by C. R. May
Erik’s eyes widened in alarm as he realised what the conflagration must be. ‘Shit!’ he exclaimed, ‘they have war-fire on board!’ A moment later the distinctive twang of a torsion rope being released carried across the waves as the first of the deadly missiles raced away from the ship, and Erik sensed the eyes of every man in the fleet following the fiery arc as it began to lose momentum and plummet down towards the Okse. Fire at sea was a horror which united seamen of all nations, and suddenly Gamli Eriksson’s sleek longship was no longer a powerful weapon of war, honed to perfection by the experience and hand-me-down knowledge of generations of northern shipbuilders. Everyman there knew that at that moment the ship had become little more than a bundle of highly combustable materials, a funeral pyre to match the one they had watched consume Anlaf Crow little more than a month before: wood; pitch; tar; ropes of horsehair and sealskin. Even the great woollen sail was weatherproofed by a coating of linseed and sheep fat, and the men in the fleet watched with mounting dread as the fireball plummeted towards it. Just as the ball of flame and smoke was about to strike the hull, a deft flick of the steering oar had the Okse on her beam ends, the warriors lining her sides gripping whatever came to hand in their desperate efforts to keep from being pitched overboard. As the ship righted herself Erik saw to his astonishment that the skei was angling back towards her opponent, now only a dozen lengths away.
Sturla had noticed his surprise like any good banner man should, and he spat to clear his mouth even as he raised the signal horn to his lips. Erik saw the horn come up, and he looked across just as Sturla’s gaze slid across to meet his own. A nod from the sea king and the horn would sing, the attack would be abandoned and his sons could retreat to a safe distance without fear of shame or dishonour. But Erik knew that they would hate him for it, it would be a thing that they could never forgive however hard he tried to make amends over the coming years, and he forced a shake of his head as he tried to push the picture of Gunnhild’s horrified reaction from his mind’s eye as he was forced to describe how her two eldest sons had burned to death at sea.
Thorstein had noticed the worry on his lord’s face, and the huskarl made a suggestion even as smoke began to plume over the enemy vessel again. ‘We could order the rest of the skei in, lord,’ he suggested with a sniff. ‘They cannot beat us all off, they take far too long to reload. Whatever it is they are carrying must be worth a fair bit to carry such weapons.’
Erik blew out before shaking his head in reply. ‘No, whatever it is they carry is not worth the lives of my sons and two skei and their crews, let alone endangering the entire fleet.’ He dug Sturla in the ribs as he sought to lift the mood. ‘What did the Allfather have to say about risk taking?’
Sturla had anticipated the request, and he had the reply ready and waiting as the catapult sounded again:
‘A coward believes he will live forever
if he keeps away from the strife:
but old age won’t grant him a truce,
even if the spears do.’
Erik laid a hand on his banner man’s shoulder as his eyes turned back to the fight. ‘Then let us watch our men as they overcome this horror with pluck and war play.’ All eyes were on the fiery ball as it flashed towards the Okse, the trajectory flatter now that the ship had come fully within range. Erik felt Thorstein’s grip tighten on his sleeve as the war-fire lost momentum: ‘it’s going over!’ But just as the huskarl’s prediction looked to become fulfilled the missile took a sudden dip, smashing into the mast top to send a net of fire and smoke raining down onto the ship, and the men in the fleet looked on in horror as the great sail quickly became a sheet of flame. Erik’s guts tightened at the sight but the ship’s oars were already sliding proud of the hull, and crewmen moved to offer what cover they could to the rowers as blazing strips of wool fell among them like fiery rain. The stern of the Okse began to swing to starboard as the ship lost way, but the oarsmen were pulling with all the fury of men who were fully aware that their lives depended on it, and the ship straightened up as a tendril of smoke showed that the southern trader’s crew were preparing to finish the job.
The now familiar sound of torsion ropes being released carried to Erik’s ears, but to his surprise no fireball came from the ship. He just had time to exchange a look of confusion with the men crowding the bows of the Draki when a flash of flame caused him to raise to eyes and look to the west. Harald Eriksson had also seen the attack on his brother’s ship and the Auk had brought forward its own attack, cutting the corner to sweep down on the stern of the markab despite the increased risk, drawing the fire from the enemy vessel to give their friends and kinsmen a fighting chance. It was obvious now that the defenders only carried a single fire thrower, that was the reason for the long delay between the shot which had scored a hit on the Okse and the follow up, and Erik’s eyes took in the scene even as the flaming ball hurtled down towards the skei. Alert now to the danger the men in the bows of the Auk had formed a curtain of shields, each overlapping to make the roofed defence which Erik knew the Roman’s had called a testudo, and the men around him gasped as the missile slammed into the centre of the defence to explode in a starburst of flame.
Even as the men on the Auk were throwing their burning shields over the side Erik’s attention had switched back to the Okse. Gamli’s skei already resembled a funeral ship as burning strips of sailcloth detached themselves and drifted down in the breeze, the remaining shards festooning the yard looking for all the world like the spring maypoles of home. But the rowers were still at their oars, the long pine shafts rising and falling in time as they drove the ship on; they were little more than a couple of lengths short of the Moslem trader now, and Erik felt an overwhelming sense of pride as his eyes penetrated the smoke and flames to pick out his eldest son in the prow, ready to lead his men over the side the moment that the hulls came together.
To the west the Auk was closing, the ship ploughing a furrow through a sea strewn with flaming lilies as it passed through the crew’s discarded shields. They had all heard tales of the firestorm used by the ships of Miklagard, the Great City of the Byzantines, but this was the first time that they had witnessed the full horror of the fire which stuck to anything it came to touch, a blaze that even water could not extinguish. Arrows flighted back and forth between the ships as the range closed, but the testudo was back in place, the warriors snatching up their spare shields even as the fire-eaten ones were splashing into the sea alongside. Here and there a man was hit, mostly those caught off guard as they beat at the flames which ate at man and ship alike, but the numbers were few and a roar of defiance to the south was echoed by those surrounding him as Erik switched his gaze again. The fiery hulk which was the Okse had laid herself alongside the steep sided markab, and Erik thrilled to the sight as he watched Gamli’s spear transfix a defender before he used the shaft as a pivot to swing himself onboard. His men were scrambling in his wake, and the sides of the great ship sparkled blood red as the blaze raging aboard the Okse winked from helm and spear blade and the ship began to settle.
A finger of smoke rose into the sultry air from the far side of the trader as the defenders prepared to let fly another fire bolt, but no sound came across the sea save the familiar clash of steel on steel. It was clear to Erik that Gamli must have led his men across to clear the deck of the big vessel, but it was becoming more and more difficult by the moment to see through the smoke and flames which poured skyward from the stricken Okse. Several men had boarded the skei as the fighting petered out, and the men of the fleet watched spellbound as axe blades rose and fell to punch holes in the bottom of the ship while others attempted to use the oars to open the gap between them. A curt sniff at his shoulder caused Erik to start, but the voice which followed the interruption was familiar and it spoke with the usual good sense. ‘Those boys need to get themselves back aboard the trader and across to the Auk,’ Helgrim said. ‘Both ships are lost.’
Erik looked. The scrolling design decorating the side of
the markab was already bubbling and peeling in the heat, and as they watched a tongue of flame flicked out to lick at the corner of the rearmost sail. Despite being shortened the great sheet caught as quickly as that on the Okse had done only a short while before, and within moments the fire was leaping the gap, moving from sail to sail at lightning pace as the southern horizon became a curtain of smoke and flame. Across to the west the crew of the Auk were frantically reefing the sail lest one of the thousand stray embers adrift in the air between the ships gain a foothold. Others were forming chains as the danger from enemy archers receded, and thoughts of fighting their way aboard were replaced by the desire to safeguard their own ship. The oars on the Auk slid into view, mirroring the earlier action of their friends on the Okse as they too began to close on the markab; Erik had seen enough, and he indicated that Sturla follow him aft with a jerk of his head.
Back on the steering platform the view ahead opened up, and Kolbein worked the big paddle blade in the current, easing the stern around as the wind gusted to clear a portal through the smoke. Men dressed for war were dropping from the sides of the doomed trading ship; they could only be Norsemen, the size alone all the confirmation he needed, and he turned to Sturla as it became clear that his worst fears were unfounded and he rediscovered a seaman’s natural aversion to flame. Embers and smuts filled the sky, and although the wind was at their back it paid to be sure. ‘Signal the ships in the fleet to stand off to the north. Even one skei is too high a price to pay for whatever that ship contained.’ He cast a final look back at the devastation they had wreaked in so short a time. After years together Ulfar Whistle Tooth’s old ship, Okse, had barely survived their parting; all that remained visible now was the bovine beast head as she settled by the stern and the long pine mast, now a rod of flame. He sighed. Maybe the gods had willed it? Or maybe the ship itself had found the parting too much?
16
KÖNIGREICH
Gamli Eriksson placed a steadying hand on the prow of the Draki and vaulted the gap. Even as Hoskuld and Svan, his banner man and leading huskarl scrambled across to their lord’s side, Erik’s son was inclining his head towards his father as he awaited judgment. It seemed clear to every man in the fleet that the attack had been a disaster, but it was plain that the young man had no inkling whether he was about to bear the blame for the catastrophe or not. Erik let the silence stretch as he watched his son wrestle with the desire to lift his head again, but when they came the words were softly spoken and the relief felt by those within earshot was palpable. ‘We have had better days, and thankfully we will again.’ Erik glanced back to the south as the Auk began to pull away, Harald and his crew distributing the survivors from the Okse around the ships of the fleet. Darkness was creeping up on them and the horizon was ablaze. ‘Well,’ he snorted, ‘take a good look. Two setting suns is not something you will see everyday.’
‘She was a well-found ship,’ Gamli volunteered. ‘She will burn for a good while yet before Njörðr reaches up to snatch down his prize.’
Erik took a horn of ale from Helgrim, handing it across to his son in a very public act of support. The relief and pride the gesture drew from Gamli was echoed in the faces of his companions as Erik made it clear to every man watching that he attached no fault for the loss of a ship to his son or any of his crewmen. He indicated that Gamli follow him to the stern as Erik’s own huskarls filled cups to the brim, pressing them on Hoskuld and Svan as they began to chivvy them for more details of the attack.
‘I have to say, I feared the worst after the first fire bolt appeared,’ Erik said as they settled themselves near the stern post.
Gamli sketched a smile as both men began to relax. ‘I can promise you father,’ he replied. ‘The fear was far greater on the Okse.’
Erik nodded. ‘How many men did you lose?’
‘Only three to the war-fire, but another four after we boarded the ship.’
‘What did you get? Was it worth the loss?’
Gamli tried not to look crestfallen, but he appeared so all the same as he replied. ‘I sent a handful of my best and bravest below decks to see what they could find, even before we had finished off the enemy. With the sail and masts little more than torches we were waiting for them to engulf the rest of the ship.’ He shrugged and glanced across at the setting sun. Even this late at night the air was as warm as the hottest day back home. ‘Most of the cargo appeared to be furs, although what they would want with them in this heat only the gods can tell. We did come across several hundred Frankish blades though,’ he added with a mischievous smile. ‘They look like they were all cast in the Rhineland, quite a few of them have a name on one side of the blade and a strange pattern on the other.’ He sucked his teeth noisily as he thought before clicking his fingers and stifling a smile. ‘Ulfberht!’ he exclaimed finally, ‘that’s what it said.’ Gamli cocked his head as laughter shone in his eyes. ‘Have you heard of them father?’
Erik beamed at the revelation. Sword blades cast in the Rhineland were highly prized, those marked with the makers name Ulfberht doubly so. If they had retrieved as many as Gamli said, not only would they make a tidy profit from the attack even taking into account the loss of the Okse, Erik could reward a few of his most deserving followers with a fine new sword once he had them fitted with a suitable hilt.
‘Did you get them all off?’
Gamli did his best to look offended. ‘Of course! Harald has them on the Auk.’
The pair shared a laugh as it became clear that Gamli had been stringing his father along, allowing Erik to think the raid a stroke of ill-luck while he knew it to have been a roaring success. Erik clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘It was a big ship to carry a few sword blades and furs. Anything else?’
Gamli shook his head. ‘Only thralls; about three score or so. They were all chained together, so my lads ploughed the best of the women and left them. Anyway,’ he added with a shrug, ‘I thought that we had had our fill of slaves over the past few months. Even if we had sifted through them and taken the most valuable looking with us, I doubt that we could have found much room on the knarrs now that the holds are full with the payment we received for the last lot in Lishbunah.’
Both men looked back towards the place where the flames were finally beginning to flicker and die. ‘The ship must have burned down to the waterline,’ Erik said, ‘I doubt that they will be worth much now. Neither man nor woman knows the day or manner of their death much beforehand; it is the Æsir’s greatest gift.’
The fleet was drawing together for the night. Men were beginning to toss ropes from ship to ship as they prepared to make a raft of the fleet. The burning ships would have been seen, if not from the nearby coastline from one of the many fishing boats in the area. Word would have spread, men throughout the hinterland rushing with spear and shield to counter the threat of coastal raiders. With the defenders alerted, their hulls full of treasure and the prevailing current running parallel to the coastline, there was no fear of being driven ashore in the night and it paid the Norsemen to remain at sea, despite their strength. The last of the fruited meat had to be eaten that night; nobody had died yet, and Erik thought that he might well take a chance. If he spent the following day with his arse hanging over the side like a good many had already, at least it would confirm to those who had eaten the strange stew back in Lishbunah that their king was not afraid to share the danger. He shot Gamli a smile as a belly-rumble protested or backed up his decision. ‘Come on berserk,’ he said, the pride in his voice obvious to them both. ‘The wine won’t drink itself.’
They had ridden in silence for the best part of a mile, despite the levity of those around them. The hunt had been a great success, and the horses plodded homeward at a relaxed pace to enable the heavily laden wagon to keep up. The year was beginning to wind down to Jule, the lush greens of a Jutland summer giving way to the deep russets of autumn as a murmuration of starlings swept in dark patterns overhead. Erik reflected on the recent sea journey north as he wa
ited for his host to break the silence between them.
A month of steady sailing had carried them far from the stifling heat of Al-Andalus to the gentler climes of the North. Ships had scattered before the powerful fleet as they swept through the channel between the snowy white cliffs of England and Frankia, and Erik recalled the catcalls and taunting which had followed the fleeing Christian traders and warships alike with a snort. The sound was enough to draw his riding companion’s attention, and the pair shared an awkward look as they caught one another’s eye. Harald Bluetooth cleared his throat and made to speak, but the only sound which escaped his lips was a strangulated sigh, and Erik finally took pity on his brother-in-law as he formed the only conclusion he could from his friend’s newfound difficulty with words. ‘So, king Gorm does not intend to supply me with ships and spearmen when I sail to regain my father’s kingdom in the spring.’
The words out in the open, all the Dane could do was nod his head as he was forced to admit the truth of it. ‘It’s not the will or desire which is lacking Erik,’ he replied sheepishly; the boil pricked, all the poison came pouring out. ‘The truth is we are just not strong enough to allow any of our warriors to leave the kingdom at the moment. King Otto of the East Franks mustered a huge army again this summer and he has been using it to great effect, driving southwestwards in an effort to unite the kingdoms of the East and West Franks into what the Germans are calling the königreich. You already know the outcome of the Slavic attack a few years ago; you were there for the start of it at least.’
Erik nodded. It still pained him to think of the friends he had made among the Slavs and the manner of their death. Invited to a feast by Otto’s underling count Geri of Merseburg, the Germans had waited until the Slavs were drunk on goodwill and wine before cutting them down to a man. Thirty of the Slavic tribes’ most important chieftains lost their lives that night, among them his old friends Boleslav and Babushka. It was the Norwegian’s turn to sigh at the enormity of the growth in Christian power since that day, but the Orkneys and Sudreys were not so remote that shipmasters did not carry news from port to port along with their wares, and Erik took up the tale as the horses walked on. ‘Not content with treachery, the count of Merseburg added duplicity and guile to his fast growing list of attributes. A Slavic prince had been captured in one of the many raids, and the count persuaded this man that he would support his claim to the chieftainship of the Hevelli if he in turn promised to acknowledge king Otto as his overlord once this was achieved. This man Tugumir was returned to his people, whereby he murdered his closest rival, took the king seat and fulfilled his vow to the Germans.’
