There was dried blood on her dress and legs, and the sight of it pierced Hakon's soul. Oh, how he wanted her back and yet, he knew it was not to be; that he would witness her death this day. “At what cost, nephew?”
“Simple. Take your army and leave, and I will let her go free.”
“Do not do it!” Gyda slurred at Hakon. “Do not give these —”
Gamle's backhanded blow knocked Gyda to the ground before she could finish. Hakon made a move to save her, but the brothers drew their weapons and leveled them at their uncle. Gamle pulled the stunned woman to her feet again. She staggered to keep from falling.
“She has spirit, I'll grant her that!” he said with an edge of annoyance in his tone. “Now then. Shall we find out what she is worth to you, Uncle?”
Hakon knew he could never make such a deal, and that knowledge clawed at him. If he did not save her, what then? Would they keep her for themselves? Would they sell her into slavery? Would they kill her? And what of his unborn child? If it lived, what future would it have?
Hakon closed his eyes to calm himself. “Allow me to speak with my woman, Gamle?”
“As you wish,” he said and stepped away, though he kept ahold of the neck line.
Hakon walked up to Gyda and lifted her downcast face. The visage that looked back at Hakon was both heartbreaking and horrifying. Her cheeks were swollen and purple, her eyes half shut from the beatings. Trickles of blood had coagulated at her left temple and on her lower lip. “There is no need for shame, Gyda,” Hakon whispered, his eyes fixed on hers. “It is not your fault.”
She nodded slightly. “I sought only to save Siv.” A missing tooth and swollen lips slurred her words as a tear trickled from her eye and slid past her broken nose.
Hakon hardened his heart to her pain. “I know,” he said, though he did not, for just how his thrall was involved in this affair was a mystery.
“Kill me,” she whispered.
The words struck Hakon like a slap. “I cannot,” he responded weakly, though he knew in his heart that he could not give her back to Gamle. She knew it too.
“Please. Do not let them take me. Do not let them take your son.” Her whisper was desperate, yet resolute. Her tears came steadier. “Please.”
He stared into her battered face and placed his left hand on her right shoulder, then bent his forehead to hers. “I am sorry,” he whispered as their skin touched.
“Enough of this,” Gamle grumbled.
Gyda did not waver. “Do it,” she commanded and lifted her chin.
Quick as an adder, Hakon dropped his hand to his seax and pulled the blade free.
Gamle shouted and yanked on the neck line, but it was too late. Hakon's blade had found its mark and slashed across Gyda's throat. She fell backward with the force of Gamle's pull and landed in a heap on the grass. Dark blood rushed from her wound and pooled on the ground beside her.
“I am so sorry,” Hakon whispered as the life slipped from her body and the tears welled in his eyes.
Gamle hastened to Gyda and knelt by her. Hakon stepped back from the shocked brothers, who stared at their uncle in disbelief. From Hakon's sorrow a dark fury rose, and he swept his gore-slickened blade at his nephews. “There will be no bargains with you. Ever.” His voice came as a hiss through his clenched teeth.
Gamle stared at his uncle for a long moment. Hakon wanted to believe he was reassessing the man before him, seeing him perchance with new eyes that foretold a future of strife; that Hakon would not so easily give Erik's sons what they sought, especially now. In the end, though, Gamle chose to accept that challenge, for he nodded and rose to his feet as if coming to some sort of internal decision. “Very well, Uncle. It shall be blood, then. Come, brothers,” he said and walked away, leaving Gyda where she lay.
Hakon waited for the brothers to retreat, then knelt by Gyda and closed her unseeing eyes with his hands. He signed the cross over her body in the small hope that the gesture would hasten her soul to Heaven. Carefully, he picked her up and walked back to Toralv, who eyed his king with an unreadable expression. “Bring Ottar's head with us,” Hakon snarled as he lumbered past his champion and back to his army.
“What happened?” It was Egil who asked the question. The old man had just arrived with Sigge's men and was sweating from exertion, but alert and ready just the same. Around him, others looked on, but none had the courage to speak up, for most had seen Hakon kill his woman and feared the stony expression on their king's face.
“I will explain later,” responded Hakon bitterly. He nodded to his champion. “Show him, Toralv.”
The champion withdrew the sack's contents and showed it to Egil. The old warrior stared at the decapitated head of his nephew, and as he did, his face transformed from recognition to anger and then to sadness. Behind him, some of the other men looked away, unable to gaze on the foul remains of their comrade.
“I am sorry, Egil,” Hakon offered, though his apology sounded more like a curse, for he could not keep the rage from dripping off his words.
Egil tore his eyes from Ottar's head and fastened them on Gyda's corpse. “The bastards will pay for this,” he growled. He then took Ottar's hair from Toralv's hands and held the head high for Hakon's hirdmen to see. “See what they have done to Ottar?” he yelled. “See what they have done to Gyda? See what they will do to us if we do not fight like giants today?” He hobbled a few paces down the line of warriors. “They will pay for what they have done! They will pay in blood!”
The warriors cheered Egil, and as they did, Hakon handed Gyda's body to Sigge. “Take her to the rear, Sigge.”
The young lord accepted the burden from his king without a word and retreated through the lines.
“They will pay!” roared Egil again.
“They will pay!” echoed Hakon as he raised his seax in the air, and others took up the cheer. “They will pay! They will pay!” The chant rippled down the army's lines, amplified by a thunder of blades on shield rims that stoked the beat of Hakon's own heart, calling him forward to the clash of steel. Hakon took up a position in the middle of the line and ran his eyes along the enemy force. His nephews would pay this day for their greed and their misguided thirst for vengeance. They would pay for Ottar and Gyda and for their invasion. He would send them whimpering like whipped hounds back to their ships and their Danish masters.
Hakon slipped his helmet onto his head, his hands shaking with battle lust, and adjusted it so that the nose plate sat comfortably against his skin. He then grabbed Toralv's thick arm. “I have a plan, Toralv. Listen carefully.”
Toralv moved his ear closer to his king's mouth so that he could hear Hakon over the rising din. The big man nodded his understanding when Hakon finished his thoughts. “It might work,” he offered, “if the gods are with us.”
“It must work,” Hakon said firmly, for the lots were cast and it was too late to back out now. The warriors were shouting for blood, and the blades would soon sing. His plan had to work.
Chapter 7
The battle began like so many others.
First, there was movement as the leaders organized their men and built the line according to strength and experience and weaponry. Stronger, more skilled, and better armored warriors took up positions in the front rank, guarded on either side by the men they trusted most to keep them alive. The less experienced and poorly geared warriors took up positions in the second rank. Too old now for the shield wall, Egil stood fifty paces behind the lines with Sigge's small troop. As the most experienced man on the field, it would be up to him to reinforce ranks with Sigge and his men if certain areas faltered.
Once positioned, spiritual and practical preparation came next. Men tightened loose straps and tested the sharpness of blades as they mumbled final prayers to whatever god would listen. In Hakon's army, that included their king's Christ God now. He had not failed them yet.
Hakon inhaled, then exhaled deeply to steel the nerves that churned his guts and gripped his heart. As a young ma
n, he had struggled to control his nerves. Now he welcomed them, and used them to fuel the battle frenzy that would sustain him when the shields crashed and the blades sang. He tightened the grip on his seax and waved it over his head. “Forward!” he yelled. “For Ottar! For Gyda!”
His army took its first step toward battle, and their chant reached a new level of fervor as men dug within themselves for the courage to face the blades of their enemy. Across from them, the enemy line did the same, their shouts and yells and shield-pounding adding to the chaos of the morning.
Hakon studied the lines advancing across from him. The Tyr warriors came on smartly in the army's center, their shields tight and their footsteps aligned. Farther out on the flanks, a few undisciplined gaps opened. It was as Hakon had expected.
Hakon turned his head to Toralv and yelled, “Now!”
Toralv and twenty handpicked men stopped their approach and let the army advance past them. Once in the rear, they moved to the right, then worked their way to the front ranks again, directly across from Guthorm's men. It was there that discipline was weakest. With luck, the might of Toralv and his troops would break them quickly and shatter the resolve of the army.
At one hundred paces distant, the arrows began to fly. Though bowmen weren't numerous, especially in Hakon's army, there were enough to harass the men on both sides. Hakon waited for the arrows to begin their downward flight before calling the warning and dropping to a knee. His men followed his example. At the same time, the second row stepped forward and raised their shields above the first, forming a ceiling that the arrows pelted with their deadly staccato.
Hakon waited a few heartbeats, then rose. “Forward!”
On the second volley, an arrow thunked into Hakon's shield, its head poking through the wood, a reminder of how close death was to him and to them all. As if to echo that thought, somewhere along the line a man hollered in pain. Hakon rose and cut the shaft away with his seax.
The spears followed the arrows. Near Gamle, a helmeted warrior broke from the ranks and launched his spear. The shaft arced through the sky and landed with a dull thud several paces in front of Hakon. Hakon's man Asmund had seen the spearman make his move and timed his own throw moments after the enemy cast his shaft. Asmund's spear took the enemy warrior in the upper chest just as he turned and reclaimed his place in the front line. The man dropped and a cheer rippled down Hakon's line.
Up and down the ranks, the shield beating gave way to the cries of men, though it was no longer possible to discern cries of pain from the curses cast at the enemy. In moments, the shield walls would meet, and then chaos would reign. A cold calm washed over Hakon as he sought his first victim. Gamle was off to Hakon's left, so Hakon settled on a young man whose tawny hair shot from under his dented helmet like straw. Hakon thought he recognized him but did not have the time to try to place him in his memory, for the enemy was coming fast.
The shield walls met and the air thundered with the clash of wood and metal and shouts. The young man slammed into Hakon, momentarily lifting him from his feet. Behind Hakon, a spearman thrust his weapon at Hakon's assailant and the man ceased pushing. Hakon's feet found purchase, and he put his shoulder into his shield, stabbing with his seax through the momentary gaps that opened in the wall. His blade scraped something but came away bloodless.
An axe blade hooked the top rim of Hakon's shield. Instinctively, he ducked as the axe pulled and an enemy blade stabbed, poking the air where Hakon's face should have been. Hakon saw an exposed leg before him and jabbed his blade into it. The leg belonged to the shield partner of Hakon's assailant, and it buckled, taking its owner down with it. Bjarke, who now stood to the right of Hakon, drove his axe into the man's head, splitting his helmet and his skull in an explosion of red and gray. Hakon's attacker jabbed with his sword at Bjarke, but Hakon had anticipated the move and sliced down, taking the man's hand off at the wrist. He screamed and fell away, and just as quickly another warrior took his place.
Once again, Hakon put his shoulder to his shield and heaved forward. The enemy line gave a little ground, and in that moment, Hakon glanced about. Gamle's standard still flew to the left of him, though it was clear from its position that Gamle and his army were forcing Hakon's line backward. Off to the right, things seemed to be holding.
“We've got to get to Gamle,” Hakon yelled. “Bjarke. Asmund. Bard. To me. Second line! Fill the ranks! Ready? Heave!”
Hakon pushed with all his strength, ignoring the enemy spears that slid past his shield rim. From behind, the second row pressed forward to add muscle to the push. A spear caught one of Hakon's younger warriors in the neck. He fell at Hakon's feet with his hands clutching the wound, oblivious now to the men who stomped around him. Hakon sliced below his shield, catching an enemy warrior in the shin. The man grabbed instinctively at the wound and Hakon finished him with a stab to the chest.
“Now!”
Hakon and his chosen few fell away, leaving the fighting to those who had taken their place. Hakon moved to his left, toward Gamle. Here and there, he stabbed or hacked where he could lend support, though he kept from committing until he was equal to Gamle's position. Hakon could see his nephew in the fray, jabbing and slicing with his left hand. For someone not born to it, he was more skilled with his opposite hand than most men might ever be with their given limb. Hakon glanced to his right, toward Guthorm's banner. It still stood in the melee, though Guthorm's line was beginning to bend. Toralv was making headway. Hakon wondered briefly about Egbert and Garth, then turned back to face his nephew.
“Gamle!” he bellowed.
The man looked up for a split second to seek his uncle's face, and in that instant, a lucky blade sliced across his cheek. Gamle recoiled briefly, then retaliated with a furious counterattack that left his assailant in a headless heap at his feet.
Hakon's men saw their king coming and set their feet. The enemy, too, saw their prize and yelled their curses and their oaths to kill the king. Hakon pressed into the melee with his warriors by his side. They kept their shields as close as possible in the tumult and swung their blades with the precision of men born to the task.
“You're a dead man, Hakon!” Gamle hollered over the heads of his men. The blood ran thickly into his beard from the gash on his face.
Hakon pushed a man aside in his desperation to reach Gamle. “Come, Gamle, and die on my sword!” An enemy spearman thrust his weapon at Hakon. Hakon evaded the jab, then sliced his blade into the spearman's neck, opening a wide gash that sent the enemy warrior to his death. “It is time to end this!”
And then Gamle was there, before him. Hakon eyed his nephew carefully, trying to anticipate the man's first move. It came in a flash of wood and metal. In one motion, Gamle swung his shield up and jabbed at an angle with his blade toward Hakon's gut. Hakon sliced sideways with his own shield, blocking the blade, though in doing so exposed his left shoulder to Gamle's shield boss. Gamle drove it forward and knocked Hakon backward. There was no time to ponder his mistake, for Gamle came with another sword thrust, which Hakon just managed to thwart with his shield.
Gamle had now outpaced his hirdmen and had exposed himself to the blades of Hakon's army. He blocked a blow with his shield, then parried another with his sword, all while stepping back into line with his oath-sworn men.
To either side of them, Hakon's men engaged Gamle's warriors. Asmund took a man in the throat with his seax, while next to him Bard turned a warrior's spear aside and quicker than an eye blink, slashed his blade across the man's face, opening a second mouth where the nose had been. Hakon smashed a man aside with his shield and onto the blade of another of his hirdmen.
Bjarke slammed his axe into the shield of the man protecting Gamle's left. The blade went clear through the battered wood and took the man's arm off at the elbow. The man screamed and staggered but somehow kept his feet and came back at Bjarke with his blade swinging. Bjarke blocked it easily, then twisted his wrist and, with a backhanded motion, buried his axe edge in t
he man's chest, where it lodged.
Gamle emerged from behind his shield and jabbed at Bjarke's side before he could protect himself. The big man let go of his axe and twisted to avoid the thrust, but was a second too late. The blade burst the rings of Bjarke's byrnie and sliced across his belly. Bjarke staggered backward and fell at Hakon's feet. His hands lay across his stomach, trying without success to keep his intestines from spilling through his fingers. He looked at the wound and cursed, his eyes not quite comprehending what had happened or why. Hakon jabbed at an enemy warrior to back him away from his fallen friend, then knelt and yanked Bjarke's seax from its sheath. The big man gripped the blade in his bloody paw, then rolled onto his side like a giant ship and died.
Hakon's hirdmen sensed the loss of Bjarke and stepped backward again to tighten their ranks.
“I will gut you like your friend, Uncle!” Gamle snarled.
Hakon was about to reply when a sudden cheer rose over the field. The sound stopped the fighting just long enough for men to see that the left side of Gamle's line had bent back on itself, forming a right angle toward Avaldsnes. Hakon's army had swelled in that area, which could mean only one thing: Egbert and Garth and Toralv had succeeded in their tasks.
Hakon turned back to Gamle, a vicious grin on his face. “It is you who shall die today, nephew!”
Gamle spat his anger but did not let it control his wits. “Back!” he ordered, knowing that if he pressed forward now with his left side collapsing, he would risk being flanked and overrun. “Retreat!”
A horn blasted and those of Gamle's men who could stepped back in line and locked shields. Step by step, they retreated from the fight with impressive order. A few foolish men tried to break their lines and died for their folly. Hakon and his hird had not the energy to pursue them. The battle was over, and so too was their passion for it. With hands on hips and gasps for breath, they watched as the enemy receded across the battleground and disappeared into the far tree line.
War King Page 9