by C. R. May
‘Either they have outflanked us and set the warehouses aflame, or that’s the first signs of dawn.’
Erik looked eastwards with red rimmed eyes. Helgrim could tell the difference of course, no man spent a lifetime at sea without recognising the first signs that the night was all but spent. It was the first blush of pink in the sky to the east, but it felt like they had been fighting for longer as the Irishmen on the far side of the clearing began to cajole one another into mounting yet another attack. ‘Well, the last of the boys are through,’ Erik growled in reply. He turned to flash his huskarl a grim smile. ‘I was thinking that it might be time that we went across to pay them a visit.’ He shrugged a shoulder as his right hand man grinned in reply. ‘Just a little one,’ he added, ‘long enough to crack a few heads. After all, they have visited us often enough.’
Word was passed along the line as Erik wiped the sweat from his hands on the leg of his trews. The men of the Draki stood taller as the news spread from man to man, and Erik reflected on the night just gone by as he prepared to lead the attack. Rousted from their lethargy by Erland and his Orcadians, Skuli the trader and his crews had had the thralls out of their pens and through the main gate almost before Erik had recalled Kolbein and his own crewmen from the outer perimeter. A few slaves had grasped the opportunity created by the darkness and confusion to dart away into the town, but more who had attempted to escape had been cut down before they could get away, and the savage manner of their deaths had soon curtailed any further attempts as it had been intended to do. Arnkel Torf-Einarsson had led the younger Erikssons and their crews through in their lee even as the last of Erik’s own hirdmen had arrived to form the defence about the gatehouse, and the sound of axe on wood had replaced the noise of ransack drifting across from the town as they had got to work on the kragi. Cut into shorter lengths, the old ladders would make ideal obstructions as they made their final escape in the dawn, and the thought caused Erik to cast another look eastwards even as he sensed Thorstein move a little closer as he prepared to follow his lord into the attack.
The skyline was lightening by the moment, and he flicked a look across to the place where Arinbjorn and the men of the Sea Stallion resolutely guarded his flank. With Gamli Eriksson and the men of the Isbjorn already through the gate and standing as ship guard all was set for the final play of the attack. Erik, the Red King, had almost won through to the corner of the tafl board; not everyone who had set out upon the quest would reach safety, but one last push and they would ride the ebbing waters of the Liffey and be clear of the carnage in Dublin before they broke their fast.
‘What’s it to be then, lord?’ Thorsten murmured at his shoulder. ‘Shall I sound the attack, or do we just go straight at them?’
Erik looked back across at what had become the enemy. One particular warrior had caught his eye during the fighting that night, but the ebb and flow of battle had never swept them close enough to be opponents. Tall and heavily built, the Irishman had begun the fight as magnificently dressed as any man in either army, but with each rebuff by the defending Norsemen he had shed clothing as he stalked his companions, pointing out the scars gained in past battles and the tattoos which decorated his muscular frame, berating them for their lack of honour as each attack was driven back and he sought to rekindle their courage to attack again. Now, as dawn finally broke to colour the eastern horizon with fronds of pink and red, he was down to nothing more than a silver chased helm and a red baldric to carry his sword in its scabbard. Erik knew that the man was almost certainly what the Irish called a taoiseach, a leader of one of the larger and more important clans. It would explain why Erik had not yet seen the high king; this man had obviously been seconded to keep the erstwhile allies away from the heart of the town while king Conalach himself led the sack. It confirmed to Erik what he had suspected all along, even from the first meeting between the two leaders in the hall of the Uí Neill chief the previous winter. The high king had never seen nor intended the alliance between Erik and himself as one of equals, but Erik was a son of Fairhair and he had devised a winning strategy of his own. Let the Irish king sack the town, the silver he would gain from the sale of the slaves would far outweigh the profit he could wring from even a town the size of Dublin, and with the loss of many of the freebooters who had joined his fleet, not only would the gain be greater but there were ships to either sell on or use to reward trusted men of his own. He turned his head to Thorstein as the Irish leader continued to chide his followers. ‘No,’ he said as a hard edge came into his voice. ‘I have a better idea. Pass the word for the men to stand their ground. There is a man who I intend to send to his heaven, although from what I understand of the place and what I have seen of the priests who spend all day praying to ensure that they enter it, I am not quite sure that his Christ would know what to do with him when he arrives!’
Erik watched the taoiseach as he walked the enemy line, chastising leaders and men alike after a nighttime of failed attacks, and he recognised the opportunity for what it was. The clan leaders were proud men, men who valued their honour as much as he did his own, and he had noted from the way the Irishmen had looked at the taoiseach that night that they were barely holding themselves in check as they were upbraided again and again before their kin. Erik’s own men were beginning to throw questioning glances his way, and the sea king knew that the moment to strike had arrived. He spoke softly, confident that his banner man would be awaiting his command. ‘Thorstein?’
‘Yes lord?’
‘Are you ready to take a little stroll?’
Thorstein was a pace to his rear, but an image of the smile which flashed across his face came into Erik’s mind as he firmed the grip on the handle of his shield and took the first step forward. The Norse lines began to buzz with anticipation as they saw their leader begin to cross the open space, the bloodied axe war banner of Erik Haraldsson snaking lazily above as the pair cleared the shelter of the town wall and walked out into the pale light of the pre dawn. The Irish leader still had his back to them as he continued to harangue his troops, and Erik bent low to scoop up a stone as he went, tossing the pebble to gauge its weight before taking aim and letting fly. The stone sped towards its target, and Erik felt the wonder of it reflected in the faces of those standing in the ranks facing him as it struck the taoiseach on the back of his helm with a clatter which resounded around the space. The look of disbelief on the man’s face as he slowly turned had the Norse lines hooting with laughter, and Erik drew up a couple of paces away as Thorstein arrived and squared his shoulders with pride. As the look of incredulity flared into anger and hatred, Erik ran his eyes over his naked opponent and pulled a mocking smile. ‘You didn’t tell me that today was wash day.’ Sniffing the air with the exaggerated action of a wolf seeking the scent, he added with a sneer: ‘it would seem that you left it too long.’
He had gambled that a man of his obvious rank would know at least enough of the Norse tongue to get by, and as his eyes widened Erik knew that he had been right to do so. At the taoiseach’s back others were smiling, the numbers growing quickly as those with a little Norse shared the words and excited looks with their friends, and Erik squared his shoulders, locking the Irishman’s gaze with his own as he jerked his head towards the space between the shield walls.
The silence and brevity of the challenge was another carefully calculated snub to the honour of the man before him and every man, Norse and Irish alike, knew so. Erik’s own identity would be obvious to even the dimmest backwoodsman due to the presence of Thorstein and his battle flag, but he had shown that he held the Irishman in such little regard that he was not even interested in his name, much less his lineage. A frisson of excitement began to build at the nearness of violence, and Erik turned his back and strolled to the centre of the clearing as Thorstein moved across to one side and planted his sigil; it was another action meant to goad his opposite number, and Erik watched the faces of the Northmen in the shield line for any hint that the Irishman was about to
launch a quick attack.
The taoiseach was moving across to fight at the head of his own clan as Erik turned back, waving his arms as he encouraged them to roar their support, but Erik’s gaze ran along the men to either side and he knew then that if he prevailed the Irish attack would stall. The fervour of the clansmen lessened the further from the man’s own clan he looked, and Erik drew his sword as his opponent walked forward and slid his own, the long bladed claideb of the Irish nobility, from its scabbard.
The Norse at Erik’s back set up a rhythmic beat on the rim of their shields as the enemy leader approached, and the walls of Dublin echoed to the sea king’s name as they found their voice and got up a chant:
Blóðøx!…Blóðøx!… Blóðøx!
Shield less the man came on, and Erik watched the point of his blade as it scythed the early morning air and came to reap a kingly harvest. The claideb was the largest he had seen, a two handed weapon, and the thought flashed through Erik’s mind that he lay his own sword and shield aside and take up Jomal, but the axe was unwieldy at the best of times and he quickly pushed the thought aside. It was already obvious to any experienced fighters on the field that the coming fight would be a contrast in styles between the speed and movement of the naked taoiseach and the armoured borg of the Norse king, and as if to reinforce their conclusion Erik planted his feet four-square and awaited the onslaught.
The Irishman wound his body as if preparing to leap into the air as he arrived and Erik raised his shield to counter, but the Norse king was no fool and his feet were already off the ground before the claideb was reversed to whistle through the air where his ankles had been a heartbeat before. The weight of the sword and the effort put into the strike acted to swing Erik’s attacker away, and before he could complete the move and come back around to face his adversary Erik stepped in. As his shield shot out to knock the man off balance, Erik’s sword stabbed low. To Erik’s surprise the taoiseach saw the blow before it connected, but he was still off the ground and it was difficult to pull his legs to safety without falling helplessly as he landed. The leg went back nevertheless, but Erik had the satisfaction of seeing his blade slice through his opponent’s calf muscle as he pulled it away, and the first blood of the contest pearled the air as the men surrounding the gate roared their glee.
Erik moved forward hoping for a quick kill, but his opponent sprang away the instant that his foot touched the ground and the follow-up only stabbed clear air. He drew back in disappointment, watching closely as the realisation came into the clansman’s features that his strategy lay in tatters. Blood was running freely from the place where Erik’s blade had opened muscle like a ploughshare and the temptation was there to attack and finish the man off; but he knew that time was now on his side, and he pulled back and renewed his defensive stance as the Irish lines fell silent. The great bulk of the sea king stood immobile, glowering at his enemy from beneath the steel rim of his helm as his opponent turned and prepared to attack again as Erik knew he must. Every pace taken opened the wound, and a bloody trail followed Erik’s adversary as he closed again. Unlike the first attack which had been a feint, Erik knew that it was far more than blood which was seeping out with every step taken; his opponent was rapidly running out of options if he was to stand any chance of victory before blood loss drew the strength from his leg, and he hunkered into his shield and braced as he prepared to face what must become a trial of brute strength between them.
The taoiseach’s expression reflected his desperation as he raised the claideb high before crashing down to smash through the Norseman’s defence, but it was Erik’s turn to spring a surprise, and he was already darting aside as the blade fell to set the stony ground ringing. Overextended and hopelessly exposed, Erik just had time to register the look of anguish on the Irishman’s features before the point of his sword slammed into the pit of his arm, and he gritted his teeth with effort as he drove the blade through the width of his torso until it emerged gore spattered into the light. The taoiseach was already falling as the warriors in the Norse lines bellowed their joy, breaking into a run as the clamour of Thorstein’s war horn signalled the attack.
The banner man came across as Helgrim and Kolbein hurried to Erik’s side, and the trio shared looks of weary satisfaction as Arinbjorn swept by at the head of the attackers. Erik lifted his eyes as the men of the Draki and the Sea Stallion flowed around them, only to find that the clansmen had already broken and run. At his feet the taoiseach gave a shudder as pink froth at his mouth showed where the point of Erik’s blade had divided his lungs, and the sea king bent to uncurl his opponent’s fingers from the handle of the claideb as his own Norse responded to the recall and began to return from the chase. Erik straightened his back as they came, and the first light of the new day drew a line on the earth’s rim as he stretched tired muscles. ‘Let us get to the ships old friend,’ he called as he saw Arinbjorn amid the crush. ‘We have what we came for and a tide to catch.’
12
WHO CAN SAIL WITHOUT THE WIND?
Helgrim Smiter gave Thorstein a sly nudge, his eyes sliding across to the place where the woman was busy sucking at Anlaf’s wound. ‘I guess a jig is out of the question then?’
The pair chuckled as Thorstein made a comment of his own. ‘A couple of inches to the right and I might have taken the arrow for you. Mind you,’ he added with an exaggerated stroke of his beard. ‘A couple of inches to the right, and you would be squatting to piss until the old hags snip your life thread!’
The men on the steering platform shared a grubby laugh as Anlaf Crow curled his lips into a laconic smile. Sat on a sea chest with his trews around his ankles and his sark rolled up around his waist, Erik’s huskarl was struggling to appreciate the humour of the moment. Having taken an arrow the moment he leapt ashore on Dublin’s quayside he had not only missed the entire assault, but now he was the butt of his companion’s jokes. Watching from his place near the steering oar Erik took pity on his old friend, even as he wondered if the Irish captive knew what she was about. It may look amusing to the boys, but they had all seen wounds that could barely be called a scratch fester and send a hale and hearty man to Óðinn’s hall. Erik raised his chin as the woman lifted her own to spit mucous streaked blood into a cup. ‘We are still in dangerous waters,’ he said with a frown. ‘You lads, see that the boys are attending to their weapons. The actual Man jarls could show up at any time, or the masts of king Edmund’s fleet could wood the horizon as they return from harrying Strathclyde.’
Thorstein opened his mouth to reply, but the look on his lord’s face allied to the gentle flick of his head told him all he needed to know. No man deemed fit to crew Erik Haraldsson’s longship needed to be reminded to keep either themselves or their weapons battle ready at a moment’s notice, but the pair took the admonition with good humour as they sidled away towards the bow.
The wags safely out of the way Erik took himself across to the stern, raising a steadying hand to grasp the great sweep of the dragon tail as the ship rolled in the swell. The wind blew steadily, the Irish Sea sparkled as he ran his eyes across the ships of his fleet and felt the glow of accomplishment warm his guts.
Skuli’s knarrs were following the Draki in line astern, the fuller bows of the trading craft necklaced with spray as they breasted the waves. Each was flanked to either beam by a skei, the sleek longships forced to zigzag to allow the traders to keep pace with them despite shortening sail. With the Draki itself, the ten ships would comprise the fleet which would make the journey south with their forlorn cargo. Off the larboard quarter a smaller flotilla shadowed the main fleet, and Erik ran his eyes across the ships as they tacked to starboard, cut across their track and put the distant peaks of the Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd behind them.
Erland, the brother of the Orkney Jarl Thorfinn Skull-Splitter, led them in the Valkyrie, the big skei sawing as it cut across the wash of the fleet under a cloud of sail. In his wake came the smaller snekkjur, Erik’s own sons Guttorm and Sigurd in the Cr
ane coming on ahead of the remaining ships who had joined them in Orkney the previous month. Only two of the five crews had made it out of Dublin, and Erik neither knew nor cared if the others had survived, although he doubted it, especially as they would have found the berths empty and their own ships missing even if they had fought their way free of king Conalach’s rampaging army. The three hulls and their contents had been a parting gift from Erik to Ulfar Whistle Tooth, the old campaigner having come to the decision that his knees had known what they were about at the start of the attack, his Viking days were behind him after all. He would return with the others to Orkney and thence home to Norway, seeking out king Hakon to pledge fealty to Erik’s brother in return for confirmation of his titles and landholdings. Ulfar’s loss had been Gamli Eriksson’s gain, and Erik snorted as the look of his first born’s face came into his mind when he had told him to transfer his flag and crew from the Isbjorn to the big skei Okse.
Midday found them already through the place where the coastlines of Wales and Ireland narrowed the sea, but the only ships spotted quickly put their tiller over the moment they sighted Erik’s powerful fleet. The men lounged in groups as the wind blew steadily from the north-east, comparing wounds from the fighting on Dublin’s walls and honing tales for a lifetime’s retelling of their king’s singlehanded victory over the tattooed Irish giant.
As the coast of Ireland curved away, conversations quietened as men stood to watch the ships who were returning to Orkney peel off from the fleet and set a course southwestwards. Within the hour they were hull down on the horizon, and Erik walked to the bows of the Draki as he prepared to sacrifice for the success of his own voyage. The fleet hove to, wallowing like seals in the surf as they came together, and Jomal swung to send a Dublin wine merchant’s finest vintage spilling into the cold waters of the Irish Sea. Njörðr’s thirst quenched, Erik cast a look back to the west as the ships drew apart and turned their snouts to the south. The Valkyrie had led the snekkjur out into the watery wastes, where the Midgard Serpent thrashed the sea to foam and waves as green as any mountain pasture marched in ranks, and he added an invocation for their safety as he turned and walked sternward.
