Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  As soon as they were sure that the worst was behind them Erik led the group from their refuge, and men stretched and flexed weary limbs for the first time in days. Elk Kari came across as the men crossed to make a fuss of their mounts. ‘We need to grab this chance to cross the highlands with both hands lord,’ he said. ‘The storms up here have a habit of coming in pairs.’ He gnawed at his lip as he switched his gaze out to the West. Erik’s own eyes were drawn across as he did so. The outline of the far side of the valley was beginning to harden from clouds still heavy with snow, and a glance away to the South told him that it was coming up to midday. The higher elevation up on the fells would give them a little more time before the long northern night closed in about them once again, and Erik turned back with a frown. ‘You say that the storms often come in pairs.’

  ‘That they do lord.’

  ‘How long do we have if that is the case here?’

  The guide pursed his lips as his eyes scanned the lightening sky. ‘It’s not always easy to say,’ he replied finally. ‘But it does look like it’s clearing away for now.’ He scratched at his chin as he thought; finally Kari reached a conclusion. ‘More than half a day, I would say. Hopefully more like two. If we do get two full days we will be dropping down into Ottadal, but if the weather looks like closing in again we can take one of the gullies which lead to the East and be back on lower ground before it really hits.’ He cuffed a drip from the tip of his nose and sniffed. ‘I would rather keep to the high fells if I can, there are a few scattered settlements in the valleys to the East and the drifts will cause us problems. I doubt that they could warn our friends up ahead that we were on the way, but why take the chance?’

  Erik nodded. ‘Up here, though. Will the fresh snow slow us down?’

  ‘In the valleys it would.’ Kari walked a few paces from the dead ground beyond the shelter. As the men watched in amusement, he jumped up and down and shot them a smile. ‘Not on the high fells though. As I said before, lord. The wind packs the snow together as it lands. Any that does not get blown away is as hard as stone in moments. It’s another reason why we would be far better travelling the highlands if we can, there are no drifts and hidden potholes to slow us down.’

  Erik felt his confidence returning for the first time since the storm had hit. ‘Let’s get moving then, the sooner we start the better.’ The men had been working the horses as the pair spoke, and Helgi handed his own reins across as the men mounted up.

  Kari’s judgement had been sound and they made good time that day. As the last of the light paled in the West men tore strips from their cloaks to wind around the base of their spears. In the gathering gloom the spears became torches, the party snaking forward towards their destination under an oval of light. Kari led, the guide’s horse as at home in the mountains as any elk or hare, picking out the path unerringly as they closed in on their goal. A rocky outcrop became the next rest point, the war band gathering in its lee as the stars looked down and the moon waxed to first quarter. Barely rested, the men were on the move again as the first line of grey cut the skyline to the East, and by midday on the fourth day the great shoulder of rock which was Jostrudal was trending downwards. As the sun lowered that day to become an indistinct glimmer and the clouds returned to bunch up in the West, Kari was leading the column down into the sheltered valley of Ottadal.

  A shepherd’s hut, abandoned now to the winter snow sheltered the party that night, and daybreak revealed a sky cloaked in grey. Erik looked back as the column made their way down to the long line of Lake Vaga. The peaks which edged the fells like twin sentinels brooding over the upper valley, Glittering and White Spear, were lost now as a ribbon of greyness sat on the roof of Midgard, and the horses breasted the snow as they made their way down into the main valley.

  The going was tough and the light had all but left the sky when the banks of the great lake were reached, but as the long night deepened its hue the clouds cleared away to reveal the spectral glow which men called the Northern Lights illuminating the way ahead. By using the frozen foreshore as a pathway, Kari had led Erik and his men to the outlying farmstead which had been marked to host the war party during the short daylight hours prior to the attack, and the men snatched what rest they could in the manner of warriors everywhere as their hosts strove to fill empty bellies with fresh bread and hot broth.

  As the shadows on the snow lengthened once more and moved around to the East, Erik called the men together.

  ‘I don’t intend to outline what we are about to do, nor how we will go about it.’ His face tightened into a smile. ‘Anymore than I would tell your grandmother how to use a needle and thread. As you know, Elk Kari and I rode a few miles along our intended route earlier and the way ahead is clear. That means,’ he said, ‘that we can leave the skis where they are on the spare mounts.’

  The men exchanged looks of relief as the rumours were confirmed. Every man there was an experienced skier, but they were all well aware that even a minor injury sustained during the assault could result in them being left behind.

  Horses of course were also a far quicker and less tiring means of travelling. They had already experienced the savagery of a highland storm and had no wish to repeat it. If the weather denied them a quick return across Jostrudal following the attack they could very quickly find themselves outnumbered in a friendless country, and no man there harboured any illusions as to their chances of surviving such a thing.

  Erik was pleased to see that they were all attending his words. This was the moment he had feared, more than traversing the roof of the world in midwinter, more than the attack itself. He had taken Thorir Hersir’s advice on how to conduct himself and was thankful for it, but every man before him was an experienced huskarl and he was a man of twelve winters; although they were well aware of his lineage and respectful of it, his own worth would have to be won, his own reputation wrought in the hard game of war. He glanced across to the square of calf gut which allowed the pale winter light to lift some of the gloom from the interior. The skin was darkening rapidly as the sunlight left the valley, soon it would be time to fix the wooden shutters into place; it was time to go. ‘To our horses then,’ he said finally. ‘Let us do this thing and take ourselves home.’

  Erik threw the door ajar as the men gathered up their spears and shields and bunched in his wake. Stepping outside into the wan light of mid afternoon, Erik made his way across to the barn. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled the happy snorts and whinnies of the animals as they had been led into the shelter that morning. They had had a tougher time of the journey, far more so than the men and that had been hard enough, and he could sense their disappointment that the rest was over as he hauled at the great doors and equine heads turned his way. His own mount sidled across and Erik teased an ear, moving the hand down to stroke the animal’s neck. Helgi had already saddled the beast, and Erik led it out into the courtyard as the others saddled their own. Soon all was ready, and Erik stole a look at the bonder and his family as they stood and watched them prepare to depart. He threw Kari a look as the guide moved his own horse to his side. ‘You are sure that they can be trusted?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ he replied. ‘I have known Odd for years. My men and I have always stayed here if we are ever stranded by bad weather on this side of Jostrudal. He is kin to one of the lads; he knows how to keep his mouth shut.’

  Odd had a son, a young man of fourteen or fifteen by the look of it, and Erik called him across as the last riders moved into place behind him. ‘Here,’ he said, as the nervous lad approached and dipped his head, ‘take this.’ Erik slipped a silver ring from his arm and tossed it across to the moon faced karl. ‘One day you can tell your own son that you received the ring from Erik Haraldsson, the day he came to stay.’

  A quick tally and Erik led the party out of the yard and turned the head of his horse to the North. They had twenty miles or so to travel until they reached the hall which contained his enemy, but they now knew that the snows around Otta
dal had been late in coming that year and the way ahead was clear. Within a few miles a flicker drew their eyes skyward, and soon they were riding forth beneath a witches brew as the Northern Lights returned to weave their patterns of green and red. Erik glanced back along the column as the ghostly lights danced above their heads, and his heart leapt as he recognised that the men had drawn the same conclusion; Oðin himself was lighting the path to their destination, and Erik thought on the tales he had heard around Thorir’s hearth as the frost covered snow crunched beneath his horse’s hooves. Most men said that the shimmering light was the bridge from Midgard to Asgard opening up to receive the spirit of a hero; but he had always favoured the other, that the lights were the reflections made by moonlight playing on the mail, helm and spear point of a valkyrie. It mattered little, he knew; both explanations indicated that a man of high rank was about to make the journey from which no man returned.

  With the gods-light showing the way the miles went beneath their hooves, and long before the first trace of greyness entered the eastern sky Erik was leading the war band out of the mouth of the valley, following the course of the frozen beck as it snaked down into Gudbrandal. After a few miles Kari urged his mount alongside and pointed away to the north-west. ‘There it is, lord, that is the hall.’

  Erik’s gaze followed the guide’s outstretched arm. Gudbrandal was broad and deep: away to the North the highlands of Dofrarfell shone white beneath a mantle of snow. The valkyrie still stood poised above, bathing all in her flickering light as she waited for the moment to swoop down and gather in Bolli’s soul, but the vale was thickly wooded and Erik struggled to pick out the building from the gloom.

  Kari noticed and moved his hand down to point at the valley floor. ‘Down there is the settlement of Dofrar itself,’ he explained, before slowly moving his arm across. ‘Follow the line of that low ridge, and just before you reach the tree line you can just make it out.’

  Erik did as he was bid, and he nodded as the hall finally revealed itself as a solid shape within the wider gloom. He flashed the guide a triumphal grin: ‘I have it.’

  Erik chewed at his lip as his eyes flicked from side to side, searching out the shadows. ‘You are sure?’

  Helgi nodded, the glint of his helm bright in the gloom. ‘Yes lord, I have circled the hall; there are no dogs and not a soul abroad.’

  Erik flicked a look across his shoulder. Elk Kari was still there, and the guide’s deliberate nod told him that both men knew the reason for the look. Erik pushed down the shame he felt that he had doubted the man, but the truth was that the attack seemed to be going just a little bit too well.

  Deep snow drifts had denied the fields which flanked the valley side to them, forcing Erik to travel the roadway which snaked along the foot of Gudbrandal itself. At every settlement or collection of huts he had expected to receive a challenge, but either the hour was too late, the distance from potential enemies too great or the sight of so many armed men abroad in the depths of the witching hours too alarming to draw men from their hearth or bed. Doors had remained resolutely closed as they put the final few miles behind them, and soon they were guiding their horses along the track which led to the hall itself. Hobbling the horses in the lee of a woodland outlier they had come forward to discover that the gods were still smiling on their enterprise; neither palisade nor ditch ringed the buildings, and with the confirmation that any dogs must also be warming themselves at the hearth side Erik suspected a trap.

  Helgi shared his worry, but the huskarl spoke again as Erik hesitated. ‘The men are in position, lord. If this is a trap we are already snared. If not we need to do this thing and be far away before daylight.’ His gaze shifted back down to Dofrar. ‘We have no idea how many fighting men the town contains. As soon as the town watch sees our flames the place will come alive.’

  Erik nodded that he understood. The man was a seasoned warrior, a veteran of raids and fights from Dublin to Wolin, a leader of men: it was the reason that Thorir had sent him along after all. Erik ran his eyes around the compound a final time and gave the order: ‘light the brands.’

  Sparks flashed at his side as fire-steels were struck, and soon the hall was enclosed by a ring of flame. As the torches were lit, Erik drew his sword and strode free of the shadows. Planting his feet foursquare before the doorway, he filled his lungs as men all around hurried forward beneath comet tails to touch flame to thatch.

  ‘Bolli Sigurdsson!’

  The challenge was met by the first dog barks from within as the animals finally fulfilled their duty to their masters, but no storm of arrows had met them as they had walked free of the shadows and Erik allowed himself a smile as he came to know that he had his enemy at his mercy. The sound of men rushing to their arms came from the hall at last, the gruff calls of fighting men mixing with the panicked cries of thralls and women as the fire took hold and smoke began to fill the building.

  The door was pulled inward, and Erik heard the unmistakable sound of sinew straining against horn to either side as arrows were nocked and bows raised and sighted at the opening. Erik’s men crowded the flanks, shields and spears raised as they dared any occupant to attempt to flee as the voice Erik knew so well came from the blackness.

  ‘I am Bolli Sigurdsson. Who seeks to burn me in?’

  The fire flared as a sudden wind gusted up the valley, the roar of the flames causing Erik to delay his reply. Despite the lateness of the year the deeper layers of thatch were as dry as old bones from the heat of the long hearth, and the faces of the attackers were revealed as the flames rolled and licked above the ridge line. Despite the growl of the flames, Erik thought that he heard the intake of breath from the man inside as the flickering light revealed him to his victim. Helgi recognised the danger in an instant, and the huskarl’s shield came up to protect the king’s son from an arrow loosed from within.

  Erik took the opportunity to announce himself as the breeze lessened and the flames settled once again.

  ‘I am Erik, King Harald’s son: I give you leave to send out women and thralls, but you are fated to die here Bolli.’ Despite the danger from spear or arrow, Erik could not help but flick a look up at the night sky. The lights had flared since the attack began and a thought entered his mind as he spoke again. ‘The Rainbow Bridge awaits you Bolli, though I doubt your worth. Go, prepare yourself for the journey for you shall not leave this place alive.’

  The first women and thralls were hurrying through the doorway, and Erik was pleased to see that his men were moving among them, flicking at clothing and head coverings with the tips of their spears. It was not unknown for those trapped inside to try to escape disguised as women or slaves, and although it was the action of a nithing, Bolli had already proven himself to be such at the Thing. Besides, the very public slight to his honour which he had suffered at the horse fight had driven any feelings of mercy from Erik’s heart. As the flames redoubled in intensity a roof beam gave way with a crack to send the last of the women tumbling through the doorway. Satisfied that all those who wished to take up his offer of quarter had now left the hall, Erik indicated with a flick of his head that the doorway be sealed. As the contents of the woodpile and debris of the yard were heaped up, Bolli Sigurdsson’s final words carried to them through the smoke:

  The flame thirsty warriors,

  Will boast of the burning:

  When wood sweated smoke;

  Their zeal will be repaid,

  When ravens gorge on Erik’s flesh.

  5

  DRAGONS

  Wind howl and a stab of chill air announced that the door to the outside world had been opened to the occupants of the hall. A flash of light lit the space beyond the wooden screen which divided the cross passage from the great room of the hall itself, blinked and went out as the door was closed again to the storm. It could only be the watchmen returning from their stint atop the nearby headland, and Erik tagged along as Thorir and Bergthora rose from their high seats and crossed to the inner door. It was
as they thought, the men struggling from bearskins as they looked forward to a place at their lord’s hearth. Bergthora showed the men honour by presenting them with the first well-earned cups of the evening, and smiles broke out on wind blasted faces as they gulped down the warm brew. Puddles quickly began to collect on the stone floor as the outer clothes were suspended from wooden pegs to dry, and Thorir led them through into the fustiness of the main room after they confirmed to him that the new watch was safely in place and all was well.

  Three months had passed since Erik had burned in Bolli Sigurdsson in far off Dofrar, and despite the severity of the winter which had gripped the land, a revenge attack had to be expected at any time. Snow had fallen steadily since Jule, but the same drifts which had closed the mountain paths and valleys to vengeful jarls would also keep the bulk of Thorir’s hird from fulfilling their oaths should the jarl come by sea. The threat was very real. The belts and waterways which lent the country the name Norway were sheltered from the roaring ocean beyond by the string of islands which girded the coast like a shield wall. The fjords which made up the region known as the Trondelag were more extensive than the steep sided lands of Fjordane and men could travel freely about the district however impassable the roads and vales became. Thorir knew that he would lay beneath Sigurd’s avenging sword blade until the spring thaw could open the way for the war arrow to travel his lands; it was an anxious time. That Erik’s raid had not only met with complete success but had managed to return flush with victory was one of the things which gave the men at Nausdal hope that all would yet be well. The storms had held off in their fury just long enough for the band to transit the wild fells of Jostrudal, and despite the difficulties Thorir had led the boys back to the grove at Hestad to offer sacrifice for their deliverance.