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  WOLVES OF WAR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © Martin Lake 2018

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher.

  Martin Lake has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover Design by Jenny Quinlan

  Historical Fiction Covers

  For Ollie

  BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE

  NOVELS

  The Flame of Resistance: The Lost King Book 1

  Triumph and Catastrophe: The Lost King Book 2

  Blood of Ironside: The Lost King Book 3

  In Search of Glory: The Lost King Book 4

  Land of Blood and Water

  Blood Enemy

  Outcasts: Crusades Book 1

  A Love Most Dangerous

  Very Like a Queen

  A Dance of Pride and Peril

  The Artful Dodger

  Mr Toad to the Rescue

  SHORT STORIES

  For King and Country

  The Big School

  Mr Toad’s Wedding

  The Guy Fawkes Contest

  Nuggets

  THE CRUCIBLE

  Leif worked the bellows furiously and watched the fire blaze stronger with each gush of air. Sparks from the flames leapt into the air, burnt bright for an instant and then died. Sigurd watched the fire intently, and the sword burning within it. Then he lifted the blade and turned it in the light of the forge.

  ‘It’s the finest sword I’ve ever made,’ he said.

  ‘Then it’s wasted on that scoundrel, Eohric,’ Leif said. ‘He has an ill-favoured look.’

  Sigurd shrugged. ‘Eohric has given two thirds down-payment and that’s enough for me. I don’t care how a man looks as long as he pays.’

  ‘It is no wonder you don’t care about appearances, brother,’ Leif said. ‘You don’t have to look at yourself as I have to every day.’

  Sigurd grunted, his form of laugh.

  Ever since they were children, people had commented on how different the brothers looked. If they had received a cup of ale every time they’d heard it they would have spent their days drunk.

  Sigurd looked like Orm, their father. He was tall, broad-chested, round-faced and had a mass of golden yellow hair. Leif sometimes called him ox. He did not mind. He admired oxen for their stolid strength. He admired them for their endurance.

  He followed his father’s trade as well. But where Orm had been an accomplished smith, his son was more. Sigurd could work metal like a baker works bread. His swords were masterpieces of death and miracles of beauty. He was sought out by many to make their weapons.

  Leif could not have been more different. He took after his mother who was a Moor from Seville. She claimed she was a princess but one of Orm’s friends said she was the daughter of a spice merchant so incompetent he lost his money, his home and his pride and had to sell his only daughter to the Vikings. She was dark as a damson, small and lithe as a cat.

  And she could tell tales to keep men enthralled. Leif learned every one of them, then added more from his own imagination. His friends called him a poet, his enemies a liar.

  He acted as story-teller, a Skald to Klack, the head of the village though, in truth, Klack did nothing worthy of note, the village forever slept like an old dog and all Leif’s tales were woven in his head.

  Leif continued to pump, intently watching the flames darken as Sigurd plunged the blade back into the fire.

  ‘What name does Eohric want for his sword?’ Sigurd asked.

  Leif shook his head. ‘I couldn’t find him this morning.’

  ‘Then find him now. You might as well do something useful. You’re pumping as feebly as a little girl.’

  Leif grinned and headed out of the smithy.

  He took a deep breath. It was a bright, cold morning but the air was heavy with the promise of spring. Sea birds cried loudly in the sky, vying for territory, boars snuffled amongst the huts, scenting females in heat, young men glanced swiftly at young women, hoping to see some sign of interest in return.

  ‘Is the sword finished?’ said a voice.

  Leif turned towards it.

  The stranger did, indeed, have an ill-favoured look. He was a young man, skinny as a ferret and had neither beard nor moustache. His face was narrow as if from a life-time of sneering. Now he stared at Leif with a hungry look.

  ‘Almost,’ Leif said. ‘We need to know the name you wish to call it.’

  Eohric glanced around, as if fearful his words would be overheard. ‘It shall be called Havoc.’

  Leif just managed to hide his grin. ‘You choose an awe-inspiring name.’

  ‘It is not my choice. It is not my sword.’

  Leif stared at him intently then shrugged. ‘It matters not. You have paid.’ He paused. ‘The final payment?’

  Eohric untied a heavy purse from his belt.

  Leif held out his hand and Eohric poured out half a dozen gold coins.

  ‘Byzants,’ Leif said in surprise. He weighed the coins in his hand. ‘We agreed twenty.’

  ‘You get the rest when the sword is finished.’

  Leif nodded, reluctantly. He decided to ask friends to be close by when the exchange was made, in case Eohric chose to flee with both sword and purse.

  ‘It is a fine sword,’ he said. ‘The best my brother’s made. The weapon of a mighty warrior. I have to say that you do not look such a man.’

  ‘The sword is not for me,’ Eohric said. ‘I was commanded to come here to see it made. By a very mighty warrior.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Leif asked, intrigued. ‘Who will wield the sword? I must know this for the naming.’

  Eohric shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you.’ He crossed his arms in a belligerent manner.

  Leif sighed. ‘As you wish. Though this will not help in the naming.’

  He returned to the darkness of the smithy. Sigurd was pumping at the bellows, more strongly than Leif could ever hope to do.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What’s it to be called?’

  ‘Havoc.’

  Sigurd whistled. ‘Eohric must think himself a famous warrior.’

  ‘It’s not Eohric’s sword. He wouldn’t tell me who will own it.’

  Sigurd picked up his hammer. ‘A shame. Do what you can.’

  He pulled out the sword and began to beat upon the glowing metal, sharp blows running up and down the blade to give it the final tempering.

  Leif watched for a little while, taking the rhythm of Sigurd’s blows into himself, watching the sparks fly and die in the darkness.

  And then he began to chant. ‘All-Father Odin, you have given my brother Sigurd the power and skill to make mighty weapons. You have loaned him the strength of your son Thor to hammer out the steel and make it strong. Lend now the fierce valour of the war god, Tyr, that the sword may deal terror to the enemies of its lord.’

  He fell silent, watching Sigurd beat the metal with ever more careful blows.

  ‘All-Father Odin,’ he continued. ‘This weapon will be named Havoc and shall, if you will it, unleash havoc upon its adversaries. The wielder of the blade, whose name we don’t unfortunately know…’

  Sigurd glanced at him in surprise, pausing for an instant before continuing with his hammering.

  ‘The wielder of this blade,’ Leif continued, ‘whose name is unknown to us but known, of course, to you, All-Father, this warrior will
cleave to this sword as a brother and the sword will cleave unto him likewise. And so it will prove a stupendous sword, a blade of rumour and of legend. A blade worthy of Odin, Thor and Tyr.’

  Sigurd gave the sword three final taps, gentle now, to seal the words of the spell within its heart. Then he plunged the blade into the water-trough.

  The water crackled like a sea struck by lightning and steam surged up, a fierce mist which dimmed their sight.

  But as Leif watched he thought he saw a shape within the mist. His heart almost failed him. He knew it to be the god Loki, lord of cunning and mischief. But a moment later Loki veiled himself as if he had not been.

  ‘It is done,’ Sigurd said.

  He held the sword in front of him, eyeing it carefully. It was long, beautifully tapered, and the delicate tracery which ran down the blade glittered from the fusion of fire and steel.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ Sigurd asked.

  Leif shook the image of the falsest god from his mind and bent closer to examine the sword. ‘I’m glad it doesn’t belong to Eohric,’ he said. ‘The man’s not worthy of it.’

  ‘But he’s paid for it,’ Sigurd said. ‘So let’s give it to him.’

  He held the sword carefully as he walked towards the entrance of his forge, as if it were a new born child.

  Eohric took a step towards them. ‘I cannot take it from you,’ he said. ‘You must give it to the man who will wield it.’

  ‘Then where is he?’ Leif asked, irritably. ‘My brother cannot hold it all day. Who is this mysterious man?’

  ‘The man who commands those ships,’ Eohric said, pointing towards the sea.

  Leif gasped. A vast fleet of ships was heading towards the shore. They filled the sea, like a huge flock of seabirds, three score or more.

  The villagers had ceased their labours and were staring, open-mouthed at the approaching host. Klack, the chief of the village, strode out of his hall and took a few steps towards the beach. He was trying to fasten his sword belt but his hands trembled too much to allow it. He looked around wildly for his hearth-warriors and they gathered to him, though reluctantly and with apprehension.

  The ships were closing on the shore now and the measured beat of hundreds of oars drummed upon the ocean. Leif felt sick. He had not thought to die like this, so young, so pleased with life. He glanced at his brother who stood beside him, the sword still nestling in his hands. His face, as always, was inscrutable.

  The foremost ship crashed against the shingle and a dozen warriors leapt out and dragged it up the strand to beach it. They hurried to line the shore, drawing out their swords as they did so, facing towards the land.

  The villagers were silent, as if every man, woman and child had forgotten how to breathe. An icy wind blew off the sea and Leif’s eyes began to water. He wiped the wetness away swiftly, aware that they would look like tears. No one in village or ship moved.

  Three men leapt from the ship and strode to the shore. One was huge, tall and broad, his arms like branches of a tree, his every stride immense. Beside him marched a younger man, smaller yet still broad and well-made, his gait confident, bold, almost a swagger.

  The third man was very different. He was tall but lithe as a maiden, slight, skinny and fragile. And as he walked he seemed to bend, like a willow buckling before a tempest. Buckling but not breaking.

  The air throbbed with menace.

  The three men marched up the beach, the two larger men slowing to allow the thin man to keep up with them. When they were five yards distant from the villagers they halted.

  The largest man’s eyes roamed across the villagers and at once he saw a beautiful young woman at whom he stared. The second man fixed his eye upon Klack, having discerned from his raiment that he was the lord of the village.

  But the eyes of the thin man darted everywhere, perceiving all as swiftly as a wolf marks out its prey.

  Then he smiled. He had seen Sigurd and the sword and he walked towards him.

  ‘This must be Havoc,’ he said, holding out his hands.

  ‘It is, my lord,’ came Eohric’s voice.

  ‘Then give it to me, smith,’ the man said to Sigurd. ‘I have paid for it. The sword is mine.’

  Sigurd was about to say that he had not yet received the final payment but Leif silenced him with a look. He passed the sword over.

  The thin man took it, weighed it in his hands and studied it intently, almost hungrily, as if he were looking at the face and naked body of his bride. Then he swung it, once, twice, three times. The sound of the blade whistled in the air.

  He seemed astonished, stared at it more closely, and ran his finger gently along the blade. Despite his care, the blade sliced his skin a little and a red line of blood appeared.

  He grinned. ‘This is a most marvellous sword.’ He handed it to the other men to examine. ‘What price did I agree, Eohric?’ he asked.

  Eohric mumbled an answer.

  ‘Triple it,’ the man said. ‘It is worth every penny.’

  Leif and Sigurd were astonished. Most great lords disputed the price already agreed, feigning disappointment at the quality of the work or pointing out non-existent flaws. They had never had such a generous reaction before.

  Sigurd bowed his head. ‘I am grateful, my lord.’

  ‘Spare your thanks, smith,’ he replied. ‘You may yet come to regret them. And you may yet regret making such a marvel of a sword for me.’

  He glanced at the other men. ‘For these are my brothers, Halfdan of the Wide-Embrace and Ubbe the Swift.’ He took back the sword and swung it through the air once again, his eyes gloating with lust for the weapon. Then he rested the blade against his shoulder and smiled with satisfaction.

  ‘And I, my friends, am Ivar the Boneless. We are the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok. And with this fleet we mean to conquer the kingdoms of the Angles and the Saxons.’

  Leif blinked, hoping that the importance of their mission meant these killers would turn and leave immediately. But something about him attracted Ivar’s attention.

  ‘Who are you, that stands weeping like a girl?’

  ‘It’s the keen wind, my lord,’ Leif answered, hurriedly mopping his eyes.

  ‘I did not ask about the weather. I asked your name.’

  ‘Leif, Leif Ormson. I’m the brother of the man who made your sword.’

  Ivar stared at him more intently, as if he had just discovered the answer to a puzzle. ‘So it is you who chants spells when a sword is made? Who, or so I’m led to believe, thereby makes it a mightier weapon still.’

  Leif swallowed. ‘Not really. It’s just foolish gossip. My spells are not what they are said to be. They’re quite charmless in fact. They add a little embroidery to the blade, nothing more.’

  Ivar looked at him dubiously. ‘So you would say that all the power comes from the skill of the smith?’

  ‘Absolutely. Definitely.’

  Ivar stared at him, unblinking, until Leif thought he might expire on the spot.

  ‘Is that truly so?’ he asked. ‘You are of no earthly use whatsoever?’

  ‘Absolutely none.’

  He had no sooner said this than he realised he may have made a terrible mistake. It was imperative that he divert Ivar’s attention from him. He did not wish to be the first victim of his brother’s work.

  ‘My lord,’ he continued, his voice as casual and disinterested as he could make it, ‘you said earlier that the Smith, my brother Sigurd, might come to regret his words of thanks. What manner of jest was this?’

  ‘No jest, spell-maker. I intend to take your brother as my Smith. He will come with me across the sea to war.’

  Sigurd looked horrified at the thought. But before he could answer, Leif spoke once more.

  ‘That is an excellent plan, my lord, save for one thing.’

  Ivar stared at him, his eyes cold and unblinking.

  ‘The one thing is that this sword, this truly marvellous sword Havoc, is the last great weapon my brother will ever make
.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ demanded the big man, Halfdan. ‘Your brother’s reputation is known from here to Hedeby.’

  ‘It is,’ Leif said. ‘It is indeed. Yet, when he was born, a wise-woman prophesied that he would have the gift of making only a limited number of swords in his life-time. When that number was reached, his skill would forsake him. And thereafter, he’d make only farm tools and horse-shoes.’

  ‘And how many swords is that?’ Halfdan asked.

  ‘Four score,’ Leif said. ‘Yes, that’s the number. Four score wasn’t it, Sigurd? And with this sword you have reached that number.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Sigurd said.

  Leif cursed him under his breath and turned once more to Ivar.

  ‘And, moreover,’ he continued, ‘the wise woman said that the last sword he made would be wielded by the greatest warrior of the age. A man not of great size but of great forethought, marvellous insight and a cunning which would astonish the world.

  ‘She said that this man would be the friend of two worthy champions —’ here he gestured towards the two men beside Ivar — ‘And that they would together topple kingdoms and slaughter kings.’

  ‘But these are not my friends,’ Ivar said, darkly. ‘They are my brothers.’

  Leif placed his finger on his chin, to signify deep thought. ‘Now that you say this, I seem to recall that the wise woman actually said that the two champions were the sword-owner’s brothers.’

  He took a deep breath and plunged on. ‘So, you see, there’s really no point in taking Sigurd with you. He’d just be a waste of space. Better to take a couple more barrels of ale. Or some pickled herrings.’

  Ivar gave a dry chuckle and shook his head. ‘It is a good story, spell-caster. But I don’t believe a word of it. I commend you for trying to protect your brother but it will not work. He comes with me. From this day, forward, until his death, he is my Smith.’

  ‘But the wise woman was most insistent —’

  Ivar held up his hands to silence him. ‘And whether your spells are as weak as you claim or not, I like your ability to tell a pack of lies to try to escape a situation you do not like. So be comforted, Leif Ormson. You will not be separated from your brother. You too shall come with me and be my minstrel, my Skald, my good-luck talisman.’