Ants in the Sun

By Jefferson P. Webb

"Smoke briefly passed across the openings of his nostrils and then dissipated. Twice more smoke made its way across his face until at last a slight cough came from his body. “Something is wrong – need to roll over,” he thought.“Rolled over onto something– fingers slightly moving – hurts – head hurts – feel sick.” He faded out. “Angus! Angus?” The volume by which his name was called out painfully pierced the innermost depths of the brain within his throbbing head so that he felt the muscles within his torso tighten, and then came the vomit. His body writhed for a moment until he was done and then once again lay still. Suddenly his face was cold, cold from liquid running down the sides of his face and neck to soak the collar of his tunic. “Cold,” he thought as his tongue moved to touch the very inside portion of his lips. Now he could hear the hooves of horses trotting close by, and he felt the ground beneath vibrating. Once again the cold liquid fell in rapid drops upon his face. He sighed. “Where?...home?” He faded into unconsciousness."

In the mid 1000s AD the Viking Age was in full swing. Vikings from Scandinavia terrorized the coasts of Europe, launching bloody raids in which at times, hundreds were murdered, raped and left destitute or enslaved. The second son of one of the most renowned Viking jarls of his time, Angus Ovarssen yearned to go on the raids with his father, elder brother and the other men in his father's hird. Soon enough Angus would get his chance to take up the spear, sword and shield and wear the chain shirt and helm of a Viking warrior. He would get much more than what he bargained for, and his adventures would take him far beyond where he could ever have imagined. Not only would his own fate rest on the strength of his character and courage, but the fate of his people may be in his hands in their darkest hour.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jefferson P. Webb
• Release date: Dec 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466023901

Jefferson P. Webb

Jefferson P. Webb is married and has three children. He is a graduate of American Military University with a Bachelor of Arts in History. Jefferson is also a Western Martial Arts instructor and Grand Master. For more information about the author, you can visit his website and blog at Steelfighting.com.

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Ants in the Sun

Jefferson P. Webb

Copyright © 2011 Jefferson P. Webb

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Jefferson P. Webb and Jessica Webb

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgments

About the Author

To the Steelfighter

GREECE 1040 AD

Smoke briefly passed across the openings of his nostrils and then dissipated. Twice more smoke made its way across his face until at last a slight cough came from his body. Something is wrong – need to roll over, he thought.Rolled over onto something– fingers slightly moving – hurts – head hurts – feel sick. He faded out. Angus! Angus? The volume by which his name was called out painfully pierced the innermost depths of the brain within his throbbing head so that he felt the muscles within his torso tighten, and then came the vomit. His body writhed for a moment until he was done and then once again lay still. Suddenly his face was cold, cold from liquid running down the sides of his face and neck to soak the collar of his tunic. Cold, he thought as his tongue moved to touch the very inside portion of his lips. Now he could hear the hooves of horses trotting close by, and he felt the ground beneath vibrating. Once again the cold liquid fell in rapid drops upon his face. He sighed. Where?...home? He faded into unconsciousness.

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ONE

Norway 1032 AD

The young rider and his horse sped through the frigid Scandinavian night. Angus, the second son of Ovar, a Viking Jarl of great renown, set out to claim his own glory on this night. His hand axe and scramasax hung from his leather belt, and his round shield, ornate with paintings of interlaced birds and boars, was slung onto his back. The breaths from the horse and his youthful rider billowed from their nostrils as the sleet battered young Angus' beardless face as if needle after needle were being driven into his bare flesh.

Angus had watched each summer as his father and brother left their village to join with Vikings from other villages and go on raiding expeditions. Angus had to stay at home with the women and other youngsters. Each time his father and brother would return from raiding, Angus saw with what glory and cheers they were welcomed back as they made their way back into the village in wagons filled with new clothes, jewelry, furniture, farm implements, and several slaves captured from over the seas.

Angus wanted to receive such acclaim and material wealth, and now at the age of seventeen he believed it was time that he had his share of glory. He had begun to hound his father day after day to go on a raid with him and his elder brother, but the time for raiding was done for the year. It was time to work on getting the village ready for the winter again. It made it no easier that Angus’ father was happy that his son was so eager. Angus’ brother, however, would always slap him on the head and tell Angus that he was but a little child unable to take care of himself. Angus thought to himself one day as he once again endured his brother’s taunting that he would go on his own raid. I will go off and raid on my own. I don’t need an army of men. I can do it myself!

Angus then began to plan out his raiding. He thought of all the people he liked and disliked, what he would want to take and from whom, as well as who he would want to give gifts to after his raiding was finished. As he continued to sit and devise his plan, he remembered hearing his father, brother, and mother talking about a family in the nearby village up the stream who had been trying to influence other villages throughout the land to follow them on separate raids from Angus’ father.

The head of that household was named Skaarbol. He had taken part in many Viking raids and had displayed great valor in the last season’s campaigning along the coast of Ireland. It now seemed that Skaarbol wanted to sway the other local villages to start following him instead of Angus’ father on seasonal raids. Skaarbol also had a fifteen year old daughter, Justeese, who had caught Angus’ eye at the last Thing while waiting for the elders to be finished with the meeting. Angus had decided that he would launch his personal raid against Skaarbol, killing him and taking his sword and belt, and taking his daughter captive. This would end what Angus saw as a threat to his father, and make him a hero to his village as well as get him a wife. Angus dreamed of how proud his father would be when Angus presented him with Skaarbol’s sword. Angus would wait until the evening and once it was dark and all were sleeping he would go off and claim his own glory.

Night had fallen upon Angus’ village and all had turned in for the evening in hopes to rest and stay warm through the night. Angus watched the shadows jumping across the inside walls of his family’s lodge caused by the warm and crackling fire. He became partially hypnotized by the dancing shadows and he felt his eyelids getting heavier and heavier until finally, total darkness and then sleep.

Angus awoke with a startling jolt as he swiftly sat up in his bed of padded furs on the wooden floor. He looked about the lodge room to make sure that everyone was asleep. His father and mother were snuggled up on their pallet, his brother was snoring, having fallen asleep in a chair in the corner, and the servant girls were each asleep in their furs. Angus quietly got up and slipped on his over tunic and his thick wool lined wolf skin cloak. He quietly put on his reddish brown leather boots and slid the handle of his hand ax into his brown leather belt from which his new scramasax already hung. He crept across the room and removed his spear from the weapons rack, and picked up his new shield.

The front door of the lodge began to creek as Angus opened it. As he looked back, the black haired, blue eyed servant girl lifted her head and looked at him. Angus became as if a statue as their stares locked onto each other. The girl lifted herself up on one elbow as she lay on her side, still covered with her fur blanket. Angus then realized that the cold night air was beginning to enter through the partially opened door. He slowly shook his head and held his finger to his lips, signaling for her to keep quiet. She nodded and laid her head back down on her pillow, still staring at Angus as he quietly walked outside and closed the door behind him.

Angus made a dash to the stable and led his horse out of the stable by a rope. He closed the stable door. Once the stable door was locked, Angus mounted his horse and rode as fast as he could towards Skaarbol’s village. The night air was freezing and the sleet seemed to burn Angus’ face as it hit him. His mind raced with images of how he would kill Skaarbol as he slept, and would then take Skaarbol’s daughter with him as he returned to his village victorious after killing his father’s rival. He then began to realize that not only Skaarbol would be present, but that Skaarbol’s wife, Corina, would also be there. Skaarbol also had a dog that surely would alarm him to Angus’ presence. Angus would have to throw his spear and kill the dog on approach. He was very skilled with his spear and was sure that he would be able to kill the dog swiftly without much noise, if any at all. Yet, the closer Angus got to Skaarbol's home, he began to feel increasingly nervous.

Angus had been riding for about thirty minutes and was very close to Skaarbol’s village when he thought he could hear voices in the night air. He slowed his horse and then came to a stop. Angus listened for a moment and slowly rode in the direction of the shoreline just a few hundred yards away. The closer Angus got to the shore, the more distinct the voices became though he could also hear the sound of the surf. The voices were not of the language of Angus’ Scandinavian people. Angus finally reached a cliff about two hundred yards from the shore. There were six ships being off loaded with men, and horses, all arming themselves and assisting each other in dawning their chain mail and leather armor by torchlight. These men were speaking Gaelic, and numbered perhaps as many as two to three hundred. Angus' heart pounded in his chest and he felt his face become hot. He wanted to tell his father, but the invaders had landed only some fifteen minutes ride from Skaarbol’s village. Angus knew enough about warfare to know that if the invaders attacked Skaarbol’s village and his father’s village separately, both villages may face total destruction. Angus did the only thing he could now do and rode as fast as he could to Skaarbol, but now not with intention of killing him. He rode to alarm Skaarbol of the invaders so his village would not be overwhelmed as it slept, and so his father’s village would also have a chance against the invaders.

As Angus rode into the village at full speed he pulled hard on the horse’s reigns to get it to stop. Angus quickly jumped from the horse and running up to the door of Skaarbol’s home, began to beat on the door as hard as he could. Skaarbol himself answered the door and looked upon the much smaller Angus, surprised and confused. Angus told Skaarbol of the invaders and that they appeared to be an Irish force landing for a surprise attack in revenge for the past raiding season. Skaarbol told Angus to ride through the village yelling the alarm as Skaarbol armed himself. The village had a large iron alarm bell, but if they rang it the Irish invaders could possibly hear the alarm and be themselves alerted to the presence of the village. Skaarbol’s men as well as several of the more fit women of the village armed themselves and began to form up on the edge of the village in preparation for a swift attack on the invaders, hopefully still on the beaches.

With Skaarbol’s hardy thanks and his blessings, Angus rode as hard as he could back to his father’s village to alarm them. He could no longer feel the sting of the sleet against his face, and the air was no longer cold. His fur trimmed leather hat blew off his head as he neared his village. When he came within site of his village he began to shout as loudly as he could. He noticed a couple people coming out of their homes to see who was causing the commotion and to find out what it was about at such a late time of night.

Angus dismounted and hit the ground running as he met his father who was just emerging from his home. Angus what are you doing? asked Ovar. Angus told him of the invading Irish and that Skaarbol was most likely already in battle against them. Jarl Ovar instantly began to assemble a force as his wife ran to sound the alarm. It took but a few minutes for Ovar to have fifty men ready to ride for the battle. The remaining men would stay at the village along with the younger boys and women and prepare to defend the village as best they could should Skaarbol and Jarl Ovar be defeated. It was clear that Ovar’s resolve was to fight to the death.

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TWO

Skaarbol and his hastily assembled force of some seventy men and women steadily moved in formation toward the shoreline. Skaarbol’s village had half that number in mounted warriors, so each horse carried two people toward the coming fight. The glimmering of light from the torches on the beach could be seen as the force made its way closer to the Irish beachhead. When Skaarbol was about fifty yards from the beach, the swishing sound of arrows could be heard as the few Irish lookouts spotted his force and began to yell to the forces on the beach. One of the arrows struck Skaarbol’s horse in the left area of its chest, but the horse continued on without pause. Skaarbols force spread out to avoid suffering multiple casualties from a barrage of arrows, and slowed to drop the second rider from each horse. The newly dismounted force of about thirty five men, all well armed with helmets, swords, axes, shields, and spears began to trot towards the enemy position while tightening back closer together so they could form a wedge before they ran into the enemy, rather than be too spread out. Skaarbol and his mounted force of men and women divided, sending a holding force of skilled mounted archers to Skaarbol’s right flank, and the rest to launch a charge at the enemy from Skaarbol’s left flank. The small infantry force was to attack head-on.

As Skaarbol’s small infantry wedge reached the rocks that divided the fields of grass from the sand of the beach, the few Irish archers that had been posted as guards were running down the slope of the beach to meet the infantry that were moving up the slope to meet Skaarbol’s men. The Irish found themselves surprised by the Norse attack. Skaarbol had caught them completely by surprise, and though the Irish greatly out numbered the Viking force, they would have an uphill fight since they were not yet ready for battle.

Skaarbol and his mounted group attacked a mixed group of Irish who were working to unload equipment at one of the ships. A few were mounted and others were on foot. Skaarbol’s cavalry crashed into them at full speed, slicing men as they went while the horses trampled and knocked others out of the way. The Vikings grabbed torches that the Irish had set up for light to work by, and began to set fire to some of the offloaded supplies and one of the ship’s sails.

The Viking’s small infantry wedge met the Irish infantry as they made it about three quarters of the way up the snow-covered, sandy slope. The sounds of steel swords smashing against wooden shields, the screaming of battle cries, and the slicing sounds of a sharp edge through flesh filled what was once quiet night air in which only the sound of sleet hitting the ground could be heard. The small band of Viking infantry fought ferociously against the greater numbered Irish but was starting to be pushed backwards up the slope from whence they came. Skaarbol’s archers fired their arrows as quickly as they could, but the ever increasing sleet was hampering the flight of the arrows, throwing off their accuracy and slowing their impact. Nevertheless, the archers were able to fall a few of the Irish before the Irish began to push their position, and they found themselves falling back and away from the band of infantry. Skaarbol, having set fire to one ship, continued to cut his way through the Irish, but rider by rider and horse by horse his mounted force was dwindling fast. His position was the most precarious as he found himself fighting in the center of the Irish positions on the beach. Skaarbol was beginning to try and fight his way into the back of the body of Irish that had begun to push his infantry back up the slope in an attempt to take pressure off them, but the Irish were too many, and it was beginning to look bleak for Skaarbol and his men. Skaarbol had without doubt caught the Irish beachhead by surprise, and had already killed or wounded many more of them than could ever be expected had he fought the Irish on their own terms, but the battle was now rapidly being lost.

Skaarbol’s horse suddenly fell forward with a shrill scream as an Irish warrior cut both of the horse’s front legs off with his claymore sword. Skaarbol fell to the sand and scrambled to get up to defend himself against the claymore wielding Celt. The battle scene was cruel, brutal, and as ruthless as Skaarbol ever had seen. Intestines spilled out from Irishmen, limbs fell from Norseman. Blood sprayed from men, women and horses of both sides. The Irishman with the claymore swung his large sword missing Skaarbol. Skaarbol quickly drew his scramasax and closed with the Irishman, ramming the knife into his throat just under the chin, felling the brave warrior. Skaarbol suddenly took a hit in his spectacle helmet from the blunt side of a long handled ax head, knocking him once again to the blood-soaked sands. His ice blue eyes peered out of his chain mail laden helm to see the raised ax ready to come down upon him. The axe’s edge held in it a glimmering reflection from the torch light and fires that had been set. Skaarbol watched, wide eyed, as the ax head began to lower on him with great force. The Irishman’s face was filled with rage and determination. Suddenly, Skaarbol saw sparks flying from the head of the ax as the point of a sword thrusted into the side of the axe head, knocking it off course enough to miss Skaarbol. Skaarbol quickly took his scramasax and ran it into the exposed side of the Irish warrior, collapsing him on the beach. It was Ivar, son of Jarl Ovar who had knocked the ax head off course.

Angus was successful in getting the warning to his father, and the great Jarl had arrived for the battle. As Skaarbol’s archers fled the battle they quickly encountered Jarl Ovar’s force moving in to assist. Jarl Ovar’s force ran headlong into the Irish main body on the beach and bypassed the smaller element that was in pursuit of the archers. Jarl Ovar’s mounted force plowed into the Irish totally breaking up any organization that existed and the battle became a free for all for the Irish, who had started to feel that they were overwhelmed, though in fact they still had a numerical advantage. The Irish began to fall back to their ships, many of them running into the icy waters to escape the well orchestrated Viking assault. Jarl Ovar’s force began to dismount and board one ship where fighting was desperately fierce and heated. The Irish were determined to hold possession of the ship and as the battle on board raged, the ship began to push off. Before long Jarl Ovar realized that there would be no retreat from his fight as he and his Vikings were now fifty yards from shore. If they retreated by jumping overboard they would sink to the bottom of the sea because of the weight of their armor.

From the shoreline, Skaarbol, Ivar, and the rest of the Vikings were finishing off the Irish. They could see that the ship that Ovar had attacked was now at sea. The group of about 20 Irishmen that gave chase to the Viking archers was now returning to the beach after being bypassed by Ovar’s forces. What they saw was one of their ships engulfed in a raging fire, the bodies of half of their fellow warriors dead on the beach mixed in with the Viking dead. They also saw that their other ships had left them behind and they were now abandoned, left to the mercy of the Vikings who now sorely outnumbered them. Right before their eyes they were witnessing their fellow warriors on the beach being cut down mercilessly as they tried to surrender.

Ivar and a group of his father’s men rode up to the band of Irishmen. The Irish warriors stood motionless as the Vikings on horseback stood before them. The Irish Lieutenant looked at Ivar, Our prince is among the dead on the beach, and his brother, Lord Manus has abandoned us. We could fight to our deaths in a final stand against you, or you can allow us to join you and perhaps get vengeance on Manus one day if you have found us a worthy opponent. Our future is in your hands, my lord.

Skaarbol rode up alongside Ivar in time to hear the Irish terms. Skaarbol said to Ivar, You have saved my life Ivar, and I am in your debt. Thank you for coming to our aid with your father and his men. You have risked your own life in saving mine. If it pleases you I will give you my daughter Justeese as your wife, and I will proudly call you my son.

Skaarbol and Ivar smiled and clasped hands. And now your fates, Irishmen, said Ivar. I will allow you to live if you pledge your loyalty to me. If you pledge so you will be divided up and spread throughout the villages and earn your keep. Those of you found worthy will be granted a wife of some of the slave women and will live among us, and will raid with us as well. Do you accept these terms and pledge your loyalty to me?

The Irish lieutenant looked back at his men and then forward to Ivar again, We pledge our allegiance to you Lord Ivar. You are our lord and we will serve you well.

Then you will live, and be with us. You fought well tonight, Irishmen, said Ivar.

The Vikings began to collect all the weapons entangled with the bodies on the beach when a voice shouted that a ship was approaching. Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched as the ship drew closer to the shore. It was Jarl Ovar! He was standing at the front of the ship, his sword sheathed. He was holding his helmet in one hand and he was leaning on a railing with the other hand. On his face shone a great smile through an ice encrusted beard. He had won his battle with the Irish. After taking control of the deck, the Irish below deck gave up the fight and surrendered to Ovar. He too had allowed his prisoners to live if they pledged service. They would be allowed to raid and acquire wealth as well, and would become part of the Viking’s community of villages.

In all that night there were captured some sixty Irish and one ship. Four other Irish ships had escaped, but not before one was burned down until its final timber sunk into the water, turning its flames into smoke. The Irish had suffered ninety four killed in the battle. They had been soundly defeated, and the Irish Lord Manus was sent home defeated before his campaign could even truly begin.

Jarl Ovar and Angus climbed down from the ship while their men began to remove the Irish from the ship. Ovar and Angus both walked over to meet Skaarbol and Ivar who were now off their horses and sharing mead from the same drinking horn. All four men exchanged hugs and hardy hand shakes and greeted one another with smiles and laughter.

You made it back! said Skaarbol to Ovar.

Yes. How do like my new ship? replied Ovar.

Skaarbol said, It is nice. How is the crew?

Lacking a bit, and for some reason not all of them are here, said Ovar.

The Vikings laughed heartily and began to walk towards one of the fires that were once a portion of a ship to try and warm themselves a bit. Now that the fighting had stopped, the men began to feel the great cold of the night air and sleet. Also, it was clear that there were just a few too many prisoners for the number of Vikings now in the makeshift camp that was but a little while earlier the site of the fiercest battle any of them had yet seen. It was decided that a few of Skaarbol’s men would march the Irish crewmen from the captured ship in the direction of a village, and then once a sufficient distance from the beach, they would be cut down.

And so it was done. And the surviving Irish were those former infantry who fought valorously on the beach.

Two riders were sent back to Jarl Ovar’s and Skaarbol’s villages to take word of victory to the people. The people of the two villages remained alert through the night in the event that there was another Irish force, but there was not. Jarl Ovar and Angus boarded Ovar’s new Irish ship to find quarters for the evening once the Vikings had made sure there were no more Irish on board hiding.

As they moved along the walkway below deck Ovar and Angus began to talk. Angus, you fought so incredibly bravely tonight. I cannot tell you how proud I am of you for your performance in this battle. Skaarbol is also impressed and he told me that he will present you with a gift tomorrow for your bravery and riding to warn us all. Not only did you take several Irish lives tonight, but you saved the lives of so many of our own. I could not be more proud of you right now, my son. As well as what Skaarbol will present you with tomorrow, you will be allowed to take your pick of whatever Irish sword and armor you wish to have that we have collected, and you will have one of the nobleman’s tents as your own along with a servant of your own to take when we go campaigning together next season.

Angus smiled at his father as his father placed his arm around Angus’ shoulders. He was incredibly happy that he was being rewarded for his participation in the battle, and was extremely excited about what, or rather who, Angus believed Skaarbol would present to him.

What is it that Skaarbol has for me, father?

You have to await the time with patience and we will see my son. I’m sure you will find it to your liking, said Ovar, with a smile. I must, however; ask you something. What were you doing riding so far away and so late at night in the cold? asked Ovar.

Angus suddenly felt his face become flush, and felt an almost over bearing sense of panic inside. He managed to keep his composure, and answered his father. I woke up with a start and found that I could no longer sleep. I sat for a while and thought it would be fun to bundle up and arm myself, and go riding alone in the night. Perhaps I would find a wolf to kill for a new fur. I thought it would make a nice little adventure of my own, said Angus, who actually felt quite ashamed not only of the fact