Chapter 2

Bastard Son of the Danish King

Sk?rde drained another goblet of golden mead, slamming the empty pewter chalice down upon the wooden table inside the smoke-filled healer’s hut. Although his senses were dulled from the potent, honeyed wine and the heady aroma of burning herbs, his stomach still clenched as the blacksmith rotated the red-hot iron in the glowing embers amid the flames.

Battle-hardened warrior, he’d had many such gaping wounds seared shut by fire. His entire body was disfigured with gnarled, twisted scars, transformed by tattoos into dragons and monstrous beasts to symbolize his courage and invincibility. This heinous injury—inflicted by a Frankish sword that had shattered Sk?rde’s shield and nearly severed his left arm—would leave a hideous, jagged scar.

Which úlf, with his inimitable skill with needle and ink, will mold into a fiery thunderbolt from Thor’s hammer. Portraying my infallible strength in battle.

From his seat in an oak chair facing the hearth, Sk?rde admired the hard-won Frankish sword, glistening in the firelight as it stood proudly against the wall of the hut. The double-edged blade had sliced through the leather laces of Sk?rde’s lamellar armor, carving a deep, painful gash across the left side of his chest. Forged with the highest quality steel, ornately decorated with gold and silver, and adorned with a huge blue sapphire in its hilt, the magnificent weapon had marked him with Thor’s thunder. For Sk?rde—despite his grievous wound—had slain the enemy who had maimed him.

And pilfered the priceless sword.

The healer Rolf removed Sk?rde’s damaged armor tunic and laid it on a nearby chair. He carefully peeled the underlying leather away from the blood-encrusted wound, staunching the fresh flow as he wiped away the garish gore. “You are fortunate that boiled reindeer hide is tough and thick. This lining saved your shield arm.” Beneath the admonishing frown on his crinkled brow, Rolf regarded Sk?rde with infinite wisdom glinting in his sage, knowing eyes. “Another battle. Another lucrative raid. You’ve defied death once again. Tell me, Sk?rde—is it never enough?”

No, it will never be enough. My half-brother Sweyn will inherit our father’s kingdoms. He, the legitimate heir of Harald Bluetooth, will one day reign as King of Norway and Denmark. But I—bastard son of the Danish king—can only prove my worth in battle and strive to earn, if not the paternal love of my father, then at least the respect and admiration of my king.

Sk?rde remained silent, staring at the gleaming sword he’d acquired in the hard-won victory. He and his men had successfully defended the Viking settlement of Heieabyr and repelled the invading Franks from the Jutland peninsula of Denmark. They’d pursued the retreating enemy into Frisia, where they’d vanquished the attacking army, seized valuable Frankish swords and highly prized chainmail armor, and pillaged a monastery for gold, silver, and coin.

But Sk?rde knew his men longed for more than wealth and weapons of war.

They wanted wives.

Rolf interrupted Sk?rde’s reverie with continued verbal admonishment as he cleansed the heinous wound. “Your warriors are tired of endless battles and empty beds. Many want nothing more than fertile land. And fertile wives.” Dark, bitter eyes—enshrouded by numerous crinkles of age and wisdom—regarded him sternly. “There are no women here for thousands of restless, rutting men.”

“Then I shall lead them on another raid. Down the Volga River to the Caspian Sea.” Sk?rde hissed through his teeth as the healer applied a noxious, foul-smelling liquid to the deep slash across his chest.

Rolf placed a thick wad of leather into Sk?rde’s bearded mouth. “Bite down on this.” He nodded at the blacksmith Thorkil, who removed the white-tipped iron from the blazing coals. “When I close the wound with these,” he said to the farrier while lifting a pair of metal pincers, “you sear it shut with the fire.” The healer gripped both sides of Sk?rde’s hacked flesh with his handheld tool, bringing the edges together while Thorkil sealed the deep gash with the molten rod.

As the acrid stench of burning skin filled his nostrils, Sk?rde chomped down on the leather bit to endure the blinding pain. A welcoming blanket of blackness and oblivion descended deliciously upon him.

When he awakened a while later to the soothing scent of sage, Sk?rde found himself lying on a bench inside the healer’s hut. Strips of linen bandaged the injured side of his chest, snugly wrapped around his left shoulder. The covered wound throbbed painfully with each beat of his hammering heart.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Rolph helped Sk?rde to sit up, placing a wooden cup with a pungent brew to his parched lips. “Drink this. The herbs will prevent the wound from festering and ease the pain.” While Sk?rde complied, grimacing at the bitter taste, the healer grinned. “In two weeks, the scar will be sufficiently healed for úlf’s artistic skill. What tattoo will emblazon this wound?”

“A bolt of lightning from Mj?lnir. For indeed, Thor’s thunder branded me with this victory.” Sk?rde downed the remainder of the repugnant elixir just as a royal messenger entered the healer’s abode.

Bowing his braided head before the Viking chieftain of Heieabyr , the king’s envoy announced, “Your father wishes to speak with you, Jarl Sk?rde. I have come to escort you, my lord.”

Sk?rde handed the empty mug to Rolf, arose from the furs lining the bench where he had slept, and followed the tall, burly messenger out of the smoky hut.

As the two men crossed the grassy plain, headed toward Harald Bluetooth’s royal hall, they passed bustling workshops where boatbuilders with saws and files constructed or repaired damaged ships. Woodworkers—such as the craftsman back in Norway who had taught Sk?rde his highly valued trade—carved ornate dragon prows for drakkar warships and intricate adornments for the interior walls of the village longhouses. Blacksmiths forged swords and repaired chainmail armor from the recent raid, and farmers tilled fields with plows and oxen, preparing for the annual season of spring planting.

With long strides of his muscular legs—his pace slower than usual due to his recent injury—Sk?rde traversed the village, gazing across the waters of the fjord where dozens of Viking warships and trading vessels were docked within the protective ramparts. protruding spikes, and defensive wall of the Danevirke which sheltered the impenetrable seaport. Situated on the navigable inlet of the Schlei Fjord within the Jutland peninsula, the Danish ships had viable access to both the Baltic and North Seas.

Practical for raids. Vital for trade. Essential for defense.

And Sk?rde commanded them all.

Inside Harald Bluetooth’s immense royal hall, silver threads from woven silk tapestries sparkled amidst intricately carved coiled snakes and mythological beasts adorning the elaborate wooden walls. To the right of the grand entrance, slaves rotated a spit boar over an open fire pit while nearby thralls prepared food and toiled over steaming cauldrons suspended above an enormous hearth. The tantalizing scents of roast pork, honey, spices, and aromatic herbs made Sk?rde’s stomach rumble as he entered the cavernous room. Hundreds of soldiers, drinking mead in anticipation of a celebratory feast, rose to their feet and bowed their heads in tribute at his approach.

At the far end of the vast chamber, surrounded by fearsome Viking warriors armed with axes and swords, the King of Denmark—bedecked in furs, gold, and dazzling jewels—sat his ornate wooden throne upon an elevated dais. As Sk?rde advanced toward his father the king, the royal guards, clad in thick furs and leather armor, bearing silver armbands around their massive biceps, lowered their heads before their revered leader .

Harald Bluetooth’s deep baritone resonated across the royal hall. “All hail Sk?rde the Scourge. The Dragon of Denmark.” The king arose from his throne and raised his chalice of mead in tribute, prompting the men to follow his lead. “To your glorious victory and incomparable valor. May you feast for eternity in the splendor of Valhalla.”

Sk?rde bent to one knee before his father and humbly ducked his chin while the warriors cheered with riotous applause.

“Arise, and take your place at the table of honor.” King Harald motioned for Sk?rde to join him at the prestigious banquet table, summoning a thrall to pour mugs of mead and for slaves to start serving generous platters of sumptuous food. Musicians began playing flutes, lyres, and talharpas as soldiers devoured the delectable fare.

Sk?rde sat at his father’s side and waited for the king to be served. Once Harald began eating, Sk?rde dove into the roast boar. Succulent, salty, and sweet, it was dripping with honey and melted in his mouth. He washed it down with a hearty gulp of golden mead and wiped his mustache with a swarthy hand. A royal feast in my honor. Sk?rde nearly burst with pride.

“Rolf informs me that you’ll need two to three weeks for your wound to heal. That gives us plenty of time to prepare for our voyage.” Harald grinned. The infamous front tooth for which he was named—blackened in battle long ago—was a deep blue, like a rare sapphire from the Far Eastern traders on the Caspian Sea.

Sk?rde raised a curious eyebrow as he beheld his bearded father. “Our voyage?”

“To the Pays de Caux . The Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.” Harald downed the rest of his mead, eyeing the lovely thrall who refilled his chalice to the brim. His lusty gaze followed the sway of her slender hips as she wove her way through the animated crowd. The king licked his lips before returning his attention to Sk?rde. “I wish to solidify my former alliance with Rikard Vilhjálmsson . Richard the Fearless. The Viking Duke of Normandy. Through you , my son.”

Adrenaline roared in Sk?rde’s veins.

The Vikings of Normandy were deeply ensconced along both banks of the Seine River—which led directly to l’ ?le de la Cité , the island of Paris. Did his father plan to raid the rich capital of West Francia?

Or perhaps—aided by Richard the Fearless—defeat the Franks, conquer Frisia, and unite Denmark with Normandy in a vast Viking empire?

And he, Sk?rde—the Dragon of Denmark—would lead the Danish army?

Pulse thundering in his throat like Thor’s hammer Mj?lnir, he could scarcely voice his awestruck reply. “It will be my greatest honor. Thank you, Father. I shall make you proud as I lead our men into battle.” He swallowed a large gulp of mead to quench his parched gullet. Sk?rde leaned forward, ignoring the painful pull across his maimed chest, his taut muscles twitching in eager anticipation of a glorious Viking raid. “Do we attack Paris? Or drive the Franks out of Frisia?”

Harald’s deep blue eyes gleamed in the firelight. “Neither. We voyage to the Pays de Caux. To establish new Viking settlements along the white chalk cliffs of Normandy.” The king raised his ornate silver chalice to bearded lips and took a long pull of golden mead. He set the goblet down, wiped his mustache with the back of a weathered hand, and regarded Sk?rde sternly. “Richard the Fearless has appointed you as Count of the White Chalk Cliffs. He has generously granted you possession of Chateaufort —a fortified castle and former residence of Rollo himself, the Viking chieftain who humbled the Frankish king Charles the Simple and became the first ruler of Normandy.” Harald tore into his haunch of roast boar, the juices dripping into his long, braided beard. He swiped the sleeve of his woolen tunic across his chin and guzzled the rest of his mead. “We set sail in three weeks. As soon as your injury has healed and your men have recovered from battle. Five thousand men will accompany us—warriors, blacksmiths, boat builders, wainwrights, farmers—even livestock. Everything you’ll need as Jarl of the new Viking settlements. My alliance with Richard will be affirmed. You’ll be rewarded with a prestigious title, fertile lands, and a valiant Viking army. Our men will marry Celtic wives. And we’ll reinforce the Viking stronghold by fortifying the entire alabaster coast of Normandy.”

When a thrall refilled their mugs of mead, the king raised his chalice, prompting Sk?rde to do the same. “To you, my son. The Dragon of Denmark. The new Count of the Pays de Caux .”