Chapter One
Mercia, England
Winter in the Year of Our Lord, 1017
Under the rule of King Cnut of Denmark.
Chief Ulf Kristiansenhad his man down in the span of three breaths. With eyes the color of a Norse river in winter, he looked up to the heavens, lifted his sword, and brought it down into his enemy. Blood spurted onto his hide boots and seeped into the snow.
With no time to waste, he yanked the blade out and looked around for the next man to fight. He killed seven more before he lost his sword. After which, he had to use two short swords from two of his victims. He used them to take some heads and fought for another hour. In that time, he saved two of his men from death at the end of a Saxon blade. He wanted no accolades for it. Every chief should keep the men who fought for him or their king safe. And he did, often reaching his men just in time. They followed him loyally because they knew he would give his life to save theirs.
Fin, his second in command. followed him because he was Fin’s brother. Fin could save his own life. Still, the chief looked for his brother on the field often. He didn’t have to, for Fin was more savage than he. Ulf looked for him because whatever troubles they had between them, Ulf loved his younger brother, and it comforted him to see him among the living.
When there was no one else to fight and only he and his men survived, Ulf stopped and dropped his weapons.
Covered in blood, he picked up one of the heads by the hair and called out to his men in the native tongue of his people while snowflakes fell on the dead. They were victorious. They always were.
“King Cnut will be passing through here in a few hours with his men,” he called out. “He will know his warriors are unstoppable.”
His men cheered and then dispersed. They would return to camp on foot, a mile to the west.
Returning, he washed in icy cold water from a nearby brook. He was used to the cold. Every Dane was. They’d grown up in it. He fought without his fur cloak so that he would not overheat. When he was done, he retrieved his cloak and went to the fire.
He was the king’s most loyal, most skilled warrior, but he didn’t want to do it anymore. He was tired of fighting. He’d lost enough of his blood in the last decade. He wanted to go home to Denmark and continue building his longhouse, farming his land, taking a wife, and starting a family.
Nevertheless, what he wanted didn’t matter. While he was here in England, with its new Danish monarch, Cnut, he would continue to end uprisings that sprang up in different territories. This month, he was in Mercia. Last month, East Anglia. If that meant killing some Saxons who thought they could beat the Danes, he had no trouble with it. He would show them who was the mightier people.
“Lord!” a young Dane called out, running toward him. “Those Saxons’ village is a short distance away. There is food!”
Food. Ulf, or Wolf as he has been known to be called, rubbed his palm over his belly. He was hungry. “How many villagers?”
“About two dozen,” the young man reported. “Mostly women and old men.”
“To the horses,” Wolf called out to his men. They obeyed without question.
He quickly found a shield and a spear, then mounted his horse. Like the Saxons, they used horses to ride, not to fight. The beasts were built for travel, not speed. He commanded his men to follow and get the nets ready.
“Can I ride with your group?” the young Dane asked.
Wolf examined him with a gaze that could stop his enemies and send them running. The young man smiled and shifted under the chief’s scrutiny. “What are you called?”
“Akkar, Lord. I came to this land with my family to farm, but I want to fight.”
“Stay with your family,” Wolf told him and rode off.
Akkar followed him. “Then just let me come with you to the village, then I will return home to my father. Please, Lord. The Saxons killed my mother and my sisters.”
Many young men abandoned their farming to fight for reasons just like this. Wolf wouldn’t be moved by this one’s story.
He nodded though, following the young man’s direction to the outskirts of the Saxon village. He didn’t waste any further time thinking about Akkar or his father. His belly was grumbling. He was cold. He wanted to conquer and eat and make camp for the night. If there were any more uprisings between where they were and Wessex, his scouts would discover them and report to him. He and his men would defeat them all. For King Cnut. For the Danes…and for Akkar’s family.
When they reached the village, Wolf stayed out of sight while six of his men stole into their market and blended in…for about ten breaths. The rest of the soldiers took positions around the perimeter of the marketplace and drew their weapons. The villagers screamed and tried to run but there was no place to go. They were herded like sheep to the center, where nets were cast over them.
“Who is the leader here?” Fin demanded in the language of the Saxons.
When no one answered, he pulled a sword from its sheath on his belt and raised it high.
Wolf raised his hand for his second in command to wait. Fin obeyed and lowered his weapon.
