God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  Tosti jumped on the question, his voice full of mistrust. “From our own loyal men. What are you implying?”

  Hakon held up a hand. “Please. Bear with me. I do not mean to suggest anything wrong in the way you protect yourselves. I just have a thought on another way to do it. Is there a forced conscription among your people to assist in More's defense?”

  At this, the More hersir broke into laughter. Jarl Tore cut him off with a sharp glance. “We had something like it, many winters ago. But it was unpopular and hard to enforce. What do you propose?”

  Hakon's heartbeat quickened. “What if we suggested the following: in exchange for a retraction of the odal tax, service would be required of all men of a certain age. This could be done on a rotating basis; men would serve ninety days at a time. In order to motivate them, their payment would be booty from the pirate ships, or from invading armies. The spoils would be split evenly between the crews and you.”

  The More-men tried to remain impassive, but Hakon read the surprise in their eyes. “It is an interesting suggestion,” responded Tosti, “and one that has some merit.”

  Tore studied Hakon thoughtfully. “Allow us a few moments to discuss this privately.”

  Sigurd and Hakon nodded, then rose and left the building. Outside, they found their Tronds cowering behind the wall of a house, out of the driving wind. They sat among them.

  “How did you fare?” The question came from Egil, who poked at a small fire with his eating knife.

  Sigurd clasped Hakon's shoulder. “You mean, how did Hakon fare? I spoke nary a word.”

  “Well?”

  “Odin's balls, Egil! His mind works like his father's.”

  At this Hakon blushed. “He exaggerates, Egil. Do not listen to him.”

  “Then it looks hopeful?”

  Sigurd shrugged. “Odin willing.”

  Egil shivered. “Well, whatever the case, I hope they reach a decision soon. We are freezing to death.”

  Soon after, Tosti brought them back inside. Sigurd and Hakon once again took their seats on the blankets opposite Tore and his hersar.

  “We will accept your offer,” Tosti began, “provided … we have some assurance that we will not be left alone in defending our land. We would like guarantees that you will also raise men to support our own, should the need arise.”

  Hakon had expected that very answer, and grinned. “You have my word. Before I leave, you will have tokens to that effect. Now, let us discuss the matter of your submission to me, and how we will defeat Erik.”

  Chapter 29

  Halogaland was a land unlike any that Hakon had ever heard of or seen. It stretched from Namdalen in the south to Finnmark in the north, and under full sail, it took five or six days to follow its coast—a distance greater than the whole of Athelstan's kingdom. Much of the land to the far north was snow-covered wasteland inhabited by a people known as the Sami. The areas populated by the Halogalanders were weather-torn and rugged, where men lived off what they could fish and hunt, and where homes lay a day's sail or more apart. Here, where temperature and weather determined the fate of families, gods ruled, and men depended on their favor to survive.

  This environment had instilled in them a rugged individualism that, by its very nature, spurned the rule of man. King Harald had tried, and failed, to conquer Halogaland—it was simply too expansive and too wild to bring under his control. In the end, he had settled for an uneasy peace administered by the Jarl of Lade, which indirectly allowed him to prosper from Halogaland's natural riches: walrus ivory, whale oil, polar bear fur, reindeer and elk hide, antler combs and pins, puffin down, and sealskin.

  Hakon and Sigurd spent two days trying to win over the Halogalanders. Calling on those that he knew for help, Sigurd held an elaborate feast on the farm of one of his distant relatives, a man named Fynr. It was during this feast that Hakon experienced the futility of trying to garner Halogalander support for his fight against Erik. These men wanted nothing but to be left alone. At every turn, he ran into a wall of reasoning that could only be categorized as superstition or flat-out disapproval. In the end, he managed to gain the acceptance of only Fynr, and a few lesser nobles who already owed their allegiance to Lade for one reason or another.

  On the third day, Hakon called an end to the feast and to the discussions. Fynr and the lesser nobles agreed to come to Sigurd's estate in a week's time, equipped, provisioned, and ready to fight. That settled, the Tronds said their farewells and headed south for the Trondheimsfjord and Lade.

  Though the sun shone, the day was cold, with an onshore wind that swept in low over the water and churned the waves into a frothy tumult. Overhead, seagulls hung in the wind, the feathers of their outstretched wings shaking violently as they searched the waves for food. Every now and then, one cried out, then dove into the sea with a splash to come away with a fish in its beak.

  Despite the strong wind, they reached the island known as Leka just before the sun disappeared below the horizon, long before they expected to. There they spent a chilly, miserable night in a small cove that did little to protect them from the howling winds. They struck out early the following morning, keeping the land in sight off the port bow. This new day promised a bit of warmth and a break from the winds that had so haunted them the day before. Pleased by the tiny respite, Hakon sat back and let the rolling waves and the sound of gulls lull him into a state of dreamy reflection.

  His eyes wandered the formless coastline, a sight that reminded him of the Anglisc coastline, and of the empty feeling in his gut as he'd watched it disappear for what was probably the last time. He wondered briefly what had happened to Athelstan and his army, and if they had returned safely from the campaign against the Scots. He wondered if Athelstan had driven the perfidious Scots from York, and if so, what had become of the Scottish king, and of York.

  Without warning, his thoughts jumped to Winchester, and to the people who had graced his life there—King Athelstan, Father Otker, Edmund, Louis, Aelfwin. His fondness for their memory remained strong, although their faces had already begun to fade in his mind. All, that is, except Aelfwin's.

  He closed his eyes and let her features form in the darkness beneath his lids: her wonderful dimples and that glorious, open grin that displayed the gap between her teeth. The way her dark hair set off the brilliance of her emerald eyes, and how her walnut skin seemed to glow in the sunshine. He grinned at the memory of their awkward meeting, and then frowned at the realization that he would never see her again. Instead, his future presented a new, uninvited image. He saw a girl he did not recognize, nor, from the look of her, one he wished to know. He saw only her face with its round, blemished cheeks and double chin, mud-brown eyes and hair to match. He did not need to meet her to know who she was. Groa.

  “Hakon. What is the matter?”

  Hakon opened his eyes and looked at Toralv, who sat on the bench before him, resting his elbows on his oar. It was late morning, and they were sailing around a series of islands that stretched from the mainland like a finger into the sea. “Nothing, Toralv. Nothing is the matter. Where are we?”

  Toralv turned on his rowing bench and shrugged. “You forget. I am from the country and know little of the coast.”

  As they rounded the tip of the finger, the southeasterly wind snapped their sail, and the ship lurched forward.

  “Ships ho! Dead ahead!”

  Hakon leaned past Toralv. For a moment he saw nothing. A second, closer study revealed two ships sailing directly across their line, heading out to sea about twice an arrow's flight away.

  “Any colors?” called Sigurd to the watchman, who stood beside the dragon head and shielded his eyes against the glint of sun on sea.

  “Nothing. Wait. They are lowering their sails.”

  At the watchman's words, the crewmen craned their necks. A ship only went to oars when the wind was unfavorable—or when making ready for battle.

  “Wait. They are hauling shields aloft.”

  Hakon exhaled in
relief at the gesture of peace. Around him the men sat back and continued with their distractions. Hakon did the same, turning his face up to the sun to enjoy its warmth upon his cheeks.

  “They're coming toward us.”

  Hakon looked again. Sure enough, the ships had quit their seaward line and turned their prows on a more northward course, rowing on a heading that would take them just off the starboard bow of Sigurd's ship. Hakon glanced at Sigurd, who stood beside Egil at the steer board, stroking his beard in contemplation.

  After a moment, Sigurd called to the watchman, “How large are the ships, Toki?”

  “Two dragons, fully manned.”

  Sigurd's brow furrowed.

  Hakon felt his stomach flutter. “What is it? What's wrong?”

  Sigurd kept his eyes on the approaching ships. “I don't know. But something is not right.”

  Toralv suddenly stood on his bench and peered aft, pointing. “Sigurd! Someone is coming from behind us. Out of that channel between the farthest island and the next one in. See them?”

  Sigurd turned and gazed back toward the islands. He studied them for a long moment. “Odin's balls! It's an ambush!”

  Hakon shifted his gaze to their other ship, which sailed a little behind, and to the inboard of their own. Judging by the activity on deck, they had seen the ships as well. “What now, Sigurd?”

  Again Sigurd stroked his auburn beard. “We cannot fight them. We are too few.” He cupped his hands around his mouth to be heard over the wind. “Drop the sails, but keep them ready to haul. Go to oar and raise the shield. Stay on your course. If the ships turn landward to cut off our path, veer out to sea. If they stay on their heading, continue to row and pass them by. Do not stop. Raise the sails after we're clear of their ships. Those with spears and bows, keep them close. Is that clear?”

  The men shouted their understanding.

  Hakon jumped to the task along with the others. Some undid the braces while others hauled in the sail. When the yardarm came down, the men grabbed it and laid the bundle to the deck, unfurled. Normally, in combat situations, they would drop the mast for better maneuverability but, in this case, there was no time. Besides, they needed the mast for the shield, which they quickly pulled up the halyard as a sign of peace. The sister ship mirrored their actions.

  “Get us in closer,” called Sigurd. Egil called to the oarsmen to drop oars to port. The men obeyed, and the ship edged in closer to its sister. Sigurd stepped to the aft rail, then called out the instructions to them. When the helmsman motioned that he understood, Sigurd turned back to the crew. “Stay at your oars. Draw your weapons but keep them low.”

  Hakon glanced behind him as he pulled back on the oar. The two ships had closed the gap substantially and were now within an arrow's flight of their own. Their dragon-headed prows spewed froth to left and right as they bit into the oncoming waves. Hakon pulled Quern-biter from its sheath and leaned it against his bench, near at hand. Next to him, his shield was locked into its cradle on the gunwale. Between pulls, he pried it loose but left it where it sat, making sure that it would come out easily, should he need to remove it quickly.

  Hakon glanced back again. Half an arrow's flight and still nothing. He could see the helmets and spears glinting on the other ship, but nothing that overtly suggested they meant harm. No knot of berserkers gathering on the foredeck. No bowmen or spearmen readying themselves at the gunwales. No grappling hooks swinging overhead. Mayhap Sigurd was mistaken …

  Hakon craned his neck to see past Egil, who stood resolutely at the steer board. The red sails of the other two ships were still some distance behind them. Hakon realized with a glimmer of hope that, if his ships could just outmaneuver the two before them, those behind would never catch up—they were too far behind.

  Before he could turn about, he heard a warning cry, and he bent down instinctively. Just as his chest hit his knees, he heard the familiar thwack thwack thwack of arrows hitting wood. His body tensed. The fight had begun.

  He looked up just in time to see the enemy archers firing another volley from the oncoming ships. They were so close that the arrows sped without arc in their search for victims. Hakon ducked again and again as the arrows tore into the wood of the ship. Up near the prow, somebody cried out in pain.

  Suddenly, one of the enemy ships turned toward the shore to cut them off.

  “To steerboard!” Sigurd's voice tore through the chaos. Hakon dropped his oar and pushed it away from his chest with all his strength. As he did so, the men to leeward dropped their oars and pulled.

  The ship lurched under the force of the maneuver, and unfastened equipment clattered around the deck. Hakon slammed into the gunwale and momentarily lost hold of his oar. He heard Quern-biter slide away.

  “Row!”

  The men dipped their oars and pulled. Hakon grabbed his oar and pulled with the rest. Sigurd's ships had tacked to steerboard as planned and now headed out to sea. The first enemy ship now lay off the port bow, moving past them in the opposite direction. Befuddled, the enemy archers worked their way across the deck and let go a wild volley that flew harmlessly overhead. A few men tossed grappling hooks at them, but these fell short and splashed into the waves ten paces from their gunwale.

  Hakon glanced over his shoulder and realized with a sudden pang of fear that the second enemy ship had not turned like its sister, but had kept on its seaward line. As a result, it passed not ten paces from Sigurd's bow. Though it too was traveling in the wrong direction, it was far closer than its sister ship, and much more capable of doing harm.

  As if in response to his fear, the archers from this second ship appeared at her gunwales and unleashed a deadly barrage that tore diagonally across Sigurd's deck. More men screamed, and something splashed into the water.

  “Grappling hooks!”

  The call came seconds after the arrows did their damage, and was followed by a ripple of dull thuds. Hakon spun on his bench and saw at least five hooks clawing the steerboard gunwale of the foredeck. Some of the crew attacked them with drawn swords, hacking at their ropes while the enemy archers fired into their midst. Those with spears cast them at the archers, hoping to drive them back and give their comrades room.

  “Keep rowing!” Sigurd called. “Do not stop!”

  To leeward, the other enemy ship gave up on Sigurd's craft and turned its attention to Sigurd's sister ship, letting go a well-placed barrage that tore into the crew. But they had prepared themselves for the archers and answered the attack with a volley of their own, catching the enemy off guard and repelling those who weren't immediately killed.

  Behind him, Hakon could hear the clang of metal on metal, and he turned to see the first of the enemy jumping from their deck to his own. The men in the foredeck fought a two-pronged battle—the first against the grappling hooks that locked the ships together, and the second against the enemy that had managed to come across.

  Hakon abandoned his oar and bent to grab Quern-biter, which rested halfway across the deck, then stood and rushed toward the fray. But before he had gone two paces, someone grabbed him from behind and threw him backward onto the deck. He landed with a thud that momentarily drove the wind from his lungs.

  “Get back to your bench and row, Hakon!” Sigurd stood above him, his face red with anger.

  Hakon did as Sigurd commanded and climbed back onto his bench. Once again he dropped Quern-biter, grabbed his oar, and rowed. As he pulled, he heard Sigurd urging the others back to their benches. Still the sounds of battle raged behind him. Hakon put the sounds from his mind and forced himself to concentrate. Drop. Puuulll. Baackkk. Drop. Puuulll. Baackkk. The man in front of Hakon cried out, then slumped over his oar, an arrow protruding from his back. Drop. Puuulll.

  The fighting on the foredeck dwindled, then ended. Slowly the enemy ship slipped past them. Dead and wounded draped over the gunwales and lay strewn about their deck, and Hakon wondered briefly if his own deck looked the same. A few of the remaining archers took aim and fired their
deadly bolts. One slammed into the shield beside Hakon and knocked it from the gunwale. Another whizzed past his head. A man flung his grappling hook at their ship, but it missed and landed with a splash in the water. Still others cast their spears, but they were now too far away to do much harm.

  “Hoist the sail!”

  Sigurd's remaining crewmembers jumped from their seats and hauled the sail upward, then retied the braces. The sail filled with the southeasterly, and the ship lurched ahead. Behind them, the enemy came about quickly and headed after their prey, but it was too late. They were well beyond accurate arrow range, and falling quickly away. Even after they hauled up their own sail, it was clear that they would not catch their prey. With a defiant cheer, the Tronds watched their attackers slip away.

  The journey southward was long and taxing on both body and mind. Though they had outrun the assailants, nobody knew if more lay hidden close by, a worry that forced each man to sit vigilantly at his station for hours on end.

  To make matters worse, the battle had severely depleted Sigurd's crew: ten dead and twelve wounded, six of those not expected to survive long. The deck was slick with their blood and soon smelled of their feces and decay. Though most of the wounded were either unconscious or not severely wounded enough to cause problems, one was not so lucky. He was a young man named Heidar, who had been hit in the gut by a barbed arrow. He moaned and cried out with every roll and bump, adding to the tension already fraying the crew's nerves.

  Hakon watched Heidar's slow, agonizing death in miserable silence. He had seen death before, but never had he witnessed the lingering destruction of a human body—the spasms that wracked the muscles and emptied the bowels; the blood that dripped continually from the mouth; the tearful pain that slowly turned to feverish groans. Where was the glory in this, Hakon wondered grimly.

  Hakon could see from the others' pinched faces and averted gazes that they felt the same way. They saw no glory here, nor cause for celebration. Instead, a few did their best to comfort Heidar, wiping his forehead with cold, water-soaked rags while they told him of the wonders that awaited him in Odin's Hall. It was the only time that Hakon thanked God for the pagan religion.