Fate of the Gods

by Matthew J. Kirby

  “I captured her as a cub,” the king said. “I raised her up, and I trained her. I’ve had her for ten years now. So, no, I would not command her to fight. Every warrior on the battlefield would want to kill her, and she means too much to me to let that happen.”

  “She seems to have grown accustomed to her chains.”

  “They are there for her sake. Without them, she might wander and kill livestock, or a hunter might take her.”

  Östen had killed bears. In the summer, their fat tasted of the berries they foraged. They gave fierce competition to the wolves, and a strong pack could sometimes bring a bear down. But it was hard for Östen to decide which animal lived a better life. Astrid safe in her chains, or the wild bear risking death.

  “When we left my tent this morning,” the king said, “did you notice that large raven in the yew tree?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then it was a sign for my eyes alone.” He smiled as they walked back through the encampment, which had fully awoken to arm itself for battle. “Odin is watching over us. My offering was accepted. The Lawspeaker was right.”

  “He is very wise,” Östen said. “And Thorvald is very cunning.”

  “Both offer me valuable counsel,” the king said.

  At his tent, they gathered their weapons and shields. In addition to his ring mail, the king donned the golden-scale armor of a defeated Grikklander, and then they were joined outside by the elite housecarls and the captains of the king’s war band. Some of those seasoned warriors looked at Östen with suspicion, especially the king’s marshal, who cast him glances sidelong, but none dared voice their misgivings.

  The king gave his captains their orders. The strategy was simple, because the king knew exactly what Styrbjörn would do. The Svear would offer the Jomsvikings a solid front to attack, and Styrbjörn, ever defiant, would attempt to break their line with a wedge to reach the king. But then the center of Eric’s front would feint backward, to draw the Jomsvikings farther in, while at the same time, the Svear clans at the flanks would extend and entirely surround the enemy. Now that the size of Styrbjörn’s army had been reduced, the Svear could trap and crush them.

  “Also spread word of this,” the king said. “Last night I made an offering to Odin, and this morning I have been given a sign. The Allfather is with us, and victory will be ours.”

  The captains left to take those words and the king’s command to the clans they would lead into battle. Östen and the king found a vantage to watch the sun rise over the plain, first a spark, then an ember, then a flame. Its warmth thawed the rime and banished the mist.

  Not long after that, Östen glimpsed the Jomsvikings coming over the horizon, and almost in that same moment, the Svear horns sounded. He and the king left their vantage and raced from the camp out onto the open field, joined by the marshal and a company of one hundred housecarls.

  The clans massed their ranks along the Fyrisfield, thorny with spears and flapping banners, roaring their battle cries and banging on their shields, drowning out whatever howling the Jomsvikings already sent their way. The king raised his own spear and gave the order to march.

  Horns blared down the line, and the front advanced. Östen kept pace with the king at his right hand, while the marshal kept to Eric’s left, and the housecarls and standard-bearers marched before and after them, their pace disciplined and unwavering.

  The smell of turf in the air, and the dew of the Fyrisfield that wet Östen’s boots, reminded him of his fields back home, and he wished he could wash his face in the cold spring as he did most mornings. He looked down at the thread tied around his wrist, and then he kissed it.

  Before long, the Jomsvikings broke over a hill ahead of them, like a wave crashing over the bow of a ship, and on they came.

  The king gave his next command, and the horns sounded. The housecarls prepared to fall back while fighting, and Östen readied his axe and shield.

  The Jomsvikings launched their charge, boots all a-thunder, as though they truly had the favor of the sky god. Östen could see fury in their eyes and their teeth as he searched their line, finding Styrbjörn near the front, at the point of the wedge. The sight of him, and the memory of Alferth, fanned the embers of his own anger into flames.

  The enemy stormed closer, devouring the ground before them until very little distance remained. At the final moment, the king then gave the third command, and the horns sounded.

  The housecarls formed a shield wall, and when the Jomsviking wedge rammed into it, the Svear gave ground like a willow branch, bending without breaking. The maneuver gave no signal of retreat, but incited the Jomsvikings to press harder. Swords and axes fell hard on shields, and spears stabbed into the gaps.

  Östen stayed at the king’s side, behind the line, watching Styrbjörn, who tore through all in his path as housecarl after housecarl stepped forward to bar him.

  “Your men die for you,” the marshal said.

  “I know it,” the king said, his voice strained.

  “You could end this with single combat,” the marshal said. “Surely you could defeat your nephew.”

  Östen looked hard at the man, who had voiced no objections to the strategy until now, waiting until this moment of battle rage to press the king. There seemed to be something sinister in that.

  “The king has already decided what he will do,” Östen said.

  The marshal smiled. “I would never presume to speak for the king.”

  “Peace, stallari,” the king said. “Östen is right, though I loathe it. He is here at my call, to fight for me when the time comes.”

  The marshal lost his smile then, and he glowered at Östen with open hatred. “So you are now the king’s champion?”

  “I am,” Östen said.

  In that moment, the Jomsvikings managed a sudden, renewed surge, and the housecarl shield wall nearly broke, sending warriors backward into Östen and the king. Östen managed to keep his footing, and after a quick glance found Styrbjörn a safe distance away. But the marshal had moved, and as Östen turned to look for him, he found him at his side and glimpsed the flicker of a blade thrusting toward his ribs.

  He spun to block it, knowing he couldn’t.

  But the blade never reached him. It fell to the ground from the marshal’s limp hand, and Östen saw shock on the marshal’s face.

  The man stood with an arched back, staring just over Östen’s head, eyes wide and mouth open. Thorvald stepped out from behind him as the marshal’s whole body collapsed, and Östen noticed a strange and bloody blade on the skald’s wrist.

  Thorvald gave him a nod, and Östen nodded back. From a few yards away, the king looked down at the body of his former marshal as though it were a pile of dung, and then returned his attention to the battle.

  The feint continued for several hundred yards, until Östen heard the distant horns of the flank clans signaling that they had executed the pincer maneuver and begun their rear assault.

  The king blew on his own horn, and the housecarls dug in, their shield wall first holding fast against the press of the Jomsviking line, then pushing back against it, driving the Jomsvikings before them.

  The faces of the enemy showed surprise, and anger, and finally realization as their own horns bellowed from behind.

  Östen stepped over the wounded and dying, both Svear and Jomsviking, and as warriors fell, others leapt into their place. He had to restrain his own urge to join the fray, and it appeared the king did as well, judging by the way he held his spear. Thorvald and his wrist-blade had vanished.

  “Where is the skald?” he asked the king.

  “He goes where he will,” Eric said.

  A housecarl next to Östen cried out and looked down, where a wounded Jomsviking on the ground had stabbed his calf through with a long knife. Before Östen could act, the king leapt past him and thrust his spear into the enemy’s throat. The wounded housecarl pulled the knife from his leg, wincing, and stabbed the dead Jomsviking with it.

  �
��Can you still fight?” Östen asked him.

  He nodded and pulled off one of his belts, which he used to bind his leg tightly to stanch the bleeding. After that, the rear housecarls finished off any wounded Jomsviking yet living.

  For hours they clashed. The Jomsvikings refused to die easily, but the housecarls pressed inward, their bladework slow, steady, and hard-won. The invaders’ horns continued to sound from the rear, calling for reinforcements, but there were none to be had. Östen maintained his watch on Styrbjörn, who fought ferociously and raged, unable to stop this tide from turning.

  “The day is ours,” Eric said.

  “Not yet, my king,” Östen said.

  The Jomsvikings had sworn to fight to the last man, and it seemed they would fulfill that oath, but at what price? How many Svear lay dying or dead? How many families waited at home for someone who would never return?

  “Eric!” Styrbjörn shouted, loud enough to be heard over all the other sounds of war.

  Östen readied himself and waited.

  Styrbjörn threw his shield aside and grabbed the top of the housecarl’s shield in front of him, but rather than pushing against him, he yanked on it, pulling the man off-balance, and threw him to the ground. Then he stepped on the man’s back and used it to leap into the air, right over the heads of the housecarl line.

  He landed swinging his axe, and the Svear fell away from him in shock. “Eric!” he shouted again. “I challenge y—”

  “I challenge you, Styrbjörn!” Östen stepped in front of the king. “Single combat!”

  As the battle continued behind him, Styrbjörn pointed his axe toward Östen. “My quarrel is with my uncle! Who are you?”

  “I am the friend of a man you killed, and I seek retribution!”

  Styrbjörn strode toward him, and Östen could see a wound in his thigh bleeding through his leather and ring mail. “You would fight me?”

  Östen readied his own weapon. “Yes.”

  “Then let us not delay!” Styrbjörn rushed him, almost faster than Östen could raise his shield, and landed a blow that rattled the marrow in the bones of his arm.

  Östen fell back, but was ready for the next attack, deflecting it deftly. He tried to counter, but Styrbjörn leapt aside easily and swung again, almost striking Östen’s head. Never had he fought a man so quick, or so strong. Having seen what Styrbjörn did to Alferth, Östen had expected a fearsome opponent, but had trusted in the gods that he would prevail. Now, facing this enemy, Östen believed he may have reached the end of his skein.

  Styrbjörn struck again, and again, and the second blow shattered Östen’s shield. He tossed the splintered wood and twisted metal aside, and now both men fought with axes alone.

  “Is this what you want, Uncle?” Styrbjörn asked.

  The king stood by with his spear, watching the duel.

  Styrbjörn waved his arm toward the ongoing battle. “All these men fighting me in your place?” He laughed. “Where is your honor?”

  “His honor is his own,” Östen said. If this was to be the end of his skein, he would meet it fighting, without fear. “My honor claimed you first.”

  “So be it,” Styrbjörn said. “But you die for nothing.”

  He swung his axe, and as Östen ducked the strike, Styrbjörn bashed his face with the side of his metal armguard. Östen staggered away, blood filling his mouth, but had no time to recover before Styrbjörn was on him again.

  Östen used his axe to fight off three blows, as though he fought with a sword. After the third, he seized an opening and rammed Styrbjörn hard in the chest with his shoulder, sending the other man sprawling backward.

  Östen didn’t wait for his enemy to hit the ground before leaping after him, and his axe bit deep into Styrbjörn’s arm, right in the elbow joint of his armor. Blood poured instantly from the wound at a pace that might soon be fatal, but Styrbjörn ignored it and attacked again.

  After several repeated slashes that Östen managed to dodge and block, the tip of Styrbjörn’s axe caught him in the side, opening a gash through armor and flesh. Östen struck Styrbjörn in the throat with his fist and fell back to check his wound, relieved to find the blade had cut through his skin but not all the way through his muscle.

  Styrbjörn choked and took a shambling step toward Östen, wobbling on his feet. It seemed the loss of blood had begun to weaken him. He blinked and took another step, but then dropped to one knee, his head drooping.

  “The silver,” he said, shaking his head. Then he spat. “Coward.”

  Östen stepped toward him. “You name me coward? Now? After I have—”

  “Not you.” He looked at the king. “My uncle. He has poisoned me, just as he did my father.”

  Eric stepped forward. “I did not poison my brother, and I have not poisoned you.”

  Östen knew who had done it, even if he didn’t know how, and he wondered how Thorvald had accomplished it.

  “Eric the Coward.” Styrbjörn laughed. “Whether you did it or you ordered it done, it is the same.” He looked up at Östen. “Let’s finish this.”

  “You cannot fight. I won’t—”

  “Finish this!” Styrbjörn shouted, and then grunted and growled his way to his feet, his arm and axe hanging loose at his side. He nodded toward the Jomsvikings still fighting for their lives. “I will die on my feet with them. Now finish this.”

  Östen did not know which would be more honorable. To let Styrbjörn leave the battlefield and suffer until his death by poison, or strike him down now in his weakness.

  “Östen!” the king shouted. “Kill him!”

  But even then, Östen hesitated. He couldn’t kill a man this way, and within his memories, David felt himself in perfect agreement with his ancestor.

  Styrbjörn took a step toward him. “I will decide this for you.”

  “Stop,” Östen said.

  But Styrbjörn took another step and very slowly hoisted his axe over his head. “If you do not finish this, I will finish you.”

  Östen took a step backward, but raised his axe. “I didn’t want this.”

  “I know that,” Styrbjörn said. “You have more honor than a king.” He staggered forward another step. “I’ve lost too much blood anyway. If the poison didn’t kill me, your blow would have. I would rather my death be yours. Not Eric’s.”

  Östen looked Styrbjörn in the eyes and saw his pupils quivering, going in and out of focus. The former prince took another step, and came within striking distance of Östen. Then his axe moved, and Östen reluctantly raised his own with hands that wanted no part of this. That was when he noticed that the skein was gone from his wrist. That delicate, blood- and mud-soaked thread had finally broken away, lost somewhere in the chaos of the battle. In that moment, the only thing Östen wanted was to have it back. He would have traded a golden arm ring as thick as his thumb to have back that ordinary, filthy piece of string from Hilla’s loom.

  “Styrbjörn!” a woman shouted.

  Östen turned as a shield-maiden charged at him, sword drawn. But before she could reach him, three housecarls set upon her. Her blade flashed, and her shield rang as she fought them, holding her ground, returning blow for blow with blinding speed and agility. But no warrior could last forever, and even now, several more housecarls closed in.

  “Thyra,” Styrbjörn whispered, and dropped once again to his knees. “No.”

  “Who is she?” Östen asked. “Tell me quickly.”

  “My queen,” he said.

  “She’s your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Östen sprinted toward the melee. “Halt!” he shouted. “Halt!” But they ignored him.

  He grabbed one of the housecarls from behind and hurled him away. When the other two turned toward him, the shield-maiden tried to seize the opportunity to kill one of them, but Östen blocked her with his axe.

  “Halt, Thyra!” he bellowed.

  At the sound of her name, she stopped, shoulders heaving.

  Östen poin
ted. “Go to him. While you can.”

  She looked from Östen to Styrbjörn, and then she raced to her husband’s side. Östen held out his hands to make certain the housecarls would stay back, and then went to stand near her. He couldn’t hear what they said to each other over the sounds of the Jomsvikings’ destruction, but he could tell the moment Styrbjörn died by the way Thyra bowed her head low, though Styrbjörn remained upright on his knees, hunched over, his lifeless body leaning against her.

  In that moment, Eric raised his spear, and he strode toward what was left of the Jomsviking army.

  “I sacrifice you!” he shouted. “The dead! The dying! And the yet-to-die! I dedicate your blood to Odin! The Allfather, who granted me victory!” With that, he hurled his spear into the heart of the Jomsvikings.

  Not one of them fled the Fyrisfield.

  To a man, they stayed and died.

  At the end of the battle, Eric bound Thyra, and summoned Östen to walk with them. They left the Fyrisfield, where the housecarls and captains sought out the living among the fallen of their clans, and they walked through the war camp. Then they left this behind also, and eventually reached the stone enclosure where Astrid waited on her chain. The house-bear rumbled and got to her feet at the sight of Eric, and Östen could see deep scratch marks in the dirt around the stake.

  Thyra stared at Astrid with her jaw set and her chin high, but her hands shook.

  Eric said nothing.

  “Why have you brought this woman here, my king?” Östen asked.

  “I have not yet fed Astrid,” Eric said.

  Thyra’s lips parted, but she didn’t gasp, and she didn’t look away from the house-bear.

  “My king,” Östen said, “you cannot mean to do this.”

  “Why not? She is the wife of my traitorous nephew. He who would have murdered me for my crown and taken Svealand for himself. He who threatened to destroy this land if he could not rule it.”

  “That was Styrbjörn,” Östen said. “Not her.”

  “But if I let her live, will she not seek to avenge him?”

  “I will not,” Thyra said. They were the first words she had spoken since the death of Styrbjörn. “I wish only to go home.”