by C. R. May
‘Believe us,’ Erik replied, ‘we know all about the ravages of sun and wind.’ He pinched his cheek and gave it a slap to emphasise his point. ‘A lifetime of summers spent sailing the southern seas, and skin ends up as tough as saddle leather.’
‘It’s a little more severe in my case,’ Babushka replied as he tugged at his shirt. The neck line came down to reveal a welt of angry scarring covering his chest and lower neck. ‘I was trapped in a burning building a dozen or so years ago. The Franks were raiding again as they resorted to their usual persuasive ways to entice us to worship their God. We were taken by surprise in the night; it was only when a falling roof timber brought down part of the wall that a few of us were able to escape into the night.’ He gave a shrug as the Norwegians nodded in sympathy. ‘If the hot sun gets to work on it for any length of time, it can feel like I am back there; a jokey nickname seems like a small price to pay.’
They had left the pleasures of Liubice several days previously, the army of the Obotrites making good speed on the passable roads which existed in the northern extremes of their territory. Swinging westwards to follow the course of a small river known as the Sventana, the pace had slowed to little more than a crawl as the heavily armed column entered the almost impenetrable tract of swamp, rivers, lakes and dense woodland which the Slavs called the Wilderness. Erik knew that their foes on the far side knew the area as the Limes or the Saxon Wall, but it was little more than bluster; no man-made fortifications existed within its confines, the living world which divided the two people and the fear and distrust each felt for the other acting as barrier enough.
The track skirted the trunk of an ancient oak and took a turn southwestward, and Babushka’s face lit up with a smile as the shadows returned and the westering sun slid from view. Within a mile they were crossing the course of the Sventana itself, the river this close to its source little more than a necklace of pools as the long summer began to wane. The leaves on the surrounding trees had already begun to lose their sheen as the days shortened, and Erik’s spirits rose as he anticipated the autumn to come. It had always been his favourite season, a time when ships returned from their summer raids, sun licked children gorged on nuts and berries from the woods and hedgerows, and men grabbed the chance to sup, feast and share their news with friends and kinsmen before winter gripped the land in its icy fist.
The ground rose as Erik’s horse picked its way clear of the ford, and the sound of approaching hoofbeats drew his attention to the top of the track. Boleslav and his leading men were clearly visible as they drew rein in a sun dappled clearing, and Erik saw his own huskarls instinctively check weapons and body armour as the scout clattered into view. Babushka was doing likewise, and Erik threw him a look as he too untied the silk peace bands which held his sword secure in its scabbard. ‘Trouble?’
The Slav gave a slight nod as he retrieved his battle helm from its carrying place. ‘If we are to meet the Franks anywhere before we emerge from the Wilderness, that place will be a few miles up ahead.’
Word was being passed back along the column; they would find out soon enough what lay ahead, and Erik noticed with satisfaction that his own men too were readying themselves for war. The man bringing up the rear of Boleslav’s contingent twisted in his saddle as the report reached him, and Babushka turned to pass the message to one of his own men who was riding with them. As the man slipped from his saddle and jogged back to spread the news, Babushka turned to Erik and explained. ‘Franks have been spotted on the far side of the Sventanapolje. Boleslav has ordered that we prepare ourselves for battle,’
Erik and the men of his hird had already guessed as much, and a quick look back across his shoulder confirmed that helms were secured in place and spears couched ready for when they emerged into the clearing which lay only a short gallop ahead. As Erik turned back Babushka confirmed his suspicion. ‘It is probable that this is just a scouting party, sent forward to see if we are coming this way. Word must have spread of the successful attacks of your kinsman king Gorm in the north, and only a fool would send an army into the Wilderness and risk it being cut off and encircled.’ He gave a snort. ‘The Germans may be many things, but fools they are not.’
Up ahead Boleslav had picked up the pace, unwilling to wait until the rest of the column had fully armed before moving up to confront the Frankish force. Thrilled at the nearness of action Erik put back his own heels, and within a short time the track was spilling out onto a broad clearing, the sun scorched meadow and clear blue sky above almost a shock to the senses for horsemen who had spent the best part of a week enclosed in leafage and shadow. Men were craning their necks as they peered westward, eager to catch the first glimpse of the German enemy as they came clear of the tree line, and Erik cast experienced eyes across the field as he steered his mount to the north and began to position the men of Norway to cover Boleslav’s right flank.
Half a mile to the west a knot of horsemen were gathering at the point where the roadway disappeared back into the tree cover, and Erik immediately saw from their lack of armour that Babushka had been right in his assessment; this was no army preparing to offer battle but a tripwire, lightly armed scouts sent forward into the wasteland to watch for and carry early warning of any attack mounted from Obotrite lands.
As they watched, the majority of the Frankish horsemen melted into the shadows leaving just a handful of men to tote the final size of the invading army back to their leaders in Saxony. A powerful force of Slavic horsemen were nearing the halfway point to them, the dying sun flashing on the broad blades of the rogatina they carried, the heavy bear hunting spears which were common among the eastern warriors, and Erik shaded his eyes and watched as the German rearguard slunk away before the Slavic horsemen got too close. The sun sat on the treetops away to the west now, the day almost spent, and it was no surprise when a rider cantered across to spread the word that they would be taking advantage of the open ground to pitch their tents in relative comfort after the makeshift arrangements of the previous few nights.
Erik slid from the saddle, flexing his knees as he worked the blood back into his rump with the palms of his hands. Men were mirroring his action all across the clearing as the lee of the army trotted from cover, and Erik began to walk across to the place where the Obotrite leader was waiting to receive the men who had seen off the scouts. Boleslav caught sight of the Norseman as he approached, and Erik was gratified to see that the resulting smile which lit the big Slav’s features was warm and genuine despite the rigours of the march. Working the stopper free from his drinking flask with his teeth, Boleslav took a pull and held it out in welcome. Erik returned the man’s smile as he reached out a hand to take the vessel, his eyes widening with pleasure as he sank a mouthful and found it to be mead. The Slav leader chuckled as he saw the Norseman’s reaction, and he gestured to Erik that he empty the container with a flick of his hand as he spoke. ‘Don’t worry we don’t drink wódka on campaign Erik, we need to keep our wits. We find our miod to be far more refreshing! Come,’ he said with a movement of his head, ‘let us stretch our legs. It has been awhile since we have had the chance, and tomorrow we move forward into Saxony. I doubt that there will be many opportunities for relaxing strolls there.’
Half a dozen Obotrite guardsmen shadowed the two leaders as they walked away from the organised chaos which was an army encamping for the night, and Erik saw that Anlaf, Thorstein, Helgrim and Kolbein had taken up a covering position on the opposite flank. The thought flashed through his mind that they were being overly cautious and he moved to dismiss them; they had ridden as hard as any over the past few weeks, but he saw the sense of it and stayed his hand. They knew that enemy horsemen were close by; if the two men were recognised for who they were, even the certainty of a quick death to follow would be unlikely to deter any unseen Christians from earning their place in Heaven by decapitating the heathen army before it could land a blow of its own.
Boleslav produced another flask with a flourish, offering the mead
to Erik as he spoke. ‘I will hazard a guess that you are unaware of the significance of this field my friend?’
Erik handed the drink back, flicking his tongue to sweep the drops from his moustache as he replied. ‘Babushka only got the chance to tell me that this place is known as the Sventanapolje before we moved forward to confront the scouts. I know the Sventana is the name of the river, but polje is a word I am unfamiliar with.’
Boleslav nodded. ‘Polje just means field in our tongue.’ He swept the clearing with an arm. ‘The field of Sventana; Sventa was the name of the goddess of the river, so this really means ‘Holy Field.’ To Erik’s surprise the Slav pulled a face and spat into the ground. ‘But there is nothing sacred here, it is a place of death.’
Erik patiently awaited the explanation he was sure would follow the outburst. He was not to be disappointed. ‘This gravelly plain was where my people first fought on behalf of the Franks. King Charlemagne promised the Obotrites that he would cede the Saxon lands to us if we defeated them in battle. This we did at great cost, here, in this place. Four thousand warriors fell beneath our blades, but although the remaining Saxons were driven into exile the Franks soon broke their promises and drove us back east beyond the Wilderness in turn.’ He gave a shrug. ‘As soon as their priests were fully satisfied that the Saxons had finally been converted to Christianity most were allowed back, and we were discarded like a worn out shoe. It was the last time that we took the Franks at their word.’ He turned the sandy soil over with the toe of his boot as he spoke. Reaching down, Boleslav worked a long shard free from the earth and held it up to the Norwegian. ‘Bone,’ he said simply. ‘The field is covered with it. Charlemagne’s battle was not the last to be fought on this field. Ever since that time, even as alliances waxed and waned, this is the place where the issue was decided.’ He looked around again and let out a long sigh. ‘It is the only place within the Wilderness which has the space to allow two armies to manoeuvre, the only place which is easily accessible from both east and west.’
Erik bent low and flicked up a yellowing shard of his own. Turning it in the palm of his hand he ran the pad of a thumb along an edge made smooth by the passage of time. The honeycombed interior was unmistakably bone, and raising his gaze he viewed the field through new eyes. Now that the fact had been pointed out, it was as plain as could be; the length and breadth of Sventanapolje was littered with the bones of the dead. Shallow humps rose above the surface like macabre seed pods sown by the hand of a giant, and a closer look revealed them to be the weathered remains of bone piles. The place was a midden, and Erik’s mind saw and heard the warriors in their pomp as they beat spear shaft on shield rim and sang proud songs of their lineage, before a gusting breeze shredded the phantoms to smoke as Erik too felt the melancholy of the place. Both men knew what it was to stand in the front rank as the shields clashed together and men shoved and stabbed, and he shared a wordless look with Boleslav at his side as they turned back to the camp.
It was a thing which most men there had seen a hundred times or more but it never lost its power. The bodies of men lay where they had fallen, their weapons and anything of value long since gathered up and carried away by the killers. They had passed the youngest and strongest folk who remained a short while back, mostly young women with children of an age and healthy enough to survive the journey, the lack of bairns and the old among them a telltale sign to the practiced eye of a raider that the survivors were treading the first few miles which would carry them to the distant slave market at Novgorod. A small mound of freshly dug soil marked the final resting place of the youngest members of the village; even men hardened by the constant warfare which ebbed and flowed across the Wilderness seemingly reluctant to leave the tiny corpses to the dogs which slunk in the hedgerows.
Roofs of thatch were torches, greasy smoke drifting back towards the east as the last things of use or value were stacked on the flatbed of the wagon which would carry them to Obotrite lands. Erik looked on in satisfaction as the church, nestling on what must pass for a high point in Saxony received special attention from the warriors of the invading heathen army, as men formed lines, dug in their heels and hauled down the supporting posts of the chapel. A timber cracked and the roofline sagged ominously as another was pulled clear to land on the dusty ground with a crash; a moment later the long wall had toppled to cover it, and the vault succumbed as dust billowed to veil the scene.
Almost a week had passed since they had emerged from the confines of the great belt of timber and marsh which marked the Limes, the limits of Christendom. Leaving the ghost-racked camp at Sventanapolje at dawn they had made good time, and by evening the roadway was widening a little more with every mile travelled. Outliers of oak, beech and elm replaced the press of the wildwood, the majestic trunks and limbs testament to their age, and Erik watched with interest as the Obotrites fanned out into the countryside.
Despite his long years spent raiding throughout the North and the pitched battles he had commanded, this was a type of warfare of which he had gained little experience. The army of Olof the Brash had been swept aside by the mighty force gathered under king Gorm the previous summer, but that too had been a pitched battle against an organised foe at a mutually agreed spot. The shaman in Finnmark had told him that he would be a king five times over, but if he was to grasp any opportunity which presented itself to fulfil that prediction he needed experience in all types of warfare. Now, although it seemed that the Germans were melting away before them, the battle sense he had gained told him that they had not travelled as far as some men around him clearly believed. Erik amused himself as they put the devastation behind them, running his eyes over the host to pick out those most likely to die during the coming days. Thorstein rode alongside him, and a gentle laughter rolled from the big man as he read his lord’s thoughts. ‘You are right Erik,’ he said with a smile. ‘This army contains more than its fair share of fools.’
Erik glanced his way. ‘All armies containing levy men are the same, even at home the fishermen and shepherds are only there to give the impression of strength. It’s something we must remember when we face the huge armies which the Christian kings command here in the south.’ He glanced back across his shoulder as he rode and nodded with satisfaction. The crew of the Draki were grim faced, helmed and mailed, their eyes methodically scanning the horizon for signs of opposition. Every man in his hird was a seasoned warrior, a man who could be relied upon to heft his shield and march bravely forward even if faced by the bloody fangs of Fenris wolf himself. They proved it now, Thorstein the first to notice the change in their demeanour as he stretched his back to follow their gaze away to the west. Erik followed suit, and the pair shared a lupine smile as they recognised the pall of dust for what it was. ‘A rider coming in,’ Thorstein said happily. ‘He’s not hanging about either.’
Erik switched his gaze to the Slavs moving along the parallel track. The majority were still sharing a joke with friends and kinsmen as they trudged along; comparing trinkets looted from folk much the same as themselves. They would be the first to die. The Obotrite warriors were alert, already checking helm straps and weapons as they instinctively moved closer to their shield brothers.
Helgrim moved forward as the tension increased, and Erik sensed Anlaf Crow already guiding his mount immediately to his rear as he loosened the straps securing the bloodied axe battle flag of his lord. Erik looked back to the west as his horse sensed the tension around him and came alive. The dust cloud was closer, much closer; the scout was moving at pace. He flicked a look at Helgrim, and thrilled as he recognised the war-lust in his eyes. ‘Not long now,’ he said, ‘and we will discover just how good these Obotrites are.’
4
ARVAK AND ALSVIÐ
The air had cooled as clouds swept in the west, serried ranks of stormcock grey flecked pink as the setting sun blushed the undersides the colour of blood. Sat in their saddles, Erik and the men of his hird peered across the ripening ears as a fitful breeze swept the b
arley in waves. Boleslav cantered across, the flash of his smile reddened in the dying light. ‘Men of the Nor’ Way; are you ready for war?’
The answering cry from the men of the Draki was all the answer he needed, and he nodded joyfully at their leader as he hauled on the reins and prepared to lead the charge. ‘I will try to leave a few for you Erik,’ he called gleefully. ‘Choose your own place to give battle, and may your Óðinn fight at your side!’
Babushka was back, the Slav go-between glowing with pride as his own lord began to lead the horsemen across the field. ‘Now you will see something, King Erik,’ he breathed, the pride he felt at witnessing the horse warriors of his nation go into action dripping from every word. ‘The bogatyri are famous throughout the Eastern lands for their skill and bravery.’
Erik too was thrilled at the sight. It was the first time that he would witness a charge by these ‘valiant champions’ and he was keen to see just how effective a mounted attack would be. Northmen rarely if ever attacked in such a way; horses were used for scouting the enemy or carrying the fighters to and from the place of battle once the foemen were detected. Away to his right the bogatyri were shuffling into line, the horses stamping the ground as they anticipated the charge. Half a dozen paces to the rear the front rank of foot warriors, the axe men whose reputation in warfare approached even that of the feared horsemen, were calling their battle cries as the leaf green shield of Jarilo, the seven armed war god of the Slavic folk was carried forward to lead them across the field.