quiet, and even as springtime reached its peak, no real danger had come to Alrik's lands. So perhaps these men were not enemies but simply lost. They might be wary of the locals, and that would be prudent. Castaways often ended up enslaved or pressed into service to a new jarl. But for the lone spearman, the others kept all their weapons sheathed.

  He was overreacting. As the shadows slipped away from the faces of these men, he decided he would approach them peacefully. Besides, he could not leave his spot without revealing himself. His hand was upon his hilt, and the hitch that held it shut was free. He cleared his throat then stepped forward.

  "Hail, travelers," he said. The three men leapt back in shock. The spearman lowered his spear at him while the other two reached for their swords. "Hold, I'm alone. No need to fear. Are you three lost?"

  The men slowly composed themselves, though the spearman only tipped back his weapon. The three were ragged men, heavily lined faces with black-rimmed eyes and yellow teeth showing beneath th
eir helmets. They regarded him from ground up, and one seemed to sneer. He spoke first.

  "You gave us a fright," he said. "We are lost, now that you say it. We were going to climb that tree and have a look around."

  "Thought so," Yngvar said. He did not take his eyes from the men. Instead, he noticed how the spearman's feet were sliding apart. He eased into a fighting stance, and Yngvar felt his pulse quicken. "Well, now you have me to aid you. Where are you three from? You sound local."

  The three men laughed, and the sneering man gave Yngvar a more apprising look. "You're quite a good-looking man."

  Yngvar swallowed hard. "That's a strange thing to say."

  "You have a friend with white hair and a sharp tongue? A berserker for a cousin?"

  The men were all drawing together, and their hands crept toward their swords. Yngvar felt his own hand itching to draw, but that was battle nerves. The correct choice was to run as fast as he could.

  "And your back is all torn up, right?" the spearman asked, his eyes alight with joy at joining the uncanny guessing-game.

  "Yngvar Hakonsson," said the sneering man. "That's who you are. We're in the right place."

  Yngvar bolted. He strode through the ankle-high grass, feet thudding on the hard earth. His heart slammed against his ribs as he fled. The three men whooped with joy from directly behind. He heard their armor jangle as they thumped after him.

  He wore only light clothes. They wore mail. He merely had to remain in front of them and they would never catch up. How they knew him, what they wanted of him, he did not care to discover. They obviously meant him harm. The greedy light in that sneering man's eyes blazed like the fire that burns in a raider's heart when he uncovers gold. If Yngvar had hesitated, he'd have become their gold.

  The line of forest trees drew closer. Yngvar blew heavy breaths from his puffed cheeks. The joyous shouts from behind now became angry calls for him to surrender. They would go easier on him if he stopped.

  Yngvar laughed. He'd not give up his advantage. For once he was glad to not be wearing mail when facing an enemy. He sprinted over a rise.

  Then he was flying.

  He had charged off a steep drop. His arms flailed like two broken wings.

  Landing hard on his left foot, he felt the ankle roll and the pain shoot like white lightning up his leg.

  Bounding back to his feet, he crashed face-first into the sweetly scented grass.

  He scrambled through the grass, pulling clumps of it out and driving dirt beneath his fingernails. Panic scattered his thoughts. He could not run. He could barely walk.

  Bad, bad, bad. Glancing over his shoulder, three shadows loomed into view.

  They did not charge over the rise.

  "We got him!"

  The three shapes leapt down purposefully, and Yngvar struggled to his feet. His ankle howled pain and he stood like a man on the cracking ice of a frozen pond. The forest was so close. If he could reach it, he had a chance to lose these men.

  But they were upon him now, a spear-throw distant.

  "You shouldn't have run," said the sneering man. "Now we're going to do this the painful way."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Yngvar grit his teeth and clambered to his feet. He hopped on his left foot, bouncing toward the line of trees. He smelled the pine needles and felt the cooler air of the forest. The concealing trees might as well have been as distant as Frankia. His hopping elicited laughter from behind. The jingle of mail armor accompanied the laughter closing down on him.

  Two black birds streaked across the air, heading toward the security of the trees. Yngvar believed in signs as much as any man, and what could be more indicative of Odin's favor than Hugen and Mugen themselves leading him to the forest?

  "You're like a rabbit with a broken leg," one of his pursuers shouted from behind him, his words studded with laughter. "Just sit down. We'll carry you back to the ship."

  That got laughter from the other two. Yngvar turned on his good foot, drawing the sax from the sheath at his lap. The sax was a short sword for close fighting, no more than two feet in length and having no hilt. It was a light and fast weapon. It would be good for fighting among the confined spaces of the forest. But he had another need for it. The gods would guide him in this. Odin had shown his sign, after all.

  The three men were walking now. Sweat sheened on their hard cheeks, and one was obviously winded. Chain shirts were a blessing and curse to their owners. Apparently satisfied that they had caught Yngvar, they now eased their pursuit.

  Gripping the sax in both hands, he took aim, whispered Odin's name--a god who favored cunning--and let the blade fly at the spearman to the right of the group.

  The sax spun through the air, and none of the men seemed to understand what they were seeing until too late. The spearman brought up his shield to protect his body. The sax, while light enough, would not stay high for long. At the end of its arc, as Yngvar expected but the spearman did not, the blade dropped suddenly.

  It sank into the meat of the spearman's lower leg.

  Yngvar did not remain to watch the rest, but spun on the heel of his good foot and started to run. Behind him a cry of agony and rage filled the air. Yngvar's loping run rattled him with pain; however, the rush of fear and victory numbed him to the hurt. He bounced off his injured foot before he could set his full weight upon it. As such, he was not running so much as flying forward in a barely controlled crash toward the forest.

  At the welcoming tree line, the dark and cool breath of the woods bathed him. He loved woodlands, and beneath the canopy he always felt sheltered. Men feared elves and spirits here. They were right to do so. But Yngvar never worried for it. His father had told him the forest had loved their family since the days of his grandfather. It was true now. No stone or root reached out to trip him despite his stumbling run. No trunk or bush blocked his path.

  He paused long enough to turn back and see two of his pursuers hovering over the spearman on the ground. His screams were still echoing through the trees. They were confident, Yngvar thought. His ankle would slow him down to their speed and sooner or later they would catch him.

  It was true. But Yngvar never let bad odds dissuade him.

  Continuing to hop through the trees, he pushed deeper. He was familiar with these woods, not like a forester would be, but as a frequent visitor. A stream flowed nearby and it was guarded by waist-high banks. He had paused to drink from it many times during his sojourns among the trees.

  His mind was a better weapon than a sword, and his wit better armor than mail. His pursuers were little better than trolls in their simple-minded approach. He heard them calling his name as they followed into the trees. His path could be traced by a blind grandmother. Yet he had a lead and he had his wits.

  He threaded a more deliberate path toward the stream. The armored pursuers crashed through brush, cursing as they fell. The gods were on his side after all. But they would have to be rewarded for their attention. Yngvar had to kill these two or the gods would forsake him and let him die.

  The stream gurgled ahead, spears of light dappling its surface with a yellow gleam. Sweat held pine needles and dirt to his face, making his skin itch. His foot throbbed as he dragged it the final distance. He carved a rut straight into concealing bushes, then pushed through them to step down carefully on the other side.

  His pursuers called his name again, their joviality worn down from a hard slog through unforgiving woods. Now they were full of anger and promise of death.

  Yngvar drew his sword and stuck it into the muddy bank. He then bent down a sapling that was as tall as himself, clutching it to his chest and blowing its leaves from his mouth.

  After a dozen heartbeats, he heard the two men steadily plodding ahead.

  "That way," said one of them. "Clear as day. I'm going to gut him like a pig when we get him."

  "Need him alive," wheezed the other, barely able to complete his sentence.

  Then one broke through the bush and fell facedown into th
e mud.

  His companion saw what had happened and retained his balance.

  Yngvar released the sapling. It snapped back on the man, slapping him aside with an explosion of leaves and a crack of timber. He fell back screaming.

  Pulling his sword from the muck, Yngvar drove it into the back of the man trying to extricate himself from the mud.

  The blade was filthy now, but Yngvar took fanatical care of his weapons. He honed his swords so they could split a baby's hair. It was a point of pride for him. So his long sword easily snapped the links of mail and sank into soft flesh. Dark blood welled up and his attacker arched his back as he howled.

  He pulled the blade out, then rammed it down a second time through the kidney. The man curled up like a dying bug, blood streaming into the dirt and rolling into the pure stream.

  The final attacker sprung out of the underbrush. His eyes were red-rimmed and wide. His face flushed with battle frenzy. All his plans, all his advantage, Yngvar had destroyed.

  This is how Yngvar fought. He defeated enemies with his mind first, and with his sword second. Few men fought this way, and they paid for it with their lives.

  Still, he was not on even footing with his enemy. His ankle rolled again and he stumbled. It saved his life, for it was a suitable dodge to the attacker leaping down to carve him into pieces.

  "You fucking dog!" This was the sneering man. His yellow teeth were bright against the darkness of his face. "I don't care. You're dead!"

  "I feel quite alive, actually. Not like your friend here." He hopped back into the stream. The cool water was a balm to his ankle, but the muck-slick rocks beneath his feet were treacherous. "Come get me, you fool. Three men against one and now it's just you. The gods are laughing."

  His attacker roared, holding up his shield and bracing his sword against it. It was a reasonable charge.

  Except the attacker was not thinking, and Yngvar was.

  He carefully stepped back, only enough to allow him to fall away if he must.

  The enemy plunged into the stream. He bounded forward, then twisted and fell with a splash and crunch of mail.