5 Best Viking Books To Read [March 2023]

The best Viking books from Next Chapter [March 2023]

The Viking fiction book genre has been popular for decades, captivating readers with tales of adventure, battle, and exploration. These stories are set during the Viking Age, which lasted from the late 8th century to the mid-11th century, and they typically feature fierce warriors, brutal raids, and intricate political intrigue.

One of the most famous Viking fiction authors is Bernard Cornwell, who has written numerous books set in this era. His most famous series is the Saxon Stories, which follows the life of Uhtred of Bebbanburg, a fictional character who is caught between his English and Danish heritage. The books have been adapted into the popular TV show "The Last Kingdom."

Another well-known Viking fiction author is Giles Kristian, who has written several books set during the Viking Age, including the Raven Saga and the Rise of Sigurd Trilogy. His books are known for their attention to historical detail and vivid descriptions of battles and sieges.

Overall, the Viking fiction genre continues to be popular among readers who enjoy historical fiction and action-packed adventures. Whether you are a fan of Cornwell's Uhtred or Kristian's Sigurd, there is no shortage of thrilling Viking stories to explore.

We’ve rounded up some of our best Viking - themed books below, as of March 2023. All of the books here are available for eBook and in paperback, and some in audio as well.

If you enjoy one of the stories below, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know your favorite :)

Books featured on this page

• God's Hammer (Hakon's Saga Book 1) by Eric Schumacher

• Varangian (Varangian Book 1) by Stuart G. Yates

• Ulf’s Tale - Annals of the Anglo-Scandinavian Empire by John Broughton

• The Fargoer by Petteri Hannila

• Marauder (Marauder Book 1) by D.W. Roach

God's Hammer (Hakon's Saga Book 1) by Eric Schumacher

Book excerpt

“Get him, Edmund! Knock him off!” the crowd yelled.

The boy swung at Edmund’s legs with his wool-tipped branch. Edmund parried the blow and swung downward at the boy’s head. At the last instant, the boy jerked his head sideways. The blow nicked his right ear. The yells from the shore suddenly increased in pitch, then died down as the boy carefully stepped backward, out of Edmund’s range. Sensing victory, Edmund inched forward and feinted low at the boy’s left knee, then came around with his branch and caught the boy’s right shoulder before he could evade. Startled, the boy lost his footing on the slick log and plummeted headfirst into the icy water below. The fight was over before it started.

There was silence as the group searched for another challenger among themselves, but no one dared fight the champion, especially in such conditions as those that day. Snow had fallen the evening before, covering the log in a thin layer of ice that required incredible concentration and balance just to stand on it, let alone fight on it. To make matters worse, the water flowing five hands below the log was ice cold and could be the death of anyone that remained in it too long.

“Hakon! Are you not willing to knock Edmund from the log?” Louis wore a huge grin as he prodded his foster brother.

Hakon shot him a warning glance, but the damage was already done. Others nearby heard Louis’ words, and fueled the fire with chants and verbal prods of their own.

Edmund smiled wickedly. “Yes, Hakon. How about a go?” Edmund stood proudly on the log, legs apart, the branch held like a walking staff in his right hand. His long blond hair, disheveled from his last bout, seemed to be standing on end. Something in his look, and the way he tilted his head, made Hakon’s blood boil.

“Hakon! Hakon!” the boys cried.

Hakon looked around at the boys who egged him on, and at the girls who stared, wide-eyed and expectant. There was no choice; pride and honor dictated that he fight. Silently cursing his misfortune, Hakon walked to the water’s edge and grabbed the branch from the loser’s water-chilled hands. He carefully rewrapped the strips of wool around either end. As he did so, his eyes caught a flash of green, and he turned, seeking its source. There, among the girls, stood Aelfwin in a green cloak of finely-woven wool. Her dimples creased as she laughed and chanted Hakon’s name with her friends. He quickly turned away. It was one thing to fight Edmund in front of all these others, and to face the embarrassment of yet another cold bath. But to have Aelfwin witness the loss would be . . . devastating.

Varangian (Varangian Book 1) by Stuart G. Yates

Book excerpt

The sound of her shoes tapping across the marble-floored corridor reverberated around the massive, soaring vaulted ceiling. She was alone, no bodyguard to overhear conversations, or alert the eunuch Orphano of her intentions. Flitting between the pillars, glancing behind her every now and then, Empress Zoe of Byzantium moved quickly. Alexius would know what to do.

After Leoni had left her, she had gone to her bed, waited a moment, then fell to her knees to pray. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she would lie awake, conjuring up fearful images of her death. Cold, alone, nothing more than a waxen shell, her spirit gone. Would God embrace her, accept her into his kingdom? She tried to live a good life, baulked at violence, deceit. Being part of the royal family had given her every opportunity to become sinful, but she liked to think she resisted such cravings. Unfortunately, that was a lie. She often succumbed to the needs of her flesh, sometimes with strangers, sometimes with men like Hardrada. She always sought forgivingness afterwards, knowing she was weak. Faith had been her guide.

Was it enough? This was her fear. Because, of course, there had been Hardrada so many times ... God reached into her heart, pulled apart the intrigue, the deceit. He looked deep inside to reveal the truth. Did He truly forgive her?

She pressed her forehead against her clasped hands, squeezing her eyes shut, bringing images of the Hoy Mother into her mind. Such images had always been her comfort. The Holy Mother understood the mind of a woman, a woman who was at once all powerful, but desperate and so alone.

When the door eased open, her heart froze. She remained deathly still. Had it been her imagination, or was there someone? Then came the softest of footfalls and thoughts of the assassin’s dagger reared up inside her head. She flung herself backwards, already bringing up her hand in a vain effort to defend herself, eyes wide with terror.

“Mistress!”

The voice, low and urgent. A male’s.

From out of the gloom stepped Clitus, the young manservant, Leoni’s lover. A crown of tightly curled hair, set in the old Roman style, a finely chiseled face, high cheek bones. Some called him beautiful. Youthful, kind. An assassin? Dear God, was there no one on this good earth who could be trusted.

He stooped down to her. “Mistress, forgive me. I have little time.”

Ulf’s Tale - Annals of the Anglo-Scandinavian Empire by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Heidaby, Denmark 1002 AD

It was later in life when I had my own long-ship that I became aware only a fool would venture across the North Sea in November. At nine, I had no inkling of normal: the captain should wait for a fair breeze blowing from the south-west and for clear skies and settled weather. At times, for others less fortunate, the delay might seem interminable, but we enjoyed good luck and the prevailing wind from that quarter. So, we set off early next morning immediately after Stefan sacrificed a squealing, wriggling piglet to the gods, its blood meant to favour our safe crossing.

The sea is bounteous and provides for man but is also capricious and perilous. Stefan shared much of his lore with me, not with Eilaf; I suppose my natural curiosity gratified him. He explained how to use the sun shadow stick – a flat wooden disk with a pointer sticking up in its centre. He floated the disk in a pail of seawater, so it kept horizontal in spite of the pitching ship. The pointer cast a shadow on the disk. With the sun right overhead, at midday, the shadow, at its shortest, pointed due north. At this time of year the shadow was weak, but when I squeaked that we were heading north-east, he ruffled my hair and looked pleased.

In the afternoon, Stefan indicated away to the east. “Seabirds,” he said, “what does that mean, Ulf?”

I thought for a second and replied, “Land, Stefan?”

“Right, probably an island,” he said, but I believe he knew exactly which one.

The journey proved interesting but not much fun. The spray soaked us as we pitched and rolled. Some of the children were sick and chilled by the wind. There was no question of lighting a fire in our wooden ship, so cold salt meat and bread were offered. In any case, the bottom of our boat was awash with seawater and Eilaf and I, our feet wet and numb, helped the men bail out.

After hours of sailing, Eilaf asked Niels why the men were taking down our dragon figurehead.

“See yon grey line over there? Ay? It’s the coast of Denmark and we must not anger or frighten the spirits of the land or they will turn against us.”

“So we are almost there?”

“Soon we’ll sight the estuary of the River Eider where we’ll take down the sail.”

“So it’s back to rowing again. Can Ulf and I take an oar, please, Niels, please!”

“I’ll have to ask Stefan,” he said, stepping astern where our captain was talking to the helmsman.

Stefan looked our way, turned back to Niels with a shake of his head and Niels gesticulated towards us. Our impatient wait ended with these words:

“Stefan says if you don’t keep rhythm with the others and your oar flies out of the water, you’re straight off the rowing.”

“We’ll do it right, won’t we, Ulf!”

And we did. Heavy work for two young boys, but we kept up with the men and women near us. I felt very grown-up and important. Too busy concentrating on my task at the time, I don’t remember the sights, but we must have steered from the Eider estuary into the River Treene. Stefan barked out orders and we slowed our rowing. By now, Eilaf and I were red-faced and the earlier numbness became but a distant memory. Like the others on our side of the ship, we heaved in the heavy oars as the craft glided next to a jetty.

“Home!” Niels shouted and we all cheered and bowed our heads to say a prayer for our safe arrival.

“We make camp near the village,” Stefan announced. “and march to Heidaby in the morning.”

“Is it far?” I asked Niels as he tied up the stern of our ship to the dock.

The Fargoer by Petteri Hannila

Book excerpt

The midsummer river presented a beautiful and ever-changing view for the travelers in the majestic longboat. The sun smiled down on the rowers, and in the blue sky sailed just a few white strips of clouds. The river was wide at that spot, so wide that a grown man couldn't have thrown a rock from the shore even halfway across. The longboat was like a sight from another world in this peaceful scenery, and it was indeed far from its homeport.

The boat was larger than any of the Kainu's fishing boats, and it made the water foam grandly as it glided slowly up the river. The rowers were longhaired and bearded, sturdy men, each with an oar in hand. Those oars they pulled slowly, forcing the longboat to travel sluggishly upstream. Many of them eyed the surrounding forest suspiciously. These men had crossed the sea and were far away from their homes.

On the bow of the boat stood a stunted old man. He created a completely different image with his dark, thin hair, crooked back, and bowlegs. They were on his business, though, and the silver he had promised was the force that had taken the longboat this far. And truly, he was guiding the boat like a bloodhound sniffing the wind, his large, crooked nose turned upwards.

Upstream, far away from the eyes of the longboat-men, a much plainer vessel was traversing the river. The boat was narrow and unsteady, like riverboats tended to be, but it carried its three passengers evenly and without complaint.

Vaaja sat at the oars, in good strength and with a smile on his face. Vierra was steering from the back and looking at her husband while she adjusted her black hair, with her free hand. Her green eyes glowed and her mind wandered free as a summer bird. She thought back to the time when Vaaja had arrived from the north, an arrow in his leg and a pursuer at his back. How this stranger's life had intertwined with her own, lonely one. So tightly were they bound that she couldn't see how they could ever be separated again.

Coming from a trader's family, Vaaja had quickly learned Vierra's language. He was from Bjarmia, a country that lay far in the east on the shores of the vast northern sea. As natural traders, they sold the harvest of the cold sea to go with the Vikings and Bolgars all the way to the far lands of the unknown south. Vaaja had been there, too, many times with his father. Often, while he and Vierra were lying beside their evening fire in each other's arms, Vaaja had told many amazing stories of these journeys. Of southern lands, huge cities lying behind great rivers, pathless passages, and of their riches. Vaaja's tales meandered further, to the far ends of the world. There, glamorous cities rose straight up from yellow deserts and women walked on paved roads, their faces concealed. So rich and powerful were the rulers of the cities that even their slave women carried silver jewelry around their necks.

Vierra listened to Vaaja's stories often and with pleasure, but the longing in her heart was finally quenched. The blond-haired man had brought her peace, and she missed nothing. The memories of the First Mother were far, far away. Just distant ramblings, undoubtedly only apparitions of her own vivid imagination.

If the man from Bjarmia had tamed Vierra, the boy that sat in the middle bench had cast a final, unbreakable bond on her. Vierra's face melted into a rich smile as she looked at her son. His face was round and framed by yellow, stubborn wisps of hair. The hair and the blue eyes the boy had inherited from his father, who rowed the boat. The boy, who carried the name Vaalo, had seen five summers and had a curiosity that knew no boundaries. Even now, he was reaching over the boat's edge, allowing the cool waters of early summer to flow through his small hand. He sometimes rolled over the edge in his enthusiasm, to be saved by his father or mother. Every day with the boy was full of happiness, of joy, of temper, and of all the little things their lives had to give. And Vierra needed nothing else.

Vierra forgot the steering as she watched the boy, and they almost ran aground. At the last moment, she snapped to attention and steered the boat clear. Vierra smiled because Vaaja did not even notice. Even though he had learned to survive in the wilderness during their years together, he was still a born trader and a townsman. So, naturally, he left the responsibility to Vierra as they traveled together in the wilds.

It was the eve of the fire festival, the day when the sun would be at its highest point and would start the slow descent towards the winter darkness. The old ones said that the fire festival was a custom of the southern peoples. Nonetheless, it had been celebrated by the Kainu for years. It was customary to find a beautiful spot for the occasion, where the people would then gather in numbers to feast and burn a pyre. This was their plan, too, and the boat moved rapidly, taking the trio towards the festival site they had chosen. Birds were chirping in the thickets surrounding the river, working as a choir for their celebration.

Vierra and Vaaja often spent time by themselves in the summers, and then with their son after he was born. At first, they had been scared of a party coming from the north to seek revenge, but the northern forest had kept its demands. They had burned and buried Tuura appropriately; there was no reason to irritate the spirit of such a powerful man. Vierra had defeated him in an honest fight at the gathering, so in the eyes of the tribe she had committed no violation.

What started as caution soon turned into a way of life. Accordingly, Vierra didn't want to participate in her tribe's fire festival, and they had found their own place for the celebration. Earlier that morning, they had fished and the river had indeed given them a good amount of trout for the feast. In the caressing light of the sun, the celebration site struck them with its beauty. On the shore of a small lake that rested below roaring rapids spread a small, forest-bordered glade. The short but bright summer of the north had cast a breathtaking field of flowery brilliance all over the clearing. They ran their boat ashore, and Vaaja gathered firewood for the pyre with their son. Vierra cleaned the fine catch of trout that they had caught. They would prepare them later, slowly, in the warm glow of the fire.

Marauder (Marauder Book 1) by D.W. Roach

Book excerpt

The dark stretching shores of Bjorgvin, of our homeland, were in sight at long last. “Light the torches and sound the ram’s horn. Let our loved ones know their sons have returned home victorious from battle.” Rurik commanded gleefully.

Mar repeated the order to the ships watch. “You heard your Chieftain, step lively now, make it happen!” he snapped. The ships watch moved quickly to retrieve the ram’s horn from within a chest on the ship’s deck.

Rurik turned to Mar and said, “Tonight, old friend, we will feast heartily, once again giving thanks and praise to All-Father, Odin, for a successful raid.”

Mar smiled and warmed at the thought of freshly cooked meat, golden mead, and familiar loose women. “That we will, my Chieftain. But our celebration this night will pale in comparison to the bounty our fallen brothers no doubt are enjoying in Valhalla this very night.”

Rurik nodded and placed his hand on Mar’s shoulder. “That it will, old friend. That it will. Each of them has earned their place amongst the gods and will certainly look down upon us this very night in pity that we were unable to join them.” Rurik turned upward, looking at the sky as if he was searching for the smiling faces of our fallen comrades. A crack in the clouds revealed the bright nearly full moon, casting a light on Bjorgvin and the dark waters below.

We lowered the sails, working the rigging eagerly, and set out the oars to row safely into the dock. Mar continued to bark orders with pride, “Handsomely now, we may be home but that’s no excuse to be lazy sons of bitches. This ship is your home away from home. Treat it as such. Show her the respect she deserves!” As second in command, Mar was the caretaker of our ship, ensuring maintenance and proper care at all times. Mar obviously took great pride in this responsibility, always standing proudly at the rear prow maintaining a close watch on all.

The ship’s watch stood at the front prow, grasping the wooden dragons head from inside its mouth and leaning over the water he blew the rams horn twice signaling that a friendly ship was approaching the harbor. The sound bawled and bounced off the cliff’s edge, an eerie vibration in the darkness of the fog. In the distance a slender shadowy figure could be seen at the end of the dock with shield and spear. The watch at the port responded with his ram’s horn, blowing four times, signaling for a safe approach. Drums. Drums. Drums. The ship’s watch helped us keep pace as we rowed slowly and eagerly to shore and the safety of the fjord.

“We’re home brothers, victory and glory is ours! Make your people proud, backs straight, chins up,” exclaimed Mar as he raised his right fist into the air. Some of us were still bleeding upon the deck of the ship, but despite our pain, we showed none to our people. No weakness, no sign of discomfort, only pride as warriors returning gallantly from the fields of battle. Our oars moved effortlessly through the water as we rowed anxiously to find land and see familiar faces of loved ones.

As we approached the dock several more dark figures emerged from the warm village dwellings of Bjorgvin. One tall and slender figure with long chestnut brown hair raised her hand into the air, waving slowly back and forth. “Welcome home, exalted sons of Bjorgvin. We have missed you greatly in our hall as of late,” the woman’s gentle voice said. I quickly ran my fingers through my hair and pulled my beard down to tame the long locks. I wanted to be presentable before the ladies of Bjorgvin caught a glimpse of me.

There you have it - the best Viking books from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!