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Ragnar The Shadow Wolf: A Viking Historical Novel of Revenge
Paperback
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ISBN13: 9798174531727
Publisher: Independently Published
Pages: 328
Weight: 0.97
Height: 0.73 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
Publisher: Independently Published
Pages: 328
Weight: 0.97
Height: 0.73 Width: 6.00 Depth: 9.00
Language: English
He took a sword between the fourth and fifth ribs. The man holding it was the man he called brother.
Ragnar should have died face down in English mud. Instead he woke among the corpses with a hole through his left lung, a scar on his back, a scar on his chest, and a straight line between them through a body that had once been solid.
Ragnar should have died face down in English mud. Instead he woke among the corpses with a hole through his left lung, a scar on his back, a scar on his chest, and a straight line between them through a body that had once been solid.
It takes him a winter to learn how to breathe again - and a bitter black draught brewed from henbane, a poison that lends him air and charges interest on every mouthful.
By May he is walking home. Vidar has been there since autumn.
A man with one working lung cannot hold his place in a shield wall, so Ragnar stops fighting like a warrior. He learns the treeline, the dark, the hour before dawn. He takes sentries and captains one at a time, until the men hunting him begin setting their watches facing inwards. They give him a name for it, and he likes it more than he should.
But his enemies know exactly what he has become. And they are holding a hundred villagers behind a fence at Skogholt - old men, women, children, people who cannot run - and waiting for the Shadow Wolf to come and be a hero.
Revenge is not a song here. It is arithmetic: what a body can still do, how far it will carry, what it costs, and who ends up paying.
By May he is walking home. Vidar has been there since autumn.
A man with one working lung cannot hold his place in a shield wall, so Ragnar stops fighting like a warrior. He learns the treeline, the dark, the hour before dawn. He takes sentries and captains one at a time, until the men hunting him begin setting their watches facing inwards. They give him a name for it, and he likes it more than he should.
But his enemies know exactly what he has become. And they are holding a hundred villagers behind a fence at Skogholt - old men, women, children, people who cannot run - and waiting for the Shadow Wolf to come and be a hero.
Revenge is not a song here. It is arithmetic: what a body can still do, how far it will carry, what it costs, and who ends up paying.
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