Mollebakken - A Viking Age Novella

A Kingdom on the Edge of Bloodshed

King Harald Fairhair has forged Viking Age Norway into a kingdom, but his reign is nearing its end. As age and illness weaken the great unifier, the future of his realm hangs in the balance.

To prevent the kingdom from breaking apart, Harald gives his High Seat to the one son he believes strong enough—and ruthless enough—to hold it: Erik Bloodaxe. But Erik’s brothers will not bow easily. Their hatred runs too deep, and their claim to power cannot be ignored.

On the rain-soaked hill of Mollebakken, ambition, loyalty, and blood will decide the fate of Norway. One brother will rise. Others will fall.

Step into a brutal struggle for kingship in Viking Age Norway.

Excerpt from the book

Avaldsnes, Norway. November, AD 930

The winter sky had lightened to the color of ash by the time Erik navigated his ship into the bay below his father’s great estate at Avaldsnes. Erik tightened the woolen cloak around his chest to warm himself, then surveyed the landscape with gray-green eyes moist from the cold. Though the sun was up, torches lit Harald’s estate and cast the entire area in an eerie glow that shifted and stirred like a vision from a strange dream.

“It is quiet.” The comment from Erik’s foster brother, Arinbjorn, put voice to Erik’s thoughts. Only four sentries stood on the beach and their stillness put Erik in mind of boulders, not men. The only other sign of life came from the occasional call of a lone seagull roaming the fjord.

“Aye,” he answered as his gaze shifted from one sentry to the next.

Erik’s ship glided forward, bobbing in the gentle waves. On the strand, one of the sentries moved off in the direction of the great hall looming on the hill at the south end of the beach. Erik could see a cluster of men gathering there, but did not see his father among them.

As soon as the ship ground to a halt on the pebbles, Erik vaulted the gunwale and splashed into the shallow surf. Arinbjorn and ten of Erik’s most trusted hirdmen followed. “What news of my father?” Erik asked the approaching sentries by way of greeting.

“He is at his hall, lord, and is expecting you.”

The sentries led Erik and his men from the beach toward the group of men gathered near the great hall. It was as they climbed the trail that Erik saw his father. Though surrounded by his hirdmen and advisors, Harald’s hulking shoulders and shock of white hair were unmistakable. Erik would have smiled, but the faces of Harald’s councilors made him frown. The councilors were Harald’s most trusted men — advisors and wealthy bonders who attended him when matters of import required their presence. Normally they came to Harald between spring and autumn, or met with the king at the law assembly in high summer. It was uncommon to see them here, in the winter.

“What are the councilors doing here?” he huffed to Arinbjorn. “They should be home for winter.”

Arinbjorn could only shrug.

As Erik reached the group, the councilors bowed and stepped back to let Erik pass, revealing a man Erik barely recognized. Though still taller than many of his men, Harald’s body had hunched and softened dramatically. The hair that had once earned him the byname of Fairhair clung to his head in thin, stringy wisps of white. Above pink bags of flesh that rested on his jowls, Harald’s blue eyes were now sunken and misted with age. He grinned through his beard and reached out to his son with fingers that looked like the branches of some long-dead tree.