Wolves of War

by Martin Lake

  ‘Twice our number,’ said Jarl Frene, quietly. ‘We will be slaughtered.’

  A murmur went around the Hall, a worm of doubt and fear.

  ‘Only if we go out to meet them,’ Sidrac said. ‘We can remain here behind the walls and defy them.’

  ‘Until we starve to death?’ said Frene. ‘Such a course is folly. We should take ship and leave before it’s too late.’

  ‘You’d have us run away?’ Halfdan cried. ‘From English peasants?’

  ‘They’re not all peasants,’ the messenger said. ‘The majority are better equipped than we are.’

  Ivar gestured to Echberht and Ricsige who were standing to one side of the hall. ‘Who are these warriors?’ he asked. ‘Are they peasants or more dangerous?’

  ‘We Northumbrians have been slaughtering each other for a century or more,’ Echberht said. ‘It has grown worse since the conflict between Aelle and Osberht and there has been a great increase in armies. These men are likely to be thegns or mercenaries.’

  ‘Some looked like our kinsfolk in Ireland,’ the messenger said. ‘Others like Picts.’

  ‘So they’re mercenaries,’ Ivar said. ‘Men as used to warfare as we are.’

  Or more, Leif thought although he did not voice it. The Vikings of Dublin were some of the most feared warriors in the world and the Picts as savage as rabid hounds. His stomach clenched in terror. He did not care much for Jarl Frene but he hoped that his counsel would prevail and they would take to the ships and leave.

  Yet most of the men seemed to be unconcerned by this news, as were Halfdan and Ubbe, who were always ready for a fight.

  But Leif kept his eyes on Ivar, knowing that he would make the decision and sway the army one way or another. He had fallen silent, his eyes narrowed, clearly in the deepest of thought. Finally, he seemed to awake from his reverie and stared at the warriors in the Hall. A moment later he raised his arm.

  ‘We will not flee from our enemies,’ he said in a loud voice. The men cheered at his words. ‘But nor will we go out to meet them like lambs to slaughter. We will fight as Vikings always do, with guile as well as courage.’

  ‘Does that mean we skulk behind these walls?’ Eohric cried, giving a gesture of contempt to Jarl Sidrac.

  Sidrac stepped towards him, his eyes burning with anger, his hand reaching for a knife, but Osbern restrained him.

  ‘We fight with guile,’ Ivar said, ‘something you are too great an idiot to comprehend.’

  Leif chuckled at his words and the reaction it caused in Eohric who snarled to himself in impotent rage.

  ‘Jarl Sidrac is right, up to a point,’ Ivar continued. ‘We shall wait within the walls. But not in the way the Northumbrians expect.’

  THE BATTLE FOR NORTHUMBRIA

  Leif peered through the window of the merchant’s house in which he was hiding. Everywhere he looked, the city was silent with not a soul upon the streets. He could see the great minster church with its doors locked fast. Inside were every Northumbrian in the city, save for Echberht and Ricsige. They were just behind him, talking in hushed tones to Ivar.

  ‘What if Ubbe’s men are killed?’ Echberht asked. ‘The armies of Aelle and Osberht will head to the city. We’ll be like rats caught in a trap.’

  ‘You might be a rat,’ Ivar said in a sneering tone, ‘but my men are wolves who will destroy my foes.’

  ‘It is folly to divide your army,’ Echberht continued. ‘How many men does Ubbe have? Three hundred to fight two thousand.’

  Ivar looked at him with disbelief. ‘Ubbe is not going to fight them to the death, you fool. Just long enough to be defeated and flee. And he will flee quickly. He is not called Ubbe the Swift for nothing.’

  ‘So your brother is renowned for his speed in flying from the enemy?’ Echberht could not hide the contempt in his voice.

  ‘He is renowned for following my plans and securing victory,’ Ivar said. ‘Now shut up and let me sleep.’

  Leif exchanged a look with Asgrim who was silently honing his battle-axe. He grinned with pleasure, although Leif was not sure if it was at the exchange he had just heard or the thought of the coming battle.

  A moment later they heard a horn braying in the distance, followed by an almighty thump as if of distant thunder.

  Ivar’s eyes flickered open. ‘The battle has started,’ he said quietly.

  The men in the room leaned forward to hear better. The crash must have been the collision of shield-walls and it was now followed by fierce cries of men. This rose and fell like a winter wind, interspersed by a dull hammering noise as blades beat upon shields.

  Echberht and Ricsige stared mutely at each other. Perhaps they were regretting their treachery, perhaps they were wondering how they could survive whatever the day brought.

  The battle went on for a little while longer. Then a second horn blared and they heard the pounding of many feet.

  ‘Ubbe’s retreating,’ Ivar said.

  He pulled his sword Havoc from his belt and tested the edge of it with his thumb.

  Leif realised that he had never seen Ivar use the sword he had bought from his brother at such cost.

  At the same moment he recalled the sight of the fickle god Loki lurking in the spume of the smithy. His stomach crawled. Was the god here now, was he merely waiting to unleash doom upon them all?

  He tried to dismiss the thought from his mind. He took a gulp of air. If he died he would try to make sure it was with a sword in his hand. Although he had no love of battle he decided he’d rather spend the afterlife in Valhalla than in the darkness of Hel.

  He thought of Aebbe and his heart clenched. Together with all the women and children, she’d been evacuated downriver by ship. If the worst came to the worst the plan was for skeleton crews to take the ships across the sea, although to what fate no one could tell.

  Leif had already told Aebbe that she should try to escape. She was English and the Northumbrians would be more likely to treat her better than the Danes. At least then his unborn son would have a chance of life.

  The men fidgeted, the long wait seeming an eternity. Ivar moved next to Leif and stared every bit as intently out of the window.

  ‘Will this make a good tale, Leif?’ he asked, quietly.

  ‘I’m sure it will, Ivar. If we survive.’

  Ivar chuckled. ‘Well, just make sure you do. Come what may I want a mighty tale to be told about this day. I want you to tell the world what a hero I am.’

  ‘Even if you’re dead?’

  ‘Especially if I’m dead. With help from a good Skald, the fame of a man can last longer than his flesh.’

  He gripped Leif’s arm tightly. ‘They’re here.’

  The main gate of the city was opening, and a dozen men slunk in. They walked stealthily across the open space beneath the walls, their eyes darting everywhere. After a few more steps they stopped walking, irresolute for a little longer, then turned towards the gate and called.

  Scores of warriors began to stream into the city. They looked astonished to find it so empty, so silent, so desolate. And then there was a stir and a compact body of mail-shirted warriors marched in, followed by two men on horseback.

  Ivar beckoned Ricsige to come to the window.

  ‘Aelle and Osberht,’ he said, almost under his breath.

  ‘No doubt they’re already plotting how to kill each other,’ added Echberht.

  ‘I shall save them that task,’ Ivar said.

  The two kings rode towards the church and turned to watch their men marching into the city.

  The open space below was now already half full of enemy warriors. Even from this distance Leif could make out the tall blond Viking mercenaries and the short, swarthy Picts. But most of the men appeared to be Northumbrians, about half of them well-equipped warriors, the rest peasants armed only with spears and knives, many without even a leather breast-piece.

  And still they came, until the whole great open space was filled with them. Most sheathed their swords. A number eve
n began to take off their mail shirts.

  And then they began to cheer their kings, exultant at winning back the great city. But neither king dismounted nor responded to the cries. They sat upon their horses and continued to scan the city. Then one of them, the younger one, commanded some of his guards to open the doors to the church.

  They hurried to do his bidding and levered off the timber bars which had been hammered into the doors to keep them shut. They pushed the doors to open them but, to their surprise, they did not move. The two kings stared at the church intently, wondering what this might signify.

  ‘Now,’ Ivar cried, shaking Asgrim by the shoulder.

  Asgrim put the ox horn to his lips and blew one long blast. It echoed across the square below, startling and unnerving the Northumbrians.

  And then, with a mighty roar, the Vikings surged out of their hiding places and fell upon them.

  ‘Come on,’ Ivar cried, leaping down the stairs.

  Leif followed reluctantly, hoping that Sigurd and Asgrim would keep up and stand beside him.

  Girding his failing courage, he drew his sword and stepped outside. Ivar was to his right, with his personal guards swiftly congregating around him. These were the most skilful of warriors, hard and brutal, and Leif wriggled his way into the middle of them, knowing that he would be safest there. Sigurd and Asgrim pushed their way next to him.

  And then they strode to battle.

  The Northumbrians had been completely taken by surprise. They were unable to deploy a shield-wall, many unable to unsheathe their swords before falling to those of the Vikings. Their shrieks of fear and fury echoed off the walls.

  Guthrum was to Ivar’s left, smashing through the enemy like a fierce sea batters the shore. Halfdan was beyond him, raging like a berserker, drenched with the blood of his adversaries.

  Ivar, on the other hand, fought more cautiously. He left his doughtiest warriors to fight the biggest and strongest of the enemy and dispatched easier targets with skilful thrusts. His willowy body swayed with every movement and Leif realised that his physical frailty meant he was no match for most of his foes. But he was the master in skill and cunning. These he displayed to good effect, killing two or three men and maiming half a dozen more.

  Leif remained in the centre of Ivar’s guard and no Northumbrians got close to him. The noise of screams and curses filled his ears as Ivar’s men made their way, step by step, into the enemy ranks. Eventually the crush got so tight Leif had to use his sword, though it made little impact beyond the occasional slash wound that most warriors would barely notice. More by luck than skill, no blade touched him.

  Leif glanced around. It seemed for a moment that they were in danger of being overwhelmed by the superior numbers of their foes. But as the Vikings hacked onward these numbers became a hindrance. The Northumbrians were forced back against the walls and became too closely packed to respond to the hammer blows of the Vikings.

  And then, of a sudden, the Northumbrians broke. A few men at first and then many, many more, they ran for the gates. They fought amongst themselves to escape, pushing and battling each other in their desperate flight.

  Both kings tried to rally them, bellowing to them to stay and fight. This slowed the panic for a moment with many of the seasoned warriors girding themselves to continue the fight. But most of the peasants took no heed and continued to surge through the gate.

  Backwards and forwards the battle went, sometimes the Northumbrians having the upper hand, sometimes the Vikings. And then the sounds of blaring horns rang out beyond the walls, followed a moment later by shrieks and cries of woe.

  ‘Ubbe,’ Ivar yelled to Halfdan who grinned with delight. Their warriors cheered loudly and went back to the battle with renewed vigour.

  The men trying to flee through the gates were now pushed back by their friends who had just left. Outside the walls, Ubbe and his men were slaughtering the peasants with ease and the survivors were now desperate to get back into the city.

  In moments any semblance of discipline broke down amongst the Northumbrians. They were trapped and they knew it. Many threw down their weapons, seeking a mercy which was not given. The rest fought on grimly, although they knew that their lives were over.

  Finally, the two kings were pulled from their horses and dragged out of the melee. Most of the Northumbrians gave up the fight soon after, falling to the ground and begging for mercy.

  The Vikings drew off, conscious that there were still too many foes to kill and turned towards their lords.

  Aelle and Osberht were thrust towards Ivar and thrown onto the ground in front of him. The eldest was already badly wounded and blood was flowing from him. The younger, Aelle, shook with terror and pain.

  The sounds of battle finally ended. The last of the Northumbrians threw down their weapons and the Vikings began to collect them and carry them out of reach.

  The stench of death was overpowering. The earth was like a butcher’s stall, strewn with severed limbs and guts, blood staining the soil and mixing with the shit and vomit of terror.

  Ubbe pushed through the mob and joined his brothers. They stared at the death and destruction with grim satisfaction.

  ‘Do you yield?’ Ivar demanded of Aelle and Osberht.

  The two kings forced themselves from their prone positions and nodded.

  ‘Then I proclaim a new king for Northumbria,’ Ivar called. ‘Echberht of Bernicia is now your lord.’

  None of the Northumbrians responded, they merely stared at Ivar with watchful, defeated eyes.

  ‘Do you think they will accept him as their king?’ Sigurd murmured.

  ‘They will,’ Ricsige said. ‘Even now the thegns will be pondering how best to ingratiate themselves with him. It is dog eat dog in our kingdom and now it seems my cousin is the new leader of the pack.’

  ‘Not Ivar?’ asked Sigurd in surprise.

  ‘Northumbria is a nest of serpents,’ Leif answered. ‘He deems it better to have a lackey suffer any poison fangs.’

  ‘I doubt my cousin will be a lackey,’ Ricsige said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Asgrim said consolingly. But he gave Leif and Sigurd a wink to say he thought otherwise.

  Within moments, Ivar made clear what was to be the first task of the new King of Northumbria.

  ‘What do you want to do with your predecessors?’ he asked Echberht.

  Echberht shuffled uneasily and glanced at Ricsige who refused to meet his eyes.

  Not so the rest of the Northumbrians who stared at Echberht with eager curiosity. His reaction would give them an insight into how to act towards him.

  ‘They are traitors,’ Echberht said at last. ‘They fought amongst themselves, heaped untold misery upon our people and caused hatred and dissent.’

  He paused and glanced at the Northumbrian warriors to try to judge their reaction to his words. They gave nothing away, merely stared back at him with watchful eyes.

  ‘So, my judgement is this…’ He fell silent. It was clear that he had no idea what to say. Halfdan gave a snort of derision

  ‘So, my judgement is this,’ Echberht continued with faltering speech. ‘All Osberht and Aelle’s lands and those of their immediate kin are to be forfeit to the king.’

  He gave an arch smile at the word, the first use of his new title.

  ‘And they are to be exiled,’ he continued, ‘to a place of my choosing.’

  A murmur rippled across the ranks of the Northumbrians. This was an act of unusual clemency. Previously deposed kings had been poisoned, had their throats slit or been starved to death. Some nodded in approval at his show of mercy, though many looked doubtful.

  ‘No,’ said Ivar simply. He nodded to Halfdan who seized an axe from one of his men and marched towards Aelle and Osberht.

  Leif was powerless to turn his eyes away.

  Halfdan stood in front of Osberht and smiled grimly. He held the axe high, took a swing, and severed the neck with one blow. Osberht’s head fell with a thud upon the earth and rolled
over, the eyes staring at Leif and his friends.

  Aelle threw himself to the ground, screaming for mercy. ‘Please, Echberht,’ he cried, ‘I was always good to you.’

  Echberht looked horrified and turned towards Ivar.

  Ivar folded his arms and considered the prostrate king for a moment. Then he made a savage, chopping motion.

  Halfdan’s axe swept down, burying itself deep into Aelle’s back. Astonishingly, the man still had enough life to scream in agony, his hands reaching out, fingers working convulsively, still pleading for mercy.

  Halfdan grunted and pulled the axe from Aelle’s back, tearing off a slice of flesh in the process. Then he took another swing, aiming this blow on the other side of Aelle’s spine. It cut deep, severing his ribs and revealing the pink, pulsating sacks of his lungs.

  Still Aelle did not die; his fingers clawed the earth, his head shook from side to side in torment, spit and gore spewed from his mouth.

  ‘I think he still wants to be king,’ Ivar said with a chuckle. ‘Persistent man.’

  Halfdan plunged his hands into Aelle’s body and pulled out his lungs, spreading them over his back where they throbbed and wobbled like a terrified beast.

  Aelle had cried loudly before, but that was as nothing compared to the long wailing, shriek which broke from him now. Loud and high at first, it speedily slid into a whimper and then a gurgle. The lungs collapsed like a sail when the wind dropped.

  ‘Time to feast,’ Ivar said.

  Halfdan nodded, holding up his gore-wet hands to the Northumbrians.

  ‘Come and join us friends,’ he called in a jeering tone. ‘The dogs will dine on your kings.’

  SLAVING

  The Vikings remained in York for a further half year. Archbishop Wulfhere crowned Echberht King although few of his subjects showed enthusiasm for him. All knew that Ivar and his brothers were the rulers of the land. Ricsige became his chief counsellor and he alone seemed to give Echberht the honour he demanded.

  Leif strolled into Sigurd’s smithy a month after the battle and found Sigurd hard at work on a strange weapon. He looked startled at his approach and told Leif to close the door.