The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  Sturla moved forward to point with the toe of a boot. ‘The bridge up ahead, lord,’ he said. ‘I know that it is a couple of miles from the camp, but now they are settled in for the night do you think they might have thought to set a guard?’

  Erik’s eyes widened. ‘That is a very good question. Obviously it was unguarded when the scouts came back that way, and it’s still unlikely even if they are aware of its existence. As far as they know there is not an enemy spear within fifty miles — it’s both the reason for our long ride today and why my rump feels like it’s been kicked by a mule. But you are right,’ he continued as his quip broke the tension among them, ‘it is best to be sure. Go and tell one of the scouts to ride ahead and check as quick as he can. If we don’t hear from him we will assume it’s clear and take a chance — we just don’t have the time to waste. If there are men there we will have to hit them hard and hope that none get away to raise the alarm.’ As the banner man scuttled off, Erik swept them all with a final look. ‘Is that it? Good, let’s get moving!’

  The sight of Arnkel and Erland jogging back to their crews had the last men at the riverside coaxing the thirsty mounts back into line, and Erik and his guardsmen hauled themselves into the saddle as Sturla returned from his task. Erik raised his head as the clatter of hooves drew his attention back to the footpath, the russet cloak common among scouts everywhere growing indistinct as the rider urged his mount beyond the woodland edge. A sweep of his eyes took in those closest to him as the pre-battle thrill put new life into travel weary men, and he did a quick check that his weapons were to hand as he watched his shipmen doing the same. Erik raised an arm in the sign that the advance recommence, and when he saw that the army was ready to ride his heels went back to send the horse on its way.

  Within a mile the track was angling away from the watercourse, and as the trees closed in Erik cursed as he was forced to drop the pace. Bunched together in single file, hundreds of horsemen were pounding along a woodland track more suited to the footfall of deer and men. At any moment a missed tree root or overhanging branch could take down a horse or unsaddle a rider bringing the whole column to a halt, but to his relief the trees soon drew back, and Erik’s heart leapt as he saw the scout waiting patiently for him on a well made road up ahead. Bursting free from the woodland he guided the head of his horse to the north, slowing the headlong dash just enough to allow the man to slip alongside and make his report.

  ‘The bridge is clear lord,’ the youngster cried above the sound of beating hooves. ‘There is no sign of man nor beast.’

  Erik flashed him a smile. ‘And this road leads directly there?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ the scout confirmed. ‘It is little more than a mile ahead. Cross the bridge and the road which leads to Haydon is a short distance beyond.’

  The words drifted behind him along with their owner as Erik urged the horse into a gallop, and he sensed his leading men moving up to his flanks as the raiding army of Erik Bloodaxe swelled to fill the width of the roadway. A flash of light as they came clear of the trees, and the rumble of hooves became a thunderous clatter as they gained the stone bridge, crossed the Tine and swept on. Erik’s eyes pierced the gathering gloom as they plunged back into the tree cover on the northern bank, but as he led the riders in a gentle turn the road which led to his destination was lit by the last of the day’s light slanting in from the West. A heartbeat later he was heading east, three ships’ crew of spear Norse roaring along in his wake, and Erik raised his eyes to spy out the roadway ahead as a hand moved back to loosen the binding holding his war axe secure at his shoulder.

  The setting sun lay directly to the west, a bale fire throwing long shadows ahead as Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter moved alongside, and Erik felt the familiar thrill of battle building within as Sturla Godi tucked in behind. Within moments a new silhouette joined the shadows of the riders on the roadway ahead, as the Romsdaler raised the flagstaff aloft and Erik’s war banner flew. With the road before them arrow straight and gilded by the sun Erik dug in his heels to goad the horse into lengthening his stride, and as the settlement grew nearer and the first signs of movement were seen up ahead Erik reached back to draw Jomal.

  At the outskirts of Haydon sunlight danced on polished steel, and a lifetime of war-play told Erik that it was not the benign shimmer from helm or shield boss but the flash of spear blades being raised. These men were clearly resolute and well led, and as a volley was released to arc towards the leading riders a horn brayed a warning of their attack to the men in the settlement beyond. Erik hunkered down behind the neck of his horse as the javelins flew, firming his grip on the handle of the war axe as he willed the last few yards away. A blur as the spear flashed by a whisker away and the death cries of hirdmen to his rear told that not every man had seen the danger in time, but he was close enough now to see the terror on the faces of the enemy spearmen as they made a last gasp leap for the roadside. One left it too late, and Erik caught the dreamlike sight at the edge of his vision as the Cumbrian’s broken body corkscrewed ahead of the party to be swallowed up by the shadows. Norse war horns keened their death songs now, and as the trees retreated and the charging Northmen gave voice to their battle cries, the roofs of Haydon swam into view.

  6

  Red Beard

  A momentary glimpse of thatch blushed honey gold in the rays of the dying sun, of horrified faces turned their way as villagers scattered like startled deer or shrank back against the walls of the dwellings. The mad drumbeat of hooves redoubled as Erik led his raiders into heart of the settlement, reverberating back from wattle and paling as he urged the horse on. Directly in his path a young girl froze in terror as the tide of horseflesh thundered towards her amid a flurry of panicky hens. Unable to steer his mount aside in the constricted space of the village Erik winced, steeling himself to hear the sound of her screams snuffed out along with her life, but at the last moment a youth shot from a doorway to snatch her to safety and Erik raised his eyes as he put the village behind him, the roadway widened, and he caught his first sight of the enemy camp.

  To Erik’s surprise the campsite appeared deserted and he almost curbed his mount, fearing a trap, but the distinctive smell of woodsmoke hung in the evening air and he felt a kick of excitement as he realised that he had caught the enemy at their most vulnerable. The horses barely paused as the first of the tents were ridden down, and a heartbeat later Erik had his suspicions confirmed when he spotted the men of Cumbraland in ranks, their spears and swords swapped for bowls and spoons as they waited for the evening meal to be doled out from great steaming cauldrons.

  A whoop of joy caused Erik to turn his head aside — Thorstein had seen how the gods have favoured them, and before he turned back Erik caught a glimpse of Arnkel’s Iron Beards hugging the riverside as they rode north to slam the trap shut. Screams and cries told them that not all the tents were without occupants, and Erik roared his battle cry as the horses rode over them and the braying of battle horns filled the air. Within moments the cry was taken up — Blóðøx! Blóðøx! — and Erik cut across the camp as he saw the first Cumbrians recover their wits, hurling bowls aside as they made for the tent lines and the spears stacked neatly in their racks. These were the most dangerous men, men whose first reaction to seeing a host of charging Norsemen was not to turn tail and flee but arm themselves and turn their faces to the foe, and Erik left the food lines to those following on as he hauled at the reins to cut them off. A visage appeared at a tent flap, the confusion of a mind fogged by sleep swept away in an instant as Jomal took the face clean off. The Dane axe whirred through the air again as Erik came up upon the rearmost runners, the heavy blade paring flesh and smashing bone as the king cut a deadly path.

  A handful of Cumbrians had reached the spear stacks, the quickest and brightest among them snatching up shields as they shuffled shoulder to shoulder and turned their faces to the enemy. The semblance of a coordinated defence was beginning to coalesce around a red bearded giant, and Erik thought to re
trieve his own spear from its carrying place as more men arrived by the moment to add to their numbers. But the distance between them was shrinking quickly as the horse cantered on, and he was forced to lay the idea aside as he realised the chance to do so had already passed.

  Set in their shield wall now Erik knew that the advantages were beginning to favour the defenders; even trained war horses were reluctant to approach a tightly packed spear hedge and he urged his mount forward, desperate to close the gap before the wall could fully form. Erik continued to swing Jomal as he drew closer to the enemy, but with all his attention fixed upon the men lined up before him the first inkling he had of the counterattack which unhorsed him was when the head of his mount dropped from sight and he began to topple from the saddle. Erik kicked himself clear as the horse pitched forward, and as he crashed to the ground he was already dropping a shoulder. The instant he hit he continued to roll, springing back to his feet to take up a fighting stance as he prepared to defend himself from the follow-up strike. Held secure by its lanyard Jomal was still in his hand, and Erik swept the deadly blade in an arc as his eyes searched for the assailant. Before he could pick the man out from the crowd his ship mates had moved up in support, the king now standing like a rock midstream as they swept past to either side. Erik relaxed a touch as the threat subsided, shouldering the haft lest he kill or injure one of his own, and within moments Sturla and Thorstein had drawn alongside.

  Seeing his lord fall Helgrim Smiter had taken over leadership of the main attack, and Erik watched with satisfaction as the huskarl led the crew of the Draki across to envelop red beard and his Cumbrians. Surrounded now it was only a matter of time before any resistance ended there, and Erik searched the meadow as more of his crewmen peeled off from the column and slid to the turf. Nearby a bloody trail led to the place where Erik’s horse still screamed in its agony, and Erik saw for the first time what had brought it down. A hoof had been taken off just below the fetlock, and Erik turned his head to Thorstein as he readjusted his helm. ‘What happened?’

  The big huskarl spat, indicating the beleaguered Cumbrians with a flick of the head. ‘While you were unsighted the big lad with the red beard came forward to hurl a hand axe — it took your horse’s hoof clean off. It was a good shot too,’ he added begrudgingly, ‘whirling in low where you wouldn’t see it coming.’ Erik looked. The horse was on its side, three legs and a bloody stump thrashing the air as it attempted to right itself; but there was no hope for a three legged horse, and he trotted across to bury Jomal in its skull as the army continued to sweep through the camp. Olvir had already darted in to retrieve his lord’s shield from its place on the crupper, risking a shattered skull of his own as the wounded horse had beat the air, and the Vestfolder handed the board across as Erik’s crewmen began to gather about their lord.

  Erik nodded his thanks as he closed his fingers about the grip, and a quick headcount told him that roughly half of the hird had witnessed their lord take a tumble and had turned aside to come to his aid. The attacking force immediately available to him had been weakened, but Erik was still confident that thirty-something spear Norse would overcome thrice their number of Cumbrians. A quick look to the west told him that Helgrim and the rest of his crewmen were already mopping up the best of the enemy fighters, red beard now the core of a rapidly shrinking band as Norse horsemen circled, spears and swords jabbing and chopping down onto the heads and shoulders of the last of his companions. Beyond them Erik caught a glimpse of Erland Torf-Einarsson’s Valkyries as they galloped past the church, already nearing the point where they would begin to sweep downhill to close the net.

  Reassured that Helgrim and the rest of his hirdmen would soon ride in support and mindful of the time already lost Erik snapped an order, and Sturla spat to clear his mouth of spittle as the battle horn came up. As the strident howl cut the air Erik broke into a run, the king’s eyes scanning the field as he searched for the point where he could strike the enemy hardest. The ordered lines of hungry men had dispersed now that the nature of the threat had revealed itself, and Erik’s eyes searched for the places where they must be coming together to begin the fightback as he ran. The best places to make a stand were to the east and west of the tangled knot of tents and guy ropes which crisscrossed the rising ground, near the little church or the waterside at the base of the slope where they could make a stand with their backs to the river — but a quick check told him that Erland and Arnkel’s men were already there, working their way towards the centre of the field like beaters at the hunt. As the net drew tighter, Erik knew that the enemy had only one place to go. ‘Make for the centre of the camp,’ he shouted above the clamour, ‘a silver arm ring for every man who takes a banner!’

  The men of the Draki gave a roar and surged ahead as Thorstein’s shout drew Erik’s eyes to the north. ‘There they are — they look like they are pulling the wagons together, we need to be quick!’

  Several of the men who had ridden with Helgrim had already removed themselves from red beard’s last stand in search of fresh opponents, riding down the final few tents as they cleared a path for their shipmates. The way ahead clear the horsemen wheeled away, and Erik cursed as he saw that Thorstein was right. Most armies collected the carts and wagons carrying foodstuffs, armour and the heavier weapons at the centre of the camp when they settled in for an overnight stop, and the Cumbrians were no different. Realising that they were hemmed in on all sides the remaining fighters had made a dash for the place which offered the best chance for survival, and they were within an ace of forming a circle with the transports, a final redoubt within which they hoped to beat back the attackers and hold out until morning. Erik knew as well as the enemy that if they failed to appear at the muster in Corebricg at the appointed time the king of Cumbraland would send men to find out why and his battle plan would fail.

  In the time it had taken Erik to see the threat Thorstein was several yards ahead, men streaming in his wake as they sought to stop the final wagons from coming together to complete the laager. Erik followed on as Sturla moved to his side, a tight knot of men gathering protectively around the pair as the younger crewmen fought down the instinct to outpace the king. The last of the broken tents were behind him now, and Erik increased the pace as the wagons reared up ahead. Thorstein and his followers were already fighting in the space where the enemy had hoped to seal the wall, the flash of blades and cries of battle filling the air as they slashed and forced their way into the compound, and Erik turned aside as he saw that the arrival of the king and his supporters would only add to the crush.

  Either side of the gap spearmen were lining the sides of the wagons behind a barricade of interlocking shields, and Erik let his own shield fall to the earth to take a double-handed grip on the haft of Jomal as he readied himself for the assault. Shorn of his defence the king of York was as vulnerable as he was ever likely to be to a thrown spear or loosed arrow, but his men had realised his plight and a volley of javelins drove the defenders back as he ran. As the enemy shields came up to deflect the barrage Erik’s mind was calculating the distance to the nearest wheel, and he adjusted his stride as his eyes searched out a foothold.

  Faces were beginning to reappear around shield rims as the last Norwegian spears thudded into the lime wood boards, but Erik was upon them now and his foot found a spoke as he launched himself upward. Jomal swung as he came up, the great blade whipping around in a savage arc, driving the nearest Cumbrians back from the side of the wagon and breaking the shield wall’s cohesion. With a final push Erik was clearing the box boards to land with a crash on the wagon bed, and he let out his war cry as the Dane axe scythed the air all around. Desperate to reform their battle line before the arrival of Erik’s men the Cumbrians began probing with their spears, each man waiting until Jomal’s silver blade had passed by on its deadly circuit before jumping in to stab at the axeman before them. Erik was rolling on the balls of his feet as he danced between each jab, and he took a sideways step and then another as he be
gan to work his way down the defensive line. As his axe swept the Cumbrian defenders aside the battle cry of his war band sounded again close by — Blóðøx! Blóðøx! — and he knew that his men had gained a foothold on the carriage to his rear.

  Outflanked the spearmen lining the side boards shrank back, but the king’s solo attack had bunched up the remaining defenders and there was nowhere left to hide. Jomal came around to take the nearest fighter’s head from his shoulders before he could raise his shield in defence, and before the headless body even had time to fall to the boards the war axe was coming around again. Already bespattered with the blood and gore of his friend the next man in line managed to hurl himself aside, but Erik had broken the line and the first defenders were beginning to save themselves from his savage onslaught by hurling themselves over the side and into the centre of the corral. Distracted by the king’s attack, those who remained were beginning to fall to well aimed spear thrusts from the Norsemen still waiting to clamber aboard, and as the last of them fell or took flight Erik paused as he used the vantage point to gauge how the assault was progressing. A glance to the left told him that Thorstein had crushed the opposition from the Cumbrians at the gap in the wagon line, and the Norwegians were successfully fighting their way into the compound itself. To the right the last of the enemy spearmen lining the wain had been driven across the back boards, and with Jomal now still the men who had accompanied Erik in his charge across the campsite were pouring across the flatbed as they came on in pursuit.