Copyright © 2015 M. K. Hume

The right of M. K. Hume to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published as an Ebook in 2015 by HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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All characters in this publication – apart from the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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eISBN: 978 1 4722 1576 5

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

M. K. Hume is a retired academic, who is married with two grown-up sons and lives in Queensland, Australia. Having completed an MA and PhD in Arthurian Literature many years ago, M. K. Hume has now written a series of magnificent novels about the legend of King Arthur. For more information visit: www.mkhume.com.

By M. K. Hume and available from Headline Review

King Arthur Trilogy

Dragon’s Child

Warrior of the West

The Bloody Cup

Prophecy Trilogy

Clash of Kings

Death of an Empire

Web of Deceit

Twilight of the Celts Trilogy

The Last Dragon

The Storm Lord

The Ice King

Stormbringer’s Voyage (e-novella)

ABOUT THE BOOK

The legend of King Arthur lives on . . .

It is several years now since Arthur, that Last Dragon of Britain, has set foot on home soil. Roaming the Land of the Denes, he has not only engaged in brutal and bloody conflict with the barbaric Geats but he has also unearthed the most evil force within the royal court of Heorot. And, under the guidance of Stormbringer, the mighty Sae Dene king, he has honed his skills as a commander. Now the time has come for Arthur to brave the dangers of the frozen north as he and a band of daring sea-faring warriors prepare to embark on his ultimate voyage – to return to Britain and to create a kingdom of his own . . .

This book is dedicated to my friend and fellow book-lover, Peter Campbell, OAM.

Many years ago, I moved into a semi-rural community on the outskirts of Brisbane in Australia. My husband had purchased land from a local real estate agent who was representing the owners of land development in the area.

Later, I was to discover that Peter Campbell was a member of a long-established family who had settled in our area when most of it was still little more than wilderness. His family is proud of their district and they have been notable for their civic contributions to the inhabitants of Albany Creek. Over the years, I have had the pleasure of seeing Peter at first hand as he grew from being a very competent young businessman into the patriarch of his family. I have been amazed at the variety of his interests and his devotion to those who live around him. As an active member of a number of service organisations, his contribution towards the everyday loves of our villagers is of great value to all of us.

As a knowledgeable and critical reader of good literature, he has often put a smile on my face when he has spoken of my novels. His promotion of my work over the past six years has touched me and given me hope, for it is good for the soul when admirable people give sincere support, not just for the sake of friendship, but because they believe in you more than you believe in yourself. A dedication is all I can give in return, other than to offer my sincere gratitude and admiration.

I thank you, Peter, for all you have done for so many people.

M. K. Hume
2015

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A novel requires a group effort in order to reach the booksellers and, ultimately, the public. The editor and publisher are vital to this process, so I am very grateful for the support and encouragement of Clare Foss at Headline, who never fails to put together a quality product. She asks and, because of her publishing expertise, I do my very best to give.

Similarly, the copy editor who delves into the sometimes turgid depths of my work to turn it into a seamless and attractive publication is of particular importance to me. My thanks go to Alice Wood, and my admiration is genuine and unalloyed.

The artists, designers and cartographers who create the book covers and the look and feel of my novels are also vital. Deftly, they take my maps and charts and drawings, and turn them into a common-sense presentation that encourages the reader to buy my books. My thanks go to Larry Rostant, Siobhan Hooper and Tim Peters. Finally, there are the publicists, the assistants and the many clever folk who keep the wheels greased. My thanks go to Katie Bradburn and Beth Eynon, whose input into my novels is appreciated and will always be invaluable to any success I might achieve.

In my quiet study, far from London and the centre of the action, I frequently feel divorced from the production of my books. And so, my thanks go to every worker at Headline who turns this writer’s dreams into reality – a book that can be held in one’s hands.

Equally far away, my agent, Dorie Simmonds, bears with my long silences and eccentricities with equanimity. She is a gem, a clever and talented gem with a generous heart.

On the home front, Michael, my husband and slave-driver, is my rock. I cannot thank him enough. And my sons, Damian and Brendan, gift me with hope in an uncertain world. Brendan never permits me the luxury of doubt, so I am lifted by his enthusiasm. Thank you both.

Another big thank you must go to my little terrier, Rusty, who constantly warms my heart.

A small number of good friends are also vital, because they provide those most valuable of gifts, those of love and belief. You know who you are, so my thanks go to each of you.

Finally, my thanks go to my mother who taught me the old tales and gave me an insight into the minds and ways of the Danish people. While she has long gone into the shades, I know she still watches over me.

We live in ugly times, perhaps, but all eras have their horrors. I prefer to think that great and small people will always rise out of adversity to advance the cause of humanity.

Thank you to all people of goodwill who make life richer for having passed through it.

M. K. Hume
2015

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Aednetta Fridasdottar The Witch-Woman. She is the paramour of King Hrolf Kraki.

Alfridda The sister of Stormbringer. She lives at The Holding with her husband, Raudi.

Arthur The illegitimate son of King Artor and Lady Elayne. The foster son of Bedwyr, Master of Arden Forest. After his capture by a Dene raiding party, he is taken to the Dene kingdom as a slave.

Artor High King of the Britons. The son of Uther Pendragon and Ygerne (the widow of King Gorlois of Cornwall).

Atric Poulssen A landowner who is a neighbour of Stormbringer.

Barr The young son of Master Bedwyr and Lady Elayne.

Bedwyr Known as the Arden Knife, Bedwyr is the Master of Arden Forest.

Beowulf Epic poem of a Geat warrior who helps King Hrogar, King of the Danes, against Grendel, a monster.

Beowulf Minor Grandson of Beowulf. Captured by Arthur at the Battle of Rugen Island.

Bjornsen, Valdar (see Stormbringer).

Blaise The youngest daughter of King Bors Minor of the Dumnonii Tribe. Captured by Dene raiders, she is taken to the Dene kingdom as a slave.

Bors Minor King of Cornwall. Father of Eamonn and Blaise.

Bran King of the Ordovice Tribe.

Breoca Father of General Mearchealf, who is the commander of the Hundings army.

Diarmaid One of Arthur’s captains.

Eamonn pen Bors Son of King Bors Minor and Queen Valda of Cornwall. Arthur’s friend. He is killed at the Battle of Wener River.

Ector The king of the Ordovice. He is the son of King Bran.

Elayne Wife of Bedwyr, Master of Arden. Mother of Arthur.

Elidar One of Thorketil’s bowmen. He suffers from a lung disease.

Eomar (Father) The abbot of a religious community near Calmar.

Ernil (Master) The captain of a trading ship serving the Dene islands.

Erikk Halversen Son of Halver, Jarl of Halland.

Frodhi The influential cousin of King Hrolf Kraki in Heorot and Stormbringer. He becomes king after the death of Hrolf Kraki.

Gareth Minor Son of Gareth Major. Raised at Aquae Sulis. He travels through Europe with Lorcan and Germanus in search of his master, Arthur.

Germanus A Frankish mercenary who acts as Arthur’s weapons master. He travels through Europe with Gareth and Lorcan in search of Arthur.

Harald Leifsen A Dene warrior who accompanies Arthur on a patrol that searches for the Roman fortifications at Segedunum.

Heardred King of the Geats.

Henning Gunnarsen A young Dene courier.

Heoden A warrior in Hrolf Kraki’s service. He acts as an envoy in discussions with Stormbringer and Arthur.

Hrolf Kraki Also called Storm Crow. He is the King of the Dene.

Ida The name given to (and adopted by) Arthur on entry to the northeast of England after leaving the Dene lands with a large contingent of warriors and settlers seeking a new homeland.

Ingmar Baby son of Ingrid. Brother of Sigrid.

Ingrid Widow of the Geat camp commander at Lake Wener. She is the mother of Sigrid and Ingmar. Slave of Arthur.

Ivar (Hnaefssen) A Dene jarl whose lands lie close to the borders with Jutland.

Ivar (Svenson) A Geat fisherman from Calmar who acts as a guide for Arthur.

Karl (The Owl) A young warrior who serves at the court of King Hrolf Kraki.

Knud Thorvaldsen A Dene volunteer who accompanies Arthur on a patrol that searches for the Roman fortifications at Segedunum.

Knut Hard-hand A smith in King Hrolf Kraki’s service.

Lars One of Arthur’s captains.

Llyr Marini Gul One of the sons of Meirchion Gul, King of Rheged.

Loki The trickster god.

Lorcan ap Lugald A Hibernian priest who acts as Arthur’s tutor.

Maeve Sister of Arthur. She marries Stormbringer and bears his children.

Mearchealf The son of Breoca. A Hunding general who is captured by Arthur’s forces.

Meirchion Gul Celtic King of Rheged.

Mithras The Roman God of Soldiers.

Myrddion Merlinus Also known as Myrddion Emrys, he is named after the Sun.

Olaus Healfdene Commander of the Geat army at Lake Wener.

Ragnar Sigurdson A warrior who accompanies a Dene patrol under Arthur’s command in search of the Roman fortifications at Segedunum.

Roganvaldr One of Arthur’s captains.

Rufus Olaffsen Hrolf Kraki’s champion who fought Eamonn.

Sea-dragon An under-sea dragon who visits Arthur in dreams.

Sigrid Daughter of Ingrid. Captured at Lake Wener, she is Prince Arthur’s slave. She eventually marries Arthur.

Snorri Nilsson The helmsman on Sea Wife, Arthur’s ship. He becomes Arthur’s second in command.

Stormbringer His full name is Valdar Bjornsen. The Sae Dene king, second highest member of the Dene King. A member of the Danish (Dene) aristocracy.

Sven A fisherman who acts as a courier for Aednetta Fridasdottar in Heorot.

Sven pen Bedwyr The Forest Child. The son of Stormbringer and Maeve. Grandson of Bedwyr.

Talorc One of Arthur’s captains.

Thorketil The Hammer of Thor. He was Hrolf Kraki’s champion who fought Arthur. He also answers to the Troll King.

Thorquil One of Arthur’s captains.

PROLOGUE

‘Let us speak honestly, kinsman. Just you and I!’

The water boiled as the she-dragon giggled in a flirtatious manner. Arthur tried not to shudder because, while she was a figment of his own vivid imagination, she had come to him so often that he frequently thought of her as real. She pursed her carnelian lips, while her forked tongue flickered in and out across the pearly lustre of her teeth and then touched and explored his face.

‘Your skin is rough, man-child. I imagined it would have the slick smoothness of your skull-bones. How very disappointing!’

‘I’m sorry if I don’t reach your high expectations, Majesty! I haven’t removed my beard.’

Somehow, suspended over her maw by the familiar thick black weed, he was suddenly oblivious to the terror that had afflicted him in the past. Over the last year and a half, he had often dreamed of the she-dragon as she reclined on her ossuary, and every meeting was a different attack on his emotions. What had once seemed grotesque had now become commonplace within the landscape of his regular night horrors.

Coral-red flushed around her throat as she considered something that seemed to be annoying her. Arthur had learned from their first meeting that she detested anyone and anything that came between his contemplation of her and her terrible beauty.

When she finally spoke, her voice had the petulant whine of a jealous wife.

‘Who is the ice-haired bitch who hates you so much? Does she yearn for your hard man-flesh in ways that I will not? She is poison, you know, and she’ll sting you with her fangs if you turn your back on her. Or you’ll bed her and then the gods will enjoy what you both make of the world.’

‘Make up your mind, Queen of the Sea. How can she yearn for me, yet wish me dead?’ He bent forward in the inexplicable way of dreams, so that the weed released his hands.

His fingers stirred the muddy ocean bottom, and then dragged up a handful of it. The she-dragon hissed and her breath sent a shiver of hot water towards him, even as the detritus of the sea leached through his fingers.

‘This is what these imaginings are worth, my very own dream horror. You’ll never add a single bone from my body to your chapel of dead men.’

Arthur laughed then, even though a part of him quailed at the thought of wilfully testing the she-dragon’s temper. She might be woven of insubstantial dreams, but he knew that her fires had the power to hurt his sleeping self. It was as if they were oddly matched lovers involved in a complex, depraved game of unnatural lusts. He tried to hide from her unblinking, gem-hard eyes.

Those same eyes narrowed.

‘You are growing brave, little dragonlet. Especially when I consider that you’re in my kingdom and the uncertainty of my temper is taken into account.’ She belched out gouts of flame that directed a steam shower over his right thigh.

Arthur screamed with a sudden flash of agony, even though his internal voice recited a continuing mantra: ‘It’s not real! It’s not real!’

‘Are you quite sure?’ the she-dragon hissed, while Arthur shrieked again as her heated breath played over the scald. How any of these monstrous imaginings could make his flesh swell and burn seemed impossible yet, in this fantastic world, it was so.

‘We’ll not see each other often. But you’ll never be free of me, man-child.’

The she-dragon changed tack and traced the golden hair on his chest with a claw. The erotic caress made Arthur’s flesh crawl.

‘Nor will you return to Mithras in his temple on the hill. Did you think that chapel was real? Did you believe the little priest who lives on sunshine rather than food or drink? You were wide awake in Mirk Wood.’

Arthur shivered. He remembered the chapel in the dolmen, buried in the ancient forest of Mirk Wood. After the Battle of Lake Wener, Arthur had been lost in guilt at the death of Eamonn, his friend. Mirk Wood had taken the chapel into itself, melting it like summer hail, and no one had been able to find that strange place since.

‘I believe in nothing that soothsayers of any kind tell me. I certainly don’t believe your promises!’

‘Liar!’ she hissed. ‘I’m the only one who really wants you, Arthur. Unfortunately, it’s a fine line between madness and the messages that come to us from the gods. Do you want to tip too far and become a gibbering idiot?’

The beautiful she-dragon sighed luxuriantly, but with regret.

‘No! You don’t desire that fate, my beloved dragonlet. You’re well named, Ruin of Kings, because you’ll go on and on, with your sister or without, and with your slaves or without. You are fated to become the King of Winter. You will remember me, dragonlet, when you sit in your halls and look out over your broad acres. I am the only creature who truly loves you . . . and who truly knows you.’

‘You do? I live for the day when I can sleep without your intervention.’

She stirred petulantly and her movement sent an ancient skull rolling away from her complex couch of bones. The jaw had been attached to the cheekbones with fine gold wires so that the teeth chattered obscenely as it sank into the ooze. She scarcely noticed as her tail twisted and twitched irritably. The fitful light from far above lit her scales with a soft glow that belied her rising temper.

‘You’ll be off to war soon enough, dear heart. The Dragon’s Brood are spread through your world and their cries affront the ears of the most heartless of men. I wonder that you don’t hear them when they weep in the night because of you.’

‘But—’

‘Be silent, dragonlet! You cannot believe that you can save anyone or anything, simply by issuing orders. Change must be paid for, with blood, heart and spirit. You’re not a Dene! And you’re no jarl! Nor are you anything of importance to anyone, except to me and the Geat bitch who loathes and loves you in equal measure. But she is changing. Beware whom you trust, Arthur.’

The she-dragon brought her beautifully carved face within inches of his. She hadn’t quite finished tormenting him.

‘So many wars are yet to come, and you will fight in them, my heart. You will provide bones aplenty for my house when you take revenge for the ruined children. But, as you negotiate the tangled halls of kings, remember what I tell you.’

She paused.

‘What is real, is not!

‘What is love, can be hate!

‘What is kingly, can be cruelty!

‘And, finally, my beloved,

‘What is loyalty, can be treason.’

Eyes glowing with urgency, she delivered her warning of incipient danger.

‘When you can understand what I have said, then, and only then, will you find your way back to your home.’

Suddenly Arthur felt the weed set him free and the pressure of water in his lungs began to choke him. Then he awoke to find himself rubbing at his thigh where the flesh was shiny, red and swollen.

CHAPTER I

THE MASTER OF SKANIA

To be turned from one’s course by men’s opinions, by blame, and by misrepresentation, shows a man unfit to hold an office.

Quintus Fabius Maximus, Plutarch, Parallel Lives

The sea was boiling with struggling men and smashed timbers as Arthur directed his men to edge Sea Wife as close as possible to the heaving mass. Weighted down by thick armour and weapons, even the strongest had to struggle to keep their heads above water. A hundred men fought mindlessly to live, climbing over each other in a desperate battle to stave off the inevitable.

‘Ship the oars, helmsman,’ Arthur ordered Snorri. This Dene helmsman was vastly different from his predecessor, being a hard-bitten pragmatist who had won Arthur’s respect during the pell-mell chase from the Vagus River to their present position just off Rugen Island. Stormbringer’s fleet had pursued the Geat ships that had tried to ambush them off the southernmost tip of Skania, after Stormbringer had defeated Heardred’s land forces in Halland and central Skania.

These land battles had been hard-won, with both sides sustaining serious losses, but the Denes had prevailed. Now the Dene fleet had increased to more than fifty ships of massed warriors, while the Dene populace provided more and more reinforcements that swelled the size of the expeditionary force. The Dene elders were aware that uprisings in the east opened the way for border attacks in the south so, given Hrolf Kraki’s inaction, the more prudent of the jarls sent any warriors who could be spared to Stormbringer as a hedge against treason or bad luck.

Meanwhile, Heardred had made a serious tactical error by sending fire-ships in the hope of catching Stormbringer unawares. Unfortunately, they were discovered and destroyed.

It soon became obvious that the re-purposed trading vessels used by the Geats could never hope to compete with the fighting longboats used by the Dene. The Sae Dene ships were manned by seafarers, first and foremost, although their fleet now also included some slower transport vessels and smaller, faster boats used as couriers.

The outcome of the sea battles had never been in doubt.

Then, like coursing hounds pursuing a stampeding herd of bulls, the Dene fleet had swept down on the slower Geat vessels, with Sea Wife in the vanguard.

The three travellers rode into Lubeck, relieved to have finally reached the northern sea. Conscious that discretion and diplomacy were necessary for their continued health, the three tried to be unobtrusive but, as Lorcan explained to his friends, they were as obvious as a boil on the forehead.

‘This place considers a good day’s fishing to be a time when the herring run in gargantuan shoals. For these people, a flock of crows attacking a village cat in a time of drought is a matter of cataclysmic, heavenly intervention. And a babe who is born with an extra finger? Well, that’s a message from Loki or the Devil, or the trolls have come to earth to claim one of their own. Such disasters would be far, far less noticeable to these people than three armed men who have come here from the south on a social visit.’

‘Please, Lorcan! Can’t you just hope for the best for once?’

The man who spoke was probably in his fifties, but showed none of the overt physical decay of his ripe years. He was still very tall and straight, and he wore a pair of ferocious whitish-blond moustaches that overhung his clean-shaven jaw. Only a distinct yellowing around the mouth revealed something of his age. However, his hands were well cared for and muscular, while his shaved head revealed he had spent many years in the sun and was comfortable with strong physical exercise. His vigour in the saddle resembled the energy of a far younger man.

‘I’ll gladly pray for the rest of the night if necessary, my friend, but no amount of prayer will change your appearance. You are obviously a Frank who is miles from your sodding home and your king. And this sprog,’ the priest flipped an expressive hand towards a young man mounted on a superb stallion. ‘This paragon of virtue is so fucking good-looking that every female under sixty tries to get him between her legs. Try being observant for once, Germanus. What would have happened at Molzen, in the marches of Thuringia, if I hadn’t recognised those fucking Saxons at the inn? You were deeply in lust with that blond- haired pair of tits and wouldn’t have recognised Arthur if he’d bitten you on the nose.’

‘Shut your nagging, Lorcan! I’m thoroughly tired of how you go on and on and fucking on!’

‘Will both of you be silent?’ the quiet young man hissed. Around them, on a muddy road near the outskirts of the city walls, a number of plump citizens rode fat donkeys to market; phlegmatic ruddy-faced farmers walked beside wagons laden with baskets of fresh produce; and gape-mouthed women with muddy skirts pulled snotty-nosed children out of the reach of the stallion’s hooves. The local population was entranced and frightened by these three men with their angry eyes and dangerous weapons.

Having gained their attention, the young man edged his stallion close to the two older men. Only several children sitting in the crown of a half-grown tree above them heard the hissed conversation that ensued.

‘You old bastards have squabbled during the entire journey from Reims, Metz, Speyer, Fulda . . . now that was a prize shit-hole . . . and then through Molzen, Halle, Brandenburg and Schwerin. And now that we are close to our destination, you’re still arguing. What has it achieved? As you kindly noted, Lorcan, your arguments came to the attention of a troop of Saxons near Molzen. They noticed us because, after a jug of the roughest red wine I’ve ever tasted, you took the opportunity to scream out at Germanus that Saxon dogs were watching us. As Germanus was occupied with Blondie Big Tits – my apologies to the lady – you saw fit to repeat your news, only now you suggested that our Saxon friends held strong feelings of lust for their sheep.

‘Then, in Brandenburg, Germanus caught a cutpurse who was stealing his silver coin, so he decided to beat the man senseless. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but this thief was the son of a local councillor and the lad’s father usually reimbursed the young man’s victims but, being ignorant of the arrangements, you decided to trounce the young fellow. You’d still be in prison if I hadn’t paid a gold coin to get you out.

‘Then you, Lorcan, met another woman in Schwerin. Married, of course! And you seemed to forget that you’re supposed to be a priest. Please! I’d like to reach the land of the Dene alive, especially since we’re so damned close now. Can’t you smell the sea around us?’

‘Is that what that stink is? I suppose we should be grateful that we seem to have outrun the plague and we won’t see its return until spring and summer.’ Lorcan tried to deflect Gareth from the long list of sins committed by the two old reprobates. One dirty foot in an open sandal made nervous circles against the hide of his mule, so the beast shied fretfully.

Against all the odds, the trio had travelled safely into the north from the land of the Britons and had almost reached the northern seas in their quest to find Prince Arthur, the adopted son of Bedwyr, Master of Arden Forest, and the natural son of Artor, the High King of the Britons. The prince was their master and their friend, so it was inconceivable that they should be so close and yet fail to rescue him. For his part, Gareth had decided that nothing, not even these two old men whom he loved and respected, would be permitted to stop him from completing his self-imposed quest.

With their greater speed and flexibility, the Dene longboats had managed to cut off the erstwhile merchant ships filled with Geat warriors who were seeking sanctuary with the Saxons at Rugen Island.

Arthur knew very little about the niceties of long-distance navigation, but he was fast becoming expert in the killing of men. When the first of the Geat stragglers came within sight as it waddled through the slow swells, Arthur had demanded that the ship surrender to prevent unnecessary loss of life.

‘Try to board us and see what you get, you fuckers,’ a bearded man roared from the stern of his boat. Those on board who weren’t fully occupied with pulling on the oars set up a chant that accused the Dene warriors, their mothers, and their unknown fathers of various unsavoury sexual practices.

Snorri flushed a dull, beetroot red before he snarled a retort back at the Geat crew. ‘Our ship sails under the Last Dragon banner. Do you intend to surrender – or will you suffer the consequences? Our captain asks but once!’

Arthur felt the sting of salt water in his eyes from the freshening wind. The dragon sail above him snapped viciously as it filled.

‘We don’t care who you are, Last Dragon!’ A loud voice drifted from the up-wind ship as it began a slow tack to starboard. ‘Your captain’s just a man – so he can kiss my hairy arse.’

This response was accompanied by further crudities and Snorri gripped the rudder with whitened knuckles. When he looked towards his captain, he shuddered. Arthur’s eyes were wintry, but his face was bare of any expression. Snorri knew that the Last Dragon was at his most dangerous when he was quiet and cold.

‘We will ram them when they go onto their next tack to port,’ Arthur yelled to his crew so they could prepare themselves for the collision. ‘We’ll run the bastards down midships!’

A ragged cheer greeted Arthur’s words, although many of the warriors felt their hearts flutter. Could they hole their own ship in such a risky manoeuvre?’

‘Snorri?’ Arthur chose not to look at his helmsman, confident in Snorri’s seamanship and skill. ‘Give the order for full speed at the very moment that the Geat ship commences her next tack. Make sure our bow strikes these bastards about a metre or so behind their midships.’

‘Aye, Master Arthur,’ Snorri responded and barked out his orders for the crew to lie on their oars. For a moment, Sea Wife sat almost still in the water.

Then, at a single command, the Dene warriors drove their oars into the sea and Sea Wife leaped forward like a hunting hound to strike the Geat transport midships. As he put his weight on the rudder to turn Sea Wife into a killing position, Snorri remembered the madness of Arthur when, as a newly appointed captain at the mouth of the Vagus River, he had ordered Sea Wife to be beached and her prow and the front section of the keel to be reinforced with plates of iron. Arthur had issued orders that a one-metre length of tree trunk studded with iron spikes should be attached to the bow of the ship just below the waterline to provide a ramming device that would penetrate the hull of any enemy ship. At the time, Snorri had thought the Briton was crazed. Longboats were built for speed rather than as fighting platforms. Now, however, he understood his master’s intentions.

Sea Wife struck the Geat ship directly at the intended point and the ram penetrated the timbers. Normally, such a ramming on the port side would have caused Sea Wife to ride over the deck of the Geat ship. The Geat hull would tip to the left and fill with water, while throwing the crew into the sea. Instead, the iron spoke impaled the hull with a screech of wood and iron as it sprang planks and punched a large hole into the vessel below the waterline. Sea Wife turned a little and ripped a huge wound in the trading vessel’s belly.

‘Now! Reverse the oars and row on Snorri’s command! Put your backs into it. Row, you bastards! Row!’ Arthur roared.

The ram on Sea Wife’s bows was pulled out of its obscene embrace with the Geat ship and sea water began to flood into the vessel’s lower deck. Terrified, the Geat crewmen began to scream. Unfortunately, many of them had no idea how to swim.

‘I knew it!’ Arthur whispered in a voice so soft that only Snorri heard. ‘God bless Father Lorcan and his passion for the Greeks. I just knew that the Greek ram would eventually do its best work for us.’

Again and again, Sea Wife sped in pursuit of stragglers. In each case, the Geat ships were offered the opportunity to surrender, but the first three vessels were rammed and sunk, despite Arthur’s offers of clemency. Then, when a trail of thrashing bodies lay in Sea Wife’s wake, the fleet of ten remaining ships finally surrendered to Stormbringer, who ordered their sailors to be bound while Dene skeleton crews were put in place to sail the ships back to Skania.

But Arthur felt his usual guilt after the heat of battle had cooled, so Sea Wife was ordered to return to pick up whatever survivors might still remain. The other Dene ships had offered no aid to the drowning Geats, for they were eager to claim their share of the captured ships as spoils.

As Sea Wife slowed to a full stop, the drowning men struggled towards the Dene vessel, ensuring that the crew was forced to repel their desperate attempts to board which were causing her to list alarmingly. The Dene sailors felt revulsion at having to strike crazed men who’d managed to survive for nearly an hour in very cold waters, but Arthur knew that the Geats could only be permitted to clamber aboard in a safe and orderly manner. The Geat warriors were now at the point of collapse at the very time when they thought they would be saved. Arthur, who had seen similar tragedies at the mouth of the Vagus River, silently mourned the exhaustion that killed without mercy.

With one hand gripping a handful of greasy hair liberally smeared with bear-fat, Arthur attempted to keep one older warrior above the surface of the slapping waves. Eventually he seized the man’s long forked beard, rousing him out of his torpor.

‘Help me with this one, Snorri!’ he called. ‘His beard’s full of grease and it’s likely to tear out of my hand.’

The Geat warrior tried to thrash about with limp, weakening arms rendered almost useless by a bone-deep weariness, but for some reason Arthur determined that his she-dragon wouldn’t take this warrior as one of her victims. She would have many fine new skulls and ribcages, so why should he allow her more? He had an odd feeling about this captive, as if he was somehow going to be important in the future.

Without any thought for the man’s pain, Arthur and Snorri plucked him bodily over the rail of the ship. The warrior lay in the scuppers in a few inches of salty water retching up water and vomit.

The captain and helmsman returned to their rescue efforts. Once every living man had been dragged onto Sea Wife’s deck, the crew returned to their oars to retrace their course back to the site of the two other sunken vessels. The man atop the mast and the lookout on the ship’s bow searched in vain for any trace of life among the slow swells arriving from the open ocean, but other than a few seagulls squabbling and fighting on the wind, the sea was bare.

‘They’ve all gone, master,’ Snorri remarked. ‘The weight of their armour and exhaustion must have tipped the balance against them. If we’d passed up the survivors from the third ship to return to the first, we might have saved some from drowning, but who could have known what was likely to happen when we were fighting an engagement?’

Arthur knew that Snorri was correct. ‘Aye, you’re right enough, Snorri. It’s Loki’s luck for the Geat warriors, I’m afraid!’ Arthur’s lips twisted. ‘In any dealings with the sea, rules of logic don’t always apply. Some of the Geats were lucky, so the she-dragon spared them because she was busy with dozens of their brothers.’

Snorri, used to the strange poetic streak in his master, refrained from asking who the she-dragon was. As a good Christian, Snorri was scathing about the old superstitions, but he would have to be crazed to admonish Arthur in any way. He knew his master’s mercurial temper, although Arthur had never displayed a cruel or capricious streak.

Snorri kept his eyes fixed on their projected course as the ship negotiated the swells. Arthur was aware that his crew mightn’t be entitled to a share in the surrendered ships, but Sea Wife had been slowed by the extra weight of sixty men and the young man still hoped that Stormbringer would give the crew some trifling share of his plunder for the punishment that Sea Wife had meted out. The Sae Dene knew that the main reason for the surrender of the ten Geat ships was the use of Sea Wife’s deadly ram. Stormbringer would be grateful too for the minimal casualties suffered by the Dene.

Three days later, Stormbringer said as much when they made camp inside a sheltered bay on the tip of Skania, while the Dene force enjoyed the largesse provided by the local population. No sooner had the longboats been beached and the crew and captives unloaded than villagers had arrived at the makeshift camp, laden down with a whole deer, skinned and prepared for a roasting pit, a score or more of chickens, at least as many rabbits, a whole butchered oxen, and basket after basket of fresh fish laid out in bundles of sweet grass. This bounty was further embellished with late apples, berries, nuts and whole heads of cabbages stacked up like little pyramids of skulls. The crews crowed and sang with pleasure at the thought of the gorging to come.

‘I don’t think your idea will catch on, Arthur, because your ram definitely slows Sea Wife through the water and her response to the rudder isn’t quite as flexible when the swells are heavy.’ Stormbringer was devouring the succulent white flesh of a whole fish that had been cooked in a small iron cage lowered over an open fire. His mouth glistened slightly from the butter spread over the fish skin.

‘True enough! But when we are next in home waters, I’ll redesign the rams so they can be fitted quickly and easily as we need them. We saved many lives during these skirmishes off Rugen Island because of the ram. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I think of the Geat sailors who went to the bottom of the sea with their vessels.’

Stormbringer saw no point in repeating himself about yet another decision that Arthur had made in the heat of the moment, so decided to change the subject.

‘With Frodhi’s assistance, the captives will be sold in Skania and, failing that, in Ribe.’ Stormbringer grinned engagingly. ‘Frod will get a big cut out of it as well, so he’ll enjoy the challenge.’

‘What of the Geat jarls? It’d be a bad precedent to sell them into slavery when they can be ransomed by their families for far more than they are worth in any meat market. Personally, I loathe slavery! I know that my people practise it, as well as the Dene and most of the civilised world, but it seems unpalatable to own another person. My foster-father had been enslaved by the Saxons when he was a young man. He was abused and sexually assaulted so frequently that he grew to be little more than a crazed animal. Hatred drove him insane when he eventually broke free and began to take his revenge. For the rest of his life, Bedwyr refused to own any man, woman or child, so he ensured that every servant in the fortress in Arden was paid for their labours, no matter how little, and given free lodgings for their service. The people of Arden would follow my Bedwyr into Hades if he asked it of them.’

‘That’s all very well, Arthur, but slavery is just another form of coinage in countries such as ours. I’ve very few slaves and they’re mainly enemies taken in battle, often warriors whom I’ve been loath to kill. You’ve lived at The Holding. Do my workers seem unhappy to you?’

Arthur could see by his friend’s expression that Stormbringer was troubled, perhaps because slavery repulsed him somewhat too. Arthur relented, because he owed much to the Sae Dene captain.

‘You can’t really consider your workers at The Holding as slaves, Stormbringer, because you treat them as valued servants who are permitted to marry and have children, offspring who are born free. Even the son of a slave can rise to great heights in your society, as long as they have the skill and determination. For myself, I have acquitted you of being a harsh and uncaring master.’

Stormbringer looked much happier as Arthur spoke. While Valdar Bjornsen was a man of extraordinary vision, courage and honour, for all that he had been banished by Hrolf Kraki, he often looked to Arthur for validation. The Briton had a keen sense of justice and a chilling talent for warfare. His cold and rational mind always supplied practical answers to Stormbringer’s questions. Eventually, Stormbringer would have considered ransom, but Arthur’s suggestion ensured that the process would begin far more swiftly.

‘I’m grateful, Arthur. It’ll solve my problems of space and supplies that might be wasted on our . . . guests. I’ll receive silver rings, or gold, for them! By-the-by, are you prepared to accept your ship’s share of the plunder?’

‘It’s your ship, Stormbringer. I’m a Briton, remember? I have no access to any wealth in the land of the Dene.’

Stormbringer frowned with annoyance. ‘For the sake of all the saints in heaven, when will you have done with this talk? I gifted Sea Wife to you after your contribution to our victory at Lake Wener, when your skill and bravery robbed the Geats of their leader. You always say that you didn’t know he was the Healfdene at the time, but it doesn’t matter. We won easily because of your efforts. Did you know that your ship’s crew could have chosen to leave you and offer their allegiance to another jarl? No? How many chose to change vessels? None! They wanted to serve with a courageous Briton. Who’d have believed it?’

Stormbringer’s sarcasm, delivered with an impassive face, forced Arthur to laugh at his own foibles. Put like that, his scruples sounded ridiculous.

‘As any share of the plunder concerns my men, I’ll accept your generosity with thanks, my lord. They’ll sing your praises at the cooking fires for the next week.’

‘So easily bought!’ Stormbringer joked. ‘Incidentally, I have another matter of importance that I must broach with you.’

Arthur selected a crisp golden chicken that had been roasted over hot coals, then used his delicate eating knife to split the bird down the middle. He appeared to give this his full attention, but Stormbringer knew those keen eyes were missing nothing.

‘Speak freely, brother. Whatever you ask is yours for the taking.’

‘Strictly speaking, what I desire requires only your tacit approval. The final decision for what I’m about to ask won’t be yours to make.’

‘Oh?’ Arthur’s brows lowered with suspicion, but his gaze was still open and friendly, so Stormbringer took heart and plunged back into an awkward, obviously prepared speech.

‘As your sister’s oldest male kinsman, I want permission to ask for your sister’s agreement to a contract of marriage. I know there’s a great disparity in our ages – she’s fourteen now, and I’m near enough to thirty years old.’

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Stormbringer cut him off.

‘I know any such betrothal means that she is unlikely to return to her home, but she would become the mistress of a large estate at The Holding, and would be free to order her life as she chooses. I know she chafes under the rules that govern the roles of women in your homeland, so I can offer her greater freedom than she would enjoy elsewhere.’

Stormbringer paused for breath and, once again, Arthur tried to interrupt. But Stormbringer was adamant that he had more to say.

‘I realise that Maeve is of high birth and the wisewoman at World’s End promised her a throne; a prospect I cannot imagine beyond the Sae Dene throne which I already hold. But I would protect her and cherish her as no other man would. I understand her rarity and her courage, so I’m prepared to gift her with forty acres of prime pasture land, twenty rings of silver and ten of gold, fifty sheep and the same in milk cows, chickens, goats and ducks. These gifts are intended to make her independent of any man until her eventual death. Further, she may bequeath her acres in any way and to any person whom she chooses.’

Arthur was surprised at the size of the dowry that Stormbringer was offering. Suddenly, the succulent chicken was tasteless in his mouth as he evaluated the enormity of his sister’s potential wealth. Alone, friendless and without any dowry at all, she was being offered freedom and an economic independence that was the equal of any queen’s. He gaped at the prospect.

‘Brother . . . I can hardly argue with your proposal, and I’m certain that my sister will be honoured by such a generous offer. If she has to marry anyone, I’d be perfectly happy if the lucky man was you, for you understand how difficult she can be. You may approach her, by all means, but Maeve will make this decision for herself.’

‘You’re surprised, Arthur. Is the match so bizarre? Speak honestly, my friend, for I love her dearly.’

‘Your offer isn’t bizarre. I know that Maeve needs an older man who can understand her complexities. She was reared to understand that she would eventually marry to further her family’s interests, such are the practicalities of marriage in our society, so the bonus of love and your offer of independence should prove almost irresistible. For what it’s worth, I would be proud if we became kinsmen.’

Then the two men toasted the future and attacked the meal with a renewed appetite and a sense that something new and special was coming at last.

The courier arrived three days later. Stormbringer was closeted with him for an hour before the man departed, presumably in the direction from which he had come. Stormbringer, for his part, said very little about the courier’s message, an omission which Arthur found vaguely disturbing.

Over three-quarters of the prisoners had been moved to the slave pits, but the ransom negotiations for the jarls had only just begun. Messages must be sent with reliable traders who could move freely between Skania and Gotland.

Arthur was surprised to discover that the man he had forcibly rescued by the beard was a cousin of Heardred and had been given the grandiose name of Beowulf after his maternal grandfather. During his years roaming through the Dene lands Arthur had heard the saga of Beowulf and, with his limited experience of Heorot, had marvelled at what the gifted singers had made of the legends. He had also heard the saga of Hrolf Kraki and found nothing realistic in the hero of this long and courageous tale. Perhaps Beowulf Minor was just as flawed.

Now, talking with the grandson of a legendary hero, Arthur admitted that the situation had all the quality of a surreal dream. The aging warrior with the famed name was good company, and was likely to provide wealth to Arthur and bring him a little closer to his goal of a return to Britain. Besides, he liked Beowulf.

The hide tents where the jarls and Geat aristocrats were housed were far from palatial, but the homely clutter of boots and tunics dropped or draped on every surface reminded Arthur of the tent he had shared with Eamonn and several other British lordlings when they were boys. No matter what age, men almost always created chaos in their living spaces. As one of the rare exceptions to this rule, Arthur understood how freeing it would be to drop his possessions on the floor. He said as much to Beowulf Minor.

‘This place smells like a giant’s armpit, Beowulf. How can you stand it?’ Arthur was nothing if not blunt.

‘What do you mean, Arthur? I can’t smell anything,’ the Geat replied, a little put out at the implication that he might be dirty in his personal habits. ‘I wash regularly and my clothes are scrubbed by Hermann’s woman at least once a week.’

Arthur’s nose wrinkled, but he allowed the subject to drop.

Beowulf was bluff, rather short for his race at a little less than six foot tall, and darker than most of his kin. His nut-brown hair was streaked with white-blond and grey strands and his eyes were a very pale blue. His hands were uncommonly beautiful. Long-fingered, blemish-free and well kept, Beowulf used them to express his feelings, so Arthur watched those fingers to gauge the Geat’s opinions at times when the man would be loath to speak freely.

‘I expect you to be ransomed within the week, Beowulf. Believe me, my crew will be pleased to receive their share of your asking price, but I’ll miss our evening conversations. You’re an interesting man, my friend.’

‘Aye, lad! In some ways I’ll be sorry to leave, for it’ll be hard to return to my king as a failure. He’ll not be happy with me either. I’ve learned much from you, young man. You Britons have absorbed the knowledge of people from many lands and cultures. Rome, Constantinople, Gaul and Spain are wondrous places with much to teach us.’

Beowulf’s longing made Arthur snort.

‘Give you lot a little civilising, and we’d have your fighters knocking at the doors of the south for entry . . . and none too politely either!’

Both men laughed for different reasons, but Arthur continued to watch Beowulf’s hands. ‘The new ways will come though, of that I’m certain,’ Arthur added wistfully. ‘The Dene, Goth and Noroway warriors will migrate to the softer lands of the south for living space and plunder, sooner or later. If I manage to return to Britain, I can only hope that I’m long dead before that day comes. I have no desire to go to war against my friends from the northern climes.’

Then he broke the sombre mood with a grin.

‘I’d hate to kill any of you, and I know it might come to warfare. Even you, Beowulf of the Hairy Feet, could one day become an enemy of my people if they mistakenly considered you to be the same sort of man as your king and some of your kinsmen.’

It was Beowulf’s turn to snort with what sounded like contempt. ‘Heardred is consumed with thoughts of you, Arthur, while he’s got no idea what sort of man you really are. All he hears are terms such as The Last Dragon or The Ruin of Kings and he froths with rage. I’m sorry for the massacre at Lund in the border lands. The whole matter was unnecessary. Heardred didn’t even stick to his word, for Lund isn’t in Blekinge.’

Arthur knew he should try to hide any surprise at this new information, but his face revealed his concern. ‘What or where is Lund?’ he asked bluntly.

‘You’ve not heard of the massacre at Lund then, have you? That damned man! I was sure you would have been informed when the courier came – you being the cause and all! Shite and piss! May that stupid Heardred discover one day just how cold Udgaad will be for him.’

A cold feeling began to form a lump of ice in Arthur’s throat. The situation at Lund must have been very severe for Stormbringer to keep all mention of the subject away from him.

‘Tell me, Beowulf. Put aside any shame at what your kinsman has done and tell me what you know. I won’t blame you because I can tell that you had no part in it.’

Beowulf nodded. ‘I’ll tell you, because you can easily learn the fate of the people of Lund from any of the prisoners in the camp if they dare to speak openly of the events that took place there. Heardred boasts of it as a victory over you and blames you for the separate fates of the Dragon’s Brood. I had no idea what type of man you’d be until you yanked me back to life by my beard.’

Both men laughed, but cautiously. Perhaps their burgeoning friendship could be killed off by King Heardred’s sins.

‘I’ll not blame you for anything that’s occurred, Beowulf, but I need to know if an atrocity has taken place because of me.’

‘Aye!’ Beowulf sighed. ‘There’s no nice way of describing the rape and murder of everyone in the villages and hamlets around Lund and the systematic execution of those people who were caught in the town. The ravens grow fat on bodies that were left unburned. Through his enmity, Heardred has sought to humble you and turn your name to a word of dread.’

‘How many were killed?’ Arthur asked, his voice suddenly very hoarse.

‘The estimates vary, but I suppose at least one and a half thousand people of all ages and sexes were killed. I’ve been told that Heardred demanded that the victims shout curses at you in the hope of being left alive. Such promises were lies, of course! I’m sorry, my friend.’

Arthur rose to his feet and poured a mug of beer. When offered, Beowulf refused the ale with a shake of his head.

‘But that’s not everything, is it?’ Arthur demanded. Beowulf’s body language suggested that more had yet to be told – probably the worst part by far.

‘Do you remember the threats that Heardred made against the children of Blekinge aged between five and ten? In that time of their young lives when they are most desirable to certain perverted tastes?’

‘Aye, I remember! But I never supposed that any king would stoop so low as to sell little children into such despicable slavery.’

Beowulf turned away so he wouldn’t have to see the rage and shame in the young Briton’s eyes.

‘My king did what he promised! The children have been sold into the vastness of the East and every loyal Geat is now shamed by the blood that has been poured over our hands. I cannot bear such dishonour, Arthur. So, tell me, what can a man do to atone for these crimes?’

Arthur went very white, his eyes icy slits in his skull. Suddenly, Beowulf saw the face of retribution staring blindly past him, as if Arthur could pierce the many miles between him and Heardred and tear the man’s throat out with his bare hands.

Beowulf was very glad that this cold stranger had no arguments with him.