Viking Hunter Volume 1 Grab The Wolf

Viking Hunter

A War of Outlaws

By Wulf Anson

Volume I

Grab The Wolf

Text and Cover Copyright Wulf Anson and Wulf Publish 2016

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Also Available

Viking Hunter Volume 2 Kill Them Twice

Viking Hunter Volume 3 The Valkyr's Kiss

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Viking Hunter is a work of fiction set in the 13th Century. It is not meant to disparage today's Catholics, Jews, Gays, Native Americans, Savage Mastiffs or any other current sub-groupings. The prejudices within are those of the characters and are historically accurate.

Table of Contents

Induction

I Baggage

II He Found Her Oak

III Idiot

IV Count It Up

V A Parliament of Trolls

VI The Booth

VII Rules Are For Losers

VIII Dirty Joke

XIX Who's For Nightmeal

X The Fall-Down Fits

XI Spooks Playground

XII The Bishop's Bet

XIII Every Man's A Hero

XIV A Slap In The Face

XV Terrapins And Sumacs

XVI Your Goddamn Digging

XVII Skak

XVIII Prepossessed

XIX Mortgaged

XX Burned

XXI Weasel

XXII Baleyg

XXIII Unless I Die First

XXIV Too Many Women

XXV I Cured Her Of Complaining

XXVI The Road To Grand Reputations

XXVII Go On You, Live

XXVIII You Want To Be A Hunter?

XXIX No Man's Land

XXX Poached

XXXI Da'hal The Black

XXXII What I Wouldn't Give

XXXIII Heretics

XXXIV Broken Toys

XXXV Then Things Are Looking Up

XXXVI The Fenris Wolf

XXXVII Trolls And Lesser Pests

XXXVIII She Actually Farted

IXL Shtoog

XL You Forgot Your Hammer

XLI The Logmadur

XLII You Can't Spoil A Rotten Egg

XLIII Meals And Monies

XLIV Night In Normandy

XLV I Will Steal The Stars

XLVI Cat Squeezings

XLVII Clondayre Town

XLVIII I'll Take It As Criminal Slander

XLIX Sticking Other Men's Pigs

L If It's Half As Big As Your Words

LI Target Painting

LII Bones Might Be Broken

LIII A Morning For Clods

LIV Repossessed

LV The Only One Here

LVI Turned Inside Out

LVII Jarnulf's Reputation

LVIII Your Immunity's Forfeit

LIX Treed Bobcat

LX The Undead

LXI The Owl's Kiss

LXII I'll Deal With You Later

Viking Hunter Continues In Volume II and III

Induction

When Leif Erickson sailed home to Greenland from his trip to Markland and its mammoth forests his news was snatched up as if it was free silver. The few trees in Greenland grew no taller than man height. Fortunes had been made importing wood from Norway to Iceland and Greenland. Land, forests, fish and game waited just over the horizon. The news shot back to Iceland and from there to Norway and Denmark and the rush was on. The Swedes were too busy taking over Gardariki (Russia) to notice, much less care.

First stop was the island of Hellulandia, across the icy seaway from Markland.

Markland to Hellulandia's west then became a dumping ground for Outlaws exiled from Hellulandia by its Courts. These following events occurred in that part of Markland known as Skoggangurstrond, (Outlaws Strand) in the year 1279.

Note on names:

Before you dislocate your tongue trying to pronounce the Viking names in it, the Icelandic J is retained in them.

Pronounce it as either a Y, or a long E.

Jarnulf becomes Yarnulf.

Anja becomes Anya.

Kjartan becomes Kee-yartan.

I Baggage

Badger's boot jostled Mirha awake midmorning as he and Karl stood over her wrestling the ship's stem dragon up from its mount. Karl returned her worried stare with a wink, confiding that they were almost home. It wouldn't do to go scaring their own friendly elves and wood sprites even though he didn't believe in such things.

Ah. she said, nodding. The Sidhe could turn nasty if you gave them a rude enough shock.

I guess being Vikings you got to move around a lot. she said.

Been here eighty years. Karl said.

Figures. she said. Eighty years and they don't know you yet. Like tenant like Sidhe.

I'd heard, Karl said. that the Tuatha de Danann turned themselves into Sidhe and sank into the very bones of Irskr lund rather than be run off it by your Gaels. Seems a stretch they'd give it up after all that just to follow you over here.

Mirha kept the rest of her snubs to herself as the sun climbed a forearm higher over the horizon.

The keel ground ashore in a sandy cove. Two huge sheds sat back fifty yards from the beach. A noisy mob of women and kids with many an anxious glance boiled round the north shed as the men hauled up sails and stowed gear. Condolences were offered upon learning that her captor, old Gorm was the season's only casualty and then the mob turned festive.

Three more ships joined hers on the beach.

Sailors moored them to the twisted little pines scattered about the yard as other sailors splashed about unloading their season's get. The celebration surrounding her over the crunch and shoonk of booted feet and thumps of dropped loot only heightened her fears.

Filthy, wretched and not knowing what from where she searched wide eyed through the milling crowd.

Returning stares from the younger girls cut her like knives.

Skipper Adam began calling the auction.

From beyond the south shed came a bronzed, well-muscled six footer in his early twenties strutting toward them as if he owned the whole ship yard. He'd nary a hair out of place and was wearing clean hide trousers and a shirt of brilliant blue wool. A tiny knife, its blade finger length unlike the arm long knives the others wore, filled a sheath sewn to his thigh. An ornate ivory hilt atop a skinny, thigh long scabbard of black wood hung thrust through his belt. Hanging from the belt was the same thong with its profane pairing of cross and hammer most of the sailors were wearing.

King Tore seemed quite pleased to greet him and Mirha's apprehension doubled as the crowd around Tore suddenly found reasons to be elsewhere.

Another great, scarred, ursine grandfather rounded the other shed's rear headed towards him.

So you got Thidrandri's rope. the man said.

Hroald, you bloody handed old hypocrite. Tore bellowed at the man.

Don't you hypocrite me. the man roared back. I'm a heretic and it's souls that need scrubbing, not hands. And yours is due again before winter.

That stream's awful cold. Tore said.

It won't be cold where you're going if you skip it. Hroald yelled.

Tore promised Hroald he'd submit to it, again, if only to shut him up, and waved him off. Priest Hroald, Tore's brother, crossed himself.

God be with you and the Pope's a bugger. he droned and then ambled off to inspect the rope.

Tore had tired of these annual baptisms years ago. Hroald's position was that he wasn't taking any chances at their late stage of this game considering the debts they were both still piling up.

How'd it go son? Tore asked the blue shirted fop. Those women of yours give you any trouble?

Nothing I couldn't handle. Jarnulf lied, toying with his sword's pommel.

A bidding war erupted beside Mirha over a silver brooch two women both wanted and she missed Tore's son saying that aside from a few fist fights their women and kids were all fine but they'd lost two horses. The fiends were still chatting and laughing when the two women spotted a pair of matching ear rings lying beside the brooch and piped down, splitting the set.

Old Gunnbjorg's heart gave out last month. Tore's son was saying. Ref and those two big bucks on her in that heat all afternoon was just too much. Hildr strayed off one night. Big Blackie caught her and tore her to pieces.

Gunnbjorg, huh? Tore asked, looking more than a bit crestfallen. Well, no matter. The Ottarrs always have plenty more and they're cheap enough.

Ice sheeted Mirha's innards. She searched desperate through the crowd for a kindly face who might find her serviceable enough to want. While she hadn't a clue what a Ref looked like, a Big Blackie ought to be easy to spot amongst these six footers, half of them blondes or red heads like herself. Anyone but those two or King Tore's murdering, woman hating Princeling.

Her bulging eyes seized on a gangly teen with stringy blonde hair milling about with his twin. So he had pimples. He'd grow out of them. They were standing at the edge of the crowd, looking shy and uncertain of themselves, gazing hungry at all the young women sifting through the loot. They were both old enough to have a job but not too old, and neither seemed to have a girl of their own.

She strutted off towards them batting her eyes, and working hard at dislocating her hips. Karl saw where she was headed and caught her shoulders from behind.

Don't go get yourself in trouble. he said, turning her back around, and her heart skipped a beat as Big Blackie swept scowling into view, heading toward Tore and the prince.

He was made all of rippling muscles and was the tallest horror that even her worst nightmares had never seen. His midnight hair was neat trimmed but his stubbled jaw hadn't felt a razor since at least her kidnapping. He and his grimed hide trousers looked like they'd clawed their way up out of a coal bin.

At his side grinned, like the weasel whose sleeping bag she'd lived in aboard the ship, a smarmy looking rascal of normal size who was sporting a prissy, well-manicured beard.

Tore fixed a sardonic smile on them.

And you two. he said, dripping condescension.

Sorry about Gunnbjorg. I know how you loved riding her. the shorter one said.

Tore sighed.

We probably should have turned the old gal out anyway. Her belly was dragging and her teeth going. he said.

He stabbed a finger into the giant's chest.

And you, swinging those hammers, getting rich. Did you make sure everyone got enough to eat? he said.

Nobody went hungry. the giant said, clapping his shovel sized hand on the prince's nape.

Father did most of the work. Didn't have time, he said, thrusting his huge, dark chin out towards Hroald who was carrying a coil of rope off toward the shed's doors. with digger there keeping the pack of us playing at gophers.

Tore finger stabbed him again, ordering him to shut up. Suddenly she was sorry old Gorm who'd called her his chipmunk when he grabbed her had died. If, as Karl had suggested, he just wanted someone to talk to he hadn't been planning on killing her with a hammer and eating her. Tore grumped out a few more orders and then trudged off after Hroald into the shed.

II He Found Her Oak

Hroald, crouching beneath a low shelf in the shed's dark rear, was making yet another inventory of barrels of pine tar. Tore bent under the shelf to join him, cursing and sweeping a cobweb full of dead flies off his face.

Got enough of this too? Hroald said.

Below decks. Tore said.

Best get what's outside in here. Hroald said. Especially those hide halyards and stays.

You're sure this stuff's going to the right place? Tore said.

Ansvarr jumped the border. Hroald said.

He get back? Is he alright? Tore said.

He got back but the Mare's rode him near every night since. Hroald said. They left a trail west hugging our border almost to Storm's. They're going to hook around, hit our back door.

Hroald took Tore's shoulders and stared owl like into his brother's face.

He found her oak. Hroald said. Spent five days laying for her. Was going to take all day skinning her alive. Then leave what was left propped against the tree where Nacarr would find her. They didn't even bury them. The ground was littered with little bones. Skulls, ribs, arms and legs. Nooses up in the branches.

He tell anyone else? Tore said.

Hroald balled his fists, started upright to set them on his hips and banging into the shelf above him, slipped a curse.

How many men who crossed him have turned up dead right here in the last twenty years, and nobody could ever even summons him? he said.

Good. Tore said. If that gets around the uproar will force us in there head to head. The knock down shove of skinning his bed witch would wake Nacarr right up. Ruin everything.

He knows. Hroald said. "It just took him five days of berserk to remember it. He found a few little crosses in the Gaelic style.

Looked like the last group had been dead about a year. Another was maybe four or five. Couldn't tell about the rest."

Four winters, Tore said. before she makes sacrifice again?

Pray God. Hroald said.

Keep nudging him. Tore said. Keep his spying scum stumbling over their own feeding our flies.

A blonde in her late twenties without makeup and dressed like a women twice her age let off her sifting through the auction's scant wares and straightened upright clutching a block plane.

Jarnulf stood alone to the blonde's right casting his disparaging eye over the auction's remains. To her he looked naked without his usual pair or more of noisy, complaining women.

Another one? he said, eying her purchase.

He's still at it, she groaned. trimming axe and adze marks out of the whole place.

You? she said.

It was picked clean before Tore got through with me. he said.

Why all the rope? she said.

Thidrandri's promised Tore a handsome price for it. he said. He's refitting all six of his ships and building two more.

There's enough here for three times that many. she said.

Jarnulf shrugged.

Probably figures to build more this winter and sell them on Hellulandia. he said.

Anja nodded towards Adam, who was auctioning off a dirty, skinny girl in a tattered brown shift. Her toes had worn through the fronts of her shoes. Adam was down to six ounces of silver, half of the going rate for a girl slave.

What is it I'm supposed to be looking at? Jarnulf said.

That coal biting bag of rat snot. Anja said pointing past Adam and the girl to Leif, the pimpled, blonde teen the waif kept making cow eyes at.

So he got back. There's next season. Jarnulf said.

I can see him drooling from here. she said.

I suppose it's a shame, he said. but somebody's got to take her.

You know what'll happen to her as soon as he's got her out of sight. Anja said.

So? he said.

Anja's eyes drilled him with scorn.

That snail? Anja said, socking her elbow into his ribs. Buy her.

I can just see Kadlin's face. he groaned.

His mind was seeing Rakel's face, but bringing her up to Anja would get him no sympathy. Rakel had been singing a somewhat different and almost conciliatory tune this summer. Of all the women in Hrafnstadir Rakel and Anja were the two best used to hosts of men's most far reaching braggings and beggings, and as such had no use for each other.

More than one sailor who was gone all season suspected Jarnulf and his hunters of entertaining their wives and daughters the moment their backs were turned. They'd all be drinking tonight. It would get ugly just like it did every year. Jarnulf was the target of more than one sailor's suspicions.

She'll understand. Anja lied. Most of your apprentices aren't even here. Get her a decent husband and make yourself a penny or two.

They can't afford to be here. he said.

The grimy Gaelic girl was about all that was left when Leif the pimpled's lust stepped in for his missing spine and he slouched his way toward Adam. Karl and some other men looked at their feet.

Damn you. Do something. Anja said.

Die into hell. Jarnulf muttered.

Leif offered his bid of two ounces.

Anja gave Jarnulf a shove forward.

How much of your money is still out on loan to girls reconciling their disputes? she groaned.

She shoved him again, and returning her a defiance in retreat glare he turned it back over his shoulder to Adam, and loudly offered a cow, which was short speak for two and a half ounces.

Mirha understood only being called a cow.

She's yours. Adam said.

Jarnulf headed toward her pointing, scowling, and grumbling.

She retreated two steps. He scorned her with a sneer. Kadlin's expensive pretensions were becoming a backbreaker and a reconciliation with Rakel might even be effected, but this nuisance loomed as freezing an impediment to any night time entertainings as a snow bank.

Two dozen sailors let out a massed sigh of relief thinking well I'll be damned, he hadn't had any all summer. More to the point he hadn't had any of theirs. The portion of theirs who'd been hoping to be had were equally though less audibly chagrined. Jarnulf flushed, hoping the handful of chuckles surrounding him were about something besides himself. At least the snickers wouldn't last as long as his evenings for the next few months would.

Mirha stared after Leif slinking away thinking that trying to talk the fop Adam had given her to out of anything would be a waste of breath. With his snotty way and girly little sword he'd probably never worked a day in his life.

Not a scar on him. Obviously used to having people jump for him the way Adam had the instant he'd opened his mouth. Probably the meanest pervert of the lot.

The older blonde with him asked her name.

Mirha said nothing.

The older woman tried again.

Mirha wasn't having it. There remained a chance he'd sell her off to that other guy if she could convince him she was crazy.

Anja told Jarnulf that under all that dirt was a girl who was very pretty. Jarnulf said he hoped so. It would make her easier to get rid of.

Jarnulf pinched his nose and stepped crosswind of her.

How about you take her to the steam house. I don't want her under my roof stinking like this. he said.

Anja socked him in the arm, hard.

Once she's had a steam and gotten into decent clothes you'll see a very lovely girl. she said.

May be. Jarnulf said. But she looks more like a chipmunk in a tanner's bed.

Fresh animal hides spent six weeks at the tanner's shieling in beds of chicken and dog manure.

The last, and the only word in Norrona Mirha truly understood, was chipmunk. Teeth gnashing and eyes narrowed to slits of green hellfire she snatched Jarnulf's skinning knife and aimed a slash at him. He'd become the grandson of the ghoul who'd destroyed her life.

III Idiot

Shit! he yelled, leaping back wide eyed as his knife flew past, barely missing his ribs.

Mirha, overreaching for a second swing, lost her balance. He caught her wrist and knuckled the back of her hand. Shrieking, she dropped the knife and sent a knee toward his groin. He took it on his thigh and pulled her filthy little thumb back. She tried to bite him. That too failed so she hissed and spit at him.

He pinched her sun blistered, button nose hard, and holding her at arm's length lifted her up onto her toes by it. The harder she pounded and clawed at his wrist the harder he pinched.

He turned to Anja.

I must find some way of thanking you for this. he said.

He shot Karl an inquiring glare. Karl threw both hands high, baffled, and said she hadn't given anyone any trouble all the way here. Jarnulf turned back to Anja.

And you were all worried about her? he said.

Without thinking she leapt behind the first piece of cover available.

I'd be in a murder rage too. It wasn't her idea to be here. she said.

Oh? he said. You would be in a murder rage too? But I'll just sell her off to a decent, God fearing husband among our apprentices who can't even afford to pay attention most of the time, in a murder rage, at a profit.

He released Mirha and retrieved his knife as she backed away whimpering and groping her nose. He clasped Anja's shoulders and kissed her forehead.

Well? he said. Go clean her up. I've got to get her home and lock up all the knives to be ready for all those suitors and silver chasing after these newest endearments she's just shown them.

Mirha knew she'd been insulted but the reason eluded her as Anja led her off. She didn't smell a bit different from his neighbors, those bastards who'd kidnapped her. One thing she was certain of was she wasn't going to like whatever was coming next even if it was a Christmas feast.

When they arrived and Anja peeled her out of her rags to drag her inside she was horrified to find seven more women ahead of her in the boiling mist, all naked and dripping sweat, scrubbing and scraping each other or lounging about on the benches as if it were the most proper and natural thing under heaven.

Jarnulf stood leaning against the back wall of the ship shed, alone, a more than overlong time later when Anja dragged Mirha back. Even Badger had deserted him in the rush for the men's steam house and then the Mead Hall and all those fresh scrubbed girls.

Mirha's sun burned, kitten eyed face looked like a boiled crab and her soles were dragging, but she no longer seemed feral. She was wearing a purple dress with room left over in it for her twin. Her hair, scrubbed and the knots combed out, drooped unbound like so much wet, orange seaweed down over her shoulders and back, advertising her virginity. Anja promised to collect a wardrobe for her and drop it off later. Jarnulf wondered had what set her off earlier.

He started her on the path to his steading, muttering a single word over and over, luckless.

He skippered her into his steading, down the two steps to his living space, and on between the snarling, black wolf heads painted on his pillar hung door shields.

He steered her up onto the north platform and on to the tiny back bed closet. She stared into it bewildered. It even had a door on it. Despite Anja's garbage about him not hurting her there could only be one reason she was here.

Her Gaelic and his Norrona led them into the swampy marsh of their shaky Aenglisc.

She pointed around his home.

Here? she said.

Her brow furrowed.

King Tore's son?

No Kings. No son. he said, taunting her with a smirk.

Only Chieftain.

She raised an eyebrow.

He laughed and lapsed into Norrona.

If he or anyone else made themselves King they'd be dead by sunset. And if he starts falling down on the job, he can be replaced, like, Jarnulf snapped his fingers with a flourish on the word, that.

She folded her arms and stared him down firing back a storm in Gaelic. Of her words he understood, her, King, not common, not whore. Of her bearing he understood that he was a backwards, ignorant barbarian.

With chicken shit on your dress. he said in Aenglisc. "The law is our