War King

by Eric Schumacher

  Hakon offered him a skin full of ale. “I am King Hakon, and these are my men. We saw the smoke from your settlement and came to investigate. We found you there.”

  The man's fear evaporated, replaced instead by a mask of grief. “My settlement,” he croaked, the ale in his hand forgotten. “It is gone.”

  Hakon kept his eyes on the man, knowing that many of the people in that settlement had been his friends and his kin. He could see that truth in the old man's eyes. “It is gone,” he confirmed gently. “I am sorry.”

  The man drank then, and Hakon could see his hand shaking. When he finished his swig, he looked back at Hakon and narrowed his eyes under his gray brows. “They left me alive so that I might tell my rescuers what I saw.”

  “And what did you see?” Hakon asked.

  He looked at the crew, then back at Hakon. It was clear in the way he swallowed and cast his eyes about that it troubled him to say it, but he knew he must. “They told me that their father is dead, and that they have returned to take back what was once his.”

  Hakon stared at the man for a long moment, trying to untangle the riddle of his answer. “Who has died?”

  “Erik Bloodaxe.”

  Hakon did not try to hide his shock, nor did his men, who had heard the old man's words and sat up to hear more. “Bloodaxe? Dead?” Hakon muttered. “When? Where?”

  The man nodded. “I know only that he is dead. Nothing more.”

  With effort, Hakon regained his wits and raised his hands for silence, for the old man's words had sparked disquiet among his crew. “What was the name of the man who told you this? Did he give his name?”

  “Aye. He said his name was Gamle Eriksson, lord. That is who told me this news.”

  Hakon knew what this man's answer would be, but it still hit him like a punch to the gut. Long ago, Hakon had captured his half-brother, Erik Bloodaxe, who had then been king. At the time, his men had urged him to kill Erik and his family and end the feud that was sure to come. Hakon had not, instead driving them from the realm. Hakon had been tired of fighting, and tired of killing. He would not raise his sword to his kin. It was a mistake that Hakon long knew would return to haunt him.

  And now, it seemed, that time had come.

  Chapter 1

  Avaldsnes, Rogaland, Spring, AD 957

  Hakon woke with a start. He had been dreaming, and like so many of his dreams of late, it had turned against him. An attacker had come to his bedchamber, a bloody sword in hand, ready to strike. Hakon had scrambled in the darkness, tried to rise, but his feet tangled in the bedding, and the villain's sword came down.

  Hakon's gaze shifted to the closed door, the very same one through which the attacker of his dream had just come. The light of the dying hearth fire in the great hall seeped beneath it and cast a soft glow over the oaken walls and the blade-sheath that leaned, point down, against the bedframe near Hakon's head.

  Slowly, he slid from under the bearskin and sat on the edge of his bed. As he worked the stiffness from his muscles, he became aware of the sounds and smells of early morning: the faint scent of beeswax candles that had long since surrendered to the night air; the stale stench of the previous night's feast; the snores of his hirdmen in the great hall; the fragrance of his mistress Gyda, who lay curled under the bearskin beside him.

  He pulled on his clothes, then crept from the room, past his slumbering warriors, and out into the receding darkness. The night sentries mumbled a greeting to their lord as Hakon passed through the north gate of the palisade surrounding his hall and worked his way down a well-worn path to one of two burial mounds that sat like warts on the top of the nearby hill. No one knew for sure who was buried in the mounds, though the skalds liked to say they covered the remains of the first owner of the estate — a king named Augvald — and his son.

  Winter had not yet released its purchase on the land, and the frost-covered grass glistened and crunched as Hakon climbed the mound and sat on its crest. He gazed out at the waking world with eyes that watered from the air's chill. Below him, the waters of the bay quivered in the gentle breeze and lapped against the two warships tied to his dock. Beyond the bay, the Karmsund Strait stretched north and south toward the sea like a dark vein. And beyond the water, east, stretched the rolling hills and valleys and waterways of Rogaland, the fylke to which Hakon's estate at Avaldsnes belonged. It was only a fraction of the realm he controlled — a realm that now reached from the snow-mantled fylke of Halogaland far to the north, to the rocky tip of Agder in the south, to the forested border of the Uplands far to the east. All of it was under his control or the control of his oath-sworn jarls, and most of those were his kin.

  He rewarded the jarls richly for their fealty and in exchange, they fought vigorously to keep peace in the realm. But peace was never constant so long as men sought fame and silver and land. It mattered not that Hakon had restored trust in the laws that his brother Erik had spurned or that, in recent years, he had built a system for coastal defenses to protect his people. Raiders still came to his shores. Men still stole and murdered each other. And feuds raged on. It was the way of things, he knew. Yet the strife left in its wake an older king with streaks of gray in his sandy hair, scars on his body, and lines of worry etched on his face.

  Time brought with it more than just physical strife. It brought hard memories of people and places that cut just as deeply as any blade. Memories such as Hakon's childhood love, Aelfwin, who long ago had sacrificed herself for the sake of Hakon's army. Memories of his long dead foster-father, King Athelstan, who had raised him as a Christian in Engla-lond and was the first to plant the seeds of kingship and legacy in Hakon's youthful mind. Memories of his kinsman and counselor, Jarl Tore the Silent, with his damaged throat and his big heart that had just stopped beating in his chest not one moon before. A man whose life he would soon celebrate on the northern island of Frei. Memories of his half-brother Erik, with his wild orange curls and mighty axe and brood of sons — sons who even now terrorized the Northern seas, gaining wealth and power and men, and who would eventually bring their death to Hakon's realm in full force. Hakon wiped the sleep from his face with a calloused hand and the memories vanished.

  A tempest was brewing. Hakon could feel it in his bones, and in his gut, and in the ravens that landed each morning for the past month on the burial mounds where he now sat. Ravens were the messengers of Odin, who brought the news of the world to the Alfather's ears. Though Hakon clung to a different faith, he had lived long enough to know that the earth held its own secrets and that something was amiss — something beyond his control. Something greater than winter's thaw and spring's bloom. The elders, who for decades had held the North in balance, were dying; the young and the brash were gaining strength. Old. Young. Order. Chaos. Like storm-driven currents, the opposing forces were colliding, and when they did, Hakon would have no choice but to face the tempest and resist.

  “Sleep robs you too, boy?”

  Hakon turned his gaze to the shadowed figure at the base of the burial mound. He wore a long cloak with a hood that concealed his face, though Hakon didn't need to see the man to know it was Egil Woolsark, who had once commanded the king's hird and now helped train the younger warriors in sword craft. He had been old long ago. Now he was ancient. Which was why he still called the middle-aged Hakon, “boy,” a nickname he had used for Hakon since Hakon had been but a stripling.

  “Aye, Egil. Sleep comes less easily to me these days.”

  Planting his walking stick in the earth one step at a time, the old man worked his way slowly up the slope of the mound. Hakon rose to offer him assistance, but Egil knocked his hand away. When he reached the crown of the mound, he sat with a grunt beside his lord and huffed. “That is not as easy as I remember it being.”

  Hakon laughed, but chose not to tease his aging friend. “How go the preparations?”

  “From what I gather,” Egil began as he rested his walking stick across his lap, “your ship will be ready to sail before the sun
is directly overhead. The thralls and men have everything assembled. It needs only to be loaded.”

  Hakon nodded as his eyes moved to the dock and the warship they would be taking north, which was called Dragon. The mighty ship had once belonged to his renowned father, Harald Fairhair, and now was his. Once it was loaded, Hakon and half of his hird would sail to More to attend a feast celebrating the life of Jarl Tore. That thought weighed on Hakon like a wet cloak, for Tore had been more than the husband to Hakon's older sister; he had been an unfailing friend who had helped Hakon win the realm and keep the peace in the North. Now he was gone.

  “It was no way for a man such as Jarl Tore to go,” Egil grumbled, referring to the way the old warrior had died. According to the messenger who had delivered the news, Jarl Tore had been surveying some work on his estate and had simply fallen to the ground, dead. It was not a hero's death, to be sure, but at least it had been quick. “I hope that old One-Eye and his valkyrie see him for who he was and that he is feasting with his kin in Valhall right about now.”

  According to the Northern faith, the valkyrie chose the heroes worthy of fighting by Odin's side in the battle at the end of time, Ragnarok. Until then, they trained, fighting each day and feasting through the night in the hall of the slain, Valhall. “Death is a mystery, Egil. You may pray for Valhall. I will pray that Christ is in need of some good and valiant souls to take on the demons of this world.”

  Egil spat. “Curse your Christ.”

  Hakon smiled. Even in his mid-thirties, he loved ribbing his old friend, who had never adopted Hakon's faith. It was not a requirement for serving Hakon, though most of the men had allowed themselves to be baptized in the faith, if only for show and the shiny silver cross Hakon gave them to wear. If asked, most of his men would proclaim the name of Jesus, but when facing their enemies in the shield wall, it was to the old gods that men turned with their charms and mumbled supplications.

  Down below them, the first of Hakon's thralls began to appear on the strand, carrying pots and barrels and coils of rope to the dock for the long journey north to Jarl Tore's estate. Hakon turned his eyes to the sky and marked the sliver of orange above the mountain range far to the east that men called the Keel. Like the sun, his men would be rising in the hall to tackle the tasks of the day.

  “Have you spoken to Ottar?”

  Egil nodded at the mention of his nephew. “Aye. He has agreed to stay, though he is about as happy as a coinless drunkard to be missing the action.”

  Hakon nodded. “I do not blame him. It is a hard thing, being left behind and missing something like this.”

  Egil grunted. “He will do what you ask, as he always has.”

  Hakon held his lips tight, for Egil spoke the truth and there was nothing more to add.

  “Well,” said Egil, pushing himself to his feet with a long moan and a popping of knee joints, “I will leave you to it, then.” He retreated down the slope with all the grace he could muster for his age.

  When Egil was gone, Hakon rose and made his way to the church that stood on the western side of the palisaded estate. The place had grown from a simple structure with a dirt floor and makeshift stone altar to the most conspicuous hall on the island, with a high-beamed ceiling, beautifully carved pews, and a raised altar behind which hung a magnificent rood carved from an old oak. It would never compare to the massive stone churches of Engla-lond where Hakon had been raised, but its rustic charm spoke to Hakon's soul just the same.

  A single candle burned on the altar as Hakon entered, its glow dancing on the rood and the bent shoulders of Hakon's priest, Egbert, who knelt in prayer. Hakon crossed himself and knelt beside his friend. He closed his eyes and willed his ears to focus on Egbert's whispered words.

  “Blessed is the man who has not followed the advice of the impious, and has not stood in the street among sinners, and has not sat in the company of complainers.”

  Hakon picked up the trail of it, then joined his priest in reciting Psalm 1 as Saint Benedict had commanded for the Prime service in his Rule.

  “But his will is with the law of the Lord, and he will meditate on his law, day and night. And he will be like a tree that has been planted beside running waters, which will provide its fruit in its time, and its leaf will not fall away, and all things whatsoever that he does will prosper.”

  The words sprang from the recesses of Hakon's mind and flowed like water down a well-worn path until the prayer reached its conclusion and his voice faded into nothing, leaving only the images the words had conjured in their wake. Slowly, Hakon opened his eyes and glanced over at Egbert, whose gaze was on the rood. After a moment, the priest crossed himself and acknowledged his king with a nod.

  “You leave again,” he said by way of greeting.

  Hakon's joints cracked as he rose. He was not yet old, but a life of battle and movement had already taken its toll. “Aye, Egbert,” he confirmed as he wiped the floor dust from his trousers.

  “I suppose a priest such as myself would not be welcome among Jarl Tore's people?” Egbert pushed himself to his feet and faced his king. Hakon marveled at how little the man's clean-shaven, freckled face and mop of orange hair had changed since they'd first met in the courts of Athelstan as young teenagers. Save for the slight creases at the corners of his hazel eyes, he did not look nearly as old as Hakon felt.

  Hakon shook his head. “No. Jarl Tore worshipped the old gods, as do his people. Your presence would be an affront to them and a risk to you.”

  Egbert's eyes betrayed his disappointment. Long ago, as an idealistic teenager, Hakon had clung to the dream of bringing the light of the Christian faith to his people, but that dream had died with the deaths of Egbert's brother monks early in Hakon's reign. Other missionaries had come over time, but they had had about as much success converting the Northerners as a spider has trying to move a boulder. Christianity had seeped up from the land of the Franks to the Danes, and even to the Swedes. But here, in Hakon's kingdom, the old gods clung stoutly to the minds of men.

  “It is a shame that even now, after all this time, his people could not look past my faith. Jarl Tore was a good man, and I would have liked to pay my respects.”

  Hakon nodded into his gaze and patted his friend on the shoulder. “He was a good man,” Hakon agreed. “I shall pass along your condolences.”

  “When will you return?”

  Hakon scratched his beard, which, unlike most men, he wore short to keep it from getting in his way. “A moon from now. Mayhap sooner. While I am gone, I leave you in Ottar's care. Do as he says.”

  Egbert's right brow rose. “Do you expect trouble?”

  “There is always trouble,” Hakon answered with a smile. “That is why I forced you to train with weapons and shields, and why I expect you to stay alert and follow Ottar's commands.”

  Egbert had not wanted to learn the way of weapons, but Hakon had refused to acquiesce. Warriors had murdered Egbert's brethren and many of the missionaries who came to the North. Hakon would not have Egbert's blood on his hands too, so he had issued an ultimatum: learn to defend yourself or leave the North. Egbert had chosen to learn. He would never be a king's champion, but he could protect himself well enough if it came to a fight. Even so, it was a skill he did not like to own, which was why he now blushed under Hakon's gaze.

  “I will follow Ottar's command, lord. And I shall pray for Jarl Tore's soul and for your safe return.”

  “Keep that between you and me. I doubt Tore's people would be comforted by your prayers.” He winked at his friend and left the church.

  “Father!”

  Hakon jumped at the shrill voice of his daughter, Thora, then relaxed when he saw the smile on her young face. She was running toward him, her long tangles of blond hair shooting in all directions as her slender legs carried her toward her father. She was tall for a nine-year-old, and athletic, and when she smiled, as she did now, her blue eyes put Hakon in mind of a spring's crisp sky. Hakon smiled at that thought, and at her, and ben
t down on a knee to receive her.

  But she did not hug him as she normally did. Rather, she grabbed his thick forearm and yanked. “Come!” she commanded.

  “What is it?”

  “Come see!” she urged with another yank on his arm and earnestness in her eyes. “I will show you.”

  He laughed and glanced back at Egbert, who leaned on the doorframe of the church, arms crossed, a grin creasing his freckled face.

  Thora ran off and Hakon chased her. They skirted the inside of the palisade and nearly toppled two thralls who were carrying a barrel of fresh water between them.

  “Where are you going?” Hakon called as they passed the door of the great hall where Hakon's woman, Gyda, stood.

  “The sow is giving birth!”

  Thora disappeared through the open door of the barn and stopped before a pen. Hakon came up beside her and gazed down through the gloom at the sow lying on her side in the straw. One of the thrall women — a woman named Siv — knelt by the sow's hind legs, humming quietly as she gently coaxed a tiny piglet out of the sow's womb. Another women knelt by her side, ready to rinse the blood and birth from its tiny body with a damp woolen rag. Two piglets already lay by the sow's front legs, sucking contentedly from their mother's teats.

  “It is remarkable, watching these new lives come forth, eh?” Hakon commented above the din of lowing cows and grunting pigs that filled the barn. The animals were hungry and no doubt sensed the excitement of new life in the air.

  “How many do you think she'll have?” Thora asked as the head of the newest life slipped from her mother's body.

  Hakon shrugged his broad shoulders. “I can no more answer that than I can fly,” he said. “That is for God to answer.”

  She huffed and rolled her eyes. He laughed.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us let the women do their work. Have you eaten?”

  “No, but I want to stay,” she said firmly. “I want to see how many piglets the sow has.”

  Hakon knew her well enough to know that when Thora made up her mind, it was a difficult thing to sway. So much like her mother, Frida, God rest her soul. And himself, he supposed. “Very well,” he responded after a moment. “But come along in a bit. I do not want to leave without a farewell hug.”