War King

by Eric Schumacher

  “Where do you want me?” asked Egbert when Hakon returned to the western side of the hill.

  “Here. I want you here with the reserve warriors. I want you praying. And only if necessary, I want you fighting.” Hakon stared into the freckled face of his friend, trying to etch the man's features into his memory. Egbert cast his humble eyes to the ground, unable to hold Hakon's intense gaze. With a final pat on Egbert's shoulder, Hakon breathed deeply of the morning air, then strode to the battle lines.

  It was time to finish the feud.

  Chapter 18

  The Danes marched slowly into position. They knew the Northmen would not vacate the high ground, so they were in no hurry. Part of Hakon believed it was deliberate, meant to drive his warriors insane with impatience or else lull them into indifference. It did not work — his men watched keenly, taut as bowstrings, waiting for the imminent clash of muscle and wood and blade.

  “Asmund,” Hakon said when he found his hirdman. “Come. I have a task for you.” The spearman jogged over to his lord. “I need you to gather the spearmen in our armies.” Hakon pointed to a few of them. “Have them form a solid second line in our troops. Do not cast your spears when the enemy comes. Keep them with you. Even when they cast their own, keep them with you. As we hold the higher ground, I want our spears to poke over the heads of our front line. I want you to keep the front line of Danes on the defensive. Do you understand?”

  Asmund grinned. “Aye.”

  “Go now. Spread the word.”

  Hakon continued his inspection of his troops, speaking to some, adjusting the armor of others, showing his face and his confidence to all. As he did, darkness receded, bringing with it a thin, cool mist that hung low to the ground, like a veil on the grass. It was the kind of mist that made men uneasy and put them in mind of Niflheim, the mist world ruled by the goddess Hel where the spirits of dishonorable men go when they die. Hakon crossed himself at that thought.

  It was through this mist that three Danes advanced as if they floated above the ground, coming to a stop a spear's throw from Hakon's army. They had with them a standard bearer who carried a red banner that hung limply in the breezeless morning. Hakon stepped forward from his army and advanced alone. Two of the men he recognized and expected: the redheads Ragnfred and Harald Eriksson, the surviving sons of Erik. But it was the third that Hakon stared at longest. He was a man of solid build, whose strawberry-blond tresses had been pulled back into a simple ponytail to reveal a handsome face and cheerful blue eyes. A well-groomed beard of the same reddish blond hung to his chest. It was parted into two thick braids.

  “You are Harald Gormsson,” said Hakon to the man without acknowledging the others. “I did not expect to see you this day. Nor did I expect your army to be so small.”

  The king of the Danes grinned wryly, revealing a row of rotten teeth for which he had earned his byname, Bluetooth. “And you are Hakon Haraldsson, who my father could have killed when you were a whelp but, instead, let live. A shame, for we would not need to be standing here, then. I must say,” he said with little mirth on his face, “he is fond of that story.”

  “How ironic that our stories should be so similar. I once had the chance to end these bastards' lives, but like your father, chose to let them live for reasons he and I understand but you might never.”

  Harald scowled. “I prefer to cut men down, as you will soon learn.”

  “I hope your kin do not laugh at you in Valhall when your plan fails.”

  Harald looked at Hakon's battle lines. “Your army is an island in a sea of Danes. No quarter shall be given to them.”

  “Then we are in agreement, for I want nothing from you save the chance to kill my nephews and you, for the trouble you have caused me and my people. That is the only reason I am here. So let us fight and end this quarrel.” Hakon looked at his nephews. They held their tongues and stared malignantly at their uncle. Hakon turned his back on them and strode to his lines.

  “Well?” Toralv asked when Hakon returned.

  “Make sure your blades are sharp.”

  The unflappable Toralv just laughed. “You heard your king,” Toralv called to the hirdmen. “Prepare to fight!”

  The mist dissipated, and the morning warmed. The Danish horns blew, and all three Danish forces advanced as one. Hakon stood on the hill watching, and waiting. Beside him were roughly thirty Halogaland archers who were known for their skill with the bow. Ten pointed in the direction of each army. They did not hide. There was no need, for the Danish arrows would have a hard time reaching this far up the hill.

  Hakon sucked air into his lungs to calm his nerves and the hammering in his chest. As he did, he took in the sights and sounds and smells of the morning. It was surprisingly silent. There was no beating of blades on shields. No multitudes shouting their fury. No birdsong or breeze. Even the footfalls of the advancing Danes were masked by the damp grass and the mist. It was as if the world and God held their breath.

  But at fifty paces distant, the world awoke. Below him, Toralv's commands rent the air. His men tightened their ranks and raised their shields. Cheers rippled across the field, followed by the beating of shields and the curses of hundreds of men digging within themselves for the courage to face their fears. Hakon could feel his own lust for battle ignite. It had been smoldering within him all morning but now it exploded in his body and in his veins.

  And then the day erupted.

  Danish spearmen shot forth from the lines and cast their deadly shafts, and the first of Hakon's men died on the Danish hill. Hakon's own men did not retaliate. Rather, they clutched their spears in their white-knuckled fists and waited for the fight that was yet to come.

  “Ready?” Hakon called to his archers as he raised his arm.

  The bowmen pulled their arrows from their quivers, nocked them, and lifted their bows to the sky. At this range, they could not hope for accuracy, but they could land their arrows in the mass of attacking bodies. They would do damage, and that was all Hakon wanted.

  “Wait,” Hakon commanded as the Danes moved within thirty paces of the Northmen. “Wait!”

  The Danes came five steps closer and Hakon yelled, “Loose!” The arrows hissed into the sky and arced over his army. He could see the black streaks disappear into the Danish lines and, here and there, a man crumple to the earth.

  “Again!” he shouted.

  At that very moment, the Danes surged forward, and again, the Northern arrows landed in their midst. Hakon donned his helmet and yanked his seax from its sheath. “Keep shooting until you're out of arrows,” he called to the archers. “Aim for the rear ranks. When you are done with the arrows, join your comrades to the north.”

  Hakon left them then and ran toward the center of his western line. Part of him yearned to remain on the hill where he could see the battle develop and react accordingly, but kings did not fight from the rear; they led from the front.

  Hakon aimed for the spot where his boar standard teetered in the press and where he knew his hirdmen would be standing. “Make way,” he called as he reached his line and pushed forward into the cluster of bodies. “Make way,” he called again as the struggling warriors knocked him off balance and nearly to his knees. As he neared the front lines, a spear glided over a shield rim and slid past his face, its force causing a kiss of wind against his cheek.

  “Thought you were going to miss the fun!” hollered Asmund as Hakon reached him. He stood just behind Toralv and Bard, who struggled side by side in the front rank. Hakon was about to respond when Asmund suddenly lurched forward with his spear, aiming for a face that had appeared before Bard's shield and just as quickly disappeared. “Bastard!” Asmund cursed.

  Hakon ducked low and pushed his way into the gap between Bard and Toralv. The two fighters sidestepped slightly to make way but did not look to see who had just joined them. Rather, Toralv smashed his shield into a Dane, then drove his axe blade into the man's helmet with a bear-like roar. To his left, Bard severed the fingers of
a man whose hand suddenly burst through the defenses. Hakon felt something smack his greave. He sidestepped and jabbed with his seax around the edge of his shield. There was a scream as the blade hit something and came away bloody.

  “Where is Bluetooth?” Hakon yelled.

  “To the left of us,” grunted Toralv as a Dane banged into his shield.

  Over their heads, Asmund and his men kept their spear points moving. Out and in they pumped, sometimes taking a life or wounding a Dane, sometimes smacking a shield and coming away empty. The Danes pressed forward, slamming again and again into the Northmen's line with their own shields and blades until it became clear what they were doing. As they were lower on the hill, they were using their shields to press upward while their blades went low, aiming for the legs and feet of the Northmen. And that was how Garth fell. A Danish sword took off his left foot just below his greave as he stepped forward into a sword thrust. He howled in pain and fell backward on the turf just to Bard's left. The Dane moved to finish him, but before he had taken a step, Bard stabbed the man in his neck.

  “Fill the gap!” yelled Bard.

  Someone grabbed Garth and began dragging him clear of the fight. Another Northman tried to take his spot, but a Danish spear caught him in the groin. The man hollered and fell. Seeing their advantage, two Danes lunged forward into the gap. The first drove his axe into the head of the hollering Northman. The second jabbed his spear at Bard and knocked his shield into his left shoulder, exposing Bard's front. Bard never faltered. In one motion, he dropped to a knee and stabbed the spearman's thigh, then twisted his wrist and slashed his blade across another Dane's knee. Both men fell away and Bard moved his shield back into position before more blades could rain down on him. The lines closed again.

  Hakon had no time to think about his downed hirdman or the faltering line, for as Bard was closing the gap, three blasts of a horn rang out from the hilltop behind him. Hakon cursed, for there was no way to extricate himself from the fight or to issue a command. Nor was he foolish enough to take his eyes from the enemy before him. He just hoped Sigurd's men would do as he had instructed and fill the gap on the far side of the hill. Now his army truly was an island of Northmen in a sea of Danes.

  Hakon ducked an axe blade, then stabbed into the face of a Dane just to his left. He glimpsed Bluetooth's standard some twenty paces away, on level with his own, which meant that his line was giving in that area. Were his other lines also faltering? Hakon ducked behind his shield and glanced to his right. Toralv was standing mightily against the Danes. To Toralv's right stood Harald, his byrnie painted crimson by blood, though whether his or someone else's, Hakon could not tell. Eskil was farther down, wounded in the arm, but fighting still. That line was holding firm, but for how much longer?

  As Hakon stood, a blade glanced off the top of his helmet, knocking the nasal sharply down onto the bridge of his nose. Pain exploded across his face, and he fell to a knee.

  “Get up!” roared Toralv and pulled Hakon roughly to his feet.

  Hakon came to his wits. His face was awash in warm blood that cascaded across his lips and into his beard. He screamed his fury, shooting a spray of spittle and gore at his enemy. He would not let these Danes win. Not after all of the bloodshed and misery they had brought to his shores. Not after the death of so many friends and loved ones. Not when their numbers were equal and he held the higher ground. He smashed forward with his shield, exposing the Dane attacking Toralv. Hakon slashed the man's bicep and let Toralv kill him.

  “Step forward!” yelled Hakon. And as one, his men drove their shields into the mass of Danish bodies. As they did, Asmund and his men jabbed with their spears into any exposed flesh they could find.

  The Danes gave a foot, and suddenly Hakon felt like he was back on Frei in the tug-of-war. “On my word,” he roared. “Step!” And again, the Northmen heaved as one into the Danes. And again, the enemy gave as their feet slipped on the slick slope and the blades savaged their shields. Some tried to push back, but their efforts were disconcerted and ineffectual. “Step!” Hakon yelled again and slashed with his blade at a man's neck. He hit the man's helmet instead but with such force that the man fell unconscious at Toralv's feet. Toralv stomped on the Dane's head and drove it into the ground with a sickening crunch.

  And then they were through the king's troops and facing the rearguard of the Danes, who had little armor and no skill with weapons. The first row tried to resist but fell quickly to Hakon's men. “Kill them!” Hakon roared, and those words alone broke the guards' resolve. They turned and ran, and many died for their carelessness.

  “Do not follow!” Hakon yelled. “Toralv. Pivot right. Bard, to me!”

  As Toralv pivoted right, Hakon pivoted left and into the flank of Harald's remaining hirdmen. Seeing their peril, Bluetooth's men turned to meet the new threat. Hakon's own men rushed them with renewed energy, for they could smell victory and were hungry to feast on it.

  “Finish them, Bard!” Hakon roared. “I am going for Harald!”

  Hakon stepped from the line and jogged to where the Danish king fought. Later, he would understand just how insane he had been, running alone toward the Danish king. But now, in the moment, he could think of nothing but killing the man responsible for the Danish attacks on his realm.

  “Bluetooth!”

  Harald ignored the call and instead smashed a man sideways with his shield, then slashed right and took the head off another warrior. He then looked up to see Hakon before him and took a step forward. Hakon sheathed his seax and drew Quern-biter, readying himself for the battle for which he so thirsted. Bluetooth's hirdmen pulled on their king's armored sleeve and pointed off to their left, where a few Danes tried to keep the tide of Hakon's warriors from drowning them all. Somewhere on the field, a horn sounded the Danes' retreat.

  Harald Bluetooth came to his senses then and spat in Hakon's direction. “I will kill you one day, Hakon!”

  “Come now, Bluetooth!” Hakon strode toward the Danish king. As he did, one of the Danes cast his spear at Hakon, but Hakon saw it coming and knocked it aside with his shield. Another of Harald's hirdmen emerged to challenge him. He chopped at Hakon's head with a vicious overhead swing. Hakon took the attack on his shield and let the blow continue so that the momentum of it unbalanced his assailant. The warrior brought his shield up and twisted it so that the rim came toward Hakon's head. Hakon ducked the wild shield-strike, spun on his heel, and chopped his blade into the man's spine with such force, it nearly cut the man in two.

  Hakon readied himself for the next attack, but it did not come. The Danes had retreated and taken their king with them. The men cheered as the attackers vanished across the field, and Hakon joined them in their elation. That is, until he heard the moans of the dying.

  One glance about him was enough to evaporate the smile from his face. The wounded and dead lay in a foul, snaking line all along the base of the hill. Dane mixed with Northman. The dead with the living. And among them tromped the looters, already hungry for what booty they could find. He came across Bard, Eskil, Toralv, Harald, and Asmund, who rested in various states of exhaustion near their comrade Garth. Hakon's eyes moved from one man to the next. He was glad to see them alive and too drained to do anything but grin.

  “That is some handy work, Garth,” Hakon said to his footless hirdman. The man had tied a belt around his leg to stem the bleeding and had covered the stump with a bandage secured with twine. Despite that, Garth's skin was pallid and slick with sweat. For the first time in Hakon's memory, his hirdman was still, though he did manage to smile weakly at his king.

  “It was your priest who patched him up,” interjected Eskil, who had a gash in his arm and another in his forehead. The helmsman nodded in the direction of Egbert, who moved quickly from one fallen man to the next, triaging the wounded. He had been an infirmary apprentice as a novice in Wessex and had once saved Hakon from his own childhood wounds. Now, he was using that same skill to save the Northmen.

  “I g
uess he has some use after all,” said Asmund with a grin.

  Hakon ignored the quip and moved off. He needed to learn more. It was clear the fighting had been fierce everywhere, but he had yet to learn who lived and who did not.

  To the north, where Sigurd had held the line, the dead lay in piles. Sigurd lived, but many of his Tronds had paid for his staunch defense. The old warrior sat on the hill with a dented helmet resting beside him. He regarded Hakon with a weary grin when his king appeared. “By the gods, I never thought I would see the end of this day.”

  “Nor did I think I would see your ugly face again,” Hakon responded.

  Sigurd chuckled. “The uglier still with my new battle wound.” He turned his face to reveal a gash on his right cheek, just above the line of his beard. “Though you are not one to ridicule me with that nose of yours.”

  Hakon had not thought much of it, but now, with Sigurd's words, he felt his nose throb. His hand went to his face and poked at the sticky slime on his chin. His fingers came away bloody. He grinned, then grimaced at the sudden pain it caused.

  Sigurd beckoned Hakon to kneel. “Come here. I cannot have you returning to my daughter with your nose sitting sideways on your face.”

  Hakon knelt and Sigurd placed his hands to either side of his nose. With a quick jerk, he snapped the king's nose back into place. The pain shot through Hakon's brow and over his forehead, and the blood gushed anew. Hakon's eyes teared and his vision blurred.

  “Serves you right for bringing me to this bloodbath.”

  Hakon stood and spat new blood from his mouth. “You do not fool me, Sigurd,” he said as the pain receded. “You enjoyed yourself this day, the more so because you are still breathing.”