by Tony Roberts
It had some old religious meaning but this had been lost in the mists of time. It was said by a few of the elders that the Celts who had once invaded this area had left them to their gods. Others stated that the tribes who had preceded the Celts had left them for reasons now long forgotten. Casca certainly didn’t know, nor did he care. With him were three warriors. Magnus was one, and two particularly big and mean looking bastards by the names of Hrodbehrt and Wilhelm made up the group.
The other two holds had similar groups. They stood facing one another, Casca and his men on the south side of the circle, the Sundsvalk contingent the north side and those from Jaegland the east. The land to the west dropped sharply to a rocky coastline.
The salty tang of the sea pervaded the air, and wind whipped through the men’s hair. In the middle of the circle stood a long stone bench and the three chiefs stepped up to it and eyed one another.
“It is said you are The Walker,” a dark-haired bull of a man from Sundsvalk greeted him. “I will begin these talks by saying I do not believe in old women’s tales. You are no more than a man, and that is how I am going to treat you.”
“Fine by me,” Casca agreed. “Shall we discuss what we have come here for? An alliance.”
“Alliance,” the leader of Jaegland echoed. He was a shorter man but had immense shoulders and a hard, weather-beaten face. He had seen many winters and looked as if he had experienced more than his fair share of disappointments. “Against a powerful warlord in Kyr Henningsson. Are you insane? He and his father before him have defeated every enemy that has met them on the battlefield.”
Casca eyed the other man. “What do you say? Are you afraid to meet Mittenmark in battle?”
As expected, the shorter man took exception to the insult. “Afraid?” he bristled. “I am not afraid! I just do not believe in throwing away the lives of my men uselessly in battle. Alone, we would be crushed like rotten wood.”
“But with all three of us together, we could destroy Mittenmark for good and end the threat they pose. We are keen to regain the lands lost to them, and I’m sure both of you would want to benefit from any carve-up of their territory.”
Rudolf Eidursson, the lean, tough Jarl of Sundsvalk, considered his words carefully. “We feel threatened yes, but Mittenmark has never fought us, violated our sovereign lands or disputed anything of ours.”
“Yet,” the Jarl of Jaegland, Karl Drakenskald, added ominously. “That is how they were towards us at first, but then the pressure began, the raids, the threats, the demands. They always got what they wanted, whether by mere threats or by actually using force. It will come, mark my words. They have reduced us to the status of lap-dogs, and they will do the same to you, once they have crippled Husborg.” He looked at Casca shrewdly. “So you defeated both Ivar and Erik in combat? Perhaps you can do the same to Henningsson. Kill him and you knock the guts out of them. He’s a big bastard, mind. Ugly as a pig’s ass, too. You wouldn’t want to mess with him, though. He’s as strong as you.”
“I’m not worried,” Casca said. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall, or something like that. So are you interested in taking him on? If so, then we must agree on a day to attack. We can only do it together at the same time. One third of Mittenmark’s lands to be shared equally.”
There was some reluctance from Drakenskald to commit to a war with his more powerful neighbor, but Eidursson was enthusiastic. After all, his men had never been to war with Mittenmark and were confident. Best to strike first rather than be struck first. Besides, Husborg were going to bear the brunt of the attack. The plan, as sketched out by Casca, was for he and his men to invade Henningsson’s lands, bring them to battle and then to get reinforced by converging forces from Jaegland and Sundsvalk and between the three of them, crush the enemy.
A simple plan but it would need good communication and co-operation. With the other men then called to the slab, all three sides worked out an agreement, shook hands and marked a tablet denoting their alliance.
___
Ten days later Casca led his eighty-seven men into Mittenmark’s territory. Some of those present could remember when these very stones, trees and watercourses had been Husborg’s. To them, they were merely regaining land rightfully theirs. They walked, with scouts leading the way, along a wooded valley. Casca had chosen this route on advice; the more experienced warriors said it offered the most favorable point to go unnoticed. Although the horse was not often used by these people, they were not unknown and Casca got two of his younger men to ride from his army to the scouts of the other two forces. There were previously agreed points to meet.
Both scouts arrived from their rendezvous points and confirmed both Sundsvalk and Jaegland were advancing from their respective positions. Casca now asked both to ride ahead and issue an ultimatum.
He never liked killing women and children, so he warned the first village in their path to either surrender or flee. Some of his warriors complained. Casca patiently explained it to them. “Victory will return this village to us. Do you want a burned-out shell as part of our land, or a vibrant, allied village?”
The warriors muttered and sullenly slouched back to the main body. Casca grumbled. Plenty of time for fighting. Mittenmark wouldn’t let this go unpunished. So it was. A few more miles along the rolling countryside brought them to a chuckling brook, dotted with stones. It had dug out a route through the countryside and wound its way here and there. It was the old border.
Here a group of Vikings stood, axes and swords in hand, shields at the ready. Casca stepped forward, telling his men to look about in case of ambush. He walked up to the brook’s edge and eyed the six men who stood on the other side.
“You have invaded our land!” a grey-bearded man accused him.
“We are only retaking that which is ours. This is our land.”
“You lost it through battle.”
“We are prepared to regain it in similar fashion.”
“So it seems,” Greybeard said darkly. “It would appear your people have not yet learned their lesson. So. It will interest you to know less than an hour away is Jarl Henningsson with his army. You are outnumbered three-to-one. This should be a short lesson indeed.”
As he and his five companions turned to walk up the slope on the other side, Casca called out. They turned and the Eternal Mercenary spoke again. “How is it he is this close? He can’t have been ready to march this fast!”
Greybeard smiled thinly. “You have been betrayed. We have been forewarned.”
Casca swore. He trotted back to his men. He quickly broke the news. “We have little time to ready ourselves. I want sharpened stakes cut and put in the ground ahead of our line, here,” he cut the thick soil with his sword tip. “I want spears made, lots of them, ready to throw. Get moving!”
As his men frantically searched out suitable wood, Casca called his scouts to him. He told them of the betrayal and to go searching for the two allied forces. Who had betrayed him, and why? He sent the two men riding off, his urgent pleas to bring Sundsvalk and Jaegland to his side. He knew approximately where they should be, but the scouts would have to ride hard.
He stood alone, fuming. How many more times would someone betray their friends? He’d known it plenty of times before. One thing was sure, he’d find out who it was and use an axe for an interesting piece of redesigning the human body. A quick survey of the battlefield confirmed his concern. He waved one man to run across the brook and look ahead from the brow of the hill before them and warn when the Mittenmark army came into sight. They must have upwards of two hundred and fifty warriors, a large force indeed. Where did they get all those from?
Casca knew Husborg’s army was an averagely sized one for a northland hold. Large ones went up to maybe a hundred and fifty, maybe a touch more. So somewhere Henningsson had got hold of another hundred warriors. But from where?
The land gently sloped from the brook up to where he had decided to give battle. The brook was too shallow and narrow to pro
vide any barrier to the enemy. No, he’d rather stand where he could channel the enemy, and here, where woodland grew to one side, he would anchor his force. He would form two lines of thirty-five with a small reserve force of ten men. These ten men were the toughest, strongest, maddest men he had, and would provide a shock force where needed. They would form up in the classic Northman attack formation of the Swine-array, the svyn fylking. Two men would form the front, three behind and five in the third line. They were his secret weapon.
His mind went over the past. He’d been in similar situations before, but this was a pretty bad situation. The land to the left was wooded. The land to the right was a gently sloping grassy field that rose slowly to a ridge about three hundred feet away. Behind them there was scrub and then an open valley. Somewhere to the left were supposed to be Sundsvalk’s army, and beyond the ridge Jaegland’s.
He hoped to hell the scouts would find both and come running. He wondered again who it was who had warned Henningsson. If it were one of the other Jarls, then they were in deep shit. It meant his small force would have to face Mittenmark almost certainly alone. It might be someone back in Husborg, though. He pondered on that for a few moments, then dismissed it angrily.
“Make the stakes a man deep,” he said to his men who had returned from the woods with a stack of branches and broken wood. He drew more lines in the earth. He was after channeling the greater number of men facing them into narrow spaces so their greater numbers didn’t count.
He turned to his ten-man shock squad. “Get clods of earth and grass and put them in a pile to the rear, over there,” he pointed to the side away from the woodland. “Then you’re to lie flat and cover yourselves so that you’re hidden from view. Got it?”
A couple questioned it but Casca explained what he had in mind, and the men grinned and set to scooping out a shallow gouge, then sliding into it and layering the sods of earth and grass over themselves. Soon only a few enquiring eyes showed, but the ground looked broken up and disturbed. Casca just hoped in the heat of battle nobody would have the luxury of taking time to see why.
The man sent ahead to spot the enemy’s approach came running back, hair flying, and he took the brook in one leap. “They approach. A host of them. Led by the Jarl himself. Looks like the banner of Sundsvalk is with them, Lord.”
Casca growled. “So that faithless bastard Eidursson decided to ally himself with the powerful? Nobody ought to trust them! Damn his black heart.” He looked to the right. Nobody was in sight. Had Jaegland also defected, or had they been destroyed? It all depended on when Eidursson had decided to switch sides.
The Vikings hastily thrust their stakes into the ground, forming four separate clumps, each about six feet deep and ten feet wide. In between them there were fifteen feet gaps, three of them. Casca waved his first line to stand in front of the stakes and his second line behind them. With thirty-five men in each line, and with enough space in between each man to swing an axe or sword, the front line extended to about one hundred and seventy feet. His line overlapped the stakes on either side by around forty feet. His left wasn’t a concern; the woods would protect that, but the ‘open’ right flank was where he would be vulnerable. That was where his hidden reserve was waiting, and from where he hoped Jaegland would come.
A rider came galloping up, the horse panting, sweat-streaked, foam dripping from its mouth. The man vaulted off and came panting up to Casca, his face slick with sweat. His smell was strong. “Lord, Jaegland come, but they are on the other side of the ridge there. They number forty.”
“Forty is good,” Casca nodded. “Are you able to ride back and ask them to come over there,” he pointed to the ridge directly opposite his right flank, “and hit the enemy hard? One charge.”
The Viking gulped down a deep breath and nodded. He climbed back onto the horse and trotted off, unable to go any faster. Casca was grim as he turned back to face front. He was in the center and from here would be in the best place to command his small force. Forty extra men would be a huge help; it all depended on how his men would be able to cope with the initial charge of Mittenmark’s army.
It wasn’t long before the enemy began to appear. A few at first, appearing as dark shapes on the skyline ahead, then more. Suddenly they were all there, stood on the top, surveying their opponents. Then they began moving again, slowly, deliberately, descending the grassy slope to the brook where they halted, within hearing range but too far back for any hurled objects to reach them.
Casca turned to Magnus. “Shall we go have a nice pleasant chat and discuss the weather?”
Magnus grunted with amusement. “Why not? I want to see the ugly swine before I chop them in two,” he hefted his brutal-looking war axe on his hairy right hand. “Head-taker is thirsty.”
“Keep Head-taker in your belt. We are going to parley. No drawn weapons. I want to buy time for Jaegland to get here.”
A white cloth was found and it was raised on an improvised pole and waved. After a few moments while the Mittenmark force gathered by the brook and spread out, an answering flag was raised, and Casca nudged Magnus. The two stepped forward and approached the brook.
As they did so, three men came out of the mass of fur-and-steel-clad Vikings. Two similarly-attired and built men, and between them a big bull-chested individual with bare arms and well-defined muscles. He had a huge axe strapped to his back and thrust his thumbs into his wide leather belt. He waited with an air of impatience as Casca stepped up to the brook.
“Well, so it’s the alleged Walker, is it? You don’t look much like a legend to me.”
“Greetings, Jarl of Mittenmark,” Casca said dryly. “I see you’ve got your dog with you,” he nodded at the familiar figure of Rudolf Eidursson, stood to one side at the head of what Casca assumed was the Sundsvalk contingent. This was how Mittenmark had managed to amass a large force. “What’s the matter? Can’t fight anyone without someone to hold your hand?”
“Oh very amusing,” Henningsson observed, scowling blackly. “I didn’t ask for him to come along, but he was eager to take your head. It seems he’s much happier siding with me than you. I’ve promised him lordship of half your land as a reward. Then we turn on little Jaegland. I’ll take all of that for myself of course,” he smiled smugly.
“Aren’t you worried Jaegland might march on your settlement while you’re here?”
“Hardly,” Henningsson chuckled. “We’re watching the approaches and they’re nowhere close. I believe they are marching towards this field. Let them come; the sooner they are destroyed the sooner I can walk into their hold and take what is mine.”
Casca grunted. This was one confident bastard. He knew Jaegland were coming to the party and he didn’t care one bit. Moreover, the Jarl of Mittenmark didn’t even seem concerned that time was passing. “You’d best watch your left in that case.”
“Ha! I’m aware of the so-called threat to my flank. By the time they arrive the fight with you will be over and I can squash Drakenskald and his puny force like that!” he clicked his fingers. “As a reward for his loyalty to me, I shall allow Sundsvalk the first attack.” He laughed. “Now, if you’re done, fuck off to your line and die like a true man.”
Casca glared at the big bearded man. “I’ve taken out better men than you, Henningsson. Be warned.”
The Jarl laughed and waved Casca away with contempt. “Bluff and bluster. By evening I’ll be thrusting into your women. Say goodbye to this life.”
Casca spat into the brook and waved Magnus to return to the line of waiting Husborg warriors. “Get the second line ready to throw their spears. When they do, order the first line to drop back behind the stakes.”
Magnus grunted an affirmative. “Shame Henningsson isn’t leading the first charge.”
“He’s not stupid. He’s going to sacrifice the lives of the Sundsvalk men to draw our strength and look to see if we have any surprises. That way he can adjust his tactics. What does he care about Sundsvalk? After us and Jaegland he’d’ve
turned on them anyway.”
“That Eidursson is a damned fool,” Magnus growled. “I think he deserves my axe up his ass.”
“Be my guest,” Casca said as they reached the front line. “Go command line two. I’ll get these men ready.”
As Magnus hurried off to the rear to pass on Casca’s last minute commands, the Eternal Mercenary cast another glance at the ridgeline to the right. Still nothing. He hoped to hell Drakenskald got a hurry-on. If he didn’t turn up any time soon, then the battle would be over and he’d have to face the might of the Mittenmark army, and Casca didn’t give Jaegland much hope if that turned out to be the case.
He took a last look at the enemy force which was being whipped up by their two Jarls. He took a pace forward and swung about. “Alright men of Husborg,” he said. “Before you stand two enemy forces; those of Mittenmark and those of Sundsvalk. We will face Sundsvalk first. They are going to form the first attack. As they run up the hill you are to retreat behind these stakes and stand by the gaps. You are to hack anything that tries to get through. Form shield walls. Stand firm, and Sundsvalk will crumble. They are here for easy pickings, and once they realize they are being sacrificed for Mittenmark’s glory, they will run.”
He half-turned, then faced his men once more. “The second charge will be from the main enemy force and this will be different. I expect him to sweep around our right, and that’s where I hope to pin him. Stand firm, believe in the gods and in me!”
The men of Husborg roared and slapped their shields.
As he stepped back into line, he took a deep breath. Now it was down to the gods of the battlefield. He’d find out whether his defensive plan would work. He hoped to hell it would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With a roar the Sundsvalk contingent came running up towards Casca’s front line, axes raised, circular shields before them. Wild hair flowed in the wind, mouths open, screaming at the line of men facing them, hoping to intimidate them and make them quake in their fur-lined boots.