The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  Erik felt the familiar sensation in the final moments before the armies clashed, an intoxicating desire to get to grips with the foe as the gods and the heroes of old looked down from their heavenly halls, quaffed mead and lay odds on the victors. An instant later the mood was shattered as linden boards met, steel clashed on steel and men roared in fear and anger in a storm of sound that tore the sky. Immediately the formation closed up, the loose order so necessary to enable heavily armed men to run full pelt downhill transforming in a moment into a living ram as Grettir and Gunnar at the point of the wedge shoved and stabbed. Kolbein and Helgrim raised their shields as they moved shoulder to shoulder with their king, their eyes darting this way and that as they guarded against javelin, spear and sword. Steel flashed in the morning sun, blades hacking and chopping to either side as the wedge drove deeper and deeper into the belly of the enemy host.

  Erik’s safety guaranteed by the alertness of his oath sworn, the king risked a last-gasp glance to either side before the rest of the attacking force became lost from view. On his righthand side Erik saw with satisfaction that the flag of Orkney had already broken through the thinner enemy lines there, the old tusker flying proudly above a field of helmed heads as the leading men spilled out into the clear space beyond. But if Erland’s breakthrough had pleased the king, a quick look to the east caused his heart to soar as he watched the flag of Bernicia teased out in a breath of wind. Already on the point of a breakthrough, it was obvious that Maccus the Easterner and his men had accepted their lot, that the only way they would escape from the situation that fate had forced upon them that day was directly through the ranks of their erstwhile allies. Every man on the battlefield would soon know that Earl Oswulf’s flag had been seen fighting alongside that of Erik Bloodaxe, and even the most complete victories rarely resulted in the annihilation of an enemy host. Soon every king, thane and earl on the island of Britain and beyond would have heard the tale.

  Satisfied, Erik’s head switched back. In the short time it had taken to check on the progress to either flank his own boar snout had widened as the point drove on, and the men at his side were already beginning to bring their blades down onto the heads of the enemy as they enlarged the breach. Only a short distance ahead Erik recognised the arms and armour of the men who had stood guard on Dere Street, clustering about the alleyway as king Dyfnwal had fled the carnage, and he began to drive forward as the climax of his third fight in less than a day approached. Sturla Godi raised the battle horn to his lips as they went, and as the distinctive wail rose into the air Erik raised Jomal. At the tip of the battle wedge Gunnar and Grettir turned outwards at the sound to clear a path for the king, and Erik watched gleefully as the warrior who had been channelling all of his strength into pushing back against their attack tumbled forward as the resistance suddenly vanished. Erik ground the man’s face into the dirt with the sole of a boot as he forced his way through, leaving the stunned and helpless swordsman to be despatched to Christ’s safekeeping by those following on. Jomal swung as the enemy came into reach, and Erik watched as the man who had been in the second rank only moments before desperately snatched his shield across to parry the blow. To the king’s anger the defender was successful, and Erik felt the shock of the strike jar his arm as the battle axe buried itself deeply into the face of the shield, but if his opponent thought that he had thwarted the attack he was to be disappointed. Erik tugged at the haft as Helgrim moved to his side, and as his opponent’s arm shot forward the huskarl’s sword was already a blur. Erik looked on as the blade came down, and he saw the horror of the moment reflected in the guard’s features as he realised what must follow. Before the man could attempt to recover Helgrim’s sword blade had cut through muscle and bone, and as the fighter’s roar of defiance became a scream of pain and horror Jomal finally came free. Erik shifted his grip as it did so, sliding his hands along the haft as the heel came up to pulp the Cumbrian’s nose, and as the man staggered under the blows Helgrim’s sword flicked out again to open his throat.

  If the first to fall to his attack had provided little by way of resistance, Erik saw immediately that the man who now stepped forward to take his place in the front line was of a different mettle. Glinting jewel-like above a beard as black as jet, the eyes of a killer stared from a face that told of a life spent in harm’s way, and Erik knew that it would take guile as much as brute strength to quickly overcome such a man or risk the attack stalling; he called across his shoulder as he began to swing the axe: ‘Sturla — the flag!’

  It was a ploy they had perfected and used time and again on battlefields from Finnmark to Serkland and Erik dipped a shoulder, skewing his body as Jomal swung. As Dyfnwal’s bodyguard braced to deflect the strike the blooded axe banner of Erik Haraldsson shot forward to screen his view; blinded the swordsman never saw the moment when Erik’s axe changed tack but the pain when it came was real enough, and Erik rushed in to shoulder him aside as he tugged the axe free and stepped up to break the line.

  Erik raised his chin, thrilling to the sight which met his eyes as Kolbein and Helgrim Smiter fought their way back to his side. There, not more than half a dozen paces away, the king of Strathclyde had accepted that he too must fight this day and was finally drawing his sword.

  10

  Bone-Fires

  Erik swung again as the men of the Draki began to pivot forward on either flank, the axe blade glancing off a shoulder to hew the crown from the next man in line like lopping the top from an egg. The king stepped up, plunging deeper and deeper into the enemy shield-fort as his war axe came around to strike again. Faced by a wooden wall Erik changed the trajectory of the strike with a deft flick, but if he felt satisfaction as the bearded blade bit deeply into the shoulder of the next victim to fall that morning the joy was to be short lived. A counter shove came from the men facing him, the steel dome of a shield boss forcing the breath from his lungs in an explosion of spittle flecked air. As Erik was forced to take a backwards step he watched in horror as the glittering arc of an enemy sword blade swept down towards his exposed wrist. For a heart stopping moment it appeared to the king as if his hand was to share the fate of his late opponent, to be trampled into the mud of the flood plain along with the axe it held, but the swordsman’s look of triumph was extinguished in an instant as Kolbein’s wide board swept across to draw the power from the strike. Seizing his chance Erik stepped up, the steel strips of his vambrace sparking as the blade slid down and past. But if Kolbein’s counter had saved the king’s hand there was still a price to pay, and Erik looked on in dismay as the sword severed the leather thong which secured Jomal to his wrist, caught in the beard of the blade and forced the axe from his grip.

  A spear thrust evaded Helgrim’s defence before Erik could recover, the leaf shaped blade hooking a ring of mail and tearing a rent in Erik’s brynja at the shoulder. With Jomal lying at his feet Erik took a pace back from the crush followed by another as the men of Strathclyde fought like demons to protect their king, moving a hand across to draw his sword from its scabbard as Grettir and Gunner closed up to remake the formation.

  Erik took the opportunity to raise his eyes again now that he was out of harm’s way. His frenzied assault had taken them almost halfway to the place where Dyfnwal still stood rooted beneath his banner, but he was close enough now to see the fear in the king’s eyes and the realisation that death could be only moments away in those of his most trusted men. A quick sweep of the head to left and right told him that both wings had broken through the makeshift Strathclyde shield wall, and although the attack led by Erland and his Iron Beards was further advanced, both flanks were in the clear and curling around to envelop the enemy king and his hearth guard.

  With the sword handle now firmly in his grip Erik returned to the fray, and as the battle horn sounded at his back to clear a path for the king, his sword chopped down onto the shoulders and heads of the remaining guards as his hirdmen heaved and stabbed all around him. Their courage already shaken by the surprise
assault on Dere Street, the men of Strathclyde were streaming away as their earlier dread returned to drive them to panicked flight. There would be no recovery now, the fight was won, and Erik threw his shoulder into his shield as he sensed the hopelessness of the men facing him. As one of the largest men on the battlefield, the few paces which separated him from the last of the Strathclyde defenders was enough to turn Erik’s short rush into a bull-like charge, and as his huskarls and hirdmen roared his name they hurled themselves against the foe. Certain now that they were writing the final line of their life story, the last defenders fought back like the wildcats of their northern forests; but the Norse were swarming around them now, swords, spears and axes stabbing, slashing, raining blow upon blow as the encirclement was completed.

  The foeman before him raised an arm and Erik saw the glimmer of a seax as it came up, the short stabbing sword which had given the Saxons their name and was so deadly in the press of shields. The king stabbed low to counter with his sword as his shield came up to deflect the point, but before the blade could slide into flesh a Norwegian spear jabbed to turn the defender’s hate-filled snarl to pulp. Spattered with teeth and gore Erik stepped up as the attacker fell away, swinging his sword overhead to hew at the last man to stand between the kings of Strathclyde and York, but even as the guard attempted to dodge the blade swords and spears were chopping and stabbing from all sides as the Norse pack barked and snapped in their moment of victory. Erik barged the cadaver aside, locking eyes with his prize as the men of the Draki somehow found it within themselves to curb their bloodlust. To witness a clash of kings on the battlefield was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and the victors jostled each other for places at the front as they quickly encircled the pair.

  In the centre of the ring Erik saw the fear once again as his eyes narrowed in hatred. He had the man who had thought to lead an army against his kingdom, laying waste the land and carrying off his people to fill the thrall markets of Dublin and beyond a pace away. Erik struck first, punching out with his shield arm to drive his opponent’s board aside, and as the foreigner’s defence was opened up Erik darted in before the young king of Strathclyde could counter. Up close now Erik could see that Dyfnwal was little more than a stripling — there was little honour to be had in slaying such a man despite his kingly title, and the big Norseman feinted with the blade of his sword as his knee came up. Dyfnwal fell for the ruse, and as his eyes rose to track the strike the Yorkish king felt the softness of his opponent’s groin give way to the satisfying resistance of the bone beyond. Erik was already reversing the sword in his hand as a strangulated gasp erupted from his opponent, and as Dyfnwal’s head came down the handle of Erik’s sword was rising. A heartbeat later the golden dome of the pommel was smashing into the bridge of the young king of Strathclyde’s nose, and Erik was withdrawing his arm to punch upwards again as bone and gristle crumpled and blood sheeted to the grass. Dyfnwal staggered under the force of the blows but the pommel was already rising again to deny him any chance to recover, and as the handle connected again Erik watched in triumph as the king’s eyes rolled back in his head and his knees folded beneath him.

  King Dyfnwal’s fall had revealed the figure of his standard bearer, the last man standing over a circle of the slain as was right, and Erik addressed him as his hirdmen roared and acclaimed their king’s victory. ‘Banner man — you have stood your ground; there is no need for you to fall this day.’

  The man held him in his gaze before replying with a verse, and Erik thrilled to the words as he came to recognise the man’s worth:

  ‘Here lies my king, hewn down in the dust;

  in the midst of my friends, a company of heroes.

  ‘I will not hence from here.

  ‘I purpose to lie by the side of my lord,

  a man dearly loved.’

  The cries of victory had abated as men stretched their necks to listen to the exchange, and Erik replied as a murmur of appreciation rolled around the onlookers at the standard bearer’s noble words. ‘Your king is not dead,’ Erik explained, ‘but he is my captive. Go from here, tell the people at home the fate which awaits those who think it an easy thing to carry arms against the kingdom of Erik Haraldsson.’

  The man shook his head as he replied. ‘I’ll not leave this place without my lord, King Erik — the humiliation will outlive me and bring shame upon my clan.’

  Erik nodded that he understood. The exchange, although thrilling, was taking too long — he itched to find out how the battle was going on the far side of the Tine. ‘Then ride south with us,’ he said finally as he made to leave. ‘Accompany the king into captivity if that is your choice.’ The man began to unfasten the scabbard at his hip, but Erik held out a hand as he began to walk away. ‘I have your word that you will not attempt to rescue King Dyfnwal?’ The man gave a curt nod in reply. ‘Then keep your weapons; a man of rank and honour should never go unarmed.’ Erik looked across at Oswald Thane as the circle of Norsemen divided to admit him. The old Northumbrian was panting like a warhorse run hard, and Erik knew that he had found the perfect way to keep the man safely out of harm’s way while assuaging any guilt he would feel at missing the fight. ‘Oswald old friend,’ he said brightly. ‘Will you do me the kindness of looking after our newfound guests?’ Erik’s gaze was already elsewhere before the man could reply, and his huskarls hastened to his side as the rear ranks parted to reveal the fighting on the southern bank.

  Helgrim pointed across the river as the clamour of battle drifted across to them. ‘It looks as if the Scots are getting ready to counterattack.’

  Erik looked. Men were hauling themselves into saddles at the centre of the position, the fineness of their arms betraying their station. In the midst of the group King Mael Colm was clearly in sight as he mounted his war horse, the members of his hearth guard crowding around as the common soldiery looked on aghast. ‘No,’ he replied as it became clear what they were about to witness. ‘The king is about to ride away and leave his army in the lurch.’

  Hard pressed by the army of York, the perimeter of the Scottish position was already reduced to little more than half its original size as the southern army tasted the iron tang of a bloody victory on the air. Already those at the rear, the latecomers and battle-shirkers, were being pushed down the muddy bank of the River Tine. As more and more men came to realise that they were about to be abandoned to the unlikely mercy of Northumbrians and Norsemen, the first swimmers were already splashing into the shallows. Erik turned his head, cupping a hand to his mouth as he prepared to fight again: ‘Erland!’

  The Orkneyman looked up at the sound of Erik’s voice, doubling across with his bodyguards as he saw the king beckon with an arm. Erik scanned the riverside as he waited for him to arrive. The speed with which the wings of king Dyfnwal’s hastily assembled shield wall had collapsed when struck by the attacks of Erland and Maccus the Easterner had meant that the losses to both defenders and attackers had been relatively light. Having fled the field of battle the last of the Strathclyde casualties, men slowed down by wounds or helping injured kinsmen or friends to safety, were just reaching the horses still lowering their long necks to graze nonchalantly on the pasture to the East. Erland stood before him when he turned back, and Erik recognised the flush of victory on his kinsman’s features and knew it must be reflected in his own. ‘We are not done here old friend,’ he said happily, clapping Erland on the arm. ‘Remake the battle line — we will advance to the river at walking pace and snap the trap shut.’ Erland returned the smile, turning on a heel to do his lord’s bidding, and the cry carried to the king — Reform! Reform the line! — as Erik began to make his way across to the man who had led the swine head to the East. ‘You have played your part Maccus,’ Erik said as Erland bawled his orders and the clatter of arms sounded again, ‘and played it well.’ Erik ignored the stern faced look which greeted him and put aside the slight from earlier. The man was still useful to his plans, and he would keep him alive for as long as that was benefic
ial. Erik pinned him with his gaze as he came up, lowering his voice to a monotone so that only they could hear his words. ‘You need to take yourself back to earl Oswulf and let him know of our great victory here and your own part in it.’

  A roar of outrage came from the men across the river, and both men looked across. It was as Erik had expected. Mael Colm and his leading men had taken to their horses, surrounded themselves with their hearth troops and were hacking a passage through friend and foe alike as they spurred their mounts towards the East and safety. The pair watched as the sheer weight of numbers and the unstoppable power of the horsemen burst through the right wing of the army of York and fled. Erik continued as they watched them go. ‘Tell the earl that the power of the Scots is broken and reassure him of my friendship.’ Erik’s smile was ravening. ‘You had better be quick about it. It would be unfortunate if the earl came across Mael Colm on the road without knowing the part his men played in the victory today. Carry the message that I invite him to be my guest in York along with as many men as he sees fit to accompany him.’ Erik pinned the man with a look. ‘Tell your lord that I desire his fellowship, but as you can see…’ The king’s voice trailed away as his eyes swept the field. Large numbers of the men of Alba had managed to take advantage of the collapse of the Yorkish flank and were streaming after their departing king in their desperation, but the flags of Gamli and Guttorm Eriksson showed where Erik’s sons were rushing across to plug the rent and the Scots were still a long way from the safety of their northern kingdom. Erik doubted that many would see their homes again. He turned back, and although the words were benign the underlying menace they contained was plain. ‘I desire his cooperation, but don’t require it. Northumbria will be one kingdom again under my rule, and earl Oswulf has a place in the new order if that is his wish.’ The rhythmic clatter of weaponry told the pair that the attack was ready to be renewed. Erik smiled again, his voice rising a degree as he injected a lightheartedness into his parting words for the benefit of those within earshot. ‘Carry my message to earl Oswulf, Maccus; assure him of my friendship, and tell him of our victory here today!’