Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  ‘Yes, brother?’

  ‘You recall what the signal is when the time comes?’

  A blank look crossed Arinbjorn’s features and Erik’s own face dropped, but he laughed again at his friend’s joke as his mouth curled into a smile and he replied. ‘Seven short blasts on Gjallarhorn there, repeated in two groups.’

  Erik and Anlaf laughed at Arinbjorn’s description. They were almost up with the men in Erik’s shield wall, and he saw with joy that the sight of three leading men in such high spirits had visibly lifted their own. Gjallarhorn, the Yelling Horn, would be sounded at the onset of the Ragnarok by the god Heimdall to summon the warriors from Oðin’s hall to the fight, and he clapped his friend on the shoulder as they parted to take up their positions for the upcoming battle. ‘It shall not be our end of days, brother. I know it!’

  The battle line drew apart as he approached, and Erik kissed the blade of his axe and threw them a rallying cry: ‘Bjarmians? I shit ‘em!’ Erik watched with glee as faces lit up all along the line, and the ground shook beneath his feet as men beat their shields in time and chanted his eke name in reply:

  ‘Blóðøx! Blóðøx! Blóðøx!’

  Past the shield brothers Erik took up his position just to the rear. He had already picked out the grassy bank beforehand and he placed his feet foursquare, running his eyes across the field before him as Anlaf Crow hoist Erik’s axe banner high. Thorstein took up position immediately before him, and Erik watched the enemy come closer as his own guardsmen formed a wall of steel around him. The crew of the Draki had drawn up to his front, each flank anchored against the solid walls of two of the temple outhouses. Neither window nor door pierced the solid screen which faced downhill from these buildings; they would be a tough nut to crack.

  Arinbjorn’s men from the Sea Stallion ran from the other end of the outhouse on the left, almost to the flames of the conflagration which was the temple itself. Erik squinted to look through the smoke and heat haze and saw that his old friend Helgi anchored the end of the line there. He allowed himself a smile at the sight as he imagined the man he had known since his own childhood, back in Nausdal. He was no doubt suffering as the heat scorched his skin and clothes, and Erik resolved to fill that skin with good Norwegian ale at the day’s end. The position he held was even more difficult than normal. All those who had fought in the press of shields knew of the importance of the man on the end of the line. Turn him aside, force a way through, and the shield burg would fold back on itself. Gaps would form between shields as the line stretched, spears become entangled in the crush and the slaughter would begin.

  Away to the right the men of the snekkjur, Fjord Ulf and Falke, held the line, and Erik looked on with affection as Skipper Alf tucked his grey hair into his helm and fumbled with the chin strap.

  They were set, and Erik raised his gaze to watch as the army of King Svasi arrived at the foot of the slope and began to deploy. The king himself was just arriving, and Erik watched with disbelief as men began to erect a tent there and the men of Perminia began to form a leisurely battle line. The shelter was clearly for Svasi’s use, and Erik made a snap decision. He could not let the day develop into a siege for his plan to have any chance of succeeding, he had to force the issue.

  ‘Anlaf Crow! Sound the advance.’

  The huskarl blew the three short blasts, and as faces turned back from the spear hedge Erik saw the look of surprise come into them as they watched the axe banner tip forward in confirmation. Erik seized the moment; snatching up a javelin he passed Jomal back to Anlaf as he gave the men a rousting cry. ‘Come on boys, let’s shake them up!’

  The battle line opened up once again as Thorstein led him through. Out in the clear he called again as he strode towards the enemy.

  ‘Hold your position. Bowmen to the fore!’

  As the sound of stomping feet trailed away and the bowmen scurried proud of the line, nocked and prepared to loose, Erik and his tiny band strode on towards the enemy. In the field before him the men of Bjarmaland were hastening to form a solid defence as they stole looks of incredulity towards the Norwegian madmen, and Erik raised his gaze as he sighted towards the king’s tent. The look had reassured him that the horsemen were still down at the riverside, and he tossed the javelin in the palm of his hand as he sought the point of perfect balance. A skip and a jump as he opened his body, and Erik grunted with the effort as his arm flashed forward to send the spear hurtling towards the enemy and he cried the ritual challenge.

  ‘Oðin owns you all!’

  Erik took a backward pace, and the men of the guard opened ranks to swallow him up as they watched the javelin clear the first of the Bjarmians and tip down as it plunged to earth. The shot looked true and the little group held their breath, hardly daring to hope that the fight could be won so easily, but a Finn glanced up at the last and his shield came up to deflect the dart harmlessly aside.

  Despite the danger they were in the huskarls laughed at the sight of the King of Bjarmaland being bundled unceremoniously away from his own tent due to the actions of a single man and javelin, even if that man was Erik Haraldsson. Erik showed his disdain with a sniff and a sneer. ‘Time to get back, before they discover where they left their courage.’ Within a few paces they were back within the bosom of the army, and Erik called out a final instruction as he stood shoulder to shoulder with the men in the front rank.

  ‘Bowmen!’

  The men raised their bows and sighted.

  Erik savoured the moment as all eyes turned his way. The beginning of the battle itself waited upon his command, but the Bjarmians had seen the action and were hurrying to cover themselves with their shields. It had to be now, and Erik felt the thrill course through him as his order rolled across the hillside.

  ‘Loose!’

  The dark shafts whistled away, a blur of movement against the cool morning sky, and Erik watched alongside the men of the Draki as the wicked darts converged on the portly figure of King Svasi. A heartbeat before they struck the king disappeared behind a wall of hastily raised shields, and Erik joined in the laughter as they watched men hobble away or go down. ‘That should rile them up, a nice tight pattern lads,’ he called as the Vikings before him yelled and gesticulated at their impotent opponents. Anlaf was at his side, the axe banner held high, and he murmured his concern as was his duty. ‘It is best we get back to our vantage point, lord,’ he said. ‘Of all the people on Midgard, the Finns are never shy to put their own bows to good use.’

  Erik nodded. If the Finnish tribes were noted for magic and skiing, their prowess with the distinctive short curved bows of the eastern lands was not far behind in the minds of westerners such as themselves. ‘You are right,’ he said, ‘we have done enough. Svasi has been humiliated. He must attack, and soon.’

  The pair, king and huskarl, looked across to the West; to the place where they had run down the blocking ship and sunk the great chain. The breeze was ruffling the surface, the early morning sunlight gilding the crests as eider bobbed and dipped. The men looked back, exchanging a knowing look at the peaceful scene, and Anlaf gripped the shaft of the battle banner a little tighter as his lord heft his axe and the first horn wailed at the foot of the hill.

  17

  SHIELDS!

  Erik’s eyes flicked from side to side as he prepared to enter the fray. A quick look told him that Arinbjorn and the men of the Sea Stallion were holding their own, despite the overwhelming numbers of Bjarmians who were desperately attempting to turn the position. Helgi was still in place, fighting like Thor himself as he anchored the battle line against the flaming timbers of the temple of Jomal, and Erik sent a plea to the strange foreign god that his old friend could hold out until they had the victory.

  Skipper Alf’s men on the opposite flank seemed to have been all but forgotten by the avenging army of Perminia, but he saw that they were holding their discipline, plugging the gap between the outhouse and the temple despite what must be an almost overwhelming desire to fall upon the ex
posed flank of the enemy.

  Finnish bowmen were skirting the edges of the fight, weaving and ducking as they sought a target for their powerful recurved weapons. Erik had let the best of his own bowmen choose their own place to fight, with orders to pick off any of their opposite number as the opportunity presented itself. It had contained the threat, but the steady stream of wounded men he had seen struggling back from the fighting pierced by shafts told the story that the deaths and woundings from the bowmen’s assault had only been lessened and not nullified completely.

  The heavy thunk of an arrowhead embedding itself into wood sounded at his side for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, and he gave the guardsman a clap on the shoulder in thanks; throwing them all a heartening comment as they lowered their shields and watched for more: ‘not long now lads.’

  He hoped that he was right, and he fought to push any images from his mind of the hundred and one disasters which could have overtaken the others, any one of which would spell death for the beleaguered Viking force.

  As if replying to Erik’s fears, Thorstein’s gleeful cry tore through Finnish air. ‘There it is!’

  As Erik’s face spun back to the West he was pleased to see that not one of his guard turned to follow his gaze despite what must have been an almost overpowering urge to do so, but he spoke to remind them of their duty, just in case. ‘Shields! Watch for those arrows boys, it would be a shame to take one now.’

  He looked out, over the heads of the crews of the Fjord Ulf and the Falki to the Dvina channel, and his heart leapt as he saw the prow beast of Ragnar Jarl’s skei carving the waters of the great river as it came on at full rowing speed. The beast heads of the other ships, the golden headed snekkjur that he knew so well, Reindyr, Bison and Okse leading the little Tranen, the Crane, the ship from Moerr, were clearing the confines of the northern channel and he spoke again, recalling the earlier conversation with Arinbjorn.

  ‘Anlaf!’

  ‘Yes lord?’

  ‘It is time for Gjallarhorn to play its part. Let my foster-brother know that we have the Jarl of Halogaland in sight.’

  The banner man let out a snort of amusement that his king could joke at such a time, and he spat into the grass to clear his mouth as the horn of Heimdall came up to his lips. A moment later the signal was made, and Erik watched as Arinbjorn’s own banner man dipped his raven flag in acknowledgment before moving it forward to signal the attack. A cry went up as the men of the Sea Stallion saw the sign, and Erik watched with mounting excitement as their chosen men entered the fight at last. Kept back for just this moment the wolf coats: axemen; sword men; surged forward as the battle line parted to let them through; smashing into the front ranks of the Bjarmian warriors, sweeping aside men who had thought themselves on the cusp of a famous victory only moments before like the bow wave before a ship. Erik watched as the swords and axes rose and fell, the flash of steel dimming with every passing moment as Finnish blood misted the air and darkened the blades. A final push and he thrilled to the sight as he saw they were through, curving to the South, racing to come between King Svasi and the safety of his town as Arinbjorn and the others streamed in their wake.

  Erik lifted his gaze, out across the heads of the main force of the enemy, as the first inklings of the disaster which was unfolding on their flank began to cause the men there to cast worried glances back towards the safety of the town walls. Ragnar’s Orm was already past the place where Erik had landed his force in the wan light of the pre dawn, the oarsmen beating the surface to froth as they raced upstream. The snekkjur were struggling manfully in the wake of the giant skei, but the crews were no slouches and he knew that they would be in position long before Svasi could mount a horse and make his escape. The moment had arrived to take the head from the beast, and Erik cried out as he fixed his grip on the shaft of the great battle axe.

  ‘Now!’

  A flash of pink as Anlaf’s tongue flicked out to moisten his lips and the war horn spoke again. The men before him began to ease aside but Erik and his guardsmen were already moving, shouldering their way into the press as they moved to seize the moment. Thorstein led the way, the others drawing their swords, hefting their shields as they moved forward to form the wedge that men called svinefylking, the boar head formation taught to the Dane king Harald Wartooth by Oðin himself.

  The crew of the Draki had scrambled aside at last, and Erik looked into the eyes of the first of the Bjarmians and saw the moment when the light of victory was replaced by the acceptance of imminent death as he watched the boar head crash towards him. Before the man could react Thorstein’s sword came down, shattering the horn plates of his battle helm to crush the skull within. As the first of the enemy fell way Thorstein pushed on, hacking down at helm and shoulder alike as the Bjarmians quailed before the onslaught.

  Erik stepped across the first bodies as the men at his side hacked and slashed, widening the breach, driving away the danger from their king as they drove forward. Safely ensconced within the wedge Erik raised his head, and a surge of excitement built within him as he saw how close they had already come to the war banner of his opposite number. Bearskin clad warriors were hastening to King Svasi’s side as they saw Erik’s axe banner reach the rear ranks of their own shield wall. Both sides knew that it was here that the weakest fighters congregated, battle shirkers and men carrying little more than kitchen knives and wood axes to the fight, and Erik heard the telltale swoosh as Norwegian sword blades cut only air and their opponents turned tail and fled before them.

  Little more than a dozen paces now stood between Erik’s svinefylking and the first of King Svasi’s bodyguard, and he fixed his eyes upon the bulk of the king as he came on. The king of Bjarmaland had chosen a slight rise in the land to plant his standard, a place where he could direct his warriors and oversee the expected victory against the raiders who had tormented his lands all summer. Ordinarily it would have been a position of strength, the height advantage enabling his men to beat down upon the heads of any attackers, but Thorstein was no ordinary warrior and Erik watched with satisfaction as his huskarl threw his shoulder into his shield and drove forward and up. The first of the bear-men staggered back as Thorstein punched into his midriff, dropping his shield instinctively to parry the blow, and he barely had time to recognise the horror of his mistake before Erik’s axe smashed into his shoulder. It was a tactic they had used in fights throughout the North, from the windswept glens of the Sudreys to the sun baked meadows of Pomerania; it rarely failed, and it succeeded again. Erik pulled the blow before muscle and bone could hold it fast, hooking the warrior out of line, and the Bjarmian’s cry of distress was stillborn as a following huskarl’s sword chopped down to drive the last breath away.

  Cries in his own tongue all around him told Erik that the main enemy line had broken, and he fixed his gaze upon the figure of the king as they cut their way towards him. King Svasi was looking anxiously from side to side as he sought an escape from the collapse of his army, but Erik saw the moment when he realised that his position was hopeless and the look of panic was replaced by the countenance of a man determined to sell his life dearly. The attack had slowed as the bearskins dug in and fought back with the determination of men well aware that their actions in the following moments would be recited in smoke filled halls for many winters, but Erik laid about with his battle axe, carving a bloody path towards the king as the thing which had drawn them to the flyblown north that spring was about to be realised.

  King Svasi hefted his spear as they approached, the morning sun gleaming from the gold chased blade as it caught the light, and a mournful moan rose above the field of battle as the last of his guard was chopped to the ground and the bear banner wavered and fell from sight.

  ‘I am King Erik Haraldsson, named by my father Bloodaxe,’ Erik called as their eyes met across the bloody remains of his guard. ‘King Harald of the Norwegians has sent me to take the blood price for your treachery, the day that you repaid his hospitality with
seith and a witch bride to share his bed. He wants you to know before you die that your daughter’s sons are being killed, one by one.’ He gave a snarl of triumph; ‘largely by myself, his favoured son.’

  King Svasi opened his mouth to make a reply, but Erik had said his piece and besides, it never paid to allow a man versed in sorcery an opportunity to cast a spell. Erik darted forward, Jomal already a blur of motion as it cut the air, and an instant later the head of the king was joining the others it had taken that morning as it fell away in a brume of blood. Twin columns pulsed from the cadaver as Erik’s own guardsmen stabbed bloodied sword blades skyward in their victory, and Erik cast a look about the battlefield as the body of the king crumpled and fell.

  The army of Perminia was streaming away, men showing their backs to the Vikings as they desperately sought out the safety of the town. Away to the south Ragnar Jarl and the men of the Orm were ashore, sweeping across the riverside to harry the flanks of the retreating army. Men were tumbling from the bows of the snekkjur to add their own spears to the slaughter work, and Erik snorted as he imagined the disappointment of the men there as it became clear that the Bjarmian collapse had robbed them of an opportunity to be in at the kill. The smaller hulls of their ships had snatched away the chance to be there for the culmination of a summer’s hard work, but each man had played his part, and any who lived to see his dotage could stand a little taller when a skald told the tale, and tell any who would listen that he fought with King Erik the year he had carried scathe to the land of the midnight sun and deprived King Svasi of his head.

  A cry of acclamation caused him to lower his eyes, and Erik flashed a grin in return as Arinbjorn and Helgi pushed through the crowd towards him. ‘I saw it!’ His foster-brother swirled a forefinger in the air and described an arc. ‘I looked across just in time to see old Svasi’s head spinning through the air like a top!’ The pair of them laughed again as Arinbjorn jerked his chin towards Erik’s axe. ‘I take it that was Jomal’s work?’