A Song Of Steel (The Light of the North saga Book 1)

by James Duncan

  Ragnvald had not told anyone the plan, not even his closest hirdmen – his huscarls – and they were annoyed at the lack of trust. But too much was in the balance to risk word escaping to the ears of his targets. He would tell them when they were away from the land, when he knew they could not be stopped or called back by some misfortune.

  It would be two days’ sail to the mouth of the river that led to Jarl Harnsted’s hall in the town of Ulfhafen. And to reach it they would have to pass by the riverside hall of Jarl Birkir at Fljótsode, the brother of Harnsted’s wife and his most powerful and loyal supporter. And Ragnvald’s friend.

  The men of those lands would never let a longship pass their river unnoticed or unchallenged. Birkir would have to die first. They would take him at night, creeping through the darkness like wolves, before moving on to strike at Harnsted in the dim light of the dawn.

  Birkir had stood with Ragnvald in the storm of swords, had drunk with him in victory and sworn that the next time Ragnvald visited his hall he would welcome him like a brother. Ragnvald winced at those words that he remembered so clearly. He had not visited Birkir’s hall since that day, and now he brought nothing but betrayal and his sword.

  Whatever it takes, thought Ragnvald bitterly, his foul mood lying heavily on him like a wet cloak.

  The men rowed in silence, the light wind helping them along the coast, the creak of wood and the cries of gulls the only noise penetrating the gloom of that usually boisterous group. Ulf stood silent at the steering oar. The only evidence he was not carved from the same wood as the ship he rode was the gentle corrections he made to keep the ship on course. Finally, Ragnvald could bear it no longer, and he stood up in the stern to address his men who shipped their oars to listen.

  ‘I have pledged myself to King Sigurd of Norway to vote to make him our king at the Dísablót. He is the best hope we have of saving our people from the crusaders. You were all with me in Denmark, and you all saw their power.’ The benches of hardened men stayed silent, watching their lord in the gentle swell.

  ‘Jarl Harnsted would challenge for the crown. Half the north would back him. The country would be torn by war or, worse, given over to his control. He is a weak man, a coward who refused to come to Denmark, a raven starver who has never left a body in his wake for Odin’s messengers to feast on. He plots and schemes like a woman. He does not fight in the shield wall or risk himself for his people. He would be the end of us.’ He let this sink in as he looked around.

  ‘We go to put an end to his claim, and we will end it the old way, with steel and blood. Not for him the struggle of politics or weasel words of compromise. For this, I have no regret. To get to him we must go through an honourable man, Jarl Birkir. Many of you will remember him from a raid we shared four summers ago.’ Some men grumbled and looked around at each other with narrowed eyes. Remember him they did, and an air of shock and discomfort took over the watching men. ‘He is oath sworn to uphold Harnsted’s claim to the throne, and his sister is wedded to him. We cannot go around him, and if we did, he would wage war on us in revenge for his family. So he must also meet his end.’ Ragnvald spat over the side in disgust.

  Sebbi muttered darkly at this. ‘We are not armed for an honourable fight with our skjaldborg against his. How will we take Birkir? Like cowards in the night? With a hall burning? He has done nothing to deserve such a fate. How can we do this thing right in the eyes of the gods and of men?’

  ‘You are right. There will be no hall burning, no murder in his sleep. We will surround his hall and call him out to decide his fate like a man.’

  Jarl Steinar unfolded his arms and spoke up. ‘But we risk everything for our honour, and we give his men time to gather and repulse us! Surely we must strike fast and silent. The gods will understand.’ He was clearly alarmed, fearing the plan would unravel as they tried to bring a sheen of honour to the act.

  ‘No, the country will hear of this one way or another. And if they hear we acted so poorly, we will never get support. How this is done is as important as ensuring that it is done. We will not kill his family. His sons are too young to revenge him, not soon enough to matter anyway. We will take only him and those of his men who are there to defend him.’

  ‘But his wife and others will tell who did this! The whole plan will be lost. You will make Sigurd a murderer!’ protested Steinar.

  ‘No.’ Ragnvald frowned at the interruption. ‘I will make Sigurd a king. He will not be the first king to kill for his crown, and the people will care more than it was done with honour and good intent than with the murder of women and boys. No, my word is final.’

  Steinar sat down on his bench, brows furrowed, but he voiced no more dissent. He was a guest on those benches and had no choice but to concede.

  ‘When we land, two men will hurry on upriver and scout out Ulfhafen. Find out where Harnsted is and, when we join you, lead us to him. We must be fast. If he gets warning from Birkir’s village, we will be undone. Hjalmar, Inge, you will be our scouts.’ The men nodded silently.

  ‘Good. When this is done, none will speak of it again until I permit it.’ Silence was his answer, the silence of men and the cry of the gulls. Ulf cast his steady gaze on Ragnvald and gave his jarl a slight and simple nod, then returned his eyes to the cold, dark sea.

  The longship scraped gently against the bank in the darkness. Men sprung quietly out of the bow, taking ropes to secure it to the riverbank. Hjalmar and Inge got onto the bank and, with a nod, loped off into the darkness to the west, bows in hand and seaxes on their belts.

  The rest of the men assembled in silence, crouched low to the bank, listening. The village was just past a copse of small trees. No sound could be heard, no light seen, the half-moon the only illumination on the clear summer’s night.

  Ragnvald motioned with his hand, and as one the group started a low walk through the trees. With buckles muffled by cloth, swords and seaxes snugly in sheaths and scabbards lest they be dropped or scraped on a rock, the men slipped like wraiths into the sleeping village, unlit torches in hand. The village had just five houses; most of Birkir’s men lived in other villages in the land around, or on their own farms. Spread out as they were, it would take them until after dawn to assemble. No more than ten warriors lived in the small collection of buildings, the jarl’s closest hirdmen.

  Two of Ragnvald’s men crept silently to each door in the village and waited. The rest moved towards the hall. No light shone from within, but somewhere inside, a dog started barking. The men froze, and then voices rang out from inside the hall, a man shouting a challenge into the darkness. Ragnvald, all need for silence gone, ordered some of his men to the back of the hall to stop any escape and then stood in front of the main door. One of the men lit a torch and passed the flame around to light the others until fire surrounded the hall, bathing them all in its glow and forcing them to shield their eyes as they adjusted to it.

  ‘Jarl Birkir!’ he shouted. ‘Come outside with your sword. Your family will not be harmed.’ Men started shouting in some of the buildings, confused voices woken from slumber. A handful of doors slammed open and half-naked men staggered out into the night, weapons in hand, eyes squinting at the glare, all to be instantly killed or seized by Ragnvald’s waiting men.

  ‘Who comes here to my hall in the night like a coward? Announce yourself, whoreson!’ thundered a furious voice from the flame-lit hall, sounding as if Thor himself had been disturbed.

  ‘Come out and see. I am no coward. Come forth and know me, or I will burn you out,’ Ragnvald shouted back.

  There was silence for a time, and then the doors burst open. Three armed men came out, weapons up. A large man was in the centre, naked from the waist, a long axe held on his shoulder, a war cry in his throat, muscles rippling in the torchlight. He planted his feet ten paces from the door and scanned his opponents, growling at them. On each side of him, two other men, clothed in wool and with shields and axes in hand, guarded his flanks.

  Jarl Birkir stepped out
into the light behind them. He wore a magnificent shirt of maille, gold braided into the links at his neck and sleeves. He wore a fine new helm that covered his eyes, and he carried his sword, unsheathed and glowing with reflected torch fire. The two sides stared at each other. More of Ragnvald’s men assembled, their prisoners from the houses bound and gathered or the bodies left dead where they had fallen. Birkir saw this and growled with furious anger.

  ‘Who are you? What evil have you brought to my hall in this time of peace? How dare you!’ he thundered at the circle of armed men. Then his eyes fixed on Ragnvald, and he froze in disbelief.

  ‘Ragnvald, is that you?’ Birkir almost whispered, stepping forward for a better look in the torchlight. He was speechless with shock and rage for a moment. ‘By what outrage would you, a man who fought with me, who called me brother, bring murder to my hall? I have not wronged you. I thought you a man of honour! I thought you drengskapr, but now I see you are only a snake!’ His eyes narrowed, and he stepped towards the half-naked huscarl at his front. ‘Do you come here to kill Jarl Harnsted, to take the crown for yourself by blades in the night? I would never have believed this possible.’ He spat on the ground.

  ‘Not for myself, Jarl Birkir, but for King Sigurd. I am sorry, friend. Harnsted would be the end of our people. I take no pleasure in this, but he must die. He cannot be king.’

  They were interrupted by shouting and cries from the rear of the hall. Birkir visibly deflated at the noise. Ragnvald’s men appeared from the gloom at the back of the hall, two defiant young boys, a fiercely struggling woman and an unconscious warrior dragged with them, bleeding badly from the back of his head.

  ‘Caught this lot sneaking out the back. There are no others with them, or in the hall, apart from some thralls,’ said one of Ragnvald’s men.

  ‘Your family, Jarl Birkir?’ Ragnvald asked.

  ‘Do not harm them!’ Birkir shouted in desperate fury, spittle frothing from his mouth. ‘You coward, you dog! The gods will piss on your honour, you who stood with me in the skjaldborg now brought low with this outrage!’ He was almost incomprehensible with rage.

  Ragnvald shook his head sadly. ‘I said no harm would come to them and I meant it, Birkir, I swear it. They will be held here until we escape and then released unharmed. I assure you they will be protected once you are gone. No harm will come to your boys, and they will inherit your land, if we are able to defend it from the Christians.’

  Birkir slowly calmed his voice, controlled his shaking fists and nodded, lowering his sword. ‘So it is decided, then? The Norns cut my thread tonight?’

  Ragnvald nodded. ‘It is done, brother. There is no other way. I would not dishonour you by asking you to betray your kin and turn on Harnsted.’

  ‘Nor would I offer it,’ Birkir snarled in reply. ‘What of my men, those who still live? These are good men who would carry their swords against the Christians.’

  ‘They will come with us as prisoners. We cannot leave them here to spread word of who we are.’

  Birkir nodded wearily. ‘That will do. Let me speak to my family, then we will end this.’

  ‘Birkir, do not tell them who we are.’ He gave Birkir a stony look. Birkir nodded solemnly. They both understood the implications. No one could be left behind who could reveal the identity of the raiders.

  Ragnvald nodded to the men holding the two boys and the wife, who was weeping freely even as she still struggled against her captors. The three of them rushed over to the jarl, who opened his arms to embrace them all tightly. He kissed his wife and then leaned down to press his face to his boys’ ears, saying something to them as they shook their heads and protested.

  Steinar slipped over to Ragnvald and whispered in his ear. ‘We don’t have time for this. We must move or risk a warning reaching Harnsted. Who knows if some man was pissing when we arrived and is even now running to raise the alarm? The dawn will be upon us soon.’

  ‘We will do this right or not at all, as I told you,’ Ragnvald replied curtly, the shame and anger of what was happening burning in the back of his throat. But he did nod to Birkir and called over with a hoarse voice, ‘Jarl Birkir, it is time. Have your men put down their weapons and take up your sword. A warrior you are, and a warrior’s death you shall have.’

  Birkir nodded. Blinking as he forced back tears, he stepped to the side of the small square with his family, gently pushing them out of the circle of armed men, ignoring their protests as they were led away out of sight. He returned to face Ragnvald and spoke softly, fighting for control of his voice. ‘I had hoped for a different death, Ragnvald. To die fighting the Christians or in defence of my family. Not like this.’ He shook his head bitterly.

  ‘This is an honourable end. Dying for your lord, true to your oath and in the service of your people to secure their future. I will make sure that story is known – the skalds will sing of it one day. I swear it.’ He gave the man a brusque nod, barely able to meet his eye.

  Birkir straightened his spine at this encouragement, head raised in defiance, and adjusted his grip on his sword. ‘Then let us end this. Lads, put down your weapons. There is no need for you to die here. It is my last command.’

  ‘Pardon me, my lord, but go fuck yourself,’ said the big axeman. ‘I ain’t gonna be the one in those songs who left you to die alone, killed by these tiny little pricks. Not this man, not this day. I reckon I’m gonna take a couple of them with me to piss on outside the doors of Valhalla.’

  Birkir nodded sadly. ‘Thank you, brother. We will be drinking tonight in Odin’s hall. You others, you see I am dying in good company, so put down your weapons and live.’ The two other men looked at each other and nodded, reluctantly dropping their axes and surrendering to the waiting men in the circle of torches.

  ‘Leif,’ said Ragnvald.

  Leif stepped forward with his sword drawn and the big axeman roared and charged, winding up with a devastating swing at the smaller man. Leif waited until the swing was committed, deftly sidestepped and, reversing his sword with a twist of his wrist, passed the edge of his blade along the axeman’s bearded neck as the charging man passed, unbalanced by his swing and unable to avoid the torch-gleaming sword. The big man coughed as his battle cry was cut off, and he staggered to a stop, axe held in one hand as he clutched the other to his neck, blood frothing between his fingers, a look of complete surprise on his face. And then he collapsed, twitching to the ground, and was still.

  Birkir watched in distaste at his huscarl’s poor death. ‘So you are to end me, boy?’ he said, looking at Leif.

  ‘No.’ Ragnvald put a hand on Leif’s shoulder and stepped past him. ‘This I have to do myself.’ He put his hand on the hilt of Bjóðr and drew it, shining in the flickering light, from its scabbard.

  Birkir smiled and nodded. ‘Then let us fight, brother, and be warned, I will try and kill you. No man will say I did not earn my place at Odin’s table.’

  ‘I would be disappointed with less.’

  Ragnvald stepped forward and set his feet apart, knees bent, sword flat and held forward as he advanced. Birkir spread his arms and roared, teeth bared under wide eyes, and then stepped forward with an overhead swing. Lacking a shield or Leif’s speed, Ragnvald deflected the blow on his blade and shoulder-charged the other jarl. Snarling, Birkir shrugged off the thumping blow to his chest, reversed his wrist and struck again. Again, Ragnvald deflected it. For a few dozen heartbeats, Birkir landed blow after blow on Ragnvald’s defence. Ragnvald blocked and covered, countering with lunges to gain time and balance. His father’s sword jumped and shook and cried out as the two swords repeatedly clashed. It was saving Ragnvald’s life, but in the hacking and chipping of sword edge on sword edge, it was giving its own.

  But Ragnvald did not yet attempt a killing blow as his friend roared and slashed at him. He was letting Birkir make a show, a fight that men would talk of, a defiance for the skalds to sing about. He was giving the man an honourable death. They were both tiring, but Birkir more so. Ragnva
ld scored several thrusts and cuts to his opponent’s chest as his attacks slowed and became more predictable, but Birkir’s maille stopped the blade. Ragnvald felt the heat of battle beginning to weaken his arms, saw the ragged edge of his sword and could hear the roar of his own breath in his ears.

  It was time.

  He stepped back a half pace further than normal, drawing his tired opponent into an over-extended lunge, and parried him on the outside, driving the sword out and past himself, locked with his own blade. He used that momentum to start a reverse cut, down at Birkir’s sword arm. The cut caught the other man below the cuff of his maille, and the ragged sword bit deeply through muscle and into the bone below the elbow.

  Birkir roared in pain and staggered away, his other hand clutching at his ruined arm. He was panting in shock as he shuddered to a stop and stood facing Ragnvald. He let out a soft moan of pain and raised his narrowed eyes to meet his killer’s. His friend. His betrayer. His sword was slipping from the blood-slicked grip of his injured arm.

  ‘I have done my duty. I have died for my lord,’ he said through gritted teeth, pausing to take a few ragged breaths, visibly swaying. ‘Harnsted would have been a shit king. Make my death mean something and kill him.’

  Ragnvald nodded solemnly, tears cutting unbidden at the corners of his eyes, panting from the exertion and suddenly unable to do what was required. To take his father’s sword and strike down his friend.

  Birkir was shaking now, blood pouring onto the ground and down his leg, knees struggling to remain locked. ‘Finish it! Before I can no longer stand or hold my sword,’ he implored, his voice shaking. Birkir let go of his ruined arm and transferred his sword to his good hand. Clasping his sword to his chest, he closed his eyes and raised his chin. Ragnvald took a deep breath and moved in.