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Fury of the Northmen
by Frank Kimovec; co-published with Great Wall Publishing
252 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0050; ISBN 1-55369-237-3; US$24.00, C$26.95, EUR20.00, £14.00
Live the life of a viking warrior raiding Irish villages and monasteries.
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About the book About the author Sample excerpts Catalogue info
About the BookA historical/adventure novel steeped in intrigue, battles, and blood feuds. If you were ever tired of the Hollywood version of history with its silly romances and pure-hearted heroes, then this intense, fast-paced novel is for you. Through the eyes of a young viking warrior on his first raid of the Irish coast, you will experience life as it really was: dark, brutal, and short. The novel is set in the late 8th century and features the inner workings of a Scandinavian settlement bent on looting lands to the west. Not only will you visualize the necessary preparations taken, but you will come to know the intense rivalries within their ranks which caused the vikings to kill more of each other than anyone else. Once enjoined in battle, viking savagery is legendary: close quarter fighting, unmerciful dealings with captives, and an irreverence toward men of the cloth portray a time when kill or be killed, smash and grab, and woe to the vanquished were the only laws followed. |
About the AuthorDrawing upon his real life experiences as a military officer, police manager, fire fighter, security consultant, world traveler, and through his involvment in the martial arts, Frank Kimovec knows how to create suspense, surprise, and adventure for the mature audience. Currently, Frank resides in Illinois and looks forward to hearing from his readers. You may contact him by addressing mail to Frank Kimovec, C/O Great Wall Publishing, P.O. Box 46113, Chicago, IL, 60646-0113 or by e-mail to: GreatWallPublishing@yahoo.com |
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Sample Excerpts
from chapter 3
Time had been too short. I had an instant to decide whether to parry Invind's knife thrust or use my axe to split open his skull. I chose to attack, for even if I parried he would have likely broken free, dooming Otmund and I both to a quick death.
As I swung the axe up, the tip of the steel head caught the corner of his eye and sliced across the side of his temple. It had little effect, except to cause his hand to slacken and the point of his knife to enter lower in my gut. I, on the other hand, fell to my knees, dragging Invind down with me, the pain urging me to quit. A twist of the blade was all that he needed. But to my surprise, Invind pulled out the blade - it appeared to have been too painful for him to let his face feel the ground's hard kiss without putting out his hands to prevent it.
With the blade free, I renewed my efforts, hooking my left leg around his back as we crashed onto the icy forest floor. That slash across his head must have now seized all thought, for he bellowed, trying with both of his hands to staunch the dark blood flowing from his eye, leaving the knife somewhere beneath us, hidden in the snow.
I hated him. Not for being my enemy, nor for being Haarlaug's dog, but for his weakness. The slash to the side of his head was not fatal, or did not seem so. I suffered from wounds too and did not stop fighting; the hole in my belly bore witness to my will. Invind the Strong? Invind the Great Swordsman? Was it a lie? How could you let a wounded cripple straddle your backside?
My thoughts lasted not more than an instant and then I let my arm fall. I heard the axe chunk into his skull. I wasn't satisfied until my arm fell twice more, breaking through to the soft part.
from chapter 12
"Ranvaik, he comes at you," I shouted.
I was not sure if he heard me, for sounds of carnage and the ringing of swords muted my hearing, and I suppose Ranvaik's as well.
I swung back toward the entrance, and there, in an abrupt glimmer of orange light, I saw Ranvaik spear the man in the back as he tried to duck out the door, running low, his body bent over and exposed.
The force of the thrust brought his hips crashing against the door post as he fell out and hit the ground, turning slightly on his side, only a pair of tangled bare feet staying within.
When I joined him, Ranvaik thrust a second time and was going to thrust again until I held his arm. The man was dead, wrapped in the poor rags of a servant as the ever-growing light from several newly burning houses well pointed out.
"There won't be much here, will there?" Ranvaik loudly declared - he wanted us to move on.
"I think not, he is too base. Noter would trust a fortune in here with such a one. Come, the next one is sure to be better." But before I could act, the silhouettes of two familiar forms ran past us.
Svarvar and Hroarr.
"After them," I voiced, bounding over the corpse and increasing my gait to overcome them, soon to see the largest of the stone buildings rapidly approaching.
