The Viking's Chosen (Clan Hakon #1)
Quinn Loftis
The hand fell to the ground with an audible thud, accompanied by a scream from its previous owner. Hager was the third man to lose a limb or appendage in a fortnight. Such a staggering casualty of limbs was understandable during war time, but the Hakon clan—my clan—was between raids. Instead of spending this brief respite of peace at home with his loving wife or in the alehouse guzzling his weight in mead, Hager was now lying on the ground, writhing in agony.
I turned away from the bleeding man. The blood didn’t bother me, of course. I’d seen much worse on the battlefield. Neither did the brutality of the punishment, which I had been tasked with administering. I was sick and tired of seeing my countrymen—fine warriors and assets to our clan—punished so severely based upon the word of one soldier. Wasn’t a man supposed to have a say in his own defense? Didn’t he have a right to confront his accuser or see the evidence presented against him before judgement was passed?
But Jarl Magnus gave his clansmen no such chances. The jarl commanded absolute obedience, and anyone suspected of being less than completely loyal was dealt with swiftly and severely.
I had been the jarl’s hersir—chief general—for a mere three months and I’d already severed a dozen limbs at his command. I’d crippled a dozen men, so they could wield neither plow nor sword—no longer able to defend or provide for their families.
I could handle cleaving an axe through human flesh. At times, I confess, I might even have enjoyed it, especially when the victim had the audacity to invade my homeland of Ravenscar, threatening my brothers and sisters—my clansmen. I could handle the screams. I could handle the blood. But I couldn’t handle knowing that I’d weakened my clan. I couldn’t handle knowing that I’d wet my blade with the blood of my clansman without tangible cause. Such was not our way—or at least, it shouldn’t have been.
But that was exactly what I had to do. Many others in the clan would’ve killed for my job, and they may yet. Magnus, childless, had no heir, making the clansmen become restless. They could feel a storm brewing on the horizon. All-out war was coming—the Oracle predicted as much—but whether from within or without, we didn’t yet know. The jarl being heirless only exasperated the feelings of unease. If the jarl died without a successor, the strongest of those who remained would take over. A civil war would no doubt follow. Clan Hakon would weaken, distracted by infighting and vulnerable to invaders. If things worsened further, the clan could splinter, collapsing from within. The Oracle, my mother, prophesied that unseen enemies threatened Clan Hakon, and that the clan was more vulnerable than it had been in a hundred years.
My appointment as hersir was greatly protested, many decrying my age, as I’d only reached my twentieth winter. Indeed, the Oracle reckoned I was the youngest hersir in the history of the clan. They did not think that I was strong enough to serve in such an important and sacred role. It was as though they had forgotten that I was raised a Norseman warrior and would do whatever was necessary to see my clan survive. And, though it was not my desire, tradition often saw the hersir ascend an heirless jarl’s vacant throne, but never without a fight. But I did not know what I would do if such things came to pass.
Regardless of what storms were on the horizon for Clan Hakon, I only wished for the strength and vitality of my clan. Whatever it took for those things to remain, I would do. I would see clan Hakon survive generation after generation. I would see the strength of clan Hakon echo throughout the hall of Valhalla, so the even the gods themselves would take notice.
It is fortunate to be favored with praise and popularity. It is dire luck to be dependent on the feelings of your fellow man.
* * *
~The Havamal, Book of Viking Wisdom
My attention was drawn from my troubled thoughts by a voice that reminded me of the scraping of an axe on a grinding wheel—a voice I’d come to despise.
“Torben, meet me in the training yard,” Magnus commanded.
Swallowing down the contempt I felt toward my king, I followed him to the fenced-off area where my warriors practiced and readied for battle. I stood silently by his side while he watched the men run through countless drills—drills not typical for our people. Most clan warriors were merely converted farmers, laborers, or skilled workers. It wasn’t common for a clan to train its warriors so rigorously, continuously honing their fighting skills. Such practice took away from time spent hunting, fishing, or farming. But these sacrifices strengthened the clan as a whole, and, I believe, were well worth the time spent. This regimen was put in place by my predecessor, who was a wise battle strategist. We’d won many wars under his command. I trusted his judgment; so, after he died and I ascended to the rank of hersir, I continued the program.
We watched the warriors sparring in tense silence. Brant, one of my most trusted warriors and kinsmen, was engaged with two green recruits. A mountain of a man, Brant bellowed to the heavens and then swung his huge war hammer in a giant sideways arc. The rightmost recruit held up his shield in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow. With a yelp, the man’s shield splintered, the force of the blow sending him flying backward into his companion, sending them both toppling.
“Ha! A game of Kubb with greenhorns. This is fun! Who’s next?” Brant let out a hearty chuckle, holding his hammer high while scanning the crowd for another challenger. Finding none, his shoulders slumped and his face fell comically.
“Perhaps they’re more scared of your breath than your hammer, Brant. I don’t think any of them want to get within a sword’s reach of you for fear of the smell,” I yelled across the training ground to the huge man who was now leaning easily on the haft of his hammer.
“I’ll take any advantage I can get on the battlefield,” he responded, still chuckling.
“Go grab a drink in the mead hall before you kill all our recruits. I’ll meet you there in a little while. And try not to drop your hammer on anyone’s foot again. I need these men in fighting shape.”
The other warriors seemed to take this as their cue that training was over for the day. The luckier of the two defeated recruits, the one who’d been pushed off-balance by his comrade rather than Brant’s hammer, helped his partner back to his feet. After picking up the pieces from the shattered shield, the pair followed their fellow warriors toward the armory to stow their equipment.
Magnus and I leaned against the wooden perimeter of the grounds, watching as the warriors departed. The king, who was almost as large as Brant and certainly just as fierce, had not engaged in the open banter with one of his strongest warriors.