by C. R. May
The first riders were almost up with them by the time he turned his attention back to the roadway, and Erik’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw the man who led them for the first time. Harald Gormsson waved the riders on into the town as he hauled his mount aside, slipping from the saddle to throw his big arms around his brother-in-law. ‘Well-done Erik!’ The Dane ran his eyes around the Norwegians as they cleared the gateway and cheered the horsemen on their way. ‘Any losses?’
Erik grinned and shook his head proudly. ‘Not on our side; take a look at the corpses beyond the inner doorway though and you will see that many of them still wear a look of surprise.’
The Danish attackers were still thundering through the gateway, and Harald put an arm around Erik and led him away from the dust and noise. ‘You are probably wondering why I am here.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind. You were supposed to help your father take the fort straddling the Army Way.’
Harald’s eyes flashed as the stark blare of war horns carried from the town. ‘We have finally made a breakthrough in our negotiations with the Obotrites. Our go-between has persuaded them that now would be a good time to attack the Franks and Saxons.’ Harald cleared his throat as he looked to check they were out of earshot of the men. ‘As you know the Danes and Slavs have not always been the best of neighbours, and they have made it a condition of their acceptance that a man of the highest rank and his war band must be exchanged to fight alongside them as a mark of our goodwill.’
Erik beamed at the news as the Danish rearguard clattered through the gate. The Slavic tribes could field vast numbers of men, and a two-pronged attack against a distracted foe should make a crushing victory almost certain. ‘It is a good plan if we can pull it off. This hostage swap though,’ he said with a sidelong look as the pair walked back to the roadway. ‘We all know that it is often a death sentence for the men who are sent. At best they can expect to return with their nose, ears and hands lopped off.’
2
JAROVIT’S MARES
The mood lifted as the town came into view, and Boleslav threw Erik a smile as he pointed out the settlement perched at the tip of the peninsula. ‘Plune,’ he announced with the expansive sweep of an arm, ‘the place of my birth!’
Erik looked out across the sparkling waters of the lake to the town itself. Lime washed wood and reed thatch glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, the squat buildings of the townsfolk skirting the ramparts of the ring fort so typical of Slavic lands. It was high summer and a patchwork of fields waist high with honey-gold spelt and rye baked under an azure sky, patiently awaiting the attention of the harvester’s scythe which could only be days away.
The Slav leader was speaking again as the column wend its way clear of the woodland, and Erik’s attention returned as his ever jovial companion chirruped away. ‘It’s a great honour,’ Boleslav explained as the horses followed the roadway down to the lakeside and plodded on. ‘King Mistevoy rarely visits Plune, despite the wondrous aspect of the town, but I understand that he is keen to meet the king of Norwegians who shares our hatred of the Christian wildcats, despite his tender years.’ Erik nodded. The Obotrite king was little more than a child; at home he would barely have attained the age of foster, but the death of his father had thrust the lad into the forefront of the ongoing war which men fought on behalf of their gods.
The track levelled out as it reached the lakeside before following the shoreline for the last half mile to town. Above the water meadow the muggy air shimmered beneath a sweltering sun; grasshoppers rasped as butterflies rode the heat waves on gossamer wings. Somewhere to the north the rhythmic beat of a woodpecker formed a backdrop to the tranquil scene, and the one-way conversation finally petered out as both men basked in the peacefulness of the moment.
Within too short a time the horsemen were in the town with smiles and welcoming cries replacing the serenity of the ride, and Erik ran his gaze across the walls of the fortress as hazel haired children skipped alongside their heroes and the road climbed the final few yards to the gateway. Smaller than the place where he had left the Draki and the majority of her crew, back north at the town called Starigard, the fortress was sturdy and workmanlike nevertheless. Constructed from the timber which grew all around the town, alternating layers had been laid lengthwise and end-on to give the structure strength, the whole packed tight with pounded rubble and a facing of lime plaster. Erik knew from his inspection of Starigard that the walls would be several yards thick, a fact confirmed as the riders entered the shadow made by the gateway and were funnelled towards the interior. With a massive timber gatehouse and an elevated walkway behind a crenellated wickerwork screen, the northerner knew that it would be a hard place to take. His old underling, Skipper Alf, had told him as much back on the strand the very first day they had sailed together, and although the man now sank his ale in Njörðr’s seafloor hall, the wisdom he had imparted lived on in the men who had known him in life.
To Erik’s surprise the Obotrite king was awaiting their arrival in the courtyard before the royal hall, the small figure unmistakable in its splendour amid the hulking forms of his personal guard. The riders dismounted as the king approached, and king Mistevoy surprised Erik again as he extended a hand in greeting. ‘King Erik,’ he began with a smile. ‘I welcome you to my town of Plume.’
Erik took the king’s hand and returned the smile. ‘Thank you King Mistevoy, for the openness of your welcome in this handsome place.’
The Slav chuckled at the description and Erik saw the merest trace of concern flitter across the face of the king’s advisors as he did so. The high pitched laugh was hardly the rumble of a great king, but Mistevoy was quick-witted enough despite his lack of years, and he moved to allay any fears that he was mocking the giant Norseman. ‘Forgive me, King Erik,’ he said. ‘I know how proud Boleslav is of his home town, I am sure that you have had to listen to an unending list of its virtues for most of the journey here.’ The young king glanced across at his vassal with a look of amusement. ‘Am I not right, Boleslav?’
‘I may have mentioned its lovely aspect once or twice lord,’ the Slav admitted as Erik’s answering smile swept the concern from the faces of the king’s advisors, and Mistevoy moved that they remain where they were as he indicated that Erik follow him up onto the walkway skirting the upper levels of the fort. ‘You must call me Mistevoy,’ the king said as they crossed to the foot of the staircase and began to climb, ‘if you will permit me to call you Erik. We are both kings after all, and it is far less pompous.’
The two kings climbed the wide staircase as Boleslav and his men began to corral the horses below, and Erik could sense the laughter in the Slav’s voice as he voiced a question. ‘How concerned do my men look, that I am alone with Erik Bloodaxe?’
Erik cast a look at the men gathered in the courtyard below and gave a snort. ‘I have seen men less fidgety on the morning they are due to wed.’
The boy threw him a look of mischief. ‘They shall take my wooden sword away Erik, and send me to bed early with only a cup of warm milk for company.’ The pair shared a smile, but Erik noticed the regret in his companion’s eyes for the first time. ‘The gods saw fit to take my father when I was little more than an infant, so I have had to grow up quickly. I envy you your youth Erik,’ the Obotrite said. ‘Carving a reputation in foreign lands. Sailing your ships wherever weakness showed itself and filling your hulls with plunder.’ He gave a sigh. ‘It was not the start in life that my father had in mind for me.’ Mistevoy snorted as he glanced across. ‘Nor, I daresay the premature ending he had in mind for himself! But at least he left me well provided with loyal advisors and steadfast friends. Which brings me to the reason why I asked you to accompany me,’ he said, rediscovering his vim as Erik marvelled at the maturity being shown by a boy of seven winters. ‘What opinion did you form of Boleslav on your journey here?’
Erik gave a curt nod. ‘He is an entertaining man who clearly has the respect of his men. I like him.’
Mistevoy nodded in reply. ‘I hoped that you would, it is the reason I sent him to guide you here. I agree with your view, he is a fine war leader who has my complete faith.’ The young king of the Obotrites turned to the grizzled veteran and finally said the words which Erik had been longing to hear. King Gorm’s Danes had been harrying Saxony for weeks; if they delayed much longer the Slavs, and Erik, would miss the war entirely. ‘You will be pleased to know that he will be leading my armies against the East Franks. I have already arranged for the remaining members of your hird to travel down from Starigard to the place where my army is mustering.’ The boy smiled, and Erik felt the warmth of it add to the heat of the day. ‘Come, be my honoured guest in the hall tonight. Allow me to feast the great Erik Haraldsson before he rides to war.’
The spearmen tramping south grew in number with every mile travelled, and before the week was out the fortress of Liubice hove into view on its southerly facing spit of land. Erik and his hirdmen were riding a short distance from the head of the column, and they watched enthralled as men in the clearing ahead stopped to wave and cheer their arrival. Boleslav was obviously as popular a figure with the mass of the Obotrite people as he was with their king, and Erik shared a look with Thorstein riding at his side as they came clear of the woodlands and saw the numbers gathered on the plain ahead. Smiter was the first to speak, and Erik recognised the excitement in his huskarl’s voice as the man totted up the numbers from their vantage point at the top of the rise. ‘Five thousand or thereabouts lord!’ he exclaimed gleefully. ‘With no doubt more joining up on the march west.’
Erik raised his eyes as Boleslav led the main army down the road towards the fortress. It was, he had to admit, an even more formidable defensive work than that at Plune, the fort where he had taken his leave of king Mistevoy several days previously. The fort of Liubice sat at the very tip of the peninsula made by the confluence of two rivers. Similar in size to the great citadel at Starigard near the coast it was constructed in the usual fashion; a ring fortress of overlapping logs behind a ditch and bank enclosure, reinforced at regular intervals by imposing blockhouses of the same heavy timber. The difference here was the fact that a great space had been cleared to the north of the fortress itself. This had then been protected behind a timber wall which ran from river to river, itself strengthened at regular intervals along its length by the addition of strongpoints similar to those on the fort itself. A central blockhouse straddled the only roadway, and raising his chin to look through the open gateway Erik saw that the clearing beyond was filled with the tents of the soldiery. It was clear that Liubice had been constructed as a central mustering point for armies, and not for the first time since he had come to this land Erik found that he was impressed by the organisation of the people he had always been led to believe were not much more than simple woodland dwellers, a folk best suited for supplying the slave markets in Novgorod and Verdun with fresh stock.
The column crossed the cleared strip between the greenwood and the gateway, and soon they were within the defended area of the fortress itself. A sea of faces were turned their way but the ruddy mop and beard of Kolbein stood head and shoulders above the rest, and Erik returned his styrisman’s grin as he guided his mount across. ‘Welcome to Liubice lord,’ the huskarl said as Erik eased himself from the saddle. ‘The rest of the lads are down by the riverside.’
Erik nodded. ‘No trouble while I was away?’
Kolbein pulled a beatific smile as the others came up and slid from their saddles all around them. ‘As quiet as lambs, Erik. I had them all tucked up and sleeping soundly before sundown.’
Erik chuckled. ‘I can imagine. We will be fighting soon, so keep your blade sharp; I have to go to the citadel to find out the latest news and discuss the upcoming campaign.’ He clapped his old friend on the shoulder. ‘Óðinn willing, by this time tomorrow we should be heading westwards.’
The setting sun had dipped below the treetops, crowning them with a golden corona as the warriors gathered at the temple. Eight bone fires blazed at regular points on the circular perimeter of the sacred space, the face of Perun glowering over the assembled multitude as the priests called on the thunder god to bless their great enterprise. Erik studied the great statue as its features were picked out in the sawing light of the flames. The column had been carved from the trunk of an oak, the silvered remnants of branches gnarled and twisted by great age made that obvious to even a casual observer. The eyes of the god looked out towards the walls of Liubice above a moustache of solid gold, while at his feet lay a club of silver studded with shards of amber from the shores of the nearby Baltic. There was more than enough evidence here that the chief god of the Obotrites was one and the same as the god the Norsemen knew as Þórr, and Erik mirrored the actions of his own men as hands moved to finger the silver hammer pendants at their throats and the sacrificial ox was led out.
A smaller statue stood off to one side, out beyond the circle which marked out the temple of Perun, and Erik slid his eyes across as the ox bellowed its last. Jarovit, one of Perun’s eight sons had his own statue there, and Erik watched as sacred mares were led out from the temple to wind their way through a maze of spears. It was said that the horses had the power of divination, that the path they picked through the labyrinth would foretell the course of the coming battles in the west, and Erik watched as intently as any as Jarovit’s mares picked their path with care. The senior priest threw up his arms in joy as the horses completed the ritual, and the cheer which rolled about the clearing made any question regarding the outcome of the deliberations redundant. Anlaf Crow was at Erik’s shoulder, and the huskarl echoed his own thoughts as he flashed a smile. ‘That’s that then; it’s on!’
Boleslav cupped a hand to his mouth as the horse walked by. ‘Men of the Draki. Are you fit to march?’
The roar which greeted the question assured the Slavic leader that they were, although Erik knew that the reply had contained more than a pinch of bravado. The Norwegians had added another to their ranks the night before, and the Slav go-between’s mouth lifted into a smile as he turned his face to their king. ‘Boleslav is being a scoundrel; he knows full-well the worth of your hird and is overjoyed to have them in his army.’ His smile broadened as he recalled the mayhem of the night before. ‘Your men like our miod, but it is a little stronger than your ale.’ Erik gave a snort as he replied. ‘We too have mead in the northern lands, although as you say ale is the common drink. Don’t be concerned Babushka, if a Frankish army emerged from the tree line at this very moment they would be the first to get among them.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt of that,’ the Slav replied with a knowing look. ‘I have been present when they fought, and I know them to be a hard hitting force, cunningly led.’
Erik’s eyes widened in surprise at the man’s statement; it was the old Slav’s turn to chuckle with amusement. ‘I had the good fortune to be in Tunsberg the night you burned in king Bjorn.’ Before Erik’s face could betray his feelings at the revelation, Babushka moved to allay his concerns. ‘I know the provocation you were under, lord,’ he said. ‘No man could have done more to have avoided the confrontation with your brother than you did that day.’
Erik’s mind went back to another summer day as Babushka spoke. He was right of course, Bjorn had gone out of his way to insult him, spoiling for a fight. His half brother the king of Vestfold had already sent forth the war arrow even as Erik had camped outside of the town, summoning the nearest hersar to muster spearmen that he might put Erik and his men to death. Erik had learned a valuable lesson that day, but he was pleased to see that his new allies understood the killing and regarded him as a man of honour nevertheless. Babushka was still prattling on at his side, describing how he traded in amber when he was not fighting wars and had been in Tunsberg that day selling his wares, and Erik guided his mount out onto the roadway as the men of his hird formed up in his wake. Thorstein and Anlaf Crow had reached them, and Erik snorted as he recognised the dismay in h
is banner man’s voice when he saw what was ahead. ‘More mead?’
Babushka had picked up on it too, and he let out a soft chuckle of amusement. ‘No, not this time; we raise a cup of wódka to Perun that he may grant us victory as we ride to war.’
Erik glanced across in surprise. ‘You salute Perun with water?’
The Slav chuckled again. ‘It is true that the name means water in our tongue, but it is a drink distilled from grain. Some people call it gorzalka, which means to burn.’
Women were passing down the slow moving columns, passing up the wódka in small earthenware cups to the smiling horsemen, and Erik ran his eyes across them as they came. Tall and slender, most wore the distinctive ringlets of silver or amber suspended from a headdress or a maiden’s simple band which Erik had come to admire during his time in their lands. At any other time he would have thought to make a gift of one of the headpieces to Gunnhild, but hard fighting lay ahead and his mind was occupied by other things. Here and there a rider bent low to sweep a wife or loved one into the air and share a last embrace before he rode away, man and woman alike trying not to show the fear they felt that this may be the last kiss. Erik and his men had looked on enviously as men had slunk away from the drinking the night before to share a more intimate farewell; there would be children born next spring; that some would already be orphans was equally certain.
3
DEAD MEN’S BONES
Thorstein clicked his fingers and shot out a hand. ‘That is why they call you Babushka!’ Helgrim Smiter was riding alongside, and he dug his friend in the ribs. ‘The effects of the burning water wearing off is it lightning?’
The riders within earshot shared an easy laugh, the sound reflected back from the press of trees causing Boleslav’s rearguard to cast quizzical backward glances. Surrounded once again by his bodyguard: Anlaf; Thorstein; Helgrim and Kolbein, Erik’s mood was as high as the clouds. Babushka chuckled along happily as he adjusted the headpiece. As bald as an egg the old Slav’s pale skin was quick to suffer when exposed to the heat of the summer sun, and it had always been obvious to the others why their new friend was known by the Slavic word for grandmother among his own countrymen. ‘I need to wear this,’ he countered with a smile. ‘It’s either this, or suffering with a pate as shiny as an apple and ears as crispy as autumn leaves. A normal hat does not offer enough shade,’ he added as the Norwegians shared knowing looks. ‘I need to cover as much of my face and neck as I can; hence the headdress.’