TLV - 01 - The Golden Horn

HARALD, THE WARRIOR

As he plunged down the slope, Ha raid had a glimpse across the enemy host below. A man ahead of him groaned and fell to his knees. An arrow stood in his eye. He pawed at it, rolled over, and Harald slipped in the blood that ran from his brain.

Suddenly the enemy front was before him. He saw a face over a shield: thick yellow brows, big nose, coarse pores. The yeoman grunted and struck out with his ax. Harald caught the blow and lurched with the shock. He cut low, striking at the fellow's legs, and saw the calf flayed open.

Harald pressed on. Teeth grinned at him, another man was there, where had the first one gone? Something clipped his helmet and he stumbled. Echoes flew in his head. He struck out wildly, catching an ax haft on his blade. The hilt was almost torn from his hands.

Was this battle, he thought dimly—this trampling and slipping and hammering, in a mill of stinking bodies? Why... did you even know, at the end, whether you had killed anyone or not? The only answers were in the blood-soaked fields—and the wretched moans of the dead...

THE LAST VIKING

Book 1

THE GOLDEN HORN

POULANDERSON

ZEBRA-BOOKS KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

ZEBRA BOOKS

are published by

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21 East 40th Street

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Copyright © 1980 by Poul Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Second Printing: August. 1980

Printed in the United States of America

THE GOLDEN HORN

This trilogy is dedicated to the memory of my father Anton William Anderson

FOREWORD

The fullest and liveliest account of King Harald Sigurdharson's* incredible career is found in the thirteenth-century
Heimskringla,
on which I have leaned heavily. But Snorri Sturluson, the prince of historians as regards style and a compiler who does not lack critical judgment, is demonstrably wrong on many points and omits others. Here one must turn to Byzantine writers: Kedrenos, Zonaras, Glykas, Psellus and others; to the Dane Saxo Grammaticus and the German Adam of Bremen; to the Englishman William of Malmesbury and the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle;
to the
M
orkinskinna, Fagrskinna, Flatey
jarbok
and lesser Icelandic sagas; and to more modern authorities such as Finlay, Oman, Storm and Gjerset. A source of much information is the verse of the contemporary skalds; it should be mentioned that all skaldic poetry translated in this book, including Harald's own, is authentic. Various sites and exhibits, especially those in the Danish National Museum, are a treasury of information about the details of daily life in the eleventh century . . . but quoting sources is a wearisome business.

*
His nickname
Hardhraadhi,
meaning hard or stern counsel, has gone down in English history as
Hardrada
(sometimes confused with
Harfagr
)
and is rendered
Hardrede
in this book.

All the major characters except (perhaps) Maria Skleraina and her father are historical, and many of the minor ones are, too; though, of course, the appearance, personality and ultimate fate of several are entirely conjectural. I have tried to respect all established facts, and to fill in the gaps with the most logical guesses. However, when facts are unknown, dates vague, motives obscure, chronicles self-contradictory and equally good authorities in conflict, I have not hesitated to select those events and that chronology which best fit the requirements of a story. Thus, Saxo's yarn of Harald's fight with a dragon is pretty clearly mythical, and therefore omitted; William's tale of his wrestling with a lion contradicts the more reliable Byzantines; but Snorri's story of Maria, while it may only be legend, may just as well be true and is included.

Sometimes one has only a hint to go on. For example, Harald's Arctic expedition is barely noted by Adam and one runestone. I have dated it at 1061, somewhat arbitrarily, but I think more probably than the 1065 occasionally given.

In short, events happened more or less as described in this book; how much more or less we cannot say.

Rather than clutter up the story with unfamiliar words, I have used the nearest English equivalents. Thus: royal guard instead of
hird,
marshal instead of
stallar,
sheriff instead of
lendrmadhr,
yeoman instead of
bondir,
etc. ("Yeoman" was chosen rather than "peasant," which connotes a servile state and a rigid class distinction that did not exist in Scandinavia at the time.) Likewise, place names which would be familiar to the reader are given in their English forms: i.e., Norway instead of
Noreg,
or in the modern forms which can be found on a map, e.g., Roskilde instead of
Roiskelda.

Exceptions to this rule are a few untranslatable words such as
jarl
and
Thing,
explained in the text, and place names which would in any event be new to the average Anglo-Saxon reader, for example Stiklastadh. Throndheim is used, a form closer to the ancient one than today's Trondheim, because of the importance of the stem. Personal names, which are exotic however spelled, have been left in their original form as nearly as possible. For the sake of clarity and simplicity, some spellings and grammar have been modified a bit. It must be remembered - that medieval orthography was a fearful and wonderful thing.

The reader interested in Old Norse pronunciations may use the following as a very approximate
(caveat!)
guide. Otherwise he can use the rules of modern German and not be too far off.

A : Broad, somewhat as in
arm.

Aa: Somewhat like
aw
in
hawk.

Ae: Like German
a.

Alf: All letters pronounced, as in
Alfred.

Au: Somewhat like
ow
in
now.

Dh: Like
th
in
this.

E: As in
end.
Terminal
e
is pronounced.

Ei, ey: Somewhat like
ay
in
say.

Gn: Both letters pronounced.

I: When followed in a syllable by a single
consonant, or when terminal, as in
machine;
when followed by
a doubled consonant, as in
it
.

J: Like
y
in
yet.

Kn: Both letters pronounced.

Ng: Always as in
thing,
not as in
finger.

O: Usually long, about as in
obey.

Ö
: As in German.

R: As in Scottish.

Th: As in
thing.

U: Approximately as in
ruthless;
when followed by a doubled consonant, as in
gun.

Y: Like German
ü
.

Stress normally falls on the first syllable.

These rules may also be applied to Anglo-Saxon and, with less accuracy, to Russian—but not, of course, to Greek, where the usual conventions of transliteration apply.

The quotation from the
Agamemnon
in Book One, Chapter X, is from Edith Hamilton's translation in
Three Greek Plays,
by kind permission of the publishers, W. W. Norton and Company, Copyright 1937 by W. W. Norton and Company, Inc.

In conclusion, I must express my very real gratitude to several people: to my wife Karen, to Marvin Larson, Philip K. Dick and Reginald Bret-nor, for their advice and encouragement; to Willy Ley and Dr. Leland Cunningham for assistance with historical astronomy; to Kenneth Gray, not only for suggesting the title but for using his immense knowledge of Russian and Byzantine history to criticize Book One; to the late Professor George Guins for help with a difficult point of Russian church history. But all flaws and errors are entirely my own.

Poul Anderson

EARLY KINGS OF NORWAY

All were of the Yngling family, descended in legend from the god Yngvi-Freyr and in fact from Harald Fairhair, who completed the unification of Norway about 872
a.d
. Some, though bearing the title of king, were local vassals; kings of all Norway are here in italic and the dates of their reigns given. It should be remembered that most of these men had brothers or half-brothers who never bore a title and are not shown. There were three interregna as follows: Haakon the Great, jarl of Hladhi, ruled between Harald Grayfell and Olaf Tryggvason; the sons of Haakon between Olaf Tryggvason and Olaf the Stout (St. Olaf); and Svein Alfifasson as the viceroy of Knut ("Canute") the Great between Olaf the Stout and Magnus the Good.

THE GOLDEN HORN

Gaily and right gleeful,

girls will spy the dustcloud

raised as we come riding

to Rognvald's town of Skara.

Hoy! Let's spur the horses

hotly, so the maidens

a long way off can listen

to loudness of the hoof beats!

—Sighvat

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 rolli
ng 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.