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    The Golden Horn
    The Golden Horn
    The Golden Horn
    Ebook345 pages5 hours

    The Golden Horn

    By Poul Anderson

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    About this ebook

    From an award-winning author: A novel of the fierce Norse warrior who would become the lusty and powerful Viking king Harald Hardrede.

    At seventeen, Harald Sigurdharson—one day to be called Hardrede—tastes the bitter nectar of blood and battle for the first time, and from that day forward he will forever crave the intoxicating brew of war. Though he knows it is his destiny to conquer and to rule, he is still young and the throne he covets is beyond his grasp. In the meantime, the wide world beckons.
     
    Setting out from Norway after a great series of mercenary adventures in Sweden and Russia, the now towering seven-foot-tall Harald arrives at Constantinople on the Golden Horn. In the heart of an empire choking on its own intrigues and excesses, as a member of the Varangian Guard—the foreign warriors entrusted with the safety of the Byzantine emperor—and a tireless suitor to an enticing beauty from a powerful clan, Harald carves out his legend in flesh, bone, and blood. But his true path stretches to the other side of the world, for he must ultimately return to Norway, his homeland, to claim his royal birthright.
     
    A winner of multiple awards including the Hugo and Nebula, author Poul Anderson begins an epic trilogy of historical fiction with this novel, bringing to life the eleventh-century conqueror who was known as the last Viking.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateDec 8, 2015
    ISBN9781504024402
    The Golden Horn
    Author

    Poul Anderson

    Poul Anderson (1926–2001) grew up bilingual in a Danish American family. After discovering science fiction fandom and earning a physics degree at the University of Minnesota, he found writing science fiction more satisfactory. Admired for his “hard” science fiction, mysteries, historical novels, and “fantasy with rivets,” he also excelled in humor. He was the guest of honor at the 1959 World Science Fiction Convention and at many similar events, including the 1998 Contact Japan 3 and the 1999 Strannik Conference in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Besides winning the Hugo and Nebula Awards, he has received the Gandalf, Seiun, and Strannik, or “Wanderer,” Awards. A founder of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, he became a Grand Master, and was inducted into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame. In 1952 he met Karen Kruse; they married in Berkeley, California, where their daughter, Astrid, was born, and they later lived in Orinda, California. Astrid and her husband, science fiction author Greg Bear, now live with their family outside Seattle.

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      The Golden Horn - Poul Anderson

      Prologue

      Of Olaf the Stout and his Kin

      Over the land came a troop of men riding. They were the guards of Norway’s king, and he was on his way to see his mother.

      Winter still dwelt in the Uplands, but as the band moved southward and down, into Hringariki shire, they felt the first winds of springtime. Here the mountains had sloped off into hills where spruce trees stood murky against snow. The sun glittered from a high clear sky. Louder than hoofs in mud, a river brawled seaward over stones. Now and again a raven flapped off, astoundingly black, as the riders neared.

      They were big men, shaggy in furs wrapped over chain-mail byrnies, reddened by the cold. Sunbeams ran like fire along their helmets and spear blades, that rose and fell with the trotting of their shaggy little horses. Shields banged on cruppers, leather creaked, iron jingled, sometimes laughter sounded. Olaf Haraldsson led them. He was not the oldest, he had not yet seen a quarter century, but he was the king. Of middle height, he was broadly built and kettle-bellied; one could even call him fat, but heavy bone and hard flesh lay beneath. His face was wide, brown-bearded, ruddy, with a blunt nose, a large mouth and small ice-blue eyes. He bore a sword at his waist and an ax at his saddle.

      We are nearly through the forest, he called over his shoulder. I remember the landmarks. We will soon be there.

      Will the beer? asked the nearest man.

      Olaf grinned. The road made a turn, the woods halted, and he rode out across plowland. Here the earth lay bare between snowbanks and the wind raised wavelets on every puddle. Smoke rose raggedly from a house on the left. The dwellers came out to gape at the warriors: burly yeomen, long-limbed women, children whose shocks of hair were nearly white, all in wadmal and winter sheepskins. Weapons sank when the troop offered no threat. Beyond them, Olaf saw their pigs and goats and cattle behind rail fences, and beyond that other steadings like this one and their lands rolling southward to the hidden Oslo-fjord. And this was his; he was the king. That fact was not yet too old to shout within him.

      Soon he spied the lake he knew, and his mother’s home. She had what was a thorp in its own right: barns, sheds, workshops and dwellings on three sides of a flagged courtyard. On the fourth side was the hall, steep-roofed, dragon heads gaping from the beam ends. Messengers had gone before to say he was coming. As he clattered onto the stones, he saw the housefolk in their best clothes awaiting him. His horse snorted wearily as he drew rein.

      Dismounting, he strode to the doorway where his mother stood. He pulled off his gloves and took her hands with sudden awkwardness. She smiled. Welcome, Olaf, she said.

      I should have come ere now, he mumbled.

      Three years was long, yes. But they were three hard years. I well understood you had no time to spare. Now come in, you and your men. Pride lifted her voice. Come in, king!

      Aasta Gudhbrandsdottir was a tall woman, still straight and slender though her thick yellow hair was streaked with gray. She looked into his eyes as boldly as a man, and he knew it was not only because he was her son. She had confronted the foes of his kindred, when they ruled this realm, with the same gaze. He remembered how she had always stood for him against his stepfather, Sigurdh Sow, and that it was chiefly her doing that he was not Norway’s master.

      Careful as a boy, he wiped his feet. In the entry room he gave a carle his coat, helmet and byrnie. His clothes beneath were good, a blue linen shirt and legginged breeches, a golden pin at his throat and a gold ring on one hairy arm. He and his guards followed Aasta into the main chamber.

      Long and dim it ran, between pillars carved with beasts and heroes. Fire leaped in the trenches; smoke stung men’s eyes before curling past the high rafters and out the holes in the roof. Aasta had had fresh boughs laid on the floor, cushions put on the benches, her finest tapestries hung on the walls among the weapons and antlers. Trestle tables had been set up and loaded with food, casks of beer and mead stood close by, the household women waited to serve. Olaf was given the high seat which had been Sigurdh’s, at the middle of one side wall. His mother sat on his right.

      First her chaplain must bless the food, for Olaf was a strict Christian and felt that his greatest work lay in uprooting heathendom throughout the land. Then they fell to, hacking off meat and bread with their knives, throwing bones to the dogs, draining horn after horn, till the hall clattered. Only after the meal, when the tables had been cleared away and the men were off to lounge about the garth, did Aasta speak much with Olaf.

      He felt he must take the lead and said clumsily, It’s a sorrow that Sigurdh is dead. He was a good man.

      Good, she nodded. Wise and gentle, and we were not unhappy together, he and I. But he lacked the heart of a king.

      Shocked at her bluntness—her husband had died only a few months ago—Olaf said, Why, he … it was he who got the chiefs to aid me against the Haakonssons, when I first came home.

      Because I made him, she answered. I speak no ill of the dead. Sigurdh Sow was a mighty yeoman, and no coward. But he was not a king, for all he bore the name.

      My father— Olaf’s mouth closed, for he thought it best to let that matter lie. Harald Gudhrodharson had been king in Vestfold shire and Aasta’s first husband, but he had wanted to put her aside and marry Sigridh the Haughty of Sweden. And Sigridh had had him murdered, saying that this would teach those little under-kings not to come wooing her. Later she married Svein Twybeard, Lord of Denmark and conqueror of England. Olaf had never known his father Harald, who died before he was born.

      Can you run these acres by yourself? he asked hastily. I could send a trusty man down to help you.

      I have enough, said Aasta. After a moment: You were good to come see me. You must tell me the full tale of how you smote the Upland kings this winter. Now there are none other left who even call themselves under-king, are there?

      No, he said.

      Keep it thus.

      I will, if God allows.

      Aasta rose. But would you not like to see the children? she asked. Stay here, I’ll fetch them in.

      They entered slowly, all but the youngest shy before their grown half-brother. The oldest was Guthorm, about ten; then came the girl Gunnhild, the boy Halfdan, the girl Ingiridh and last the three-year-old boy Harald.

      Olaf leaned forward, smiling. Be not afraid, he said. Here, come to me.

      Aasta led the boys forward. Guthorm and Halfdan already looked like their father Sigurdh, the big, slow-spoken man who had been clever with his hands and had himself worked in the fields he loved. One after the other, Olaf took them on his knee, as the custom was. To test them he scowled and glared. Guthorm shrank back and Halfdan broke into a wail. Olaf could see that Aasta was displeased, but he took Harald anyway. The lad was big for his age, with sharp eyes under a bleached mane. His face remained steady when the king frowned.

      Olaf tugged his hair. At once a little hand gave his beard an angry yank. The king laughed and set Harald down. You’ll be revengeful when you grow up, kinsman! he said.

      The next day Olaf and his mother were walking about the grounds. A warm wind had blown through the night and now the snow was melting with an old man’s haste to die and be done. Clouds banked dusky in the south, boding rain, but roofed with sunlight. A hare bolted underfoot and sparrows were noisy in the fields. On high floated an eagle, two wings and a beak in heaven.

      Talking of old times and everything which had happened since, Olaf and Aasta wandered down to the lake. It was wrinkled with wind, almost black against the last snow, and smelled wet. A broadness thrust out into the water with ten farmsteads smoking on its back. Look, said Olaf, yonder are the boys.

      Guthorm and Halfdan were building toy houses out of clay. Harald was by himself, sailing chips of wood. Ever he goes alone, said his mother. His siblings weary him.

      Olaf strolled over to watch. Harald glanced up, meeting his gaze with blue eyes that seemed oddly cold for three years old. What have you there? asked the king.

      They are my warships, said Harald.

      Olaf nodded and answered gravely, Surely the time will come, kinsman, when you lead many ships.

      He turned and whistled at Guthorm and Halfdan, who came and stood bashful before him. Tell me, Guthorm, said Olaf, what would you like to have most of?

      Grainfields, mumbled the boy.

      And how big should those fields be?

      Guthorm flushed. They should be so big that that whole ness sticking into the water there could every summer be sown with their grain.

      Olaf smiled. Yes, that wouldn’t be so little grain. To Halfdan: And what do you want to have most of?

      Cattle, said Halfdan at once.

      And how many cattle would you like?

      So many that—that— The boy waved his hand eagerly. That when they came down to drink, they would stand tight around the lake.

      You’re like your father, you two, said Olaf. But Harald, what would you have most of?

      Warriors, said the youngest.

      And how many warriors do you want?

      So many that at one meal they could eat all my brother Halfdan’s cattle.

      Olaf bellowed with laughter. When he had finished, he said to Aasta: Here you are raising a king, mother!

      He walked further with her, and what else was said between them is not known.

      Book One

      THE GOLDEN HORN

      I

      How They Fought at Stiklastadh

      1

      The night before King Olaf’s last battle, his men lay out on the ground and slept under their shields, rolled up in cloaks. It was the end of July, in the year of Our Lord one thousand and thirty, and the nights were still short and light. Under a deep blue, dimly starred sky, hills lifted like the bulwarks of a ship. Harald Sigurdharson went to sleep with the feeling that this whole earth was a ship, plunging through a foam of stars to an unknown port.

      A voice woke him, high and happy, before the sun lifted. He sat up and peered to see who stood black against the paling east and chanted. That was the Icelander, Thormodh Coalbrows’-Skald, who would rouse his fellows with the old Bjarkamaal.

      "The sun is rising,

      the cocks’ feathers rustle,

      ’tis time for thralls

      to tread into work.

      Waken, warriors,

      wake ye now,

      all the goodly

      swains of Adhils."

      Harald shivered. He told himself it was only because the dew lay so cold and heavy in his garments. But everyone knew that today the battle would stand.

      He climbed to his feet, thinking that his boyish dreams had never foreseen how far one must go to find a war. The ride from his mother’s home with the troop she had raised for him had been hurried but seemed endless. He had felt awkward, leading seasoned men, and covered that with a chill manner that kept off any friendship with them. When at last they met King Olaf, the host must then cross the mountains of the Keel. And now they were on the seaward slopes of the Throndlaw, no great ways from the fjord. Yet only lately had their scouts seen foemen gathering against them.

      The army came to life as Thormodh went on with the lay. There was a rattle of weapons, a grumble of voices, much coughing and hand-slapping. To Harald the force seemed uncountable, but Rognvald Brusason had told him it was very small to win a whole land. Olaf’s guardsmen and other friends from the days before he was driven out of the country; the men of Dag Hringsson, Norse prince called back from exile to help; the Swedes whom King Onund Jacob had lent; the Norsemen who, like Harald, had come straight from their dwellings to join, together numbered less than four thousand, many of them poorly armed.

      A strangeness has come over Olaf, Rognvald had gone on. Those heathens who would have helped, now … He shook his head dolefully. For no few common folk had come to go under the king’s banner, especially outlaws seeking to better themselves; but Olaf would only have baptized men. It had cost him five hundred warriors, who went back rather than give up the old gods. Every man left had been told to mark the holy Cross on his shield.

      Harald moved toward the king. He felt it behooved him, Olaf’s half brother, to thank Thormodh for the verse as others were doing. Olaf had three skalds with him, whom he had told to stay inside a shield wall and watch the fight so they could later tell the world what had happened. They were bitterly jealous of Sighvat Thordharson, the greatest skald of his day and the king’s dear friend. He was not here now, being on a pilgrimage to Rome, and the others had sneered at him for that.

      Harald was in time to see Olaf give Thormodh a heavy gold arm ring and hear the Icelander say in thanks, We have a good king, but none can say how long he may live. Grant me this, lord, that you let us never be parted, in life or in death.

      We’ll be together as long as I may choose what happens, said Olaf softly, if you don’t wish to part from me.

      I hope, lord, however it goes in peace and war, I may stand where you stand, as long as I live, said Thormodh. Then let Sighvat and his gold-hilted sword wander where he will!

      Harald turned away without having spoken. He had seen tears in the eyes of men.

      Rognvald Brusason was ripping flatbread and salt flesh with his teeth. He nodded to Harald to sit down and join him. A cold breakfast, said the boy.

      We may have a colder supper, said Rognvald.

      He was a tall, slender man, very handsome, with long fair hair and mustache, the son of an Orkney jarl, and among the king’s nearest men. Olaf had put Harald’s troop with his, and those two had become good friends. Though Harald was only fifteen years old, there was no great time span between them.

      Horns blew amidst echoes. The army gathered itself together and went on down the valley road. Soon dust hung heavy. Even mounted and above the worst of it, Harald grew dry in the mouth. The helmets below him were grayed.

      Once he glimpsed afar a skirmish, weapons aflash in the early sun. He started thither. Rognvald laid a hand on his arm. Easy, lad. That’s but a few scouts, who’ll be dead ere you can get there. You’ll have had enough fighting by sunset.

      A tale ran down the disorderly ranks, followed by barks of laughter. Olaf had recognized the leader of those enemy outriders who came unawares on his host. It was an Icelander called Hrut, which means wether. He had said to the Icelanders in his guard: They tell me in your country each householder must give his carles a sheep every fall. Today I’ll give you a wether to kill. Hrut and his men were cut down at once.

      Now that’s like the old Olaf! Teeth gleamed in the sweat-streaked grime of Rognvald’s face.

      Otherwise, thought Harald, little remained of the king he had known, save bravery. In his youth Olaf the Stout had been among the wildest of the vikings who harried England. That was after his namesake, King Olaf Tryggvason, was slain, and Norway divided between Danes, Swedes and rebellious Haakonssons; heathendom had flourished anew. Returning home to claim his birthright, Olaf Haraldsson had been aided by his stepfather Sigurdh Sow, and by other chiefs who were weary of foreign rule. He beat the outlanders and the jarls; he went against the Upland kinglets, slaying some and maiming others, until he alone bore the royal name in Norway. He quarreled with the mighty king of Sweden but finally married his daughter. He put down the Orkney jarls and made those islands again a Norse fief. Everywhere he handled his own Norsemen as a rider handles an untamed horse. With mild words when he could, more often with sword and fire, he broke them to the worship of Christ and his own overlordship.

      But that same almightiness had brought him to grief, Harald thought. More and more Norsemen came to hate Olaf the Stout. Many turned secretly toward Knut the Great, king of Denmark and England, who also claimed Norway by right of his father Svein Twybeard’s victory over Olaf Tryggvason. In the end, chiefs and yeomen alike rose in revolt; the Danes arrived to help; Olaf the Stout was forced to flee to refuge with Grand Prince Jaroslav in Russia.

      But now, after a year and a half, when Knut’s Danish jarl had drowned at sea, Olaf had returned home. With what folk he could gather, Russian, Swedish, Norse, he was seeking his kingship again.

      Harald’s downy face lifted and stiffened. That those traitors, those swine would dare stand against Olaf! Their king!

      But in truth Olaf had changed in Russia, changed so much that his jest about Hrut was astonishing. The man who once mowed down stubborn yeomen like wheat had lately given money to buy Masses for the souls of those enemies who would fall; he had forbidden looting and burning; he had tried to keep his army to the road so that crops would not be trampled; he spoke gently to every man; sometimes he had visions.

      Harald crossed himself. He lacked his kinsman’s devoutness, but the regrowth of heathendom which he had seen during Olaf’s exile had angered him—that men should do what their rightful lord had banned.

      They had not far to go this day. Olaf was merely looking for a good site to defend. On a high hill above a farm near Stiklastadh, the horns blew a halt.

      Rognvald and Harald staked out their horses, for men fought afoot in the North, and helped each other don mail. Underpadding, nose-guarded helmet, rattling knee-length ring byrnie, small wooden shield with its single handgrip, sword sheathed at hip, all sent a thrilling like wine through the boy. Afterward he watched men straggle into place behind the banners of their chieftains. Rognvald squinted at the horizon.

      Dag’s band is not yet in sight, he said. It had gone another way. Best we ask the king what to do. He pushed through the crowd. Harald trailed him.

      Olaf was talking with a stocky, grizzled yeoman, but turned as Rognvald neared.

      Good day to you, he greeted. What is the matter? When the Orkneyman had explained, Olaf decided: Then the Uplanders had best take the right wing. Set up your standard to rally them there.

      His glance fell on Harald, and he stroked his beard and stared until his half-brother grew uneasy. Despite his youth, Harald was already as tall as most men, wide-shouldered and narrow-waisted, hands and feet big but well formed. Thick fair hair tumbled past a lean face with long straight nose, jutting chin, thin lips. Above the large light eyes, the brows were dark, the left one higher than the right, which gave him a look of always studying the world and pondering how to overthrow it. His outfit was good, bedecked with gold, as befitted his birth, though travel-stained like everybody else’s.

      I think best you stay out of the battle, kinsman, Olaf said. You’re still no more than a child.

      Harald felt himself go hot. It angered him that his voice should break as he answered: No! I’ll be there. Should I be too weak to master my sword, you can bind it to my hand, and then see I’ve no more ruth for these farmers than you. But—but—I’ll fight with my folk!

      He gulped for breath and hastily sought a way to nail down his words. It was mannerly to make a verse at great times, and the men on Aasta’s stead had taught him skaldcraft as well as the use of arms. He blurted one that he had composed not long ago:

      "Aught shall no woman ever

      eye, than that I bravely

      guard my place and greedy

      glaive besmear with redness.

      The young deed-worthy warrior

      will not blench at spearshafts

      flying when the folk

      foregather at blood-meeting."

      Olaf sighed. Stay, then, he said in a troubled tone. It’s God’s will whether you live or die.

      He turned back to the yeoman, who owned the nearby farm, and went on: Thorgils, I would liefer you kept out of the fight and promised me instead to care for the wounded and give the fallen a grave. And if I should die, give my body the care it needs, if they don’t forbid that.

      The man nodded mutely, pressed his hands between the king’s and hurried off, stumbling a little.

      Harald went to his post with Rognvald, wondering if he had made a fool of himself. But he was soon forgotten anyhow, for Olaf rose to address his men. He stood on a rock so everyone could see him, in chain mail and gilt helmet, one hand bearing a spear and the other a white shield with a golden cross, sword belted at his thick waist. His words rolled forth with a seaman’s fullness:

      We have a big and good host, and, even if the yeomen have somewhat more men, it was ever a matter of luck which side wins. And know this: I shall not flee from this battle; for me, it will be victory or death, and I ask that the upshot be what God deems best. Let us take comfort in knowing that our cause is the better one.…

      His banner fluttered in a passing breeze, over his head of sunlit gold. The men cheered. When he urged them to go forward as strongly as they could at the outset and put the enemy’s leading ranks to flight, so that one would trip over another and the more there were the worse it would be for them, Harald thought wildly that this lord could storm Hell gate.

      Still the foe did not show himself. After Olaf finished, his army sat down in the long grass to wait. Harald’s gaze ranged about. Behind him lay the clustered buildings of the farm, log walls and turf roofs. Cattle cropped in the meadow with a calm that seemed outrageous. Beyond them gleamed a river. Elsewhere he saw hills, fields that rippled green under the wind, the dark bulk of a forest. When he stood up, he saw a few more men come to talk with the king. But presently they left him alone. Olaf fell asleep with his head in Finn Arnason’s lap. Stout Finn Arnason, of a family mighty in Norway, had stood by the king though his own brother Kalf was high in the rebel host. Harald thought this must be a bitter day for him.

      The youth tried to talk

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