Exile: The Rogue Kingdom Saga: The Rogue Kingdom Saga, #1

By J.S. Fredericks

A new age is dawning.

For over a century the Green Isle has suffered under the wrath of raiders from the north, vicious warriors who live to only pillage and plunder. For years the people of the Isle have fallen victim to axe and fire, their lands despoiled, their wealth taken, and their settlements put to the torch. But with the marriage of a prince to a jarl's daughter, that time of strife may be over. Trade and understanding may flourish once more, and the old ways of blood and hostility relegated to the past.

All is not well, however. A new man has taken the throne of the High King in the north, a man with a burning hatred of those who live to the south, and those who would make deals with them. The old ways must be upheld, and those who would defy the gods face punishment by steel and flame. And there are other opportunists eager to take advantage of the chaos…

A new age may be dawning, but will the creators live to see it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xiphos Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386214908

Book preview

Chapter One

The drums beat. Horns sounded. And hundreds, maybe thousands of eager onlookers gathered around the courtyard in front of Angvald Palace, waiting for what was to come. They crowded in, each hoping for a glimpse, some climbing onto rooftops and up trees for a better view.

Tyr had a perfect spot from which to watch, right on the edge of where the duel was to commence. He stood with his lord, carrying the man’s shield and ax as he waited for the challenged to arrive. Hakon Vetrar made for an imposing figure, over six feet tall, with a harsh face that seemed to have been carved out of the very rock of the homeland. His muscled body carried the weight of many years and the scars of many battles, yet he still remained hale, strong, a mighty warrior that could easily match anyone on the battlefield. Others were taller, more robust, but almost all seemed to lack the cold fury that burned inside the man, the determination that would one day make him king.

That fate would be determined now, for better or for worse. The rumors had finally come to fruition. Hakon had challenged the king to single combat to claim the throne for himself, invoking an old law that had been passed down from their ancestors, from the gods themselves. No one had dealt out such a challenge for generations, most being content to let the same dynasty stay on the throne. So long as their holdings were secure, they had food aplenty, wood to build their ships, and gold to collect in their hold, no one seemed to care who wore the crown of the High King of Rhonar.

But Hakon saw differently, recognized the insidious forces at work that were worming their way north, corrupting the people of the homeland and weakening them from within. Most still bent the knee to the old gods, but it was a tradition more than anything to them, mere lip service that they performed without understanding or appreciation its meaning. And some failed to do even that.

The thought made Tyr’s skin crawl. For years, for over a century the Rhonar had pillaged the lands to the south, bold adventurers and explorers, fierce raiders and warriors that took what they wanted from the people that lacked the strength to fend them off. Mastare, Elhina, Grimana had all suffered under the wrath of the north, but their favorite target remained the Green Isle, with its vast coasts, fertile farmland, and plentiful trade route and harbors to prey upon. The first raiders descended upon the hapless islanders like a storm, the likes of which they had never seen before.

That was the justice of the old gods. The law of strength ruled, and all were equal under it. Anyone could prove their worth, advance themselves by demonstrating their superiority over their foe. And the Rhonar had done so over the people of the south, taking their gold, their livestock, their riches, and their very people back to the homeland. In a land with harsh winters and often fallow farmland, the relative wealth of the southern territories seemed like a godsend. Indeed the people here had been blessed.

But the slaves taken from the south not only brought their knowledge and labor back to Rhonar. They also brought their god as well, a strange entity by the name of Otayax, a creature that they called a dragon. The more prudent jarls quickly stamped out their foolishness, forced them to convert to the true faith under threat of the ax. After all, the old gods had proven their superiority over the dragon, over the serpent that they bent their knees in obeisance. Their god had not saved them from destruction, so should they not acknowledge the ones that claimed victory over them?

Most jarls had the good sense to take care of the problem, but some allowed it to continue, letting the wound fester. Worse, some had listened, took in the lies that the southerners had preached, and then decided to bend the knee to the strange god. And the current dynasty had let it happen. For the last fifty years, the southern faith had continued to worm its way into the homeland, gaining converts and steadily growing stronger.

There were other problems as well. Now some jarls openly spoke of ending the raids on the southern territories, on forging relations with them, stooping to their level, exchanging the ax and the sword for trade. The old ways seemed to be quickly fading into the past, weakening the people of the homeland. How long would it be before the strength that blessed the Rhonar, the strength passed down to them by the gods themselves, disappeared completely?

And the ones responsible for that decline were the Stormr Dynasty, the ones that had held the throne of the High King for far too long. Tyr heard a murmur pass through the crowd and looked up. Kalf Stormr strode out of the palace doors, dressed for battle in his scale armor. He stood slightly shorter than Hakon but had several years of youth on him as well. His long beard made for an imposing sight along with his steel blue eyes, but the older man simply grunted at his opponent’s presence.

Tyr also noticed the High King’s family stepping out with him, his wife, his two daughters, and his son, carrying his father’s arms and shield. This battle would determine their fate as well, for the laws of the old gods stipulated that when a man lost a challenge for the position of High King, the lives of his family, his household, and his entire clan were forfeit. That went for Tyr as well. He and all the others that stood with their jarl would die if their lord fell.

But he had no fear of that. Kalf Stormr was a capable fighter in his own right, but Hakon Vetrar had the gods on his side. They would use him as the instrument of their justice to save the Rhonar from the forces seeking to destroy them within. Barely in his twenties and with a long life ahead of him, Tyr should be afraid. But he felt nothing, no hesitation, no doubt that his lord would triumph and bring about the changes that the homeland so desperately needed. The old ways must be saved, preserved. The old gods needed to be honored. And so, it fell to Hakon Vetrar to set things right.

Kalf Stormr stopped a few paces from the jarl, holding his helmet under one arm. You’re really going through with this, Hakon?

He received only a grunt in reply.

You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to divide our people further or sentence your followers and your family to their deaths. Walk away, and I will pardon you all.

Hakon simply took his spear and shield from Tyr’s hands and walked forward, his expression hidden behind his helmet. Tyr knew that his lord would probably show nothing, not fear, nor hatred, nor rage. He didn’t truly hate Kalf Stormr. Hakon simply viewed himself as a necessary instrument of the gods, put on the earth to fight the past wrongs and return the people to their proper place in the world. If he had to get his hands dirty with another man’s blood, so be it.

Kalf Stormr let out a sigh, put his helmet on, and took his shield and spear from his son. It would be a fight to the death from here on out, a struggle from which only one could walk away. Each had their weapons, the sword, the ax, and the spear, along with a shield and whatever armor they carried on their person. If they lost their weapon or wanted to switch, each competitor could make it back to where their second stood, forcing their opponent to wait for them to rearm. The battle would continue until one fighter lay slain.

Kalf had his son as his second, and Tyr served as his lord and father’s. He was illegitimate, though still acknowledged and respected by his father, not part of the line of succession, but trusted to stand in his shield wall, fight in his battles, and be trusted with his very arms and armor. Tyr, in turn, looked up to the man, saw him as the pinnacle of Rhonar society and what its men could become.

A buzz ran through the onlookers as the men began to circle, the anticipation in the air building to a crescendo. Kalf moved in and out, launching feints with his spear and keeping most of his body covered with his shield. For his part, Hakon didn’t even flinch as the spear point came near him. A lifetime of training and battle had honed his skills, making his movements fluid, efficient, with almost no wasted motion. That was the difference between a young, eager warrior like Tyr, and an older experienced one like his father. Hakon barely dodged because he didn’t need to, because he saw the battlefield quickly, and knew how to end a fight on a moment’s notice.

Tension hung in the air as the duelists continued to circle, and the king kept up his feints. Hakon didn’t seem bothered by his moves, hadn’t even struck back with his own weapon. The crowd began to grow restless, some shouting for both fighters to do something, though others quickly shushed them. Everyone present knew the stakes of the fight all too well. Scores of lives hung on the outcome, and neither wanted to make a mistake.

Kalf struck first.

He lunged forward at the end of one of his feints, trying to drive his spear point straight through the eye hole in Hakon’s helmet. Tyr watched his father tilt his head to one side, the weapon barely missing his helmet, but it was enough. He grabbed the spear shaft and pulled, making the younger man stumble forward. Hakon struck out with his own spear, catching the king in the ribs.

An excited murmur went through the crowd, but Kalf wasn’t dead by any means. His armor had done its job, taking the worst of the blow, and though blood flowed from a wound, Tyr knew it was merely superficial. He knew that all too well from experience that blood often made injuries look far more severe than they actually were.

But even small injuries would add up during a fight, and doubt would begin to creep into Kalf’s mind. That would doom him. His fear, his uncertainty, they would all doom him to death and the loss of his throne. A fitting end to his dynasty, Tyr thought. Uncertainty and indecisiveness had caused this problem in the first place. By waiting and allowing the wounds to fester, by not stamping out dissent and the false god from the south, Kalf had left the true believers with no choice. They had to end the decline, repair the damage before it was too late. Sometimes, when a limb had begun to rot, it needed to be cut off to save the rest of the body.

The Stormr Dynasty was that limb.

Tyr heard a sharp crack and heard a gasp from the crowd. In one swift motion, Hakon Vetrar had grasped his opponent's spear and shattered the wooden shaft. The king quickly retreated, keeping his shield up as he tried to retrieve another weapon, but it proved an unnecessary gesture. Hakon simply walked to his own corner, tossed Tyr his spear, and took his sword in hand.

The two combatants met in the middle of the courtyard once more, blades flashing as they dueled. The sound of ringing steel and chopping wood filled the air as they dueled, blocking with their shields and trying to find an opening in their opponent’s defenses. Tyr watched with considerable interest, fascinated by the back and forth between the two fighters. Kalf seemed a bit faster than his father, but Hakon made up for the difference with his experience, fending off each attack with precise, efficient movements. Nothing could seem to touch the older man, while the king suffered several wounds in the process. The onlookers on the king’s side seemed to be getting very nervous indeed.

Kalf backed off and switched his sword for his ax, while Hakon stood and waited for him to finish. The men began to circle, Hakon seemingly trying to get between his opponent and his weapons. The king made as if to take a step forward, but in an instant, reared back. His ax spun through the air, and for a single moment, Tyr felt a pang of fear in his heart. The ax hit Hakon in the head, loud enough to send a ringing clang reverberating through the courtyard. The onlookers shouted, some in joy, others in complete dismay.

But Hakon Vetrar wasn’t dead. He barely even seemed bothered by the attack, save for a minor dent in his helmet. And now he stood between the king and his weapons. Kalf was dead if he wanted to make it happen. Hakon stepped on the fallen ax and pushed it out into the crowd, effectively taking it out of the fight. The onlookers prepared for the final blow.

Hakon Vetrar didn’t oblige them, at least not right away. He lowered his sword, circled back toward his corner, and allowed the king to return to his son. Tyr smiled as he did so. The older man knew exactly where he stood in the fight. The king would have never thrown his ax if he wasn’t getting desperate, and now that his last gambit failed, Hakon had the upper hand once and for all.

Let him have his weapons back. Let him fight and have an honorable death. Let everyone present know who the gods favored. Hakon tossed his shield to his bastard son and took his ax in hand, wielding two weapons at once. He would finish the king off through sheer skill of arms.

But the king refused to die without a fight. He stepped forward once more with sword and shield in hand, a grim determination in his eyes. Kalf knew very well that the lives of his wife, of his children and his household, depended on his victory. He fought with a desperate energy, trying to break through his challenger’s defenses.

The king’s initial assault worked, forcing the older man back and robbing him of his chance to finish off the younger man once and for all. Kalf seemed to find his rhythm, his strikes becoming more precise. Or maybe the ax to the head had done more damage than Tyr had initially thought. His father seemed to move a bit slower than before, though he still had his deliberate movements. The king’s sword flashed, and the older man let out a grunt of pain. For a moment, Tyr thought his father might have suffered a serious wound, enough to seriously impair him for the rest of the fight.

But Kalf’s last desperate attempt to land a finishing blow left him vulnerable to a counterstroke. Hakon’s ax flashed, and a sharp crack rang through the air as steel cut flesh and met bone. The king crumpled to his knees, blood spurting from a grievous wound on his neck. Tyr heard cries of panic from the other side, but watched the scene impassively. With an almost reverent motion, Hakon Vetrar raised his blade and slipped his sword between a gap in the king’s armor, straight through the flesh and into the heart. Kalf Stormr fell to the stones, dead.

Before the others could fully comprehend what had just happened, Tyr and the rest of his party surged forward, hurrying past their Jarl and the fallen former king. Knives flashed, and he had just enough time to see the fear in the royal family’s eyes. Tyr reached the king’s son, cut his throat, and gently lay the boy flat on the ground as he expired. Their lived were already forfeit. No sense in making them suffer any further. He joined the rest of his party and cut down anyone that stood in their path.

Within less than a minute, the king and his court lay dead on the courtyard, their blood running between the stones. An ugly business, but a necessary one, Tyr thought. And a perfect sacrifice for which to appease the old gods. The Stormr Dynasty could pay penance for their sacrilege through their own blood. And as much as he despised the former king for his weakness, for allowing the rot within Rhonar to continue, he had to admire Kalf’s willingness to fight hard.

But that was the past. There was a new High King in Rhonar, and the changes that had been kept at bay for so long would finally come to fruition. No longer would the old gods be ignored. No longer would their people weaken, nor would the homeland fall victim to the insidious influences from the south. They would seek the blessing of the old gods once more and make them proud.

And Tyr would be among the many who would see that change through.

Hakon Vetrar, High King of Rhonar, joined them with nary a sign of satisfaction. A fire seemed to burn in his eyes as he directed his gaze to his most loyal followers.

Come now, we won’t stand around all day. There’s the gods’ work to be done.

Chapter Two

A cold, grim morning on the sea, much like that of the previous day. The crossing had been dreary, filled with cloudy days, drizzle in the evenings, and a general sense of misery among the crews. An ill omen, Jomar mused, though he dared not voice his concerns aloud. His father wouldn't stand for it, and anyhow, it could have been far worse. At least the powerful spring storms had passed, leaving the passage an unpleasant, but generally safe affair.

Five ships had left Hvall Bay, laden down with supplies, goods, and passengers. All five still sailed in unison, propelled forward by their single sails. Their specially built hulls sliced through the waves, giving a smooth ride to all aboard. Of course, the size of the vessels also helped keep them stable. The ships were the pride of Clan Hvall, a testament to their skill as craftsmen and shipbuilders, and while they lacked the shallow draft and sheer maneuverability of the standard longship, they made up for it with better seaworthiness and significantly more cargo space.

But the ships also represented a drastic change in the way that Jomar’s people would live, perhaps ushering in a new age in the process. For years, men from the north had crossed the seas to raid the coasts to their south. Hardy warriors with a desire to gain wealth and status made their fortunes at the expense of others, carrying off treasures and chattel back home. Nor were they merely driven by greed. The homeland had become too crowded, the land completely claimed. Young men could only work their family farms, if they were lucky, or had to give their services to a landowner, with all the insecurity that entailed. With such dismal prospects, raiding often became the only way to advance.

But though raiding had provided an open door for advancement, it was closing fast. Those victimized by the northerners hadn't stood idle and simply allowed themselves to become sheep led to slaughter. It had taken time, but raids were no longer simply affairs, like taking treasures from small children. Now every town had its militia, and what they lacked in martial skill they made up for with determination and valor. A desperate strength filled them as they defended their lands, their families, their very means of survival.

Jomar remembered one particular town, the last raid he had gone on. Expressly forbidden by his father from joining the group, he had snuck off anyhow. That had nearly resulted in his undoing. The men of the south had met the invaders on the beach, forming up a shield wall that refused to be broken, despite how many times the northerners threw themselves against it, or with how much fury they attacked. Eventually, two particularly brave souls had flanked the enemy formation and broke it up, though not before one was mortally wounded.

Jomar remembered the return voyage all too well, the somber feeling among the crew, the sense of dread he experienced as he sailed closer to home. His father's wrath had been terrifying to behold, fueled by worry more than anything else. Jomar didn't disagree at all. A spear had nearly taken his eye out, a last desperate gesture by a man that lay dying on his blade. Only the fine craftsmanship of his helmet had saved him from serious harm.

Though his warrior spirit wanted to see action and adventure, Jomar’s good sense had taken over. He had declined to go on any more raids over the past year, not out of cowardice, but of pragmatism. The glory days of pillaging were over. The winds of change were blowing. And with the old ways quickly becoming untenable, one option became the best means of survival: trade.

That was part of the reason why Jomar’s father had been so furious about his son's participation in a raid. Ogmund Hvall had leveraged his clan’s shipbuilding ability into a small fleet, not particularly suited for raiding, but capable of ferrying goods around the seas. Starting slowly at first, the enterprise grew into a modest but steady endeavor, not bringing riches, but enough to sustain the clan. The man continued on, trying to maintain agreements and build alliances. After so many years of suffering northern raids, potential partners remained wary, but eventually, some came around.

This voyage would be the culmination of those efforts, the final piece which would secure prosperity and a future for the clan. An agreement would be signed with Wexson, a small, but prosperous kingdom on the island to the south, and the midway point for many trade routes. With it, Clan Hvall would finally have their path to the prosperous commerce of the south, to a future where they could flourish without war.

And to seal the deal, a marriage would take place. Jomar looked across the water to the other ships, wondering if Yri was up at this hour. Barely eighteen, a tall, spirited woman in the mold of her ancestors, Jomar wondered how she would adapt to her new life. The people of the south, of Wexson, had their own customs, and he wondered how they’d regard a foreigner, a woman born to the hardships of the north, prepared to face any trial that came her way. He smiled as he remembered the horrified reaction of some captured prisoners when they found out the raiders counted women in their ranks. The Wex probably considered all people from the north uncouth barbarians.

You volunteer for watch, lad? a gruff voice said.

Jomar glanced over his shoulder and tried not to sigh. Hrani, as expected, an older man who had served his father for years, though he wasn’t of Clan Hvall. Jomar had heard plenty of stories about the man, had grown fond of him over the years, but the older warrior always seemed to regard him as a whelp with much to learn. Even at the age of twenty-one, well into his adult years, he still had to endure it.

No one seemed to care, either, least of all Ogmund Hvalli. Everyone respected Hrani, some seemed terrified of him, and others appeared to regard him as more of a living myth than anything else. Supposedly he had traveled to all sorts of foreign lands in his youth, both raiding and exploring in equal measure. Jomar didn’t know whether to believe the tales or not. The man seemed formidable but no more than many old warriors he had met over his life. The only thing that distinguished Hrani was the strange sword that he carried at his side, a curved blade forged from the finest steel. Even then, the man seemed to prefer to fight with a two-handed ax.

I decided to step out here. We should be arriving later this morning, Jomar replied, turning his attention back to the waves. Hopefully it’s sooner rather than later. This weather is completely dismal.

You’ve been here before, the older man said. Went out and tried to have yourself a bit of an adventure, didn’t you?

Jomar tried not to think about his father’s reaction. I did what I needed to so I could make my own fortune. How am I supposed to provide for a family without something of my own?

Aye, Hrani said, leaning up against the side of the ship. That’s the trouble, isn’t it? Not enough wealth to go around in the homeland. Even dirt is at a premium there. It’s pitiful, really. We have nothing, so we have to head south to steal it all from those that possess that kind of wealth. And how long will that last us?

Jomar frowned in disapproval, though he knew Hrani didn’t care. The older warrior spoke his mind, and Ogmund Hvalli tolerated his irreverence, seemed to welcome it at times. It seemed like Hrani had decided not to care about formality in his middle age.

It’s brought us wealth. Sustained us for years, Jomar replied.

Hrani let out a mirthless laugh. Aye, that’s what the jarls and the petty kings would like everyone to think. Look at what we’ve brought home. Look at what we’ve taken from the south, like stealing from a babe. But we’re nothing more than dogs leaping up to grab something from the table. What do you know about the world, lad?

Jomar hesitated. It’s a large place. We live in the north. To the south are the men of Wex, and the other kingdoms of the Green Isle. And there are places like Mastare and Grimana. And beyond that are strange lands, full of mystery and wealth. Few who travel there ever return.

That’s the simple view of things, lad. Pretending that there’s some huge mystery beyond the horizon, and the only thing that’s safe is what’s familiar. There are plenty of other places in this world, though they’re not filled with magicians and giants. They’re men, just like us. Men, except maybe a little wiser.

How?

They’re smart enough to know that coins and goods can be as effective as swords and axes. More useful, even. What happens when you raid a man’s land, slay him and take his possessions? You get to take them once, and you gain hatred from those left behind. But if you trade a man something, and get something in return? He’ll likely thank you for it. And he’ll be there for you to do it again in the future. And again. And again. Do you understand that, lad?

Jomar nodded. Trade is the way forward for our people. To make sure that we can get enough food in our bellies and enough metal to keep our lives. The change needs to happen. The enemy is getting too desperate, and too skilled. I learned that on my last raid.

The older man cracked a smile. Aye lad, you really made your father angry over that, and for good reason. Be thankful that you didn’t raid Wexson, or he might have strangled you with his bare hands.

It’s something that’s been done a hundred times before, Jomar said with a shrug.

Maybe. But I haven’t met a man yet that likes to deal with those who burned his crops, raped his wife and daughters, and carried off his gold. Why do you think we’ve stopped building longships, or launching expeditions to the south? It’s a sign of good faith. That we’re not like the others.

Jomar looked out over the water again. If only that were the sole sign of good faith that they needed.

You’re worried about your sister?

Why wouldn’t I be? She’s going to a foreign land to live with people that aren’t our own. And what about the man she’s marrying? What do we know about him, besides that he’s a prince?

Wexson isn’t a large kingdom, Hrani said. It might be ruled over by a king, but it’s relatively small compared to other holdings. That’s why your father was able to make the match in the first place. King Garmund’s holdings are smaller than that of many in the homeland.

Jomar shrugged. Still, he has a crown. And he has the trade routes that we need.

Yes, and I imagine that your sister is capable of taking care of herself, lad. But that’s why a few of us have come along as well. If the lad isn’t to our liking, then we take back the offer. Or rather, your father will. But I don’t think that he’s going to give away his precious Yri to anyone.

Everyone in the family doted on Yri, the baby and the princess, though they didn’t call her that in public for fear of offending the actual royalty of Rhonar. At least she’d be able to gain that title, though Jomar wondered how often he’d see her, if at all. The thought of leaving her in the hands of the southerners didn’t sit well with him, even with his father leaving a half-dozen of his trusted warriors as her personal retainers.

But then, would she have any different fate back home? More than likely she’d be offered marriage to some petty lord, then spent her days watching her sons go off raiding, most likely to never return. This way she would have the opportunity to be a princess, and maybe eventually, a queen. Jomar wondered what she thought about the whole affair, but everything had been arranged now. It was for the good of their people. As the leader of the clan, the needs of the many came first.

Five ships, Jomar said. Five fully-loaded ships. We needed to bring this all along to help seal the deal? Yri’s hand wasn’t enough?

Custom, lad, Hrani said. Different men worship different gods and have different ideas about how to live as well. This is one of them. Apparently, the men of the Green Isle think that when a man gives away his daughter’s hand, he should also give her husband wealth so he can support her as well.

Completely ridiculous, Jomar said with a smile. Though it would be nice not to have to go looking for money to pay off the bride price.

"Aye lad, I don’t understand what they’re thinking. You want to marry my daughter, and you want me to give you part of my