“Egil, no!” Hakon shouted, but it was too late, for the old hirdman had already moved past him, his sword held high. He angled his swipe for Gamle's neck, but Gamle lifted his shield to thwart the blow. As he did, the wily Egil planted his feet and shifted his strike downward. Gamle realized his mistake and corrected his shield, but not before Egil's sword had ripped into Gamle's hip. At the same moment, Gamle's blade connected with Egil's helmet. It was a solid blow that knocked the old man viciously to the turf.
“Protect the prince!” yelled one of Gamle's hirdmen.
Gamle stumbled backward with his shield hand clutching his side. Hakon moved in to finish him, but two hirdmen stepped into his path. He stabbed one in the foot as he smashed his shield into the other. The man was big and held his ground, retaliating with an axe swing that would have taken Hakon's head, had he not ducked. Hakon roared and rushed forward at the axe man blocking his path. He lifted his blade and shield high, and as his enemy rose to meet him; at the last instant, Hakon dropped to his knee and cut clean through the man's left leg. The warrior hollered and fell to the mud and Hakon moved on, not bothering to finish him.
Gamle was jogging for the beach with his arms draped over two of his hirdmen. Those who had been running to his aid were now retreating again. Hakon saw too that some of the ships had already cast off, while pockets of other men fought on against Tosti and the other chieftains on the beach.
Hakon turned back to the fight on the field just as the last of Gamle's men fell. “To me!” he called as he dislodged a spear that was stuck in the turf near his feet. Hakon's remaining hirdmen gathered by his side. Asmund had a wound on the wrist of his sword arm, while blood dripped from Toralv's sliced lip. Nearly half of his hirdmen remained, though battered and physically drained. Hakon hefted his newfound spear. “Gamle is there,” he pointed at the wounded warlord being helped from the field. “A sack of silver to the man who stops him before he reaches his ship!” He handed the spear to Asmund, who smiled wolfishly.
The men took off across the field, though the going was slower than Hakon had hoped. Footfalls had churned the field into a quagmire that sucked at their boots. Several of the younger, faster warriors slipped and fell in their haste to earn the prize.
For a moment it appeared as if Hakon and his men might catch Gamle, but as soon as Gamle's men reached the shingle, they hefted their lord between them and ran, maintaining their distance. Realizing there was not time to push their own ship into the surf, nor warriors to man it, they rushed past the pocket of men still fighting on the strand and out into the surf toward a ship that was pulling away. By the time Hakon and his men reached the water, several of Gamle's warriors had climbed aboard and turned back with arms outstretched to help their lord.
Asmund did not hesitate. He rushed forward and cast his spear with all his might. It arced out over the water and slammed into Gamle's back just as his men hoisted him onto the gunwale. The spear pinned Gamle momentarily against the ship's hull, until his body weight pulled the spear clear of the wet wood, and he splashed into the water and sank.
Without their leader, the enemy lost their taste for battle. Some retreated to the nearest ship and climbed aboard. Others tried but drowned in the water. Hakon's men did not pursue them. The fight had sapped their energy, and all they could do was watch as the army rowed away.
When he had regained his breath, Hakon scanned the ships for his other nephews but could not see them. He then turned his attention to his own men. More than half lay dead or dying, their moans and cries raising the hair on Hakon's arms. The enemy had suffered equally, if not worse, and would find no mercy from Hakon's men.
“Where is Tosti” Hakon asked one of his warriors.
“He has been wounded, lord,” said the man as he pointed down the beach toward a group of warriors.
Hakon's heart sank at the words. “Take me to him.”
The man nodded and walked Hakon over to the press of men, who made way for their king. Lying on the ground in their midst was Tosti. A puncture wound in his belly leaked dark blood onto the sand. Death was hovering nearby. Hakon could see it in the older man's eyes, and in the pallor of his skin. Hakon knelt by Tosti's side and grabbed his cold hand. Tosti rolled his head and focused his distant eyes on Hakon's face. He smiled faintly.
“You fought well today, my friend,” Hakon whispered to him. “I will see that your name lives on.”
Tosti moved his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Instead he squeezed Hakon's hand and smiled weakly, then released it.
“Rest now,” Hakon said as he patted his chieftain's shoulder. “You have earned it.”
Hakon rose and left Tosti to his comrades who knew him best. This was their moment to say farewell, and Hakon wished not to rob them of that. He made his way back to the place where Egil had fallen. He had not had time to think of his friend during the fight, but now, as he neared the spot, Egil's condition loomed heavily in Hakon's mind.
Corpses carpeted the place where Egil had fallen. It was a fitting spot for a warrior of Egil's renown. There was a vicious gash in the left side of Egil's scalp where Gamle's blade had split his helmet. The wound had bled so much that the entire side of Egil's face was caked in blood. Hakon rolled the old man onto his back and listened carefully for any breath coming from the old man's mouth, but there was nothing.
Egil was gone.
Tears welled in Hakon's eyes as he sat in the mud and stared at the man who had been more father to Hakon than his true father. The man who had never faltered in his loyalty, despite Hakon's many faults and failures; the one who had warned him vehemently that Erik's sons would come for revenge, and had died for Hakon's unwillingness to heed that warning.
“He's with your father now.”
Hakon digested Toralv's words. “I hope that is true, for it is where he belongs.”
The big man knelt by Egil and closed the dead man's eyes, then sighed heavily. “He had a long life and a lucky one, and a good death too.”
Hakon heard the truth in his friend's words and nodded, but it did not quell the grief or the guilt he felt. Egil had died defending his king from the very threat he had warned his charge against so long ago, and that dark thought lay on Hakon like a stone. Hakon looked at the bodies of his other hirdmen who lay dead around them. They had all died because of him. Hakon had yearned for an end to the kin killing, and in the end it had only led to more death. He gazed out at the withdrawing enemy ships as a storm of emotion raged within him: sorrow, guilt, joy, relief. But most of all, a black fury that forced his hands into white-knuckled fists.
It was time to take the fight to his nephews and end their scourge once and for all.
Chapter 13
The clouds hung low and dark over Rastarkalv, as if the very heavens mourned for Egil, Tosti, and the others. A chill wind swept up the gentle rise from the sea, carrying with it a light drizzle and the smell of salt, neither of which did much to mask the stench of death still hanging over the grisly remains of the battle.
It had been seven days since that fight, and still the birds fought over the feculence that littered the field. Hakon's surviving warriors had burned their own dead on pyres several days before, the remains of which still smoked on the beach to the south. The enemy dead had also been burned, though with far less ceremony and only after they had been stripped of their wealth and weapons.
Hakon had erected a mighty pyre for Egil, upon which he had placed the warrior, his namesake wool shirt, and all of his earthly possessions: his battered shield, his swords, his armor, his cracked helmet, and the silver he had carried on his body. His ashes had been placed in an urn, which in turn had been laid within one of the enemy ships. The death-ship now sat in its shallow grave, the dragonhead removed from the prow and placed on the deck for fear it would frighten the gods on arrival in the afterlife. Cooking utensils had also been laid within, along with barrels of mead and wine, and victuals of all sorts to fortify Egil on his journey.
“The men sacrificed animals. Why do the gods then piss on this day?” Hakon muttered to Toralv as he peered through the drizzle at the funeral scene. They had spoken their sorrow at Egil's graveside, and now sat on the hilltop where Egil had carried the standards into battle.
Hakon had been in a somber mood since the battle's end, and seeing the death-ship only aggravated his mental state. It did not help that his head was still thick with the effects of the previous night's sjaund, where long into the night the men had shared the ritual cup to celebrate the fallen and to discuss the transfer of property and wealth to next of kin. And where Hakon, deep into his cups, had vowed to repay the sons of Erik tenfold for the lives they had taken at Rastarkalv.
“Mayhap these are tears of joy shed for Egil's arrival in Valhall,” remarked Toralv, who sat on the ground beside his king, his back resting against one of the three memorial stones Hakon had had erected to commemorate Egil, Tosti, and the others who had died on the field.
“Mayhap,” Hakon mumbled, unconvinced.
“You have honored him, lord,” said Toralv as he watched warriors lay three sacrificed pigs in the ship with Egil's ashes. “There can be no doubt of that. The men know you are opposed to the sacrifice and will thank you for that small kindness.”
“I do not want their thanks. I would much prefer to have Egil and Tosti among the living. I should have listened to my gut, Toralv. That battle was not a wise fight, and many good men paid the price for our recklessness.”
“We are not here to stay the hands of the gods with our actions,” countered Toralv calmly. “We are here to live fully and boldly in their eyes. Egil did just that, eh? I can almost hear his sour voice in my head, asking us why we mourn.” There was a sad grin on his face as he wiped a trickle of rain from his nose. “And he would be right in that. We have avenged his death by killing Gamle. Few warriors are so lucky.”
“As God as my witness, Toralv, I will kill them all.”
“We shall kill them all,” Toralv corrected.
Hakon nodded. “Aye. We shall kill them all.”
For their mistakes in battle, Sigge and his surviving crew of ten had been given the task of digging Egil's burial grave. The tired, mud-slimed men now began to fill it in under the dour gazes of Hakon's other men. Shovelful by shovelful, the ship vanished. Hakon said a silent prayer for Egil's soul as the mud slowly enveloped Egil's urn. Then, with a final nod at the grave, he left Toralv on the hillside and walked the long path back to Birkestrand alone, lost in his dark thoughts and his grief as the rain fell down around him.
Sigurd arrived three days after Egil's burial, on the afternoon of the tenth day since the battle. Though he arrived sooner than expected, and with more men than expected, it did little to lift Hakon's spirits, which had sunken into a dark abyss of swirling anger, impatience, and sorrow. Despite the feast that Hakon had ordered, and the presence of the celebratory Tronds, Hakon could not pull himself from the mire of his emotions. Sigurd had sensed it immediately, and called on Guthorm Sindri for a tale, but the words, which commemorated the recent battle, rang false to Hakon's ears.
“Scared by the sharp sword's singing sound,
Brandished in air, the foe gave ground.
The boldest warrior cannot stand
Before King Hakon's conquering hand;
And the king's banner ever dies
Where the spear-forests thickest rise.
Altho' the king had gained of old
Enough of Freyja's tears of gold,
He spared himself no more than tho'
He'd had no well-filled purse to show.“
“Enough!” Hakon yelled, smashing his fist on the eating board to punctuate his point and spilling his ale cup in the process. “I will hear no more!”
Jarl Sigurd waved the skald back to his seat. “Go back to your conversations,” he called to the Trond chieftains gathered in Tosti's hall. The men stole concerned glances at their king, then slowly drifted back to their chatter and their ale and their food.
Sigurd turned to his king as he settled himself back into his seat. “You forget yourself,” he said.
“I do not need to hear the story of my battle exploits,” Hakon hissed. “Especially when so many good men have died and are forgotten in the telling. What I need is speed so that we can avenge the loss of our men quickly.”
“We just arrived,” Sigurd protested. “On the morrow, we shall restock our supplies and prepare our ships. If the weather is fair the following day, we shall leave. The men are anxious for this adventure too, Hakon, but haste is no way to venture into enemy territory.”
“They sail not into enemy territory, Sigurd.” Hakon was struggling to control his voice. “They sail for Avaldsnes, and then the Vik. There is plenty of time to plan and to rest as we move. But the longer we take to reach the land of the Danes, the longer we give my nephews to prepare and the more bitter the fight will be. We must minimize our times of comfort and move at all haste.”
Sigurd grunted. “Very well. If the weather is willing, we will leave on the morrow and gain a day. Does that suit you better?”
Hakon drained his cup and stood, and his eyes fell on Sigge, who sat among his fellow Trond lords, laughing over his cup and acting as if he had no cares in the world. The sight of it sickened Hakon.
Sigurd grabbed Hakon's wrist before he could leave. “Are you not forgetting something?”
“What is it, Sigurd?” Hakon growled as he yanked his wrist free of Sigurd's grasp. “I am in no mood for riddles.”
Sigurd's own eyes narrowed. “Are you not curious about Astrid or your daughter?”
The question hit Hakon like a fist to the stomach. His dark mood and impatience had clouded his thinking, and that realization angered him all the more. Still, he could find no apology to offer Sigurd.
Sigurd snorted at Hakon's silence. “If you are curious, they are hale, and arrived in Lade in good order, thanks to the guidance of Alf and the favor of the gods. Your daughter wished me to give this to you.” He reached into the pouch on his belt and withdrew the knife Hakon had given to Thora when he had left Avaldsnes. Hakon took it from Sigurd. “She wanted you to have it to keep you safe.” Sigurd turned back to his meal and said no more.
Hakon cursed under his breath and stormed from the hall, needing a quieter place to cool his temper and ease his mind. He found a spot on the grassy slope that looked out over the beach and the army camped there. Voices and laughter carried up to him from the myriad fires dotting the bay. Near the fires, nineteen ships rested at anchor. He wondered briefly how many of those ships would return, and whether his would be among them. He spun the knife in his hand as he contemplated that thought.
“You normally do not see that, this time of year.”
The voice startled Hakon, and he turned to see Toralv lumbering down the hill toward him. The champion carried an ale cup in each hand, though his eyes were focused on the northern sky. Hakon followed his gaze, where greens and violets and blues tumbled and danced. Toralv folded his long frame to the ground and offered a cup to Hakon. The king refused it.
“The more for me, then,” Toralv said and, with three large gulps, drained one of the cups.
Hakon sighed and recalled a scene from long ago. “The first time I saw those lights was the winter after my return from Engla-lond. I was frightened by them.” He grinned. “Egil scolded me for my fear.”
Toralv smiled sadly. “I am going to miss that bastard.”
“As am I, Toralv.” Hakon kept his gaze on the dancing lights, lest Toralv see the tears welling in his eyes. After a time, he spoke the thought that had been rattling in his mind. “We are dying off, Toralv. One by one.”
Toralv belched again. “Now there is a cheery thought.”
Hakon grinned. “I did not ask you to join me. You did so at your own peril.”
“Ha. So I did. But I did not come out here to speak of death.”
“What, then?”
“I want to speak of Sigge.”
Hakon's mind turned to the young lord and his crew, and to their laughter in the hall behind him.
“He and his men need to go, lord,” Toralv said before Hakon could speak. “We cannot have him in our crew. I fear he will be killed before we ever reach the Danes.”
Hakon glanced at Toralv. “Have you heard something?”
“Aye.”
Hakon nodded, but did not press Toralv. In truth, he had seen it in the eyes of his men and had expected Toralv's response. “It will test Sigurd's loyalties, Toralv. This you know. He could easily turn and head for home. And without Sigurd, we are lost.”
“I know. But what is worse to Sigurd? Sending his son away, or finding him murdered one morning?”
Hakon spun the knife in his hand as his mind sought an alternative but came up blank. “Very well. I shall speak with Jarl Sigurd on the morrow.”
“Thank you, lord.” Toralv finished the rest of his ale and rose to go.
“Toralv?” Hakon called.
“Aye, lord?”
“See that nothing happens to Sigge and his men this night.”
“I will do my best, lord.”
Chapter 14
Hakon rose early the following morning and ventured outside to check the weather. The summer sun was climbing to the southeast, revealing a pink- and blue-streaked sky partially veiled by thin wisps of cloud. A light breeze blew from the north.
Several thralls carried water buckets into the hall for the chieftains who would soon be rising. Others carried provisions, ropes, and barrels to the ships. The smell of baking bread carried on the air from the kitchen. Hakon moved to the nearest sentry and ordered him to blow his horn. It was time to wake the men and prepare to leave.
As the men rolled from their furs, Hakon went in search of Sigurd. He found him in one of the guest huts, rinsing his face in a water bucket. Sigurd blew his nose into the water and then turned his attention to Hakon, who stood in the doorway, waiting.
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