The Day of the Wolf

by C. R. May

  The screech of a golden eagle interrupted the king, faces turning skyward as one as they watched the bird soar against a backdrop of wind shredded clouds. Erik smiled as his closest companions looked back. ‘If it is a sign its meaning is lost on me, and we have not the time for Sturla to read the runes. If they thought to trap us here they have made a mistake; we know the layout of this fort as well as any men alive, for we spent the night within its walls before the attack on the army of Cumbraland not so long ago. Our horses have been on the road since dawn, and we must assume that the majority of those facing us now are fresh; we cannot outrun them, even if we wanted to — we must attack.’

  Erik eased his horse free of the crush, hauling at the reins to ride along the front of the army as he raised a bloodied sword aloft. ‘Follow me lads,’ he called as he rode, ‘draw your weapons and follow me!’ Erik left the roars of his army behind as he angled across the slope, Thorstein and Helgrim Smiter moving up to screen the king from arrow and spear fall as he rode. The ground underfoot changed from coarse grasses to moss and lichen as he rode, and soon the horse was picking its way through the marshy ground Erik recalled from before. As the taunts and jeers of his enemies died away and the rumble of a horse army filled his ears, Erik pointed the head of his mount towards the West. This late in the year the ground was a stony marsh, but he urged the horse onward as he sought to gain the gap before the enemy could react. The pale orb of the sun peaked through leaden clouds throwing long shadows away to the north, but if the sunlight only lasted for an instant it was enough, and Erik saw that his memory had served him well. Ahead the eastern wall of Hreyrr Camp ended abruptly, and as he rounded the corner he saw again where the ancients had trusted to the boggy nature of the ground to act in place of a full-scale bulwark.

  With the northern limit defended by a sporadic bank and ditch Erik led the men of the Draki into the enclosure, sliding from the saddle as his eyes took in the details. Outflanked by Erik’s tactics men were tumbling back into the interior of the old fort from the eastern wall, and a quick look across to the place where the enemy were beginning to form up told the king that no hidden force awaited them. As Erik’s fears of an ambush subsided the king took heart, and his confidence soared again as he saw now that he had run Dyfnwal to ground. If his Norwegians were outnumbered it was only two to one; soon Ragnfrod would arrive with his men, and though the numbers would still be against them, a Norseman had never shirked a fight with any Briton for want of valour. Within moments the width of the fort had filled with his army, and Erik thrilled to the sound of pommels and axe hafts beating a tattoo on lime wood boards as the men of his army set up their battle cry:

  Blóðøx! — Blóðøx! — Blóðøx!

  The enemy were flooding the southern end of the fort as they strove to regroup before the imminent attack, and Erik allowed himself a nod of satisfaction as he saw that his calculations were correct. They may be outnumbered, but the constrictions placed upon the opposing war bands by the walls made it unlikely that either could be outflanked. Nevertheless, until Ragnfrod arrived with his crew there remained a couple of yards of empty ground between each Norwegian, but Erik knew the perfect answer and he held up his hand for silence as he turned to face the men. As the chants trailed away he drew Jomal with a flourish, calling out as he walked the ranks.

  ‘Axemen — step forward!’

  The men walked proud of the line, scything the air in great arcs as they loosened muscles for the hard fight ahead. Erik spoke again as they came. ‘The rest of you form two svinfylking alongside Arnkel and Erland’s Orkneymen.’

  Erik threw a look across his shoulder as the remaining men hurried across to do his bidding. Less than a hundred yards away the men of Strathclyde were still dressing their lines, and he could imagine the disappointment among them that what appeared to be a carefully prepared trap had been so easily defeated. No fighting man is very comfortable with the thought that his leaders have been outwitted, and shorn now of the protection of the bank and ditch of the Roman wall, the first doubts would begin to chip away at their confidence despite their numbers. But he had to attack, and quickly, if he was to take full advantage of their disarray, and the king loped across to take position at the centre of the axemen as the twin swine heads took shape. Erik felt a moment of regret that he did not have ulfhéðnar or berserkir to lead the assault — after all Óðinn’s wolf-warriors and bear-shirts lived for days such as these; but they were not the sort to invite along to the beery feast where he had expected to be, and he pushed the thought aside as he raised his war axe, gave voice to his battle cry and snapped into a run.

  As the answering cries from the men at his back filled the bowl, Erik increased the pace. One hundred yards quickly became eighty and then fifty as he closed in on the enemy, and Erik scanned the formation ahead as he sought out the ideal place to land the first blow. As the distance narrowed he found it, the terror in the man’s expression obvious as he struggled to bring his shield up in the disorganised crush, and Erik angled his run towards him as Jomal began to swing. In a panic the enemy spearman dragged the shield fully up to cover his head, but the action had left his midriff exposed as Erik had known it would, and he adjusted the pace to take full advantage of his enemy’s mistake. Unsighted the Strathclyde warrior was unable to react as Erik launched himself into the air, Jomal scything around to clear a path through enemy spears as he did so. Within a heartbeat the sole of Erik’s boot was sinking into the defender’s belly, and as the man was driven back into the second rank Jomal continued to move. Erik’s shoulders pivoted as the axe cut a murderous swathe through the front ranks, and as blood and limbs flew all around him he hit out to either side, broadening the breach. As the enemy shrunk back before the sweep of the axe, Erik snatched a look to the West. All along the line the axemen had sown death and confusion in the forward ranks of the defence, and with the imminent arrival of the swine heads Erik knew that it was time to withdraw lest the swing of his axe disrupt their attack. A rearward step took him free of an enemy wall now broken and disordered, and as the Dane axe slowed and came to a halt his huskarls rushed forward to envelop their lord in a protective wedge.

  At the same moment the first svinfylking smashed into the wall fifty paces away, and Erik watched as the leading men took full advantage of the mayhem caused by the axemen’s attack to drive deep. Erik’s hopes of a decisive victory rose as the men of Strathclyde wavered and appeared on the verge of breaking, but more and more were rushing forward to shore up the defence and raising his gaze Erik saw why. Beyond the place where king Dyfnwal stood beneath his war flag men were pouring into the fort through a western gate, and although their numbers were far from overwhelming the steady stream was having an affect. Men on the cusp of retreat rediscovered their courage as the numbers swelled, and Erik took the snap decision to re-enter the fray before the shock of the Norwegian attack subsided. A curt command from the king was all that was required for the formation to slide smoothly into being, and as Thorstein stood in his customary place of honour at the head of Erik’s own scaled-down swine head Grettir and his brother Gunnar slipped in behind. With Kolbein Herjolfsson as his right hand man and Sturla Godi to his rear, Helgrim Smiter slipped in to make the wedge formation complete as Erik prepared to advance again. The king cried out above the din, as shields were raised and swords drawn. ‘Thorstein! We are aiming directly for Dyfnwal — kill the king and they will break, whatever the numbers.’ Without taking his eyes from the enemy spearmen only a few paces away his huskarl gave a nod of recognition, and Erik spoke to his banner man as he prepared to drive forward again: ‘Sturla!’

  ‘Yes, lord?’

  ‘Make the signal for the axemen to renew the attack!’

  Sturla was close enough for Erik to feel the war horn brush the back of his brynja as it came up, and he prepared to move forward as the bugle was turned aside and the rising note filled the air. The moment the familiar sound came Thorstein burst forward, his sword blade a swatch of silv
er-grey in the sunless gloom of a Pennine winter day. All along the line axeman and spearmen attacked again, throwing themselves forward as they sought to stop the enemy line reforming. Reaching the enemy Thorstein’s sword became a blur as he hacked and hacked again, and within moments he had broken through the faltering defence and was cutting a path towards the king. Grettir and Gunnar joined in as their swords came to bear, and soon Erik was preparing to burst forth from the wedge as the king of Strathclyde grew closer. For a moment Erik’s heart came into his mouth as a line of spearman appeared on the ramparts and he feared he had been undone; but he recognised the war flag of his son Ragnfrod before he could wheel to face down the threat, and he urged his guardsmen on as his own reinforcements began to tumble into the fortress.

  Ragnfrod’s shipmen slammed into the right wing of the Strathclyde defence, and as the Britons staggered under the blow Erik looked again at the enemy leader. If he was not surprised to see the king of Strathclyde in retreat the manner of it struck him as odd, and the first inkling that something was not quite right began to pluck at his thoughts. Rather than a panicked flight the king and his guards were retreating in good order, and lifting his chin to peer beyond them Erik saw the reason for the first time. Fresh warriors were still entering the fort through the western gate, but unlike the first to come through at the start of the fight who had hastened forward to shore up the defence, the newcomers were busily forming a new wall of shields fifty yards to the south. A battle horn sounded then, and as he watched the wings of the Strathclyde army in contact with Erik’s men contracted to form a protective horseshoe around their king. The reorganisation had caught the Norwegians by surprise, and thinking the enemy on the point of breaking the compact wedges of the svinfylking broke apart as the men they contained prepared to chase down the fleeing enemy.

  Only Erik appeared to have realised that the retreat had been a carefully planned manoeuvre, and he quickly saw the danger as the cohesion of the Norwegian attack began to unravel. He snapped an order to Sturla at his rear as he scrambled to retrieve the situation: ‘Sturla — sound the recall!’ As the horn came up and the long falling note drowned out the premature roars of victory, the first battle cries that day came from the men of Strathclyde standing in rank before them:

  Mar-wol-aeth! — Mar-wol-aeth! — Mar-wol-aeth!

  Erik looked at the faces of his army, gauging their reaction as the sound was amplified by the walls of the old fortress. If the confidence displayed by the enemy had come as a shock to many Norse, the fact that the Britons had taken their word for death as a prearranged battle cry clearly filled them with foreboding, and Erik realised that he must rally them quickly if he was to have any hope of winning the day as enemy numbers continued to grow. The axemen took too long to array, and with the disintegration of the swine heads all order had gone. Erik cried above the din as he ordered them back in line, pointing out the men who were to lead the follow up assault as he went: ‘Orkneymen — reform the svinfylking behind your leaders to the west; men of the Draki we take the centre; the rest of you form up behind Ragnfrod to the east.’ Erik called again as the men rushed to do his bidding. ‘One last push lads — pin them with their backs to the wall and we have them.’

  Ragnfrod hurried across as the battle wedges began to reform, and the army of Strathclyde remade their lines two score paces away. ‘There are other war bands abroad father,’ he said ominously. ‘We could see them coming from the East as we rode to overtake you.’

  Erik nodded that he understood. ‘Be that as it may, we need to attack again while the men still have fire in their blood. Let us see if we can hack our way through to the man we came here to kill — do that and the army of Strathclyde will break. When the man who killed Regenwold is dead, we can decide whether we stand and face any newcomers or take to our horses.’ He clumped his youngest son on the arm as a realisation lifted his spirits. ‘Who knows they may well be friends? Cenwulf Thane raised a hue and cry after we left; I witnessed the man’s worth and the love he had for earl Regenwold during the campaign in Alba this summer past. He told me he would follow on when he had raised the local levy, and I trust his word. Nevertheless you are right to be concerned,’ Erik said, flicking a look at the walls which hemmed them in. ‘Attacking within the confines of the fort may have been to our advantage, but now that we know there are other war bands about I should have liked to have been able to see further.’ His gaze crossed to the old lookout station then, the tumbledown building still dominating the skyline as it had since the days the fort had echoed to the vulgar latin of the legions. ‘Station a keen-eyed man on the rampart where you came in until we can push the enemy back beyond the tower. As soon as we take it, we can recall him and post lookouts at the top.’ Seeing the king’s confidence, Ragnfrod brightened. ‘It is as you say lord,’ he chirped, ‘they may be friends.’ He shot his father a smile, and Erik’s heart lifted with the pride he felt as his youngest added a rejoinder. ‘One last push to finish the day then, lest we are forced to share the glory with Englishmen.’

  Erik watched his son as he trotted back to his men. The trust that he displayed in his father’s abilities was touching if a little starry-eyed, and he felt a pang of regret that he had brought him along despite his brave words. Maybe Gunnhild and Kolbein were right he reflected, as spear shafts began to beat out a thunderous din and the men in both armies exchanged war cries and javelins — he was not the wolf after all, and Oðinn was up to his tricks. But the self-doubt only lasted a heartbeat before the Erik Bloodaxe of old reasserted itself, and he allowed himself a snort of derision at his moment of weakness as his older sons came to mind. If men were referring to his reign as the day of the wolf, then Gamli Eriksson was his wild cub. With no desire for the responsibilities which went with a kingdom of his own the young man had all the makings of a fine sea king, a raider to terrorise the shores and rivers of Christendom and beyond. Harald would be a king and rule a kingdom, Gunnhild would see to that — and a fine king he would make Erik decided as the battle cries rose to a crescendo all around him. Raised within the bosom of a loving family the younger lads would at least live long enough to find their rightful place in the world, unlike the offspring of Fairhair who he now realised had pit cub against cub, while up in Orkney folk said that Ragnhild was her mother’s daughter, and there was no greater praise to be had.

  Erik’s mind came back from his reflections as he saw that he was now surrounded by a wall of steel, and a glance to either side told the king that the swine heads were complete and awaiting his command. Ahead the men of Strathclyde were beginning to quieten as they prepared to face another attack, and Erik smiled his war smile as he raised his sword aloft. The very air seemed to still as the blade pointed skyward, and Erik savoured the weight of the moment. Despite his misgivings he had always prized days like these above all others, the fleeting moments when friend and foe alike held their breath and turned their eyes to him. Occasions such as this only came a handful of times in a lifespan, and then only to a favoured few. But he had been one such man, one of the very best, and if the Norns decided that his days were spent he knew that he would never have changed a thing.

  The blade chopped down, and as the pent-up tension was released in a howl of war lust, the sawtooth blade of the Norwegian assault began to move forward again.

  25

  Treachery

  The first few steps were at walking pace, the leading men reining in the desire to spurt forward with difficulty as those at the rear dressed their lines. If the swine heads were to punch through to the enemy leaders they would have to arrive as one hard blow, a mailed fist to the guts which would knock the wind from the front rankers and open the way through to the softer belly beyond. Erik ran his eyes along the enemy formation as the pace quickened. The shouts and taunts from the men of Strathclyde had petered out as they conserved their strength for the fight which was now only moments away, and as he raised his eyes to look beyond the spears and shields of the front row Erik saw to
his disappointment that Dyfnwal was now encased within a protective screen fifty men deep. The formations were moving at a fast jog now as the enemy grew in their sight, and as spears and arrows crisscrossed the rapidly shrinking gap, Thorstein hurled a cry of dedication to Óðinn into the raw mountaintop air and broke into a run.

  Erik’s shield came up to swat an arrow aside as they ran, and as Thorstein’s blade swung in arcs to silver the air the svinfyliking hit. The wedge came to a juddering halt as the enemy line bowed inwards to soften the blow, but as the salient widened and his crewmen brought their spears and sword blades into play they began to inch forward again. At the head of the formation Thorstein could still be seen, fighting like a berserk as he hacked and stabbed at anyone in sight, and behind him Gunnar and Grettir jabbed blades into faces and necks as they strove to guard his flanks with more measured strikes.

  Erik grabbed the last chance to gauge the success of the assault, snatching a look to either side as he came closer to the fighting. The rise and fall of sword and axe blades showed that both wings had advanced further than the central attack, and the king’s hopes of a quick victory rose as he saw that the boar banner of Orkney was almost up with the squat platform upon which the signal tower stood out as a stark column against the lighter clouds beyond. Very soon the defenders at the foot would find themselves pushed back into the ditch which ringed it, and with it any chance of an organised defence would vanish. When that happened Erik knew that men of Arnkel and Erland’s experience would wheel their army eastwards, rolling up the line and threatening Dyfnwal’s guards themselves. With Ragnfrod’s attack gathering pace on his left flank, Erik turned his attention back to the fight before him as his confidence soared. King Dyfnwal and his henchmen were well within spear shot beneath the war banner of Strathclyde, and despite the fact that upwards of a hundred men still stood between them, Erik was convinced that a breakthrough was only moments away.