Outlaw: A Viking historical fiction (Viking Ventures Book 2) Read online

  Outlaw

  Book 2 of the ‘Viking Ventures’ series

  by Ole Åsli and Tony Bakkejord

  www.vikingauthors.com

  Cover design by Maria Gamst

  www.gamstdesign.no

  Copyright © 2021 by Envig AS

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-82-93794-92-9 (e-book)

  ISBN: 978-82-93794-91-2 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-82-93794-90-5 (hardcover)

  Chapter 1: Alone

  Meath, Ireland, October 841

  Ulv opened his eyes and screamed.

  The hoarse outcry turned into a coughing fit. His chest burned as if splattered with glowing coals. His mouth and throat were scraped raw. Dark, clotted blood covered his torso, with paler streaks where fresh blood still flowed from the two cuts.

  Ulv wanted to touch his chest, rub his eyes. But he could not. His hands were tied behind the tree. He had to concentrate on feeling anything but pain and moved his fingers and toes to check that they were still functioning. His wrists were aching; his arms were numb. His legs pricked and throbbed.

  Ulv closed his eyes to see more clearly.

  The ship that slid across the water towards the village in Northumbria. The scent of salt water and wet sand. Kjetil Korte who shouted at him. The old man who died with the knife in his gut. The warmth from the sticky blood all over his hand. The stench of damp soil and sour smoke in the cellar where Marcus sat wide-eyed and terrified. The duel with Kjetil. The voyage where two of Geir Galne’s berserks died after challenging Magnus Trygg. The cold wind at the Orkneyar where he had fought Kjetil again. And where he had tried to find Marcus’s sister. The dread at the top of the cliff he climbed with Vass.

  He recalled the attack on Dyflin. Vass armed with a pitchfork with two spikes and Ulv with the bow. The men he had fought. Those he had killed. He saw himself within the palisade with Vass and recollected the agreement with the Irish chief. The deal that saved many and killed others. Aud, the volve, who demanded that the Irish embraced Odin to live. The girl who cried and repeated the words that Aud commanded but who died anyway. The young man with the stern visage who escaped. He remembered the arrow he had aimed at the Irishman, but that he never released. The logs on the river that moved when he jumped. He felt the warmth of the recognition when he was the first to cross. The fear when Kjetil appeared in Dyflin.

  He remembered the sight of the giant’s broken nose. The joy when Kjetil told him that Marcus was behind it. The despair when Flatnose demanded that Ulv would take the punishment for his thrall.

  Ulv had said goodbye to Vass, left Dyflin and gone out into the wilderness. Alone. An outcast. An outlaw. And so very afraid.

  Ulv opened his eyes wide. The men who had attacked him while he was sleeping! He tried to lift his head and look around. It did not take long before everything moved again.

  He forced his head up, but it was too much. Too early.

  His head fell forward, and his eyes slid shut.

  *

  Ulv opened his eyes.

  He looked at the destruction. At the creatures that worked frantically. As if they did not realise that it was useless. They swarmed around without meaning. Ulv wondered if they screamed in fear. If they howled in grief. If they groaned in pain. He wondered if anyone was trying to run away. If anyone was hiding? How many were killed? How many had lost family members?

  Somebody was lying in a pool of blood. His blood. It flowed like a lazy autumn stream down his thigh, on the side of his knee and stopped at his calf. In this red pool, he saw shapes. Three young men with arrows protruding from their bodies. An old man with a gaping wound in his stomach and dark eyes.

  Ulv shook his head. Tried to clear his mind.

  They were ants. Ants examining his blood. Ants swarming around. Most were gathered around his legs protruding from the anthill.

  There was no panic. They were not powerless. They had meaning. A goal. Maybe there still was something that could be done?

  Maybe it was not too late.

  Ulv stretched his arms up by the trunk behind him. Fortunately, there were no branches at the bottom of the tree. It also helped that he had tightened his muscles when they tied him up. He managed to get his arms a hand’s breadth further up. Then another. But then they stopped. Despite being flexible, he could not get any further. He rested, knowing that he would only get this one chance. His energy drained with the blood flowing from the red cross over his chest. He planned his next movements. Envisioned the steps to get free. It gave him strength to have a goal. A meaning. To get his arms further up, he leaned forward and heaved them up the trunk. The rough trunk scraped at his arms.

  He breathed. Rested.

  One last time.

  A few deep breaths. He pulled his legs from the anthill, pressed his back against the tree trunk and lifted his feet in front of him. His stomach tightened, and before he could get his legs all the way up over his head, fresh blood trickled from the cuts on his chest. He squeezed his ankles around the tree above and turned his head to the side of the trunk. Hanging there, he breathed for a moment. Holding his weight with his feet, he could drag his arms and the rope further up. Repeating the process, he climbed the tree a few inches at a time.

  Again and again he dragged himself upwards. He was dizzy, and it felt like his shoulders were going pop out of their sockets. A little more. One of his feet touched something. A branch. He groaned and lifted his feet over it. Rest. The rope was slack behind the trunk now. Could he reach the knot with his fingers? Almost. Moving his arms a little further up, he grabbed the knot and forced himself to feel the shape of it before he started pulling at some of the parts.

  The world rocked. There was no more time. He pulled on one of the rope arches. It came loose. Desperate, he continued pulling.

  The knot came loose. He fell. Thudding to the ground, darkness found him.

  *

  Ulv awoke. His mouth was dry as ash, and it ached everywhere. Apart from his undergarments, he was naked. For a while, he just lay there, trying to remember what had happened. The tip of the knife that was pulled over his chest. The brown stumps of teeth and the man who owned them. The pieces fell into place. The bloody cuts across his chest ached and were stiff, but they did not bleed much anymore. He suspected that would change as soon as he started moving. It did not matter. He had to get up and about. Carefully he sat up and looked around. The anthill was ruined. His right foot was still in the hill, and the furious workers fought to chase the intruder away. Ulv pulled his foot out and brushed away the insects. It stung and burned from countless minor wounds.

  There was moss nearby, of the type Father said would protect wounds from festering. He got up and loosened the piece of rope that still hung in the tree. Unbraiding it, he loosened the thin threads the rope was made of. After collecting the moss, he laid it over the wounds and tied the cords around his upper body to hold it in place. He had not taken twelve steps before he realised that the moss would not stay in place for long. Still, it was the best he could do.

  Ulv went to the stream he had found the day before. The water was cold and fresh, and he drank greedily. The sun was at its highest, which meant that half a night and half a day had passed since the thugs assaulted him. Ulv intended to get his revenge. He would never forget the feeling of being awakened by blows and kicks. Of five men standing over him, with cold smiles and weapons in hand. He would take revenge for the fear he had felt, for the pain he had suffered. For the pain he still suffered. Most of all, he would avenge the feeling of
security they had knocked out of him. That last remnant of safety he had felt alone in the woods.

  They had taken his equipment as well. Without it, he would not survive. Revenge may not be the most important thing. But it should be possible to kill two crows with one arrow. Then he remembered the bow and the other equipment he had pushed under the rock. Had the thugs taken it? The urge to find out if he still had a weapon took over as the most critical need, and he got up from the creek. The dizziness returned in full when he stood upright, and he had to lean on a tree not to fall. He staggered back towards the campsite. On the way, he picked up some large leaves from a bog plant.

  At the campfire, he slid down to his knees. The movement made him feel like an old man, watching his every move not to aggravate his pains. Bending down, he saw that the bow was still under the rock. The bowstring, the arrowheads, the feathers from the crow, and the axe were also there. But no clothes and no food. This meant that he had the most important things to carry out the plan, but nothing extra. The way forward was clear.

  Most of the moss had come loose from his chest. He untied the threads, gathered new moss, put the large leaves over the moss and fastened it all over again with the cords. He gathered up what little remained of his equipment and followed the brigands’ tracks.

  Browntooth and his men had made no attempt to hide their tracks. Footprints in soft soil, bent heather and broken twigs made it easy for Ulv to follow. In the afternoon, the search was over, and he heard the men before he saw them. Sneaking, he approached their camp. The men talked and laughed. A dog barked. Then a loud voice and a bark that went over in a whimper.

  Suddenly a man appeared, with his arms full of firewood. He was no more than fifteen steps away, and Ulv could do nothing but sit still and hope he was not discovered. The man turned and came straight towards where Ulv was seated. Taking hold of the axe, Ulv hunkered down. A confrontation would be catastrophic. Even if he managed to overcome the man, the others would come rushing in, and everything would be over. A few more steps, and the man would definitely see him.

  Then the man stopped and bent down in front of a tuft. He picked up a stick and put it on top of the armful of logs. Turning, he went back to the camp. Ulv let out a breath he did not know he had held. His heart was pounding. He had to get ready.

  Ulv turned and stole away. When he was sure the men could neither see nor hear him, he went a bit further. He found a bush with two straight branches. These would do for arrow shafts. Nearby he found two more. These were not as straight, but he did not take the time to look any further. The dizziness still plagued him, and he got tired of the slightest effort. Without clothes, food and rest, it would only get worse. He had to do this today.

  According to his plan, he only needed one good arrow. Another three were barely usable. If he had more time, he could have straightened the crooked shafts. But then he had to heat them over a fire. There was no time for that. From a nearby tree, he carefully scraped off the bark on one side of the trunk and carved a herringbone-shaped scar in the trunk to drain the resin. He removed the bark on the shafts and straightened what he could with the axe. He sharpened one end so that the arrowheads could be fitted. It was not easy with only the axe to help him, but fortunately, it was sharp. Ulv sent his thanks to the man who owned the axe for taking such good care of the tool. It could very well save his life.

  Then he made a notch in the other end of the arrows so that the string could fit. It took its time, and he had to cut one arrow a couple of times because the notch became too deep. Drops of sweat ran down his forehead when all four shafts had notches at the end. He began to twist the loose underbark into fine threads that he would use to tie up the feathers and ensure the arrows did not split at the notch. Shaping the feathers with nothing but an axe was tedious and frustrating work, but eventually he had a dozen curved steering feathers. He would prefer them to be longer but had to settle for what he got. The best arrow was fitted with the longest set of feathers.

  Longer fletching makes the arrow stabilise faster in the air, but it loses speed quicker.

  He could still hear Father’s voice explaining the many details of the craft. At a short distance, long fletching was not a disadvantage.

  He attached the feathers to the shafts with the resin that ran from the wound in the tree. Then he pulled the twisted threads through the resin before tying them around the shaft of the arrow. Finally, he tied some cords around the shaft where the notch stopped. The arrows were not a pretty sight, but they would do. Had to do. He was well pleased with the best one. It would do the job just fine. Ulv hoped he would not have to bet his life that the other arrows would work just as well.

  The sun hung low in the sky when Ulv sneaked back towards the camp. For a moment, he wondered what people would think if they saw him. He must be a strange sight. Without shoes or clothes up to his hips, where he wore blood-stained undergarments. His upper body was covered with moss and large leaves, held in place by thin threads tied across his body. His face, which must have been pale, was smeared with mud. His hair was wet and sticking to his head. Sweat ran down his cheeks. In one hand, he carried a short bow, and in the other, he held four arrows. An axe was hooked into a piece of rope that served as a belt. He seemed like a madman. He felt like a madman.

  The flickering light from the fire made it easy to find the camp. Even in the distance, he heard a voice that made his neck hairs stand on end. Browntooth. It was hard to breathe. His body was heavy, and it took all his concentration to move stealthily through the woods. He stopped behind a large tree. From there, he could hear the voices and glimpse men sitting around a fire. There were four of them. Ulv searched for the fifth man, at the same time as he hoped he would not find even more in the camp. Behind the four, he glimpsed a rocky hill or some large stones. There was a darker area, too. A cave entrance, perhaps? An old cart stood to the right of the campfire, and a tent to the left. Ulv stole a few steps closer. He had to finish this. He was running out of strength.

  Chapter 2: Loot

  The sun was setting when Vass wandered in the gate at the fortified eastern part of Dyflin. Torgils had gathered the warriors to distribute the meagre loot after the raid. The Irish tended to hide their valuables in the monasteries, while there was little of worth where people lived. Dyflin was taken for strategic reasons. Some would argue that the booty gathered was as deplorable as the honour of capturing the village. There had been little actual fighting. Apart from the problem with those who had entrenched themselves within the palisades, the battle had been straightforward. Vass and Ulv had solved the problem by negotiating an agreement with a knife to the Irish leader’s throat. Vass did not expect to be rewarded for it. Torgils had not been satisfied by Vass and Ulv negotiating on his behalf.

  Despite the meagre spoils, the warriors were in good spirits. The tension and trepidation of battle abated, and they felt the genuine joy of being alive. Despite the festive mood of the group, Vass kept in the background. He did not know many of the gathered men. After climbing the Old Man of Hoy with Ulv, they were picked up by Ragnar and his crew of Danes. That was why Vass and Ulv had participated in the attack on Dyflin, while Geir Galne and the other berserks rowed up the River Boyne towards the monastery in Kells.

  In any case, there was need getting in line first. It was a long time until it was his turn to choose from the pile of valuables.

  Torgils and his entrusted housecarls stood laughing and toasting with drinking horns and silver mugs, turning their backs on everybody else. Veterans of countless battles, all were decorated with rings and jewellery. A couple of them had grown soft around their bellies, a sure sign they had spent more time celebrating their past victories than preparing for the next. One of them turned and met his gaze. Vass wiped away his grimace with his hand and shifted his gaze to a man standing on the outskirts of the group – a tall, slender man with broad shoulders. Olaf, Torgils’s right-hand man.

  Olaf stepped forward and proclaimed th
at Torgils would choose first, followed by Ragnar. Then he listed several names Vass did not know. The men around him glanced sideways at each other and frowned. It was not uncommon for men to feel overlooked in such contexts. Nothing, however, was said aloud, and soon Torgils stepped forward. The broad warrior had taken off the chain mail he had been wearing during the attack earlier in the day and was now wearing weapon shirt and green wool trousers. In his belt, he carried a seax hanging across his stomach but no sword. Like many of his men, he wore high leather boots instead of the more typical low shoes. He went straight to where some weapons were lined up against the wall of one of the buildings. He picked up a sword and held it up. ‘I choose this sword, an Ulfberht blade from Saxony. The sharpest and strongest sword I have ever seen.’

  Light reflected from the blade. The men around Vass mumbled. Vass went closer. More than a little interested in weapons, he wanted to take a closer look at the sword. Before he reached the front of the throng, Torgils had rejoined his flock of housecarls. Vass changed direction and walked towards the remaining weapons that were lined up along the wall. There was nothing of decent quality. Had he found the pitchfork there, the one with only two spikes, he would have taken it when it was his turn. But a broken farm tool had not been found worthy of a place among the spoils.

  One by one, named warriors were called out. After Ragnar, many of Torgils’s own men helped themselves to their share of the loot, and soon there remained little of value. After a while, Olaf took the floor and let the rest of the warriors come forward. The rabble. Vass did not bother to get to the front of the crowd. He was just about to walk away when he noticed a whetstone. His own had disappeared after they left Sanday, and he needed a new one.

  ‘That’s an Eidsborg whetstone,’ said a grey-bearded warrior as Vass picked up and studied the stone. ‘Best whetstone you’ll get. Had I seen it, I would have taken it myself. I guess that is the greatest treasure here, after the sword.’