The Raven and the Cross

by C. R. May

  Erik was aware that Thorstein and Helgrim’s eyes were upon him as they waited for their lord to dismount and form their own battle line, but something irked him, a feeling that the Obotrites had missed something in their rush to bring the fight to a victorious conclusion before darkness could cloak the field. He swept the landscape before him one more time as the war cries of his allies rose and fell in the dusk. The road on which the Frankish column had halted to face the threat ran as straight as a spear from north to south, cutting through the barley fields which swayed gently with each breath of wind. Immediately to their rear the sun lay on the horizon, the blinding orb already beginning to flare as the sky horses Arvak and Alsvið, Early Riser and Swift, pulled their charge beyond the sight of men. The Franks had drawn up in a good defensive position; a drainage ditch flanked the roadway, and although it would in all probability be empty of water after the long summer draught the sunlight shining directly in their faces made it impossible to be certain. Behind the shield wall a multitude of common folk were sheltering from the attack, each clasping what little they had been able to transport away from the advancing Danes in the north. Alongside overladen wagons prized bulls stood oblivious to all the fuss, and a silver cross studded with amber gemstones flashed as it caught the sun’s dying rays.

  War horns sounded close by making Erik start and pulling his thoughts back to his own surroundings. The bogatyri were moving forward, the long blades which tipped the rogatina bear spears glinting as they were lowered all along the line. The shield of Jarilo followed, the axe men pausing for a heartbeat before they too stepped forward with a cry which thundered across the field.

  Erik was aware again of his huskarls fidgeting at his side as their own eyes went from the Slav attackers to their lord as they awaited the order to dismount and form their own battle line. Babushka too look confused at his inaction, but the nagging concern which he felt at the Frankish disposition refused to go away.

  And then he knew.

  Erik’s head shot around to the south as he spat a question to his leading men. ‘Why did the Franks halt where they did when they were so close to the cover of the wood?’

  Their heads swivelled to the south in unison. Little more than a couple of hundred yards away the road cut through a dense stand of woodland, and although the Franks would have been trapped within its confines by the invaders, it was a far more defensible position than the one which they had taken up. If they could hold out there for long enough and even inflict casualties on the attackers, it was more than likely that the Obotrites would move on to easier targets. But they had stayed in plain view on the roadway; it had to be a trap, and although Erik had not had time to tease out the details of it in his mind, he surprised them all by urging his horse forward into the barley field.

  The horse picked up speed quickly, cantering through the stalks leaving a spreading comet tail of dust in its wake as Erik guided it towards the place he had finally picked out to form his own battle line. A small pond with waters shrunken back by the summer heat stood midway between the start point and the roadway, and beyond that the boughs of an oak outlier threw long shadows across the crop.

  Erik was almost up with the pond when they appeared, the shimmer as the last of the light fell upon mail and helm drawing his eyes southward even as he prepared to throw himself from the saddle and heft his shield. A quick glance was enough to tell him that a score or more mounted Franks were already clear of the copse with others emerging from the shadows in their wake, but he was past the oak now and Erik leapt clear of the charging horse as Thorstein reached his side. Within moments the pair were shoulder to shoulder facing the attack, and Erik reached behind to draw Jomal, the war axe coming free as the others in his hird scrambled to complete the wall. The Franks were still coming from the tree line, but Erik had just enough time to throw a look to either side before they came within missile range and he saw with satisfaction that the men of the Draki had gained the position and formed their skjald-borg, the shield fort of the Northern folk. The last of the men were just anchoring the line to the reedy fringe of the pond, and Erik thrilled to the sound as Norwegian shields crashed together and the war cry Blóðøx! drowned out the drumbeat of approaching hooves.

  The carefully laid trap thwarted by Erik’s intuition and the speed of the Norwegian response, the leading Frankish horsemen turned their mounts to run parallel to the defenders as they looked for a way through to help their beleaguered column. Erik heard the crash as the axe men and Frankish foot soldiers came together to his rear, and he judged that the time had come to make an offensive move of his own as he recognised that the mounted Franks would be desperate to come to their aid.

  A rider passed him, his features a mask of hatred as he stabbed down at the defenders and Erik made to swing Jomal, but the horseman had seen him make his move and he wheeled away at the last instant. The war axe was already moving but years of weapon play, of oaring big ships in the Atlantic swell had corded his arms and shoulders with muscle, and he changed the trajectory of the sweep with ease as the next rider swept into view. Standing proud of the skjald-borg Erik knew that he was exposed to a counter strike but Thorstein was there, the huskarl’s big shield equally ready to pluck a javelin from the air or deflect a sword strike before it could harm his lord, and he crouched low to swing the heavy blade in a low arc as the horse came on. The riders attention was on the Norwegian battle line, his eyes busily searching out a chink in their armoured front as he stabbed downwards again and again, and Erik continued the axe stroke as he struggled to keep his footing on the uneven ground. Thorir hersir had taught him the strike which he called the haymaker, years before on the vang before the hall where they did their daily weapons practice. His foster-father had claimed that it rarely failed to have a devastating effect, and it succeeded again for Erik as it had on the beach outside Tunsburg. That day he had taken the leg from the charging horseman between the armies; once more the hardened steel of the blade barely slowed as it sent the war horse’s foreleg spinning away to redden the barley stalks, and Erik jumped back as the animal screeched in shock and pain as it crashed to earth at his feet. Thrown to the ground the rider barely had time to lift his head before Jomal had taken it from his shoulders, and Erik retreated back into the embrace of the spear hedge as the wild-eyed men of the Draki stabbed the air with their weapons and roared in their blood lust at their king’s victory.

  Surrounded again by the men of his bodyguard, Erik felt safe enough to risk raising his eyes from the charging Franks to assess the progress of the battle. The wood had emptied itself of mounted men and a quick tally told him that the force which had been intended to erupt from cover to smash into the flank of the charging Obotrites was about forty strong. Two score horse-Franks was a sizeable force, hard hitting and clearly well trained, and Erik felt a surge of pride that he had almost certainly saved Boleslav and his men from a savage mauling and quite possibly a bloody rout as the mounted warriors crashed into the unprotected flanks of the axemen, shattered their formation, and scattered them across the barley field.

  The last of the Franks had hauled away as the wounded horse kicked and thrashed on the ground before him, and Erik watched as they channelled up and around the top of the pond which marked the eastern limit of the Norwegian defence as they sought an easier way to come to their countrymen’s aid. Safe now he turned his back as the last of the riders moved away and looked towards the main battle at his rear. The vaunted Slavic axemen were having a tough time of it as they attempted to fight their way up out of the ditch which edged the roadway. If a stand against superior numbers was unavoidable the Franks had chosen an excellent position in which to do so, and Erik watched as spear and sword blades flashed in the dying light as they rose and fell from behind the wall of shields. Lifting his chin Erik could see that Boleslav and his horsemen were attempting to cut their way southwards with the big rogatina spears, but the defenders had blocked the easier routes with carts, wagons and even a few of the bull
s, the beasts a byword for obstinacy and aggression giving as good as they got, despite the power and reach of the bear spears.

  The Franks were holding their own for now, but a glance to the west confirmed that the sun had now left the sky. Skoll and Hati, the monster-wolves Mockery and Hate, had chased Sol down beyond the horizon and the sky was darkening by the moment as the celestial horses ran on. One day, at the time men called Ragnarök, they would snare their prey and the world would be plunged into darkness as gods and giants fought the last great battle, but it was not this day and Erik’s mind ran through the options open to the Frankish commander as he decided on his own next move.

  The majority of the bogatyri, given time to react to the threat by the Norwegians’ stout defence, had raced back to defend the warriors on foot from the Frankish horse, and the dark shapes were hacking and slashing in the twilight as they flattened the crop. A few women and children were crossing the field on the far side of the roadway as they grasped at any chance to escape the noise and mayhem of the fight, and Erik stood tall and looked. A small copse stood in isolation, a dark shape against the skyline. It was deep enough to hide a few from prying eyes, and Erik found to his surprise that he wished them luck in their endeavours to escape death or thraldom, but it was clear that the only substantial refuge to be found within any reasonable distance was the wood from which the horsemen had emerged a short while before. The way lay open, and although most would be chased down by the bogatyri and warriors before they could reach the haven Erik knew that he had found the place where he could exert the greatest influence on the outcome of the battle.

  Erik lay a hand on Anlaf’s arm and gave the order. ‘Make the signal to move westward.’

  Erik’s banner man spat to clear his mouth and cuffed the spittle from his lips as the battle horn came up. Three short notes cut the air, and the horn was already falling back to his side on its lanyard as faces turned his way and prepared to move. Erik’s war flag of the bloodied axe described three circles in the air before dipping to the west, and the men of Erik’s hird were already moving before the flag came to rest. It was only a short distance to the roadway, and Erik hung back as the hirdmen trooped by waiting for Helgrim to come up beneath the raven sigil of Óðinn. Within a few moments the huskarl was there, and Erik indicated the track with a jerk of his head as he called his orders. ‘Straddle the road and deny the enemy any chance of forcing a passage through to the woodland. I will be across in a moment to support you.’

  Helgrim just had time to exchange a nod with his lord before he was swept away in the crush, and Erik turned back to the east as the men awaited his orders. ‘You lads,’ he called as the sound of fighting intensified from the roadway. ‘Gather up our horses and drive them clear of the fray. We don’t want any Franks who manage to slip through the net disappearing into the night on our own horses.’ He shot them a smile. ‘It’s a long walk home, and it will not be me taking it.’

  Despite their disappointment at missing the fight the men flashed smiles in return before scuttling off to do their king’s bidding, and Erik led the remaining men across to take up position athwart the track. The shadows had merged now to cloak the scene as Erik squinted to try and make sense of the chaotic scene unfolding before him. Away to the right the bogatyri had overwhelmed the Frankish horse and the survivors were choosing flight over certain death as they melted into the gloom. The Obotrite warriors had gained a foothold at several points along the lip of the ditch, and axemen were channelling to the front as they struck out to either side, widening the breach. Freed from the need to protect the rear and flanks of the warriors on foot, Boleslav was leading a detachment of bogatyri in a wide sweep around to the west; drawing the net closed about the doomed column even as desperate groups of men, women and children attempted to take advantage of the confusion and darkness to make a last dash for freedom or find a hiding place among the barley stalks.

  As more and more Slavs gained a foothold on the roadway, Erik watched as the sacred shield of Jarlio was handed up to the leading men. It was the sign that the time for a final push had come, and a roar filled the night air as men stormed forward. The Frankish defence was crumbling before his eyes as groups of warriors backed together and prepared to exact the highest blood-price from their enemies before their own souls were released to Christ. Erik could see that the enemy leaders must have already fallen as the remaining Franks searched in desperation for a rallying point, but the night now was too dark, the pressure on them too great, and the first spears and swords began to clatter to the roadway as the end came in sight. Mail clad arms rose into the air as the desperate men came to realise that the only chance they had of surviving the next few moments was to gamble that their enemy valued the silver they would fetch from the slave traders above the chance for an easy kill.

  A final knot of spearmen had come together in a last ditch attempt to force a way through to the woodland at Erik’s back, but the surge when it came was half-hearted as the men saw the raven banner of Óðinn flying proudly above Helgrim Smiter and realised they were facing Norsemen, and the last weapons rattled on the roadway as chins dropped to chests and shoulders slumped from tiredness, dread or shame.

  Boleslav rode up from the west, godlike in his armour at the head of his bodyguard. The encirclement was complete, and Erik, Thorstein and Anlaf Crow left the road to greet the Obotrite leader as the job of parcelling up the Frankish prisoners began.

  A bull bellowed as a blade found its throat, and fires were lit on the roadway as men prepared for the victory feast to come. Other animal cries began as the women in the column paid the price for the defeat of their protectors; away to the east the harvest moon had risen as full as a skei’s sail to silver the treetops. It had been a close-run thing, despite their numbers and valour. Neither Norseman or Slav would test the goodwill of the sprits and ghouls during the witching hours of the night by fighting at such a time, and Erik reflected on the fact as the first fires were kindled and another crop met its fiery end. The Frankish battle plan had been sound, and only Erik’s intuition had stopped them from inflicting a bloody nose on the Obotrite attackers, perhaps even a catastrophic defeat.

  The arrival of Helgrim, Kolbein and Sturla Godi interrupted his train of thought, and he returned their smiles as he saw what they were carrying. ‘Sturla has liberated a barrel of German ale, lord,’ Helgrim beamed. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper despite the fact that they were surrounded by their own men. ‘I have tasted enough mead and wódka for a while, so I persuaded him that it would be a good idea to share it!’

  Cups appeared, and Helgrim spoke again, echoing Erik’s earlier thoughts as the men of his hird hurried across to toast their own part in the victory. ‘I was wondering,’ he said with a frown, ‘why the Franks never made their stand in the wood? They had plenty of time to reach it before the attack.’ The pair glanced across to the place where the roadway disappeared into its inky blackness, and the realisation came to both men simultaneously. ‘They did not know enough of our beliefs to realise that it was unlikely that we would begin an attack during the hours of darkness.’ The pair shared a look, and Erik spoke for both men as they realised the implication. ‘They have been Christians so long that they have forgotten the old ways. We will have to think how we can turn that to our advantage.’

  5

  WITCHERY

  ‘This is where we part company,’ Boleslav said as the great highway came into view. ‘Unless you wish to come along? I doubt that we will encounter much opposition with the Franks busy fighting among themselves in the south, but there is always the chance of a skirmish or two.’

  Erik shook his head in reply. ‘The bogatyri are more than capable of burning a few rude huts without our help.’

  The Slav shot him a sly look. ‘We may head down as far as Hamburg if the road is clear. The Christians have what they call an archbishopric there, it’s the place from which they send forth the priests to attempt our conversion.�
�

  Erik snorted. ‘I will leave that pleasure for you, I know it will not be the first time that the Obotrites have burned out that nest of adders. The alliance between king Gorm and king Mistevoy lasted until the harvest moon began to wane, that begins tonight.’

  Boleslav indicated to Babushka with a flick of his head, and the venerable warrior guided his mount across as a hand fell to the pannier at his side. Flicking the leather flap open, he reached inside and withdrew a small package. Boleslav took it and held it forward as the older man moved away to a respectful distance. ‘Babushka picked up on your admiration for these; I had this made before we left Liubice.’ Erik narrowed his eyes as he felt the weight of the thing, and Boleslav indicated that he open the gift with a lift of his chin. He did so, chuckling with delight as he saw what the package contained. ‘It is a small gift Erik, barely worthy of the name. I have heard of her beauty and doubt that it can add to it,’ he said with a smile, ‘that would be asking too much; but if you recall our friendship and my admiration of your battle play if she ever deigns to wear it, it will be more than enough.’

  Erik unfolded the headdress and his expression shone with delight. A fine snow-white linen formed the basis of the piece, but it was the decoration on the headband which caused all those within sight to catch their breath as the weak early autumn sun played upon it. A swirling design of pearls and blood red amber circled the headpiece, beneath which hung a fringe of the golden hoops which Erik knew were called Temple Rings. It was all that he had wanted as a gift for Gunnhild, and he flashed a smile as he thanked his new friend. He already had a parting gift in mind for the Slav leader, and Erik fished inside the purse which hung at his belt before handing it across. As wide as a Norseman’s palm, the gold ring of the brooch was split by a heavy pin of the same metal. ‘It belonged to a king in Ireland,’ he explained as Boleslav’s face lit up. ‘Jomal sent him to his heaven, but being a Christian his God would not allow him to take it with him.’ Erik’s features took on the mien of a wolf as the heathen shared a look. ‘I told his head when we fished it from a briar that I would find a hero worthy if it.’ Erik’s eyes flashed and he gave a shrug; ‘now I have discovered such a man, someone a head taller-’ A silence followed as Boleslav teased apart the meaning behind the words, but his Norse was better than most of the easterners, and the pair shared a laugh as the Obotrite swapped the brooch for his own.