War of the Gods

by Poul Anderson

  At length they upped anchor. Through the rest of that summer they searched the eastern side of England. When they could plunder, they did, but mainly their chief was looking for war-fellows.

  When he met leaders like himself, they would come together warily, sit down and drink while their men stood taut, sometimes grow mellow and swap gifts. Yet it was not until the end of summer that Tosti found one he thought he might want.

  This was at the Wash, where the Norse viking Koll lay with three ships. Tosti’s drew slowly toward them, white shield at masthead but hands not far from hafts. Hails sounded across the water. After a while the newcomers felt safe in coming ashore and mingling.

  Koll had heard of Tosti, both from his earlier doings and his raids this year. A man who had almost gotten King Hadding killed was worth knowing. With all the lawlessness in eastern England, pickings were becoming lean. Moreover, the settlers were no soft prey. As their burghs grew, so did the numbers they could’ quickly raise to meet unwelcome callers. Koll had thought of seeking to Scotland, thence south along the western shores and maybe over to Ireland. However, those parts were little known to Northmen, and likewise full of hardy warriors.

  “Aside from what I wrought in Lolland, the Danes have been at peace for many years,” Tosti said. “They’ve waxed rich, and they’ve gotten slack. We can strike and be off, again and again. Hadding grows old. His fire burns low. When we’ve reaved enough, he should be willing to buy us off. With such wealth we can go on to make ourselves lords.”

  “No, your wits are aflight,” Koll answered. “Four viking crews, to hold at bay the mightiest king in the North?”

  Tosti calmed him. “I did not say we should strike tomorrow, or soon at all. Let’s see how well we can do together.”

  The upshot was that these bands wintered at that spot. In spring they set forth and harried widely. Having then based themselves on a holm they could defend, they spent the next winter building up their strength. Their gains, along with what Tosti had gotten from the killings among his own men, bought them two more ships and crews. The year after that they sought north and west as Koll had wanted to. There they won more than they lost.

  Thus it went for five years altogether, while Denmark dwelt under Hadding’s peace. By then they led a dozen craft. “If we don’t now go after greatness, we never will,” Tosti said. “The old king yonder dodders toward his grave. His son will be a worse one to deal with. We’ll need time to make ourselves a match for Frodi.”

  He had won Koll over. “Yes, I’m wearied of this rootless roving,” his partner said. “I’m ready for a home, where I can watch the sons I beget grow up and know they’ll remember me when I’m gone.”

  Tosti bared his teeth. “And I’m overready for my revenge.”

  Thus, early that summer, they took their fleet back across the North Sea.

  They raised the hills of southern Norway and knew they were in the Skagerrak. Having rested a day ashore, they bore south of east for Denmark. The wind was fair, which seemed a hopeful sign, and they sailed steadily through a moon-bright night. In the morning they saw to starboard the heather and sands of the Skaw.

  Then they saw what they liked less well, a score of long-ships with oars at work. Shields hung bright along rails, helmets and spearheads flashed aboard. Tosti uttered foul words. Koll yelled to him over the waves, “You told me there’d be no warders here!”

  “Who could have known?” Tosti howled. “Strike sails and come about!” For the others were to leeward of them. Someone had been watching from land and laying his plans.

  Hard though the vikings pulled, the Danes, fresher and in longer hulls with more rowers, slowly overhauled them. As the sun passed noon, they drew within shouting range. A tall man stood up in the bows Of the foremost. His voice boomed across the rush and glitter of waves, the whittering of wind: “Ahoy! Who goes there?”

  “No foes to you,” Tosti cried. “Not today,” he added for his crews to hear, lest they think he was afraid.

  “We’ll board you and make sure of that,” the tall man told them.

  “No!” blared Koll. “Not unless you cut your way! Who dares give us orders?”

  “Hadding the Dane-king,” answered the tall man.

  Tosti shrieked in wrath run wild.

  Hadding shaded his eyes and peered. “Is that you, Tosti? I thought it might be. Welcome to the end of your wanderings.”

  “Make ready to fight,” ran along the lengths of the viking craft.

  “Lie to and we’ll talk,” called Hadding.

  “What?” barked Koll.

  “Maybe you can outlive this day. But if you want to, first you must hear me.”

  The rover skippers hallooed among each’ other. Rowers rested their oars. Hadding’s brought him within yards. “A bowshot, a bowshot,” Tosti rasped.

  As if he had heard, Hadding warned, “One spear or arrow, and you’re all dead. Hark well.

  “If we do battle on the water, it’ll be harder for us to get at you than on land, and whoever falls overboard, his mail will sink him. We’d clear your decks, but it would cost more than I want to spend. Better for us if we go ashore. You know that, so you won’t.

  “Now what I offer, Tosti, is that you and I seek the strand and meet man to man. We’ll each take a boat, while our ships draw too far apart for any sudden onslaught. Then if I fall, you can get back to yours in time to flee. If I win, I’ll have scrubbed the world clean of you without squandering good lives. Have you that much manhood?”

  “Yes, and more!” Tosti choked out of a throat gone thick. With every eye upon him, where every ear heard him mocked, he could say nothing else. Besides, he quaked with blood lust.

  “I’ve brought two skiffs that a single man can row,” Hadding made known. “We’ll set one adrift for you. I’ll meet you on the strand below that bluff where three pines grow.”

  Thus it came to be. The Danes laid two miles between themselves and the vikings. They left behind the boat Hadding had promised. Tosti’s ship went to it, a hook pulled it alongside, he scrambled down. “Kill him, kill him,” hooted his followers.

  “I will, the old lame hound,” he cried back, and rowed.

  For all his farings these past years, he was an awkward seaman. His oars caught crabs, the boat wallowed, water dashed over the side and sloshed about his feet, he grunted and puffed. Though Hadding had farther to go, the king got there first. He rode the surf neatly into the shoals, sprang out, hauled his craft up, and made it fast by its anchor. The breakers capsized Tosti’s. He was within his depth, but staggered as billow after billow brawled over his head. Hadding waded out, caught his arm, and helped him to land.

  Tosti stood gasping and snorting. Brine rivered through the rings of his byrnie. Nonetheless he had been quick to draw sword and unsling the shield on his shoulders. Hadding kept aside. The sea drummed and foamed. Sunshine baked tang from kelp. The sand sheened dark here and glittered higher up where it rose into dunes. Gulls soared, dipped, mewed.

  Tosti glowered. “Did you mean for me to drown?”

  Hadding shrugged. “I’d not have been too sorry. But I’ve looked forward to feeding you, myself, to my seafowl.”

  “How did you know of me?”

  “Did you think I’d forget about a troll like you? I rewarded whoever brought me news of your whereabouts and misdeeds. When I learned you’d gone to England, I sent trusty men there to find out what they could. When word came that you were linked with that Koll, it seemed likely you’d be back to irk us anew, and I sent still more spies out. When you bragged that this year you’d be going, word got around, and a swift ship sought home to me. True, I couldn’t foresee where you’d come, but I lay here at the Skaw later than I otherwise would have, in hopes.” Hadding grinned. “Hopes fulfilled. The Father of Victories shall have a big thank-offering when you and I are through.”

  “Yes, I’ll give him you.”

  “He’ll pick which of us he wants, though I should think he’d kick you down to
Helheim. Are you ready?”

  Tosti yowled, stepped forward, and struck. Hadding’s blade met his in midflight. Iron clanged, sparks flew.

  Hadding kept his shield high, squinting over it, shifting it the least bit to and fro as he saw a blow coming. Some hit his mail or helmet, but did not cut the metal. Tosti hewed like a woodman. He was younger, he did not limp, he would wear his foe down. Hadding tried for neck, arms, legs, but drew scant blood. Mostly he saved his strength while he fell slowly back, up the slope of the strand.

  Tosti bellowed and banged.

  They reached the high-water mark. All at once Hadding spun on his heel and took a long sidewise step. He smote again at Tosti’s knee. The outlaw swung around barely fast enough. Now it was he who faced the sea. And now Hadding bore in on him with storm fierceness. His sword whirred, ring, pounded, bit. Tosti pulled farther back. Surely the old man would soon wear himself out.

  Tosti betrod the dry sand. It crunched, slithered, gave-beneath his feet, not much but he lurched a little. His shield, half splintered away, wavered in his grasp. Snake-swift, Hadding struck at his neck. Blood geysered.

  For a while, then, the king stood over the deathling and struggled for breath. The ships lay lean on the sea, too far off for anyone to see what had happened. As he rowed out to his, belike the vikings would turn tail. He would not give chase. Without Tosti’s baneful will to bind them, they would soon scatter, some maybe again to England, some maybe slinking forlornly about till the warders of the Danish waters caught and killed them.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “I am old.”

  He looked aloft. Clouds scudded from the west, their white going gray, rain on their heels. “I wanted one last victory that was wholly mine, as a man among men,” he said into the loudening wind. “But what has this been? I knew how it would go. He who called himself Gangleri told me I can die only by my own hand. I did not understand what he meant, and I do not, but now it comes back to haunt me. Do you hear me, you up yonder? What is it that you want of me?”

  XXX

  Uproariously though his men cheered him, ringingly though the skalds chanted his praises, the king’s mood stayed dark. “Better would it be were Frodi with us,” he said once.

  A guardsman who heard blurted in astonishment, “But, lord, none could know when Tosti would come or by what sea lane. Watchmen had to lie in wait from here to Haven, and all down the Great Belt.”

  “Frodi would not take a share in that,” Hadding answered.

  His foremost son had snapped, “Should I sit the whole summer yawning till my jaw falls off, with an ant-small likelihood of getting anything to do? No, I’ve already told my friends I’ll lead them where fame and riches can be had.”

  “You should have spoken with me first,” said Hadding. His voice fell dull.

  Frodi tossed his handsome head. “Younger were you when you fared forth than I was when I first did on my own. Nor were you ever much for letting anybody’s wish rein you in.”

  “In those days I knew nobody with the wisdom to show me what was best. What wisdom I now have was dearly bought. I hoped it would not die with me.” Hadding sighed. “Well, if you’ve given a promise, honor binds you. Go. We’ll talk after you come home.”

  He did not say the unlucky word “if.” And indeed Frodi had thus far won all his battles, which were not few.

  From the beginning he had loved weapons and weapon-play above all else. He became a horseman, hunter, and sailor, but no more skillful than behooved a well-born man. With sword, spear, ax, bow he grew deadly. Even as a little boy, fighting others with sticks, he bloodied their heads so often that at last none would agree to the game. But by then he was learning the use of iron, forged for his size. Those things must be made bigger each year.

  At the age of twelve, he could lawfully go in viking, though skippers hardly ever did take striplings. Frodi asked if he could join a crew busking for a raid on Friesland. Belike they would have let him, he being the king’s son. However, the king said flatly no. When Frodi raged at him, Hadding gave the lad a backhanded cuff that sprawled him on the ground. Frodi stormed off. Nobody saw him for days. He came back ragged”, dirty, scratched, and starving. He would not tell where he had been, but folk guessed at the woods. Nor did Hadding dwell on the matter.

  When his father left his mother behind in Norway, Frodi took it hard. He did not ask about it, nobody did, but he brooded. His scowls and curtness helped stir unrest in the housecarles and other warlike men. To quiet them, Hadding took a small fleet across the Baltic and harried about in Wend-land and Gardariki. On that faring Frodi went along, now fifteen, tall as most men and daily getting stronger. He and his father fought side by side, sat together at their campfires, stood watch and watch at the steering oar when a gale nearly sank them, grew closer than ever before or afterward.

  The next year Ragnhild returned to Denmark and died giving birth to a dead child. Her son Frodi was not there. He and a band of youths, off overseas to fight and plunder, were wintering in Frankland. From that he gained less than the outfitting had cost.

  His wedding cheered him. The bride was comely, and she brought lands and riches with her. It happened Frodi was not on hand when Hadding rode into Tosti’s trap, but later he went in the forefront of the avenging host and reaped a red harvest.

  No wolf’s heart beat in Frodi’s breast. To his wife, children, and household he was kindly, at such times as they saw him. Among his warriors he was mirthful whenever they were, steadfast when thing went ill for them, unstinting of gifts, fearless in battle, then afterward ready to help bind up wounds or sit by a dying man and tell him he had done well. They would have followed him to Jotunheim if he bade them.

  But year by year his warfaring drained his wealth.

  When he came back from Finland after Tosti’s fall, Hadding rode to his home and told him, “Now we must talk.”

  “Alone?” asked Frodi.

  “Yes.” Hackling spoke too softly for others to hear. “You know what it will be about, but neither of us knows what may fly out of his lips.”

  Frodi scowled. “I’ll not gladly sit while you try to upbraid me,” he muttered.

  His eyes widened a little when the king did not stiffen at his frowardness but said merely, “We can be doing something else as well. I’ve often found that helpful.”

  “Hm. I’ve been meaning to hunt waterfowl sometime soon. It can be the two of us.”

  In the morning they walked forth, carrying bows and nets. Not far from the hall a stretch of woodland wedged into fields and meadows. The men passed beneath leaves whose green had begun to fade with the year. The weather was cool and quiet. Frodi took a deer trail he knew.

  After a while Hadding said at his back, “You go rather noisily, my son.”

  “What have we to fear?” Frodi rapped.

  “Naught. I was thinking of skill. To go soundlessly through brush is like sailing as close to the wind as your ship is able.”

  “What has either to do with warfare?”

  “There’s more than that to being a man, and to being a king.”

  Frodi made no answer.

  The ground went boggy, the air damp. Mist stole through the shadows. When at length the twain reached the fen they sought, fog eddied dank around them. There was no more sun, no more sky. Sight of reeds and dark water was lost after a few yards. The one sound was a dripping off willow boughs into the mere.

  “Death and dungheaps!” snarled Frodi. “We’ve come all this way for nothing.”

  “Maybe not,” said his father. “It’s the kind of place for the kind of thing I have in mind. I wonder what made it thus.”

  Frodi shivered. “Best not name land-wights or elves or other uncanny beings here. Not even gods.”

  “No. You are not used to them.”

  “And you—Let’s go back.”

  Hadding laid a hand on Frodi’s arm. “Abide. Talk with me. Unless you’re afraid.”

  The younger man gripped his bow so that his knuckles stoo
d white. “Speak, then.”

  “You know what it will be,” Hadding said. “We’ve touched on it and shied back, again and again. This day I’ll have it out with you.”

  He looked off into the fog. Droplets of it glistened in his gray hair. “I too once lusted for war, victory, fame, greatness. Over and above that, though, I had my father to avenge, my kingdom to win, less for myself than for the house of Skjold. Then came the long feud with the Ynglings. Oh, yes, I also roved and fought for my own gain, as men do, but I see now that that was not really what my life was for.

  “And along the way, I learned other things.” He chuckled. “Or else the gods rubbed my nose in the knowledge. From Hardgreip I learned something about love, from your mother far more.” He gave his son a hard stare. “That is not an oldster’s mawkishness. Remember who it was that lately slew Tosti, hand to hand.

  “Frodi, my peace with Hunding has not weakened us. It strengthens, as well you should know who wedded his daughter. Still more does the work of our folk, yeomen, craftsmen, traders, all the Danes over whom my warriors and I stand guard. And I have striven to uphold the law at home, for men should turn to it before they turn to the sword. There lies the rightful work of the king.

  “From time to time we must needs take up arms. And I’d be foolish to tell men they cannot fight abroad when they stand to gain thereby. But, Frodi, the king’s care should always first and foremost be for the kingdom.”

  The young man stood wordless. The fog swirled and dripped.

  “Do you think I am merely another viking?’ he asked at last.

  “I do not call you unworthy. You are my son by Ragnhild and he who shall be lord after I am gone. I must hold by that, or Denmark will tear itself apart and outlanders again make prey of the Danes. But you spend gold and lives as if they could never be emptied out. Take thought. Already you have sons of your own. What will you leave to them, to your grandsons, to the house of Skjold? How will they remember you?”