Norseman's Oath (The Norseman Chronicles Book 5) by Born Jason

Author:Born, Jason [Born, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Halldorr Publishing
Published: 2015-02-13T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 5

Men of any excellence are hard to find.

If the spectrum of men runs from my head to my heel, then excellent men of any stripe are represented just by the portion above my brow. As you might guess, I believe Olaf Crack-a-Bone Tryggvason was at the crown. Below him, from his seat down to my brow would be where other fine men resided. Finding them in the world was nearly impossible.

We’d raided for several weeks after taking the cattle at Viklow. The cows shit on the deck planks of Charging Boar. Belly wind burst from both ends of the beasts – mouths and rumps – making our sweating shipload of men smell even worse than normal. None of it bothered us. We slid into shore after shore. Small treasures and goods found their way into our holds. Thin Irish boys and girls found themselves chained within our hulls. They’d be sold on the block in Dyflin’s marketplace. And before you, in your Christian mind, begin shaming me, remember that if the Irish could build ships as fine as ours, if they could muster even a tenth of our military ethos, they’d be on the shores of Norway doing the same to us. Back then I thanked Odin for his gifts of shipbuilding and woodworking to my people. Now, as a follower of the One God myself, I question those violent actions of my youth. Nonetheless, rather than any of the old gods, instead I thank him for those same gifts.

Olaf continued to prove himself to be a true sea king. He wasn’t some grubby warlord. Even though his clothing and sometimes his words demonstrated the latter, his manner, his way of addressing his men, his boisterous personality all meant he was a king without a country. But Olaf had followers. Their numbers swelled by the week. New men would join a ship. A new ship would join his armada. Olaf was a leader of men and he was excellent.

Sitric had a ways to go before anyone would proclaim his excellence. Gormflaith, I suppose, would eagerly weave tales of her fine-bearded son’s prowess at this task or that activity. Such tales would be mere stories made up in her head, though. They’d be like the old Head Ransom poems. You see, when a king captures a man and means to have his head lopped off, it is customary to allow the prisoner the chance to recite an extemporaneous poem in order to save his brains. More often than not the attempt is filled with bald lies about the king, the man’s captor. The poems go on about how brave is the king. They tell of his fearlessness, steady resolve, and iron chest. They are all lies. Everyone knows it. Yet, if the lies are bold enough and the man’s meter is true, the captive gets to walk away with his head intact. Gormflaith and Sitric, back then when Silkbeard was a pup, told themselves tales of how superbly the prince led his city.

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