The Kings of the Sea (The Saga of Hasting the Avenger Book 3) Read online

  The Kings of the Sea

  C.J. ADRIEN

  Copyright © 2021 by Christopher Jonathan Adrien

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com

  First Edition

  Originally published in the United States in 2021 by Runestone Books

  For more information, visit www.cjadrien.com

  Also by C.J. Adrien:

  In the Shadow of the Beast (2020)

  The Lords of the Wind (2019)

  The Oath of the Father (2013)

  The Line of His People (2011)

  Pour mon petit Viking, Leif.

  Contents

  Maps

  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

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  From the Annales of St. Bertin:

  “843 - Northmen pirates attacked Nantes, slew the bishop and many clergy and lay people of both sexes, and sacked the civitas….Finally they landed on a certain island, brought their households over from the mainland and decided to winter there in something like a permanent settlement.”

  “845 - 120 of the Northmen ships sailed up the Seine to Paris, laying waste everything on either side and meeting not the least bit opposition. Charles made some efforts to offer some resistance, but realized his men could not possibly win. So he made a deal with them, by handing over 7,000 pounds of silver as a bribe.”

  1

  Rapine Slaughter

  I had fought hard to carve out a life for myself that would honor my father’s words and wishes. I believed that I could choose my fate and change my destiny if I had the will and strength to do so. The Norns do not leave such things to chance. On the day I had my revenge against the man who had slain my first love, I was betrayed by my closest friend, Bjorn. Or so I thought.

  Tariq and I stood in the shade of the oak tree where I had slain Renaud, the Count of Nantes, and we watched as the longships glided toward his city. A Moor with dark skin from the lands to the far south, Tariq had worked his way up the ranks of my army, from a slave to one of my closest and most loyal followers. I glanced back at Renaud’s bodiless head, mouth agape and eyes horror-stricken, and it reminded me of something my father had once said: “A cleaved head no longer plots.”

  Nantes’ Count, and the man who had worked so hard to bring about my undoing, would never plot against me again. I’d had my revenge, but my satisfaction was short-lived. My heart ached at the sight of Bjorn, my champion, willfully breaking his oath to me. What could I do if he took his men and left my side? For the briefest of moments, I wondered if my revenge had been worth the trouble. Yet, no matter how much I’d learned, it seemed, I could not let go of what Renaud had done to me, nor would I let go of Bjorn for his betrayal. My resentful heart hungered anew for revenge.

  As we watched the ships floating along the slow-moving river below us, flanked by thick woodlands on both banks, the gleaming reflection of the sun on the city’s limestone walls in the distance, a man on horseback rode up the beaten path between the golden fields of wheat and barley below. He rode from the direction of the battle we had left to pursue Renaud. He had his hand over his eyes to blot out the sun, and he searched the fields. When he spotted us by the oak tree, he beat his horse and drove it forward with all the speed he could muster. I kept my sword drawn, as did Tariq, and we stepped around the oak so he could not charge at us.

  “Hasting?” the man called out. He was a Dane and one of my warriors.

  “Bjarki,” I said, “I’m relieved it’s you.”

  “Bjorn needs you. It’s urgent.” Bjarki spoke through his thick, disheveled red beard, such that I could hardly see his lips move.

  “But he’s rowing upriver.” I pointed at the longships.

  “That’s not Bjorn,” Bjarki said. “It’s Rune.”

  My heart leaped in my chest. Rune had served on my first crew and had risen the Northmen’s ranks in Ireland to become a sea king in his own right. We had planned to wait for him before setting out to fight the Franks, but the Celts had begged us to leave early to help them. So it seemed he knew where we had sailed.

  “But their colors…” I gazed at the ships again and realized the glare of the sun on the water had tricked my eyes into seeing Bjorn’s colors of blue and gold rather than Rune’s colors of blue and silver.

  “Rune doesn’t know the Celts asked us not to take the city,” Tariq said.

  “No, he doesn’t,” I agreed.

  “He didn’t bother to stop and ask us, either,” Bjarki said. “Bjorn tried to tell him from the riverbank.”

  “Strange,” I said.

  “There’s more.” Bjarki’s horse scuttled backward and neighed. He pulled up on the reins to control the beast, but not before it did a full twirl in place.

  “Out with it!”

  Bjarki wiped his face with his sleeve and sighed. “It is Skírlaug. She is dying. She has asked to see you before joining her ancestors.”

  Tariq leaned into me and said, “Go with him.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “If I leave now and push my horse hard enough, I may be able to reach Rune before he takes things too far.”

  “May your beast have the swiftness of a raven.” I put my hands on his shoulders, and we pressed our foreheads together for a moment of silence.

  I felt the rise and fall of his breath and smelled the fish he had eaten for breakfast. When I released him, he stepped back and gave me a confident nod. I mounted Bjarki’s horse with haste, and we trotted back to the riverbank where our army had surprised Renaud’s.

  The smooth, cultivated fields turned to a lush, green forest of birch, ash, and holly, and the path turned from dust to mud. Strewn along the road were discarded arms and armor of the Franks who had retreated after their lord had abandoned them. At the clearing where we had fought, the stench of battle wafted into my nostrils. Men’s entrails stink like a butcher’s discarded scraps. It is not a smell for the faint of heart. We trotted through the blood-soaked field to the riverbank where my army had made camp in the shade of oak, ash, and alder trees skirted by vines and holly.

  “Hasting’s back!” a man called out.

  The other warriors emerged from their tents and ships. They gathered before me, a crowd brimming with both laughter and grief.

  “It is done?” Bjorn shouted as he weaved his way through the others to meet me. He stood half a head taller than most. Dark circles had formed under his bright blue eyes. A scraggly beard hid his muscular jawline and blended into the long blond hair he had tied in a knot on the back of his head.

  “It is,” I said.

  The army rejoiced. They hollered and cheered at our victory, and men slapped e
ach other on the back. I have always found the cheering after a battle less than ideal, but it served its purpose. Bjorn embraced me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. He raised my arm for all to see, and the men shouted a mighty war cry that sent the birds in the trees a-fluttering. Though he smiled, the tears in his eyes betrayed him.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “Skírlaug.” His lips quivered.

  “Is she alive?” I asked.

  “Barely.”

  “Take me to her.”

  Bjorn led me to his ship, which was moored among thick grasses on the river’s edge. A caw rang out overhead, and when I looked up, I saw an army of vultures, ravens, and other birds circling the stench of their next feast. The birds made me uneasy. Skírlaug sat motionless against the inner lapstrakes with blood running down her arm and a horn of mead in her hand. She had lost the color in her face, and the tight braids in her hair had loosened. When she saw me climbing onboard, she smirked.

  “Welcome back,” she said.

  “The arrow struck closer to her heart than we thought,” Bjorn said.

  “Let me take a look.”

  I knelt by her side and pulled up on the bloodied bandage the men had made for her. They had broken the arrow but not removed the arrowhead for fear she might bleed out. Skírlaug groaned as I examined her.

  “Let me die,” she said. “I’m ready. I’m ready for Valhalla.”

  I scoffed and said, “You’re not allowed to die yet. I won’t let you.”

  “I see—I see ravens. They are speaking to me.” She lifted a bloodied finger and pointed to the birds. “Yes, I hear them.”

  “What are they saying?” Bjorn was always one to fear the supernatural.

  “It’s not for you,” she said to him.

  “Bjorn, I need you to make a fire and heat up a blade until it glows,” I said.

  “But the wound is too close to—”

  “Do it!” I snarled.

  Bjorn nodded and leaped over the gunwale. Skírlaug’s arm fell limp on the deck. She exhaled, and her eyes closed.

  “Don’t you dare.” I slapped her on the cheek a few times until her eyes opened again.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Why is your face blue?”

  “It’s not,” I said.

  “That’s not good,” she said with a slur. She put on a half-smile. “Those ravens, they’re quite cheeky.”

  “I’m sure they are.” If she had not been dying, I might have laughed. “Pay them no attention. I need you to stay with me.”

  Bjorn soon returned with what I had asked. He handed me a seax with a glowing hot blade and climbed onboard.

  “Have you ever done this before?” he asked.

  “It was part of our training for war when I lived in Vannes.”

  “How many times have you done it?”

  I had never done it myself, so I forced a smile and lied. “More than once.”

  Bjorn took her face and kissed her lips before pulling her off the laps and leaning her forward, shoulders over her knees. He looked at me with wide eyes, and I nodded at him. The crows fell silent, as did the men who watched us. I took several deep breaths and plucked the arrow shaft out of her shoulder. As blood coursed down her tunic, I placed the blade over the gaping hole in her flesh, and it sizzled like eggs on a cast-iron pan. Both Bjorn and I turned our heads from the smell. To my surprise, Skírlaug did not make a sound. When the wound had sufficiently closed, I moved the blade to the back of her shoulder and burned the other side.

  “I need water,” she muttered.

  “She needs water,” I called out to the crowd of onlookers. Dozens of men had gathered along the river’s edge to gawk at us, including Bjarki. They butted up against each other, shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks to see what we were doing.

  “Go on,” Bjorn urged.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bjarki said. “He’s a killer and a healer. Hail Hasting!” His words were followed by an inspired hurrah from the men behind him.

  “It’s a bit much,” I said to Bjorn.

  “Enjoy it. Your luck could run out on you sooner than you think.”

  I handed Bjorn the blade and inspected the wounds. The flesh had bound together, and she no longer bled. One of our men hopped onboard with a leather pouch of water. Skírlaug sucked the whole of it down in an instant. Her wound needed something more to heal. I looked to the men watching from shore and saw Bjarki stroking his long, thick beard.

  “Bjarki, remind me what it is you put in your beard to make it shine?”

  “It’s a balm made mostly of honey and some other things,” he boasted.

  “Could you spare some?”

  He grinned, winked at me, and strode off toward his ship. While we waited, a few men brought up more water, which I used to wash Skírlaug’s wounds. Her head fell limp into Bjorn’s chest and arms.

  “Is she dead?” he asked with wide eyes.

  I pulled her head back and put my ear by her nose. “She’s still breathing. Let’s make a place for her to rest.”

  Bjorn pulled up furs and linens and made a bed for her on the deck. Bjarki meanwhile brought up a jar of his balm. I put a finger in it and smelled it. It was sweet and had the consistency of the Christian healers’ ointments. I rubbed a dab on each side of the wound and covered it with clean cloths.

  “Hopefully, it will relieve the burning,” I said.

  “If it doesn’t?” Bjorn asked.

  “She’s in the gods’ hands now,” I said. “Bjorn, listen to me. If you want her to survive, you need to take her back to Vindavik as soon as possible. Her mother is a healer. She will know what to do.”

  Bjorn nodded at first but then looked up at me and said, “What about you? You’re not coming?”

  “Not yet, my friend. I have a mess in Nantes to clean up first.”

  “Out of the question,” Skírlaug interjected, causing us both to jolt. She had opened her eyes, but barely. “We are all going after Rune.”

  I took a deep breath and said, “Not like this, you’re not. Bjorn, I trust you to take the fleet home. I will join you when I have settled matters here.”

  Bjorn gave me a nod. I caressed Skírlaug’s hair, and I thought about Ulfrúna, our daughter, and the pain I would see in her eyes if her mother perished. Skírlaug’s mother, Ingrid, cared for her, and I hoped she would choose to continue even if her daughter passed on to the next world. My drifting mind snapped back in an instant when panic broke out in camp.

  “What’s going on?” I called out.

  Bjarki, who was still nearby, left to investigate. When he returned, he had ten men with him, and they started to push our ship away from the shore. I leaped to the opposite gunwale to try to stop them.

  “What are you doing?” I barked.

  “No time,” Bjarki said, out of breath.

  Upstream from us, men hastened to launch their ships, including a black-haired man named Ulfr, whom I had put in charge of my ship, Sail Horse. An arrow slammed into the ship’s mast an arm’s length from my head. The knock made my heart skip a beat. I examined the arrowhead, and when I recognized its make—an iron point with two claws curved out toward the shaft—my fists and jaw clenched harder than ever before. Bjarki and his men climbed on board and took seats on the rowing benches. They pulled us away from the riverbank as a rumbling roar echoed across the river, and dozens of heavy cavalry followed by hundreds of foot soldiers poured out from the trees and stampeded through our camp.

  All who remained there had no time to take up arms. Some struggled hand to hand, but most were slaughtered with a quick stab of a spear or stroke of a sword. I must have lost half of my army in the blink of an eye. Just as we had surprised the Franks on the riverbank, so too had these men surprised us. With long, thick cheek-guards, green overcoats, and fluttering burgundy banners, their bronze helmets gave them away. They were Celts.

  “What are they doing?” Bjorn cried out, recognizing them, too.

  “They are stabbing us in the
back,” I said.

  At the river’s edge, two of their horsemen gathered and removed their helmets. They gazed out over the water at us. I squinted and thought I recognized them. My fear had been realized. It was Erispoë, the heir to the Kingdom of Armorica, and Lambert, Renaud’s rival claimant to Nantes, who had made a deal with the Celts to take it back. It was they who had called us to war early.

  “Could they have mistaken us for someone else?” Bjorn asked.

  I stood tall beside the naked mast and raised my hand to wave at them, and they waved back.

  “They know exactly who they are looking at,” I said.

  Where I had thought Bjorn had betrayed me, the real traitors now revealed themselves. A breeze picked up the smell of the entrails of the slain and carried it to us from the shore. My stomach churned. The Celts had drawn us into their fight against the Franks, made us do their dirty work so they could seize the city, and for our aid, we received the sword. Nominoë’s son, Erispoë, heir to the throne of Armorica, had made his first bold move.

  And he had made the wrong one.

  “Hasting?” Bjorn’s eyes were wide.

  I clenched my jaw. The sight of the Celts stabbing at the corpses they had made in our camp to ensure their deaths, and the laughter I heard echoing across the riverbank caused my blood to seethe under my skin. I gripped the coarse, splintery wood of the gunwale. In that moment, something changed within me. I felt new anger, a new thirst for revenge. My rage was unbounded. Through his betrayal, Erispoë had unshackled a beast no human power could contain.

  “Set sail for the city,” I commanded.

  Bjorn looked up at me and asked, “What are you thinking?”

  “I will make them pay for what they’ve done.”

  My crew did not question me. The ships that had managed to slip away from the ambush followed us. We had left behind ten ships and lost perhaps two hundred men. I stood at Bjorn’s prow, with Sail Horse in my sights, and I pointed upriver to guide the fleet. I had come too far and accomplished too much to let some young fool upend it all. Until that day, I had held back the Danes’ fury and spared the lands of Francia and Armorica of our full wrath. If I could not secure place and power in Armorica, I would do so among Vikings. Nantes was the Celts’ desired prize, so I would raze it to the ground to thwart their plans, and nothing would bolster my reputation among my kin more than to take it for myself. Many had tried and failed. I would be remembered as the first man who succeeded.