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

by James Duncan

  The party retraced their path to the site of the massacre. The men who had stayed there had collected the bodies and laid them out in a row, what weapons the dead had with them pressed into cooling hands. Ragnvald looked at the scene and sighed at the next outrage he must commit. His men gathered around him. The bodies of the two who had fallen, Askund and Inge, were being wrapped in blankets. They would return with them to the ships.

  ‘Loot the camp, spread the bodies around and take everything of value,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘What?’ said Leif, mouth agape. No one wanted to take the spoils of this dishonourable massacre. They would be a curse to whoever owned them.

  Ragnvald could feel the loyalty of his men on a knife edge, see the anger in their eyes as he asked them to lay another stain on their honour.

  ‘No bandits would lay them out like that, and they would not leave them their weapons. We must take everything of value and leave nothing but their bodies for the crows. We will cast all of it in the sea when we leave.’

  None of his men moved, and some would not even meet his eye. But Steinar snapped his fingers at his two men and then took them over to the line of bodies, starting to strip them of all that they carried. Slowly, the rest of the men joined in, pulling sword belts from bodies and ripping rings from arms, fingers and beards. Ragnvald watched and fretted. The sun was starting to sink in the sky, and they had to return to the boats before they were discovered. Already, the alarm would have been raised, and the surrounding villages would be full of men arming and organising themselves to defend their land. It was only a matter of time before they were out searching the woods and rivers.

  Once the camp had reluctantly been looted, the party set out, carrying the spoils and the bodies of their two fallen brothers. The solemn band pushed hard, covering the miles back out of the forest as fast as they could, not encountering a soul, not sharing a word. Finally, they reached the edge of the forest and the edge of the first large clearing, a broad meadow beside a small stream, a stream that would take them back to the river and their ship.

  After following the stream for a few miles, Ragnvald started to believe they might get clear unseen, but then their luck ran out. As they rounded a corner of tall bushes beside a bend in the stream, they came face to face with a party of four warriors armed with spears, shields and surprised expressions. Both sides hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do, but the four strangers took in the tired, blood-spattered armed party with two bodies slung on poles of cut branches, and their guilt was inescapable.

  ‘Skjaldborg!’ shouted one of the men, and his fellows brought their shields up and formed a small wall that blocked the narrow path, spears protruding, eyes settling in behind the shields. Only one of them was wearing maille, and none had steel helms, but still they were clearly men accustomed to violence and weapons.

  Fuck. Ragnvald knew that where there were four men searching, others would not be far away. He considered the options for a moment. The enemy was only four, but they could not easily be flanked on that narrow path, and men with shields and spears who cannot be flanked are almost impervious to men with swords and no shields. His men could break that wall, but the cost would be horrendous.

  They could turn back and find another path, but the enemy could move to block them, and all the while he risked a larger party finding them. Even ten fully armed warriors would mean death for them all and the failure of all they hoped to achieve.

  He grabbed Leif and whispered in his ear. ‘Take three men. When we start the attack, go around them, and be quick.’ Then he drew his sword and pointed at the enemy. ‘With me!’ he said, keeping his voice low, like a man talking in a hall. There would be screaming and shouting soon, but the longer it waited, the better. His men dropped the loads they were carrying, and axes and swords were put into hand. The men formed a loose line and advanced on the tiny skjaldborg, eyes focused and heads lowered, half crouching as they closed.

  As they were just about to reach spear range, one of his men threw an axe. An enemy jerked his shield up and deflected it harmlessly over the line, but the momentary distraction and the break in the wall were enough for several men to try attacking. One of Steinar’s men jumped forward, hacking a spearhead aside and making a lunge for the man wielding it. Another enemy tried to turn his spear enough to thrust at the charging Norwegian but missed, the point brushing past his side. With two of the four spearmen engaged, another man rushed into the gap and received a stab in the thigh for his trouble, cursing and pulling back, fouling the next man along.

  Ragnvald stepped forward and cut at the spear as it lunged for another attack at the wounded man, managing to push it aside and then skipping back himself as another thrust came for him.

  The Norwegian was hacking furiously at the wall, inside the range of their spears, trying to shove his way through as the two men he faced braced their feet and held him back with their shields. Another man tried to reach him but was driven back again by the spears of the others. The Norwegian was clinging to the top of a shield with his hand, trying to pull it down to hack at the man behind it. The leader of the enemy shouted a command, and the whole wall suddenly took two paces back. The man whose shield was being wrestled grunted and pulled to the side, throwing the Norwegian in front of the rest of his fellows.

  Ragnvald called a warning that came a lifetime too late as two spears lashed out and sank deep into the Norwegian’s side. He gasped and fell to his knees, still clinging to the shield as he stared in shock at the man who stood above him. Then the shield was wrenched free, and he fell to the ground. The shield wall instantly re-formed, and four spear tips once again fell down into line, some now dripping with blood.

  Steinar’s other man howled in impotent rage. Nothing but death awaited any who advanced down that narrow path onto those blood-slicked stones. But the man’s death had allowed Leif and a couple of others to slip away around the bushes. Ragnvald had no idea how long it would take them to get around the thick, impenetrable bushes that lay to their side, clinging to the shallow slope of the small gully in which the stream lay. They could extend merely to the top, twenty paces away, or they could be the start of a thick field margin half a mile long.

  He just set his teeth and stepped forward again, fixing his eyes on the dancing spear point in front of him, trying to find a way past it. He took another half step forward, and the spear sliced out towards him. He hacked at it, shearing splinters off the shaft, but it sliced through the side of his tunic, scoring a shallow line along the skin on his side. He dropped the sword and grabbed the spear with both hands, trapping it between his arm and his injured side and yanking on it with all his strength.

  The spearman was taken completely by surprise, and for a moment he tried to cling on, almost overbalancing and being pulled out of the line, but then he either let go or lost his grip, stumbling back as the spear left his grasp. Ragnvald staggered back and reversed the spear, now facing the wall on even terms. He growled and lunged at the eyes of the man whose weapon he had stolen, a man who now only had a long seax, but the man kept his jabbing attacks at bay with his shield. Again, another man tried to get inside the range of the spears on Ragnvald’s right, and again, the spears lashed out and pinked him, catching him across the forearm and sending him reeling back with a string of curses.

  Ragnvald hammered at the shield wall with the spearhead, trying to lunge for someone’s legs, but he could not reach them without exposing himself to a deadly return. He cursed in impotent rage as his spearhead rattled uselessly off the shields once again.

  He drew back from another attack, and for a moment the two sides just stared at each other. Then there was a rush of footsteps, and the wall dissolved as three men bowled into it from behind, steel and fists and feet pummelling into the surprised men, who had no time to turn their spears. One moment it was an impenetrable barrier and the next, a mess of screaming, brawling, dying men.

  The man with the seax managed to turn his shield and deflect the firs
t attack, but Ragnvald put his spear into its previous owner’s spine, and he arched and went down. Two enemies went down with swords in their bellies, but the third managed to skip aside and then run. He splashed into the river, Leif’s desperate swipe with a sword only nicking his arm, and then he was gone, across the narrow stream and powering up the other bank.

  ‘After him!’ shouted Leif, leaping half the stream to follow, sword hanging from his hand.

  ‘No!’ shouted Ragnvald. ‘He is gone, and we must leave. Now!’

  Leif carried on for a moment, watching the enemy as he disappeared over the top of the bank, then he howled in frustration and turned back.

  ‘We must run. Carry only your weapons. Take their shields and spears, but leave the loot behind.’

  ‘What of the dead?’ asked Steinar, looking at his dead man in dismay.

  ‘I’m sorry, friend. We cannot take them.’

  ‘And if they are recognised?’

  ‘So be it. We have no choice. There are miles to go, and we cannot carry them and hope to stay ahead of our pursuers.’

  Steinar nodded. He knew the stakes.

  The men set off at a jog down the path, the dead and anything they didn’t need to carry left dumped on the path. Ragnvald took one last, regretful look at the wrapped bodies of Askund and Inge, men whom he had pledged to honour and protect, and turned to follow them. Askund would have been next to be made huscarl, but now his body lay deserted for his enemies. Ragnvald howled internally at the shame of it all.

  They carried on down the riverbank, Ragnvald driving the pace from the back, lungs burning, legs weak from exhaustion. The man with the wounded leg was his new huscarl Svend, and he was gasping and limping, struggling to keep up. Ragnvald physically pushed him, cajoled him and tried to half carry him along. Finally, he was forced to call a stop as more of the exhausted men started to fall behind. The river was running wide now, deeper and probably uncrossable without swimming. Ragnvald was nervous about following it, trapped as he was against the bank, but in unfamiliar land it was the only thing leading him back to his ship.

  Svend groaned and stumbled. Ragnvald caught him under one arm and felt his own tired muscles flag as the man’s weight bore down on his shoulder. ‘We must continue. We will walk, but we will not stop for anything. Perhaps we have got far enough ahead,’ he said between strained breaths.

  Leif was standing there, perhaps the least affected of the men, and he nodded, turning to urge others who had slumped to the ground to rise and continue.

  Ragnvald set off, supporting the injured Svend, and men staggered to their feet to follow him. None were willing to be shamed by an old jarl supporting a wounded man. For a few hundred paces they continued, Ragnvald not recognising the river they were travelling along but feeling certain they must be nearing their destination.

  Suddenly, he heard a shout of excitement from the other bank and, dreading what he would see, turned and looked. A single man had appeared on the far side, looking over his shoulder and pointing with his spear at Ragnvald’s bedraggled band. Within moments, a line of warriors, probably a dozen, jogged into view to join him. They were all armed and ready for war.

  ‘Go!’ shouted Ragnvald, shoving one of his men in the direction they were going. The leading men broke into a jog again, a wave of fear overriding their tiredness. Svend cursed as Sebbi, the man now supporting him, half dragged and half carried him along. Ragnvald watched the enemy as he followed his men, half walking and half sidestepping as he tried to see what they would do. Would they try and swim it? A river could be swum with weapons by those few who had the strength and the skill, but not many did. Then he saw one of the enemy point back along the way they had come, and the whole band surged into a run along the riverbank.

  Ragnvald stopped to watch, confused, then he followed the direction of their travel with his eyes and saw something in the water, not two hundred paces away, a broad line of ripples stretching from one side of the river to the other. A ford.

  His heart sank. The enemy would reach the ford, cross it and be chasing back after them, only four hundred paces behind.

  He turned and ran after his men, catching Svend within moments. The man was sweating, red in the face and moaning, barely able to move his injured leg, from which blood was streaming to the ground, his wound ripped open again by the desperate run.

  ‘We must go. They will be on us in moments!’ said Ragnvald, grabbing Svend’s other arm and starting to run again with the wounded man supported between him and Sebbi. Svend gritted his teeth and cried out, trying to pump his injured leg to keep up, but it would not respond, most of the feeling gone. He tripped on it, and the three men all went down. Ragnvald rolled to his feet and reached out to pull Svend roughly up, Sebbi giving him a wordless look across the back of the injured man. Silently telling him what they both knew. We have to leave him. And Ragnvald’s eyes shouted back, I will not.

  Two men came back to them: Leif, and a man carrying a captured shield and spear. Leif looked back along the river. He saw the enemy splashing across the ford, and his face set in a grim frown. ‘They are coming.’

  Ragnvald reached forward, helped them get Svend to his feet and then started to try and drag him back into movement. ‘Enough!’ growled Svend, pulling his hand from Ragnvald’s grasp.

  ‘We have to go now!’ shouted Leif angrily.

  ‘So do it. Give me that shield and spear and go!’ He looked at Ragnvald once and then grabbed the offered shield. ‘No time for your pretty words – they are coming. Run Jarl Ragnvald, and if you live, take care of my family. I will await your thanks in Valhol, if I have enough honour left to get in.’ The rebuke cut Ragnvald more deeply than any sword could.

  Svend straightened his injured leg and turned around, using the spear like a staff, turning to face the oncoming enemy. He didn’t look back at them. Sebbi slapped the man on the back and gruffly mumbled his thanks. Ragnvald had no reply; there was no time, and he was too ashamed. Leif was already tugging on his arm.

  He turned and ran without a word, leaving the lone warrior to guard the path.

  Svend sighed and let the fear and pain flow from him. He gripped the shaft of the spear that he was bracing against the ground and shifted his hand on the shield. He heard the running footsteps recede behind him and could not yet hear the rush of the oncoming enemy, who would be approaching him unseen before his closed eyes. For a moment, he could hear only the river gently lapping the bank nearby, the gentle whisper of the breeze in the reeds. He felt the sun on his skin and the thump of his pulse in his temple. He felt alive, and he made his peace with death.

  Ragnvald caught up with his men as the river broadened and they went around a corner. Ragnvald finally saw what he had been waiting for on the other bank: Birkir’s village and hall. It was teeming with men. At the same time as he saw them, they saw him. Men who had been trying to raise the sunken ships looked up and shouted in alarm, but there was nothing they could do to cross over. He urged his men on, ducking as an arrow flicked across the river and disappeared in the reeds beyond them.

  He suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of a spear shaft beating on a shield boss from behind him, a shout of defiance and a curse promising death to Svend’s enemies. He managed a bitter smile as he faintly heard Svend suggest what the hunters following them should do to each other with the hafts of their axes, then there was a howling war cry and the sound of steel on shield, a rain of blows that reverberated across the calm river for a few moments. Then nothing.

  Ragnvald offered a breathless prayer to Odin to take Svend into his care and pushed his legs to give their last. The copse of trees they had passed before they reached the village finally came into view. Ragnvald turned and saw the enemy, closer than he expected, perhaps two hundred paces behind them, running after him in a strung-out column.

  He tried to shout at his men to hurry but couldn’t. His mind was starting to fog from exhaustion. They rounded the bend where they would finally be able to see the
place they had left Ulf and three others with the ship, but to his horror it was gone, and some of the enemy were on the bank at the landing site, shouting and pointing both at him and downstream. His weary eyes flicked right and saw the slim mast of his ship above the reeds. It was downriver to his right. Another five hundred paces, another impossible distance with the hunters on his heels.

  Leif was urging men on. Even his face was flushed red, and his arms were limply swinging by his sides. They pounded down the riverbank, barely even running now, until finally they came to where the ship was. Ulf, bless his ancient soul, had launched the ship and was holding it on an anchor stone near the bank. The man himself was standing in the stern waving and gesturing, the other three men rushing around the ship setting oars and clearing benches. Ragnvald realised that if the ship had been beached, they would all have died before they launched it. He hadn’t even thought about it.

  The first men reached the bank by the ship and ran into the river, water spraying as they jumped up and pulled themselves into the wooden hull. Men too tired to lift themselves in were pushed and dragged over the wooden side. Ragnvald and the last of his men arrived, and hands reached down to meet them. Behind him, the first enemy came around the corner, and there was a shout of triumph as they saw their quarry with men still struggling to get aboard, just a few paces from the bank.

  There was a twang and then a scream of surprise, then another twang. Ragnvald looked up as he was bodily dragged into the boat to see that Ulf, that beautiful old seabird, was launching arrow after arrow at the hunters from a bow he had acquired from somewhere. ‘Cut the anchor! Get on the fucking oars!’ he yelled as he nocked another arrow and sent it lancing out towards the enemy, who had regained their composure and were rushing towards the riverbank with raised shields.

  Exhausted men dragged themselves onto benches and grabbed oars with quivering arms. Ragnvald staggered to the stern and brought Bjóðr down on the rope that held them to an unseen anchor stone on the riverbed. Behind him, Leif shouted an order to pull on the oars, and a bedraggled wave of oar blades rose and splashed back into the river, the ship jerking lazily as current and oars started propelling them downstream, achingly slowly.