God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  Hakon, Sigurd, and his accompanying hirdmen paraded onto the Frosta field in orderly and impressive fashion. It was important to make their presence known, and Sigurd spared no expense in the attempt. Both he and Hakon had dressed themselves in their finest clothing, jewelry, and weapons. They wore no armor, lest the others misunderstand their intentions.

  Jarl Sigurd's small retinue arrayed themselves about their leader, their tunics bright under their finest fur cloaks. In their midst rode Egil, his beard newly braided, with Sigurd's standard snapping in the breeze above their heads. Behind them an ox pulled Sigurd's largest and most beautifully-carved cart, which he had loaded with the choicest provisions he could offer: racks of smoked salmon and cod, deer and swine, barrels of fresh pickled herring, loaves of newly-made bread, cakes, and ale for an army of men. Even their northern horses made a statement, for their decorative headdresses were as bright as a field of summer flowers and richer than the clothes worn by many gathered at Frosta.

  The display worked. Men stopped what they were doing and watched with judgemental interest as the procession wove its way through the tents, fire pits, and pockets of men that crowded Frosta's fields.

  Hakon shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. Like the wounds on his leg and chest, the memory of Udd's antagonism was still fresh and tender. As he urged his steed into the crowd, he tried not to look into too many faces, for fear that hostility would reside where welcome should be. But the few looks he did receive displayed neither anger nor hostility; only uncertainty, curiosity, or open-mouthed awe. The looks bolstered Hakon's confidence, and by the time they reached an open site in which to pitch their camp, Hakon's trepidation had given way to a mild state of security.

  Later that morning, after Sigurd and his men had had time to unpack and to greet old friends, a horn signaled the start of the assembly. As custom dictated, the men left their weapons outside the circle of posts that marked the assembly area, then huddled into groups according to their specific alliances.

  After a cursory introduction by one of the elders, Jarl Sigurd grabbed Hakon by the arm and strode confidently to the large stone that pointed like a finger at the gray sky above—the Speaking Stone. Once again, Hakon could feel the curious eyes following him, measuring his attributes, his walk, his confidence. As instructed, he kept his chin high, not averting his eyes, implying confidence when he felt none.

  Jarl Sigurd waited for the crowd to settle, then began to speak. “Welcome, nobles and friends, and thank you for coming at such short notice to these cold fields. It is lucky for you that I brought my best and strongest ale.”

  Clouds of mist rose from their mouths as the men cackled in polite response.

  “We are here to discuss a matter of the greatest import. I need not remind you of the disaster that took place at Mollebakken, for I am sure you all know the story by now. Nor need I remind you of our dire situation.”

  The men murmured among themselves and Sigurd waited patiently for the noise to subside.

  “I have thought long and hard on the matter, as I am sure you have. Though most of us found fault with King Harald's laws, most of us also agree that he united this land, and that while he was king, we were safe from both internal strife and external enemies. While he lived, trade routes were safe, farms flourished, and men prospered.” Sigurd paused a few heartbeats, then continued. “But, as all men do, Harald grew old. And so, three winters before his death, he made the unfortunate error of leading Erik Bloodaxe to the High Seat. We knew then that the choice was wrong, that Erik would bleed the land as he bled his brothers. When Harald died, we saw our chance to back our own king, Sigfrid, and to rid ourselves of Erik's overlordship once and for all. But Sigfrid and his brother Olav died at Mollebakken. In short, my friends, we failed!” The jarl bellowed these last words, so that they cracked above the heads of the silent crowd.

  “We were right in our actions, friends. To be ruled by Erik is a mistake. In less than three summers, this district—indeed, this entire land—has been torn apart. His hunger for wealth and power has set friend against friend and brother against brother. Our defenses have crumbled while we struggle with each other. The cursed Danes have seen our weakness and harry our shores continually!”

  He studied the hardened faces before him. “Yet, we can no longer ignore the path that our fathers and grandfathers laid down. If we are to survive and prosper, we need laws. We need the protection of an army. We need a strong and good king to guide us!”

  A middle-aged man at the front of the crowd held up his gloved hand. He appeared to Hakon like a round rock standing on two thin branches. “I hear your words, Sigurd, and indeed, I agree. We did enjoy relative peace under King Harald, and our land did prosper more than now. But why concern ourselves with the entire kingdom? Why not strengthen Trondelag and Halogaland and let the others fend for themselves?” Calls of agreement met the fellow's suggestion.

  Sigurd did not falter. “These are valid questions, Asbjorn. But, think you for an eye's blink. We can no longer deny that this kingdom needs all its parts to survive. As the body cannot function well without a leg, so too can our kingdom not function without all of its districts. We rely on each other's resources, both in goods and manpower. Why take that away?”

  Hoots and shouts of both assent and disagreement met the jarl's response.

  Asbjorn held up his hand once again for silence. “Suppose we accept your answer. Why, then, do we not just accept Erik as our king? I realize that you have come in support of this … boy, but in my mind, he has even less to offer than Erik.” Asbjorn scratched his white-bearded chin. “Mayhap there is something I am not seeing, or perchance there is something in it for you that you are not telling us.”

  Sigurd smiled wryly. If he was shaken by the man's words and the crowd's reaction, he showed no sign of it, and Hakon marveled at his control. “Aye, my friend, you are right. There is something in it for me. But I stand to gain no more than the rest of you. It is something that Erik Bloodaxe has not offered, nor would he ever.” The crowd hung now on his words, their eyes alight with anticipation. Sigurd teased them. “But I will let Hakon explain that later.

  “There is another reason why I support this young man. I was at Hakon's side when his mother gave birth to him, and it was I who gave him his name. Now granted, that is no great reason to support this boy. But I have lived with him now for almost a moon, and I have listened to his words and watched him in action. In speech, he is more like his father than any other of his father's sons, and I have known most of them. I will let you judge that for yourselves when you hear him speak. In appearance,” he swung his arm toward Hakon, “you cannot deny that it is as if Harald has been reborn. He looks the same. He moves the same. He even eats the same. I believe in my heart that Odin is sending us a message, one that we must heed.” He paused again.

  “And for those of you who were present at his arrival feast, you witnessed firsthand his ferocity. This is no boy. This is a young man who is ready to rule, and I believe we should take him seriously. But, let not my words sway you. Listen for yourself to what the atheling has to say.”

  Hakon suddenly felt as if everything he had done in his life had come down to this moment, as if every experience and every lesson, both physical and mental, were being forced through the funnel of his life, and that the end result, the substance that finally dripped from the funnel's end, was this breath in time. The thought brought a pounding to his chest and a dryness to his mouth.

  Hakon cleared his throat, then shifted uneasily on his feet while the crowd chattered before him. He waited. The noise did not abate, and he realized with a sudden jolt of panic that he did not enjoy the same authority as Sigurd. He cleared his throat again, this time louder. The mumbling continued. He shot a worried look at Sigurd, who motioned emphatically with his head for Hakon to begin.

  Hakon drew in his breath. “You are quite correct, all of you. There is no reason—”

  The talking continued. No one paid any attentio
n to Hakon.

  “I have come to offer you fairness under the law!”

  The crowd hushed, and for a brief moment, Hakon swelled with his success. Then the men broke into laughter, and just as quickly, Hakon's confidence faltered.

  “What law?” someone called.

  Hakon tried one last time. “I will begin by returning your odal rights!”

  The laughter died down almost immediately. The effect was beautiful, and both Hakon and Sigurd smiled widely.

  “Any man here who supports me will once again become odal-born to his land, if indeed he lost that right to my father. I will take ownership of no man's hard-earned possessions!”

  The crowd broke into pandemonium.

  “Why should we believe you, Hakon?” called someone.

  “What is to keep you from taking back the land as soon as you have enough support?” called another. “What do you want in return?”

  The questions came at him like projectiles from an enemy host, and he breathed deeply to settle his growing agitation. “First, you should believe me because I give you my word. As a prince of the Yngling line, you must know my words stand for much. But, if that is not good enough for you, I will support my words with tokens to each landholder who throws in his lot with me. These tokens will guarantee the rights to your land for as long as I rule.”

  Hakon could see the change in the crowd as the men discussed these ideas amongst themselves. Inquisitive glances replaced scowls, wavering excitement supplanted uncertainty.

  As the discussion died down, a lanky older man stepped forward from one of the groups. His well-groomed beard was the color of the setting sun, highlighting the freckles on his thin cheeks. “I am Kar of Gryting, and my people have asked me to speak for them. Your offer is a kind one, but there is more to concern us than just our land. We have no great love for Erik, but our anger does not outweigh our fear of you. My people think, and I tend to agree, that by following a worshipper of the White Christ, we put ourselves at risk, and we do not wish to anger the gods so soon before winter.”

  A mumble of agreement spread through the assembly. Hakon faltered in the face of such reasoning. Though he understood their superstition, he did not know how to combat it with rational argument.

  “Enough!” Sigurd's shout brought them to a quick but uneasy silence. “Kar raises a question that has plagued me since I first sent for Hakon. I wish no more than any man to bring the wrath of the gods down on our heads. But I fear it is too late for such worries. The gods are angered, and Erik is their curse. Can we do much worse by giving another man a try, Christian or not?”

  The men were unconvinced, and Kar continued on his course. “What if he tries to impose his ways on us?”

  Hakon stepped in. “As much as I would like to teach you the ways of my god, I would not be so foolish. I need your support against Erik, not your conversion.” Yet.

  As he spoke, he noticed the crowd shift as if men were being physically pushed out of the way. Suddenly there stood before him a frightening young warrior. Though he stood no taller than the others, Hakon had never seen someone of such coloring. His skin was so pale and fine it was almost transparent, and his eyes were of the lightest blue. He was yet young, in his early twenties perhaps, but his beard was whiter than the freshest snow.

  The young man pointed an accusing finger at Sigurd. “I have heard enough of your lies. My father died in your service because he listened to you and believed your tales. I will not be taken by them, nor should anyone else.” He turned partially toward the crowd. “The disaster at Mollebakken should have taught us all that Jarl Sigurd is incapable of making sound decisions. His request to back this … this child is a political ploy. He cares nothing of what happens to you and me. He seeks only to further his own wealth and power.”

  “Silence, Finn!” The strength of Sigurd's voice hushed Finn immediately. “What you speak is the truth. Mollebakken was a mistake. And it is true that my plans are self-serving. But everything I do, and every plan I lay before you, has always been for the betterment of life in this district, and in this kingdom. My life and my goals are tied to his land, as were my father's, and my father's father. Self-serving, you say? Aye, they are. But when one makes no distinction between himself and his duty to the people, then there is no fault.” Sigurd glared at Finn, who shifted his stance uncertainly before the crowd. “If you think my support for Hakon wrong, then leave and fend for yourself.”

  The young man growled some unintelligible response, then pushed his way through the crowd and, with a handful of supporters, exited the field. Another long, disorderly moment ensued before a third man moved to the front of the crowd. Once there, he leaned his age-bent body on the walking staff he held in his wrinkled hand. Around him, the assembly silenced.

  “My name is Hrolf Einarsson, former thane to Sigurd's father. You have spoken well today, young lord.” There hid in his brittle tone a hint of strength long since faded with age. “But words do not always translate into action.” He grinned weakly through his spotty beard. “I am too old to care what becomes of me. Rather, I speak for those of my family and kin who come behind me. They will need a strong leader to guide them through the turbulent times ahead. One who commands the respect of those about him and has proven to all that he is Harald's rightful heir.”

  He lifted his cane and pointed it briefly at Hakon before setting it down once more. “Though I see a youth ripe with potential and goodly strength, I also see before me an untested boy full of words. Mayhap I am wrong. Mayhap not. But a day, or even a full cycle of the moon, is too short a time to judge any man as a leader. I suggest you live among us for a time. Join us at the Yule feasts. When winter begins its thaw we can once again assemble here. He who judges you worthy then can place his head to your knee.”

  Hakon felt his heart sink as he listened to the wisdom in the old man's words and watched as, one by one, heads around him nodded in agreement.

  “Nonsense,” protested Sigurd. “What of the duel against Udd? Does that count for nothing?”

  “So the boy can fight,” remarked the old man dryly. “Can he lead? Does he have the strength to bring this land together?”

  Sigurd threw up his arms in disgust. “Odin's eye, man. We do not have the time for this! If Erik is to be defeated, we must come together now to protect ourselves. Do you all not see that? Besides, the boy will not be making all the decisions. We will all be acting as his advisors, his councilors. It is the same with any other king.”

  The men broke into conversation once again. Hakon let them discuss for a while, then held up his hand for silence. “Thane Einarsson, I understand your words and will not argue against them. However, Jarl Sigurd also speaks the truth. Time is short. We know not when Erik might attack again. Although winter approaches, there is yet time for him to do damage.” Hakon paused to let his words sink in.

  The old man chewed on his lip for a moment. “If Erik comes, then we will come together in defense of this land and we will have the opportunity to see you fight. We will know then whether you are a worthy man to follow.” Around him, the others nodded and mumbled their concurrence.

  As a son might accept the unwanted but goodly advice of a father, Hakon acquiesced to this man's wisdom. “In truth, I had hoped to come here and have you all accept me without debate. But I see that many questions still remain about the sort of man I am and will become. If time will answer those questions, then go and take your chances. We will see how you have fared when we reconvene next spring. But if any of you are bold enough to join me now, then come forward. We will make our plans immediately to rid this land of Erik.”

  Heads turned as each man sought out those who might step forward. At first no one did, and Hakon felt a momentary twinge of panic. But then there was movement at the back of the field. A huge, black-haired figure pressed forward. Hakon's heart soared. His first subject, and a giant, at that. But when the fellow stopped before him, his heart plummeted. The massive figure was nothing more than a
grimy-faced boy with tattered rags for clothing.

  “What is your name?”

  The boy shifted his emerald eyes about him, visibly uncomfortable before the crowd, then scratched at the black fuzz on his jaw. “Toralv Skolmson. I, um … I am from the south. Near Dovrefell in the mountains.”

  “Have you come alone all this way?”

  He cast his eyes downward. “Aye. My parents were recently killed by one of Erik's thanes. My brother is gone to the west, leaving only me. I heard from my neighbors about this assembly and decided to come.”

  Hakon turned the conversation away from the sad memory. “And you seek to join my company?”

  The boy's eyes shifted back to Hakon. “Aye.” His voice held both hope and trepidation.

  “Then I welcome you to my service, Toralv. Sigurd is in need of strong and able men on his estate. I am sure he will not have a problem with your staying there.” Hakon glanced at Sigurd, who nodded.

  The boy beamed. “I am grateful, and will prove myself worthy.”

  “I am sure you will.”

  Behind Toralv came a handful of others, most of them Trond freemen who came for reasons too numerous to count. Sigurd and his thanes lined up behind them and each in turn swore fealty to their new king. Though they were few in number, they brought a swell of pride to Hakon's heart and a lump to his throat. He was now their king, and they were his to command. In that instant, he understood why so many men fought for this, and died to keep it. It was more provocative than the largest pot of gold, and more intoxicating than the richest wines of Frankland. Never had Hakon felt so powerful, so invulnerable, so utterly in control of his world and his destiny.

  When it became apparent that no other man would swear himself to Hakon's service, the meeting adjourned. Sigurd, who had expected a better outcome, refused to appear defeated, and ordered his kegs opened and his food distributed. He laughed along with the others when they toasted his generosity.