War King

by Eric Schumacher

  Sigurd grunted. “I would have been fine with dying too,” he admitted and cast his gaze back to Hakon.

  Hakon nodded his understanding and looked away. “Well, I for one am glad you are here and alive.”

  Hakon left his friend then and moved to the east side of the hill, where the enemy had tried to surprise the Northmen and ran into the Trond reserves. Here Hemming and his men had fought and died. The oath-sworn champion of Fynr lay across the corpses like a lover. About them lay a circle of Danes. Hakon closed his eyes and said a small prayer for the souls of the dead. He knew not whether his God listened to him anymore, especially after a slaughter like this, but it helped calm him to think that God might take pity on the souls of good men, regardless of whom they worshipped.

  On the south side of the hill, Trygvi stood over the pile of armor and goods — a pile that was growing quickly as his men looted the dead. He noticed Hakon approaching and grinned. “A good day, this!” he said, motioning to the booty. The bangs of his wild hair were still moist from exertion, but otherwise, he looked as fresh as if he had just awakened from slumber. “What happened to you?”

  Hakon waved off his question and looked about him. Here, too, a vicious fight with the Fyrkat Danes had taken place. In the midst of their piled corpses stood a single spear and, on its point, the head of Ragnfred. “Where is Ragnfred's brother, Harald?”

  “The little snake called the retreat as soon as he saw his brother fall. He had not the balls to finish the fight.”

  Hakon sighed, for Harald's flight meant that the war was not over; that Harald would come again, provided the Danes would lend him men. Hakon smacked his nephew's shoulder. “You have done well, Trygvi. Come,” Hakon beckoned. “We must plot our next steps.”

  Later, the warlords gathered in the shade of the hilltop trees so that they could keep their eyes on the west as they discussed their plans. It was midday, and the men sipped on water and passed bread between them.

  “We did not finish the job,” said Hakon to the gathering. “Harald Eriksson yet lives. As does Harald Bluetooth.”

  Sigurd tore a bite of bread from his loaf and spoke as he chewed. “There is nothing more for us here.” He waved the loaf out at the countryside that stretched to the west. “The Danes are broken for now. Staying longer will give them time to heal and come at us again. We have already taken what the land has. Let us move elsewhere and plunder. The men deserve that much for their effort.”

  Trygvi grunted. “I agree with Sigurd. It is time to leave here. I would have liked to see these Danish ring forts, but we will lose more men for the effort. Best to take what plunder we have gained and go find some more, eh?”

  Hakon sighed deeply but could find no fault in the jarls' thoughts. Still, the whole business of Harald Eriksson felt unfinished, and it grated on him. He said as much to his lords.

  “You speak the truth, Hakon,” responded Trygvi. “It is unfinished, and hopefully, when he comes against us again, we will finish it then. Even so, had he fallen today, this business with the Danes would not have ended. It is clear to me now that Bluetooth is greedy for power. It will not end until Bluetooth himself is dead and gone. But killing him is a different business entirely.”

  The trio sat in silence for a long time, chewing on their bread and the uncommon wisdom in Trygvi's words. It was unlike his nephew to have a wise thought, and so Hakon ruminated on that too for a time. Finally, Hakon looked at the others. “It is settled, then. We sail from this place as soon as we can and reap the rewards of our success. We will send as many ships as necessary back to Kaupang with the wounded. Those fit enough, and willing enough, will come with us to raid.” He held up his cup to the others. “Skol!”

  “Skol!” they replied and drained their water.

  Chapter 19

  Mayhem. Rapine. Slaughter. These were the things that Hakon's army brought to the Danes when it left Jutland the morning after the battle.

  Their attacks never varied. They would land in the early morning, wherever the pickings looked best. Their strategy was simple. Strike. Plunder. Raze. Escape. Then find the next target. They never spent long enough in any place for the Danes to mount a defense. They sought plunder, not a fight.

  The attacks whittled at Hakon's nerves like a blade shaving splinters from a stick. It was one thing to fight a foe with honor and to be justified in that killing. It was another to bring the fight to farmers, to women, to the old, and to the young, whose only offense was to be Danish. The first few days, Hakon had tolerated the raiding. But now, after seven such days, he no longer had a desire to kill old women or destroy Danish huts just for the measly scraps of wealth they might be hiding. His only reason for allowing these things to continue was to reward his men for their risk and their sacrifice, for many had lost friends and kin in the battle on the Jutland hill, and had earned their chance to plunder. And so he endured the chaos of it all, knowing all the while that there would be a price to pay for the violence he sanctioned.

  His men, of course, were not hampered by any such guilt. In their minds, they had earned this booty with their struggles and their losses, and therefore it was theirs by right and theirs to enjoy instantly, for who knew what the next moment might bring. Hakon understood that, but it made him sick all the same. So as the fleet's prows bit into the Danish beaches and his men rushed forth to their butchery and their rape and their robbery, Hakon remained on Dragon and watched grimly from her prow.

  It was Trygvi who finally questioned Hakon about his reserved behavior. They sat at a campfire, drinking stolen ale and eating a stew made from sea trout and vegetables they had just looted from a dwelling. He pointed his spoon at Hakon, who sat quietly staring into the flames. “Why do you not join us when we raid, Uncle?” Trygvi asked. “Does your Christian God not allow such things?” Trygvi smiled, but there was a hint of sarcasm in his tone that Hakon did not appreciate. When Hakon did not answer, Trygvi's smile collapsed into a frown. “The men are talking. They think that you do not approve when you do not join them.”

  Hakon looked up from the flames and stared at his nephew. He did not try to hide his displeasure with Trygvi's words. “I eat from the bowl they give to me, do I not, nephew? I take the gifts they offer me.” He shook his wrist so that the silver bracelets on his arm jingled. He waved his hand at the structures they had just sacked. “You and the men can have your fun. You have earned it,” Hakon said, and that was true. “I am content with knowing that, were it not for me, you would not be here now, enjoying such things.” He raised his cup. “Skol!”

  Trygvi accepted the words with a grunt. “Skol!” he replied. “I will make sure the men understand you.”

  “I thank you for that.”

  Sigurd, who sat at the same fire and heard the exchange, merely stroked his beard. “You skirt your nephew's question, Hakon. It is true you eat the looted food and receive the gifts brought to you, but you look about as miserable as a man who knows he is about to die abed. Surely you must be happy with the plunder we have gathered? Or with the revenge we have exacted on our Danish neighbors for the atrocities they have brought to our shores?”

  For a long moment Hakon paused to gather his thoughts. How could he tell his jarl that he had sickened of this campaign? That his fight was with his nephews and not the innocents they now slaughtered or enslaved? He could not, for they would not understand. Their gods applauded such destruction, and so the men reveled in it too, like pigs at feeding time. So instead of trying to argue his point, he deflected the jarl's questions. “I am merely tired, Sigurd. It has been a long few days, and my nose and head ache.” All of which was true. His nose was still a throbbing mass of purple that had spread to the space beneath his eyes, and his temples pounded from poor sleep. He rose and nodded to his jarls. “I wish you both a good night.”

  Two days later, Hakon and his fleet landed at yet another site. The clouds had let loose a soft drizzle that cast the world in a shifting gray and dampened the army's clothes and weapons, b
ut not their spirits. They slid from their ships like smiling serpents, anxious for yet another attack and the plunder it would bring.

  Egbert joined Hakon at the prow of Dragon and watched in silence as the men crept through the shrubs and dunes toward a hall that perched on a grassy knoll overlooking the beach. It was not yet fully light, and the men moved in silence through the morning's gloom.

  The raiding party suddenly streaked across the open ground and burst into the hall. Screams shattered the still morning, sending gulls to flight with angry squawks. The unmistakable ring of metal on metal punctuated the morning, followed by the crash of furniture as the men scavenged for loot and food or subdued women and thralls. Several cows lowed in panic. A pig squealed. A dog barked and then yelped. All sounds that had repeated themselves many times over and had etched themselves into Hakon's soul, like a blade drawn against his skin. Beside Hakon, Egbert shuddered and crossed himself.

  “There will be a reckoning for this,” Hakon said, finally putting a voice to the thought that had been plaguing him for some days.

  “I fear the same,” Egbert responded. A hood covered Egbert's head so that, from the side, Hakon saw only his nose and the cloud of mist that materialized before his face when he spoke. “God watches.”

  Hakon had meant that the Danes would seek revenge and, in particular, Harald Eriksson and the Danish king, Harald Bluetooth. He had not considered God. “Does God truly mark every action and every death?”

  “ 'Oh Lord,' ” Egbert recited. “ 'You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up. You understand my thought from afar. You scrutinize my path and my lying down, and are intimately acquainted with all my ways. Even before there is a word on my tongue, behold, oh Lord, You know it all.' ” Egbert crossed himself and turned to Hakon.

  “So sayeth the Lord,” Hakon said before Egbert could.

  Egbert turned back to the scene playing out before them as Hakon's mind turned to God and what He must be thinking.

  “If my men are killing godless Danes, does God mourn?”

  Silence stretched. Then: “I know not the answer to that, lord. Though I do know some priests believe killing heathens makes them godlier.”

  The raiding party had captured several women as well as a few children. Hakon could see his men tying them up and preparing them for their journey to the North. One of the women must have said something to offend a warrior, for the warrior backhanded her and knocked her to the ground.

  “Is there anything we can do to end it?” Egbert asked.

  “No,” Hakon said quietly. “I made a promise, and I shall keep it.”

  “So you knew this would happen?”

  “I knew. Though I did not know how it would eat at me.”

  The woman who had been knocked to the ground rose. Hakon saw a flash of something metal. The man who had struck her wailed and grabbed his arm. The woman darted back toward the hall, but two men quickly tackled her and hauled her to her feet. The man she had stabbed approached the woman and drew his own blade. It flashed in the gray morning and the woman crumped to her knees, then fell over dead. Hakon's shoulders slumped and he sighed.

  “Come,” urged Egbert.

  “Where?” responded Hakon distantly, for one of the children had begun to wail, and the cry was yet another stain on Hakon's soul.

  “We must pray,” Egbert said. “It is the only way to lessen the burden of this horror.”

  The priest disembarked from Dragon. Hakon followed. They walked away from the ships and down the beach. A slight offshore breeze had picked up and carried with it the cries of children, the laughter of men, and the first hints of smoke from the hall.

  “This will do,” Egbert said, pointing to a grassy dune that hid them from the ships. He turned his eyes to the sky. “I would say it is about the hour of Prime,” he said, though just how he knew this was hard to say, for the rain continued to fall and the entire sky was nothing but a ceiling of gray. “We will dispense with the hymns and focus on the psalms.”

  Hakon gawked at Egbert, who had collapsed to his knees in the sand. “You can pray at a time like this?”

  Egbert beckoned to Hakon. “We must.”

  Hakon sighed and joined his priest, who had already begun to pray.

  “Beatus vir, qui non abiit in consilio impiorum, et in via peccatorum non stetit, et in cathedra pestilentiæ non sedit.

  “Sed in lege Domini voluntas eius, et in lege eius meditabitur die ac nocte.

  “Et erit tamquam lignum, quod plantatum est secus decursus aquarum, quod fructum suum dabit in tempore suo: Et folium eius non defluet: et omnia quæcumque faciet, prosperabuntur.”

  So came the words that Egbert had prayed so many mornings with Hakon by his side. Back when Gyda still lived and Erik's sons had not yet attacked. And with that thought, Hakon's mind wandered. Above him, a seagull's cry sent his thoughts to the screams in the hall and then to the image of Signe's mother being raped in her home. Hakon squeezed his eyes tighter and forced the sight from his mind, only to have them fill again with Gyda's shocked face as his blade sliced her throat. His words trailed off.

  Egbert noticed his king's sudden silence and stopped. “What is the matter?”

  “I am sorry, Egbert, but I cannot pray.” Hakon spun and sat on the sand, gazing out over the empty gray ocean. A drop of rain trickled down his forehead and onto his nose. He mindlessly wiped it away and cursed at the pain. “I think only of bloodshed and cruelty.” He paused as his thoughts drifted back to his childhood and to a scene that he had discovered while riding north with Athelstan's army. “As a youth in Engla-lond, I once rode with Athelstan's army to drive Constantine back into Scotland. Do you remember?”

  “Aye,” Egbert said. “I remember.”

  “On the trip north, we came across a dwelling that had been burned to the ground. In the ash were two heads on poles. The heads belonged to two small children. The culprits were Danes, and they were never found.” Hakon gathered a handful of wet sand in his palm and let it slowly slide through his fingers. “I will never forget that day or the pain of seeing those two dead children. I vowed then never to be like those child-killing Danes. And yet, here I am.”

  Egbert sighed and turned to sit beside his king. “You are not like them, lord. Your heart is good, which is why this journey eats at you. Still, you allow it to happen, and God will see that. Mayhap you should try professing your sins and asking for His forgiveness. Mayhap that will ease the weight on your soul.”

  It was not the first time Egbert had made such a suggestion, and not the first time Hakon had rejected it. He was loath to share his transgressions or, more accurately, to dig into the dark corners of his mind and heart and revisit those old scars and memories. “You know what I have done and what I have not, Egbert. You also know my heart. I need not speak my deeds and my sins aloud for God to know them or for you to pray on my behalf.”

  Egbert glanced sidelong at his king. “I understand, lord, and will do my best.”

  Five more days of raiding followed. Five more days of greed and malice, of Hakon holding his tongue and graciously accepting stolen gifts. Five more days until his ships were at last filled with booty and thralls and the men's thirst for plunder and revenge at last slaked.

  On the evening of the fifth day, Hakon gathered his jarls and the other chieftains on the beach beside their ships. He stood on a sand dune as they gathered before him and waited for him to speak.

  “My lords,” he began, and the chieftains fell silent at his words. “It has been a good campaign. We have finally taken the fight to the Danes and repaid them for their aggression. And we have profited nicely from our efforts!” He lifted a silver torque and displayed it to the men, who cheered their king. “But now,” he began, then waited for his men to settle. “Now, it is time for me to return home.” The men booed his words good-naturedly, and Hakon smiled back at them. “Autumn comes, and I, for one, am ready for the warmth of my own hall. On the morrow, I sha
ll sail from these shores with whosoever would like to join me.” He raised his hands to settle the commotion his words had wrought. “I know that many of you would like to stay, and I cannot forbid you from doing so. So if you stay, I will leave you with these words: it is better to live than lie dead. But a dead man gathers no goods. So be prudent, and happy hunting.”

  Hakon stepped from the dunes and walked straight to Sigurd, who was regarding his king with his arms folded across his chest. “Were you planning to sail without me?” asked the jarl.

  “No. I am coming to you now to see if you will join me on the morrow. There is safety in numbers, and we are headed in the same direction. Besides, it is getting late in the year and the winter storms will soon batter the North Way.”

  “I was thinking the same. I was also thinking that this campaigning is a young man's sport. We have achieved what we set out to do.” Sigurd's eyes scanned the dunes. “I am ready to leave this place and will speak to my chieftains.”

  Hakon patted his friend's shoulder. “There is one more thing. I would like to join you in the coming year, as soon as the spring thaw sets in.”

  Sigurd's eyebrow arched. “What of your daughter until then?”

  Hakon grinned. “I can think of no finer man than you to foster my Thora.”

  Sigurd raised in hands. “Oh no. That task will fall to Astrid. I have already ruined my own children with my boorish ways. I will not ruin yours too.”

  Hakon laughed.

  Sigurd wagged a finger at Hakon. “Be that as it may, she is welcome to remain in my hall, so long as you pay for all of the food your whelp eats.”

  Hakon's grin widened. “I expected no less from you. I will bring that payment when I come to Lade next spring.”

  Hakon patted Sigurd's shoulder again and went in search of Trygvi. He found him down by the water, washing his face in the cold sea. Trygvi noticed his uncle coming and blew a wad of snot from his nostril, then dried his face on his dirty sleeve.