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Chapters (76)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise forMATTHEW HARFFY
  3. BY MATTHEW HARFFY
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Dedication
  7. Maps
  8. Epigraph
  9. Contents
  10. Place Names
  11. One
  12. Two
  13. Three
  14. Four
  15. Five
  16. Six
  17. Seven
  18. Eight
  19. Nine
  20. Ten
  21. Eleven
  22. Twelve
  23. Thirteen
  24. Fourteen
  25. Fifteen
  26. Sixteen
  27. Seventeen
  28. Eighteen
  29. Nineteen
  30. Twenty
  31. Twenty-One
  32. Twenty-Two
  33. Twenty-Three
  34. Twenty-Four
  35. Twenty-Five
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. Thirty-Two
  43. Thirty-Three
  44. Thirty-Four
  45. Thirty-Five
  46. Thirty-Six
  47. Thirty-Seven
  48. Thirty-Eight
  49. Thirty-Nine
  50. Forty
  51. Forty-One
  52. Forty-Two
  53. Forty-Three
  54. Forty-Four
  55. Forty-Five
  56. Forty-Six
  57. Forty-Seven
  58. Forty-Eight
  59. Forty-Nine
  60. Fifty
  61. Fifty-One
  62. Fifty-Two
  63. Fifty-Three
  64. Fifty-Four
  65. Fifty-Five
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Fifty-Seven
  68. Fifty-Eight
  69. Fifty-Nine
  70. Sixty
  71. Sixty-One
  72. Sixty-Two
  73. Author’s Note
  74. Acknowledgements
  75. About the Author
  76. An Invitation from the Publisher

I began writing the story of my life and adventures so that a record of certain events might not be lost. I have many tales still to tell, if the good Lord sees fit to spare me for long enough. I never expected to have any readers of my work while I yet lived, but I would not wish to add lying to my numerous sins by saying that I am not gratified that at least one reader might be satisfied with the marks left by the scratching of my pen.

There may be those who read these pages and think they recognise other tales within them. Know then that these are the events as I remember them, but I am old, and perhaps my memory is not as sharp as it once was. Of course, it is also true that other stories may have been told before now by men or women who also witnessed these events, and they would surely resemble my own recollections. But each man can only see with his own eyes and remember that which his mind recalls, so what I offer here is my truth and that of no other.

I feel the curse of my age and illness hanging over me, an ever-present cloud, and I know that I must not squander any of the time given to me. Since Lady Day, the gnawing pain in my stomach has dwindled. I know not why. Whether this is a short reprieve, or an answer to Coenric’s prayers, I do not know. But as the acute agony has become a dull ache, so my mind has begun once more to wander the dark paths of my memories. To the days when I was not much older than Coenric. To the time when I arrogantly believed I would never grow old and die. I think back to the rain-soaked autumn and the frost-riven winter that followed the savage attack on Werceworthe.

I recall the sadness and grief, and then the rallying of the folk to rebuild what they had lost.

I remember marvelling as Runolf, the huge Norseman that many considered a brute, created a thing of exquisite beauty and power: a ship the likes of which no free Englisc man had voyaged in before.

And, although I do not wish to follow them down those dark trails, my memories pull me towards events I wish I could forget. To a river winding through towering trees that echo with the screams of the damned. To the vacant eyes of dead friends, staring unseeing at the flame-streaked sky of Hǫrðaland.

And, with a dreadful sadness and guilt, I remember as vividly as yesterday, the warmth on my cheek of the dying breath of the first truly innocent man with whom I crossed blades.

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