Born Unto Mayhem: High Fire, #1

By Timothy J. R. Rains

In an age of fear, when berserkers haunt the forests of Scandinavia, a new terror rises in the north...

 

I'm sixteen this year, and my mother says I should marry soon. 

 

Loki. 

 

I'd already be married if any cheiftains' sons were man enough to have me.

 

When I do find a husband though, I'll inherit the village of Borg, which as the Princess of Lofoten is my birthright. 

 

We'll have several farms and command a fleet of viking ships. I'll give birth to mighty warrior sons or a fierce shieldmaiden like myself. 

And perhaps one day, if it pleases the gods, I'll take my grandfather's place as the Jarl of Hålogaland.

 

That's how things might have been - if my entire life hadn't been a lie.

 

But now the secret's out. Even if I am the last to know.

 

And the truth has awakened something ... something frightening within me.

 

I've always had a temper. There's enough young men with missing teeth who can attest to that.

 

But this? This is different.

 

This rage. This hunger. This intense thirst for blood.

 

It's more than I can control.

 

The worst part? 

 

It all makes sense when I learn who my father really is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy J. R. Rains
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223457824

Book preview

Born Unto Mayhem

The High Fire Saga Episode I

Timothy J. R. Rains

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real life persons, places, or events are purely coincidental. Opinions and beliefs of the characters do not necessarily reflect the opinions and beliefs of the author.

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Born Unto Mayhem

Copyright © 2023 by Timothy J. R. Rains

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in brief quotations for the purpose of critical review.

timothyjrrains.com

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Layout and cover design by author.

Edited by J. J. Wolfe

Contents

1.ONE

2.TWO

3.THREE

4.FOUR

5.FIVE

6.SIX

7.SEVEN

8.EIGHT

Next Time in the High Fire Saga ...

ONE

HERVOR

Ofotfjord, Hålogaland—400 A.D.

The thralls have already sheared half the sheep in my grandfather’s flock, and I’m supposed to be spinning the wool into yarn for my mother. I should be proud to come from such a wealthy family with so much wool to spin. It’s noble work, my mother says, the honour of women everywhere. Even the goddess Frigg spins yarn in Asgard.

I hate spinning yarn.

I can deal with a fleece or two, but my father said that last night the thralls dropped off two whole sacks. Two whole sacks! I’ll be spinning yarn for days. Loki! One hour of rolling wool onto a spindle and I’m ready to throw myself into the fjord.

Of course, my parents would just send my spinning tools along with me in the funeral boat so I could keep spinning in Valhalla …

Gods!

I don’t see why the thralls can’t do it. They’re used to endless, mind-numbing work. I’d rather pick rocks out of a field. I’d rather muck out the latrine. I’d rather slip head-first into the latrine than spin yarn.

My mother comes in from outside. Her eyes harden into points of steel when she sees I’m still sitting on my fur-covered bunk across from the smoking fire pit.

Hervor, what are you doing in here? I thought you started spinning over an hour ago.

I’m still eating breakfast.

She glares down into my half-eaten bowl of porridge. It looks to me like you’re finished.

It got cold.

Well you shouldn’t have taken so long to eat it. Now go get your spinning tools and get started on the wool. There’s really a lot to do today.

I can’t find my spinning tools.

Loki, Hervor!

She stoops down at my feet and sweeps her hand under the narrow space beneath my bunk and pats the furs where I’m sitting. Then she searches the bunks where my brothers sleep. I can’t resist a smirk as she whips back the furs on Young Frodmar’s bed and hisses an oath as she snatches up my spinning tools.

Looks like Young Frodmar would rather be spinning wool than framing the new barn with father, I say.

She thrusts the spindle and distaff into my lap. Frigg and Freya, Hervor! You’re the oldest child! Why must you always act like you’re the youngest? That’s enough fooling around for one day. Go down to the stream and get started on the wool.

The stream? You mean the wool hasn’t even been washed yet? Or combed?

Of course it hasn’t.

Hel and Loki.

Hervor Frodmarsdottir! Get going!

Fine! Gods!

When I arrive at the stream, my nine-year-old brother Heidrik is filling up two wooden buckets to water our horses. There’s still patches of snow along the bank where it’s shaded by the trees and as Heidrik stumbles up from the water I can hear the ice sloshing against the sides of the buckets. The last thing I want to do is get down on my knees on that muddy bank and dip my hands into that freezing stream. I don’t see why those thralls couldn’t have washed the wool. Lazy ingrates. Ugh. I’d rather die than spin this wool into yarn.

I stretch my back and groan miserably as I watch my brother.

Are you going up to the stable Heidrik?

Yes.

I think I’ll come with you.

Can you carry a bucket?

No.

Please, Hervor? They’re heavy!

No. It’s your job to water the horses. And how will you become a man if you can’t even carry two buckets of water by yourself?

Fine, he says. Then he looks back over his shoulder. But what about the wool? Don’t you have to start spinning it into yarn?

I glance at the two bulging sacks on the muddy bank and make up my mind.

Hel can spin this wool it into yarn.

Heidrik gasps as I fling my spindle and distaff into the stream. Hervor! Father is going to beat you!

It’s worth it not doing my chores.

He shakes his head. He’s worried. He’s still afraid of Father, and I know he hates when Mother makes him stand outside with Rugga and Young Frodmar to watch while Father beats me. I try to show my brothers how to be strong by keeping a straight face and never crying out when Father hits me, but sometimes if he beats me bloody I can hear Heidrik sobbing. That always feels worse than any beating Father can dish out.

I guess I can carry one of his buckets for him.

I follow Heidrik up to the stable, and while he’s feeding and watering all the other horses, I go into Trumdi’s stall and start brushing down his glossy coat. Trumdi was a Yule gift from my grandfather for turning sixteen years old. Everyone knows the best horses come from Borg, and my grandfather says that as the Princess of Lofoten it would be beneath me to ride a lesser breed. Of course, I’ve hardly ridden him at all yet since it’s only just begun to get light during the day again. It’s not good for such a fine horse to stay penned up inside a stall.

What are you doing? Heidrik asks as I throw the wool blanket over Trumdi’s back and start fitting him with the bridle.

Taking Trumdi out for a ride. Tell Mother you haven’t seen me.

What? I’m not going to lie to Mother!

You’d better. I lead Trumdi from the stall and climb up on his back.

Hervor—

But before he can argue, I crack the reins; Trumdi rears up with a wild whinny and we thunder off