“I don’t know,” said Harald. “Our weapons must be in one of their tents, ’cause I couldn’t find them, but there’s still weapons to fight with—if we’re quick and quiet.”
“Fires?”
“The campfires are mostly out, but I managed to get one smoldering again. It should do.”
“Sentries?”
“Two men roving about. I killed one, but the other is farther away, on the other side of the camp. I didn’t want to take the chance.”
Asgrim turned away and peered at the mass of shadows that was his men. “Steiner, you sneaky prick. You still alive?”
One of the shadows moved forward. “I think so, Captain.”
Recognizing Steiner’s hushed voice, Asgrim handed him his long-knife. “I want that sentry dead. Go with Harald. He’ll show you where he is. Then come back here. I have something special I want you to do.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Anyone or anything else you see awake and moving, you kill.”
Harald whispered some directions to Steiner, and together, they slipped away. In battle, things could always go wrong, but Steiner could give a cat lessons in stalking. The Frank sentry would soon be among the dead.
“What are we going to do, Captain,” one of the men asked. “Sneak away?”
Asgrim whispered just loudly enough for all of them to hear him. “No. The only way out of here is through the Franks. Even if we got away without raising an alarm, which is impossible in your state, they’d come after us. No. We fight them now, while they’re still half-asleep.”
“That’s just fine, Captain,” one of the men whispered, Snorri perhaps. “I got a score to settle with these pricks.”
The others mumbled in agreement.
Good, thought Asgrim. Anger will give them strength.
Waiting for Steiner and Harald seemed to take forever, and Asgrim’s worry began to grow. The sky was beginning to become lighter in the east. Soon, the camp would be waking. How much longer could they stay here? Should they move now, without Steiner and Harald?
Just then, two figures appeared out of the darkness, scurrying silently to the barn. Harald and Steiner slipped through the doors. Both men held a bundle of battle axes, which they handed out to the others.
“We found our weapons,” said Harald. “They’re in a tent not twenty ells away.”
“Unguarded?” asked Asgrim.
“They are now,” answered Steiner.
Asgrim exhaled, feeling his excitement grow. “All right, then, we’ve sat here long enough.” He turned to the men and raised his voice just slightly. “Arm yourselves—silently. Ax, shield, or spear… shit, a piece of stick if that’s all you can find.”
Asgrim, Heart-Ripper in hand, led his men out of the barn. His mouth was dry, but his senses were heightened, as they always were before a fight. With the eastern sky becoming lighter and the fog beginning to lift, his night vision was superb, and he could easily make out the individual shapes of his men, as well as the camp. The camp’s tents were laid out in two parallel lines. Shields and spears had been set in front of each of the ten tents in which Frankish soldiers snored. Each Dane took a shield. Those who had no weapons took spears. They moved as silently as they could, but still made some noise. And each time they did, Asgrim winced, expecting a challenge.
But none came.
Steiner led them to the tent that held their axes. The men could fight with whatever they got their hands on, but they had been training with ax in hand since childhood. A shield wall bristling with ax-armed Danes was a formidable construct.
The men beamed as they hefted their axes. Then Asgrim sent Steiner to do his special task. In minutes, the sun would begin to show. A rooster crowed.
Asgrim led the men to the first row of tents. They silently formed their shield wall, jostling one another into position three ranks deep in front of the tent. The men in the first rank locked their shields together, each man protecting the man on his right. The men with spears took up position in the second rank, so they could stab the longer weapons over the heads of the men in front of them. Those in the third rank would shove against the men in front. Most shield walls were nothing more than shoving matches between half-drunken, poorly trained conscripts, often lasting hours, with neither side moving more than a few feet. But Asgrim’s father had taught him how to fight and how to drill and train the men to move as one unit, much as the Romans had done centuries before. Asgrim’s shield wall was an instrument of death, of bloody ax and deadly spear. Each man, even the young ones, had trained for weeks back home in Hedeby to fight at Asgrim’s command. Rather than stand in place and push and shove and hack and hope the other force broke first, Asgrim’s wall could move and turn and adjust to the tempo of battle. And when the men in the front rank tired, on Asgrim’s order the second rank could move up to take their place.
And the Franks slept on, oblivious to the danger forming within their very midst.
Standing in the center of the shield wall, a Frankish round shield in one hand, and Heart-Ripper in the other, Asgrim watched Steiner climb the wall of the manor house. Three other men watched him from below, each one holding a bow and quiver of arrows. One man also held a half-burned log, its end glowing red. When Steiner reached the thatched roof, the man passed him the burning branch. Steiner used it to set fire to the tight bundles of thatch before quickly climbing down. The flames caught instantly, sweeping over the roof of the manor house like a wave. Orange light lit up the dawn, adding to the horizon’s glow.
Smoke drifted through the air as Asgrim yelled, “Forward!”
The men shouted and smashed their axes against their shields, then stepped forward as one unit. They hit the first tent, knocking it down and hacking at anything that looked like it might be a man. Screams of agony and horror cut through the night, and the bloody axes rose and fell, rose and fell. In moments, they were on to the next tent, from which men now stumbled out in confusion. They slaughtered the inhabitants of this tent, as well, and then the next.
The manor house was an inferno lighting up the camp. Unarmed, half-asleep Franks stumbled about in dazed confusion. The next two tents Asgrim and his men hit were empty of Franks, and they simply swept the tents out of their way, killing anyone who didn’t run away fast enough.
Asgrim turned the shield wall toward the second line of tents. Under his direction, the men moved as one. Horses screamed in fear, running wild through the camp. Steiner had cut them loose before lighting the house afire. Several of the animals ran into the terrified Franks. But now, several of the Franks had armed themselves. Men with swords charged at the Danish shield wall. But they moved without shields, without organization, and without hope. It was a brave but foolish act, and they were hacked down almost immediately by the well-disciplined Danes. Only another shield wall could stand against them, and Asgrim had no intention of letting the Franks organize themselves.
“Kill, kill, kill,” chanted the men, berserk with rage and battle lust.
Asgrim grinned, loving the battle and needing it. This! This was what the spinners had intended for him.
A Frank, his sword raised overhead in two hands, ran at Asgrim, who caught the man’s clumsy attack on the rim of his shield and then brought Heart-Ripper down on his clavicle before yanking the weapon back, cutting through tissue and killing him.
“Forward, forward!” commanded Asgrim.
The men stomped over dead and dying Franks, sweeping them away. From the shield wall’s flanks, Asgrim heard the release of bow strings, then the short whistling of arrows before they hit the Franks almost at point-blank range. Asgrim glanced over and saw that Steiner and his men, armed with their bows, had rejoined the shield wall. Franks spun away and collapsed with arrows embedded in their bodies. And the shield wall kept advancing, now more than half way down the second line of tents.
Someone among the Franks was screaming orders, and a small group of soldiers tried to form their own shield wall. Several even held shields.
“No you don’t,” yelled Asgrim.
He turned the shield wall again, sending it to confront the growing knot of Frankish soldiers. The men had trained in this maneuver so often even the young lads could have done it in their sleep. The men stomped toward the Franks, yelling and slamming their ax heads against the metal bosses of their shields. The wall of angry Danes hit the Franks hard, shattering them. Each time the Franks tried to organize themselves, Asgrim hit them, again and again. The ground was littered with the dead and the dying.
A group of Franks armed with spears rushed forward, thrusting at the shield wall with the longer weapons. Some of the spears got past their shields, and several Danes fell back with wounds. Asgrim saw Gjuki Horse-Dick fall back, his neck a bloody ruin. But then the shield wall swept into them, and up close—without a shield wall to provide cover for them—the Frankish spearmen were defenseless. The Danes hacked them down.
The only chance the Franks had was to put shield and spear together in their own wall and hold the Danes long enough to let their numbers give them the advantage, but Asgrim much preferred slaughter to a fair fight.
“Forward! Kill! Forward! Kill!” he screamed.
A pair of Franks on horseback rode hard for the shield wall. The men riding the horses leaned into their spears.
Idiots! Horses don’t charge shield walls.
At the last moment, the horses balked, reared up, and pawed at the air with their hooves. One of the riders fell off. The other managed to gain control over his animal and turned away, intent on escape. He didn’t make it far before two arrows hit him in the back and he fell off. His horse disappeared into the sunrise, its hooves pounding the earth.
A soldier rushed Asgrim, who, caught up in the excitement, leaped out past the rest of the men in the shield wall. He rammed his sword point into the man’s surprised face, tearing through his cheek and into his eye socket. Two other Franks came forward, trying to get at Asgrim from either side. He braced himself, getting ready to leap into them, but then hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him back into the shield wall. The two soldiers paused, but then arrows drove into them from the flanks, sending them reeling. A moment later, the wall shoved forward, finishing them off.
Just ahead, Asgrim saw another Frank, an officer wearing chain mail and carrying a shield and sword, yelling orders and trying to overcome the confusion. Franks flocked to his side and began to form ranks. Some even held shields, which they locked together as they formed into a group. Asgrim turned the shield wall and advanced into them. Within seconds, the two forces smashed into each other with a bone-jarring shudder. Men cried out in rage, yelling incoherent curses. The axes of the men in the front rank rose and fell, beating a bloody tempo against the Frankish shield wall while the men in the second rank shoved their spears over the heads of the men in front and into the faces of the Franks they battled. Asgrim roared curses and shoved forward with his shield, knocking Franks aside in his rage to get at the Frankish officer. The officer, recognizing Asgrim as the Danish leader, also pushed to get at him. Then the two men were carried together by the press of the shield walls. Shield locked against shield, and both men were shoved up against each other.
Asgrim was close enough to spit into the face of the other man, so he did. Then, the press subsided for a moment, allowing both men the room to stab at one another. Asgrim saw the Frank’s sword coming at his face, and he dropped his shoulder and turned at the same moment that he thrust at the momentary opening between the man’s shield and his body. Asgrim felt a burning sensation on the side of his head, but ignored it and rammed Heart-Ripper into the Frank’s armored chest. His blow ran right through the man, cutting through the chain mail links and coming out his back. The Frank, a gaze of profound surprise on his face, collapsed.
And then the rest of the enemy, seeing the fall of their leader, broke and fell apart.
A cheer rose among Asgrim’s men as they realized the Franks were defeated, reeling, and running for their lives. Survivors fled in every direction, desperate to get away. Steiner and his bowmen kept putting arrows into them as they ran. Several of his men broke ranks and went after the fleeing Danes.
Asgrim yanked his sword from the body of the Frankish war leader. “Get back, you damned fools. Let ’em run. Let ’em go!”
Panting heavily, his injured shoulder throbbing from the effort of holding a shield all this time, Asgrim bent over and gasped for air, taking huge gulps. Stinging sweat rolled into his eyes. The sun was above the horizon, and he could see the entire village around him. Terrified peasants—men, women, and children—joined the fleeing soldiers. He couldn’t tell how many warriors had gotten away, but the ground around the campsite was littered with dead Franks.
Someone clapped him on the back, and his men were cheering, yelling his name over and over.
With forty men, and in a span of only minutes, he had routed more than twice as many Frankish soldiers.
Fifteen
The village,
August 8, 799,
Early morning
In the quiet aftermath of the battle, Asgrim’s blood lust disappeared, leaving him exhausted and sullen. The Frankish officer had cut through his scalp, and although the cut had bled badly at first, the bleeding had almost stopped. Asgrim walked the battleground, brooding, as his men plundered the camp and the village, reveling in the spoils of victory. They stripped good leather armor from the dead, and each Dane claimed his own Frankish sword, laughing as he cut the air with the finely wrought weapon. Two of the dead Franks, including the one Asgrim had killed, had worn coats of fine chain mail. Perhaps they had even been knights. Asgrim gave the one with the ruptured rings to Harald and the other to Steiner, and the two men smirked as they tried them on, taking turns slapping each other’s chest and shoulders. There were axes, daggers, shields, bows, and spears—more weapons than they could ever possibly use. Such a surplus, particularly the Frankish swords, would sell for a fine price, far more than they had made raiding that damned black monastery. They found some silver as well, not much, but again, more than they had taken from the monks. In addition, they collected several silver arm rings, necklaces, and Christian crosses; some were cast in bronze. And, in the now-deserted village, the men found some small coins of silver and copper, as well as food: meat, fish, vegetables—and best of all, beer.
It had been a one-sided victory. By Asgrim’s count, more than seventy Frankish soldiers were dead. His men had quickly killed the wounded Franks, a kinder fate than they had been giving his men when they had the same chance. That meant some thirty Frankish soldiers still ran loose on the island. This was a problem. During the battle, Asgrim had lost another six men. An additional four were likely to die of their wounds. That left him only thirty-one fit men: even odds. Those Frankish soldiers were scattered, but they would regroup and perhaps even force the villagers to fight with them. If they came back, they might even outnumber his men. He would not have surprise on his side again; attacking half-asleep, half-armed men had given him an advantage that would be hard to duplicate.
Asgrim ran his eyes over the large piles of shields, spears, swords, and armor neatly piled for transport to Sea Eel.
Screw them! They could come back and fight if they wanted, but he had their weapons.
And it was an arsenal, to be certain. The foreign soldiers had been well-equipped and well-armored. The Franks made excellent swords; everyone knew that. They were not crucible steel, but excellent just the same. Even after sharing the armor and giving each man a sword, Asgrim still had plenty more to sell. The profit wouldn’t pay his wergild, but even if he sold only half the weapons and armor, he would still have enough left over to equip a replacement crew. And while he couldn’t go home, he knew of other ports along the northern coast, perhaps among the Norse, where he could find like-minded men seeking profit.
And he would continue to live by the sword, killing and killing and killing. Once more, he saw the bloody face of Freya and her dead eyes st
aring accusingly at him.
Was there nothing more to his existence but death? Perhaps not. No man could change his fate, and he was so very good at killing.
He turned away and forced his thoughts elsewhere. The Franks wouldn’t come back, not without their weapons, not after getting their asses so thoroughly kicked. Instead, they would go for help. At low tide they would make their way over to the mainland and come back with more soldiers. They would probably claim that they were set upon by hundreds of northmen, only just escaping with their lives.
Which was half right.
At any rate, Asgrim guessed he and his men had some breathing space, perhaps only days, but more likely at least a week, if not two, which was enough time to fix Sea Eel and sail away.
He walked among the men, forcing himself to joke with them and see to their welfare. They worshipped him now. After all, he had saved them from torture and death and won a magnificent victory against overwhelming odds. Danes loved heroes. And once the tales of this battle spread, other men would seek him out, wergild or not.
But the djinn was still out there. Fear of the spirit had driven his men to mutiny. It hadn’t been just the spirit; Harald had also played his part, as had the failure to find silver at the monastery and Asgrim’s killing of his own brother. And the men had been very, very unhappy when Asgrim had denied them Alda. But fear of the otherworld and a belief that Asgrim’s luck had run out had been pivotal in allowing Harald to spread his rot. Right now, their mood was good; they were happy, elated he had saved them and that they had beaten the Franks, paying them back for their mistreatment. And after that battle, no man could say Asgrim had lost his luck. But soon, they would remember the spirit. Then the fear would seep back in. Men, Asgrim could fight and beat, but he could do nothing against the dead. That left him with two choices: wait for low tide and flee on foot to the mainland to try to slowly make their way back home; or hold fast, fix his ship, and sail away like men.
Black Monastery Page 17