Tore was walking along the archers’ line in the center. He periodically stopped and spoke with one or another of the warriors he passed, checking their weapons, sometimes repositioning men in the formation.
When he reached me, he looked me up and down silently for a moment, his features expressionless. Then he said in a gruff voice, “Are you ready?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I wish now I had taken the time to shoot each of my new arrows,” I told him. “I should have checked them to see if there are any that do not shoot true.”
“I do not think it will be a problem,” Tore said, as he unslung his shield and quivers. “Much of the shooting we will do this day will be at close range. Move over a bit. I will be shooting from here, beside you and Odd.”
“I have never seen this many men together at one time,” I said, looking at the mass of warriors finding their places in the two long lines.
“It is an impressive sight,” Tore agreed. “Our archers alone number close to a thousand. That is what Hastein says, at least. Five hundred of our men armed with bows are here in the center—and I command them,” he added, as if to make certain I knew. “And over two hundred more are on each flank.”
“It seems a lot of warriors to pull from the shield-wall,” Odd said. “I wonder if we do not thin it too much. There look to be many Franks gathering across the way.”
“Ragnar knows what he’s doing,” Tore replied.
The first units of Frankish cavalry were beginning to stream from their encampment, forming a line out on the plain facing ours. Behind them, the rest of their camp was a swarm of activity.
Ragnar and Hastein stepped out from the front line below us and after walking a few paces down the hill, they turned to face our army. Both had their shields slung across their backs and were carrying spears. Ragnar, who was also carrying a long-handled war-axe, began addressing us in a booming voice.
“Warriors! You who will fight here in the center of our battle line, around my banner and that of Jarl Hastein—hear me!”
At the sound of his voice, the men standing along the ridge stopped talking and turned to listen. When all were quiet, Ragnar continued. “We have journeyed here together, far from our homes and deep within the heart of our enemy’s land. The Franks have been generous hosts. They have shared with us their goods, their silver, and their women.” At this, many of the warriors listening laughed. Ragnar continued. “But we did not come this far merely to lighten the Franks’ purses. We came because they are the only enemy of the Danes powerful enough to have ever threatened our homeland.
“We have traveled this far to carry war back to our enemies, the Franks. We have come to fight them here, in their own land. And I intend that we shall so badly bloody them that the Franks will never again dare threaten the lands of the Danes.”
Up and down the line, men roared their approval of Ragnar’s words. Many beat their spears against their shields, making a sound like thunder. Ragnar held up his hands and the din gradually subsided.
“Let me tell you now of the error the Frankish king has made. He is so fearful of the threat we pose to his land and to his people, he has divided his mighty army. He is like an overly cautious and unskilled player of hnefatafl who tries to cover the entire board at once by scattering one piece here and another there.”
Ragnar turned and pointed behind him at the rapidly swelling ranks of Frankish warriors forming out on the plain. “And he has placed some of the pieces of his army over there. This day, we are going to take those pieces, and destroy them.”
Again the army roared its approval. I did not join in. What Ragnar described as only some pieces of the Frankish king’s army nonetheless looked to me to be a very large and strong force.
Ragnar continued. “This will not be an easy fight. The Franks are doughty warriors, especially their horse soldiers, as any of you who have faced them before can attest. But we have already won the first advantage, by making this hillside the ground on which we shall meet. And I will tell you now how we shall fight this battle, and how we shall win it.
“The Frankish army that faces us is composed entirely of cavalry. They know but one way to fight: They will charge us. And because we have taken this strong position across the top of this ridge, with both of our flanks protected, they can attack us only from our front.
“The steepness of this hill will slow them when they come. Still, those of you who have not faced a charge by mounted warriors before, know this: It is a fearsome thing, to see a wall of horses and men bearing down upon you. But horses will not throw themselves upon the points of spears. You who are in the front rank of the shield-wall—and our most seasoned men should be there—must kneel and brace your spear butts firmly against the ground. Aim the points of your spears at the chests of the Franks’ horses. That will keep them from charging through our line. Their charge will break when the horses reach our spears. You must hold fast, and trust that it will. And when it does, you warriors behind must thrust out with your spears, past the front rank, and strike at the faces of the horses and the riders upon them.
“My warriors, if you do not waver in your courage, I promise you our line will hold and the Franks’ charge will break against our shield-wall like the ocean’s waves break upon a rocky shore. And while the Franks are stopped against the points of our spears, our archers, standing on the hill behind and above you, will be pouring arrows into them, like the killing wind of All-Father Odin that carries death to those it touches.
“You, my warriors, are the anvil upon which we will break the Frankish army. The Franks will throw their forces against us this day, for they think this is their chance to destroy our army which has eluded them until now. But you who fight in the shield-wall will hold them, and you archers, standing behind, will strike them down, and bleed their army until it is weak. And then, while the Franks mill in front of our line, weakened and confused, the hammer will fall and crush them against you. A strong reserve of our warriors will be waiting, rested and eager to fight, in the woods beyond our left flank. They will fall upon the Franks from the rear. Together, hammer and anvil, we will enclose our enemies in a trap of sharpened steel, and we will destroy them in it.
“My warriors, do not fear death this day. The Gods themselves will be watching this great battle. They will look to see who fights bravely and scorns fear. Odin’s shield maidens, the Valkyries, will carry our brave warriors who fall in this day’s contest to the great feast-hall of the Gods, and their glory will be sung of there forever. It is a good day to die!”
I thought it a better day to live, but the army once again roared its approval of Ragnar’s words.
While Ragnar strode off toward the left flank to address the warriors there, Hastein made his way through the ranks of the shield-wall and up to where Tore, Odd and I were standing.
“Prepare a fire arrow,” he told Tore. “Ivar will command the reserve force of our army. Once the battle is well underway, he will lead the reserve forward through the woods along the end of the ridge that juts out into the plain over there, beyond our left flank, to a position from which they can attack the Franks’ rear. But they must stay well hidden and not attack until we give the signal—until all of the enemy’s forces are committed. If Ivar attacks too soon, it will be his men who find themselves encircled, not the Franks. When Ragnar tells you to—or when I do, if Ragnar has fallen—you must light the fire arrow and shoot it high above the field of battle, to signal Ivar to attack.”
Hastein looked at Odd and me. “Did you hear?” he asked. “If Tore has fallen, one of you must shoot the fire arrow. The signal must be given in order to close the trap on the Frankish army.”
“It is a fine plan Ragnar has made,” Odd said to Hastein. “Our victory seems assured.”
“Huh,” Hastein answered. “Do you think so? Nothing is ever certain. Battle has a way of ignoring the plans of men.”
A light breeze brushed gently across my cheek. The air felt crisp and cool, and I sucked in
deep lungfuls of it, savoring each one. The sky overhead was a deep, cloudless blue, and although the day was fully arrived, the moon still hung above us, faintly visible. As I looked up toward its pale face, an eagle drifting with the air currents floated across it. I wondered if it was an omen. If so, what was its meaning?
“Are you looking for the Valkyries?” Odd asked.
His words caused a shudder to run down my back. “No,” I answered. I would not wish to see them. Surely that would mean I was to die. “I am just looking. It is a beautiful day.”
“Aye, it is a good day for fighting,” Tore said. “We are fortunate it is cool. Wearing armor in the heat saps the strength, and I feel certain we will need all of our strength, and wish for more, this day.”
By now columns of Frankish cavalry were pouring in a steady stream from their encampment, and the Frankish line was beginning to take shape. Many units had already formed into tight blocks of riders, who waited patiently on their motionless horses. A forest of upright spears topped with glittering steel points stood above the entire host. Within each block of riders, small flags fluttered from a few of the spears.
“Do you see the spears with flags?” Tore said. “Those are officers. Captains, or leaders of smaller units. When they charge, try to kill the men with the flags.”
A small group of riders broke away from the Frankish line and rode toward us. There were ten of them. They made their way slowly from one end of our line to the other, studying our ranks.
Torvald climbed up the slope toward us after they had passed. “Halfdan, did you see?” he asked. “Those Frankish officers, when they rode past? One of them was Count Robert, your captive’s father. I am certain of it.”
I had not noticed. But Torvald was probably correct. He had unusually keen eyesight. “I thought him an arrogant pig of a man,” he continued. “I hope he comes within reach of my spear.”
Tore, who had also been studying the group of Frankish riders, was now wearing a grim expression on his face.
Odd looked at him and frowned. “What is it?” he asked.
“Did you not notice?” Tore snapped. “Two of the riders, two of the Frankish commanders, were Bretons.”
“Who are Bretons?” I asked.
“Their land lies to the south, along the coast of Frankia,” he replied. “I recognized them by their armor and weapons. Breton horse-warriors are very hard to kill. Even their mounts are protected with mail. And they fight with javelins, and are very deadly with them. I was certain they were Bretons when I saw the quivers of javelins hanging from their saddles. This is a bad thing.” Tore seemed unnerved.
I was surprised. Odd and Torvald looked surprised, too. “We have fought Bretons before,” Odd told Tore. “And we have beaten them.”
“Aye, we have,” Tore said. “We fought them once, and did beat them then. But do you not recall? My brother was killed when we fought them before. And I saw him last night. In a dream.”
“You saw your brother Torsten?” Odd asked.
Tore nodded. “I have not dreamed of him in years. I fear it is a sign. I do not think it is a good one.”
From down in the shield-wall, someone cried out, “Look! They come!”
I looked up. Out across the field, the entire Frankish army—save for a single block of mounted warriors, no doubt their own reserve, that remained motionless behind their center—was moving forward at a slow walk. As they advanced, the rear ranks of each unit moved forward, filling the spaces in their formation, until all were arrayed in a single long line of horsemen. Gradually, their speed increased from a walk to a canter as they headed across the plain toward us.
“They waste no time in starting the battle,” Tore muttered. “They must be eager for our blood.” He reached inside the neck of his mail brynie, pulled out the silver Thor’s hammer he wore on a leather thong, and touched it to his lips. “Strength and honor,” he whispered, then tucked the charm away. Raising his hand and clenching it in a fist in front of his face, he said again, this time in a louder voice, “Strength and honor.”
Odd raised his own hand in a clenched fist, also making the sign of the hammer, and touched it to Tore’s. “Aye, strength and honor, my comrade,” he said. “This day we will face together whatever fates the Norns have set for us, with strength and with honor.”
All along the line of archers, warriors quickly strung their bows, pulled arrows from their quivers, and readied them on their strings. Tore stepped out in front of us.
“Archers!” he cried. “We will shoot our first volley on my signal, and shoot it as one. Hold fire until you hear me cry ‘loose.’ After the first arrow, shoot as swiftly as you are able, and mark your targets well.”
I felt awed by the Franks’ discipline and their control of their mounts. They were coming at a full gallop now. The thunder of thousands of hooves shook the ground where we stood, yet their line remained even as they swept toward us.
On our left and right flanks, the Frankish soldiers charging at our line were beginning to lower their long spears, pointing them at the shield-wall. The riders approaching our center looked to be carrying shorter spears in their hands. They held them down by their sides as they rode. I raised my bow and began searching for a target.
“I knew it. It is the Bretons. They are attacking our center,” I heard Tore murmur to himself. “Ready!” he shouted aloud.
All along the line, archers pulled their bows to full draw. I looked out at the rapidly approaching line of riders, and picked the man who would be my target. I tried to focus my sight, the killing look, on his chest, just above his shield, and drive all else from my mind. I could not control my thoughts, though. I could not stop hearing the thunder of the hooves, nor counting the moments till the Franks’ line would crash into ours.
“Loose!” Tore shouted. Hundreds of arrows arced out from the hillside, and fell into the charging horde. I watched my arrow soar out toward the line of Franks, but lost it among the cloud of shafts. I could not see where it hit, but the man I’d shot at did not fall.
As the swarm of arrows descended upon the charging Franks, horses stumbled here and there and riders fell. Many shields had arrows embedded in their surface, some so thickly they looked like the backs of hedgehogs. But in the center, among the Bretons, few riders went down. Now that they were closer, I could see that their horses’ chests and necks were protected by thick, quilted skirts, covered with mail. On some horses, arrows had struck the armor and become caught in the links of mail, and now flopped back and forth ineffectually.
I nocked another arrow on my string and raised my bow again, drawing as I did. The Bretons were keeping themselves well covered, crouching behind their shields as they rode.
Tore was holding his bow at full draw, too, but did not release. “Show yourselves, damn you,” he said. “I can find no target.” He loosed his arrow at the same time I launched mine, and we both clawed another from our quivers.
By now the Bretons had reached the base of the ridge and began climbing it. They were so close I could see the flying clods of earth their horses’ hooves kicked up. Below me, the warriors in the shield-wall readied themselves for the impact. Those kneeling in the front rank huddled behind their shields, the second and third rows pressed close behind, their spears extended.
But there was no impact. The Bretons did not try to crash through our shield-wall. Suddenly a rider in the fore of their charging line raised his arm and brandished a short spear above his head. At his signal, the line of charging Bretons straightened up in their saddles as one, cocked their arms back, and hurled the javelins they were carrying. I launched my arrow at a rider’s face as he did, but saw it skim harmlessly past his head.
Though smaller than a normal spear, the Bretons’ missiles were far heavier than an arrow, and the force with which they were thrown—made even greater by the speed of the charging horses—caused them to strike with tremendous impact. I saw a warrior below me in the shield-wall try to block a javelin that was flyin
g at him. Its sharp steel head splintered through the planks of his shield, knocking it back against his helm and face. Then the spear’s point, now colored red with gore, suddenly jutted from the back of his head. Many warriors, more than I could count in the instant I looked, were knocked backward by the Bretons’ missiles. I saw a warrior near Hastein stagger back and fall, clutching at a javelin through his neck. Another warrior standing beside Ragnar’s standard was flung back by a missile that pinned his shield to his chest.
As soon as they launched their javelins, the Bretons cut their horses hard to the right in unison. They were superb riders. All along the center of the line our archers were loosing at them, but the Bretons had turned so their large shields were facing us, and those and their horses’ armor kept most from suffering serious harm. As they rode along our line, many whipped another missile down at the ranks of our Danish warriors they were passing.
I raised my bow, but did not draw yet. I was determined to make this shot count.
Again the Bretons wheeled their horses in unison, turning as one back toward their own lines. As they did, they swung their shields around to cover their backs.
A Breton making his turn in front of me found his way obstructed by a riderless horse that failed to turn with their formation. He sawed at his reins with both hands, urging his horse around it, and his shield, hanging now by its long strap around his neck and shoulder, flopped sideways. I drew and released, aiming for the point between his shoulder blades, but by the time my arrow reached him, he had kicked his horse forward, and was twisting in the saddle. The arrow—shot hard enough to pierce his mail at this distance—hit him in his right shoulder. He jerked upright at the impact, then slumped forward against his horse’s neck, but managed to stay in the saddle and escape.
The Road to Vengeance Page 12