by Tony Roberts
“What do you want me to do?” she stared into his eyes, seeking assurance and truth.
“Come with me,” he said softly and honestly.
She smiled, and kissed him, lovingly, deeply.
Their embrace was interrupted by a messenger who wanted Casca to attend Drakenskald’s tent. Grumbling about not having time to kiss a beautiful woman long enough, he went to his fellow Jarl.
Within was a man he’d seen a few times. Sigifred, cousin of Hemming and nephew of the dead Gudfred. Casca bowed. “My lord,” he said neutrally.
“Jarl Casca. I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“Support against the king and your cousin.”
“Indeed. Jarl Drakenskald has agreed to back me, as has Jarl Magnus. I am told the three of you are of one accord, and so am I right in hoping you too will back my bid for the throne?”
“Against Hemming?”
“King Hemming will soon be no more. Both Anulo and I are in agreement he has to go, but we are not in agreement as to which of us will take his place. Once Hemming is gone, I will ask you to rally to my side and defeat those forces under Anulo. It is finely poised as to which of us has the greater number of men.”
Casca looked at the old Jarl stood by his side. Drakenskald nodded briefly, and Casca shrugged. “You have my support, Lord. I stand by the agreement between the other Jarls and I.”
Sigifred beamed and clapped Casca on the shoulder. “Excellent! I must be gone soon, for my presence here may give the king’s brothers cause for suspicion. I shall contact you when I need you. You will be well rewarded, believe me.”
With that he left, leaving Casca breathing out heavily. Civil war, never a good thing, no matter how just a cause was.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two armies faced one another across a gently sloping field of grass. There were no trees nearby, no rivers or watercourses, no rocks to break up the terrain. Two long lines of men, staring across a hundred yards of open ground, waiting for the signal to charge and hack at the enemy.
The sun shone down on them, almost as if it was an eager spectator watching the follies of men below. It was summer and the two men vying to become king had decided that their argument could only be settled through bloodshed, and many would die this day because of their ambitions.
Hemming had lasted less than two years. Some said he had been murdered, others that he was a prisoner somewhere. Others again swore on their arms that he had been spirited away into exile by his few supporters, one step ahead of the executioners who wanted him out of the way permanently, and was now a guest of the Franks in Aachen.
Whatever his fate, he was no longer king. Two cousins now fought for the vacant throne, and their fate was down to the strengths of their relative armies which seemed well-matched.
Casca stood at the head of the Husborg contingent. To one side were those of Magnus, the other Drakenskald. They were on the right flank of the army of Sigifred. His army seemed to be made up mostly of men from the Holds of the south and west, while Anulo had his men from the north and east.
Casca had left Sigurd at the Hold with instructions to make sure Gertrude and Baldemund were safe. He knew that should they lose this day then it would be all over for them; Anulo would not tolerate Jarls who had stood against him. Should they win, then their future would be for the short term at least, assured. Baldemund was now his charge, for Adalind had died the previous winter, some kind of lung ailment that had consumed her. Hilde had mourned her terribly and had made such a fuss that Casca had eventually allowed her to leave and go to the Frankish lands. Best to have her out of the way rather than cause trouble. Gertrude had been sad at her going, but the chasm between the sisters had been too great by then for her to miss Hilde too much.
Casca was dressed in a light blue pair of trousers, a pair of stout leather boots, his chainmail hauberk that reached below his thighs, a wide leather belt, and down his back a light brown cloak. He carried the usual circular shield on his left arm, and his sword was hanging in its sheath from his belt. He held a handaxe in his right hand, for today it would be a close quarter battle, and an axe needed less space to wield than a sword. He definitely needed the axe today. He had a steel conical helm, segmented and riveted together, and eyepieces that protected the upper part of his nose and his eye sockets. It was popular in this part of the world but he’d never seen it anywhere else. Sure, the Persians loved face-masks and that had caught on in countries and kingdoms neighboring them, but nothing like this. He had good vision, something that some face-masks didn’t always give.
The old Roman helmet used to have a ridge above the eyes that helped stop downward straight-on blows to the face, and neck-protectors. It was heavy but it sure as Hades gave the head a great deal of protection, something the so-called ‘barbarian’ kingdoms didn’t copy. They used captured helmets, yes, but once they got damaged they were thrown away or used as piss-pots. Fashions changed, too, and the complicated design of the Roman helmet had long gone out of use and the cheaper segmented conical helm had taken its place. Casca wondered what would come along next. He wasn’t interested in looking flash or smart – he wanted practical. Looking flash and smart made you stand out and it was just amazing just how many missiles came your way when that happened.
Best to look like something the dog had chewed up.
“Alright,” he turned and spoke to his forty men. “In a moment all shit’s going to break loose. I want you to remember to look to your comrades and not go charging off into their ranks on your own. That’s a sure way of ending your part in this little argument.” The men grinned, gripping their axes, spears and swords tighter.
“We’ve got two lines, so those in the second line throw a spear over into the enemy before they close. I want them to remember they have faced real men, the men of Husborg!” That brought out a roar.
Now both sides were working themselves up into a battle frenzy, clashing axes against their shields, grunting and yelling. Shouts to the gods rang out across the field. There would be no command to attack; it would come when one side or the other had gotten worked up enough to go for it. Some would work themselves into a berserker frenzy and that would then be it. Nothing except death or victory would stop that.
The air was filled with shouts and the clashing of weapons on shields. Casca turned back to face the opposition. This was not going to be pretty. Viking against Viking. Flags and banners fluttered above the lines here and there, denoting where the various leaders were standing. Casca’s men had no such banner, but there again they didn’t need one. They had The Walker. The two leaders were in the center, facing one another. This would be where the battle would be decided.
The contingent of Drakenskald was to his left. They had plenty of banners, denoting a black raven. Ravens were always popular with these men. Off to the right Magnus’ men had a sea serpent. He looked directly ahead. There was a large contingent of warriors from what he took to be Roskilde there. That was where Anulo had his power base, on the large island to the east off the mainland. Men from Viborg and Aarhus were more to the center or right. Sigifred’s main center of power was Ribe.
Suddenly both sides were charging. Nobody saw who started it but it was taking place. There was no coherent disciplined line of attack, more like a ragged staggered formation. There was no plan to what they were doing, it was merely charge, hack and hope to win.
Casca yelled to his men to stick together and prepare their spears. He’d worked on them for a while, hoping to instil some kind of fighting order. He knew once battle commenced it would be pointless, but at the start at least he could help give them an edge.
“Spears!” he roared, pointing his axe head at the charging men of Roskilde.
Instantly his men raised their ash missiles. He judged the distance, and knew his men’s range. Twenty yards. By the time they’d drawn, thrown and the distance cut down by the running targets, it would be more like ten. “Now!”
A hail of spears arced through the a
ir, plunging down onto the patchy clumps of screaming Vikings. Men tumbled, spun and fell, yelling in pain and outrage. Some sank to their knees, staring stupidly at the spears sticking out of their stomachs. This wasn’t how the battle was meant to be…
“Brace!” Casca barked. His men hadn’t advanced at all. Now they raised their shields, like a good old wall, and took the shock of the initial assault. It wasn’t as effective as it might have been due to the losses the charging men had suffered. Casca stood with his left leg behind him, teeth gritted. A man slammed into his shield, an axe swinging down from high towards his head.
Casca met it above his head, the force shaking him to the shoulder. What it did to the other man was anyone’s guess, but he looked in shock at Casca. Nobody ought to have withstood that! Casca pushed back hard, moving the Viking to one side, and his axe scythed in over the edge of the man’s shield into his collar bone and neck junction.
The man grunted, his eyes glazing over, and Casca pulled the now reddened blade free and smashed it for luck into his forehead, caving in his skull. As the man crashed to the ground, a second came at him, roaring to Odin to give him strength. Casca’s shield took the axe blow in the center.
Counter slash. The Eternal Mercenary’s axe bit into the Viking’s chest, slicing open the chainmail mesh and burying itself deep into the ribcage where it stuck. Cursing freely, Casca pulled his sword free. Standing over the downed Viking, who was shaking in his death throes, clawed hands above the axe that was ending his life, Casca took the attack of the next Viking, a man with a red beard.
Shield block. Sword slash. Blades met. Sparks flew. Curses rang out. “Pig-fucker,” the Roskilde man hissed through chipped teeth.
“When you were born, the birthing women slapped your mother,” Casca snarled, face-to-face with him.
They snarled again and pushed one another away. An axe swing almost got through but Casca’s shield knocked it aside just in time, and he crouched and sent up his sword in a straight thrust under the Roskilde man’s shield and into his guts. A twist, a pull and the Viking was howling, clutching his ruined stomach, staggering away.
The battle was raging all around. Bodies littered the ground. It was getting hard to avoid standing on one. At least there were no cavalry to watch out for. The Vikings just didn’t fight on horseback. One of his men toppled to the ground, his helmet rolling off his head. The Roskilde man prepared to finish the man off, raising his axe to administer the killing blow. Casca smashed his shield into his face, then slashed down across the man’s neck and chest, cutting him down.
The men of Roskilde were giving ground. Because Casca’s men hadn’t charged, the Roskilde detachment had run further and were separated from their supporting comrades. Now they were being hit from their flanks too. Men piled up and the pressure on Casca’s men visibly lessened. “Come on!” he roared, “the bastards are wavering!”
Encouraged, his men shouted in glee and pressed harder. Casca met the blade of a swordsman, one he judged to be some kind of minor thane, if his chainmail and ornately carved hilt were anything to go by. Their blades clashed, shields thrust into the opponent’s body. Casca had years and years of experience on this man, and his mind emptied. Now he was a cold, calculating gladiator once more. His face like stone, he worked for an opening. The Viking tried to chop down on Casca’s head.
Casca stepped to one side. He made an oblique movement and now was pressed up hard against the swordsman’s shield. His sword slid up into the Viking’s chest, puncturing the armor, caving in a couple of ribs and piercing the heart. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
A scream of outrage heralded another attack. Casca thrust up his shield hastily. The blow shook him and a frenzied second attack almost took his head. This was a berserker. Frothing at the mouth, the man was screaming curse after curse. Casca staggered back. This was something else! He thrust his shield up and stopped a third blow.
The mindless fury of the berserker’s attack meant there was no protection to a counter. Casca’s sword sliced across the man’s neck and chest. It should have stopped him but it didn’t. Another axe blow knocked Casca’s defense wide open. A wild-eyed look on the Roskilde man’s face filled Casca’s vision.
“Fucking Hades,” Casca exclaimed, and dropped to one knee. The wild swing missed his head. Now Casca thrust up, his blade entering the berserker’s guts and traveling up into his lung cavity.
Screaming like a stuck pig, the berserker writhed, then his eyes fixed on Casca like Jesus’ had all those years ago on Golgotha. Casca swore he heard those words once more… soldier, you are content with what you are…. The berserker’s arm came back for what he intended was the final blow.
Casca rolled to one side. The axe crashed into the ground where he had been kneeling. Picking up a dropped axe, Casca smashed it into the man’s shoulder, knocking him around with the force. The Viking still stood! Casca’s sword was stuck in his stomach but the man seemed not to notice. Blood filmed the man’s lips and his shoulder, guts and chest were stained with his own life fluid, yet he still fought on.
Another blow from Casca hit the man across the head and his helmet went flying. “Fucking die!” Casca screamed, smashing yet another axe blow down on the man, severing his left arm.
The berserker staggered, his face slack. Casca sucked in a deep breath, wound himself up, and sent in the mother of all blows that took the man’s head off. The body crashed to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Casca grabbed the hilt of his sword and yanked it free. The battle had passed beyond him. He looked around, that familiar dull ache covering him. The field was covered in the slain or the badly wounded. The right was theirs but the center and left weren’t. He tightened his jaw. The forces of Anulo were prevailing there.
Wearily running after his men who were in the process of butchering what was left of the Roskilde contingent, he began directing them to swing left. Magnus’ men were locked in a death or glory melee with their opponents, but it looked like they were going to win that one, although there weren’t that many left standing.
Drakenskald’s men had got the upper hand and now Casca’s men joined them, squeezing what was left of the enemy from two sides, and then suddenly they broke. The Vikings screamed in delight and began chasing them. Casca tried to get them to stop but the Viking blood was racing through their veins and it was a hopeless task.
Drakenskald got a few of his men to stop but together there were only about thirty men all told to turn and help the hard-pressed center. Here Anulo’s men had smashed their way through to Sigifred and now the prince’s huscarls were fighting a desperate last stand, protecting their master. “Come on!” Casca urged his men.
They struck the left side of the men of Aarhus, momentarily stopping the attack. Casca stabbed one through the side and the Viking slid to the ground. Casca trod on his face just to make sure he wasn’t getting up, and attacked another man.
Drakenskald, just to his left, broke through to the enemy core. Here were Anulo’s huscarls. Now the battle really got vicious. Casca thrust his shield up to block a two-handed axe attack. His shield was torn out of his grip, but Casca countered and his blade sank deep into the chest of the axeman, sending him to Valhalla.
The melee wavered to and fro, and then Anulo’s men broke through and hacked Sigifred to pieces. Drakenskald and his few remaining men carved a gap through the enemy inner retinue and suddenly Anulo was exposed in his moment of triumph. He turned and saw the old warrior bearing down on him.
There was a clash, a counter, and Drakenskald was sinking to his knees, Anulo’s blade in his chest.
Casca screamed in fury and waded in, knocking one man aside in rage. Anulo faced his new opponent, his face grim. His bodyguard had been destroyed and so he had to take care of this himself. Two blows. Both blocked. Another attack, aimed at cutting into the shield-less man’s side, but the scarred man swung hard and knocked the prince’s sword away with such violence and strength that it surprised him.
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Casca snarled and sent in a blow that took Anulo through the upper chest, Casca’s sword stuck deep into his body. Anulo fell to his knees, staring up in shock at Casca, then as Casca pulled his weapon free, fell onto his face.
With both leaders dead, it was now down to whoever had the most men on the battlefield, and Anulo’s right flank was bearing down on the remnants of Sigifred’s center. Casca knelt by Drakenskald who looked at him through pain-wracked eyes. “We’re fucked,” he gasped. He grasped Casca’s hand. “Get out of here, you’re going to be hunted down. Even The Walker has to leave if he loses.”
“Old man, go meet the gods in Valhalla,” Casca said softly, pressing Drakenskald’s sword into his hand.
The old Jarl smiled faintly, then breathed his last.
Casca got up, glanced at the advancing Viborg contingent and judged it prudent to get out of there and back to Husborg and rescue Gertrude and Baldemund. Time for him to be gone. If he escaped capture and merely vanished, maybe his legend would live on.
He looked to the right. His men were gone, either dead or running after the defeated remnants of Roskilde’s warriors. He turned, and loped away, jumping over the fallen, the smell of blood heavy in the air.
EPILOGUE
The reed beds swayed in the wind, a gentle motion, dancing to the whims of the sea air. Casca crouched, his eyes constantly moving from right to left, checking. Nobody could be seen, nobody could be heard. Good. He twisted and looked behind him. Two people crouched in the beds like him. Gertrude and Baldemund. “Clear,” Casca said. “Let’s go.”
They rose and moved on, at a crouch. Casca had a sword in his right hand, ready to use it if danger reared its head. He would fight to protect the two under his care come what may.
Gertrude had a bag on her back, full of clothes and small personal possessions, while Baldemund was equipped almost like a Viking in miniature. He was now fifteen and getting bigger. It wouldn’t be long before he filled out and could wield a sword and axe like any warrior. He was in fact carrying an axe in his rudimentary belt, and would use it if needed. He’d received all the normal warrior tuition anyone in Husborg had, despite his mother’s objections. She hadn’t understood anyone in the Obotrite or Frankish realms would have received the same, too.