Authors: Giles Kristian
Raven
We lusted for an even greater prize…the one prize that can never be lost or stolen or burnt. And we would find it in Miklagard…
Raven and the Wolfpack have suffered. Good men have died, and hard-won treasure has been lost. But for the Norseman, there is something more precious than gold or silver, and that is fame. For fame is the saga-story a warrior leaves behind when he has breathed his last.
And so the Fellowship sail in search of Constantinople, the city they call Miklagard, for there, it is rumoured, riches and glory are to be found. But the journey takes them and their longships through unknown and dangerous waters – from the wind-whipped marshes of the Camargue to the crumbling walls and gore-stained arenas of a decaying Rome. And while the streets of Miklagard might be paved with gold, they also run with blood.
Armed with sword, axe, spear and courage, Raven and his Viking brothers will pay a high price for the fame they seek…
ODIN’S
WOLVES
Giles Kristian
is for my sister, Jackie, who has always been a golden thread in the weave of my life.
LIST OF CHARACTERS
NORSEMEN
Osric (Raven)
Sigurd the Lucky
Olaf (Uncle),
shipmaster of
Serpent
Knut,
steersman of
Serpent
Bragi the Egg,
shipmaster of
Fjord-Elk
Kjar,
steersman of
Fjord-Elk
Asgot,
a godi
Svein the Red
Black Floki
Bjarni
Bram the Bear
Bothvar
Arnvid
Aslak
Gunnar
Halfdan
Halldor
Hastein
Hedin
Gap-toothed Ingolf
Kalf
Kveldulf
Bag-eyed Orm
Osk
Osten
Ulf
Yrsa Pig-nose
WESSEXMEN
Penda
Baldred
Gytha
Ulfbert
Wiglaf
Cynethryth
Father Egfrith
DANES
Rolf
Agnar
Arngrim
Beiner
Boe
Bork
Byrnjolf
Egill Ketilsson (Burlufótr)
Geitir
Gorm
Kolfinn
Ogn
Ottar
Skap
Tufi
Yngvar
BLAUMEN
Amina
Völund
GREEKS
Nikephoros
, Emperor of the Romans/Basileus Romaiôn
Staurakios,
his son and co-emperor
General Bardanes Tourkos
Arsaber
Karbeas
Theophilos
GODS
Óðin,
the All-Father. God of warriors and war, wisdom and poetry
Frigg,
wife of Óðin
Thór,
slayer of giants and god of thunder. Son of Óðin
Baldr,
the beautiful. Son of Óðin
Týr,
Lord of Battle
Loki,
the Mischiefmonger. Father of lies
Rán,
Mother of the Waves
Njörd,
Lord of the Sea and god of wind and flame
Frey,
god of fertility, marriage and growing things
Freyja,
goddess of love and sex
Hel,
both the goddess of the underworld and the place of the dead, specifically those who perish of sickness or old age
Völund,
god of the forge and of experience
Eir,
a healing goddess and handmaiden of Frigg
Heimdall,
Warden of the gods
MYTHOLOGY
Aesir,
the Norse gods
Asgard,
home of the gods
Valhöll,
Óðin’s hall of the slain
Yggdrasil,
the World-Tree. A holy place for the gods
Bifröst,
the Rainbow-Bridge connecting the worlds of the gods and men
Ragnarök,
Doom of the gods
Valkyries,
Choosers of the slain
Norns,
the three weavers who determine the fates of men
Fenrir,
the mighty Wolf
Jörmungand,
the Midgard-Serpent
Hugin (Thought),
one of the two ravens belonging to Óðin
Munin (Memory),
one of the two ravens belonging to Óðin
Mjöllnir,
the magic hammer of Thór
Fimbulvetr,
‘Terrible winter’, heralding the beginning of Ragnarök
Fáfnir,
‘Embracer’, a dragon that guards a great treasure hoard
Gleipnir,
the magic fetter forged of a mountain’s roots and birds’ spittle, which restrained the wolf Fenrir
Garm,
the greatest of dogs
Sköll,
the wolf that pursues the sun
Gerd,
a giantess
Svartálfar,
dark elves that live underground in Svartálfheim
Gymir,
a giant
Sæhrímnir,
a boar that is cooked and consumed every night in Valhöll
Úlfhédnar,
frenzied warriors who fight in animal skins
Máni,
the personified moon and brother of Sól
Jötunheim,
the realm of the giants
It is a dark thing now
To see empty benches at the oars
The southern sky stained red
With the hot blood of men.
The Valkyries came hunting
For heroes of the sword
Still they sing their battle song
Now just as then …
PROLOGUE
YOU HAVE COME AGAIN. SOME NEW FACES TOO BY MY RECKONING
. Tramped through that thick pelt of snow out there to hear more of an old man’s memories. That’s because none of you has ever done anything worth remembering. You live like the goats and horses that even now tremble with fear by your hearths while this ball-cracking blizzard frenzies out there in the dark. Fimbulvetr has begun, mark me. This is the first of three terrible winters that presage the end of days and the gods’ doom. Yet you have soaked your shoes and left your warm furs. You are tugging the ice lumps from your beards and rubbing your hands like greedy Greek merchants and here you are in this draughty old hall. You have come for the blood, do not deny it. You are here for the battles and the death, because you think there is glory in such tales. That is my fault I suppose, because even though I despise skalds and their lies, yet I still twist too much golden thread into my stories and not enough of the cold truth. A man rotting to death, stinking and leaking rancid pus – that is the truth. Watching a blood-slathered oar-mate fumbling at his own gut rope, trying to push it back into his belly – that is the truth. Maybe I should talk more of those things so that you might taste it for what it truly is. Less honey in the gruel.
Yet I still say this: if a jarl comes in the spring looking for men to pull his oars, you striplings and new-beards get yourselves down to the jetty. Puff up your chests and put a little brawn on those unscarred arms. Lads like you are not meant to carry slops to pigs and work the plough all day. That’s a waste of good shoulders – rowing shoulders. You pack your sea chests! Kiss your mothers tenderly and tell your fathers you’ll bring them back enough silver to mean they no longer have to break their backs in shit with the thralls. Take the whale’s road and see something of the world. Stand at the prow and feel the salt spray on your faces. I am telling you, it is the best feeling you will ever have.
Learn to fight, too. A man who fears other men because he does not know how to stand up for himself is a nithing. And the gods love courage. Not that they will spare you a horrible death if that is your wyrd. But I have lived long enough to learn something of men’s fate. Wyrd is like a great heavy pile of logs stacked against a man’s house. At the bottom of the pile you have the layers that were stacked and left to season years ago. These you cannot get to easily without trapping your fingers or bringing the whole lot down. Neither can you shift the whole pile at once from one place to another. If you have lived with no regard for the saga-tale you will leave behind, you will find your wyrd grown too big and heavy to move. You will likely die a straw-death or fall from a cliff or see your flesh eaten by some foulness. But if you are a man who wants to leave a great blaze behind you when you cross the Rainbow-Bridge, you can, by great deeds or some act of courage, shift the newer layers and thus defy those bitches the Norns who love to spin men a poor end. Still, some men’s destinies are entwined with others and this sort of wyrd can be much too heavy, so that all you can do is fight hard, tooth and nail, whenever a bad death is stalking you.