“Return to your ships,” he concluded with no ceremony, “and get some rest. We leave with the first gray of morning. Give your men a measure of ale tonight, but make sure they don't drink overmuch. The morrow will be a taxing day, and they will need their energy.”
The chieftains returned to their ships to prepare for the coming day. Hakon surveyed his own crew, most of whom rested against the gunwales or their sea chests, working the rust from their byrnies or sharpening the blades of their various weapons. In the aft deck, Egbert's huddled form whispered prayers to Christ.
“What is he doing?” Sigge grumbled.
“Praying to his Christ God,” answered Toralv as he ran his thumb along the edge of his axe.
Sigge scowled. “I would never —”
“Careful,” Toralv warned with the lift of an eyebrow. “That is the king's priest, and we are the king's men. Any ill words you speak against the priest, you speak against us all.”
Sigge glanced over at Hakon, who was sharpening his seax beside the praying Egbert, then back at Egbert. “I am just wondering why the king would allow such things. That is all. Seems to me we would all be better off praying to the true gods of battle.”
“Says the boy who has never stood in the shield wall with this crew and his king,” chided Bjarke. “Pray as you will, Sigge. No one is stopping you. But do so with this knowledge: we were winning battles before you were even born, lad. And with the Christian God at our backs, no less.” This received a few “ayes” from the others.
Sigge frowned, but wisely let the matter drop and turned his attention back to his sword.
The moon was just beginning to sink in the western sky when the crews hauled in their anchors and rowed through the eastern channel. There was just enough light to see the dark swell of waves and the white spray of seawater as the ocean crashed against the skerry walls. At the end of the channel, the whitecaps frothed on the open sea. Dragon raced toward them, dipping and climbing on the swells until she poked her prow into the open ocean. Free of the danger, Eskil let the current and waves pull Dragon's prow east, toward Karmoy, then called for the sail. The rest of the fleet followed.
They were headed for a deep bay on Karmoy's west coast called Vigsnes. At the bayhead sat a small fishing village, and from there it was an easy jog east to Avaldsnes. If the wind held, the ships would arrive before the moon disappeared on the horizon. It was what they needed. There was still a chance that enemy scouts might spot them, but Hakon doubted Erik's sons had been that cautious. And even if they had, it would take a few hours to alert the army and assemble it for battle on the western shore. By that time, Hakon and his men would be ashore and ready.
Darkness faded to a dull gray morning that revealed the waterway. It cut into Karmoy like a sword wound, digging deep into the countryside with jagged lines and rough islands painted white like bones from bird droppings. With the wind blustering in the bay, the fleet's crews furled the sails and took to their oars to better control their approach. The water here was shallow and filled with submerged rocks, so the ships sailed in single file with Dragon in the lead, accompanied by crying gulls awakened from their slumber by the intruders. In the prow, keen-eyed Bard guided the ship through the lurking dangers with hand signals. As he scanned the waters, Hakon studied the shoreline for enemy scouts. He saw none, but that didn't mean they were not there.
They reached the fishing village at the bayhead and back-rowed to a halt. The village was little more than a few small, dilapidated dwellings nestled beside several old boats upon which fishing nets lay. Save for a barking dog and some clucking chickens, the village was quiet.
“Get the men into their battle gear,” Hakon whispered to Toralv.
Toralv nodded and moved among the men, passing along the order. Quietly, the warriors fished into their sea chests and shrugged into their byrnies. Several made last-minute inspections of their weapons. Hakon cinched his belt over his mail and looked over at the other crews to make sure they were doing the same. Satisfied, he motioned the ships forward.
The ships scraped onto the rocky shore just as a villager emerged from his hut. He spotted Dragon and, with a startled shout, retreated into the darkness of his dwelling and slammed the door.
“Bard!” called Hakon. “Tell the villagers who we are and why we have come. Swiftly. Before they sound the alarm.”
Bard called to several men and the group poured over the gunwales in a flash of metal and shields, sprinting toward the huts.
“Egil!” Hakon called at the aging warrior as the other ships landed. “We are setting a fast pace. Take Sigge and his men and come as fast as you can behind us.”
“The boy can go with you,” he growled loud enough for Sigge to hear. “I can fend for myself.”
Hakon crossed the deck to his friend, trying but failing to restrain his agitation. “It is not you I am worried about,” Hakon whispered sharply. “I need someone to keep an eye on the young bucks. I do not want them racing to the battleground. And when we get there, I do not want them running around like headless chickens in their eagerness. Keep them together.”
Egil grunted his understanding and hobbled off to organize Sigge and his men.
“You men will go with Egil,” Hakon called over the old warrior's head to them.
“No!” Sigge called back. “You heard him. He can fend for himself. We march with you, King Hakon.”
The entire crew stopped and glared at the youth.
“Do as your king asks, boy, or this crew and I will see you are fed to the crabs. Do you hear?”
Sigge and his followers marked the faces of the other warriors, and wisely nodded their understanding. But that did not stop the crew from tossing curses in Sigge's direction or sharing their own hard thoughts on the matter.
“Speak like that again to your king and you'll find yourself without a tongue,” growled Bjarke.
“That would be an improvement,” chuckled Asmund as he leaped over the gunwale.
“His lady friends will not think so,” added Toralv, and the crew erupted in laughter.
Hakon left the men to their taunts and turned to the aft deck. “Egbert,” he called to his priest.
“Lord?” Egbert acknowledged as he rose from his final prayers.
“Stay close to me. I will need you before the fight.”
Egbert's eyes went wide. “Need me for what, exactly?”
“You shall see. Come.”
With the village secure, the army set off down a track that stretched due east to Avaldsnes. In the far distance, the rising sun had not yet appeared above the Keel, though its soft glow illuminated the sky and the grassy fields through which they now marched. To the untrained eye, they strode in a giant clump of armed men. In reality, they marched in groups according to their allegiances. Silent. Grim. Determined. At their head walked Hakon and his household warriors, save for Egil, who brought up the rear with the disgruntled Sigge and his embarrassed crew. Hakon marched in plain sight. He did not try to mask the sounds of his army's approach. If the army of Erik's sons was as large as the reports suggested, then it would be camped in the meadows to the west of Hakon's estate. Hakon wanted that army to see him coming. He wanted it away from Avaldsnes, and away from the uneven ground that surrounded his estate.
“There.” Toralv pointed with his axe.
Hakon stopped and peered ahead. Though his sight was not as sharp as his champion's, it was not difficult to spot the colored standards waving among the trees or the mass of tents that littered his land. Near the tents, dark shadows scurried like chased rats.
“They see us,” Toralv said.
Hakon scanned the landscape. Where they stood was as flat as an eating board. About one hundred paces ahead, a cluster of pines bordered each side of the field through which the road passed, forming a natural alleyway about three hundred paces wide. Hakon pointed at it. “That is where we fight.”
Hakon's army advanced and assembled between the pines, spreading out across the field
so that the flanks reached to the trees on either side. Hakon turned back to the enemy camp, where a dark line of men now advanced. It was then that Hakon's heart began to thunder. He had fought in battles beyond count, and his body's reaction to an imminent fight never varied. This was the moment that tested a man's mettle. When the action had not yet started, and a man's nerves teetered. When reason told a man to run, and courage told him to fight. No amount of experience could ever quell the rising thrill and overwhelming dread of looming battle. One could only harness it and use it, and so Hakon breathed deeply of the morning air and welcomed the rush of battle blood to his veins.
“Their shields, lord,” remarked Toralv.
Hakon focused his gaze, but at this distance, he could not distinguish what it was that Toralv saw.
“The mark of Tyr,” Toralv added. “It is the shield we saw at Strommen in the Ostfold.”
It came as little surprise. In fact, it only confirmed what they already knew — that Erik's sons were at Strommen and other sites besides. Hakon put the thought aside and called, “Egbert. Garth. To me!”
The priest and the warrior trotted to their king. Hakon spoke to them quietly, ignoring the apprehension in Egbert's eyes as he laid out his idea to them. The men nodded their understanding, bowed to their king, then retreated to the back of the shield wall.
Across the field, the sons of Erik and their vast army drew closer. They clearly outnumbered Hakon's men, though by just how much was still unclear. Hakon crossed himself, cast his eyes to the sky for a brief prayer, and for the briefest of moments wondered whether God concerned Himself with skirmishes like this or whether the pagan supplications mumbled by his warriors drowned out his own prayers.
“About two to one, I'd guess,” stated Toralv, interrupting Hakon's thoughts.
“Even odds, then,” quipped Bjarke, who stood nearby with a mild grin on his face.
Hakon smiled through his beard. Behind them, several of the other men chuckled as well, which was good — they would need their spirits this day.
“Come,” Hakon said to Toralv. “Let us meet our foe and get the measure of them.”
Toralv hefted his axe and followed his king. Neither man spoke, though each studied the advancing line closely. Like Hakon's army, they were broken into loose groups, each with a chieftain who marched at its head. Two banners flapped over the center group. One displayed the mark of Tyr on a light blue field; the other, a black axe on a red field. The mark of Bloodaxe.
The leader of the middle group raised his left hand and the army halted. Hakon and Toralv stopped and waited.
“Do you think Avaldsnes has already fallen?” asked Toralv suddenly.
It was a question Hakon had been considering for some time, but now he was more certain of the answer.
“If Avaldsnes was theirs, they would be standing on its walls, not marching out here in the open. No, Avaldsnes yet stands.”
The leader of each group — four men in all — stepped from the enemy lines and strode toward Hakon and his champion. Hakon's mind tried and failed to reconcile the image of the boys who had left the North so long ago with the warriors who now approached him. They were men now. Gods of war in their glinting chain mail and leather breeks. None wore helmets yet, affording Hakon time to take in their features as they came closer.
The oldest, Gamle, walked a pace ahead of the others. He had become a bear of a man, his confident bearing so much like his father's. Unlike Erik, he had hair the color of chestnut, which was pulled back from his square face into a long braid. Above a well-groomed beard that hung to his chest, light, alert eyes regarded Hakon.
To his left strode a thinner, shorter man with raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes that darted left and right. Guthorm. The last time Hakon had seen him, his mother had been clutching his shoulders to keep him from protecting his brother Gamle from Toralv. To Gamle's right walked a scowling, heavyset man with ruddy cheeks and hair as red as his father's. His nose had been broken at some point and sat bulbous and bent in the middle of his round face. And to his right walked another man, this one also red-haired, but with a pale, freckled face and round, watchful eyes that put Hakon in mind of Egbert. Of the four, he seemed to be the only one scanning the enemy lines.
Erik's brood came to a halt ten paces from Hakon and eyed their uncle malignantly. The heavy man spat into the grass. Hakon ignored the gesture. “I am glad you have come, Uncle,” called Gamle, though there was no welcome in his face.
“Long ago,” Hakon said to them, “your father took the High Seat of this realm after murdering those of his brothers that he could. Ragnvald. Bjorn. Olav. Sigfrid. Did your father ever speak their names to you?”
Erik's brood stood mute.
“I thought not,” said Hakon. “But you should know that after I defeated your father, my counselors begged me to kill him as he had killed his brothers. I refused. They urged me also to kill your mother and the lot of you. I refused again. Do you wish to know why? Because I wanted the kin killing to end.” Hakon raked his eyes across the faces of his nephews. Judging from their dour expressions, none seemed to care much for his words. Hakon plowed ahead anyway. “My counselors knew you would come again. That Erik would poison your thoughts with words of hatred, despite having been given the chance at making a new life and a new kingdom elsewhere. In my heart, I knew too that you would come, but every day, I hoped you would not. Not because I feared you, but because I did not want to kill you.”
Gamle snorted. “Fine words, Uncle. But it does not change what happened. You took what was our father's, and we have come to take it back. You also took something from me.” He lifted his gnarled right hand. “I have dreamed of repaying you both since that foul day.”
On the morning of Erik's departure from the North, Hakon had secured Erik's oath never to return by threatening to kill Gamle one stab at a time. Erik had capitulated after the first stab, which had ruined Gamle's hand.
“I should have taken both of your hands when I had the chance,” Toralv called.
Gamle turned to the giant. “Today you shall have the chance, Toralv.”
Hakon interrupted them, drawing the conversation back to his nephews. “So tell me, Gamle, should you be lucky enough to take back what you believe to be yours, who among you will rule? You are but seeds from your father's kin-killing loins. If I had to guess, I would say the lot of you will be fighting each other before my corpse has grown cold. Either that, or the Danes to whom you whore yourselves will take it from you as soon as you have done the dirty work of killing me.”
“Enough of this banter, brother,” the black-haired Guthorm cut in. “It is a waste of time.”
Hakon turned his sharp gaze on the man. “Guthorm, is it?”
The man nodded.
“Tell me. Is the mind behind those blue eyes as short on intelligence as it is on patience? Will you not give your brother enough time to count my men, just as my champion counts yours?”
Gamle chortled and Guthorm flushed. Hakon made a mental note of the exchange as his eyes shifted to the handsome redhead.
“You must be Ragnfred?” Hakon asked the man.
“That is Ragnfred,” the young man said, indicating the thicker fellow with the broken nose. “I am Harald.”
Hakon shrugged, feigning indifference. “It will not matter to the worms.”
The thickset Ragnfred spat toward Hakon again. “I will paint the grass red with your blood, Uncle.”
Hakon turned his gaze on him. “I see you have inherited your father's temper, Ragnfred. Have you also inherited his battle prowess? Come, Toralv. We have heard enough. If these men fight like they speak, we have nothing to fear.” Hakon turned his back on his nephews.
A rough sack landed with a thud in the grass beside Hakon and rolled to a stop near his feet. Hakon glanced back at Gamle, who had thrown it. “A gift for you, Uncle,” called Gamle. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Hakon motioned to Toralv, who picked up the sack and peered inside. His face con
torted, as much from the stench as from the sight of whatever lay within it. Slowly, he reached into the sack and withdrew its contents. Hakon's heart froze, then sank, for staring at him through its sightless eyes was the head of Ottar.
Hakon swallowed his fury and stared back at his nephews. They must have seen the ire burning in his gaze, for they laughed then, purposefully adding fuel to Hakon's growing rage.
Hakon pointed his finger at Gamle. “As God is my witness, you shall pay in blood today for the death of this man.”
Gamle's face hardened at Hakon's oath. “I wish I could tell you he died honorably,” Gamle growled, “but alas, I cannot. He was just protecting your stupid bitch.” He waved his arm over his head, and from the lines came two figures. Hakon squinted to see who these new people were that approached so awkwardly.
“No,” Toralv whispered under his breath, and that one word was enough to stop the blood in Hakon's veins.
The two figures that neared were a warrior and a woman. Their awkwardness was due to the woman's clumsiness, for she was bound by rope at the wrists and ankles. A third rope ran from her neck to her master's hands. The woman's face was a mask of bruises and clotted blood, and she walked with a slight limp, but even so, there was no mistaking her. Gyda. The sight of her battered body brought on a wave of molten ire, guilt, and pity that threatened to drown Hakon with its force. For a long moment, he could do nothing but stare through eyes clouded with tears.
“I commend you on your taste in women,” said Gamle, pulling Hakon from his shock. “I regret her mistreatment, but it could not be helped. Had she not fought us as we took our turns with her, we would have had no need for such violence.” The brothers laughed at Gamle's words, but there was no mirth in Gamle's eyes. Only icy fury and hatred. “You see, Uncle, words are for prickless fools who have nothing to bring to the table.” Gamle walked over to his warrior and grabbed the guiding rope from his hands. He then yanked it so hard that Gyda fell to her knees at Gamle's side. He stroked her hair delicately. “Would you like her back, Uncle?”
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