The Prow Beast
The epic and action packed fourth novel in the Oathsworn series, charting the adventures of Orm and his band of Viking brothers.The Oathsworn have become feared and respected throughout the Viking world. Their name goes before them and men cower in their presence. But fame comes at a price…While the Oathsworn revel in their new-found fame, Sterki, an old enemy with revenge in his heart, attacks their homestead - the Fjord Elk is sunk, old oarmates die and the Oathsworn are forced to flee into the mountains.Unused to losing, the Oathsworn retreat to lick their wounds. They have been entrusted with the care of Queen Sigrith, pregnant and soon to bear the heir to the crown of Sweden, and though the urge for revenge is strong, Orm's first duty is to protect the queen. And Orm soon realises that revenge is not the only thing on Sterki's mind; he has joined forces with Styrbjorn, nephew of King Eirik and next in line to the throne if he can only get rid of the current heir.As the Oathsworn fight to defend themselves and their newfound celebrity and fortune, they're soon to realise that fame isn't all it's cracked up to be…
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The Prow Beast
Robert Low
To my daughter Monique â all the treasure this father needs
The prow-beast, hostile monster of the mast
With his strength hews out a file
On oceanâs even path, showing no mercy
Egil Skallagrimsson
Table of Contents
The sun stayed veiled behind lead clouds streaked with silver. The rain hissed and the sea heaved, black and sluggish as a walrus on a rock, while a wind dragged a fine smoke of spray into my eyes.
âNot storm enough,â Hauk Fast-Sailor declared and he had the right of it, for sure. There was not enough of a storm to stop our enemies from coming up the fjord with the wind in their favour and that great, green-bordered sail swelled out. On a ship with a snarling serpent prow that sail looked like dragon wings and gave the ship its name.
The oars on the Fjord Elk were dipped, but moving only to keep the prow beast snarling into the wind that drove the enemy down on us; there was no point in tiring ourselves â we were crew-light, after all â while the enemy climbed into their battle gear. When we saw their sail go down would be the time for worry, the time they were ready for war.
Instead, men kept their hands busy tightening straps and checking edges, binding back their hair as it whipped in the wind. All of Jarl Brandâs lent-men from Black Eagle were here, save six with Ref and Bjaelfi who were herding women and weans and thralls away from Hestreng hall and up to the valley, with as much food and spare sail for tentage as they could carry. Away from the wrath of Randr Sterki and the snarlers on Dragon Wings.
I hoped Randr Sterki would content himself with looting and burning Hestreng, would not head inland too far. I had left him wethers and cooped hens and pigs to steal, as well as a hall and the buildings to burn â and if it was the Oathsworn he wantedâ¦well, here we were, waiting for him at sea.
Still, I knew what drove Randr to this attack and could not blame him for it. I had the spear in my throat and the melted bowels that always came with the prospect of facing men who wanted to cleave sharp bars of metal through me but, for once, did not wish to be elsewhere. This was where I had to be, protecting the backs of mine and all the other fledglings teetering on flightâs edge, from the revenge of raiding men.
Men like us.
Gizur, swinging down from stay to stay through the ranks of men, looked like a mad little monkey I had seen once in Serkland, his weather-lined face such a perfect replica that I smiled. He was surprised at that smile, considering what we faced, then grinned back.
âWe should ship oars, Jarl Orm, before they get splintered.â
I nodded; when the ships struck, the oars on that side would be a disaster to us if we left them out. There was a flurry and clatter as the oars came in and were stacked lengthways; men cursed as shafts dunted them and now I saw the great snarling prow of Dragon Wings clearly, heard the faint shrieks and roars, saw the weapon-waving.
I was watching them flake the sail down to the yard when two of Jarl Brandâs lent-men shoved through our throng, almost to the Fjord Elkâs prow, nocking arrows as they went, stepping over bundled oars and shoving folk aside. They shot; distant screams made our own men roar approval â then curse as an answering flight zipped and shunked into the woodwork. One of the bowmen, Kalf Sygni, spun half round and clutched his forearm where a shaft was through, side to side.
âMissed that coming,â bellowed Finn, hefting his shield as he moved to the prow, clashing ring-iron shoulders with Nes-Bjorn, who was headed the same way; they glared at each other.
âI am Jarl Brandâs prow man on the Black Eagle,â Nes-Bjorn growled.
âYou are not on the Black Eagle,â Finn pointed out and, reluctantly, the big man gave way, letting Finn take his place. Across on Dragon Wings his counterpart, hero-warrior of his boat, stepped up, mailed, helmeted and carrying a shield, but nothing better than a ship-wood axe.
They had the sail down and the oars shipped, leaving Dragon Wings with enough momentum to crash on us, rocking the Elk sideways to the waterline, staggering men who had been unprepared for it. Randrâs crew howled and axes clattered over our side, causing men to duck and raise shields â the axe-owners hauled hard at the ropes ringed to the shafts, pulling the hooked heads tight to the inside of the Elk with their iron beards, clinching us close as lovers.
A man screamed as his leg went with such a pull, trapping him like a snared fox against the side while he beat and tugged. Holger, I remembered dully as he screamed his throat out in agony. His name was Holger.
An arrow skittered off the mast and whipped past my head; I wore no ring-coat, for I was not so sure I could wriggle out of it in time if I fell overboard. Botolf, who stood on my right, heard me curse and grinned.
