“Archers!” called Sigurd. “Loose your arrows!”
As he said this, another volley of enemy arrows fell among them. The resulting panic distracted their own archers, who released their first volley down the hill with a ragged twang of bowstrings, widely missing their marks. Those of the foe who were hit crumpled to the ground and disappeared under the surge of warriors pressing upward.
Another enemy volley landed and another flew down the hill in response. More and more men on either side fell. Their screams filled Hakon's ears.
If Hakon had remained detached up to this point, he could no longer. Blood thundered at his temples and his heart felt as if it might burst from his chest. His palms and brow were slick with the sweat of fear, and he worried briefly that Quern-biter might slip from his hands in the coming fight. Quickly, he wiped his hands on his breeches.
Another volley tore through both lines, then another; still Erik's army climbed. On and on they came, yelling their heart-stopping cries, heedless of those who fell beside them.
“Come on,” Hakon heard his voice urging. “Come on.”
At forty paces, the enemy archers stopped firing and followed the attacking force up the hill.
Sigurd's voice once again thundered above the clamor. “Loose the wall!”
The men put their shoulders to the top of the wall and pushed the top logs forward. All along the line, logs thundered down the hill.
Erik's army broke ranks. Some men dropped to the ground; others turned and ran, hoping to outrun the deadly avalanche. Still others looked desperately about, unable to decide what to do. The logs tore into them, ripping whole swaths of warriors from their feet and casting them down the hill. Limbs tore from bodies. Shields and equipment flew everywhere.
Hakon and his men cheered the destruction left in the logs' wake.
The enemy regrouped and came on again.
“Spearmen!” Sigurd yelled. “Let loose!”
At his command, both Toralv and Egil grabbed one of the spears planted beside them and hurled it down the slope. Egil's spear caught a man high in his chest, killing him instantly. Without pausing, each man hefted his second spear and hurled it into the oncoming mob. Another man fell with Toralv's spear buried deep in his gut.
“Steady!” called Sigurd. “Wait for them!”
Hakon gripped Quern-biter tighter as the enemy moved within fifteen paces. He sought Erik in the confusion, but he dared not avert his eyes for too long. Around him, his comrades yelled, and as Hakon joined in, he wondered if they yelled from fear too.
Ten paces. Five. Hakon crouched involuntarily before the press of humanity coming at him.
Clashing metal and the thud of wood echoed across the hill as the forces came together at the low-lying wall. A youth came at Hakon, his spear point aimed at Hakon's stomach. Hakon sidestepped and parried the thrust away, then swung his shield at the lad's unprotected face. The boss caught him on his forehead and knocked him backward into the press.
Two men filled the gap where the boy had been. As Hakon stepped back to give himself room, one of the men arched backward and fell, though Hakon could not see who had killed him. The other man leaned over the wall and swung at Hakon's head. Hakon blocked the swing with his shield and knocked the man off balance. As he struggled to regain his footing on the slope, Hakon thrust toward his chest, but misjudged and caught the man in the neck. Eyes wide with shock, the man grabbed for the blade protruding from his throat. Hakon pulled his blade free and readied himself for the next assailant.
But where two had been there were now three, and behind them a hundred more. Hakon fought for his life, kicking, pushing, twisting, and thrusting. He killed another man who attacked Egil and, before he could pull Quern-biter free, was knocked backward by two more men pressing forward. He stumbled for two or three steps and fell on his rump. Before he could move, he felt the weight of a man upon him. His head jerked to the side as something solid connected with his jaw. He tried to kick the man off, but his assailant was too heavy to move. The attacker's fist flashed again before Hakon's eyes and another blow connected with his nose. He heard it crack under the man's knuckles.
Suddenly the weight lifted as the man rolled off. A hand pulled Hakon to his feet, though he knew not who had offered it. He realized instantly that he had dropped Quern-biter in the scuffle. Before he could look for it, a spearman jabbed at Hakon's leg. Hakon jerked his knee sideways and felt the spearhead scrape his thigh.
Like an adder, the man thrust again, this time for Hakon's belly. At the last second, Hakon pivoted sideways. The spearhead caught in a ring of his byrnie, but did not penetrate the thick mesh. Hakon grabbed the shaft and pulled the man forward. Then he quickly thrust his foot behind the man's knee and pushed backward. The man tripped and fell heavily to the ground. Before the spearman could regain his feet, Egil dispatched him with an axe blow to his chest; the man never even saw his attacker.
Hakon caught sight of Quern-biter near his feet. As he bent to pick it up, he felt someone tug at his shoulder.
“Hakon! We must withdraw! They have overrun the wall.”
Hakon looked to his left as he wrapped his fingers around Quern-biter. Toralv towered over him, his forearm bleeding profusely from a deep slice. Urgency puckered his face.
Hakon glanced around. The enemy had broken through many parts of their defensive line. Those quick enough to react had fallen back to the archers' line, while those less fortunate struggled in pairs and groups against the overwhelming numbers surrounding them.
It was too late—Hakon and his men were too engaged to remove themselves. If they turned their backs, they would be cut down where they stood. All they could do was fight their way backward toward the line forming behind them, farther up the hill. Slowly they moved, back-step by back-step, trying but failing to disengage from the numbers pressing against them.
“Save yourself, Hakon!” Egil yelled as he dropped a foe and earned himself a little space.
Hakon, who faced another enemy, heard the call but could do nothing. Egil shifted and drove his axe into the man's side, dropping him as well. The move gave Hakon a much-needed reprieve and he struggled to regain his wits.
The enemy was everywhere now, attacking the pockets of men that remained from the first battle line as well as those who stood in defense farther up the hill. Hakon did not know which way to turn, for every side was now open to attack. They were completely surrounded. To his left, Sigurd stood back to back with three of his hirdmen, fending off the foe. Gunnar, Didrik, and Ottar had done the same, a little farther up the hill.
As Gunnar turned to ward off an axe blow, a boy even younger than Hakon drove his spear point up under Gunnar's armpit. Hakon gasped as Gunnar cried out, but there was nothing Hakon could do—the attack happened too quickly. Gunnar spun, the spear still lodged under his arm, and beheaded the boy before falling to the ground. Didrik sensed his brother's collapse but could not turn, lest he too perish. Instead, he closed the gap left by his brother's fall and readied himself for the next assailant. The whole event occurred in less time than it took Hakon to draw a breath and release it.
“Toralv! Egil! Stand back to back!”
Toralv and Egil already stood shoulder to shoulder; they had only to pivot a foot. Hakon joined them, placing his back against those of his hirdmen. As he did, a pale-skinned man came at him, howling, his sword raised in both hands high above his head. In the instant before he swung, Hakon felt a shock of recognition—Finn, the man who had rejected his speech at the Frosta fields. Then metal flashed as his sword came down. Hakon lifted his own and braced for the clash of their blades. Steel rang; the force of Finn's blow drove Hakon to his knees.
Finn raised his sword again and struck before Hakon could move. The blow drove Hakon's sword backward into his helmet, knocking it to the ground. Another such strike, and Hakon would surely die.
Sensing blood, Finn drew back, a wicked smile on his face.
Hakon fumbled for the knife on his belt an
d pulled it free, then lunged forward just as Finn raised his body to add momentum to his death blow. The knife caught Finn in the groin. His eyes went wide as he howled and dropped a futile, protective hand to his wound. From his knees, Hakon swung Quern-biter and sliced clean through Finn's unprotected legs. Before Hakon could finish him off, another man attacked and Hakon again was on his feet.
Just then, a cheer rose from the north side of the hill. The battle paused as all eyes turned that way. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the pitch of battle increased. Not trusting his own situation, Hakon remained focused on the fighting before him.
A tide of humanity flowed over the northern crest of the hill. At its head charged the boulder-like Asbjorn, spindly legs churning. The Tronds! Hakon turned back to his opponent with newfound vigor. The man held his ground for a moment, then faltered as the wave of warriors approached. Hakon dispatched him.
The rush did not stop; it soon enveloped the entire hillside. What had been a losing battle resumed with fresh fury. For the first time that morning, Hakon found himself without an opponent to face. He took the moment to catch his breath and regain his composure. He wiped the sweat from his brow, donned his helmet once again, and turned to his hirdmen. “Follow me!”
The hirdmen broke from the engagement and ran with him to the crest of the hill.
“Where is Erik?” Hakon shouted.
“There!” Ottar yelled, pointing to the south.
Hakon turned and immediately marked the red standard of his brother. Beneath it stood Erik and those of his hird that had not yet succumbed to the foe. Covered in the blood of his enemy and perchance his own blood too, Erik swung his great axe around him like a farmer scything wheat at the harvest. Above the flaming beard matted to his chest, his expression was a mask of concentrated anger. The white-bearded man protected his back, swinging his own sword with such ease and grace, he made killing seem a simple task.
“Erik!” Hakon yelled as he sprinted across the battlefield.
Erik dispatched the man before him and gazed in the direction of the voice. He scowled when he recognized his young brother. “Hakon!”
Hakon stopped beyond the reach of his brother's axe. Someone gripped his arm.
“Do not, Hakon,” came Egil's voice in his ear. “He will cut you down!”
Hakon shrugged his arm free. “Do not stop me, Egil. I have not come all this way to run now.” He lowered his sword at Erik.
Erik came on, twirling his axe deftly before him. “Ah, Hakon. Now, this pleases me.” He wiped at the sweat and blood that dripped from his matted bangs. “I was afraid I would not have a chance to kill you.”
Hakon did not respond; he refused to be distracted. The man who stood before him was too massive, too swift, and too deadly to allow any mistakes. Hakon closed his mind to the thoughts that battled for attention, to the rage that struggled to overwhelm his soul. Steeling his nerves against the fear that churned his gut and threatened to weaken his limbs, he circled, looking for an opening.
It came a moment later, and Hakon struck. Erik blocked his blade on the marred handle of his axe. Normally an axe the size of Erik's was a cumbersome and awkward weapon, but Erik's strength enabled him to wield it with a speed and skill the like of which Hakon had never witnessed. Before Hakon could right himself, Erik counterattacked with a downward stroke that came within inches of his arm.
Erik and Hakon circled one another, each watching for a subtle movement, a mistake, a mental error. Erik feigned a downward stroke toward Hakon's left shoulder, then twisted his shoulder and wrists and drove the axe blade at Hakon's chest. Hakon lifted his shield to deflect the blow, but when he saw the shift, it was all he could do to raise his sword against the axe blade. The onlookers gasped as Hakon's blade stopped the blow a hair's width from his torso. Still, the strength of Erik's swing knocked Hakon's blade back toward him and threw him off balance.
Hakon fought to correct himself but could not. He fell heavily onto his back, arms outspread. Quern-biter remained firmly in his grip, but in an awkward position. Pressing his advantage, Erik brought his axe up for a final stroke at Hakon's chest.
Powerless to do anything else, Hakon took the only option open to him. His foot swung sideways and caught Erik hard on the left ankle. Erik's leg buckled. Hakon kicked again, and this time caught him on the side of his knee. The knee popped loudly and Erik fell, landing heavily on his left shoulder. His axe tumbled away. Hakon swung his blade up over his body and down toward Erik, stopping just shy of his brother's neck.
Hakon scrambled to his feet, keeping the edge of his blade on the skin of his brother's neck.
A wry smile appeared on Erik's face. “And so it goes. Brother kills brother, eh Hakon?”
Hakon stood motionless, gazing into his brother's face. It was then, in that quiet instant, that Hakon felt the long subdued rage begin to build. Like water breaking through a dike, it seeped, then trickled, then flowed in earnest. He could feel its growing momentum as it overtook his every limb, his every organ, his entire mind with its churning torrent.
Sigurd, who now stood with Egil and the others, urged him on. “Kill him, boy!”
Hakon brought Quern-biter up. His muscles tensed; his vision blurred with fury. The urge to drive his sword point through the soft flesh of Erik's neck roared within him. Finish him! End it! Those who had suffered at Erik's hand—Bjorn, Olav, Sigfrid, Hrolf Einarsson . . . Aelfwin—cried out to him to avenge them, to avenge everyone who had suffered as a result of Erik's malice, deceit, and bloodlust.
Hakon's hand began to tremble. Could anything be sweeter than avenging the violation of Aelfwin's body, than robbing Erik of his life as Aelfwin's had so callously been stolen?
“Kill me, Hakon,” Erik spat. “That is what you want, is it not?”
Deep beneath the surface of Hakon's hatred something shifted and took form. A lesson, learned in a lifetime that now seemed so far away, materialized through his wrath. Brother kills brother. Cain kills Abel. Evil spawns evil. He could almost hear the words, spoken in a voice at once familiar and foreign, bouncing off the walls of the scriptorium.
In his mind's eye, Aelfwin stood on the bank of the Itchen, smiling as the bishop dipped Hakon into the cool water. Hakon tightened his grip on Quern-biter. It takes strength to forgive. More strength, in fact, than killing. Aelfwin leaned close and kissed him softly. He could almost feel the tenderness of her lips. Cain kills Abel. Brother kills brother.
Hakon felt the vibration of his scream deep within his throat long before the sound ripped through the hushed air. He raised Quern-biter higher, and in one swift motion, drove the sword downward with all his strength. Quern-biter bit into the hard turf and stood there, swaying from the force of the thrust.
His eyes held those of his brother, which were now wide with disbelief and rage. “You are no longer welcome in these lands,” Hakon said, his voice husky. “If you return, you will be killed, and so too will your family. All your possessions, save the clothes on your filthy back, are now my own.”
Erik's eyes narrowed. “Why do you not kill me and end your worries? You know I will not agree to this.”
“I spare you, Erik, because you are my brother. And I spare you because I am unlike you. As to whether or not you agree to this, I care little. I am prepared to face the consequences of my decision.” Hakon looked at Sigurd, who appeared just as dumbfounded as Erik. “Strip him and his men of their armor and their weapons and tie them up.”
“This is impossible!” Erik fumed. “Kill me!”
Hakon walked away, trying to close his ears to Erik's curses. His legs quivered from the physical and mental exertion of the fight.
Around him, the battle had ended. Bodies, some moving, most not, blanketed the hillside. The air was heavy with the groans and whimpers of dying men. A few warriors wandered aimlessly through the piles, searching for something, though Hakon could not tell what. He made it not more than twenty paces before his stomach twisted violently and he ben
t to retch. When he straightened, he found Jarl Tore watching him. The older man grinned.
Hakon was in no mood to smile. “I fail to understand your reasons for smiling.”
“That is fine thanks for the man who saved you,” the jarl croaked.
Hakon scowled. “I have neither the strength nor the inclination to thank you. Had you come sooner to this hill, there would be no talk of you saving anyone.”
Jarl Tore shrugged. “The men refused to leave their ships, so we sailed to the Vik rather than cross the Keel. From the Vik we came on foot. The journey took us a bit longer than expected, but we arrived.”
“Do you realize that we had men searching for you day and night? Could you not have sent messengers ahead to inform us of your amended plan?”
“We sent messengers to Ringsaker. They came back to us with news that you had come here. So we turned the army and came straight to this hill.” Jarl Tore stepped forward and patted Hakon on the shoulder. “Peace, Hakon. The day has gone your way. Give thanks and be glad.”
Hakon dismissed Jarl Tore with an angry grunt, then turned and seated himself on a nearby rock. Across the hill, a solitary standard—Brand's—careened as it flapped in the breeze. At its base, Ivar cradled Brand's lifeless body in his arms, while Brand's loyal hirdmen and Thorgil, his leg bleeding from a gash, looked on helplessly.
Hakon wiped at the blood trickling from his own nose and turned away. Nearby, Trygvi, his face flushed with anger, jabbed his finger in Erik's direction while Sigurd shook his head. Gudrod, bleeding from his forehead, tried to pull Trygvi away, but Trygvi shrugged his arm free. Unable to calm the giant, Sigurd's hirdmen surrounded him and led him away.
A sliver of light glinted up from the ground and Hakon turned to it. At his feet, half-buried beneath the twisted limbs of the dead, lay his cross. Hakon stared at it, wondering how it had come undone from Aelfwin's neck. Though Aelfwin lay nearby, fear kept him from shifting his eyes to look for her. He wished to remember Aelfwin as the living beauty she'd been, not for the cold corpse he knew she had become. Bending, he picked up Athelstan's gift, rubbed the dirt and blood from its surface, then placed it over his head.
God's Hammer Page 32