War King

by Eric Schumacher

  Off to the right, Guthorm's men were not so lucky. Egbert and Garth had reached the men at Avaldsnes, and those men were thirsty for vengeance. They had streamed into the fighting, forcing Guthorm's men to step backward to keep from being flanked. That is, until the horn for retreat sounded. Those lucky enough to escape ran from the field. Others bravely fought on, until all that remained of them were a handful of wounded Tyr warriors who could barely stand.

  Hakon scanned the rest of the field. The dead lay in heaps, gawking at the sky or the gore-slickened earth with eyes that no longer saw. Beside them moaned the wounded. The youngsters among them cried or called pathetically for help. A few enemy warriors dragged themselves from the field until they were caught and killed for their gear. Already, the hum of flies was thick in Hakon's ears. Long ago, Hakon had vomited at such sights and sounds. Now, he just breathed deeply to control the ebb of battle-thrill that coursed through his body as he picked his way through the carnage.

  Nearby, Asmund and Bard knelt by Bjarke's body. Asmund wept like a child, his shoulders heaving with his tears as Bard looked on helplessly. A stone's throw away lay the corpse of the first man to attack Hakon. In the heat of battle Hakon thought he had recognized the man, and now he knew why. It was Eldgrim's son, Olaf, who lay with his eyes open and his skin gray from loss of blood. Hakon sighed heavily, glad now that the lord of Shadow Haven had not come to this fight to see his son die.

  Hakon made his way to Toralv, who stood with Sigge and Garth. At their feet, Guthorm's icy, lifeless eyes stared at the sky. He had a spear hole in his chest, though someone had already reclaimed the spear. Above him, Hakon's men were grinning, though Hakon found nothing amusing in their visage, for dark blood caked their faces, their arms, and their armor. Sigge, it seemed, had been blooded.

  “You were supposed to stay with Egil,” Hakon admonished Sigurd's son.

  “I did,” came his indignant retort. “It was Egil who sent me here when he saw Guthorm's lines faltering.”

  Hakon looked at Garth. “Where is Egbert?”

  Garth's smile had already vanished at Hakon's tone. He nodded with his chin toward the priest, who was moving through the bodies, offering assistance where he could.

  Hakon turned back to Garth. “If you had come any later, I would not be here to give you thanks.”

  Toralv frowned. “That is fine thanks you give to men who saved your skin, my lord.”

  Hakon was tired and drained and in no mood for graciousness, for though the day had gone their way, they had still lost much at the hands of Erik's brood. And so he gave Toralv little more than a smoldering glance before turning back to Garth. “Is Avaldsnes safe?”

  Garth was scratching at his beard. “Aye, lord. We left a garrison there to protect it. It is fire damaged, but standing.”

  “That is good news, at least. So what, then, happened to Ottar and Gyda, if Avaldsnes is yet standing?”

  At this question, another man stepped forward. It was Harald, one of the more senior members of Hakon's hird who had stayed with Ottar in Avaldsnes. Long ago, Hakon had offered Harald his life in exchange for helping him find the Dane, Ragnvald. That boy had grown into a handsome man with keen blue eyes, fair skin now covered in the gore of battle, and white-blond hair that he wore in a long braid down his back. “I can tell you what happened, lord,” he began. “When the sons of Erik came, they did so in the early morning. We sounded the alarm, but all was chaos. Ottar exited the gates to assess the situation and get the sentries and thralls and grazing animals inside. This he did, even as the ships landed. But then Siv — the thrall — emerged from the west woods. She had been letting the pigs graze there. Gyda ran from the gates to try to save her, and Ottar followed to protect her.”

  Hakon could picture the scene in his mind. It was not unlike his woman to try to protect her thralls, especially his daughter's favorite.

  “Arrows cut Ottar down before we could reach them,” Harald continued, his head bowed. “And Gyda and Siv were taken. By then, the enemy had swarmed the hillside, so we retreated and barricaded ourselves in Avaldsnes to save it from capture.”

  “What of Thora?”

  Harald brightened. “She is hale, lord.”

  Hakon absorbed the news with equal parts relief and sorrow. Thora yet lived, thank God. But Ottar, Gyda, Bjarke, and so many others were gone. He had lost many warriors, and many friends, in his twenty-plus winters as king, but he could not remember a day as dark as this. Not since the loss of his childhood friend, Aelfwin, who had been sacrificed on the eve of his battle with Erik, had Hakon felt so much pain in his soul. That pain coursed through his veins now like molten metal in the forge, made hotter still by the fact that Hakon could have killed Erik's whelps when they were young, and had not. He looked around for somewhere to direct his anger, but there was nothing save the sorry expressions of his men and the sickening aftermath of the battlefield. Hakon walked a short distance away, his fists clenched at his sides and a scream of wrath poised on his lips.

  “Hakon!” Egil's voice cut through Hakon's dark thoughts. “Where is your mind, boy? Now is not the time to tarry. We must ensure that Gamle leaves these shores.”

  The grizzled old bastard was right, of course. Hakon turned his eyes to the sky, then gestured angrily at Guthorm's corpse. “Take Guthorm's body and come with me.”

  “And what of those men?” asked Egil, his seax pointed at Guthorm's surviving Tyr warriors.

  “Bind them. Then bring them to me.”

  In the end, there was no need to drive Gamle and his brothers from Avaldsnes. They left of their own accord. Hakon watched their ships row across the bay beneath his estate. There were no longer enough men to man all of the ships, so Gamle left several on the shore. Behind them, Hakon had Guthorm's body hung high from a tree limb so the departing army could see it.

  “Gamle!” roared Hakon, hoping his voice would carry across the water. “Witness the fate of your brother! It is the fate that awaits you all!”

  “Every man dies, Uncle,” came Gamle's response. “And only the Norns know when! Today was Guthorm's turn. Soon may be your time!”

  “Sail home to your masters, Gamle. Next time, I will be waiting for you.”

  “I look forward to it!” Gamle's voice drifted to him, then faded.

  Hakon watched the ships until they were gone, his heart thumping in his chest and his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.

  “Bastards,” Toralv spat when the last ship had vanished from sight.

  Hakon kept his gaze on the spot where they had disappeared. “Erik's sons took much that is dear to me, and they will take more before they are through. Even if I live to see them all dead, that knowledge eats at me, Toralv. Like a sickness, it fills my thoughts with darkness.”

  Toralv finally sighed. “The Danes have wanted our land for as long as men can remember. Now they have Erik's sons to do their bidding. So let that darkness move you to action. Once we have honored our dead, you need to look to the future and how best to protect your realm. Not just here, but everywhere, for no place is safe with those bastards on the prowl.”

  Hakon grunted. “I will know better how to protect the realm once I better understand the threat. Fetch the prisoners, Toralv. I would have a word with them.”

  As Toralv moved off to do his lord's bidding, Hakon hiked to the high walls of Avaldsnes to survey the damage Gamle and his brothers had wrought. Fire had charred the wood in many places where his nephews' men had tried to burn their way in, and the north and south gates had been cracked by battering rams. Here and there along the walls lay piles of enemy corpses and the broken remains of makeshift ladders. The estate's interior had fared better, but had not completely avoided the ravages of battle. Burnt thatch scarred several rooftops, while arrow shafts poked from the wooden planks of walls. These things could be easily fixed, but they indicated a new truth that was harder to accept. Toralv had spoken it already, but Hakon heard it now echoing in his head. No place was safe.

/>   “Father!” came a shrill cry from the main hall.

  Hakon turned to the sound and smiled at the sight of his daughter, who was running across the lane toward him. He bent down to receive her in his embrace.

  “Father. You are back.”

  He smiled at her. “Aye. I have returned.”

  Suddenly, her bright expression turned cloudy. “Those men took Siv and Gyda, Father. Why?”

  He stood and took her hand, and together they walked back toward the hall. “Because those men are bad men,” he said, trying to keep it simple for her young mind.

  “Will they come back?”

  “Who? The men?”

  “No,” she said as the shadows of the eaves enveloped her. “Gyda and Siv. Will they return?”

  Hakon knelt before her and looked into her expectant blue eyes. “No,” he said. “They will not.”

  Her face crumpled and Hakon's heart broke yet again that day. He pulled her close and wrapped his sobbing daughter in his arms. When the sobbing abated somewhat, Thora rested her head on Hakon's armored shoulder. “Why will those bad men not give us back Gyda and Siv?” she asked.

  Hakon could think of no response that would ease her pain, so he just stroked her hair and hugged her tighter.

  Later that evening, as the funeral pyres burned the dead and took their souls to the heavens, Hakon had the prisoners lined against the high walls of Avaldsnes. Most were injured in some fashion, but all could stand. As Hakon strode down their line, they stood straighter, for they would not give the Northern king the satisfaction of seeing their fatigue.

  “Tell me what I need to know and you shall die a good death with your swords in hand,” Hakon began. “Tell me not, and I will sell you all as thralls.”

  A middle-aged man spat in Hakon's direction. “That is no bargain, Northman.”

  Hakon strode past the man, then suddenly turned and backhanded the man's temple with his ringed fist. The man had no time to evade the blow, and dropped unconscious at Hakon's feet. Hakon pulled out his sword, Quern-biter, and placed it against the belly of another prisoner. “You are a Dane?”

  The man showed no fear, just contempt. “We are Fyrkat Danes.”

  “That means nothing to me.” Hakon tried another tack. “I noticed the mark of Tyr on your shields. What is that? Is it a Danish symbol?”

  “It is the mark of Bloodaxe's kin, whom we serve with the blessing of the Danish King Harald and his father, Gorm.” He lifted his chin proudly. “It is also the mark of our favored god, Tyr, who grants us victory in battle.”

  Suddenly it all made sense. A one-handed god. A one-handed chieftain. Clever. “Well, Fyrkat Dane,” Hakon said. “It appears that both failed you this day.”

  That produced some laughter from those of Hakon's men who had been listening.

  “Laugh all you want, Northmen,” the man said. “But know this. I am but one warrior. Where I fall, ten more sword-Danes will soon come, and with one purpose in mind: to win for our king even more land and wealth. We,” he swept his arm toward his shield-brothers, “are merely the spear's tip, and this defeat but a drop of water in a weak ebb. The flood tide is coming, Northmen, and it will wash you from Midgard for good. Knowing that, we will go to our death grateful to Tyr for the honor of leading the way.”

  It was hard not to respect the man's courage. “You have told me what I need to know, Dane, and for that, I am grateful.” Hakon turned to Toralv. “Kill them.”

  Hakon stalked away and climbed the burial mound on the hill that overlooked the bay. He needed to be alone to think, and to stew. He sat gingerly, feeling the bruises and the pain in his joints now that the thrill in his body had retreated. Below him, the funeral pyres crackled and spat their flames into the darkening air, washing the mourners and waters of the bay in wavering hues of orange and red and yellow. Somewhere in the conflagration, Bjarke's body burned; Hakon said a silent prayer for his soul. On the morrow, they would give Gyda and Ottar the burials they deserved, and then they would sail to save the realm.

  Part II

  A ransom of the ruddy gold,

  Which Hakon to his war-men bold

  Gave with free hand, who in his feud

  Against the arrow-storm had stood.

  The Heimskringla

  Chapter 8

  Frosta, Trondelag, Summer, AD 957

  The field at Frosta bustled with life. Tents crowded the finger of land that poked into the Trondheimsfjord, their canvas walls and banners flapping in the midsummer breeze. Around the tents, children ran while their parents cooked, toiled, hawked wares, or shared news from their various districts. The smell of smoked meat and fish hung thickly in the air. East of the tents, a group of boys and young men played a game of stickball known as knattleiker, while the young women looked on, whispering, pointing, and cheering.

  Hakon surveyed the scene with satisfaction. This gathering was a supra-thing, or law assembly for the far northern fylke of the realm. This particular supra-thing was known as the Frosta Thing on account of the Frosta-field on which it took place. Hakon's brother, Erik, had made a mockery of the law assemblies during his short reign, but Hakon had worked hard to reinvigorate them, for he had learned the value of laws and legal judgments as a means for keeping chaos at bay.

  But the assemblies were more than that. In a land divided by mountains, valleys, fjords, and snow, they were the people's chance to reconnect, to share news, to purchase goods, and to bond. And this summer, it was Hakon's chance to raise an army and build his defenses against his brother's sons, which was why Hakon had traveled from one supra-thing to the next since the battle at Avaldsnes giving speeches about the dangers that were not coming, but upon them already.

  Sigurd greeted the arrival of Hakon's ship wearing his jarl's torc and a fine cloak of reindeer skin clasped at the shoulder by a brooch of polished silver. Silver armbands adorned his thick wrists. He wore his graying hair loose so that it danced about his head in the breeze as he waited for Hakon's ship to land. To Sigurd's left stood Astrid in a long green dress, her hair cascading in loose ringlets down her back like an auburn waterfall. It made Hakon glad that he'd bedecked himself in his own finery: a new ivory-white tunic, soft leather breeks, two golden wristbands, and a thick silver necklace he had just polished that morning.

  Sigurd and Hakon embraced like brothers as soon as Hakon's feet touched the shore.

  “By the gods, it is good to see you hale,” Sigurd said through his smile. “If the skalds' stories are true, the battle at Avaldsnes was a bitter one. The skalds are calling it the Battle of Blood Heights.”

  Hakon snorted. “Heights? We fought on a plain. At least they got the bitter bit right, though.”

  Sigurd's smile faded. “We heard of Ottar. And Gyda. I am sorry for their losses.” He patted Hakon's shoulder paternally. “I trust Thora is hale?”

  The mention of his daughter brightened Hakon's spirits somewhat. “Thora is hale, as you can see.” He turned and pointed to the little head that was peeking over the gunwale of Dragon at the mass of activity onshore. This was her first law-assembly and she was obviously impressed, if not slightly nervous. Beside her stood her caretaker, a stout thrall woman named Unn who had been a friend of Siv's.

  Hakon moved to Astrid, who tucked an errant curl behind her ear and bowed. “King Hakon.”

  He smiled warmly at her. “I did not expect to see you here, Astrid.”

  “I did not expect to be here,” Astrid countered with a forced smile.

  Hakon understood instantly what that meant, and his manner sobered.

  “Astrid is staying with us for a time,” Sigurd explained, though he need not have.

  Behind Hakon, his crew was coming ashore. As with his trip to Tore's funeral, Hakon had left half of his men at Avaldsnes, this time under the care of Garth and Harald. Egbert had also stayed behind, for the priest was not welcome in these parts.

  “My son looks well,” Sigurd observed, and chuckled. It was true. Since the battle, Sigge's air
of confidence had climbed even further, drawing many of the younger men and women to him. Like flies to shit, Toralv liked to say.

  Hakon glanced at the young man and shrugged. “He is well.”

  Sigurd smacked Hakon's shoulder and went to his son.

  Hakon turned back to Astrid. “I am sorry, Astrid,” he offered.

  She nodded and looked at her feet. “We both knew it could happen, and so it did.”

  “So it did,” Hakon acknowledged. “But that doesn't make it any easier to accept.”

  She smirked. “You have the right of that.” She then peered past Hakon and bent down. “You must be Thora.”

  Hakon turned and smiled down at his daughter. “This is Astrid, the daughter of Jarl Sigurd. Can you say hello?”

  Her blue eyes studied the woman in front of her from beneath her blond bangs. “Hello,” she finally said.

  “It is a long journey from your home to here,” Astrid said. “You must be tired of dried fish and smelly men.” Astrid scrunched her face as if she had smelled something foul, which made Thora giggle. Astrid reached out a hand to her. “Come. Let us find some food for you.”

  Thora took the woman's hand in her own. Hakon smiled. He had debated bringing his daughter on this trip after all she'd been through, but those misgivings fled from him as he fell into step behind Astrid and Thora. Unn followed close behind.

  Astrid led them through the maze of tents that dotted Frosta-field. As they walked, people stopped their pursuits and either bowed to their king or called out friendly greetings, for Hakon had been to the Trondelag many times and most of the people were at least familiar with him. Several were friends, and these Hakon greeted with clasped wrists and hugs.

  Eventually, they reached Sigurd's large tent and the eating boards he had placed before it. Several men sat at the boards drinking cups of ale and laughing over some story or joke that had just been told. They stopped their laughter and gazed at Hakon through bleary eyes as Astrid and the king approached.