I am posting the first chapter of Adan the Last, a Viking novel I hope to publish next year. Enjoy!

ADAN THE LAST   CHAPTER ONE

            “Aden.  Aden!”  Uncoiling from a troubled sleep, the Viking captain quickly scanned the horizon, then looked at Oaken, eyebrows raised.

            “Can you not see it?  Have your eyes turned to stone?”  Only Oaken dared speak to their captain that way.

The sail on the horizon could spell their doom.  Especially if other sails were to follow it through the fog bank from which it had emerged.  The Norsemen were exhausted from fighting the storm that Loki, the trickster god, had no doubt hurled at them for sport the previous day.  Only five of their number had survived the disaster on the Northumbrian coast of Britain, and they could barely manage to sail the longship with so few.  The normal complement was thirty-three.  Pulling on the oars through the night to keep the bow into the wind, with two of them weakened from wounds they had sustained fighting King Ethelred’s soldiers, the other three were slumped on their sea chests, senseless from the storm that had abated at first light.  Oaken, their Kendtmand—senior navigator—had remained vigilant while the others slept.  Though he had passed more than 50 winters, his eyes were those of a bird of prey.

            Aden groaned as he stood, hanging onto the single mast with one blistered hand to steady himself.  As the longship rose on the next swell, he squinted.  From just in front of a fogbank that stretched across the sea from end to end, there emerged a square sail, blue and white stripped.  Definitely a longship.  Yet another disaster.  Aden had long been known for his good luck as well as his fighting skills.  He would need both to survive.  He glanced up, as if to summon a bolt from Thor.

            The other ship would surely offer to fight, especially when they saw how few men Aden had.  And it was likely there were other longships still in the fogbank.  If he turned to try to outrun them, he would be headed away from their destination, the Vestfold region of the Norseland, where Aden was master of a large bir, with its farmstead, in Kaupang.  If it had survived his half yearlong absence.  The five of them had little strength left, either for fighting or for sailing.  But Aden could not give back any of the twenty-five days of hard sailing they had endured since they left the British Northumbrian coast.  He had less than the turning of a small sandglass to devise a plan.  Squinting, Aden counted thirty-four warriors in the other longship, its blue and white-stripped sail hanging limp.  They were quickly fitting the oars into the oarlocks.  It would not take them long to close with thirty-two warriors rowing.

            “Who be your captain?”

            “Aden the Last.  Who hails me?”

            “Where are your crew?” the speaker demanded.

            “Plague.  The whole of Northumbria is rotting from it.  Lay a course for the south coast and pray it has not found its way to York.” 

Lars, Aden’s master of archers, retched over the side.  His face, and those of Aden, Oaken, Wulfken, and Mangus were yellowed and dark splotched.

            “Ye’ll not be needin’ the longship, then, will ya now?  Best find your way to the feast halls of Valhalla and put an end to it.”  The blue and white sail crewmembers guffawed and pulled fingers across their throats.

            “I demand the right to parlay,” Aden yelled, then staggered back in a coughing fit, as the two longships closed to within three oar’s lengths.

            “Parlay!  And what might we have to say to the likes of you half-dead she-goats?”

            “One last draught of ale.  We’ll drink to your quick deaths from the plague, then meet you on the field of battle when the Valkyries bring your stinking hulks in for the pickings.”

            “Send us your ale, you rotting dung.  I’ll propose a toast that . . .”

            The swell dropped the other boat and raised Aden’s, and he heaved a cask down into the other longship.  It splintered on the deck, the warm, liquid pitch flowing across several of the Northmens’ legs as it ran from near the bow towards the stern.  By the time the startled warriors recognized what it was, Lars had fired a flaming arrow amidships, then flung the concealed burning torch amongst the panicked warriors.

“Row!” Aden roared.  He and all the others, save Lars, pulled with every sinew of remaining strength.  Lars fired arrows into the stricken longship, picking off their captain and several who were attempting to put out the fire.  Six burning men had jumped into the water and were now clinging to the sides.  Four sprawled in the flames, arrows protruding from chest or back, while two others tried to pull protruding shafts; one from his shoulder, the other from his knee.  Several of the attackers shot arrows and threw spears at Aden’s longship, while a dozen others battled the fire.

 As the range increased, Lars jumped to Aden’s side, motioning him to man the steering oar.  Screams and curses followed them, but were soon muted by the creeping fog that gently enfolded the burning longship.

            “Hold,” Aden commanded when they were out of range.  The four Vikings bent over their oars, gasping.  “Oaken, can you get us through that fog?”  Aden pointed behind them where a faint glow outlined a burning sail.

            “Only if one of the gods owes me a favor.”

            “Turn us around.  We row slow and quiet till we are past their boat, if she still floats.  And if one of the gods owes you, Oaken, we will find the backside of the fog and make sail for home.  Quickly collect the arrows that were ‘gifts’ from the bastards we burned, then we row. Speak no further word; make no sound.  Not a ripple.”

In an hour they broke into the dull gray, high overcast noonday.  Shipping their oars, the Northmen pulled the rust-colored square sail, made from heavily oiled wool, from its sealskin pouch and began to raise the mast.  They were momentarily terrified by a strange voice.

            “By all the gods, help us!  Have mercy.”  The faint cry came from dead ahead.

            The Vikings recoiled and instinctively lunged for their weapons.  Oaken spotted the struggling men first; they were clinging to oars and strakes, waving frantically, about fifty oar’s lengths ahead of them. 

“By the turds from a thousand assholes,” Oaken growled, “we’ve been rowing in circles around the motherless bastards.  I think I can get my bearings now, though.”  Oaken ignored the men in the water and looked up at the weak sun.  “We should eat something before we get underway, Aden,” he added. 

Of Aden’s three original longships, the surviving one was the largest at just under a hundred feet long and fifteen feet wide, with thirty-two oars.  Most of the provisions—dried meat and fish, sour milk, dried apples, onions, biscuits, and ale—had been stowed in the large boat, so the survivors had not suffered from want of food and drink during their return voyage.  But crewing with just five men had been exhausting. 

            Aden nodded, staring astern at the floundering men, then glanced at his ensign—twin ravens on a white background—at the top of the mast.  The breeze had changed direction and strengthened.  The ravens snapped.  It was a good omen. 

            “They can watch us eat before they drown,” Wulfken chuckled.

            “If Thor hadn’t owed Oaken a favor, we would be the ones in the water, Aden replied.  “I wonder . . . ?”

            Oaken returned with a butt of ale, filling each man’s horn, then portioned out some tough, dry deer jerky, stale biscuits, and apples.  Aden continued to watch the men in the water.

            “We need extra crew,” he said.  “Pull over to them.”

            “Aden, are you sure?  They’d number the same as us.  They could slit our throats,” Oaken said.

            “We finish eating, then I’ll talk to them.”

            “Are you here to kill us?” one asked, his voice the sound of a rasp on metal.

            “We need some oarsmen.  You’d be slaves.  You’d work day and night and be cold, hungry and thirsty.  But if you serve me well, when we reach our destination I will offer to accept your oath as a warrior . . . or, I might keep you as my slaves.  I own a large estate with many cattle, many people, good buildings.  I need four of you.  Who is willing to accept my offer?”  All were.  “But there are five of you.  One must be left behind.  You decide.  The rest may swim to our longship.  We will begin rowing in five minutes.”

            “Lungar is wounded.  He can’t pull an oar.  Took an arrow.  Everybody else swim for it,” their spokesman said, beginning to paddle.  Three others followed him.

            “May the gods roast your balls over a low fire for all eternity,” Lungar yelled.

            “We will send you to Valhalla,” Aden shouted.  He nodded to Lars, who notched an arrow.  It struck Lungar in the neck.  He gurgled once, then slid from the strakes he had been clinging to.

            “Grab that arrow, and bring it back!” Lars yelled.  The man nearest to Lungar swam back to him, took a breath, and finally resurfaced with the arrow in his teeth.  In a few moments the exhausted warrior handed it up to Lars before being heaved aboard.

            The rest of the spent, shivering men were dragged into the longship and searched.  Only one had a knife, which Mangus took.

“You will be watched.  Fail to obey any order and you join Lungar,” Aden said.  The four grunted.  “Oaken, give them each a horn of ale, and a biscuit.  When they have finished, assign them to oars amidships.  When it becomes full dark, rope them in pairs and tie off the ends to the mast.  Give them two sleeping hammocks to wrap in.  We sail for the Vestfold and home.”  The captives collected four arrows and one spear—“gifts” from the defeated longship, handing them to Lars.  Lars had fired nine arrows; the four that had been scavenged proved most welcome.  And the spear might prove useful for fishing.  Even with nine crewmembers they were in no condition to do battle.  Their weapons were too few.