The Viking Heritage: The Lost Viking Legacy, #1

By J. Ragnar Nymoen

CAPE TOWN

Malte Moddy - deputy head of the security department at Western Norwegian Oil - has invited Peggy Browning on holiday to South Africa. Without warning, he becomes seriously ill and ends up almost in a coma. This leads to serious consequences for Peggy.

ANDASMAUET, STAVANGER - NORWAY

After a short stay in hospital travelling Malte home to Stavanger. His problems escalate which also has consequences for his position in the oil company. As a result of the disease and the medication, he isolates from the outside world. He ends up lying to his brother, John-Berg, that he soon will be healthy and back at work. His brother sees through him and seeks him in Stavanger. He forces Malte to go home to Lofoten with him.

GENEALOGY 

Completely unexpected to himself, he takes interest in genealogy. He wants to find out more about his 8th great grandfather Robert Mudie who emigrated to Norway around the year 1630. A DNA test provides an astonishing discovery. As a direct result of this, he becomes involved in events - with roots back to the Viking age - involving the Russian mafia and the Crimean crisis.

A mafia boss, Sergei Shargunov, owns one of four drinking-horns made of pure gold. Rostislav Korolev, the holder of a vineyard in Odesa, own another. These two men have a family connection back in the 16th century. A dispute over who should inherit both treasures gave rise to a family feud that has persisted ever since.

THE MAIN CHARACTERs

Malte Moddy (fictional character) is connected to a wealthy Scottish immigrant who probably is connected to the old Scottish kings. 

Elizaveta Koroleva is the daughter of a wine farmer in Odessa. She works as an attorney in Kyiv.

Sergei Sergunov is a mafia boss living in a Castle at Crimea. Important parts of the books go on in Ukraine when Russia annexed the Crimean peninsula. 

 

The Viking Heritage is the first book about Malte Moddy and The Viking Legacy. The two first are available in English. The third - VIKING BLOOD- is planned published at the end of 2020.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Ragnar Nymoen
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393333227

J. Ragnar Nymoen

JAN RAGNAR NYMOEN started doing genealogy about 2009. Earlier he had found an unusual name - Anne Moddy. One day he found out that she was the daughter of a merchant, Robert Mudie, who was born in Scotland about 1590.  He discovered that a man of the same name lived around 1600 at Melsetter House, Orkney. Later he has visited the old manor house. What he experienced there gave him the idea of several thrillers based on the amazing stories he stumbled over.  His Y-DNA test came up with some strange matches in the Kyiv-area. The explanation originated back in the Viking age. He has published three books in Norwegian. The two first are translated to English. The third - Viking Blood - is planned published in English Q4 2020

Book preview

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

HARALD HARDRADA SIGURDSSON became King of Norway in 1046 and died September 25, 1066, in Yorkshire England at the Battle of Stamford Bridge. He was born in Ringerike, Norway about 1015. At the age of 15, he participated in the Battle of Stiklestad on July 29, 1030. He was then fighting with the army of his half-brother, Olav II Haraldsson, who was killed during the battle and later declared St. Olav. Harald was wounded but managed to escape, helped by Ragnvald Brusason. To save his life, Harald fled to Sweden and continued up the Russian rivers with a group of men. He was well-received by Yaroslav the Wise, Grand Prince in Kyiv Ukraine and served in his army for several years. In 1034, Harald signed on as a mercenary of the Byzantine Empire where he became the commander of the Varangian Guard. While in the service of the Byzantine Empire, Harald accumulated an enormous amount of wealth from looting that he would then ship to Yaroslav for safekeeping. After the death of Emperor Michael IV in 1041, Harald became entangled in the dispute for succession between Michael V, nephew to the Emperor, and Zoë, the late Emperor’s wife, and her sister Theodora. In 1042 Harald wanted to leave the service of the Empire, but his request was refused. He managed to secretly escape, left the Byzantine Empire and went to Kyiv. Now Harald was a wealthy man who had done many deeds and was found worthy to marry Yaroslav’s daughter Elisif. In 1046, he returned to his homeland with Elisif, reclaimed the crown and became King of Norway together with his nephew Magnus I Olafsson. After his nephew had died on October 25, 1047, Harald became the sole King of Norway.

Sigmundur is his fictional friend, and The Golden Horns are his fictional loot.

Heimskringla is the best known of the Old Norse kings' sagas. The poet and historian, Snorri Sturluson (1178/79–1241) wrote those stories about the year 1230.

PROLOGUE

UKRAINE, CRIMEA

Sergei Shargunov ran his fingers through his thin, grey hair as he leaned on his black ebony cane capped with a gold skull. This cane was his trademark – both had a cold smile. He leaned the cane against the wall outside the steel door while he removed his access card from his wallet and with one smooth motion, swiped it through the security scanner. He was outside the east-facing tower room of his castle in Crimea. Ever since he acquired this magnificent castle from the Korolev family estate, he found the east tower the most pleasurable and tranquil. On a clear day, he could gaze over to Russia. Inside the door, he entered the code that disabled the alarm system. He had plenty of time before the alarm was triggered, 15 seconds, but only two attempts were allowed. Sometimes he pushed the wrong code on purpose to check the system and test how long it took before the guards arrived. On one occasion, it took more than four minutes. The next day, the senior guard was disposed of while the other guards were given extra drills until they reached the room within three minutes. But today he made sure he entered the correct code that only he knew.

The walking stick made a sharp sound against the marble floor. The large grey boulders gave the room an impregnable character. Only in this chamber had he kept the walls, as they were when the castle was built sometime in the 1600s. He limped over to the opposite end of the room. To the right of the tall, narrow, tower window was a vault built into the meter-thick wall. The vault was the older type with a coding wheel, a simple system for anyone who knew the code. Sergei spun the wheel three times. The massive vault door slid open without a sound. He pulled on the white gloves resting on a shelf in the vault. With a religious expression on his lean, furrowed face, Sergei pulled out what was most precious to him.

The object was wrapped in silk cloth with elaborate embroidery. He carefully secured it against his chest. The ebony stick hit the floor three times before he slid down into a modern brown leather chair. Cautiously the slim figure placed the object in front of him on a small table. With both hands, he raised his almost entirely stiff left leg and let it rest on the footstool. He glanced down at his knee that had been hit by a bullet during a skirmish with a rival family. He breathed deeply. With studiously extravagant gestures he unwrapped the silk cloth.

One magnificently crafted drinking-horn of pure gold sparkled in the dim light. The leather chair was placed in such a way that he had a clear view through the narrow window with the elongated Gothic arch. He pressed a remote control on the table. The room was filled with the rhythmic sounds of the national anthem of his country. He waited patiently until the first golden rays of the sun appeared and slowly moved toward the chair where Sergei was sitting. The first beams gave the horn a golden, red glow.

My Golden Horn!

Sergei leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the moment. He smiled to himself. His thoughts floated hundreds of years back in time, back to the bay of the same name. The old stories tell that only four such horns were made. To be sure, the Byzantine Emperor supervised the casting and ensured that the moulds were smashed afterwards. At least this was the story his father had told. His father also believed that there should exist one more such golden horn similar to this somewhere in Ukraine. The other two had been taken out of the country a very long time ago, hardly possible to trace.

The Golden Horn was Sergei’s dearest possession. He touched the figures under the brim of the drinking horn, ran his fingers down until he came to the thorax of the ram. Imagine when I can touch another Golden Horn, exactly like this one! Nobody else alive, except his gorgeous, slim built wife had been allowed to touch this magnificent artefact.

With his left hand firmly wrapped around the skull of his walking stick, he lifted himself from the chair, grabbed The Golden Horn with the other hand and limped over to the window. He raised his precious artefact to the light.

The last golden rays of the sun reflected off the golden horn scattering beams of light throughout the room. Devoutly he waited until the sun struggled free from the mountains in the east. Every Sunday this was his regular ritual. On a bright day, the feeling of joy warmed his cold heart. For several minutes, he held The Golden Horn, caressed it and let his mind go free. Where are the others? He could not imagine the possibility of possessing all four horns. But a duo, yes, I can manage to get hold of the other one in Ukraine. Then my wife, Irina, and I can make a toast with the most expensive champagne that money can buy. Inside the cabinet nearby the vault, there were two such bottles, purchased for a staggering amount of money at an auction in France, less than a year ago. This was just after his father gave him The Golden Horn and told him the legends while on his deathbed. He slipped into a coma and died shortly after. This was the closest he and his father had ever been. His father had managed their business without compassion for those who succumbed to his greed for wealth. After his father’s funeral, Sergei put his enormous organization in search of the second Golden Horn that was, in all likelihood, still in Ukraine.

With rehearsed movements, Sergei rewrapped the horn in its silk cloth exactly as it had been throughout the centuries. He gently placed his precious artefact back into the vault and whispered, Soon another will accompany you in here. Then you get to taste the finest champagne. I swear! My father's last wish is also mine!

After he had acquired the Korolev castle, he installed climate control in the room that held exactly the proper temperature and humidity. The gold was indestructible, but the silk cloth was for him an important part of the history. The delicate embroideries had motifs from Persian mythology. In themselves, these were immensely valuable. Completeness means everything. These were the same words that were carved into his father's headstone a few meters from the east wall of the castle.

After his private ceremony, he nodded to himself. I will not fail! The Golden Horn was actually one of the few things that he felt was truly his heritage and no one else’s. This treasure had been passed down through all the centuries, from father to son beginning from the time the four Golden Horns came into Ukraine.

Presently he only had a daughter. However, his brother had two sons. He snorted at the thought of his brother gaining this heritage. His brother was weak. His only ambition was to spend time with his family. He worked an honest job as a Realtor. What kind of job is that for a member of our family? It was me who Father sent out to collect protection money from restaurants after I had turned eighteen. He wanted me to learn the profession from the bottom up. I would run the business after the old man died. His father appointed him second in command when he was only 21 years old. His older brother refused to have anything to do with the family business.

Yes, within the next year, three goals must be achieved. The cost will not matter. I must have a son. If I do not sire a son this year, then we will use science for artificial insemination and the selection of a new heir. I am only fifty years old, still young for members of my family. He glanced down his long, lean body. His narrow face had sharp features. His eyes were set deep inside his skull and produced a cold, ruthless glare. The heritage line should never be broken! This plan must be fulfilled! Then I must find the second drinking horn. I will double the reward for those who provide me with information about who possesses the second horn. It must be in Ukraine and likely a distant relation of whom I am unaware of. Finally, I must find out if another male qualifies to inherit the missing Golden Horn. There are means now besides genealogy and family stories to find distant relatives; there is DNA testing. All methods will be employed. No stone will be unturned. I must acquire the second horn, and I must make sure that my unborn son is the only living heir to the horns. I have connections that will help me achieve my goals. How it is achieved is unimportant. He left the tower. Stiff footed he stepped down the stone stairs humming to himself.

CHAPTER 1:

A Long Way Back

NORWAY, STAVANGER ANDASMAUET Street

Malte put his glasses back in his breast pocket. As he went to pay the taxi driver, he stumbled as if in a daze – his wallet slipped from his hands and the contents scattered outside the driver’s door. He leaned against the taxi in a stupor too weak to gather his belongings. The taxi driver immediately jumped out of the cab and collected the items.

Are you okay sir? The driver asked as he handed him his items. He looked at his driver’s license and asked again, Are you Malte Moddy? Are you okay?

Yes, I am Malte Moddy, I will soon be back to normal – I just need rest. His demeanour was reminiscent of a long-distance runner who had completely run out of energy. Malte was a tall, slender man in his early thirties, typical Nordic-looking with dark blonde hair. His big nose was once broken in a fight.

Your name is not Norwegian, is it? Commented the driver.

A long story, Scottish immigration hundreds of years ago. Malte was in no mood for chitchat right now. He was only concerned with getting into his house and throwing himself down on the bed.

It was almost 3 o’clock in the morning when he finally put the key in his front door. He had acquired the old single-family whitewashed house in old town Stavanger on Andasmauet Street at the appraised value from an uncle who moved back to Bjarkoy. He felt lucky to have been able to get this house. The fact that there was no garage or street parking just outside was not a significant disadvantage. He rented a garage for his car a few hundred meters away in an alley. Exhausted and depressed he wobbled up the stairs to the second floor. The house seemed to be in order. The west-facing rooms had a view of the sea and the harbour. He had not realized how much he missed being able to look at the sea. He glanced out the window of the loft room. In the mist, he could barely make out the port area – grey weather suited his mood.

Malte felt obligated to call his good friend and immediate supervisor Roger Horney, head of the security department at Western Norwegian Oil. He pressed the call button, and Roger responded after only two rings.

Malte! I almost expected to hear from you during the past week. We need to talk about the department and the program ahead.

That has to wait, Roger. I am on sick leave the next four weeks, have just been released from the hospital in Stavanger. It all went to hell the last week of my holiday! Malte could not hide how depressed he was. Silence followed. Can I come over now, so we can talk more in private? I will bring the sick leave forms. Roger had immediately understood that something was seriously wrong with Malte.

Yes, come on over, I have a box of Arctic beer waiting to be consumed, Malte replied.

Within a half-hour, the doorbell produced a raspy sound. Malte glanced at the live video display of the entrance. Roger stared into the lens as Malte opened the metal door. His boss insisted on installing this system

You do not exactly look tropical-brown. Thought you'd be on the beach with an excellent bottle of white wine. Roger replied with curiosity.

Malte grasps his hand as he opens the security door. It’s all so confusing Roger. In Cape Town, I became very ill. Peggy, the women I went on vacation with ... , Malte paused, yes, you remember the circumstances under which we met? I saved her life! Well anyway, while at the hotel in Cape Town, I had delirium and thought she was an intruder who was going to kill me. I guess I tried to attack her, and she ran away, packed up and left the next day. The following day I was in the hospital.

Stop. Stop! Calm down Malte! It's obvious that you are not yourself. I cannot remember seeing you so upset and harried ever before! Let’s sit down here, and you tell me the story from the beginning. Roger helped his friend over to the sofa and retrieved two beers from the fridge.

Malte began telling Roger an astounding series of events. How he and Peggy Browning, journalist daughter of the US consulate-general in Oslo, had flown to Cape Town. How they spent the last week on an adventure in the Kruger Park game reserve. How it was burning hot, particularly unusual for the end of the cold season. How, upon returning to the hotel in Cape Town, he became very ill with a fever.

But, Roger, I believed I just needed to rest, so I went to bed and told Peggy to give me some time, so she left for the afternoon to go shopping. The next thing I knew, someone opened the door, and I thought – They are here! They have come to put an end to me! Then I ran toward the figure to defend myself, but it was Peggy. She screamed, and some guards came and held me down. The next day I woke up in the hospital with no idea what had happened. He continued telling Roger how - at first - they thought he had malaria from mosquito bites while in the game reserve. The doctors suspected that he had been infected with Plasmodium falciparum, a dangerous sort of this disease with an incubation period of 2-4 weeks. But since he had only been in Africa for 10-days, that diagnosis had to be excluded, so he was given a general antibiotic. The next morning the fever was completely gone, and he was discharged from the hospital. He ordered a taxi directly to the airport to start the journey home, wanting to get away as soon as he could. He arrived 30 hours later at the Stavanger Airport in Norway and took a taxi to Andasmauet, the name he frequently used when referring to his house.

Roger sat in absolute silence. Malte could not help but feel sorry for himself. It had been less than a year since he had been in the hospital. That time he had surgery after suffering from a dumdum bullet in the shoulder. Automatically he began to rub the old injury. His thoughts went back to the armed burglary at Western Norwegian Oil in Stavanger. That time he, as deputy head of the Security Department, had helped avert a robbery. In defence, he had shot one of the thieves in the neck that subsequently bled to death in the parking lot just outside the entrance to the main office in Stavanger. Afterwards, he was placed on temporary suspension until the completion of the investigation. During that time, Malte went up north to stay with his brother, John-Berg. He was always able to ground Malte. John-Berg was a fisherman and whaler, like their father and lived in their little hometown of Reine on the Lofoten Islands.

The next morning I woke up soaking wet from sweat and with an almost unbearable headache. Most frightening, I was again experiencing dizziness and visual disturbances. I thought I must have had a relapse. So I went to the doctor who transported me immediately to the hospital. Again, more blood tests. The doctor wanted to know if I had other stays in malaria areas in the last two years. Malte took a deep breath as he sunk in his chair. I told the doctor I had been in Kruger Park about a year ago. Roger nodded; he remembered well how Malte was contracted out to a secret security organization under NATO command for a mission to release hostages. He recalled after a successful campaign, Malte and some of his coworkers went on safari.

The doctor informed me that I had been infected with Falciparum malaria for more than a year and immediately ordered quinine to be administered intravenously.

Malte breathed heavily, as he continued, He told me there was a good chance that I would fully recover, but it would take some time. I was in the hospital for three days before I was released. I was told under no circumstances to return to work for at least four weeks. Malte sat looking at Roger who was clapping both hands on his face. Oddly enough, he felt better after talking about his disease and his feelings about being abandoned by Peggy. They talked for more than two hours.

Don’t worry about all this Malte. Do not think it is urgent to return to work. We will manage. The most important thing is that you use the time needed to make a full recovery, even if it takes several months! I'll call and check up on you frequently. Roger left and verified the security system was on.

Malte put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened another Arctic Beer as he sat in his favourite chair watching TV. The big issue was Yes or No to the Winter Olympics in Oslo 2020. The whole process seemed distasteful. If this is approved, I know at least the parties I will not vote for during the next parliamentary elections.

While he waited for his pizza to cook, he felt a need to call his brother, John-Berg, and tell what had happened. The intonation of Malte’s voice as he unfolded the events of the last two weeks was worrisome. His brother could not hide his anxiety. Only after Malte had assured him twice that he was in real recovery, did his brother seem to relax.

Do not hesitate to call me if there's anything I can do. Incidentally, you can always stay with us in Lofoten while you are recovering. Not many months since the last time by the way. I hope this is not going to become a habit! His brother sternly remarked.

Malte managed a burst of dry laughter and replied, I'll think about it, but so far I will rest here in Stavanger. It will be good for me to have a few lazy weeks for myself. He again reassured his brother that all was well before ending the call. He still felt unwell as he sat in the chair by the window. He pushed his beer aside, turned the oven off and staggered to the bedroom. He straightaway approached the bed and tore his clothes off and crawled under the thick wool comforter. A little rest then I will be my usual self. He mumbled out loud as he fell into an uneasy sleep of sweat.

Malte found himself engulfed in the smell of tar as he sat outside a wooden building at the pier. As a small child, the barrel in front of him looks immensely huge. He continues baiting the fishhooks and coiling the line as he glances down the pier. His father, wearing his worn kasket hat, is at the helm of the fishing boat as the crew busily loads the vessel for a voyage lasting several weeks. Finally, the day has come when he will join his father fishing in the endless sea. All of a sudden, he hears someone shout from the end of the pier. It's his older brother excitedly pointing outwards toward the bay. Malte kneels as he raises his hand to block the sun from his eyes. In the distance, he captures a glimpse of a boat with a large red square sail reminiscent of his grandfather’s boat. But the prow of the ship is so much higher and appears to stretch into the sky as it surges toward the pier. As the vessel approaches, Malte perceives more than a dozen shields along the gunwale. Behind each was a man whose beard protruded from the frame of his helmet. At the stern stood a tall man whose shoulder-length golden hair was fluttering in the breeze. His right hand was on the tiller; his left hand rose in a greeting. Do not leave me, Dad! You promised I would be with you and your men this time! Malte shouted. Hurry, we cannot wait! The words from the tall man almost disappear as a mist-shrouded the ship as it glided past him. Malte began running down the wooden pier toward the fog. The rattling sound of his footsteps reverberates in his ears. He comes no closer. The dock seems endless. Despairing he cries out, Don’t leave me behind! The mist lifted as the ship turned toward the open sea. Laughter resonated from the tall man as he thrust a bright object above his head that sparkled gold against