Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  The berserk was staring down at Ulf’s corpse, which lay in a puddle of pinkening water. He turned and Gest saw that an arrow had pierced him through the neck. Puzzled, Kari looked around at the deck which was awash with blood and fallen men.

  He tried to speak but seemed to have trouble, as if something was caught in his throat. He looked at the spear in his hand, and cast it almost negligently towards the closing curraugh.

  It struck the helmsman, who fell over his steering oar and vanished with a splash into the sea.

  Almost at once the curraugh lost headway, and men scrambled across the deck to be the first to secure the steering oar. The prow of the curraugh rammed the Sea Eagle’s bows with a thud that jarred Gest’s spine and sent fallen bodies tumbling across the deck. Oarsmen fell from their sea chests and oars went awry.

  The other enemy curraugh hove into view, approaching from the other bow. They were caught between two threats.

  ‘Up and arm yourselves,’ Gest ordered.

  Still Kari stood, dazed, unaware of the arrow that jutted out from either side of his neck, more troubled by Ulf’s own arrow-pierced form. But as the men from the first curraugh poured aboard, axes and spears in their hands, he let out a great whistling roar, lifting his axe. Then he charged into the line of them.

  Kari swung the axe in a great bloody crescent, lopping limbs and crushing skulls as he did. Scots fell back, clutching at handless wrists, scrabbling at severed windpipes, falling into the bilges, their smashed skulls oozing a crimson porridge of blood and brains. Scots from the second ship surrounded the crazed berserk with a hedge of spears, but he whirled round, smashing spears, kicking men aside, bringing his bloody axe down on struggling, fallen forms. Still the arrow jutted from his neck.

  A man flung himself at Kari, gripping him in a wrestler’s hold. Wheezing horribly, Kari seized the Scot by the throat. All fighting halted as the two men struggled in the middle of the deck.

  Kari stamped down on the man’s instep, smashed him to the ground, and seized his throat between his teeth, worrying it like a hound with a hare. Ripping the man’s throat out in a welter of blood, he rose, blood drenching his chest, to face the Scots. A red haired youth yelled a command and archers stepped forward, their arrows trained on the berserk.

  Laughing hideously, face crimson, long black hair dripping with blood, Kari charged at the archers. They loosed, and arrows punched his torso left, right, left again, hitting chest, belly, shoulders. Still Kari ran, axe upraised, body filled with arrows. Terrified, the men scrabbled to fit arrows to their bows. One succeeded and loosed; an arrow appeared in Kari’s cheek.

  Then Kari smashed into them, his axe singing its song of death. Still the rain lashed down.

  With a single swing he lopped off one archer’s hands, gutted a second, beheaded a third. The axe swished back, trailing a red harvest of gore. More Scots fell to the deck. Kari put back his head as if to howl like a wolf, but only the ghost of a cough escaped his lips. The axe fell from his bloody hands, clattering wetly to the ghastly deck. The blazing berserk light left his eyes and he crashed down beside it.

  Kari’s onslaught lasted only a few dreadful seconds. Everyone aboard the Sea Eagle, attackers or defenders, had stopped to watch. Now that the berserk was dead, the Scottish youth seemed to recover. He shouted an order, and the Scots rushed to confront the vikings.

  The vikings withdrew to the stern, where Gest and Orm readied themselves and their men for a last stand. Half the crew lay dead amidst the bloody deck. Rain washed down, cleansing the gory strakes. Attackers from both curraughs thronged the foredeck, spears bloody and at the ready, shields hacked but still usable. Mail glinted in the weak sunlight that filtered through the livid clouds, and now the rain was easing off, their wet clothes began to steam.

  The Scots’ feet splashed in puddles of rainwater and puddles of gore. Bodies littered the deck. Arrows jutted from mast and gunwale. The sail hung limply from the yardarm. The wind had dropped, the rain parted to show the rolling green acres of endless sea. Now the clouds were clearing, and the sun shone down, gleaming from the arms and armour of a ship that cut the waves on the southern skyline.

  Another ship appeared. Another ship. And another. A whole fleet of longships, the shields on their gunwales painted red for war, led by a great dragon ship whose sail was emblazoned by a spread eagle emblem that Gest knew only too well. He recalled the fleet of Sigfrid Redhand. It paled into comparison beside this great fleet that was passing them, pride thrumming in every line, every sail.

  Before Gest knew what was happening, the deck before him was empty. Wailing the Scots fled back to their ships, and sailed away, leaving the battered hulk of the Sea Eagle to wallow in the wash of the great fleet.

  ‘Sail north,’ Gest told Orm. ‘We can’t let them sight us!’

  ‘Follow the Scots?’ Orm demanded. ‘They followed us all the way from Scotland to wreak this devastation upon us!’

  ‘That’s nothing to what King Harald Finehair’s fleet will do to a lone viking found in his waters!’ Gest cried. ‘We’re in Norwegian waters now, and those’—he pointed a shaking finger at the passing fleet—‘those are the ships of the king! Sail north until they are out of sight.’

  Orm gave the commands and the remaining crew went to their oars.

  Northwards they limped, as fast as they could with little wind and more than half the oarsmen dead on the deck. Sea mews and sea ravens and skuas circled overhead, eager to feast upon the fallen. To Gest’s relief, their presence went unnoticed by King Harald Finehair’s ships, and they crept over the northern horizon unmolested. At last the ships were out of sight, and he told Orm to weigh anchor off a small uninhabited island.

  ‘What now?’ Orm asked a short time later. They were bobbing at anchor and the men were shoving the bodies of the fallen, both vikings and Scots, over the side. ‘You’ve lost all three berserks, sir. Two thirds of the crew is gone. What else do you have in store?’

  ‘What matters is our stock,’ Gest said. ‘The salt meat in the hold. We must take that back to the sea king, and with it we will bring news. Word that the fleet of King Harald Finehair is at large upon the seas. That should be enough to deter even Sigfrid Redhand from more raids into inhabited areas.’

  Orm shook his head impatiently. ‘Do you know nothing, sir?’ he said. ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for all along. Now that King Harald has set sail, the sea king’s plan will be set into motion.’

  Gest grinned ruefully. ‘No one saw fit to tell me the sea king’s plans. He has been waiting for King Harald Finehair to set sail?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Orm. ‘What else would keep us pent up off the Rogaland coast now that summer is upon us?’

  He walked away to speak to some of the crew. The ship needed to be overhauled and repaired before they could make the voyage back to Rogaland, and Gest did nothing to hinder him. He had much to consider.

  After the repairs had been completed and their barrels of water had been filled at a small freshwater spring that welled up from the rocks, they set sail again. This time they went warily, not wanting to encounter the fleet of King Harald Finehair. Gest knew that if they were seized, he would be able to give the right watchword to ensure that he did not suffer the same fate as his companions. They would not kill a man of the Gestasveit as long as he identified himself. But he hoped to stay with the sea king’s fleet for the while.

  Now at last the plan was becoming clear. Any day, an attack would be made on Kaupang. They had been waiting for King Harald Finehair to set sail on his customary raids against the vikings in the outlying islands. Now Norway lay defenceless, apart from a few ships left behind to guard the coasts.

  But the coast of Norway is a long one, and the sea king’s fleet, though small in comparison with King Harald Finehair’s, would be able to overcome all opposition. Or would it? Gest doubted that Sigfrid Redhand had enough ships to overcome a concerted opposition. But all he need do was descend upon Kaupang and put it to the
sword, slaughter the merchants, and bring an end to all the wealth that was the basis of King Harald Finehair’s power. Then Norway would sink back into the abyss from which it had so painfully climbed. The days of the petty kings would return, each dale and each fjord a kingdom of its own, each fighting against all the others. That was what Sigfrid Redhand planned. And what could Gest do?

  Well, he had his own ideas. Now that he had proved himself, he would sit at the sea king’s right hand. And in his own hand, hidden by his cloak, he would carry a dagger…

  Night had fallen by the time they reached Rogaland. As Orm steered towards the island where the sea king’s fleet bobbed at anchor, a light flared in the blackness. But it did not come from the island. It came from the mainland. Gest stood in the prow, hand shading his eyes as he tried to guess its source.

  He went back to Orm. ‘What’s that light?’ he asked. ‘Is it a warning beacon?’ It seemed to be coming from Kvitsoy. Had they been sighted? Was Earl Sigvaldi sending ships against them?

  Orm told him to set his doubts at rest. ‘That is the sign Sigfrid Redhand has been waiting for. Our own news will be stale by the time we reach the island.’

  ‘You mean that it is to tell the sea king that Harald Finehair has sailed?’ Gest asked. Orm nodded. ‘But who lit it?’

  Orm shrugged. ‘I am only the skipper of the Sea Eagle. My work is to steer my ship and fight when needed. You must ask the sea king when you return to his side. All I know is that we have spies amongst the Rogalanders.’

  ‘But this!’ Gest was shocked by the extent of the rebels’ influence. ‘The whole kingdom’s system of beacons has been put into use by them. Look!’

  They were passing the fjord mouth now, and far off, on the heights at the other end of Boknafjord, another light glowed. Beyond it, out of sight from their current position, another beacon would be blazing on another height, and all the way back to... where? Who had lit the first beacon to send word to the sea king that King Harald Finehair’s fleet had passed? The kingdom must be riddled with spies.

  Sigfrid Redhand had support amongst the locals, Asgeir and Einar were clearly his dupes. But how far did this web stretch? As far as Tunsberg itself? Were there spies in Kaupang? He shuddered. This plot was on a far grander scale than he had realised. And what was left to him now? Was there still time to defeat it?

  They sailed into the haven, Orm steering them towards the dragon ship. Sounds of merriment rang from the longships, glad yells and singing voices. When they weighed anchor aft of the sea king’s dragon ship, Gest saw that Orm was right: they brought stale news. On deck men were drinking and singing drunken songs.

  Vivil threw him a line and he and Orm climbed up to the deck. Sigfrid Redhand appeared from under the awnings.

  ‘You took your time,’ the sea king said.

  ‘My apologies, sire,’ said Gest. ‘We ran into trouble. Sustained losses. But we bring supplies. And yet we find you feasting. What is the source of all this meat and drink?’

  ‘Our allies ashore sent it to us this evening,’ Sigfrid Redhand said. He pointed one gauntleted hand at the glimmering yellow star that marked the beacon. ‘You see that fire? That is a sign. You shall join me in the greatest raid our days will ever know. You and the men I sent with you.’

  ‘Kari is dead,’ said Gest sombrely. ‘Kari and the other berserks. They died… valiantly.’

  The sea king looked downcast. ‘That is ill news,’ he muttered. ‘But we shall mourn them later. We set sail on the morning tide, our allies will join us. Norway is within our grasp! Norway—and vengeance!’

  —29—

  The sea king beckoned to Orm. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I wish to hear what happened on the voyage.’ He glanced at Gest. ‘You stay here,’ he commanded, and strode aft, Orm trailing after him like a well-trained hound. Together they vanished under the awnings.

  Gest stood staring after them. After a moment, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘The sea king snubs you.’

  Vivil was winding up the line, not looking at him. Further forwards, the vikings were drinking and singing. Vivil glanced up and met Gest’s eyes.

  ‘He’d rather listen to Orm’s version of what happened,’ he added. ‘That’s not a good sign. Did you really lose all the berserks? How did you manage that?’

  Vivil could have shown greater respect when addressing a man of the sea king’s guard, but Gest forbore from commenting. ‘We met with some hardship,’ was all he said. ‘The folk we raided sent ships after us, and there was a sea fight. That was where the berserks were killed, most of them. Ulf died ashore.’ He shrugged. ‘There were losses. But surely that’s to be expected.’

  Vivil nodded wisely. ‘Losses, aye,’ he said. ‘But it is better if they be on the other side.’ He cracked a smile and clapped Gest over the back. ‘Come share a horn of ale,’ he said. ‘The sea king will speak to you in due course.’

  Gest grinned. He went with Vivil to the latter’s sea chest and Vivil filled a horn with ale from a barrel that stood in the middle of the deck. They shared the horn, watching as the other vikings revelled.

  ‘Everyone’s glad to be setting sail tomorrow,’ Vivil said. ‘Between you and me I was wondering if we would ever leave. I don’t know what we were waiting for.’

  ‘The king of Norway has sailed for the outer isles,’ Gest said. ‘He goes west over sea. We saw him sailing when we were returning. Someone sent word of his leave-taking by the beacons. Do you know who?’

  Vivil shook his head. ‘How would I know?’ he said. ‘I pull an oar and swing an axe. I don’t know these things. The king, you say? The king of Norway? That upstart?’

  ‘King Harald Finehair,’ Gest confirmed. ‘Who made himself king of all Norway after the battle of Hafrsfjord, just south of here. He sails to fight vikings in the west. Do you truly know nothing of this?’

  ‘Sigfrid Redhand tells us oarsmen little of his plans,’ Vivil admitted as Gest drank from the horn. ‘But I know of Hafrsfjord. I didn’t know we were back in those waters, though.’ He took a deep breath. ‘That was a good fight, that, for all it was a defeat.’

  ‘You were there?’ Gest asked, handing back the horn. ‘You seem too young.’

  ‘Nay,’ Vivil said, taking back the horn. ‘But I have heard about that great sea fight. The sea king speaks of it.’

  ‘Was he at Hafrsfjord, then?’

  Vivil shook his head. ‘Nay, but his father and uncle and his brother all fell in the sea fight. That was when he took ships and men and took up the viking life…’

  The flap in the awnings opened and Orm appeared. Gest looked up, meeting the skipper’s eyes. Orm came over, but there was no sign of Sigfrid Redhand.

  ‘The sea king bids me go back to my ship,’ Orm told him. ‘You’re to remain aboard…’

  Gest rose. ‘Do I go to him now?’

  Orm shook his head. ‘Stay on deck,’ he said. ‘The sea king will not see you this evening.’ He turned to take his leave. Gest seized hold of his arm. Orm looked down at his hand then up at him. ‘Take your hand off me,’ he said coldly.

  Gest loosened his grip. ‘What did you say to the sea king?’ he called after him as Orm crossed to the side. Orm did not answer. He climbed over the gunwale and swung down to the boat. Gest followed him, staring down from the gunwale as Orm rowed back to the Sea Eagle.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ he shouted. But Orm did not look back. Reaching his own longship he secured the boat, climbed up, and vanished onto the deck.

  Vivil crossed to Gest’s side. ‘Forget him,’ he said. ‘The sea king will talk to you in the morning, maybe. Come and drink.’

  But the sea king did not speak to him the next day. At dawn Gest awoke on deck with the oarsmen, where he had drank away the night while the sea king and his remaining berserks caroused under the awnings. As soon as Gest was out of his sleeping bag Stafnglam began yelling orders, and Vivil and the other oarsmen hurried to obey.

  Gest stalked stiff legged and parched mouthed
towards the stern. A mist hung over the waters, but the dark shapes of other longships were alive with the sound of crewmen preparing for leave-taking.

  ‘Where are you going, Hunding?’ Stafnglam barked after him. ‘Did you not hear my order? Help your mates lower the sail!’

  Gest looked back. ‘I’m in the sea king’s guard,’ he said defiantly. ‘I’m no crewman.’

  Stafnglam shook his head. ‘You’ll do the work of a crewman this morning,’ he bellowed. ‘Sea king’s orders.’

  Gest glanced at the awnings. There was no sign of anyone stirring within. Sigfrid Redhand was giving him the cold shoulder. Again he wondered what Orm had told him.

  Without another word, he went to help the men who were lowering the sail.

  That morning was spent readying the fleet. Sails were inspected, lines were tested, oars made ready, and the shields along each bow were painted red in token of war. Gest saw nothing of the sea king and his berserks. By the time the dragon ship was ready to set sail, his muscles were aching, his palms were skinned from hauling on lines, and he was wet from the mist, and sore and aching from hard labour. He sat on the sea chest behind Vivil’s, an oar loom in his hand. Whose chest it was, he did not know, but it was clear he had been demoted.

  The sail bulged in the wind, the rigging thrummed and whipped, as if impatient for leave-taking. The oarsmen sat, chatting quietly some of them, others gazing silently into the foggy distance. At last the mist lifted entirely, revealing the whole of the sea king’s fleet.

  ‘We’ll soon be setting sail,’ Vivil said, turning to face Gest. ‘Are you ready to whet your blade in the blood of foes?’

  Gest shrugged. ‘Do you know where we’re sailing?’

  Vivil shook his head. ‘The sea king doesn’t take common oarsmen into his confidence, I told you,’ he said. His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know?’

  Gest bit his lip. ‘He never told me,’ he said darkly, ‘but I think I have an inkling.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Gram from behind him. ‘Where will we sail?’