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God Of Thunder. Alex Archer
Читать онлайн.Название God Of Thunder
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781472085849
Автор произведения Alex Archer
Жанр Приключения: прочее
Издательство HarperCollins
God of Thunder
Alex Archer
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Prologue
Courland
Baltic Sea
1104 A.D.
Death slipped into the village with the thick fog that boiled in from the Baltic Sea. It came in on cat’s feet, but took shape as a raiding party. The warriors had been too long at sea and too long without seizing a proper treasure. This morning under the storm gathering over them, they hoped to change their luck.
Skagul, called Ironhand, led the way. He was the chieftain. A large man, well over six feet in height, he was massively muscled from a life spent working hardscrabble earth in his homeland for a harsh existence. His dirty blond beard, rimed with sea salt, hung down to his mid-chest. Tiny figurines carved of wood, stone and ivory hung in his beard and the long hair he wore pulled back in a ponytail.
The reindeer hide he’d added to his tunic to ward off blows and arrows was cracked with age but still supple and serviceable beneath the thick bearskin cloak. A metal helmet covered his head.
He carried a long-handled war ax in his right hand. His left hand was gone, replaced by a cruelly curved iron hook. Sixteen years earlier, he’d lost the hand in a battle with an opposing tribe. His father had been a blacksmith when he hadn’t gone raiding. Together, they’d fitted Skagul with the hook. He was short a hand, but he’d added an incredible weapon to his arsenal.
Senses tingling, Skagul trotted through the ice-cold ankle-deep tidewaters. The longship was nearly flat bottomed and could be sailed or rowed in only inches of water. In his years spent raiding, he’d taken his vessel across oceans, as well as upriver.
His heart beat quickly in his chest, warming him against the touch of early winter and the coming storm. The raiding season was almost over. It they didn’t take a prize soon, there would be little to show for their efforts when they returned home before winter settled.
Ahead of them, the village sat quiet and still, frosted by the light snow that had come during the night. Most of the houses were wooden one-room affairs much like the longhouses in Skagul’s village. Judging by the smoke from a few cook fires curling into the pink-hued sky, only a few people were up.
Goats bleated in small lean-tos behind many of the houses. Roosters crowed to greet the new day. A few dogs lounged in the lean-tos, as well, sharing space and warmth with the goats.
That suited Skagul and met with his expectations. The animals could be a problem, but men just crawling out of bed were often thickheaded and slow to react. He was gambling everything he had on this effort, wanting to go back to his people victoriously.
Victory meant wealth.
Behind them, the incoming tide lapped at the shore and birds cried overhead as they skirled through the sky. The dark clouds sailed the leaden sky with greater speed. The wind had picked up, buffeting the Norsemen as they hunkered down in the brush at the edge of the village.
Holding up his war ax, Skagul glanced over his shoulder.
There, in the rolling fog under the storm clouds, he spotted the dragon prow of his ship. Snarling and savage, the dragon looked fierce and hungry. Heavy red and white sails lay furled on the masts, ready at a moment’s notice. When raised, the mainsail displayed a snake, mouth open and fangs distended.
Skagul’s heart swelled with pride. Her name was Striking Serpent and she had earned her name many times over. She was a twenty-oar ship with sixty-three crewmen. There had been more, but twelve had died fighting the Finns and others had been lost along the way. Since Skagul had been chosen to command the vessel, he’d always been successful.
This, though, had been his hardest year. Only a few weeks earlier, a band of Finns had attacked them at camp and stolen away with all their goods. They’d lost everything they’d spent months stealing.
Skagul would not return home empty-handed with so many mouths to feed. Nor would he see his young crewmen return without bride-price.
“Archers,” Skagul growled.
Twenty warriors peeled away from the group. They nocked arrows to their longbows.
“There.” Skagul waved toward the forested low hills ringing the north side of the village. The land and the trees provided a windbreak against the freezing north winds, which was probably why the village had been built there.
The warriors went at once. They were mostly silent, but Skagul heard some of their gear ring and bang as they took up positions along the hills.
No one in the village noticed.
Standing, Skagul hefted his war ax. The storm winds pulled at his beard and hair. He ignored the cold and moved forward. If things went well, the villagers would take one look at them and surrender everything they had.
The dogs started barking, then ran out to challenge the invaders. Their sharp teeth flashed and snapped. The Norsemen growled.
Skagul swung his ax, cleaving the skull of one dog and killing it instantly. Other warriors killed more of them, and they left the furry corpses behind them.
The goats bleated and chickens ran for cover.
Something was wrong. The feeling coiled and twisted through Skagul’s belly like his ship’s namesake. He held up his ax, calling his warriors to a halt.
The Norsemen stopped, forming a ragged line.
No one peered from the windows of the huts or came to the doors.
Skagul pointed at his men. “You three. Check the homes.”