A Scoundrel's Courage: High Fire, #3

By Timothy J. R. Rains

In an age of treachery, when berserkers extort the kings of Scandinavia, a new terror carves her name in the north ...

 

Prince Sigurd of Xanten is one man I wish I never met. He's slaughtered my crew and made me his slave. But when he says he's turning me over to King Gizur, I wish I'd chosen to die on the beach with the others.

 

At least then my death would have been quick. Because when Gizur finds out about my father, quick is the last thing it will be.

 

Fortunately, Sigurd is on truly perilous a mission and he needs Gizur to help him. 

 

The problem is any idiot can see Gizur doesn't have the nerve. 

 

Few men would.

 

Especially when the runes are cast and the quest is doomed.

 

I, however, am just desperate enough that I'd do anything do anything to win my freedom back.

 

Even if it means facing a terrifying monster.

 

A monster worshipped as a god.

 

A god by the name of Fafnir.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timothy J. R. Rains
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223102229

Book preview

A Scoundrel's Courage

The High Fire Saga Episode III

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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A Scoundrel's Courage

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

9.NINE

10.TEN

11.ELEVEN

12.TWELVE

13.THIRTEEN

14.FOURTEEN

15.FIFTEEN

16.SIXTEEN

17.SEVENTEEN

18.EIGHTEEN

Sneak Peak of Two Measures of Grief

ONE

Uppsala, Sweden

Sigurd gallops his fingers on the gunwale as the city drifts into view around the riverbend. It’s a clean city, built on a wide green plain, surrounded by farms and clusters of trees ablaze with the colours of fall. Ships are moored all along the east bank of the river—fishing boats full of nets and line, merchant vessels and sleek Swedish warships. There are many idols along the quay—enormous blood-stained gods carved of wood, standing guard over the river. As they prepare to dock, a man shouts to them and directs the skipper to an empty mooring in the shadow of Tyr’s likeness.

It's been nearly three days since they were attacked by the Hålogalanders in the night. In that time, they’ve sailed around the southern coast of Sweden, stopping briefly in the major port-city of Agnafit to hire a Swedish pilot who could guide them through the complex fjords of Lake Mälaren, and rowed north up the Fyris River to the place of the King of Sweden’s hall: the city of Uppsala.

Sigurd takes a deep breath, going over what he’s going to say when he goes before the king’s high table. The relationship between Sweden and Burgundy is one of friction, with Gunther sending too many pushy envoys to recruit Sweden to help them against the Romans. The last envoy had retuned to Worms with his head in a basket.

The Swedes like the Franks a little better than their Burgundian allies—or at least they like to trade with them. Frankish steel is considered to be among the highest quality on earth, eagerly sought after by any war-like kingdom. Sigurd, however, is widely known for his friendship with Gunther, and is somewhat concerned with the message his arrival will send. He does not expect a warm welcome.

As the crew moor the ship and the pilot introduces them to the Swedes on the quay, Sigurd glances aft-ward at the new slave-girl lashed to the stringer. She glares back at him with her fierce blue eyes. That hateful gaze has been burning a hole in the back of his head since the moment he took her into captivity. She’s hardly spoken a word aside from, I need to piss, or, I need to shit; she refused to eat or even drink until the morning of the second day, when at last she accepted a piece of bread from one of the men and hungrily tore into it, and demanded a drink of water from his skin. She might have chosen slavery over death, but he can see this Hervor woman is far too proud and stubborn to ever make a good thrall. He’ll never live in peace again if he takes her back to his castle to be his serving girl.

She would be more valuable as a bed-slave.

Even after cutting off her braid and putting an iron cuff around her neck, her beauty outshines that of the late Queen Rowena, and even rivals that of Brünhilda—who is generally considered by everyone to be the most gorgeous woman in Europe. The girl must be from a noble—if not royal—lineage. Not that it matters now. She’ll spend the rest of her life between some lucky fellow’s bedsheets.

He’s thought about giving her to Gunther, but with the way she’s glaring at him now, perhaps that isn’t such a good idea. He doesn’t need another woman trying to murder his friend the second he turns his back. It seems like a tremendous waste, but the smartest thing is to give her to King Gizur—though he wonders if it wouldn’t be more merciful to snap her neck.

Sigurd steps out of the longship. He clasps hands with the Swedes on the quay, then orders that Hervor be cut loose and brought up from the ship.

This is Uppsala, he says as his men shove her up onto the dock beside him, the capital of Sweden.

I know it is, she snarls. It’s the first response he’s gotten from her yet.

I’m giving you to King Gizur after all. You’ll be his bed-slave, or whatever pleases him.

She glares up at him, but behind the smouldering defiance, her blue eyes are full of fear.

You said you’re not too fond of cruelty.

I—

Prince Sigurd, says the Swedish pilot, here comes the king.

Word of their arrival has reached the hall and King Gizur is making his way down toward the dock with an entourage of blond-bearded huskarls. He cocks his head as he peers curiously at Sigurd and the Frankish crew. He is a clean, slender man of particular hygiene; his blond hair and beard are neatly trimmed; his fine garb, newly washed and without even the smallest rip or stain. There is a refreshing scent about him—perhaps mint or pine.

Next to Sigurd, Hervor breathes an oath as he comes nearer and hangs her head, suddenly casting off her stubborn arrogance and assuming the timid compliance of a humble thrall-maiden, evidently not wishing to draw the attention of the Swedish King.

Gizur smiles and reaches for Sigurd’s hands. Welcome to Uppsala, he says with his musical Nordic accent. You must be Prince Sigurd. When I heard—Gods, you’re big! Isn’t he big? He’s enormous!

He is very large indeed, answers one of the huskarls.

Those poor Roman legionaries, says Gizur, you Germans must be pulverizing them.

Sigurd is about to explain that the only pulverizing that’s taken place recently has been in the form of intense negotiations following the sudden surge of pro-Germanic military forces due to the marriage of Gunther and Brünhilda and the subsequent alliance of their kingdoms—but he decides not to get into it. We do alright, he says with a shrug.

Well, you must be hungry, says the king, and I know you’ve travelled far. Come, the least I can do is offer you food and drink before I send you back to Gunther. He turns back toward the hall, then pauses, peering inquisitively at Sigurd over his shoulder. I am correct in assuming that Gunther sent you?

Yes—I mean, no—Well, sort of.

Sigurd clears his throat as he and the crew follow the king and his huskarls toward the hall. What I mean to say is, I am here because of Gunther, but I can assure you it’s got nothing to do with helping us against Stilicho and the Romans. I’m actually just—

Oh, that is a relief, says Gizur, his face brightening, I’m afraid I was quite annoyed when I heard you’d come to Uppsala. I thought to myself, Loki’s children, how many heads do I have to chop off before these idiots realize we’re not interested? Gods! We’ll be running out of baskets pretty soon here in Uppsala!

He laughs, patting Sigurd on the chest, I’m just joking, Sigurd! Just joking! You know I can’t wait to find out what you’re really doing here. Tell me, did Gunther like my wedding gift?

Wedding gift? Er—remind me what it was again?

Perfume from the far east made from the yellow flower of the Cananga tree, a sensual fragrance which incites the body to eroticism.

To his shame, Sigurd thinks of the sweet scent of Brünhilda’s hair and body that had so intoxicated him, exciting him to deeper passions as he plunged into the throes of adultery. He quickly shoos the thought out of his mind. I didn’t watch him open the presents, he says.

Well, there was a man who dwelt in Sweden for a time, says Gizur, a friend of my father’s, and a great champion. He had giant’s blood like you. Arrow-Odd the Wide-Wandered we called him. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.

I have, yes.

"There is no place on earth he hasn’t walked or sailed. He was the most interesting person to ever come to Uppsala. He brought that perfume from a perilous land of volcanos and poisonous snakes, where the brown-skinned men who live there consider the choicest meat to be human flesh. The princess of the village where he and