Which Úlf, with his inimitable skill with needle and ink, will mold into a fiery thunderbolt from Thor’s hammer. Portraying my infallible strength in battle.
From his seat in an oak chair facing the hearth, Skårde admired the hard-won Frankish sword, glistening in the firelight as it stood proudly against the wall of the hut. The double-edged blade had sliced through the leather laces of Skårde’s lamellar armor, carving a deep, painful gash across the left side of his chest. Forged with the highest quality steel, ornately decorated with gold and silver, and adorned with a huge blue sapphirein its hilt, the magnificent weapon had marked him with Thor’s thunder. For Skårde—despite his grievous wound—had slain the enemy who had maimed him.
And pilfered the priceless sword.
The healer Rolf removed Skårde’s damaged armor tunic and laid it on a nearby chair. He carefully peeled the underlying leather away from the blood-encrusted wound, staunching the fresh flow as he wiped away the garish gore. “You are fortunate that boiled reindeer hide is tough and thick. This lining saved your shield arm.” Beneath the admonishing frown on his crinkled brow, Rolf regarded Skårde with infinite wisdom glinting in his sage, knowing eyes. “Another battle. Another lucrative raid. You’ve defied death once again. Tell me, Skårde—is it never enough?”
No, it will never be enough. My half-brother Sweyn will inherit our father’s kingdoms. He, the legitimate heir of Harald Bluetooth, will one day reign as King of Norway and Denmark. But I—bastard son of the Danish king—can only prove my worth in battle and strive to earn, if not the paternal love of my father, then at least the respect and admiration of my king.
Skårde remained silent, staring at the gleaming sword he’d acquired in the hard-won victory. He and his men had successfully defended the Viking settlement ofHeiðabýrand repelled the invading Franks from the Jutland peninsula of Denmark. They’d pursued the retreating enemy into Frisia, where they’d vanquished the attacking army, seized valuable Frankish swords and highly prized chainmail armor, and pillaged a monastery for gold, silver, and coin.
But Skårde knew his men longed for more than wealth and weapons of war.
They wanted wives.
Rolf interrupted Skårde’s reverie with continued verbal admonishment as he cleansed the heinous wound. “Your warriors are tired of endless battles and empty beds. Many want nothing more than fertile land.And fertile wives.”Dark, bitter eyes—enshrouded by numerous crinkles of age and wisdom—regarded him sternly. “There are no women here for thousands of restless, rutting men.”
“Then I shall lead them on another raid. Down the Volga River to the Caspian Sea.” Skårde hissed through his teeth as thehealer applied a noxious, foul-smelling liquid to the deep slash across his chest.
Rolf placed a thick wad of leather into Skårde’s bearded mouth. “Bite down on this.” He nodded at the blacksmith Thorkil, who removed the white-tipped iron from the blazing coals. “When I close the wound with these,” he said to the farrier while lifting a pair of metal pincers, “you sear it shut with the fire.” The healer gripped both sides of Skårde’s hacked flesh with his handheld tool, bringing the edges together while Thorkil sealed the deep gash with the molten rod.
As the acrid stench of burning skin filled his nostrils, Skårde chomped down on the leather bit to endure the blinding pain. A welcoming blanket of blackness and oblivion descended deliciously upon him.
When he awakened a while later to the soothing scent of sage, Skårde found himself lying on a bench inside the healer’s hut. Strips of linen bandaged the injured side of his chest, snugly wrapped around his left shoulder. The covered wound throbbed painfully with each beat of his hammering heart.
“Ah, you’re awake.” Rolph helped Skårde to sit up, placing a wooden cup with a pungent brew to his parched lips. “Drink this. The herbs will prevent the wound from festering and ease the pain.” While Skårde complied, grimacing at the bitter taste, the healer grinned. “In two weeks, the scar will be sufficiently healed for Úlf’s artistic skill. What tattoo will emblazon this wound?”
“A bolt of lightning from Mjölnir. For indeed, Thor’s thunder branded me with this victory.” Skårde downed the remainder of the repugnant elixir just as a royal messenger entered the healer’s abode.
Bowing his braided head before the Viking chieftain ofHeiðabýr, the king’s envoy announced, “Your father wishes to speak with you, Jarl Skårde. I have come to escort you, my lord.”
Skårde handed the empty mug to Rolf, arose from the furs lining the bench where he had slept, and followed the tall, burly messenger out of the smoky hut.
As the two men crossed the grassy plain, headed toward Harald Bluetooth’s royal hall,they passed bustling workshops where boatbuilders with saws and files constructed or repaired damaged ships. Woodworkers—such as the craftsman back in Norway who had taught Skårde his highly valued trade—carved ornate dragon prows fordrakkarwarships and intricate adornments for the interior walls of the village longhouses. Blacksmiths forged swords and repaired chainmail armor from the recent raid, and farmers tilled fields with plows and oxen, preparing for the annual season of spring planting.
With long strides of his muscular legs—his pace slower than usual due to his recent injury—Skårde traversed the village, gazing across the waters of the fjord where dozens of Viking warships and trading vessels were docked within the protective ramparts. protruding spikes, and defensive wall of theDanevirkewhich sheltered the impenetrable seaport. Situated on the navigable inlet of the Schlei Fjord within the Jutland peninsula, the Danish ships had viable access to both the Baltic and North Seas.
Practical for raids. Vital for trade. Essential for defense.
And Skårde commanded them all.
Inside Harald Bluetooth’s immense royal hall, silver threads from woven silk tapestries sparkled amidst intricately carved coiled snakes and mythological beasts adorning the elaborate wooden walls. To the right of the grand entrance, slaves rotated a spit boar over an open fire pit while nearby thralls prepared food and toiled over steaming cauldrons suspended above an enormous hearth. The tantalizing scents of roast pork, honey, spices, and aromatic herbs made Skårde’s stomach rumble as he entered the cavernous room. Hundreds of soldiers, drinking mead in anticipation of a celebratory feast, rose to their feet and bowed their heads in tribute at his approach.
At the far end of the vast chamber, surrounded by fearsome Viking warriors armed with axes and swords, the King of Denmark—bedecked in furs, gold, and dazzling jewels—sat his ornate wooden throne upon an elevated dais. As Skårde advanced toward his father the king, the royal guards, clad in thick furs and leather armor, bearing silver armbands around their massive biceps, lowered their heads before their revered leader.
Harald Bluetooth’s deep baritone resonated across the royal hall. “All hail Skårde the Scourge. The Dragon of Denmark.” The king arose from his throne and raised his chalice of mead in tribute, prompting the men to follow his lead. “To your glorious victory and incomparable valor. May you feast for eternity in the splendor of Valhalla.”
Skårde bent to one knee before his father and humbly ducked his chin while the warriors cheered with riotous applause.
“Arise, and take your place at the table of honor.” King Harald motioned for Skårde to join him at the prestigious banquet table, summoning a thrall to pour mugs of mead and for slaves to start serving generous platters of sumptuous food. Musicians began playing flutes, lyres, andtalharpasas soldiers devoured the delectable fare.
Skårde sat at his father’s side and waited for the king to be served. Once Harald began eating, Skårde dove into the roast boar. Succulent, salty, and sweet, it was dripping with honey and melted in his mouth. He washed it down with a hearty gulp of golden mead and wiped his mustache with a swarthy hand.A royal feast in my honor.Skårde nearly burst with pride.
“Rolf informs me that you’ll need two to three weeks for your wound to heal. That gives us plenty of time to prepare for our voyage.” Harald grinned. The infamous front tooth for which he was named—blackened in battle long ago—was a deep blue, like a rare sapphire from the Far Eastern traders on the Caspian Sea.
Skårde raised a curious eyebrow as he beheld his bearded father. “Our voyage?”
“To thePays de Caux. The Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.” Harald downed the rest of his mead, eyeing the lovely thrall who refilled his chalice to the brim. His lusty gaze followed the sway of her slender hips as she wove her way through the animated crowd. The king licked his lips before returning his attention to Skårde. “I wish to solidify my former alliance withRikard Vilhjálmsson. Richard the Fearless. The Viking Duke of Normandy. Throughyou, myson.”
