Clash of the Vikings

Peter Wilks

Description

A fleet of longships emerge out of the morning mist on 8th of June in AD 793, and race toward the island of Lindisfarne, one of England's most holy sites. After beaching their vessels, blood-thirsty Norsemen wearing helmets and shields, disembark with swords and battleaxes in hand. They sprint to the monastery, force their way in and then leave behind them a swathe of ruin, vandalism and slaughter, as they ransack the buildings, dig up the altars, and haul away the holy treasures and capture many slaves in chains.The architect of the raid was Jarl Magnus Magnsson, nicknamed the Red Plagye. But distracted by his campaign to build the foundations of a vast empire, he underestimates the greed and jealousy of another scheming Scandinavian noble called Sigvald Foeslayer, who covets the Red Plague's shipping fleet and burgeoning territory gains back in Norway.With the fate of his family and homeland at stake, unless he can slay the rival chieftain and his allies, Magnsson's reign could come to a sudden, bloody end in the Clash of the Vikings.This historical action-adventure conveys the spirit, manners and social conditions of the period, portraying the life and death of Vikings. It will appeal to those with an interest in adventure and historical fiction.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 avril 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789011180
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Clash of the Vikings





Peter Wilks
Copyright © 2018 Peter Wilks

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: [phone]
Email: [e-mail]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781789011180

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To Edna Griffin
Contents
Part I
When Dark Roots Take Hold

Chapter One From the Sea
Chapter Two Brothers and Sisters in Arms
Chapter Three Panic in the Monastery
Chapter Four Secrets and Lies
Chapter Five Dug up the Altars
Chapter Six The Sparks and the Flames
Chapter Seven Fjordstad



Part 2
Payment In Blood

Chapter Eight The Conquerors Return
Chapter Nine The Sword I wield
Chapter Ten Shields and Spears
Chapter Eleven A Woman Scorned
Chapter Twelve Widows In The Village
Chapter Thirteen Struggle and Strife
Chapter Fourteen Floating Islands

Epilogue In The Aftermath
Part I
When Dark Roots Take Hold


Chapter One
From the Sea
The night mist was caressed by the morning sun, the swirling grey wall slowly parting as it burned off in the warmth. Raised voices that had been muted and remote, grew clearer as their owners called the beat of the oars over the accompanying sound of splashing in the water. Something dim and shadowy emerged from the dissipating depths of the mist and as it quickly took shape and substance, another unclear image appeared behind it like a spectre followed by more separately or in twos until there were a fleet of seven Viking longships spread out in a ragged line.
The air was becoming unpleasantly hot and humid for the early June day. Shimmering in the distant heat haze the Northumbria coastline reared up over the visible horizon. The distinctive prows of the dragon ships cut through the choppy water like a knife. Rowers hauled with all their strength, the rasping, scraping sound of the looms caused wear against the surrounds of their sockets as the banks of oars propelled each vessel toward the shore with smooth rhythmic strokes. Clouds scudded across the blue sky and a few of the circling white sea gulls keened mournfully before descending on flapping wings, their shadows enlarging upon the sand as they landed to forage for mollusks and crustaceans on the beach backed by a range of hills.
A curly-headed young boy short for his age with his homespun clothes hanging loosely from his undernourished-thin frame emerged from a grove of trees atop of the grassy ridgeline and stared wide-eyed in fright at the fleet of longships displaying rows of shields along the sides of the gunwales, before he dropped the firewood he had been gathering for his evening meal and turned into the shadows, hurrying off down the reverse slope to tell his father what he had seen.
As the fleet crested the lines of waves edging closer to the enlarging shoreline a powerful crosswind suddenly began blowing into the leading longship called Mjöllnir’s Might, plucking the long flaxen-hair of the youthful lookout standing on the roped-shrouds and rattling the mast decorated with the tribute carving of Thor’s hammer. A crimson banner bearing the runed slogan ‘Red Plague’ fluttered from the top of the masthead.
Sweat trickled into the lookout’s eye and he blinked and did a double take as he peered ahead and saw the jagged tip of something piercing the whitecaps just a stone’s throw away from the fleet. Moistening his dry lips, he unslung the large spiral seashell with his free hand before raising the opening to his lips and blowing, emitting a deep, long blaring signal. Below and towards the stern of the Mjöllnir’s Might, A fifty year old man furrowed his brow.
“Tjernagl,” Gunnar the Skilful said to a young Norseman with curly, reddish gold hair sitting back on his haunches beside him, his hand hitting a crude, small-headed drum. “Take the helm and keep the craft steady.”
“Aye, master steersman,” Tjernagl jumped to his feet, his great plait swinging as he gripped the proffered tiller with a sore, splintered palm before Gunnar straightened his poor posture and limped his way forward.
Feeling the Mjöllnir’s Might move through the blue water underneath him and working with the swaying motion, the bare-chested, master steersman passed between the seated rowers and then paused to glance up at the lanky, long-limbed lookout. “What is it you see, Olaf?”
“Hidden rocks under the surface off the starboard bow,” Olaf shouted down.
Gunnar ducked under the rolled up sail to take a look for himself at what was ahead of them and then he had to raise his meaty hand to shield his squinting gaze against the fierce glare of the midmorning sun as it slid from behind the clouds to shine down on the sea and reflect the light in brilliant glittering flashes. The rhythmical sound of the drum was heard again as someone else in the crew took it up.
“By Odin’s beard, you have the eyes of a hawk,” said Gunnar with a shake of his grizzled head. “I foresaw sandbars paralleling the beach, but Pytheas the Greek mentioned not reefs along this stretch of shoreline in his sea charts. The fleet would have foundered as it manoeuvred in the shallows for certain.” He spared a backward glance at Tjernagl and barked the first of a series of urgent commands at the crew. “Helmsman, bear hard-to starboard. Port side rowers hold stroke position for six beats, starboard side ply your oars.”
The left bank of oars was raised horizontally and the rowers briefly suspended their stroke there, while the right oar bank continued the movement of the oars through the water. The nose of the Mjöllnir’s Might swung swiftly, the keel pivoting into the direction of the wind. Gunnar came to a snap decision as he gauged the strength of the gusts, shouting and gesturing at three Vikings to do his bidding. They scrambled up the rigging to unfurl the sail and Olaf blew two strident blasts on his conch shell to signal the rest of the fleet to turn and follow along in its wake.
“Rein in the oars and seal the oar holes with the covers, we do not want the water rushing in,” Gunnar ordered, explaining himself as he went. “The wind is blowing in the direction we desire to go. Helmsman, steady as she goes.”
“Aye, aye,” Tjernagl replied, hearing the sail swish and the ropes shuffle in the angling wind. Covers were repositioned over the oar holes.
“Fridrik,” Gunnar turned to address a short, youth with big front teeth and a pointed nose sitting by the mast. “Slake my thirst and then the crew.”
Clinging to the rigging, an athletic twenty year old Norseman was untying a section of the sail and asked, “And my father, master steersman?” His long free-flowing hair flickered in the wind, his brown eyes boring into Gunnar’s back. “Shouldn’t he be told we finally broach English waters? ‘Tis he’s wits that dominate and determine the course of this attack.”
“Aye, Lokar; I have not forgotten that I am the hand that carries it out either. I was about to do just that,” Gunnar replied irritably, without looking back. “Fridrik, go first to the hold and rouse Jarl Magnússon from his slumber. Tell him there are things to be done that will not wait.”
The second and third longships named Long Snake and Bifrost’s Bow veered sharply and withdrew their lightweight, pine oars but they didn’t align orderly behind the Mjöllnir’s Might. Instead those Viking vessels were astern and off to the left taking a diagonal course in order to maximize the benefit from the bracing northerly gusts, which blew in to strum the rigging ropes and swell the forty foot square sails; the stout beitass -spar fixed in place against the rear of the rough woollen cloth held its effective shape even when it was sodden with spray. Blue and black banners sporting symbols in the form of helmets and crossed battleaxes flew aloft.
The four remaining longships tacked sharply and spread out alongside Bifrost’s Bow in a staggered pattern, the drumbeats onboard silencing as the fleet sped across the waves. The wind rattled the decorative lines of shields, but they were held securely with wedges within the inboard shield rack.
Mjöllnir’s Might and Long Snake were a hundred feet in length with room for sixty oars, a few ranging in reach, consistent with where they were made use of upon the vessel, and a crew of over a hundred and twenty. They didn’t differ greatly apart from the carvings on the prow of the second ship depicting Asgard gods wrestling with the fanged mouths and coils of long snakes. Bifrost’s Bow and the other longships were a little shorter in length with fewer oars and wider, deeper hulls for carrying cargo, but their mastheads and stern-posts were just as lavishly decorated.
Their slender hulls creaked as the overlapping, oaken planks flexed with the movement of the in-beam waves, thin cracks appeared and lengthened from the nailed timbers, but no water seeped into the gaps behind the wood for reason that they had been filled and sealed by sheep’s wool d