Hammer of the Gods

by B. D. MacCallum

  Hammer of the Gods

  B. D. MacCallum

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any similarities to events or people, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  Author: B. D. MacCallum.

  Cover design and art: B. D. MacCallum and Silver Moon.

  Published in eBooks by Amazon KDP.

  Copyright © 2016 B. D. MacCallum. All rights reserved, including the right to publish this book or portions thereof (except for reviews, news media reports, brief quotes with attribution, and purposes of promotion of this book or other novels by B. D. MacCallum) in any for whatsoever.

  Table of contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  The sun rose in a cloudless sky, burning away the dense fog until only scattered thin wisps crept by like specters. The sea was as flat and smooth as fine Venetian glass, a more than welcome sight after what seemed to be an eternity of bad weather.

  The air was filled with the sounds of threshing oars as the large knorr glided across the surface. Ten men groaned as much as the oars in their locks as they pushed their exhausted bodies

  silent – and not so silent – curses to the sea hag that had plagued this voyage with every obstacle imaginable. Sweat that poured freely, matting hair and soaking shirts, rising as tendrils of steam, adding more misery to a crew that had seen more than its share thus far.

  Now and then large icebergs passed by, some far too close for comfort. This was not an easily maneuverable longship with a shallow draft, despite its appearance from a distance. This vessel was the largest knorr any of them had ever seen. Even if it handled as smooth as a beer hall maid talked under sail, it had a deep draft completely empty. Now it was fully loaded with seventy tons of cargo plus the weight of the crew, riding low on the water, and making those passing icebergs that much more troubling, but they would continue rowing until their backs broke. Land had been spotted on the horizon.

  Jorick Ivarsson stood at the ship’s stern, one foot on the rail the other working the tiller. A white knuckled left hand gripped the rigging as he stretched to peer past the great serpent head adorning the high prow toward the distant shoreline… and the two dozen or so icebergs littering the path to it.

  Twice before he had been in similar a situation; both times he had been a boy watching in amazement as his father, Ivar the Bold, wove the ship – a much smaller ship – through the ice flows like a snake in the grass. Jorick could hear his father’s words. “Watch and listen. The ice will tell you what to do.” The only thing was, the icebergs were confirming Jorick’s suspicion that the gods were trying to kill him.

  Lean and tall, Jorick was a broad shouldered man with a strong back and powerful hands. His golden hair hung to the middle of his back in a single thick braid. The thick beard covering his face was tinged with red and braided at the corners of his mouth. His steel blue eyes never seemed to rest, like some wild animal; an animal grown wilder over the past few months. Extremely well educated, he was fluent in several languages, and was literate in Latin and Arabic as well as his native Norwegian; skills that have given him a great deal of power and wealth.

  “Oars up!” he bellowed with a scratchy voice still hoarse from barking out commands over the past few months. By Odin’s sword, how long has it really been? Three months?... Four? It could have very well been longer. Things had been a blur since his father’s death. Since… He shook his head. Blur or no blur, there were memories that would haunt him to his dying day.

  Jorick struggled to grasp the pitch coated rope with his free hand as his feet were knocked from the rail. There was a groan as wooden planks grated against ice. He grimaced in pain, not for himself but his ship. She was as fine a vassal ever made. She did not deserve this; not now.

  He hung for a moment staring down at the icy water before regaining his balance. Had he been a lesser man he would have let go and slipped beneath the waves to the welcoming arms of death. His men would never have known he had taken the coward’s way out. Knowing them as he did, they may have even written songs about him dying a horrible death while trying to save the lives of his men, but he would have known. The gods surely would have known, and his father would have had to try to bask in the glory of Valhalla knowing his son could never join him.

  He drown-out the curses from the crew and the cry of the seagulls in the distance, focusing on the sounds of his ship. Good. So far there were no tell-tale signs of taking on water, but the day was still early, and the Gods were still angry.

  The ship jolted again, groaning beneath the waterline, as they passed close to an iceberg twice the height of their mast, and nearly five times as wide as the ship’s length. A shower of ice fell to the deck, hitting some of the crew. Hopefully, no one was badly hurt. The men looked at each other franticly as they held their oars high. Then they all looked to him for strength. Jorick, however, was not sure he had any left to lend.

  Jorick hated the ice with a passion. It was like fighting an enemy on a moonless night… blindfolded… with one hand tied behind your back. “Well?” he growled. “What are you waiting for? Row!... Or do you want to kiss the sea hag on the way to Hel?”

  Jorick glanced over his shoulder. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the sun was still short of midday. He swung round to judge the distance to shore. They were making great time. As long as the weather held they would reach land well before nightfall, but if it got rough again, with all that ice out there…

  He shook his head. The gods would have to try much harder if they truly wanted him dead.

  The sun was a red ball sinking into the ocean from a purple streaked sky as they reached the crowded shore. There was a sigh of relief from the crew as moor lines were tossed to the waiting hands of men on the sturdy wooden dock. They had made it! Exuberance filled their eyes. Their faces beamed with elation. They had crossed the ocean when no other would. They had survived when all others said they would surely die. A few of the men smiled and nodded to each other, then in unison nodded to Jorick. This was not the first time they felt they had cheated death. Hopefully, it was the last.

  The dock was teaming with people crowded elbow to elbow, and tighter than that in some places. It seemed every villager able to walk had come to see the newcomers, and in the distant hills beyond the village, more were coming as news spread to neighboring farms. Even before the last moor line was
secure Jorick could hear shouts begging for scraps of news.

  He chuckled to himself. A ship filled to bursting with cargo, and what these people desired most was word from beyond their island. Then and there Jorick knew he made the right decision to come to Iceland.

  “We’ll start unloading right away, Jorick,” the deep voice of his old friend, Rutgar, rumbled from behind. Jorick did not need to see Rutgar’s face to know the man was smiling; it was perpetual. The only time Jorick could remember not seeing that toothy grin was the day Jorick's father, along with so many others, died.

  “No.” Jorick shook his head. “Leave it till tomorrow. Tonight we will eat fresh food and drink ale that’s not gone stale.”

  They made their way to the beer hall, Rutgar tossing trinkets to a pretty girl that caught his eye; a habit that caused several duels to the death with jealous husbands and lovers. The sea of people parted just long enough to let them pass before falling in behind like a feast day parade. Occasionally a child appeared with a wooden sword or spear attacking the “intruders” before being shooed away by one of the villagers. Jorick and his men chuckled, feigning being wounded by the small warriors, remembering “protecting” their own homes as children.

  The beer hall was a large wooden and stone rectangular structure with a thatched roof. Massive fireplaces stood in the center of the shorter walls with fires blazing in each, making the interior as warm as a summer day; a more than welcome relief from the bite of the chilled damp air outside. Sweet smells of baked bread and roasting fish wafted by, making Jorick’s mouth water. True, he and his men had been surviving on the fish they had caught along the way – including a very large species that fed each of them twice per fish – but most days they had to be eaten raw.

  The serving maids gave shy smiles as they passed by with trays of food and drink. If they were like the serving maids of any of the countries Jorick had seen before, they were anything but shy.

  A sideways glance caught a glimpse of Rutgar smiling big enough to show every tooth in that fool head of his, as the crew gave very vocal approval of the female stock they had witnessed so far.

  This was going to be a very, very long evening. It would take Odin’s luck not to see bloodshed before sunrise.

  An aging warrior introduced himself as Vegard the Mighty, king of the land between the sea and the Fire Mountains. He guided them to places of honor at his table. A hulk of a man with more white than dark in his hair and thick beard fanned-out over his chest. The king had fierce blue eyes and bore the scars of many battles, but the gentleness in the old man’s voice reminded Jorick of his own grandfather feasting in the Hall of Heroes.

  With a loud clap of his hands, Vegard announced the beginning of the feast, and then bid his guests to sing songs of glory and adventure, a bid that was answered quickly… and often. As fine a warrior as any of Jorick’s men were, they much preferred to drink and tell tales; when they were not seeking female companionship, that is.

  The night wore on. The food was good, the ale and mead better, and Jorick’s crew kept those in the crowded hall entertained with news from afar and tales of glory, most of the recitations growing wilder as drinks passed between thirsty lips. However, Jorick sat, waving-off pleads for his accounts.

  “Surely, you have, at least, one great tale to tell,” one man pleaded.

  He did have one, a great one, but the thought of repeating it turned his stomach. Several times he had thought to tell his tale in earnest, just to be done with it. Those thoughts never lasted long. This evening was a time for drinking, whoring, and laughter, not for memories too horrific to be spoken aloud.

  Jorick was more than ready to retire for the evening – Rutgar had already disappeared with the girl that perched on his knee throughout dinner, and his men were on the second telling of exaggerated stories – when he heard the screech of an old woman’s voice rise above the din.

  “Jorick son of Ivar,” the bent old woman hissed, as if the name left a bad taste in her mouth.

  Long, stringy white hair framed a wrinkled weather-worn face. Both gnarled hands gripped an equally gnarled walking stick as she hobbled past people stepping out of her way as quickly as they could. Her eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s, though; locking onto Jorick’s as she moved closer. When she finally stood before Jorick, her face twisted into a grimace, as if disappointed at what she saw. “I have waited for you for a very long time.”

  Jorick’s blood turned to ice. He stared into her eyes as they burned into his soul. Then, as casually as his nerves allowed, he took a slow drink of mead, swirling the remainder in the bottom of his silver cup. “I know you not,” he said, surprised at how steady his voice remained. “So, why would you be waiting for me?”

  The old woman sniffed, “To give you a message.”

  The hairs on the back of Jorick’s neck started to itch. “Who would have a message for me here? Until three months ago I did not even know I would be coming to Iceland.”

  “The wind told me.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

  Jorick felt his tension ease; the old crone was obviously mad. “What did the wind have to say?” he snorted, but no one else joined in the laughter.

  She smiled again, this time showing the few remaining crooked brown teeth left in her head. “Speak of the mountains of the Rus,” she said in a cool voice dripping honey.

  More than just the hairs on the back of Jorick’s neck were itching now. He felt as though he had been hit in the stomach with a war hammer. He used every trick his father had taught him to stay calm and keep a level head. He took a slow sip of mead, scanning the faces of the crowd over the rim of the cup. They were staring at him with confused looks. They had no idea of what the old woman spoke of… So, how did she seem to know what had never been spoken? “If you know something of the mountains of the Rus, pray, share this knowledge.”

  “It is you that must speak the words,” the old woman screeched, pointing a crooked finger at him. “And speak true. For, if you lie, you and yours that follow will know nothing but endless sorrow.”

  The hall was silent now, save for the crackling fires and creaking of benches as a few shifted to get a better look. Even king Vegard seemed to want nothing more than to hear his words. Jorick knew he had to say something, anything, or leave in shame… if he left alive.

  “Very well,” he sighed, resting back in his chair. He could feel every eye on him. His head began to throb. “Two years ago,” he began, his throat feeling a dry as the Arabian Desert, “my father, Ivar the Bold, led an army of five thousand to defend the steppes from an invading horde. We were told that the horde would swallow our homelands and enslave our people if we failed to defeat them. By the time we reached the steppes our numbers had grown to over seven thousand.”

  He paused a moment before continuing. “We waited there for three months, sending scouts further east and south. Their reports were the same. Nothing. No army could be seen anywhere. No one in any village we came across had ever heard of an invading horde. By then our supplies were running out. The villages could not keep us fed, no matter how much we paid. The game we were hunting was taking food from the women and children we were trying to protect. My father gave the order to return to our homes before things could get worse.”

  He stared into the old woman’s unyielding gaze. “The fourth night of the retreat was the first time we heard the screams of our sentries. Every morning thereafter was the same. We would find their bodies, or what was left of them. Every night five or six of our men were butchered like cattle. No matter how many sentries we posted. Our fires burned as bright as the morning sun. We kept in the open with nothing but low grass for miles in every direction, and still, our men were slaughtered. Always five or six, no more no less. It was as maddening as trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.”

  He emptied his cup in one gulp, and then turned the cup upside down, slamming it hard against the wooden surface.

  “The sixteenth night, I’ll never forget,
” he all but whispered. If only I could forget, he thought. Lines creased the corners of his eyes. He shook his head and cleared his throat.

  “We captured one of them. He managed to kill seven and wound nine more of our men before being subdued.” His eyes turned cold as ice. “Two of those nine did not last the night.” He paused until the gasps and murmurs settled. “The rest of that night was filled with our prisoner’s screams.”

  “What did you learn from him?” Vegard asked.

  Jorick’s face grew dark as he fingered the hilt of his belt knife. “Only that they did not die easily, but they did die.” The smile of his satisfaction sent chills around the room. “The next morning, under the cloak of mist and the gloom of twilight, they attacked in force. We outnumbered them more than ten to one. Yet, when all was done, most of our army lay on the battlefield dead or dying. Seven of theirs survived. We saw them heading toward the mountains, running as fast as they could.”

  “My father was one of the first to die that day. The men now looked to me to lead them. So, lead them I did. We sent our heroes off to Valhalla with as much care as we could, so they could celebrate their glorious deaths for all eternity. For three straight days, the fires burned. The black smoke columns darkened the sky for miles. The bodies of the enemy, we left for the vultures and ravens. The wolves drew near, but would not feed until we finally headed toward the mountains, if then.”

  “For four months our enemy eluded us, always staying just beyond our reach, but we had given our souls to avenge our dead, and we hunted them like a pack of wolves ourselves. Our perseverance and tenacity paid off. We cornered them in a canyon with no other way out. We killed them… we killed them and reveled in their dying, but at a very high cost. A little over five hundred men rode with me into the mountains… eleven of us rode out.”

  “What did these fearsome warriors look like?” the old woman asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “They looked the same as any other man in this hall.” Jorick rose, his eyes never leaving the old woman’s. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am very tired.” The king nodded and Jorick started to leave.