God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  When he entered, all occupants stopped and stared. It was Egil who broke the pregnant silence: “It is about time, boy. We thought you might never walk again.” He followed his insult with a yellow-toothed smile.

  Across the hall, Sigurd stood, clapped his hands, and rubbed his palms together. “Freya's tit, Hakon. You took long enough to heal. We began to wonder if you truly were your father's son.” He crossed the hall to Hakon with a huge grin on his face. “Come,” he said as he clasped Hakon's shoulders in his paw-like hands. “Let's feed you. Afterward, we can take care of some business.”

  After a light midday meal, Sigurd suggested they go for a ride. Hakon jumped at the chance to escape the confines of Sigurd's hall and to see some of the surrounding countryside. He shuffled to his room and changed into more suitable riding attire, then hobbled as fast as his injured leg would allow to where Sigurd waited with Egil and a handful of his hirdmen.

  He meant to ask where they were headed, but all thoughts of their journey vanished when he saw the steeds Sigurd and his men rode. Their horses were not horses at all, but short, stout ponies whose diminutive stature left the Northmen's feet almost dragging on the ground. It took great effort for Hakon to keep from laughing at the incongruous sight.

  Sigurd inquired about Hakon's amusement.

  “I … I ask for your pardon,” Hakon stammered as he struggled to control his merriment. “Do you not have horses here?”

  All the men frowned except Sigurd, who smiled. “I admit, these are not like the horses of Athelstan's kingdom.”

  Hakon shook his head. “It is amazing that your weight does not break their backs.”

  “Hah! These creatures are stronger than any you will find, and more agreeable than any you have ridden thus far.” Sigurd motioned to a hirdman, who trotted forward with a riderless horse and delivered the reins to Hakon.

  Hakon studied the animal. Though smaller than a normal mount, the horse had a massive chest and rippling musculature that attested to its strength. As Hakon ran his hand along its muzzle, the horse bent its head and nudged him playfully, making him smile. Upon its back, on a black and red striped saddle blanket, rested a wooden saddle patterned with the curving, intertwining lines so common in Northern design.

  Sigurd smiled down at Hakon. “At your arrival feast, I mentioned I had a gift for you.” Sigurd held his hand, palm upward, toward the horse. He grinned. “I hope you enjoy your gift, small though it might be.” He laughed at his word play. “Come. We have business to discuss.”

  Hakon blushed, wanting to kick himself for his earlier jokes. “I thank you, Jarl Sigurd. He is a beautiful steed.” Abashed, Hakon mounted his horse and nudged it into motion.

  They set out through the break in the bulwark and immediately turned east. As they rode, Hakon surveyed his surroundings. Inland from the earthwork walls surrounding Sigurd's estate, two expansive fields lay side by side, each divided into three rectangular areas. Hakon recognized this as the three-field system. In two of the three sections, rye and barley grew thick and golden, ready for the harvest. The third field lay fallow, and would remain so until the spring harvest, when it would be planted and another field would go unused.

  The little group followed a path out of the flatlands into the tree-strewn foothills east of Sigurd's estate. The day was bright and clear, and the air held the crispness of early autumn. Hakon breathed deeply of pine and soggy earth and let it rejuvenate his hall-tainted lungs. All around them, the trees were alight with the myriad colors of autumn. Here and there, rays of sunshine reached down through the tree limbs and bathed the leaf-covered earth in light. Unseen animals scurried through the foliage, playfully gathering their winter stores. Hakon felt like a man reborn, and his spirits responded with newfound energy.

  “If you follow this path, you will reach the seter, where my animals are kept at pasture during the summer.” Sigurd gestured to the turning trees. “It is almost time to bring them home.”

  “Is that where we are headed? To your seter?”

  Sigurd chuckled. “No.” He did not elaborate.

  When they had gone a short way into the hills, the group halted at a spot where another, smaller path shot off the main trail at a right angle. The path lay partially hidden beneath tree limbs and underbrush. Sigurd dismounted and disappeared down the narrower trail, beckoning Hakon to follow him. As Hakon complied, Egil and the others climbed from their horses, but stayed behind.

  A short distance down the new path, Sigurd and Hakon came to a small clearing at the base of a rocky slope. In the middle of the clearing lay a large pool of steaming water.

  Hakon stopped in his tracks and stared at the pool. “What place is this?”

  “I call it Surt's Pool. Feel it and you will see why.”

  Hakon walked to the edge and gingerly lowered himself until he could dip his hand into the water. He withdrew it quickly. “It's hot.” He was still puzzled. “Who is Surt?”

  Sigurd bellowed a laugh as he began to undress. “You have been away far too long, Christian boy. Surt is the ruler of the Fire World. Legend has it that warm springs like this one come from his world. Whether that is true, I do not know. Nor do I care. All I know is that it feels wonderful when the cold days come and the chill settles in my bones.” Once stripped, he stepped into the pool and slowly, gingerly, submerged, grunting like a pig in mud as he did so.

  Hakon stared at the steaming pool. It seemed so … unnatural for water to boil so, as if the waters came from Satan himself.

  “Are you coming in? Or will you stand there with your mouth open like a fool?”

  Hakon recalled the stories of Hell, and the hidden places in the world where one might enter that fiery underworld. He could not help but think that this was one of those portals. “I cannot.”

  Sigurd sneered through the steam. “Forget your Christian ways and wash yourself. It will be good for your wounds.”

  Hakon hesitated.

  “Come, Hakon. I have bathed here since childhood and nothing has ever happened to me.”

  Hakon reluctantly stripped. The scars on his thigh and ribcage stood out purple and ragged in the cold air. He stepped into the pool, letting its warmth envelop him until it reached the scar on his thigh. “Ow.”

  Sigurd smiled. “Don't worry. It is good for the wound.”

  “How can this be good for it? It feels like it is being opened anew.”

  “Trust me, lad.”

  Slowly, Hakon lowered his body into the water and gritted his teeth against the fiery heat that overcame his wounds. Ever so slowly, the stinging subsided and the relaxing warmth of the water enveloped him. Across from him, Sigurd rested his head against the pool's rocky edge and groaned contentedly.

  “Hakon,” Sigurd finally said, “now that you have convalesced and your strength is back, it is time to discuss matters in greater detail.” He paused. “The nobles of Trondelag would like to hold an assembly five days hence in order to meet with you. As you can understand, most are reluctant to throw in their lot with a … man they have not yet measured for themselves.”

  Hakon lifted his brows. “You are the Jarl of Lade. Can't you merely command the nobles to follow me?”

  “Generally, yes. But our situation is rather … tenuous right now. My army has been destroyed. My luck is bad. The nobles could easily refuse. If they do, we will be hard-pressed to force them to agree.”

  Hakon swallowed hard. The idea of standing before men who would judge him did not sound very appealing. He pushed the thought aside. “I would not ask any man to follow me against his will.”

  Sigurd smiled sardonically. “Bravely said. As for me,” Sigurd's face was suddenly serious, “I will follow you if, and only if, I am sure my demands can be met.”

  Hakon hesitated. “Forgive me for asking, but I thought your … your invitation for me to come here meant that you already supported me.”

  Sigurd sighed. “I wish it were so easy, Hakon. But I must ensure that my needs will also be met if I a
m to lay my life down for you. You can understand that, can you not?” The gentleness with which he delivered his words bordered on condescension.

  “So that is it—your support is nothing more than a commodity, to be purchased for a price? Why, then, turn to me, a Christian boy reared in a foreign land? Certainly there are others in the land of greater stature and more experience who would be more capable of meeting your demands.”

  Sigurd held up his hands. “Calm yourself, Hakon. You are the last of the Yngling line of kings, with the blood of Harald in your veins. I chose to support you because I believe there is promise in you, and because I believe that the people of this land will support you.

  “But yes, my actions are also self-serving. Other men would come to the relationship with the ability to take what I have built. You do not. Your goal is singular—to rule a kingdom. My goal is also singular—to preserve what my forefathers and I have spent generations building. To attain your goal, you need my help. To attain my goal, I need yours. Ours is and will be a relationship of mutual support and mutual dependence.”

  “What is your price, then?” Hakon studied Sigurd's face through the steam, calmed somewhat but still suspicious.

  “I wish for three things only. First,” he held up his index finger, “as your father supported me as the Jarl of Lade, I wish for you to support me.”

  Hakon's mind sped back to a rare moment that he had spent alone with Athelstan after one of the witans. What was it that Athelstan had said? A good negotiator never shows his emotions. Hakon willed himself to remain calm, blank-faced, despite his growing anxiety. “What sort of support?”

  “Well, let us assume that you become king one day, and then let us suppose I have trouble with the Finns, or the Namdalen men. You would simply support me with troops, or money, if needed.”

  “Provided I have that money or those men to give.”

  Sigurd shrugged. “You will.”

  Hakon considered this quietly for a moment. “What is the second?”

  “That you return every man's odal rights.”

  “Odal rights?” A drop of water fell from Hakon's brow as he raised it.

  Sigurd grinned. “Ah, yes. Let me explain. You see, before your father held sway in the North, every man was odal-born to his land. That is, all men owned their lands absolutely, free from dues or taxes. And land could be passed down within the family, from a father to his children. If a man died with no direct descendants, his land still remained in the family. Land was a possession.” He scratched at his bearded chin. “But when your father became king, he made himself the overlord of all land. All men were forced to pay him a land tax, or odal-tax, in addition to their normal taxes, to keep their land. If one of these men died without a direct heir, your father took possession of his land. If there was a discrepancy in who owned a plot of land, your father decided who would take over. As you can imagine, most men liked this as much as they like a sword in their gut, and they fought like giants to keep what they felt was rightfully theirs. But alas, your father was too powerful, and crushed all those who opposed him.”

  Before Hakon could respond, Sigurd went on. “Your father was a smart man. To avoid rebellions, he placed a jarl of his choosing in charge of each district. Men like my father, who were then responsible for collecting all taxes, including the odal-tax, for the king. Under each jarl he placed a minimum of four hersar, or chieftains, depending on the size of the district, to do the jarl's bidding. Each jarl was given one third of all taxes collected, which he shared with his hersar, while the other two thirds went to Harald. It was a wise move on your father's part, for it helped to keep all men in line while making him tremendously rich.”

  “And you want me to abolish this rule? It seems to me that you and I would stand to gain much with these taxes.”

  “We would, at that. But we would stand to gain more by abolishing them. Hakon, most men hate the law and want the land that is rightfully theirs. If you gave them that, they would follow you. I am sure of it. You see, land is the measure of a man. I know not how it is in Athelstan's kingdom, but here, a man without land is nothing. When men saw what your father was about, they fought him tooth and nail. But, as I said already, he defeated them all and sent them flocking to other lands in search of more land to settle.”

  “Like Engla-lond,” Hakon spat, suddenly understanding, at least in part, why Athelstan and his forebears had been so afflicted by the scourge of Northmen invading their lands.

  Sigurd ignored the comment. “Besides, there are other taxes that will fill our coffers. You will find that taxes on trade and agriculture far outweigh your odal-taxes, and those are taxes the men of this land are more willing to pay.”

  “Where does Erik stand in all of this?”

  “Erik supports your father's ways, but with one large exception. His greed. It will be the death of us all.”

  Hakon dunked his head in an effort to stall and think about Sigurd's words. What Sigurd suggested made a lot of sense, but there was much that Hakon still did not understand.

  “And you think that by abolishing the odal-tax, I will gain the support of the people.”

  “The common freemen will flock to your ranks. There may be some dissension among the jarls, but we should not concern ourselves with that.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are other ways to win their support.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “Hakon, nothing is ever certain in the politics of this land. Especially now. But I am confident that things will go our way.”

  Hakon exhaled loudly. “Alright, then. Suppose I accept the first two. You mentioned a third request.”

  “Yes.” Sigurd leaned closer and said conspiratorially, “I do not quite know how to broach the subject, nor have I ever been very diplomatic in speech, so I will be blunt. If you are to command the respect and trust of these men, I would advise you to forsake your Christian god.” Sigurd held up his dripping hand before Hakon could speak. “Hear me, Hakon, before you react. Your god has no place in this land. I cannot keep you from your ways or your beliefs, but I can warn you. These men do not trust this … this White Christ. Most, if they had their way, would rather see all his followers hanging from the gallows trees.”

  Hakon leaned his head back against the rocky edge of the pool and stared up through the canopy of trees to the blue sky beyond. The thought that God might be looking down on him at that moment made him close his eyes and pray silently for strength. The first Christian king of Norway …

  “I cannot turn my back on my god.”

  Sigurd frowned. “I thought you might answer thus. But be warned. Your choice will stir mistrust among the men of the North, and will be your bane if you are not careful.”

  “And you? Does it not stir mistrust in you?”

  Sigurd shrugged his massive shoulders and smiled. “Call me kindhearted.”

  “I need a serious response, Sigurd.”

  “I will not support your religious beliefs, if that is what you want to know. But I will likewise not let them prejudice me against you.”

  Hakon nodded, feeling a bit uneasy about the jarl's evasive answer, but knowing he could not expect more. “I hope for both our sakes that you speak the truth.” He wiped at the sweat on his forehead and cheeks. “Now, let us speak of my demands. If you agree to them, then we have a deal.” Hakon had to stifle a grin at the surprise that flickered over Sigurd's face. “First, you must show your support for me before this assembly of nobles. I will have no man think that I am not already supported in some corner.”

  Sigurd's response was immediate and strong. “Done.”

  “Second, you will become my advisor in the struggle against my brother. You have lived here your entire life, have fought Erik's army, and are keenly aware of the tactics my brother uses. I need a man of your knowledge and of your renown.”

  The jarl's manner lightened. “That is easily enough done and gladly given. Is that all?”

  “No.�
�

  Sigurd grinned. “You have guts. That is good.”

  Hakon ignored the compliment. “You will allow me to keep my faith, and will never gainsay it.”

  “That is your choice. But I would add that I will likewise not die protecting your faith.”

  Hakon wiped at the sweat forming on his forehead. “I would not ask that.”

  “Good. Is that all?”

  Hakon searched his brain for a moment, suddenly feeling that there was something he had forgotten. He searched the recesses of his memory, but could think of nothing. Giving up, he extended his hand to Sigurd. “That is all.”

  Sigurd grinned and gripped Hakon's wrist to seal their bargain. “So be it, then. To mutual support. Now,” Sigurd continued, “let us discuss my plans for winning the support of these Trondelag nobles.”

  Chapter 19

  The assembly field stood on a peninsula known as Frosta. During the summer it was the site of the Frosta Thing, the supra law assembly of the districts that constituted Trondelag, as well as the district of Halogaland. It had been chosen long ago as an assembly site, not only because of its central location, its proximity to the fjord, and its level table of grass, but also because of the massive stone that jutted from the ground in the middle of the field. Legend had it that the stone had been lodged there in the days of the giants, long before the race of men graced the middle earth. Whatever its origin, the stone was known by the Northern men as the Speaking Stone, and it was from here that the elders spoke, passed judgements, and created laws to govern the districts.

  Hakon and Sigurd arrived at Frosta late in the morning, five days after they struck their deal at Surt's Pool. Lade lay two day's ride behind them, where only a small contingent of hirdmen guarded the estate and the servants. The hirdmen's instructions were simple: should Erik attack in their absence, they were to vanish into the landscape and leave the estate behind. As an extra precaution, Sigurd had the men remove his stores and some of his livestock to an old barn that lay among the hills, inland from his estate. Satisfied that they had left nothing to chance, Sigurd and his men mounted their steeds and headed to the gathering.