Ruric

By Rico Larsen

Set against the backdrop of actual historical events, Ruric is the tale of a man hell-bent on revenge. A tale of war and love.
The year is 1157, a year which history, literally was written in blood. We witness the birth of an empire as our leading man plays his role in this pivotal moment
of Danish history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rico Larsen
• Release date: Aug 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9788799805501

Rico Larsen

Rico Larsen is a 15 year veteran of the Royal Danish army. Born in Denmark, Raised in England and now living in Denmark again he is a husband and father of two beautiful children. After leaving his beloved Army he has embarked on a new adventure and is proud to present his debut novel for your enjoyment. The writing bug has hit Rico hard, several titles are taking form and should see the light of day as soon as he can find a way to get some time off from his day job as a security professional.

Book preview

Ruric

Copyright 2015 Rico Larsen

Cover art copyright 2015 Rico Larsen

Published by Rico Larsen at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

All rights reserved under U.S. and International copyright law. This ebook is licensed only for your private use. This text and cover art in its entirety may not be copied, scanned, digitally reproduced, or printed for re-sale, may not be uploaded on shareware or free sites, or used in any other manner without the express written permission of the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Disclaimer

This ebook is a work of fiction set against the backdrop of actual historical events. All fictional characters are however the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. All the material contained in this book is provided for your enjoyment only. Graphic violence and texts of a sexual nature are present and may not be suitable for all. While every attempt has been made to provide information that is both historically accurate and enjoyable, the author does not assume any responsibility for any inaccuracies that may be contained within this book.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

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

Glossary

A little about me

Get in touch

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to my father, a man I am proud to call a friend and to my comrades in arms who have had my back in wars and conflicts all over the world. To friends and family, many of whom are no longer with us and to my beautiful wife and children who gave me the strength to see this project through. I love you all. The list of people who in one way or another have been a part of getting this book finished is way too long to write here. Many have helped with ideas, names, places and just about everything else that has made it into this final edit of my take on this pivotal moment in Danish history. Each and every one of them knows who they are and I am sure they know how grateful I am for all the help and encouragement.

Prologue

Civil war had ravaged these dark northern lands for as long as anyone could remember and had left them filled with the foul stench of endless death. Famine and disease had swept the country leaving it desolate and uninviting. War was nothing new to the good people who inhabited these fair isles; they had lived and died by the sword since the beginning of time.

The glorious age of the Viking conquests of England was unfortunately long gone. Internal turmoil was now the order of the day, leaving men and women alike to wage a daily battle for survival. What meager living they could make from the ashes left by the constant feuding of the ruling class was modest and in most cases only served to fill the coffers of the nobility.

Kings had come and gone, taking the cream of generations with them as they battled for control of every scrap of land they could get their hands on.

It was now the year of our Lord 1157, a year which history would be written in blood. Three kings had finally come together and divided the lands between them, they had made a peace which although extremely fragile, could spell the end of the nightmare that governed the very existence of every man, woman and child unlucky enough to reside in the lands of the Danes.

Chapter 1

The sun dragged itself annoyingly slowly skyward, a giant red golden disk melting away from the cold northern landscape. Rays of light shot through the morning mist, bathing the trees and fields of the low dew covered valley as menacing darkness gave way to a warm golden blanket. The sun finally released its hold of mother earth and ascended upwards to find its place in the red morning sky.

Ruric welcomed the life giving warmth, it spread through his aching body as he lowered the hood that had helped keep him warm through the night. He had ridden for what seemed like days, it probably was given the state his horse was in but he had lost track of time as soon as he had re-entered his ancestral lands, as soon as he was back in his homelands he had had only one thought in his head. Home!

Now on this, the final leg of a journey that had taken him from the rocky sands of the Holy land, through war torn states of Europa and all the way to the top of his known world, he was there. A few more minutes and he would be back at the very place he had left some ten, twelve no fifteen summers before. The countryside had changed, the weather was colder than he remembered, even the sounds of the morning birds was different, but here, now, the familiarity of this place, the lands where he grew up, lived and raised a family hit him hard in his overly fatigued mind.

Memories flooded back. Laughing and crying, the sounds of happier times echoed around his brain, he could almost smell the food bubbling away in a pot as his darling wife prepared the family meal, his daughter bouncing around the hearth listening to the stories his father loved to tell.

The smile on Ruric’s lips changed abruptly to a sad grimace as the horse, literally on its last legs staggered over a small rise. One thing that hadn’t changed was the ruined village before him. Reality smacked Ruric hard in the face as he studied the buildings that once housed family and friends. The village, his home, had always remained full of life in his head even though he knew that everyone was gone.

He pulled gently on the reins bringing the thankful horse to a stop, its head sank exhausted and its muzzle started nipping hungrily at the dew covered grass.

Good girl, Ruric whispered and patted the horse on its neck as he dismounted.

His legs almost collapsed under him as his boots hit the soft ground, spraying mud up his leg. He brushed it off as best he could and scanned his clothing and equipment. It was all in as bad a state as his horse. Fifteen years as a soldier had taught him that he had to take care of his belongings.

Be ready at all times, his captain had drilled into his head, Take care of your horse, then your weapons and only then can you take care of yourself.

It was a routine he had lived by for so long but today was different; today he just didn’t care, because today, he was home.

A tear rolled down his cheek as Ruric took a not so leisurely stroll through the old, burnt remnants of the once thriving village. His hand blackened by age old soot as he ran his fingers over what once was a gate that guarded the entrance to a graveyard.

He stopped for a moment and dried his eyes. He tried to contain his sadness before pressing on into the overgrown, forgotten patch of land where his family had been laid to rest, it didn't work.

There was a single cross for every family that had lived in the village, a single cross to mark the resting place of entire families that had been buried together in a single hole.

Together for eternity, Ruric mumbled silently as he made his way to the centre of the graveyard, towards his own family.

He knew exactly where they were, he knew where all the people he had known and loved were placed because he was the one who had placed them. He had dug all the holes, fashioned all the crosses and it was he, who had prayed over each and every grave, he had been the only one left.

The years had not been kind to the three crosses that appeared before him. Moss grew thick up what once was an ornately carved piece of oak. Ruric ran his finger over the carvings that were almost weathered away; carvings depicting figures from tales his father had told came to life as he traced the intertwining lines. His daughter’s favorite characters, Odin, Thor and the rest of the Gods from the old religion appeared in his mind. A slight smile crept over Ruric's lips as he remembered having carved the cross, well knowing that he would be judged a heretic should a priest or any other man of religion see it.

In this part of the country, away from the towns and religious centers, the old ways had still bore weight with the elders. Harald Bluetooth had made all Danes followers of the white Christ some two hundred years past but it had been hard to fully convert to a religion based on the teachings of men who lived so far away. The elders had always made a great fuss, primarily when they were drunk and their wives weren’t around, about how a dead God couldn’t possibly have any power up here in the north like the very much alive Norse gods that had ruled here since the dawn of time. Ruric smiled as he remembered how they seemed to transform into righteous, proper Christians every time a priest was around.

Ruric himself had however never believed in the old Gods, they made for good stories on long summer evenings, the stories his beloved daughter so loved to hear. He had found the exploits of the warrior Gods exciting as a child but as an adult he had found that Jesus, the Lord and savior had been ever present in his life. His reasoning for this was unclear even to himself, but after spending most of his life fighting in the Holy land, fighting to preserve Christianity in a land that seemed to kill everyone and everything that dared invade its borders he had found that someone or something had protected him.

Ruric closed his eyes, his mind recalling the many times he should have been killed. How was it that he had survived for so long in a place that had taken so many of his friends? Why had he been spared? God knows he didn’t deserve it; he had killed many people, albeit in the name of the Lord, he had done things that in the civilized world would have seen him dangling at the end of a rope. Why God? Fatigue got the most of him as he slumped onto the damp ground, cradled at the foot of his daughters cross. Welcome sleep embraced his body as pictures of his family drifted through his mind welcoming him home.

***

A squawk pulled Ruric from his slumber; instinctively he grabbed the hilt of his sword unsheathing it, ready to fight. He scanned the graveyard with weary eyes, half expecting to see Saracen soldiers attacking but there was nothing, not a sound, even his horse didn’t seem to be worried as it stood grazing. He sheathed his blade putting the whole thing down to just being another nightmare.

Ruric knelt and began clearing moss from his daughters cross. He wondered how long he had slept; the sky had turned gray, tiny droplets of rain fell icy cold from gathering storm clouds. A second squawk made him turn just in time to move out of the way of the most majestic bird he had ever laid eyes on.

A raven, glistening black, with wings turned back dived past him, inches from his nose and landed on the cross. Ruric sat on his backside and watched the big black bird flap its wings. Its eyes, golden amber in color seemed to have a hypnotic effect on him as it looked him in the eye; it felt as if it was looking into his very soul.

Memories of the day Ruric’s family was killed flashed in quick succession through his mind, one image kept coming, over and over again Ruric saw the man responsible, his golden surcoat adorned with a menacing family crest, a black raven.

Tears ran down Ruric’s cheeks as he screamed, Is this a sign? Tell me Lord is this the path I am to take?

The raven let out one final blood curdling squawk, flapped its wings and flew away and melted into the night. Ruric was left alone, silently sobbing. Was this a sign from God? Had he been spared a violent death in the crusade so that he could return home and exact his revenge on the man who was responsible for all his pain and sorrow?

The questions that raced through Ruric’s head were many but the answer seemed to come from his own hand, he gazed up at the cross and there it was dead centre, the only piece of the cross untouched by wind and rain. The raven was the last thing Ruric had carved; it had been his daughter’s favorite, one of Odin’s two messengers which now stood as the answer. Ruric grabbed a handful of dirt from the grave and clenched his fist so tight that his knuckles turned white.

His eyes fixed on the small carved bird, a silent prayer, an oath of retribution. Brushing the dirt from his fingers he produced a small cross from around his neck, dirt smudged onto the white wooden surface as he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, I know what i have to do.

Chapter 2

The old stone castle had stood the test of time; perched in perfect silhouette on top of a gentle slope and surrounded by marshy woodland countryside it had made a perfect sanctuary and home. Janus felt the cold breeze eating away at his old bones as he stood pissing up the wall in the eerie torch lit courtyard.

In his sixtieth year he was considered an old man and even though his many years as a professional soldier had left him battered and tired he was still lord of this house and a man to be respected. Scanning the familiar old buildings that had been in his family for countless generations he was happy yet sad at the same time. Tonight was the night he would relinquish control of everything he had built, everything he had inherited from his father would be passed to his son.

The rain had picked up and as Janus stumbled drunkenly back towards the great hall he stopped, took a deep breath and wondered what life had in store for him. Where would he go from here? Only time will tell, he mumbled to no one in particular as he made his way past a guard who opened the door to the stairwell leading out of the dank, wet exterior into the main hall, his house and home, the place where he had been born and undoubtedly the place where he would draw his dying breath.

***

The smell of food and ale mixed with the warmth from the hearth welcomed the old man inside. The great hall buzzed with life as Janus entered. It had seen better days and the odd leak or two still had to be seen to, but the thralls had done a good job getting everything ready for this special evening. The feast had thus far been a great success, everyone seemed to enjoy eating the fine foods, dancing and singing along to tunes played by a merry band of French troubadours Janus had hired at great expense, nothing was too good for his guests on this festive eve.

Janus slalomed towards his table. Situated on a raised platform at the end of the hall it was placed according to tradition, he and his family were sat centre stage under a huge embroidered banner bearing the family crest, a black raven on a golden background. He had learnt to admire the black bird that watched over his house, as a young boy he had been terrified of it, but as he grew he had become fond of it. His father had proudly displayed the bird on patches sewn onto his surcoats, one of which now adorned Janus’s aging corpus. Janus found his seat placed between Udgod his son and his daughter in law Lady Sara, he slumped and drank.

He studied his son, Udgod was a young man