Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  Erik felt a thrill course through his body as he realised the opportunity which was presenting itself as if from nowhere. ‘This is very important,’ he said as he fixed the hunter with his gaze, ‘think carefully before you answer.’ Kari nodded. ‘You say that Gudrod was accompanied by his hird. Are you certain there were no men of the levy among their number or following on behind?’

  ‘Yes lord, I am certain, there is no way that even an old country boy like me could confuse the two. One lot are warriors in magnificent war gear, with fine horses and built like trolls. The other are bonder and fishermen armed with the tools of their trade and a hardened leather cap and jerkin if they are lucky.’

  Arinbjorn nodded at Erik’s side. ‘It makes sense. This time of year, approaching the end of summer, the men are needed in the fields. You don’t need me to tell you that the law states that levy men must be released to harvest the crop.’ He cast a look across the glassy waters of the sound to the hills opposite. Every night the number of fires burning there told the same story. Men were beginning to take the long trek home as the period of their enlistment came to an end.

  Erik slipped a gold ring from his arm and passed it to the dumbstruck hunter. ‘Here, this is a mark of my appreciation for all that you have done for me, now and in the past. Take yourself down to my hall and eat your fill, while I discuss with Arinbjorn how to react to your news.’ As Kari went to remount his horse Erik called across as a thought pushed itself to the fore. ‘Before you do, Helgi and Horse Hair Gisli are down by the water’s edge.’ He pointed the group of swimmers out as the huntsman pulled himself into the saddle.

  ‘Yes lord, I can see them.’

  ‘My men Anlaf and Thorstein are with them. Hurry down and tell them to send the fastest ship available to tell the jarl of Halogaland to return with the utmost urgency. Do you understand?’

  Kari gave a curt nod as he hauled the head of his mount around, casting another look of disbelief at the ring gracing his forearm as he set off back down the hill. Erik turned to Arinbjorn as a hundred thoughts swirled through his mind, until a few began to coalesce and form themselves into a single word:

  ‘Attack!’

  ‘What if Gudrod has returned home by the time we cross the mountains?’

  ‘He will still be there, I am certain of it,’ Erik replied. ‘Kings can’t just drop by, say a few hellos, make a few plans and then piss off home. There will be feasts, skalds, weapon play and a good deal of drinking. Besides, we will not be crossing the mountains.’ He ran a finger across his tongue and held it high. ‘A westerly, blowing nice and steady as we found out when we were spraying the hillside,’ he said with a smile of triumph. ‘It usually does at this time of the year.’

  Arinbjorn nodded as he caught on. ‘And they cannot sail home even if they were given ships by their generous host, because they would have to beat against the prevailing wind far out to sea or sail right past us here. It would be quicker to walk back to the Trondelag.’

  ‘Attack now and we have them,’ Erik said as the light of victory began to shine in his eyes. ‘Our lands here are safe because we know that the men needed to fill Gudrod and Sigurd Jarl’s ships are away in the South. They are shorn of the levy due to the harvesting, and no doubt made groggy by a month of drinking and debauchery. Get the men on the ships, and as soon as Ragnar returns with his Halogalanders, we sail.’

  25

  THE HARRYING

  Sailcloth strained, shrouds and stays thrummed as the Draki buried her prow in the swell, climbed the next roller and surged ahead. Spray and windblown spume curled eastwards from wave tops silvered by the light of the moon as Erik cast a look astern. If anything the conditions were just too perfect for their headlong dash to the Fold. The westerly blew strong and steady through a night made day by the full moon which shone from a cloudless sky. The way ahead clear any fears of collision with other ships or land had melted away, and Erik’s fleet had bent on sail and flown as men tried to snatch a few hours sleep wherever they could find a space. But the same conditions which allowed them to sail through the night were also scattering the fleet as the long, lean hulls of the skei surged ahead, and Erik knew that there was only one thing to be done. ‘It’s no good,’ he said before sending a ball of phlegm spinning out into the void. ‘We will have to rein the old girl in if we are not to arrive piecemeal.’

  ‘It’s a shame,’ Kolbein replied. ‘But it’s the right decision lord.’ The styrisman cast a look back across his shoulder as he held a steady course. Half a mile astern the snekkjur were bounding the waves; they were not a problem, they would be up in no time once they reached the entrance to Tunsberg Fjord. Astern of the powerful warships the mast tops of the karvi were now only visible each time that the Draki breasted the swell, the fuller, shorter hulls of the craft which made them such fine workhorses no match for their sleeker brothers when it came to all out speed.

  ‘How long ago did we double Lindesnes and steer nor-eastward, half a day?’

  Kolbein wrinkled his nose as he thought. ‘A bit more?’

  Erik cast a look outboard. Ten miles or so off the larboard quarter a dark line marked the islands and skerries which girded the rich farmlands of the Vestfold. Men there slept soundly in their beds or tossed and turned as troubled minds wrestled with the everyday concerns of life, still unaware that the coming dawn would render such things footling.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There is no shame at all. The gods are working for us old friend. Shorten sail and we can gather our wolf pack for the final run in.’ His teeth flashed white in the moonlight as Kolbein called the order and men leapt to work the sheets and priare. ‘We have a day of fire and steel ahead of us.’

  The warriors watched with amusement as the styrisman on the boat worked the steering oar back and forth, his indecision reflected in the movement of the craft as the stern of the little knarr wagged its tail like a dog. Finally they recognised the moment when the boatman knew he must trust his fate to the gods, and he turned the knarr seaward hoping to bluff his way through the warships unscathed.

  The Draki was in the van where a king’s ship should be, and Erik snorted at Kolbein’s remark as he ordered the crew to back their oars; the trader threw them a cheery smile and raised a hand in greeting. ‘He must have the balls of Thor himself; the cheeky bastard!’

  Erik had dressed for battle as the first grey light of the false dawn had scored the eastern sky. Now the sun was up and he shone like the morning star itself; a king of Norway in his war glory. The whole was meant to intimidate as much as protect him from sword’s bite or the thrust of a spear, but the man in the ship below him seemed unfazed and Erik felt himself warming to him as he called out across the gap. ‘What cargo, chapman?’

  ‘Ship’s stores mainly, lord. Sealskin rope, barrels of nails and pitch.’ He raised his chin and indicated towards the front of the hold, ‘plus a few ells of wadmal for the lassies.’

  Thorstein had stepped up onto the steering platform, and he made a comment as they ran their eyes over the trader’s stock. ‘Pitch, rope and a few lengths of wool cloth; nice and smoky.’

  The comment caused Erik to raise his head and he swept both shorelines with his gaze. Columns of thick dark smoke were climbing into the late summer sky from both banks as Arinbjorn and Ragnar harried the farms and settlements there, and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as another petal of flame blossomed into life. Men standing guard on the high walls of Tunsberg would be pointing their spears to the South as the dark cloud stained the horizon, and the young kings would be hastening from their bowers as the wail of signal horns drifted across the berg. The timing of their arrival had been gods-given, allowing Gudrod and Olav enough time to gather their hird, but not enough to muster the levy. Even though outnumbered, honour would force them to confront the Vikings doing scathe on their doorstep, and Erik congratulated himself as he turned his gaze back to the knarr. ‘Can you all swim?’

  The styrisman’s shoulders slumped visibly as
he realised the implication of the king’s words, but he quickly recovered his wit and Erik fought back a smile as the man threw his arms wide and screwed up his face. ‘This is all I have in the world, lord,’ he pleaded, ‘my ship and my sons here.’

  The two lads whipped off their leather caps and wrung them to rope, and Erik finally chuckled as he saw that they too had the flogged hound look of their father down to perfection. Erik fished inside the purse that hung at his waist and pulled out a length of gold the width of his thumb. ‘Something tells me that you have the wits to be worth far more than a leaky old tub and a few ells of homespun, but no matter. Here.’ he said, tossing the treasure across. ‘Buy yourself a bigger knarr.’ He flicked a look at the two lads and back to the father. ‘And put some aside to pay off outraged fathers when they come calling, demanding compensation for their daughters’ loss of marriage prospects.’

  The gold disappeared inside the trader’s shirt and the trio slipped into the water as silkily as otters, striking out for the nearby shore as men jumped across to set the fires. ‘Quickly does it lads,’ Erik called. ‘My brothers are waiting for me and it’s rude to be late.’ It was the work of a few moments for men well used to plundering Christendom, and soon the spearmen were scrambling back aboard as the Draki got underway and the first wisps of oily smoke curled skywards.

  Thorstein recognised the long drawn out island midstream from their homeward journey following Bjorn’s death, and he turned to his king as a hand moved up to check the chin strap of his helm. ‘We pass that and we are into the final run-in Erik,’ he said. The king nodded. ‘I recognise it myself.’

  Anlaf as banner man was at his lord’s side, and Erik gave him the nod that it was time to call in the Vikings for the final attack. As the strident notes drifted across the waters of Tunsberg Fjord Erik moved down the ship, swapping smiles and cheery banter with the crewmen as they rechecked their straps and armour and gave a final edge to spear, sword or axe blade.

  Arinbjorn and the men of Fjordane had passed from his sight as they doubled the island, but no new lines of smoke were staining the sky to larboard and Erik’s stomach gave an involuntary kick as an image of his foster-brother hurrying the men back to the ships flashed through his mind. To starboard Ragnar Jarl and his Halogalanders had already made their hulls, the oarsmen curling their backs as they beat the mirror smooth waters of the fjord to foam.

  The snarling prow beast of Erik’s ship cleared the island, and the king of Norwegians retreated the few steps to the tall stern post as he looked back with pride at his war fleet. Ragnar’s ships were closer, the gaudy war banners which topped each mast hanging limp in the still airs, but a quick look to his right showed that the men of Fjordane were coming up fast. The sky to the South was storm black as the higher winds teased the smoke columns apart and Erik grunted with satisfaction; short of spears or not, no man could hope to ignore such a challenge in his heartland and expect to remain the king. Olav and Gudrod had to abandon the safety of the berg, they must come out and fight.

  Ahead of them the fjord doglegged to the left before straightening out for the final mile; it would force Ragnar out wide, giving Arinbjorn the opportunity to make up the distance before they hit the beach, and Erik turned back, reassured that his disposition was sound. The turn was coming up fast as the rowers swept the lithe warship forward with easy strokes, and Erik strained to catch the first glimpse of the enemy shoreline as Kolbein hauled at the tiller and brought the Draki onto the final heading.

  The head of the fjord came into view, and then as they grew nearer still the fortress of Tunsberg itself perched upon its rocky outcrop. Away to the left, just beyond the rise, lay the place where they had surprised King Bjorn as he drank to Erik’s humiliation and raised a horn to the nearness of his death. Well, Erik had shown the upstart why Harald Fairhair had chosen him above all his other sons to follow in his footsteps as high king of the Norwegians, and he would do so again; here, today, at this place.

  A breath of wind returned to the balmy airs and the crack from above drew Erik’s eyes to the mast top. At long last his blood-axe banner was in plain sight; there could be no doubt now in the town up ahead who was coming to visit fire and sword upon them, and as if in confirmation Thorstein gripped his arm as he exclaimed with delight. ‘There, Erik!’

  A gaggle of horsemen were galloping from the town gate towards a grassy knoll at the midpoint between Tunsberg and the place where a river emptied into the fjord. Erik narrowed his eyes, and a kick of excitement mixed with relief flooded through his body as he saw that the battle flags of Vestfold and the Trondelag streamed above them. It was all the confirmation he required as to the identities of the riders who rode beneath them, and he clapped Thorstein on the arm as he skipped down from the steering platform. ‘Come on,’ he said breezily. ‘Or you will miss the fun!’

  The fjord widened as it approached its head and Erik threw a look from side to side as the strand crept closer. Ragnar’s Orm was there, the jarl busy in the bows as he prepared to lead his men ashore. Arinbjorn’s Sea Stallion had made up the lost ground and now lay off the larboard beam, and Erik’s foster-brother glanced across to shoot him a smile as Helgi and Horse Hair Gisli moved to his side with expressions as grim as Oðin himself. Thorstein moved forward, rolling his shoulders for the hard work ahead, but Erik placed a hand on his huskarl’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘I am to be first man ashore today. It will give our army a fillip to see their king the first man to vault the wale, and it will send a shiver through the enemy ranks when they see how keen I am to come to grips.’

  Thorstein took a backwards pace and threw his lord a wink. ‘They might think that, Erik. But we both know that I will be a pace away. If any danger threatens, I will be at your shoulder.’

  A cry came from astern, and Erik’s attention returned to the field ahead as the oarsmen put on a spurt of speed for the final run in. More and more men were streaming from the berg, crossing the skyline like a great silvered serpent as they hurried across to form up beneath their kings’ standards, and Erik was suddenly overcome with a feeling of disgust that it had come to this. Their father Harald Fairhair, the greatest Norseman who had ever lived, had chosen Erik to follow him as high king of the Norwegians. That the king had seen something in him that made him rise above them in his estimation was neither here nor there; Erik had never intended nor threatened to remove any of his brothers from the kingdoms which had been granted by their father. But jealousy had made them conspire against him; now he was the Half Dane, Erikr Danøx, the father of witchlings. Good men, blameless men, fellow Norwegians would die for their greed, and a resolve came upon him that he would wipe his brothers from the face of Midgard.

  The beach was filling his view now, and a moment later the keel shushed the sand before driving hard aground. Erik was up on the wale and leaping into the shallows as the sound of oars clattering to decks filled the strand like rolling thunder, and splashing ashore he took a moment to take in the scene. Longships were driving ashore all along the beach, their prow beasts: dragons; wolves; bears; snarling at the spirits which inhabited the enemy shore as the morning sun blushed them to red-gold. Erik was already moving as the men began to tumble from the hulls and in a few paces he was off the sand, gripping his shield a little tighter as he drew his sword across his body and the ground firmed beneath his feet.

  Thorstein and Anlaf Crow were the first to reach him, and the banner man planted Erik’s blood-axe sigil in the soil of his enemies as the war cries of his army filled the air. Satisfied that they had reached the place of battle unscathed, Erik raised his eyes to the hillock as he began to plan his attack, but Thorstein stiffened at his side and he scanned the hillside for any sign of danger.

  A horseman had seen the war flag and detached himself from the crowd, hoping to cut the head off the enemy snake and win the day before another blow could be struck. Peeling off from a group of latecomers the rider was already close, and the sound of hoofbeats were loud in his
ears as he watched the warrior prepare to launch his spear. Thorstein threw himself before his lord, raising his shield to parry the throw, but Erik had other ideas and he barked an order as he darted forward.

  ‘Stay here!’

  Before the men could acknowledge his order Erik had burst forward into a run, and the breath sounded loud in his ears as the gap to the horseman shrank. The man released but Erik’s tactic had taken him by surprise, and although he attempted to adjust the angle of the throw before he let fly the dart deflected harmlessly off the rim of his shield. Erik dodged back then, dropping the board as his opponent struggled to draw his sword. Erik watched as the blade came free, but the look of triumph which flashed across the rider’s face when he saw that the enemy king was shieldless lasted little more than a heartbeat as he threw himself forward onto the grass. Erik’s head tucked under, and he rolled as the horseman drew rein and attempted to bring the king back under his blade, but Erik was rolling back to his feet and his own blade swept across to sever the horse’s leg at the hock. As the horse went down with a scream of pain and the rider attempted to leap clear Erik was pivoting, scything the sword back and across to take the man in the small of the back. All the anger and frustration Erik felt towards the actions of his brothers was channelled into the blow, and he felt the blade bite through mail and flesh before coming to a halt as it lodged itself deep within the rider’s hip bone.

  As the shrieks of man and horse died away Erik realised for the first time that a deathlike silence had descended upon the field as the men of both armies watched the fight. Oðin would give the victory to the man most deserving of it whether through bravery or just cause, and the waterfront exploded with noise as Erik walked forward to send his opponent across the rainbow bridge. Thorstein and Anlaf were hurrying across to their lord’s side now that the victory had been gained, and Erik raised his gaze to drink in the sight as hundreds of men stabbed the air and beat a staccato thrum on their shield as they celebrated their king’s victory. ‘It is time to return lord,’ Thorstein was saying as he flicked a worried look over Erik’s shoulder. ‘We are too close to the enemy.’