Wings of the Storm: (The Rise of Sigurd 3)

by Giles Kristian

  He looked up at that banner. A wolf, said one of his men who had been up there twice already, and twice come back down again because the skjaldborg on that ridge was stubborn. Gods flay them!

  A banner? When did Sigurd Haraldarson decide he was worthy of his own banner? Arrogant turd. A pain like a toothache, this golden lad, for the son of a dead nithing jarl, Gorm thought to himself as he watched that wind-whipped wolf and the grim-faced men below it. Men such as Olaf Ollersson, as good a warrior as had ever come out of the fjords. And that red-haired giant with his smiting axe, who if he was anything like as good as his father Styrbiorn had been, would take a fistful of Gorm’s hearthmen with him to the Spear-God’s hall by the end of the day. And Moldof.

  ‘Moldof.’ Gorm said the name under his breath, tasting the rot in it. That was a betrayal which hurt, seeing his old champion and prow man up there, even if the man was an arm short of the warrior he had once been.

  ‘You must think you have done well, Haraldarson,’ he muttered into his beard, ignoring the askance looks he got from Hreidar, who had taken Moldof’s place at Storm-Bison’s prow. A good fighter, Hreidar, as good as a two-armed Moldof perhaps, but carrying too much unearned swagger.

  He supposed young Haraldarson had some right to feel pleased with himself. After all, not so long ago he had been able to boast of nothing but a half crew of nobodies and a child’s lust for vengeance. Did the fool not know that life is more complicated than that? Than the need to poke out someone’s eye because they poked out yours. Not even yours! Someone you share kinship with. Bloodfeuds were for petty men.

  ‘Power is not about friendship, boy,’ he growled.

  Does the tide seek the shore’s friendship before it submerges it?

  Look at him up there. Thinking he can challenge me. Even if he has somehow got himself a war host. Taken strakes from here and there and riveted a skiff together. A skiff to take on a sleek-prowed, snarling beast of a dragon ship. Ha!

  That Jarl Hrani was up there with the young fool was almost impossible to believe, and yet there he was, his own banner flapping like a fish in the bilge. Gorm could not imagine how that arrangement had come about, though he’d heard it had something to do with Hrani’s boy. The boy’s life for an oath. Randver, like his grandfather, wasn’t it?

  Gorm expected better from Hrani. A man can make new boys but he only betrays his king once. Well, young Randver would be dead by the end of the day. They all would.

  ‘Shall we go again, lord?’ some jarl called. Was it Baugr? Or Jarl Vragi? No matter.

  ‘Of course, man!’ Gorm yelled back. ‘We are not here for the market!’

  Baugr or Vragi or whoever in Heimdall’s hairy arse it was grimaced and turned back to his men and gave the order to advance. Three times they had attacked that wall of limewood, iron and flesh, and three times they had failed to break it. But this time would be different because that fool Haraldarson had moved men over to the right of his line to fill the gaps left by that even bigger fool of a Danish king who had thrown his life away. Though they had killed too many before they fell, those Danes. Not that Gorm would miss that fat hog Jarl Twigbelly, for all that he had died well, better than Gorm expected.

  ‘It takes time to learn war-craft, Haraldarson,’ Gorm said, feeling a grin come to his lips. ‘What could you possibly know of war, other than how to lose like your father and brothers?’

  ‘Lord?’ Hreidar said, thinking the king had meant the words for him.

  ‘You’ll enjoy killing Moldof, won’t you?’ Gorm said, tightening the helmet strap beneath his chin and loosening his sword in its scabbard in case he got carried away and ran to join his men for the final slaughter. He hadn’t swung his sword in the blood-fray for some years now. Nothing like this anyway, but he would be ready just in case.

  Hreidar grinned. ‘I will take his other arm before I do him the honour,’ he said, sharing a predatory look with Otkel, Ham and Alfgeir, all of them in helmets and mail and feeling like war gods, knowing that today was a day which skalds would sing of. Wanting their names and deeds to be in those songs.

  Fine warriors, Gorm thought, enjoying the glow of confidence which was spreading through his veins like wine in the blood. Wine would be good now, he thought, but called for mead because that’s what he had. It wasn’t nearly often enough that a skipper came through the Karmsund Strait with good Frankish wine in his hold. He would get hold of some for the victory feast. Rich deep Frankish wine the colour of his enemies’ blood-stained tunics and breeks.

  ‘Óðin! Óðin!’ he bellowed now, lifting his sword into the grey day, its point threatening the low-slung cloud which raced on the wind. The wind which was gathering in ferocity, lashing banners and hair and ruffling beards and swirling across that island. Gorm hoped his ships were protected in the bay. They would have to wait for the fjord to calm before heading back to Avaldsnes. ‘Óðin!’ he called again and his men took up the chant. For why should young Haraldarson claim the Allfather for himself? Óðin is a king’s god! Stealing some spear from the Svearmen in the east did not buy Sigurd the god’s favour. Only a wet-behind-the-ears boy would think it did.

  He was trudging up that rocky slope now beneath his own banner. Haraldarson must see his own death coming. Gods but I hope he doesn’t run, Gorm thought. Up and over those rocks behind him and scrambling down to the bay with piss-soaked breeks. No, Haraldarson wouldn’t run. It was not in his blood. Good. I am getting too old to be chasing men to kill them. Like a man haring after a deer running with an arrow in it.

  This attack was different from the previous two. Every man under the king’s rule was going up that hill to kill those who mistakenly thought they were not beholden to him. Every spear which the king could summon was turned on Sigurd and the oath-breaker Jarl Hrani. It was a great killing wave that would first batter the thin skjaldborg on that ridge, then sweep it into the sea.

  Unlike in the previous two assaults, when crews and war bands had struck the rebels’ line at different times, giving Haraldarson and his men time to bolster the skjaldborg in places which looked vulnerable, this time they would hit together. As one hammer.

  There would be no stopping it.

  All across the war host in front, banners were tugged ragged by the wind. Men’s voices were carried the distance of an arrow-shot one moment and lost in the gale the next. But orders were unnecessary now anyway. His jarls and his warlords knew what was expected of them. His own hearthmen, one hundred warriors and most in mail, knew their business and were salivating like hounds on the boar’s trail. In front of the king, a place of honour, was Jarl Tósti and his fifty. No small thing to fight in plain sight of the man to whom you owe your jarl torc. Tósti was a solid sort, brave and thankful for his position, and he would fight well, Gorm was sure. He would likely die attacking Haraldarson himself beneath that wolf-head banner, and his men would be mauled by Sigurd’s best. But they would soften the rebel centre, already weakened to bolster the right where the Danes should have been. They would bleed Haraldarson’s best men. They would tire their shield arms and their sword arms. They would soak up arrows and spears and then, when Tósti broke, Gorm himself would lead his best men in to the carnage to finish this thing.

  Gods how he hungered to finish it!

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TÓSTI WAS DOING well, his skjaldborg toe to toe with Haraldarson’s, whilst to the left and right, all along the ridge, the battle raged like the storm. Men shrieked and wailed with pain. They bellowed like bulls to the slaughter. Now and then Gorm caught the reek of blood and shit but mostly it was borne off on the wind, thank the gods. Arrows flew and shields thumped and blades scraped other blades or mail or struck flesh. And there was no doubt the skjaldborg on the ridge was weakening as men in the front ranks fell and there were fewer and fewer to take their place.

  Gorm saw a spear almost rip into Haraldarson’s neck. Saw an arrow glance off the young man’s helmet, so that if it hadn’t been for the eye guards Sigurd would have had
a skullful of shaft. But the golden-haired young shit was still standing before the Óðin spear, that flaming-haired, flame-bearded giant planted beside him like a damned oak tree.

  So much for that nithing pole, Gorm thought, watching the seething mass of killing, dying men, waiting patiently for his moment to wade into the fray. No one else had dared cut the thing down, its horse head staring down the slope in echo of the curse which Haraldarson’s godi had hurled at them. Asgot who men said had turned himself into a fox and chewed off his own leg to escape the drowning death which Gorm had tried to give him. So much for his seiðr now though. Perhaps the others had been afraid of that níðstang, but not Gorm. He had taken Otkel’s axe and, his hearthmen hoisting their shields to shelter him from a rain of arrows, had chopped that pole down like an old birch for the fire. He’d spat on the beast’s head as it lay there in the long grass. And that was that.

  Gorm saw the man on Jarl Tósti’s right fall, his skull split by Olaf’s sword. The man on Tósti’s left, big, square-shouldered, fur-clad, was bent double, the shieldmaiden’s spear in his belly, so said Hreidar, spitting in disgust. Then the jarl himself fell to Sigurd’s own sword and Gorm almost cried out for joy because the time had come for him to lead his hearthmen to fame and reputation.

  ‘I am coming for you, Haraldarson!’ he roared, knowing that his king’s voice drowned out even the wind and the shield din. ‘You’re a dead man, Sigurd!’ He wished he could see the fear in the eyes within that pretty helmet. No matter. Perhaps there would be a moment. Before he gave the upstart his death wound.

  Then he felt something. Like a change in the wind. Something most men would miss, but he had fought many battles on land and on sea. His war-craft was honed like an eagle’s talons and he felt it.

  ‘Lord!’ someone yelled. ‘Lord!’

  Gorm turned to look down the slope which should have been empty but for the corpses and the dying and the arrows sprouting like summer wheat. Except it was not empty. It was full of half-naked, spear- and axe-armed warriors, painted men in wolf and bear pelts, some bollock-naked, with spittle-flecked beards and wild eyes and all of them screaming.

  ‘Fuck,’ Gorm growled, for he had seen berserkers before, though never more than three or four in one fight. Never thirty. And berserkers were killers. They had no fear, felt no pain. The animals barely knew when they were killed. ‘Turn!’ he bellowed. ‘Shields!’ he yelled, sensing the fear run through even his hearthmen, his best, as they saw what was coming, those rune-marked warriors who had somehow got down behind them, come down from the right side of Haraldarson’s line, shielded from sight by his wing and then the rocks over on that side of the slope.

  ‘Hold!’ Gorm cried, lifting his shield, wondering what in the world could stop so many screaming, potion-maddened, ale-soaked, cock-flying warriors.

  Not all of them were wolf-or bearskin-clad or bollock-naked, he noticed. Two wore mail. One had hair black as crow’s feathers and a wolf-lean face. The other was golden-haired and handsome enough to be considered god-favoured. He was young and full of fury and even in his mail he somehow kept pace with the berserkers.

  Gorm did not need to look over his shoulder. No point in staring back up the slope to confirm what he already knew, that the man beneath that wolf-head banner was not his hated enemy after all. He was a stand-in, a young, fair-haired Loki trick. A slice of low cunning that would have the gods themselves laughing into their mead horns.

  For Sigurd Haraldarson was coming for him now and he brought death with him.

  The Sandnes men flew across that uneven hillock-strewn ground, ravenous for blood, the first two or three of them impaling themselves on the king’s hearthmen’s spears while others slammed into shields and one or two somehow scrambled over the skjaldborg to be stabbed to death by those behind. Then Sigurd, sword in his right hand, scramasax in his left, was amongst it all, and he slammed his shoulder into a shield, the impact of it rattling his brain in his skull as he threw his right arm up, turning his wrist over to let Troll-Tickler bite what it could. Then a berserker slammed into him from behind, screaming as he hauled the hirðman’s shield down with one hand and buried his hand axe in the man’s face. On his knees, Sigurd lashed out with his scramasax, slicing across a shin deep enough to score the bone, and all around him berserkers clawed at shields and wriggled between them and clambered over them, shrieking in wild rage.

  Floki was already through the skjaldborg, amongst the second rank, his two axes cleaving skulls and splitting breastbones, and Sigurd scrambled up, turning aside a spear blade with his sword then thrusting the scramasax into a neck.

  ‘Hold them! Hold them!’ someone was bellowing in a king’s voice, as the tide of blood-crazed berserkers overran the mail-clad hirðmen, hacking and carving and screaming. Sigurd saw a big Sandnes man with three spear wounds drive through the enemy like a wedge splitting timber, killing two men before they brought him down. He saw a wolf-skinned berserker clamp his teeth round a man’s neck and tear out his throat in a spray of blood. He saw two skin-and-bone Sandnes men pull down a big-bellied king’s man and heard his scream as they plunged knives into his groin and face.

  A spear blade struck Sigurd’s shoulder and slewed off the mail. Another slammed into his side, cracking a rib though it didn’t break the rings, and he flailed with his own blades, no skill, just savagery. Just seeking white flesh amongst grey iron. Sometimes sinking his scramasax into meat, sometimes feeling a bone break beneath his sword, lost in his own blood-lust now, consumed by the vicious joy of killing and an animal’s need to survive.

  ‘Hold them, you swines!’ someone roared, that king’s voice edged with fear like an iron blade edged with steel.

  ‘Oath-breaker!’ Sigurd yelled. ‘Fight me, oath-breaker!’ A shield boss cracked into his head and he fell again, blackness coming for him, flooding him, and he thought he would die then without even knowing it as they plunged spears into his body.

  No, my son. Not yet. Not yet, boy. Kill them.

  ‘Oath-breaker!’ Sigurd screamed, defying the black wave that sought to drown him, forcing it back as he rose, his vision clearing to reveal Floki standing by him, cutting men, killing them, spilling guts amongst the long grass where they steamed and stank, lopping hands which fell and lay there like dead crabs. ‘Fight me!’ Sigurd roared his challenge as the Sandnes men killed and died in the blade-chaos around him. And there was King Gorm, just a few spear-lengths from him now, peering over the rim of his painted shield, feet planted, sword ready.

  Sigurd threw his left arm up, catching a sword on his scramasax, the blow shaking the marrow in his bone as he brought Troll-Tickler round, driving it into a man’s belly with enough muscle to pierce the brynja and the leather and the wool, thrusting the long blade through the fat and meat, its edge scraping the bones of the man’s spine before erupting from his back. A king’s man saw his chance and scythed his sword down at Sigurd but a bear-skinned Sandnes man barrelled into the hirðman and the two disappeared amongst the throng.

  Hauling Troll-Tickler free, Sigurd turned, seeking the king, but now there were two warriors in front of him, shields overlapping. One of them fell with Floki’s thrown axe in his face but another man took his place and Sigurd knew then that it was over.

  Because almost all the berserkers were down. Of the seven or eight still fighting, at least six were wounded and the oath-breaker’s men were rallying. Those king’s men had been savaged and were reeling with the shock of it, but they were his household men, experienced killers bound by oath and honour, and they knew that with the attack broken all they need do was lock their shields and take the last berserkers apart piece by piece.

  Half falling over a tangle of limbs and shield and wolf-skin, Sigurd threw himself at a hirðman who was trying to stand. He thrust his knife into the man’s throat and sawed through the gristle of his windpipe and climbed to his feet, blinking hot blood from his eyes and looking east up to where Hrani and his men were fighting for their lives. Where Olaf
and Svein, Bram, Valgerd, Solmund and the others were holding their ground.

  Then he looked to the west.

  Gods but don’t come now. Not now.

  A king’s man took a berserker’s head off with one swing of his long axe. Another Sandnes man died on his feet with four spear blades in him. Sigurd looked behind him again and this time saw Thokk Far-Flyer standing there with his arms raised to the storm, calling on the Spear-God while his men were being butchered.

  But it wasn’t Óðin who waded into the fray then, it was Erp and his thirty from Mekjarvik. They came across from the south, following the ground which Sigurd and the Sandnes men had taken to get round the flank of the oath-breaker’s host now it had moved up to the ridge. They came in an ugly skjaldborg, daylight showing between shields and not even three together making a straight line. But they came, just as the last of the berserkers was dismembered and King Gorm’s champion finished building his own skjaldborg which, if it had been built on the strand, would prove watertight enough to turn back the sea.

  ‘Olaf sent us,’ Erp called above the thunderous beat of king’s swords on king’s shields.

  Sigurd nodded. Locked in the fight on the ridge Olaf had done what he could, but the loss of Erp and his men must have weakened his own position considerably.

  ‘We can’t win this,’ Erp said. He spat, expecting no answer from Sigurd, his one eye blinking at the sight of the mail-coated horde facing them.

  Sigurd glanced over his shoulder to see that Thokk Far-Flyer was down now, on his back in the grass, arms spread either side like wings, an arrow sprouting from his forehead. Where are you flying to now, godi? he thought, swinging his gaze back on to the sea of iron beneath that ship-prow banner.

  ‘We can if we take the king,’ Floki said, as if it were a simple game of tafl. He dragged an arm across his face but all that did was smear the gore over his skin, making the whites of his eyes glow against the dark blood.