“Why does Anvarr have a fleet of Frankish ships?” Gunni indicated the five vessels beached upon the rocky shore. In the iridescent glow of the full moon, the billowing white sails fluttered, as if wings of the raven emblems flapped in the westerly wind.
Memories flooded Skårde like a raging, rapid river.
Anvarr Hrafnsson.
Thewarrior whose name meant “son of the raven.”
The Danish Viking warlord who had chosen the black bird, symbol of Odin, as his personal crest.
The rancorous rival Skårde had humiliated in theholmgangsix years ago.
“For revenge against me.”
While oars splashed, thudded, and swished over the white capped waves, propelling them toward the beleaguered beach and imminent bloody battle, anger and adrenaline surged as Skårde relived the bitter past.
Anvarr Hrafnsson had expected to be appointed leader of the Danish Viking army inHeiðabýr. He’d already led many lucrative raids against the Rus settlements on the eastern coastline near Denmark and all along the Varangian trade routes extending to the Black and Caspian Seas. He’d brought back timber, furs, amber, silver, and slaves from Novgorod which had profited the kingdom of Denmark and asserted the power of Harald Bluetooth throughout the Baltic Sea. A highly skilled warrior and proven leader with a long history of impressive, distinguished achievement, Anvarr had anticipated equally distinguished compensation.
So when the king instead bestowed the coveted position of warlord of the Danish Viking army and awarded the prestigious title of Dragon of Denmark to his bastard son, Anvarr had been infuriated, indignant, and incensed. He’d insinuated that Skårde had received the title simply because of his birth rather than by meritorious valor or prowess, implying that the Dragon of Denmark was not worthy of leading the Danish army.
The resultantholmgang—a traditional Viking trial by combat to settle disputes or insults of honor—had been witnessed by hundreds of Danish warriors and King Harald himself on Bockholm Island, at the mouth of the fjord nearHeiðabýr. It had been agreed in advance that Anvarr and Skårde would engage in a single combat using shields, axes, and swords. And that the winner would be determined by the warrior who drew first blood.
With a slice to Anvarr’s left cheek, Skårde had won theholmgang, restored his besmirched honor, and established himself as the king’s champion and warlord of the Danish Viking army.
But in doing so, he had permanently maimed his opponent’s face. Anvarr would forever bear the visible result of his audacious, scandalous challenge and his humiliating, debilitating defeat.
Harald, sagely separating the two combatants while simultaneously compensating Anvarr for his indisputable value as a Viking chieftain, named the Raven Warrior as Jarl of Aros, sending him to rule over the vital Viking trade center on the eastern coast of Denmark.
Skårde had not seen Anvarr in the six years since the holmgang. But now, with the deafening din of battle raging in his ears as thedrakkarships beached on the pebbled shore, he would once again confront the formidable foe.
Adrenaline surged as Skårde leapt over the side of his ship onto the rocky shore where the ongoing battle raged on the gore-strewn beach. The coppery tang of blood and the fetid stench of bowels blended with the salty brine of the sea.
Five Frankish ships had already landed on the more advantageous western bank of the river at the base of Richard’s clifftop castle. Skårde and his six ships, having approached from the east, had navigated the curve of the chalky cliff and now disembarked onto the opposite bank. As his warriors poured off thedrakkarships, they quickly formed a shield wall to advance into the frenetic fray. Richard’s archers, some of whom were firing arrows at the enemy from the clifftop ramparts defending the castle, halted their barrage at the sight of Skårde’s men.
Amidst the chaos of clashing swords and the piercing, pitiful screams of the wounded, Frankish invaders—clad in white surcoats bearing an ominous black raven—battled the beleaguered knights defending Richard’s fortress. When Skårde’s Viking warriors fromChâteaufortarrived on the scene with thunderous shouts and rhythmic rapping of swords on shields, their presence injected renewed vigor into the embattled defenders, and the tide of the battle turned.
Dissolving the shield wall, Skårde’s men engaged the Franks from the shoreline, wedging them between Richard’s defenders at the base of the cliff and the Viking reinforcements emerging from the sea. As the salty spray of crashingwaves buffeted Normandy's white chalk cliffs, Skårde’s Viking warriors and Richard’s valiant knights crushed the Frankish soldiers on the pebbled beach of Fécamp. Blades gleaming in the moonlight, the Norsemen pushed forward, felling Franks with battle axes and swords in the brutal dance of combat on the blood and gore soaked shore.
Skårde scanned the carnage, searching in vain for Anvarr among the few Franks still fighting. Just as it seemed like victory was theirs, Gunni’s frantic shout pierced the salty moonlit air. “Frankish ships!”
Five more enemy vessels beached on the western bank. Skårde rallied his men to face the raven warriors who poured like ravenous raptors onto the bloody shore, their shrill shrieks the harsh, grating caws of carrion crows.
And there—in the brilliant light of the full moon which illuminated the gruesome, ghastly scar—he spotted the distorted, disfigured face of Anvarrr Hrafnsson.
The Raven Warrior who now betrayed his king by leading a Frankish invasion against Richard the Fearless, longtime ally and lifelong friend of Harald Bluetooth of Denmark and Norway.
Anvarr flashed a garish grin and fixed a predatory gaze on Skårde. Wild black mane dense as a raven’s wing, chain mail armor glinting in the moonlight, he advanced, a curved sword with glittering stone in his raised right hand.
In a flash, the Raptor attacked, slashing a downward strike which Skårde barely parried with hisLjósálfarsword. Blow after jarring blow, Anvarr unleashed his relentless fury, battering and finally shattering Skårde’s leather embossed oak shield.
As he staggered under the impact of Anvarr’s devastating onslaught, Skårde felt the emerald talisman over his heart and remembered Ylva’s words. “I chose theEihwazrune, so that you may summon the gods when you need them.”
Calling upon thegaldrmagic imbued in the amulet, Skårde invoked the god who had marked him in battle once before. “Thor, grant me the strength of your thunder. That I may strike down this enemy like a lightning bolt from Mjölnir.”
As a tremendous surge of power seethed into his limbs, Skårde spun in a deadly circle and severed Anvarr’s neck, swiftly separating the Raven Warrior’s head from his brawny body. Yet, in a simultaneous move, the enemy blade broke the chain links in the armor covering Skårde’s right thigh, slicing into the surface of his exposed flesh. As he watched his decapitated enemy drop to the ground, he glimpsed Frankish warriors overwhelm Richard’s castle archers at the top of the cliff. All around him, raven warriors swarmed the beach, felling the knights of Fécamp and overpowering his own men.
A foul, fetid odor permeated Skårde’s nostrils, smothering him in suffocating fumes. His leg was suddenly as heavy as lead, and he couldn’t move any of his limbs. In a dim, distant echo, he heard Gunni shout, “Retreat!” as the pebbled shore slammed painfully into his paralyzed cheek and darkness descended like doom.
Chapter 24
