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Below is a sample chapter from my new novel The Fenris Saga: The Seven Swords

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Tom Holroyd

The Fenris Saga: The Seven Swords

The ship crashed through the waves, spray cascading over her wolf-headed prow. She was a beautiful ship, lovingly built from the finest Norsrii pine and handled like a lover by her captain. That she was a warship was evident from her sleek lines and the way she skipped over the wave tops. Leaning into the wind and dancing over the surging water.

Another wave burst over the prows sending spray cascading over the rowing benches and the men and women who sat hunched in seal skins against the wind and rain. Silhouetted against the skyline, a boy stood trying to emulate the pose he had seen his father and other older warriors hold while in this spot. One leg rested on the gunwale where the prow joined the hull, his left hand gripping the rope that ran from the wolf head prow to the weather vane at the masthead. The sea ahead of him was black as ink, Mani’s silver crescent cast her light over the wave tops as they rolled and crashed through the troughs.

Though the sea was choppy and the ship rolled like a drunkard, it was relatively calm for this time of year as the storms had yet to come in full force. No sane man would cross the Sea of Swords in winter when the freezing winds from the north brought snow and ice down from the Great Glacier. It was a time of storms and gales, a time when families would huddle around their fires and men would drink together in the mead hall rather than venture out.

Only the large sum of gold the stranger offered had tempted his father and his crew from the warmth of their homes. It had been a lean year, and a poor harvest had left them with just enough food to survive the winter. But the stranger’s gold would allow them to buy the much-needed seed corn, livestock and slaves for the spring plantings.

Thinking of the stranger, the boy looked back down the length of the ship. At the stern, his father leant on the steering oar, fighting to keep them on course. His father was the greatest warrior in the stead and had earned great fame in many wars and raids. He was a huge man with a shaggy mane of black hair that had given him his name Bjorn, the bear. The boy always felt a mix of awe and fear when looking at his father. He desperately wanted to earn his respect but at the same time was terrified of disappointing him. It was why he pushed himself further and harder than any of the other children in the stead. At the age of ten, he was already an accomplished hunter and could outfight boys two or three years older than him.

Next to his father, clinging to the gunwale at the stern was the reason they were here. A tall and almost unhealthily thin man, swarthy of skin with a lean hawk like face, prominent hooked nose and a thick scar on his left cheek. He looked miserable as he clung to the ship, wrapped in thick furs and an oiled sealskin cloak thrown about his shoulders.

The man called himself Hamid Kahn. He had arrived unannounced at their stead two weeks before the beginning of winter and offered a large amount of gold for a ship and a crew willing to fight. If it had not been for the poor harvest, the stranger would have been thrown out into the snow, but they desperately needed the coin. A crew had been gathered, and one of the stead’s three Dragon Ships made ready to sail.

The boy had begged his father to go with him, arguing that it was almost his tenth winter and time for him to go on his first voyage. His father had refused until his grandfather had intervened and reminded them all, how as a nine-year-old, Bjorn himself had stowed away on his first raid. His father had relented after that.

They were two days out from their stead, and he still did not know why they were taking the risk of being out here in the middle of the sea, so close to winter. His father saw the questioning look on his face and beckoned him over.

It took a few moments for the boy to work his way down the centre of the ship. He stepped over the rations and stores piled around the mast. Past the hunched rowers on their sea chests, until he stood at the stern in front of his father. He could see his great muscles bulging as he leant into the steering oar and the beads of sweat mingling with the spray and rain. His father took his eyes from the sea and looked at his son,

“You look troubled lad. What ails you?”

“I don’t understand why we are doing this father, surely it is dangerous to be this far out at this time of year. What could the stranger offer us that is worth the risk?”

His father smiled down at him “Life is risk my boy. We Norsrii know that more than any other in this world. Our land is fire and ice, wind and snow, but it has made us strong. Stronger than those weakling southerners but we must never become complacent. We must constantly test ourselves so that only the strongest of our people thrive. It is our responsibility to become the best warrior, farmer, craftsman or smith that we can be, so that strength can be harnessed for the good of our people.” He paused, seeing the look of confusion on his son’s face before continuing.

“We are a race of warriors, my son. When our ancestors first came across the Great Ocean in the Ancient Days, it was the warriors who led them away from the God’s revenge. The warriors who sailed the Godships to the new land and the warriors who tamed that land and made it their own. We honour the warrior above all others, and that means that as a people we love to fight and adventure.

We are here because it is a great adventure, a chance to prove that we can do something that others said we could not. That is why we fight in other’s wars. It is not for the coin, although that does help us buy what we cannot grow. It is for the honour, the glory and the adventure.

That Karanid, crouching down there, wants us to fight for him. Wants us to burn some ships that a Suevian lord is building. I don’t really care for the reason why but if we do this thing, then it is another story to add to the tapestry of our lives.”

Bjorn tapped his left arm at the swirls of blue ink that were tattooed into his skin. The boy knew that his father’s tapestry was long and covered much of his left arm, shoulder and chest.

“When you come of age in six years, you will earn your name and your tapestry will start and I think that it will be a long and glorious one. You are brave and strong, and fast my son. You will be a great warrior and will honour your family, your stead and your clan.”

The boy felt stunned by this sudden opening up of his father. Until then he had always been a distant figure in his life, often off on raids or fighting in other’s wars. It was left to his grandfather, the stead smith, to train him in the ways of the warrior and he had raised him as one would a son. Now the boy saw his father in a different light, he understood the reasons for the long absences and the distance between them. It was his father’s way of providing for the stead’s future and for his son’s.

The moment passed as a wave crashed over the side and spray hit the boy full in the face. His father roared with laughed and for a moment the boy was outraged, thinking he was being mocked before he too laughed at his own misfortune. His father patted him roughly on the head and asked

“Has your grandfather been teaching you the Sword Dance?”

The boy nodded, so his father pointed to the open space in front of the steering oar gesturing for him to begin. The boy drew the heavy wooden short sword that was his training weapon and dropped into a defensive crouch. He began to flow through a series of poses and patterns. Always mindful of his footing and the position of the sword. It was harder than usual as this was the first time he had ever danced on a shifting deck and with the eyes of thirty hardened warriors on him.

“What is the purpose of the Sword Dance?”

The boy hesitated, taken aback by the question in the middle of his routine. He received a clout round the head for his tardiness. “It is training” he answered quickly.

“Yes, but training what?” his father continued.

“It trains the body, makes it strong and supple.”

“That is true. But what of the mind, eh? The dance focuses the mind, gives you clarity of thought before battle. It also trains the soul, ingrains the warrior consciousness deep within you so that you can react without thought. That is its true purpose lad and the most vital.”

The boy returned to his practice, moving slowly at first but then faster as his body warmed to the task. He danced for many minutes until he was covered in sweat and panting with the effort. Only then did his father bid him stop and rest. He took shelter in the lee of the mast, so he was looking back at his father on the oar. He dried himself as best he could before he pulled his furs about himself and quickly fell asleep to the rocking motion of the ship.

He woke suddenly to find the ship a flurry of activity. It was still dark, but the weather had cleared, and he could see the entire vault of heaven laid out above him. All around the ship, the warriors had shipped oars and were pulling armour and weapons from their sea chests. His father had handed over the steering oar to his second in command and was pulling on his war gear.

When his father dressed for war, he did so to make a statement. Here was a warlord, a leader and killer of men and to face him was to die. When he re-took the steering oar in his chain mail, boiled leather armour and wolf tail helmet, he looked, to his son’s eyes, like a god of war made flesh. He threw off his cloak and asked his father what was happening.

His father pointed to the faint smudge on the horizon and said, “That is the coast of Suevia, we are heading there to meet someone”. He looked to his right where Hamid Kahn stood seemingly none the worse for the rough weather.

The Karanid bowed to Bjorn. “Honoured lord, we need to turn to the east and follow the coast. My contact will set a light on a hill. That is what we must look for.”

Bjorn sent the boy forward to the prow as the lookout. He ran ahead and stared intently into the darkness. He could just make out the coast they were rapidly approaching as a dark smudge against an already gloomy sky.

Suevia. The land of coin, glory and honour. All the stories of war and adventure had taken place in that land, and one day he would venture there and make a name for himself. He lost himself in fantasies of war and glory until he caught sight of a light flickering in the gloom. He turned and ran to his father, pointing into the darkness.

The Karanid smiled at the boy, who shivered.  The smile was like that of a snake appraising its next meal. “Your son has sharp eyes, my lord. There is a small bay below the hill. My contact will meet us by the beach.”

Bjorn grunted as he pushed on the steering oar and the ship heeled over and headed for the light. Moment by moment it grew closer until they could clearly make out the hill and the man on the summit holding the lantern. As soon as he was sure that he had been seen he extinguished the light and ran down the gentle slope to the shingle beach below.

Bjorn steered the ship straight at the beach and ran her ashore. Two of the crew leapt ashore carrying the anchor ropes and held the ship steady as the man scurried down the beach and scrambled aboard. As quickly as they arrived, the ship had been pushed off, and the rowers were backing water. Bjorn pushed the steering oar over, and they headed back out to sea.

The new addition made his way to the stern and quietly conversed with Hamid Kahn before he turned and spoke to Bjorn. “We need to turn west and follow the coast for an hour.”

Bjorn held up a hand to stop him “You are Suevian, are you not? Why betray your own people?”

The man grinned “I may be Suevian lord, but you should know that means little when it comes to loyalty. In Suevia if you don’t belong to a House then a man’s loyalty is to the man with the biggest purse and our friend there,” he gestured to the Karanid “has a very big purse.”

Bjorn spat over the side, showing his contempt for the man before he turned back “Tell me about the target.”

The man pulled out a scraped sheepskin that had a crude map drawn on it in dark ink. It showed a sheltered harbour with a large bluff that jutted protectively out into the sea, hiding it from the view of any passing ships.

“There are six ships currently under construction on the beach, each on a wooden slipway. There is a wooden lookout tower on the top of the bluff that gives early warning to the small garrison below. If the signal bell is rung, then the garrison can rouse itself in only a few moments and repel any attacker.”

Bjorn asked detailed questions about the layout, the garrison and the approach to the lookout. All of which the Suevian did his best to answer. By the time they had finished, Bjorn had a plan of attack in his mind. He looked up to see his son hovering at the edges of the crowd, taking in everything that was said. He beckoned him over. “So, lad? What would you do?”

His son considered the map for a moment. “I would drop off a small force to silence the lookout tower first and then row into the harbour, land in the middle of the slipways and burn them to the keel.”

Bjorn nodded “Simple, effective, and just what I had in mind. Good boy.”

He turned and began issuing his orders to the crew while his son beamed with the praise. Five men and one woman quickly stripped off their armour and slung their weapons over their backs. They shouldered their way through the crowd that had gathered around a small clay pot by the mast. They dipped their fingers and began smearing thick stripes of the black tar-like Norsrii wode over any exposed skin. By the time they finished, they looked like the mythical striped cats that the boy had heard lived deep in the heartlands of the Karanid Empire.

For half an hour, they rowed along the coast before they found a suitable inlet where they quickly shipped oars and stowed the mast. The six striped warriors dove over the side and struck out for the shore. Bjorn watched as they waded through the surf and jogged along the coastline before he reached back and turned the small hourglass set into the stern tail. They waited until the sands had run through the glass twice, gently rowing against the current to hold position, before Bjorn gave the order to pull and the ship surged forward with the current.

They rowed in silence following the coastline, a dark shadow against a dark sea. Within half an hour they saw the lookout tower as a lighter silhouette against the night sky. Bjorn gave a hushed order to stop rowing, and everyone aboard looked to the tower. A light flared, and the crew hissed in alarm, thinking they had been seen. The glow of the torch briefly illuminated one of their striped warriors standing at the base of the tower, before she tossed the flaming brand over the cliff and into the sea. Bjorn gave the order to row, and the crew pulled together with a will, eager to get started with the night’s work.

The boy stood by his father at the stern, his excitement growing, as the ship rounded the headland and turned into the bay. Ahead of them, he saw, exactly as described, the six warships on their slipways, a small wooden fort on the hillock above the beach and a shanty town of workers huts next to it.

He immediately recognised the ships as Suevian Raptors. A warship that was as fast as it was deadly. With mounted bolt throwers and a heavy ram, it could tear through the hull of a Dragon Ship in seconds.

He began to appreciate why this raid was so important. Warships were expensive to build and maintain, so there were thankfully very few on the Sea of Swords. But if six fully crewed Raptors were to begin operating off the Norsrii coast, then no ship would be safe. Trade would die along with many of his people.

Fortunately, the ships were not yet finished. Two were nearing completion, but the others were only timber skeletons, yet to have their hulls fixed to them.

His father grunted as he leant on the oar and lined up the prow between the two central Raptors. The ship grounded on the shingle beach with a quiet crunch and the crew immediately pulled in the oars, ran to the front and jumped into the shallow water.

Bjorn turned to his son, saying “Stay on the ship” before he drew his sword and ran for the prow.

The boy ran with him and watched as the crew fanned out into groups, each carrying small clay pots. He started as the Karanid appeared behind him and seeing his gaze said “It is naphtha, a type of oil which burns like the breath of dragons. It is a wondrous thing and cannot be extinguished with water, indeed to do so would merely spread the flames faster.”

“Where are the sentries?”

The Karanid snorted derisively “The arrogant fools relied on their watchtower too much and have not set a guard. When your father’s men killed those in the tower, they lost their only warning and will not wake until the fire starts. Look there.”

The boy looked back to see the crew throwing the clay pots aboard the ships and onto the stores stacked next to them. The clay pots broke with a sharp crack, and he thought he could smell the acrid tang of the oil on the breeze.

There was a flare of light as the first torch was lit and tossed onto the waiting ship. With a loud whoosh, the naphtha ignited, and a burst of flame and light illuminated the scene. In seconds, the other vessels were alight.

A shout of alarm went up from the fort accompanied by the long strident notes of a horn rousing the garrison from their beds. The gates were hauled open, and the first of the men began to run towards the beach. Though they wore the ragged clothes and mismatched armour of a mercenary band, they operated like a well-trained unit.

The boy looked to the beach and saw the crew running back to the ship, the fastest and closest had formed a shield wall with his father at the centre. A rough hand pushed the boy aside, and he turned to see one of the warriors who had attacked the sentry tower standing in the prow with a bow. He drew and loosed in smooth, fluid motions that sent a steady stream of arrows over the shield wall and into the oncoming enemy. They reacted in seconds, closing together and raising their shields but the movement slowed them and bought time for the furthest members of the crew to scramble aboard.

By now, more men had joined the rush from the fort, and the boy saw with dismay that there must be a hundred men charging against his father’s small shield wall. More and more of the crew were climbing back aboard and rushing to their oars at the rear. The six striped warriors were crammed into the prow with bows, loosing as fast as they could, while the ship, now heavier at the stern began to slip off the beach and into deeper water.

The shield wall had edged slowly back so that they were standing knee-deep in the sea when the first enemy hit them. They were strung out and fighting independently, so were easy meat for the disciplined Norsrii.

The first man to arrive launched a furious overhead chop at Bjorn’s shield which he caught on the iron rim. The blow left the man open, and he was quickly killed by Bjorn’s neighbour who caved in his skull with an axe. The body collapsed into the surf, tripping the man behind who fell at his father’s feet. He was finished with a quick stab to the neck.

“Back” Bjorn shouted, and the line took a step back in unison. By now more men were pressing forward and the fight devolved into a tight scrum as one side pushed against another. Even here the outnumbered Norsrii had the advantage. Bjorn called “Spatas”, and the warriors drew the characteristic short blade of the Norsrii people.

A Spata was a deadly weapon, as useful for hacking wood as for cleaving men. The short, heavy chopping blade pitched forward to a wicked point that combined the power of an axe with the piercing strength of a sword. In the close confines of a ship-to-ship fight or a shield wall, it was a reaper of men.

The swords punched out from between the gaps in the shields, finding the flesh of the men pushed up against them. The enemy fell in droves as those behind pushed those in front onto the blades of the Norsrii.

At every opportunity, the shield wall moved backwards leaving a floating carpet of bodies in the surf line. Soon they were thigh-deep in the water, their backs against the ship. One by one they broke off from the fight and clambered aboard, hauled up by their fellows.

Now came the most dangerous part. As the shield wall thinned, those remaining would have to fight like furies before making a break for it. One by one, the wall thinned until only Bjorn and two others were left. Together they reaped a terrible tally as they slew all who came at them.

Suddenly there was a lull as the battered garrison pulled back and stared in horror at the carnage floating around them. The space between the two burning hulks was a carpet of bodies and blood that turned the sea red. It was a hellish scene as if lifted from one of the Suevian faith’s sermons, lit by the fires of the inferno.

Bjorn wasted no time in speculation and yelled for the men to get on board before he too turned and jumped for the prow. Seeing this, the garrison howled with rage and surged forward, intent on catching the fleeing men.

Bjorn had one hand on the prow and the other on his sword as he pulled himself on board. He could not see the battle maddened enemy soldier charging towards him, long axe raised above his head, ready to bury it in his unprotected back. Bjorn heard his roar and turned his head, finally seeing the danger and tensing for the blow.

There was a flicker of movement over his head, and a sickening crunch as a harpoon smashed into the axe man’s neck. He felt hands grab his belt and haul him aboard. He collapsed onto the deck to find his son standing over him with a concerned look on his face.

“Did you throw that harpoon lad?”

“Yes, father. You told me not to leave the ship, so I didn’t.”

“Ha, clever little bugger. You damn well saved my life, lad. Here.” He took one of the heavy silver rings that adorned his upper arm and handed it to his son. It was far too large for him, so the boy slipped it around his neck like and stood there beaming with pride.

Bjorn climbed to his feet and saw that the ship had rowed back into the deeper water of the bay before turning to head back out to sea. The six Raptors were by now well aflame despite the vain attempts of the workers to fight the fires. Bjorn looked at the Karanid “I assume you are content that we have kept our side of the bargain?”

Hamid Kahn looked across the burning ships and stores and nodded “You have done admirably, my Lord and now it is time to part ways. Please head back to the beach where we met my contact, and I will pay you what is owed.”

Flush with adrenaline the crew pulled with a will, and once they rounded the headland, Bjorn ordered the sail raised. It filled with a crack of tightening canvass and ropes as the ship flew with the wind down the coast. The exhausted crew leant over their oars to catch their breath and began to laugh and joke amongst themselves. Bjorn did a quick headcount and saw that they had taken no casualties during the raid, a miracle given the size of the garrison.

The journey back was much faster, and it was not long until they sighted another ship lying at anchor by the small bay. From the look of her, she was a Karanid merchant dhow, an uncommon sight in these waters unless one was heading to the Freeport of Masalia. Hamid Kahn turned to Bjorn, “That is my ship, and it is here that we shall part ways, please lay alongside so I can depart.”

Soon the two ships were tied up alongside one another, Hamid Kahn and the Suevian spy climbed aboard, and a heavy sack that clinked as it moved was passed the other way. Hamid Kahn appeared at the side of his ship, “I trust that all is in order honoured lord? In that case, I thank you for your service and bid you farewell. Long life and prosperity to you. May the Gods watch over you always.” He waved as the two ships parted, the dhow turned west for Masalia and the Dragon Ship north for home.

The boy stood in the stern with his father looking at the departing ship. The Karanid and the Suevian stood at the stern, illuminated by lanterns. They were talking animatedly when another man walked up behind the Suevian. There was a flash of steel as a knife was rammed into his back. Hearing him gasp his father turned in time to see the Suevian dumped over the side and the Karanid turn away. Bjorn spat over the side “You have learnt a lot today my son but the most important thing you can learn is this. Never trust a Karanid; they are snakes in men’s clothes.”

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