Alexander Mazin
WHITE WOLF
The cherished dream of King Ragnar
Rome! - the king proclaimed and burped loudly. - That's what I want! This is where we will get the real loot and the real glory!
Over the long table, at which the kings, jarls, chiefs and other gentlemen of the Norman squads gathered in Roskilde for a joint vigil, were freely seated, silence hung for a moment. Through the doors curtained with bull hides, the muffled sounds of the camp penetrated inside: loud voices, clanging, knocking, the squealing of a pig and the no less shrill voice of a woman scolding a careless troll...
The others remained silent. Sigurd the Serpent in the Eye frowned. Bjorn Ironside, who received his nickname because he had never been seriously wounded, moved his lips silently, urging on his thoughts. Looking sideways at his brother, Ivar the Boneless, the most intelligent and cunning of Lothbrok’s sons, curled his mouth with a smile. The brothers Ubbe and Harald were silent... Not because they were afraid. My father's words needed to be considered.
The rest of the leaders were also silent: all of them were relatives and trusted people of King Ragnar. The greatest of the Vikings of Denmark again amazed them with the audacity of his plan.
Odin will like this,” Sigurd finally said. “But I think it would be better to feel the Franks, as we intended.”
Sigurd said “we” with every right. Anyone who has a dozen warships under his command has the right to give recommendations to his father. Even someone like Ragnar Lothbrok.
Franks... - Ragnar rumbled. An expression appeared on his face that made the king look like a cat who had discovered a jug of sour cream forgotten on the table. - Karl the Bald. It's not the first time he's had his tail between his legs. That's right, son. That's where we'll start! But each of you... - a heavy look from under frowned eyebrows passed through the meeting, briefly stopping at each of the leaders, - each of you must remember: Rome! This is the city that will bring us glory! However... - the king's gaze again passed over the stern faces of his relatives and comrades, - there is no need to chat about this.
So I learned about the king’s strategic goal in great secrecy from my hold commander Truvor the Varangian. And he is from the helmsman Olbard Sineus, also a Varangian and Truvor’s cousin. Olbard himself received information first-hand - from our leader Jarl Hrorek, nicknamed Falcon, who, being Yngling, that is, a man of an ancient royal family, to which Ragnar Lothbrok himself belonged, was rightfully present at the strategic meeting.
This information did not go further than me, but a week later absolutely everyone in our hird knew about the grandiose plans of King Ragnar. Presumably, other Khird squads of the united Norman army were also aware of the future spring campaign. It is rightly said: “If three people know, so does a pig.”
But this was not a big problem. After all, these were our Norman pigs. The shipping season has ended. The few foreign merchants who dared to visit Sölund had long since gone home, and there were no Frankish spies among the combat teams. That is, for good, or rather, very good money, many of the Vikings would share information with interested parties. But no one offered this money to my colleagues, and they themselves were not eager to sell secret information.
So there was no leakage to the south. But in the north - quite often. The Scandinavian leaders, recruiting supporters, did not hide the fact that a grandiose task was ahead. And they transparently hinted: they say, we will touch the descendants of Charlemagne to the very liver, and the bishops sitting on silver and gold - to the very top of the pyramid. The smart ones understood the hints correctly. The stupid were explained by the smart.
But that autumn, I, Ulf the Blackhead (in other times who bore the proud name of Nikolai Grigorievich Perelyak), housecarl from the squad of Hrorek the Falcon, had more interesting things to do than making the dreams of Ragnar Hairy Pants come true.
A much more relevant topic for me was the valiant games that my fellow professionals, the glorious Scandinavian Vikings, selflessly indulged in in their free time from their main work. Sports have always been my weakness. Weakness in the good sense of the word.
Chapter first,
In which I have a guess as to why Ivar Ragnarson is called the Boneless
Northerners love two types of games. Strength and extreme. Or better yet, both options at once. For example, arrange a swim through a fjord - who is faster. And in order not to freeze in the cold water, try to drown each other to keep warm.
The ball game is also popular here. A sort of cross between lapta and hockey, in which they hit each other with sticks almost with more intensity than a ball rolled out of wool. There are tons of injuries. There are even deaths. True, my good friend the Dane Svarthövdi Little Bear explained that most of these murders are veiled duels. Unofficial holmgangs. Fights “pure” of blood feud. There is no right to take revenge for someone who died during the game. And you don’t have to pay the virus for it. The main thing is for witnesses to confirm that the death was an accident. I think this is an accident. It takes a lot of effort to solve it with a simple Viking stick. Or very lucky to get there.
I didn't play ball. But he took part in a tug-of-war, where, due to his natural size (a hand shorter and a pound lighter than the average Viking), he did not bring his team closer to victory. Then, plucking up courage, he rode down a steep slope on a log. As part of a gang led by Treska, who is experienced in these matters. I didn’t fall, although, believe me, it wasn’t easy.
What attracted me most was wrestling. Ordinary, without weapons. At first I thought that I couldn’t stand up to the broad-shouldered giants with trap-like hands. But it turned out that during our voyage my hands also became pumped up. And most importantly, fighting without weapons was never a priority sport for the Viking gentlemen. Not to mention the real art of hand-to-hand combat. And I, after all, came from a time when a man’s only allowed weapons were his fists and boots. Well, elbows and knees, of course.
I won’t say that I became a champion (that’s what I didn’t strive for), but I left at least half of the local wrestlers in the dust. I was knocked down much less often: unlike the others, I didn’t get caught. With my weight, which was ridiculous by local standards, any grab immediately turned into a flight along an unpredictable trajectory. Since I fought “wrongly,” no one was particularly keen to see me as an opponent. It’s also clear: defeating such a kid doesn’t mean much glory. And losing to someone who rubs his nose into your beard is insulting.
The next competition began as usual. Those who wanted to cuddle each other lined up
Alexander Mazin
WHITE WOLF
The cherished dream of King Ragnar
Rome! - the king proclaimed and burped loudly. - That's what I want! This is where we will get the real loot and the real glory!
Over the long table, at which the kings, jarls, chiefs and other gentlemen of the Norman squads gathered in Roskilde for a joint vigil, were freely seated, silence hung for a moment. Through the doors curtained with bull hides, the muffled sounds of the camp penetrated inside: loud voices, clanging, knocking, the squealing of a pig and the no less shrill voice of a woman scolding a careless troll...
The others remained silent. Sigurd the Serpent in the Eye frowned. Bjorn Ironside, who received his nickname because he had never been seriously wounded, moved his lips silently, urging on his thoughts. Looking sideways at his brother, Ivar the Boneless, the most intelligent and cunning of Lothbrok’s sons, curled his mouth with a smile. The brothers Ubbe and Harald were silent... Not because they were afraid. My father's words needed to be considered.
The rest of the leaders were also silent: all of them were relatives and trusted people of King Ragnar. The greatest of the Vikings of Denmark again amazed them with the audacity of his plan.
Odin will like this,” Sigurd finally said. “But I think it would be better to feel the Franks, as we intended.”
Sigurd said “we” with every right. Anyone who has a dozen warships under his command has the right to give recommendations to his father. Even someone like Ragnar Lothbrok.
Franks... - Ragnar rumbled. An expression appeared on his face that made the king look like a cat who had discovered a jug of sour cream forgotten on the table. - Karl the Bald. It's not the first time he's had his tail between his legs. That's right, son. That's where we'll start! But each of you... - a heavy look from under frowned eyebrows passed through the meeting, briefly stopping at each of the leaders, - each of you must remember: Rome! This is the city that will bring us glory! However... - the king's gaze again passed over the stern faces of his relatives and comrades, - there is no need to chat about this.
So I learned about the king’s strategic goal in great secrecy from my hold commander Truvor the Varangian. And he is from the helmsman Olbard Sineus, also a Varangian and Truvor’s cousin. Olbard himself received information first-hand - from our leader Jarl Hrorek, nicknamed Falcon, who, being Yngling, that is, a man of an ancient royal family, to which Ragnar Lothbrok himself belonged, was rightfully present at the strategic meeting.
This information did not go further than me, but a week later absolutely everyone in our hird knew about the grandiose plans of King Ragnar. Presumably, other Khird squads of the united Norman army were also aware of the future spring campaign. It is rightly said: “If three people know, so does a pig.”
But this was not a big problem. After all, these were our Norman pigs. The shipping season has ended. The few foreign merchants who dared to visit Sölund had long since gone home, and there were no Frankish spies among the combat teams. That is, for good, or rather, very good money, many of the Vikings would share information with interested parties. But no one offered this money to my colleagues, and they themselves were not eager to sell secret information.
So there was no leakage to the south. But in the north - quite often. The Scandinavian leaders, recruiting supporters, did not hide the fact that a grandiose task was ahead. And they transparently hinted: they say, we will touch the descendants of Charlemagne to the very liver, and the bishops sitting on silver and gold - to the very top of the pyramid. The smart ones understood the hints correctly. The stupid were explained by the smart.
But that autumn, I, Ulf the Blackhead (in other times who bore the proud name of Nikolai Grigorievich Perelyak), housecarl from the squad of Hrorek the Falcon, had more interesting things to do than making the dreams of Ragnar Hairy Pants come true.
A much more relevant topic for me was the valiant games that my fellow professionals, the glorious Scandinavian Vikings, selflessly indulged in in their free time from their main work. Sports have always been my weakness. Weakness in the good sense of the word.
Alexander Mazin
White Wolf
The cherished dream of King Ragnar
- Rome! - the king proclaimed and burped loudly. - That's what I want! This is where we will get the real loot and the real glory!
Over the long table, at which the kings, jarls, chiefs and other gentlemen of the Norman squads gathered in Roskilde for a joint vigil, were freely seated, silence hung for a moment. Through the doors curtained with bull hides, the muffled sounds of the camp penetrated inside: loud voices, clanging, knocking, the squealing of a pig and the no less shrill voice of a woman scolding a careless troll...
The others remained silent. Sigurd the Serpent in the Eye frowned. Bjorn Ironside, who received his nickname because he had never been seriously wounded, moved his lips silently, urging on his thoughts. Looking sideways at his brother, Ivar the Boneless, the most intelligent and cunning of the sons of Lodbrok, curled his mouth with a smile. The brothers Ubbe and Harald were silent... Not because they were afraid. My father's words needed to be considered.
The rest of the leaders were also silent: all of them were relatives and trusted people of King Ragnar. The greatest of the Vikings of Denmark again amazed them with the audacity of his plan.
“Odin will like this,” Sigurd finally said. “But I think it would be better to feel the Franks, as we intended.”
Sigurd said “we” with every right. Anyone who has a dozen warships under his command has the right to give recommendations to his father. Even someone like Ragnar Lothbrok.
- Frankie. Ragnar rumbled. An expression appeared on his face that made the king look like a cat who had discovered a jug of sour cream forgotten on the table. - Karl the Bald. It's not the first time he's had his tail between his legs. That's right, son. That's where we'll start! But each of you. - a heavy look from under frowning eyebrows walked through the meeting, briefly stopping at each of the leaders, - each of you must remember: Rome! This is the city that will bring us glory! However. - the king's gaze again passed over the stern faces of his relatives and comrades, - there is no need to talk about this.
So I learned about the king’s strategic goal in great secrecy from my hold commander Truvor the Varangian. And he is from the helmsman Olbard Sineus, also a Varangian and Truvor’s cousin. Olbard himself received information first-hand - from our leader Jarl Hrörek, nicknamed Falcon, who, being Yngling, that is, a man of an ancient royal family, to which Ragnar Lothbrok himself belonged, was rightfully present at the strategic meeting.
This information did not go further than me, but a week later absolutely everyone in our hird knew about the grandiose plans of King Ragnar. Presumably, other Khird squads of the united Norman army were also aware of the future spring campaign. It is rightly said: “If three people know, so does a pig.”
But this was not a big problem. After all, these were our Norman pigs. The shipping season has ended. The few foreign merchants who dared to visit Sölund had long since gone home, and there were no Frankish spies among the combat teams. That is, for good, or rather, very good money, many of the Vikings would share information with interested parties. But no one offered this money to my colleagues, and they themselves were not eager to sell secret information.
So there was no leakage to the south. But in the north - quite often. The Scandinavian leaders, recruiting supporters, did not hide the fact that a grandiose task was ahead. And they transparently hinted: they say, we will touch the descendants of Charlemagne to the very liver, and the bishops sitting on silver and gold - to the very top of the pyramid. The smart ones understood the hints correctly. The stupid were explained by the smart.
But that autumn, I, Ulf the Blackhead (in other times who bore the proud name of Nikolai Grigorievich Perelyak), housecarl from the squad of Hrorek the Falcon, had more interesting things to do than making the dreams of Ragnar Hairy Pants come true.
A much more relevant topic for me was the valiant games that my fellow professionals, the glorious Scandinavian Vikings, selflessly indulged in in their free time from their main work. Sports have always been my weakness. Weakness in the good sense of the word.
in which I have a guess as to why Ivar Ragnarson is called the Boneless
Northerners love two types of games. Strength and extreme. Or better yet, both options at once. For example, arrange a swim through a fjord to see who is faster. And in order not to freeze in the cold water, try to drown each other to keep warm.
The ball game is also popular here. A sort of cross between lapta and hockey, in which they hit each other with sticks almost with more intensity than a ball rolled out of wool. There are tons of injuries. There are even deaths. True, my good friend the Dane Svarthövdi Little Bear explained that most of these murders are veiled duels. Unofficial holmgangs. Fights “pure” of blood feud. There is no right to take revenge for someone who died during the game. And you don’t have to pay the virus for it. The main thing is for witnesses to confirm that the death was an accident. I think this is an accident. It takes a lot of effort to solve it with a simple Viking stick. Or very lucky to get there.
I didn't play ball. But he took part in a tug-of-war, where, due to his natural size (a hand shorter and a pound lighter than the average Viking), he did not bring his team closer to victory. Then, plucking up courage, he rode down a steep slope on a log. As part of a gang led by Treska, who is experienced in these matters. I didn’t fall, although, believe me, it wasn’t easy.
What attracted me most was wrestling. Ordinary, without weapons. At first I thought that I couldn’t stand up to the broad-shouldered giants with trap-like hands. But it turned out that during our voyage my hands also became pumped up. And most importantly, fighting without weapons was never a priority sport for the Viking gentlemen. Not to mention the real art of hand-to-hand combat. And I, after all, came from a time when a man’s only allowed weapons were his fists and boots. Well, elbows and knees, of course.
I won’t say that I became a champion (that’s what I didn’t strive for), but I left at least half of the local wrestlers in the dust. I was knocked down much less often: unlike the others, I didn’t get caught. With my weight, which was ridiculous by local standards, any grab immediately turned into a flight along an unpredictable trajectory. Since I fought “wrongly,” no one was particularly keen to see me as an opponent. It’s also clear: defeating such a kid doesn’t mean much glory. And losing to someone who rubs his nose into your beard is insulting.
Alexander Mazin Viking: White Wolf
Prologue The cherished dream of King Ragnar
- Rome! - the king proclaimed and burped loudly. - That's what I want! This is where we will get the real loot and the real glory!
Over the long table, at which the kings, jarls, chiefs and other gentlemen of the Norman squads gathered in Roskilde for a joint vigil, were freely seated, silence hung for a moment. Through the doors curtained with bull hides, the muffled sounds of the camp penetrated inside: loud voices, clanging, knocking, the squealing of a pig and the no less shrill voice of a woman scolding a careless troll...
The others remained silent. Sigurd the Serpent in the Eye frowned. Bjorn Ironside, who received his nickname because he had never been seriously wounded, moved his lips silently, urging on his thoughts. Looking sideways at his brother, Ivar the Boneless, the most intelligent and cunning of Lothbrok’s sons, curled his mouth with a smile. The brothers Ubbe and Harald were silent... Not because they were afraid. My father's words needed to be considered.
The rest of the leaders were also silent: all of them were relatives and trusted people of King Ragnar. The greatest of the Vikings of Denmark again amazed them with the audacity of his plan.
“Odin will like this,” Sigurd finally said. “But I think it would be better to feel the Franks, as we intended.”
Sigurd said “we” with every right. Anyone who has a dozen warships under his command has the right to give recommendations to his father. Even someone like Ragnar Lothbrok.
- Frankie. Ragnar rumbled. An expression appeared on his face that made the king look like a cat who had discovered a jug of sour cream forgotten on the table. - Karl the Bald. It's not the first time he's had his tail between his legs. That's right, son. That's where we'll start! But each of you. - a heavy look from under frowning eyebrows walked through the meeting, briefly stopping at each of the leaders, - each of you must remember: Rome! This is the city that will bring us glory! However. - the king's gaze again passed over the stern faces of his relatives and comrades, - there is no need to talk about this.
So I learned about the king’s strategic goal in great secrecy from my hold commander Truvor the Varangian. And he is from the helmsman Olbard Sineus, also a Varangian and Truvor’s cousin. Olbard himself received information first-hand - from our leader Jarl Hrorek, nicknamed Falcon, who, being Yngling, that is, a man of an ancient royal family, to which Ragnar Lothbrok himself belonged, was rightfully present at the strategic meeting.
This information did not go further than me, but a week later absolutely everyone in our hird knew about the grandiose plans of King Ragnar. Presumably, other Khird squads of the united Norman army were also aware of the future spring campaign. It is rightly said: “If three people know, so does a pig.”
But this was not a big problem. After all, these were our Norman pigs. The shipping season has ended. The few foreign merchants who dared to visit Sölund had long since gone home, and there were no Frankish spies among the combat teams. That is, for good, or rather, very good money, many of the Vikings would share information with interested parties. But no one offered this money to my colleagues, and they themselves were not eager to sell secret information.
So there was no leakage to the south. But in the north - quite often. The Scandinavian leaders, recruiting supporters, did not hide the fact that a grandiose task was ahead. And they transparently hinted: they say, we will touch the descendants of Charlemagne to the very liver, and the bishops sitting on silver and gold - to the very top of the pyramid. The smart ones understood the hints correctly. The stupid were explained by the smart.
But that autumn, I, Ulf the Blackhead (in other times who bore the proud name of Nikolai Grigorievich Perelyak), housecarl from the squad of Hrorek the Falcon, had more interesting things to do than making the dreams of Ragnar Hairy Pants come true.
A much more relevant topic for me was the valiant games that my fellow professionals, the glorious Scandinavian Vikings, selflessly indulged in in their free time from their main work. Sports have always been my weakness. Weakness in the good sense of the word.
Chapter One, in which I have a hunch about why Ivar Ragnarson is called the Boneless
Northerners love two types of games. Strength and extreme. Or better yet, both options at once. For example, arrange a swim through a fjord to see who is faster. And in order not to freeze in the cold water, try to drown each other to keep warm.
The ball game is also popular here. A sort of cross between lapta and hockey, in which they hit each other with sticks almost with more intensity than a ball rolled out of wool. There are tons of injuries. There are even deaths. True, my good friend the Dane Svarthövdi Little Bear explained that most of these murders are veiled duels. Unofficial holmgangs. Fights “pure” of blood feud. There is no right to take revenge for someone who died during the game. And you don’t have to pay the virus for it. The main thing is for witnesses to confirm that the death was an accident. I think this is an accident. It takes a lot of effort to solve it with a simple Viking stick. Or very lucky to get there.
I didn't play ball. But he took part in a tug-of-war, where, due to his natural size (a hand shorter and a pound lighter than the average Viking), he did not bring his team closer to victory. Then, plucking up courage, he rode down a steep slope on a log. As part of a gang led by Treska, who is experienced in these matters. I didn’t fall, although, believe me, it wasn’t easy.
What attracted me most was wrestling. Ordinary, without weapons. At first I thought that I couldn’t stand up to the broad-shouldered giants with trap-like hands. But it turned out that during our voyage my hands also became pumped up. And most importantly, fighting without weapons was never a priority sport for the Viking gentlemen. Not to mention the real art of hand-to-hand combat. And I, after all, came from a time when a man’s only allowed weapons were his fists and boots. Well, elbows and knees, of course.
I won’t say that I became a champion (that’s what I didn’t strive for), but I left at least half of the local wrestlers in the dust. I was knocked down much less often: unlike the others, I didn’t get caught. With my weight, which was ridiculous by local standards, any grab immediately turned into a flight along an unpredictable trajectory. Since I fought “wrongly,” no one was particularly keen to see me as an opponent. It’s also clear: defeating such a kid doesn’t mean much glory. And losing to someone who rubs his nose into your beard is insulting.
The next competition began as usual. Those who wanted to cuddle each other lined up in front. And they took turns throwing each other to the ground.
At first - those who are weaker. Then - the middle peasants. And finally - the local wrestling coolness: two-meter giants the width of a one-and-a-half sofa.
That is, everything was going as usual, until the crowd suddenly parted, allowing another wrestler to pass.
More precisely, it didn’t even move apart - it moved to the sides, forming a corridor along which a new applicant entered the circle.
I recognized him immediately and immediately understood why the crazy Vikings were afraid to even hurt this man. Ivar the Boneless.
None of Ragnar Lothbrok's sons inspired more respect than the Boneless. Ivar's cruelty was legendary. He could kill a man just because he looked at him disrespectfully. And not just kill, but release the guts and watch with interest as the dying man writhes at his feet in unbearable pain. And there was no case that Ivar paid the Vir for such a murder. He was not afraid of either the revenge of his relatives or the judgment of the Thing.
At the same time, he unquestioningly obeyed his father and no one ever heard of Ivar quarreling with one of his brothers. They said about him that he was cunning, like Loki, and could deceive even Odin himself. Their own Hirdmans worshiped him as if they were a god and were ready, at his orders, to throw themselves into the mouth of a volcano. Moreover, in full confidence that they would get out of there alive, because Ivar Ragnarson was incredibly, incredibly lucky. He never lost to anyone. From any campaign, he returned with booty, the weight of which almost scooped up the ships, and his Vikings died no more often than peaceful bondsmen.
The dream of Nikolai Perelyak, a master of historical fencing and a great lover of everything medieval, has come true. He is in the ninth century. And he is a Viking from the team of the glorious Jarl Hrorek the Falcon. Ahead is a great campaign to France, but first you need to spend the winter on the Danish island of Roskilde, the possession of the most powerful and cruel of the Norman kings - Ragnar Lothbrok.
Those who think that wintering in the company of Danish Vikings is a continuous feast with warrior friends and cheerful girls is not entirely right. There are also cheerful bloody holidays in honor of local gods and merry Norman games, from which not everyone manages to emerge unharmed. And also crazy berserkers, aggressive neighbors and beautiful Danish women who should not be touched without permission, so as not to be left without hands.
In short, it won't be boring. Neither the hero nor the reader.
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