Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Viking Blades
Viking Blades
Viking Blades
Ebook485 pages6 hours

Viking Blades

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Jonas Herlin

Viking Blades

A novel

Nothing can stop this Viking fleet - except the battle of two brothers for leadership.

The longboat fleet of the Viking leader Grimr Skullsplitter is located on the Rhine in the middle of the Frankish empire, when he dies of his wounds after a battle.

It is clear to his son Olav that he will now take over the leadership of the fleet. But his brother Thorbrand also seizes power. Suddenly the Northmen are divided into two camps and cannot agree on a common course of action while an army of the Franks approaches. What began as a profitable adventure ends in a massive battle. He brings glory to one, death to the other.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAlfred Bekker
Release dateNov 14, 2019
ISBN9781386813859
Viking Blades

Read more from Jonas Herlin

Related to Viking Blades

Related ebooks

Historical Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for Viking Blades

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Viking Blades - Jonas Herlin

    Jonas Herlin

    Viking Blades

    A  novel

    NOTHING CAN STOP THIS Viking fleet - except the battle of two brothers for leadership.

    The longboat fleet of the Viking leader Grimr Skullsplitter is located on the Rhine in the middle of the Frankish empire, when he dies of his wounds after a battle.

    It is clear to his son Olav that he will now take over the leadership of the fleet. But his brother Thorbrand also seizes power. Suddenly the Northmen are divided into two camps and cannot agree on a common course of action while an army of the Franks approaches. What began as a profitable adventure ends in a massive battle. He brings glory to one, death to the other.

    Copyright

    JONAS HERLIN IS A PEN -NAME OF ALFRED BEKKER.

    A CassiopeiaPress Book: CASSIOPEIAPRESS, UKSAK E-Books and BEKKERpublishing are Imprints by Alfred Bekker

    © by Author

    ORIGINAL: KRIEGER DES NORDENS

    COVER TONY MASERO

    © of this issue 2018 by AlfredBekker/CassiopeiaPress, Lengerich/Westphalia in arrangement with Edition Bärenklau, edited by Jörg Martin Munsonius.

    The imagined persons have nothing to do with actually living persons. Identical names are random and not intended.

    All rights reserved.

    www.AlfredBekker.de

    postmaster@alfredbekker.de

    CHAPTER 1

    Anno 842, near Xanten on the Lower Rhine.

    OLAV! THORBRAND! MY sons!

    Grimr Skullsplitter Grimsson's mighty paws lay on the shoulders of the two young men at the bow of the slender Skaid. Thorbrand and Olav were the same size. And their facial features were so similar to their father that one could not doubt for a moment who they came from. Today you can gain glory, my sons! There's rich booty waiting for us in the Land of the Franks! More booty than I've ever seen in a pile..."

    We will take her, said Olav. With Thor, we'll get them! He grinned. As long as the kings' sons of this country prefer to tear each other to pieces, they invite us to take the gold from their monasteries and cities!

    Yes, but let that be a warning to you, Grimr now said in a much more serious tone. A light wind blew towards him. He rippled the waters of the wide stream on which their skaids were rowed upstream along with dozens of other ships. The sails were hauled in. The rudder blades dipped evenly into the water.

    With almost a hundred ships with several thousand Northmen on board, they had sailed up the Rhine. The barren coastal country wasn't even worth plundering.

    The narrow, agile Skaids formed the vanguard. Later followed bulbous Knorr, on which even riding horses were transported. The broad river was full of ships. With such a large fleet, even the cherished Grimr hadn't gone on the road yet. However, most of these ships were not under his command, but under that of Eirik 'Axeman' Sturlason. His Draken, manned by more than a hundred warriors, was the largest ship in the fleet. Together they set off from Denmark, drove along the Frisian coast and then landed in Britain.

    But they had not stayed there for long, but had then sought the way to the mouth of the Rhine.

    They had crossed the swampy Frisian coastal wilderness unhindered in order to advance into the heart of the Frankish Empire. An empire in which Charlemagne's grandchildren fought a fierce war for their inheritance. They had heard of it from Frisian traders who regularly crossed the canal with their clumsy ships reminiscent of wooden shoes to trade in the land of the Anglo-Saxons. And some captured Saxons who had contact with their relatives in the Regnum Francorum confirmed these stories of the conflicting heirs of the throne. When they learned that the Saxons were raging with black leaves, Eirik Axeman had decided to leave the coast of the Anglo-Saxons almost in a hurry. Grimr had no choice but to follow his powerful ally, who would never have been numerous enough to stand his ground against the Saxons. Of course, the prospect of easy prey in the Frankish Empire had made it easier to ignore the monasteries of Wessex.

    Honor the name of our family, my sons, said Grimr with a broad smile. It should not be said that we are wrong to use the name Skullsplitter. Thor and Odin may bring us luck.

    So be it! said Olav, while his hand lay around the sword hilt. His eyes flashed when he looked at his brother. Though I'm not sure my brother won't secretly pray to his Franconian mother's Christian god!

    Thorbrand's posture tensed involuntarily. The angular face, overgrown with light blond stubbles, was covered with blush of anger. His hand now also included the handle of the sword at his side - but with such a strong grip that the ankles turned white.

    What do you mean, Olav?

    Nothing I didn't say, Thorbrand!

    Oh, yeah?

    Isn't it true that you secretly pray to the Christian god of the Franconian slave girl who gave birth to you?

    Thorbrand was cooking inside. It was obvious that he had trouble keeping his anger in check. But that's all he wants, Thorbrand thought. That you go off the deep end and say things that make you seem like an angry booby.

    But before Thorbrand could have replied, Grimr took the floor. Our gods are not jealous, he said. It may help a lot to pray to many gods. And neither Thor, Odin or Njörd would be foolish enough to refuse any additional help.

    Yes, only the Christian God is that stupid, said Olav. But his son was also beaten on the cross. What else can one expect from such a weakling but that he curses all those who do not pray to him alone! Maybe he cursed you too, Thorbrand!

    Heh, Grimr!, now called Bjarne the helmsman, a tree-long guy whose white-blond beard was braided into braids, while the hair on his head had already retreated noticeably over the years and made way for a tanned bald head. Bjarne stretched out his arm. There are riders on the shore!

    In fact, some riders stood out on the riverbank as dark silhouettes against the low morning sun. They had emerged like ghosts from the dense fog banks that surrounded the banks of the river.

    They're far away, said Grimr. He laughed rough. And most of all, they're on the wrong side of the river. They won't be dangerous for us.

    The current was the border at the time, the Frisians had told them. The border between the central part of the empire ruled by Emperor Lothar. East of the Rhine, Ludwig ruled, while Charles controlled from Paris the west of the vast empire, to which his grandfather and namesake had once given shape and greatness.

    They will be Ludwig's men, cried Grimr. They have no reason to lift a finger if we plunder Xanten!

    Would you bet on it? old Halmi asked. Nobody knew exactly how old Halmi was. His leathery, wrinkled skin made him look like his face was carved from stone. No one had experienced more than Halmi. No one fought more battles, killed more men, seen more foreign countries and shipwrecked more often than this gaunt man, who still had the springy, safe walk of a much younger man. Only a furrowed face gave an idea of the number of years behind him. And since, on the other hand, he was too old to challenge Grimr for leadership over his men, he trusted no one else as much as Halmi. Not even his son.

    And even if it wasn't, the Franks would have to cross the river first. Without ships, that's almost impossible, and there are no bridges here!"

    Olav turned to his brother. You haven't answered my question yet, Thorbrand: Are you secretly praying to your Franconian mother's god as she taught you when you were little?

    In Olav's eyes it flashed aggressively.

    I am sure that our father had much more joy with my mother than with yours, Olav - from whose sight he cannot even flee to distant shores since you have sailed on his ships. For you look far too much like this sneaky, wrinkled snake from Bragi's clan, Olav.

    Olav paused for a moment. His smile got disgusting.

    Well roared, walrus! I didn't think you did.

    Oh, no?

    I thought your berserk rage was going through with you and you would pounce on me so I could let you walk right into my knife. But I'm sure there'll be another chance...

    Don't you want to be beaten to death in a few francs? Or do you lack the courage, Olav? Thorbrand made a sweeping gesture. This country's flat, you're gonna have to fight hard, because ambushing's almost impossible here.

    A WILD WAR CRY NOW arose as the outlines of walls and buildings now appeared in the fog of the eastern shore. That must be Xanten. Wooden palisades surrounded the place. But there also seemed to be buildings made of stone. At least one church tower protruded beyond the fortifications. There were dozens of ships and boats along the river. Some fishermen were busy unloading last night's catch. But now, when they noticed the fleet of northerners approaching the place, they left the nets and the catch and fled instantly. Their cries screamed across to the dragon ships.

    Row faster!, Grimr shouted, waving his battle axe. I can't wait to kill Franken!

    At least there is a church tower, said Olav. Then we can hope that there is also a monastery and some treasures to capture!

    The first Skaids reached the banks of the river. Grimr and Thorbrand were among the first to climb ashore. They stormed up the embankment.

    Olav, on the other hand, held back. Even though the gods loved the foolhardy and hosted them in Valhalla to wait with them for the last battle, in which at the end of time the gods fought with the dead heroes against the giants. But Olav was not at all sure whether he should really strive to take part in it. Finally, legends said that in this battle on the day Ragnarok the giants won. It was not without reason that this event was called the Twilight of the Gods. The order of the world would be destroyed and the earth would become what it had been before the beginning of time - a place of chaos.

    And as far as Olav was concerned, he just didn't like to be on the side of the losers. Never. The fortunes of war were not with the foolhardy Berserker, but with the one who only fought when he knew that he would also win. A quick attack from ambush or with superior powers - that was what the gods rewarded in this world, even if they perhaps promised something else for the hereafter. And so Olav did not land until most of the other northerners had long ago stormed the palisades of Xanten and the first of them had already been killed by arrows.

    Come on, Olav, your father shouldn't say you've been passed by an old man, Halmi the Grey shouted to him.

    BURNING ARROWS SOAKED in pitch whistled through the air like shooting stars and descended by the hundreds inside the boundary wall. Especially the men of Bragi's clan were considered good archers. These men had been following Grimr for many years. And the fact that Grimr had married a woman from this family was a sign of how close the connection was with the family of Grimr Skullsplitter.

    From Bragi's clan came the best archers Grimr had ever heard of, and so he depended to some extent on the help of these men. There were many men who could smash the other with a long-stemmed Danish axe in the skull. But good archers were rare.

    Only some of the archers missed arrows. The others had their eyes on the guards behind the palisades built on an embankment. These were not very numerous. There were also archers among them who fired arrow after arrow. But the men of Bragi's clan quickly decimated them.

    The gate facing the river was closed long ago. But the associated watchtowers already contained several arrows and since these towers were made of wood, there was a high probability that sooner or later they caught fire.

    The majority of the northerners simply stormed towards the protective wall. Arrows were already in the shields of most of them. And some of them had already been killed. But the losses were limited. This was also primarily the responsibility of the shooters from Bragis clan. Several archers among the defenders were hit. One fell screaming over the parapet. He was still alive when the first northmen stormed up the embankment covered with grass.

    It was Grimr himself who cut off his head with his sword. He rolled into the damp, slippery grass while the blood splashed out of the stump of his neck.

    Thorbrand had meanwhile reached the Palisades together with several other warriors. One and a half man-highs they rose up and were pointed at the top. But such walls were no obstacle for the Northmen. One of the men formed a kick with his hands. Thorbrand took the sword and threw his shield aside, with half a dozen arrows in it. An archer came at him from above. But before he could let go of the bowstring, a warrior from Bragi's clan had killed him with a sure shot.

    The name of this warrior was Gunjorn Goodeye. He was a brother of Grimr's wife Solvejg's. Gunjorn's helmet attracted attention with a clearly visible bump that the fight with a Saxon had earned him. Come on, over the wall with you, Gunjorn shouted, while he was still running and sent another arrow on the way, killing another guard behind his chest.

    Thorbrand's foot was held by the hands of a fellow fighter. He swung himself on his shoulders, placed a foot between the sharpened logs from which the border had been made, and then swung daringly over the parapet.

    He had so much momentum that he could not have kept up with his career. He staggered to the ground, held one defender at a distance with a wild kick in his foot and dragged another down with him. Thorbrand landed on it and then slipped with it down the inside of the mound for the fortification wall and the palisades. Thorbrand was the first to get back on his feet. He tore a short-handled, light throwing axe out of his belt and threw it at a defender with an almost casual movement, who stormed towards him with an axe in his hands. Then he ripped out the sword and swung the blade through the air at lightning speed. Just in time to fend off the attack of another, quickly approached attacker. Steel clashes against steel. Thorbrand fended off the blow to the side, then let his long, slender blade retract with a massive blow and hit the leg of an attacker.

    A scream was heard when the bone broke.

    Thorbrand's sword cut his opponent's leg just below his kneecap. The Franconian warrior fell and rowed with his sword arm through the air. Thorbrand rolled aside to avoid the person falling and then pushed the sword into his body. With one jump Thorbrand got back on his feet. His left shoulder was blood-red. But that was not his own blood, but that of the Franks he had just slain.

    Calls came to his ear.

    Fire! It burns, shouted a husky woman's voice, which sounded as if from her senses. That it was burning was obvious, because dark, almost pitch-black columns of smoke rose to the hazy sky, through which hardly the morning sun was able to penetrate. The sound of these words reminded Thorbrand of his childhood. To his mother, a slave at Grimr Skullsplitter's farm. She had taught Thorbrand the first words and they had been from the language of the Franks. The Franconian woman had died of a fever before Thorbrand was ten years old.  But he still had the sound of their language in his ear - good enough to communicate in it. The differences to the language of the Northmen were not very big anyway.

    It was a strange feeling for Thorbrand to enter the country his mother came from as a robber and looter. A country he seemed to be familiar with through his mother's stories in a strange way, although he had never entered it before.

    Thorbrand grasped the sword hilt with both hands and whirled around as he saw a movement from the corners of his eye. Hoarse screams could be heard. Death cries and harsh orders mingled. Within a few moments Thorbrand was surrounded by at least a dozen francs. A spear was pushed in his direction. Thorbrand turned aside. With a powerful stroke, he made sure that his opponents kept much more distance.

    With an insane scream, one of the Franks finally stormed Thorbrand. Thorbrand parried the first, massive sword blow and had to retreat one step before the second. Since he was surrounded, he had no other choice than a blind counterattack. With all his strength he beat around him. The double-edged blade whirled through the air and came clinking against the steel of the opponent. The blow was so violent that its blade broke. Bad steel that had been burned by the ignorant. The next moment Thorbrand's swift thrust had killed the franc. He swirled around, separated another attacker's sword hand and weapon from his body, dodged a spear that flew right past him and then attacked again.

    There was a scream. A second Nordmann had managed to climb over the palisades and now jumped recklessly under the Franks. That was Hromund the Rough - one of the few men from Bragis family who were bad at archery. But Hromund had other qualities. He was a giant, even by the standards of the Northmen. Thorbrand - although tall and broad-shouldered - seemed almost slender compared to this colossus. The muscles of his arms, which emerged under his waist, were so thick that someone else would have liked to have them as thighs. He always wore a bearskin around his shoulders in battle because he believed that the bear's powers were transferred to him. And he had previously consumed an essence of certain mushrooms that upset him and made him feel no fear and no pain. Screaming wildly, he immediately threw himself at his opponents. He had already knocked out one of them with a fist. He had one hand with a particularly long Danish axe, the blade of which was larger than that of his comrades-in-arms. A blow went through the helmet of the next franc and split his skull to the base of his neck. Blood shot up. The Franconian was still rowing with a sword arm, while Hromund gave him a kick to better release the axe blade from the dead. He swung the terrible weapon around and scythed down two opponents with one blow.

    At last! Thorbrand shouted. I thought you'd leave me alone!

    Hromund only answered with a growl. His eyes were bloodshot and dilated. In this state, it was better not to address him. And even his comrades-in-arms avoided that, because when he was in berserk rage, it could well be that his wild anger accidentally hit a confederate.

    More warriors now came over the palisades. The mad Orm, whose hair was braided in dozens of plaits and who never wore a helmet, grabbed an opponent with bare hands and rammed him onto the sharpened logs of which the palisades were made. The cry of the Frank mixed with the noise of slaughter.

    Crazy Orm was a younger brother of Grimr Skullsplitter. Twenty years separated them. He belonged more to Thorbrands and Olavs generation than to his brother Grimr.

    Thorbrand's grandfather - Grimr Skullsplalter the Elder - had conceived this son with his second, much younger wife even in old age. Orm had been nicknamed'the Mad' ever since he began to have Hromund show him how to prepare mushroom extracts, which made him forget that he was not of the gods but of mortals. Orm threw himself with a wild scream at another guard, pushed two daggers into his body and at the same time head-butted him with his forehead. The Franconian warrior fell from his career behind the palisades. In close combat, the mad arm often used a pair of daggers, as they were more agile towards the opponent than with the sword, which always needed a certain amount of freedom of movement to use it effectively. The mad Orm carried his sword belted over his back and was proud not to use it. No one was closer to the enemy than Orm.

    Thorbrand, on the other hand, would have felt it beneath his dignity to fight in this way. A real warrior's weapon was a sword or an axe. At most still the bow, if one knew how to lead him with the artistry, like many of the men from Bragis clan.

    Meanwhile, with one jump, the madrm threw himself from his career onto one of the Franconian warriors who was about to throw a spear in Thorbrands direction. Orm caught the Franconian from behind, rammed one of his daggers into his kidneys with the full force of his jump and slit his neck with the other so that the blood splashed up high while the Franconian was still tumbling to the ground.

    Meanwhile, Hromund's axe blade hooked into the hollow of the knees of a Franconian who lost his balance. A blow with the Danish axe smashed his skull.

    Several dozen Northmen had meanwhile crossed the palisades. At the same time another volley of incendiary arrows flew into the city. Houses were already on fire. It was hopeless to want to put out the fires now. More and more dense columns of smoke rose to the sky.

    To the gate! Thorbrand shouted. Because that was the most important thing now: If the intruders succeeded in opening the gate, several hundred Northmen could enter the city's interior. Then the fight would have been decided and there was no stopping the defenders.

    But even if that didn't happen, it was only a matter of time when the place could be taken by the Northmen.

    Thorbrand let his sword whirl through the air again and again. He had performed these movements so often that they had become flesh and blood. He didn't have to think about what he was doing. A point of the sword hit him on his upper body and penetrated the leather cover of his jerkin, but got stuck in the layers of densely woven fabrics underneath. The thrust was not guided powerfully enough. Thorbrand fended off the blade before it could actually hurt him, and the next moment he struck with his own blade. The Franconian sank to the ground groaning while blood stained his clothes red. He got blood in his mouth and nose, too. He ruckled and shrugged like a slaughtered chicken when he was already lying on the ground.

    The mad Orm was now beside him and threw himself screaming on a Franconian, who retreated with terrified eyes before this berserker.

    Hromund was also in Thorbrands immediate vicinity. And with these two berserkers at his side, the young Viking stormed towards the main gate on the river side of the city. The screams of Hromund the Rough and the Mad Orm alone caused horror among the Frankish guards.

    The gate had not been particularly crowded anyway - just as the whole fortification for Thorbrand had already given the impression at first glance that it was not very crowded. Perhaps this had to do with the war of kings that was currently raging in the Frankish Empire. A circumstance that played into the hands of anyone who now had the courage to take what was not sufficiently protected.

    The goal was quickly cleared. A Franconian limped away bleeding. Two others lay on the ground moments later, beaten to death. And the others fled.

    They just tried to save her life.

    Thorbrand put the sword in. Together with Hromund he pushed the large beams aside, which served as bolts. And then it was done. The gate could be opened. The wild horde of Norsemen stormed in. Even the great Hromund was almost knocked down when one of the warriors bumped into him with his shield.

    Grimr Skullsplitter Grimsson and Eirik Sturlason were among the first attackers. A little later followed Olav and old Halmi.

    Meanwhile, the archers fired another fire salvo. Probably the last one. Because also for the shooters there was no stopping now. Nobody wanted the last person to come on the train during the looting. And even if the booty was later distributed justly and according to the rules of the family, there were also one or two things that could be snatched under the nail. A good sword, a golden Christian cross or a sack of silver coins that a merchant may have hidden under his bed.

    Well done, Thorbrand! Grimr called Skullsplitter and pride in his son could be clearly heard.

    Too clear, because Olav, who stood only a few steps away, had heard this and his gaze darkened. The helmet with the deep nose guard didn't make that clear to everyone. But Thorbrand had noticed that very well. He finally knew his brother from Kleinauf. You were the same age. Their mothers - Grimr's wife Solvejg Bragistochter and the slave called 'the Franconian woman' - had given birth on the same day. Until today, no one knew for sure whose scream one had heard first. And the only one who could have known this was the healing Audhild. But she was very old then. Older than anyone Thorbrand had ever met. He still remembered well how he had gone to her at the age of five when she was sitting alone and sunken in herself by her fire - she had worked very calmly. He had only realized later that she was no longer alive. She had taken her secret with her into the realm of Hel, the goddess of the dead, and it would probably remain there unless one of the two half-brothers set out there at some point to snatch it from old Audhild.

    You'll make a good leader, Grimr said as he patted his son on the shoulder. Then he went on shouting: Catch all the monks and nuns! Because they know where other monks and nuns are! And their monasteries with their gold treasures! Do you hear that?

    You'll make a good leader, Olav aped after his father. Grimr was already too far off to hear these words. But Thorbrand wasn't.

    Come on, what are you waiting for? Thorbrand asked. Storms like the city!

    Of course, growled Olav. You're gonna make a great leader! Always forward, without thinking! Just like our father!

    But the similarity in character between the two was probably the reason why Grimr Skullsplitter preferred Thorbrand. He of all people! was not the first time Olav had bitter thoughts. The son of the Franconian slave girl, who was already killed by the first outbreak of a fever and left her son only the prayers of the Christian God! But a God who voluntarily let himself be nailed to the cross and claimed to redeem the world through it was at least as simple as the mad Orm or Hromund the Rough - only in another way. One day, Olav thought, everything will fall to me. Everything my father gathered together and left to this booby, who is my half-brother!

    With a face twisted into a grim smile, Olav followed his brother and the others.

    CHAPTER 2

    Screams and noise could be heard everywhere in the city. And the columns of smoke took the breath away from friend and foe. The Northmen went from house to house to plunder or to take a woman if they found one. Battle noise was hardly audible anymore. The Franks had fled or died. Some of the inhabitants had also already fled the city, as was to be expected. So the news of Xanten's case would spread quickly.

    Rain started. Ice cold rain and rough wind from the north.

    In the middle of the village there was a church - bigger than Olav and Thorbrand had ever seen it anywhere else. And Grimr and Eirik, who had already travelled a long way, were also impressed for a moment.

    By Odin - the churches of the Saxons are but huts, Eirik said and spat out while he was leaning on his axe. The grey beard almost grew under his eyes. The heavy rain dripped from his helmet's nose guard, into which a gold coin was incorporated as a decorative accessory. It bore an inscription in Greek and Latin and allegedly came from the legendary city of Constantinople, about which it was said that there were churches with roofs of pure gold. Stories that Olav had never really wanted to believe when the men told about it by the fire. On what winding paths this coin had found its way from the legendary city of golden roofs to the helmet of Eirik Axeman Sturlason the shipbuilder was unknown.

    In any case, the church is a good place to round up prisoners, Grimr said.

    I think we should stay there too, Eirik said, pointing to the grey sky, from which it was now raining more and more heavily. Odin's wet greetings!

    You're thinking of staying longer, Grimr asked in surprise.

    Why not? said Eirik.

    It's better than camping out near here, Olav interfered.

    Eirik patted the young man on the shoulder. Your son understands me, Grimr! If Franconian warriors were to be around, we could defend ourselves better here than anywhere else against them.

    Grimr growled something incomprehensible to himself. He did not like the thought of staying one hour longer than absolutely necessary in this place. That was obvious to him. But then Eirik simply had more ships under his command than he did. And here, already too deep in the Frankish Empire to be able to disappear again quickly, he was more dependent on Eirik's protection than he would have liked.

    THE RAIN TURNED INTO hail and finally into a full-grown snowstorm. An icy wind blew cold and damp across the flat land. The swampy, deep soil began to cover itself with ice in some places.

    There wasn't one of the Northmen whose clothes weren't soaked. Even the jerkins or furs consisting of different layers did not offer sufficient protection against such weather.

    The weather must have been sent by the Christian god, Grimr said sinisterly, because it made it possible for more inhabitants of Xanten to escape than could be dear to him. On the other hand, the weather had also ensured that the refugees had been able to take virtually nothing with them. And most of the little they tried to tow out of the city had to be left behind on the way. Horse-drawn carriages and ox-carts got stuck in the completely soaked ground. The refugees left everything to the looters. A few dozen of the Northmen followed them and went after the prey.

    Eirik gave the order to bring all the loot that could be gathered together to the monastery in the immediate vicinity of the church. Its main building seemed to him to be the most suitable.

    Towing it to the ships now would not have made sense. This had to happen later, as soon as one decided to leave.

    The prisoners were driven into the church. Among them were many monks and nuns. By Grimr's order, special care had been taken not to let them get away.

    Crouched together, they sat there in their dirty brown robes. He who runs away from you before I allow it, will be slain, cried Grimr in a booming voice. He spoke in the language of the Northmen, interspersed with a few words about how they used the Saxons. Do you understand me, you Christian bastards? he then asked, since he was obviously not quite sure. Then he turned to Thorbrand. Speak to them and tell them once more in their language what I have said, he demanded. You can still talk like your mother, can't you?

    There are things you forget, Thorbrand replied.

    He let his gaze wander over the prisoners. He noticed a young woman. A nun, even if the hood had been torn off her head when she was captured. Her hair was cut short, her eyes widened in fear. She was trembling with cold, which was not surprising. Thorbrand was aware that most religious orders prescribed poor, inadequate clothing for their members. Thorbrand couldn't take his eyes off her. The nun replied briefly and her horror seemed to increase. She blushed. Thorbrand understood that she had misunderstood his look. His only interest was that the nun reminded him of his mother - the Franconian woman.

    I don't want to torture you for long until you tell me what I want to know, said Grimr, but I will do it if I don't like your answers or I realize that you are lying to me! Tell those monk dogs that again in their language, Thorbrand!

    Thorbrand only reacted after Grimr had elbowed him. He had been too much in that moment with his thoughts in the past. The woman who had only been called the Franconian woman had also been humiliated time and again. Especially from the other women. When a maid, who had been on Grimr's farm for a long time, had beaten the Franconian woman, because she allegedly had not done her job well enough, Thorbrand went out on the maid in an attack of irascibility to

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1