The dwarf wove his way through the group and entered the tent. “Come,” he called over his shoulder.
Hakon entered first. The interior of the tent was spartan. Save for a bed of furs against one wall, some drying herbs hanging from the crossbeams overhead, and a three-legged stool standing beside the small fire that burned in the tent's center, the place was devoid of furnishings. Hakon found a seat on the fur rugs that covered the grass. With a prolonged groan, Sigurd sat beside his king. The others found their places in a circle around the fire and the stool where Drangi settled.
Without a word, the godi pulled a ladle from a pot that rested on a heating stone near the fire and spooned the contents into a wooden bowl. Drangi then dipped a short pine branch into the bowl and, with murmured, guttural incantations, flicked the branch at his guests so that the contents of the bowl splattered on their skin and clothes. Hakon tensed, knowing instantly that the liquid was the blood of sacrifice. The men accepted the blood reverently, closing their eyes and lifting their faces as the dark liquid splattered their skin, their beards, and their tunics.
Hakon clutched the grip of his sword when Drangi turned to face him. “Do not,” he said.
Drangi scowled, as did some of the others in the tent. It was no secret that Hakon was a Christian, but even after all this time, his religion chafed many. Hakon ignored them and focused on the godi, who shrugged off the slight and pulled a leather bag from his belt. This he opened with his stubby fingers and, while murmuring some unintelligible words that Hakon assumed were prayers, dumped the contents of the pouch onto the furs. The bones rattled as they scattered, and the gathered men leaned in to see what they could. Drangi remained on the stool with his eyes closed and his brows furrowed. Every so often, his body jerked as his lips jabbered their prayers and his fat hands circled over the bones. No one spoke. No one dared break the godi's trance. Suddenly the fire leaped and the men retreated in fear. Hakon grabbed the cross that hung from his neck and waited, decidedly more on edge now than he had been moments before.
Drangi opened his eyes and studied the runes. He grabbed a twig and sorted through them, mumbling as he did so. No one spoke.
The godi-dwarf toyed with a bone hanging in his gray beard as his eyes moved across the etched runes. “I see force, like flowing water,” he finally said in his toad-like croak. “It couples closely with movement. And rebirth.” He gently moved aside some runes with his stick to reveal a solitary rune beneath the others. For a long time, he stroked his beard as his eyes studied the pattern. “Beneath it all lies Tyr, the rune of the warrior.”
Hakon's heart skipped. “The rune of Tyr?” he asked.
Drangi and the others looked at him, though it was Sigurd who spoke. “Does that mean something to you?”
“It is the mark of Erik's kin. His Danes wear it on their shields.”
This caused a low hum of expletives from the gathered men. “That is a strange coincidence,” offered Sigurd, scratching his beard.
“It is no coincidence,” Drangi's voice rumbled. “It is the gods speaking to us. Warning us.”
Sigurd frowned. “Warning us of what?”
Drangi could not hold Sigurd's hard gaze and shifted his eyes back to the runes. “The gods are not always so direct, lord.”
“Then what do you think they tell us, Drangi?”
The godi blanched. “The runes say that war is coming,” he said slowly, carefully. “It is inevitable. A force like the tide.”
Like the tide. Had not the Danish prisoner said something similar? Hakon shuddered. He did not believe in the sorcery of godis, but he was finding it hard to dismiss Drangi's words.
“Is it coming here, this war?” asked Sigurd.
Drangi stroked his beard and peeked at Sigurd, then at the flames. “This war will not just come to certain lands and miss others. Every man will feel its force. Like flowing water.”
Sigurd grunted and stared at the flames of the small fire. The men in the tent seemed to hold their breath as they watched their jarl. Then, finally, Sigurd sighed. It was a deep sigh that spoke of resignation and reluctant acceptance. He tore his eyes from the flames and looked around the tent. “So be it. If war is inevitable, then war it shall be.”
The following morning, Sigurd ordered the men to gather again in the Frosta-fields.
“The gods have spoken,” he bellowed to the crowd when they had assembled. “War is coming. If we act now, we will fight alongside Hakon and his army, as one, in strength!” He curled his paw into a fist and raised it for the men to see. “Act not, and we will find ourselves on an island, fighting alone. Those of you who are oath-sworn to me, it is time to tend to your families and your farms. Those of you who are free to decide, the decision rests with you. But know this — it will be as Hakon says. You will find no bigger adventure. And should we prevail, no greater treasure than battle fame and Danish silver!”
The roar of eager men rippled across the field, bringing a smile to Hakon's lips. Even the elders took up the cheer, now that the gods had spoken, for who were they to defy the gods?
“In half a moon's time, we gather at Lade. I hope to see many of you there.”
When the assembly ended, Sigurd grabbed Hakon's arm and walked beside him back to the tents. “I have been thinking more about your offer to my daughter…” His voice trailed off.
“And?”
“Do you think it safe for her to return to Avaldsnes with you now? Or your daughter, for that matter?”
The same thought had been bouncing around Hakon's mind. On the one hand, he could easily envision another attack on Avaldsnes, but then, was anywhere truly safe? He shared this sentiment with Sigurd, who grunted.
“Some places are safer than others, I think.”
Hakon stopped and faced his jarl. “Speak plainly, Sigurd. What is it you want?”
“The times are uncertain, Hakon. At the moment, all I know is that there is an army of Danes that seeks your death. I do not want to put my daughter in harm's way if it can be avoided.”
“I understand, Sigurd. But you must trust me when I say that Avaldsnes is as safe as any place. Gamle and his brothers attacked it by surprise and failed to take it. We are even more prepared now, should he return.”
Sigurd's blue eyes studied his face. Long ago, those eyes had sparkled like glacial pools, but age and pain and struggle had robbed them of their luster. Sigurd's gaze softened and he sighed grandly. “Keep her safe.”
“With my life,” Hakon promised as his mind turned again to Gamle and his Danes and the bitter fights yet to come.
Chapter 11
The rocky peak of Freikollen loomed large in Hakon's view, though it was the beacon fire dancing on its peak that had him worried, and wroth. Lighting the beacon was no small matter, for beacon fires alerted the entire area of possible enemies, called men to arms, sent civilians into hiding, and disrupted life greatly. For that reason, they were only to be lit when large, unknown forces appeared. His two ships were hardly a large force, and were certainly recognizable.
He glanced back at Astrid, who sat with Thora and Unn near the steer board, huddled under a blanket of wool to fend off the biting wind. Hakon had just promised to keep her safe, but if the beacon warned of a larger force, what then? Would he need to return her so soon to Lade? He cursed under this breath and looked back at the flame.
They had left Frosta two days after the final assembly, on the first fair wind. Rather than sail all the way to Avaldsnes in a single ship, Hakon agreed to sail to Frei Island with Tosti and his men first, and there await the Trond army. Once Sigurd came with his ships, they would head south together and stop at Avaldsnes, then make their way to the Vik and the army of his nephews. Presuming, of course, that Gamle and his brothers hadn't sailed north first. Hakon eyed the beacon flame warily.
Hakon's two ships turned into the calm waters of the Trondheimsleia, the strait to the north of Frei, then angled south into Kvernesfjord. Save for the nagging worry of the beacon fires, t
he evening was calm and beautiful on the fjord. The sun had emerged from behind scattered clouds to hover low in the sky, casting a magical golden glow onto the waterway that led to Tosti's hall at Birkestrand.
The ships turned and glided into the small bay below the estate, where several ships and a small throng of warriors greeted them, further proof that something was amiss. A family of loons protested the new arrivals and flapped noisily as they sought a quieter spot.
“Luck is with us,” Tosti's spearman, Alf, said when the ships had landed and he had greeted his chieftain and king in turn. There was a grin on his face, but trouble in his eyes. “We were about to send men in search of you.”
“Why?” Tosti asked, his voice guarded.
Alf's face turned serious. “Gamle and his brothers are close, lord,” he said. “We lit the beacon when this man brought the news to us. We hope others see it and come to our aid.”
Hakon turned his eyes to the plainly dressed young man with braided hair the color of wheat. His thin face and keen brown eyes were vaguely familiar to Hakon. “What is your name?”
“Asrod, lord.”
“You have news of Gamle and his army?”
The young man raised his chin with its mottled beard. “Aye, lord. Gamle's ships arrived three days ago. From beyond the western horizon.”
“Where are they?” Hakon felt his body tense. He didn't want to hear the answer for fear it was dire, but he had to know.
“At Stad — or at least they were three days ago.”
Hakon cursed and cast a glance at Astrid, who was helping Thora from the ship. “Come. We shall discuss this matter inside.”
Hakon gathered with Tosti, Alf, Toralv, Egil, and Asrod around a growing hearth fire in the hall, where they awaited the food and ale Tosti had ordered his thralls to bring. Egil held his wrinkled hands to the flames to warm his old bones, and it was he who spoke first.
“Well? Shall we just stare at the fire, or shall we discuss Gamle and his army?”
Hakon grinned at the old man's impatience. “Egil speaks as if he has someplace better to be. Very well. Asrod, speak to us of what you know.”
Asrod sat up straight on his stool and cast his eyes about, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of so many lords and famed warriors. He cleared this throat. “Gamle and his army came from the sea three days ago, in the early morning. As soon as we saw their masts, Eldgrim's scouts blew their warning horns and lit the beacon fires. But Eldgrim had little time to prepare his defenses. As they approached, he sent me and some of his younger warriors to a place where he keeps a small ship, with orders to head north to warn who I could.”
“Eldgrim must hold you in high regard,” Hakon said.
“My father is his helmsman. I know ships too.”
“How many men, Asrod?” asked Tosti impatiently.
“We counted twenty ships, lord.” Asrod delivered the news in a hushed tone, then turned his eyes to his hands, as if the news were his fault and he was guilty for it.
“Anywhere from seven hundred to a thousand men,” Hakon said with a sigh. “And I doubt they have come to parlay.” Hakon's mind flew forward to the battle he knew would come. He did not fear it. He wanted to fight. He yearned for it, in fact. He had just hoped it would be on his terms, not theirs. Now he feared it was too late for that. “So,” he said after a time, “what say you men? Do we fight them here or head back to Lade where we know we have some support?”
This comment had the men looking at each other. Hakon knew what was passing unspoken between them. They had never heard their king consider backing away from a fight, no matter the odds, and from their sidelong glances, he could tell that the thought did not sit well with them now.
“We have faced bad odds before,” he explained. “But never this poor. So as I see it, we can sail back to Lade, gather men from Sigurd, and fight Erik's sons on our terms. Or we can stay and fight them here. You men already know how poor those odds will be.”
The men looked at each other again, then at the fire snapping before them. The thralls returned with cups of ale, which the men drank in silence as they considered their options.
Egil broke the uneasy hush. “As you know, I was in many battles with your father, Hakon, and he gave battle sometimes with many warriors by his side, sometimes with few; but he always gave battle, and he always came off with the victory. Never did I hear him ask counsel from his friends whether he should flee. So, you shall get no such counsel from me, boy. You should fight, as your father would have. And when you do, I shall fight beside you, come what may.”
“You are just eager for the battle-death, old man,” joked Toralv. This brought some chuckles, though most knew Toralv spoke truly. “Still, what you say sounds true to my ears. I, too, say we fight. If we prevail, we will send a mighty message to those bastards. Besides, I will not allow Gamle and his brothers to believe our army is just one old man with a cane.” This received more chuckles, and even Egil cracked a grin.
“Our group is small, but we are here to help,” said Asrod earnestly.
Their eyes turned to Tosti and his man, Alf. Tosti shrugged as if it made no difference to him. “Do not cast your eyes on me,” he said. “I am oath-sworn to Sigurd, who is oath-sworn to King Hakon. So whatever you decide, lord, we shall do.”
The loyalty and the courage of his men humbled him, but Hakon was not ready to throw away their lives so easily. At the very least, he needed to even the odds in numbers, or strategy, or both. “If we stay, there is no time to seek help from Lade. We will send out the war arrow and gather what men we can from nearby. I have heard that the men hereabouts are stout. We shall now test the truth of that — eh, Tosti?”
The chieftain grunted, though whether in affirmation or disagreement was hard to say.
“Sail tonight for your neighbors, Tosti, for you alone know who is most likely to heed our call. My hope is that they have seen the beacon flame and are already making plans. What forces they can gather shall return here by morning, two days hence. While we wait, we shall survey the island and choose the most favorable spot to fight, somewhere to help even the odds. Asrod,” Hakon said to the sailor. “Sail south again and bid my nephews come to Frei. I will have them fight me before they do more scathe in the land. Leave as soon as you can.” The young man nodded his understanding.
Hakon's thoughts then turned to Astrid and Thora, and the promise he had made to Sigurd. Then, just as quickly, his mind filled with the memory of Gyda. “Alf?”
“Aye, lord?”
“I want you to take Astrid and Thora to Lade by land. Will you do that?”
“Of course, lord.”
“Go with Tosti tonight. He will let you off where you can make your way back to Lade. Take whatever supplies you need, and another man if you wish.”
The spearman nodded curtly.
Hakon drained his cup and stood. “Let us be about it. We have little time.”
“And here I thought I would die abed,” Egil said as he pushed himself up with his walking stick.
Hakon glanced at his friend. Losing Egil would be like losing a part of himself. Just the thought of it filled Hakon with equal measures of dread and sadness. “Do not speak so, Egil. I need you by my side for a long time to come.”
Egil snorted. “Those things are not for you to decide. The Norns will decide my fate, boy, and no other.”
“Then let us pray the Norns are not ready to cut your life threads. You may be ugly and old, but I am not ready to be rid of you.”
Hakon wandered to the place where he and Sigurd had sat not so long ago, on the hillside near the hall. From there he could survey the activity on the beach as Tosti called out commands and chose those who would help him seek out warriors among the islands and waterways that surrounded Frei. He could also see Astrid emerging from the crowd and heading in his direction. Even from a distance in the half-light of night, he knew she was angry. Egil saw her too and wisely left Hakon in peace.
“What is this I hear
about you sending me away?” she asked between panting breaths when she reached him. Her hands were on her hips and her brows were drawn down toward her nose.
Hakon had expected her displeasure, but still found it hard to hold her gaze. “It cannot be helped. You are not safe here. Nor is Thora. I made a promise to your father to keep you safe, and I fear with Gamle's return that I can no longer keep it.”
She straightened haughtily. “I am a jarl's daughter. I can defend myself better than most, and I do not plan to leave my man so easily. Let Gamle come.”
“You are a jarl's daughter, Astrid, and so much more to me. Which is why I do not want to lose you.”
“Why are you so sure you will lose me?”
“Because Gamle and his brothers sail here with twenty ships. We have but three, and only partial crews in each. No matter how valiantly we fight, the odds are poor at best. We will gain others, but how many and of what quality, only God knows.”
The hostility in her face softened. “Is it really so bad?”
He nodded slowly and let his eyes wander to the ships. “Aye. I knew they would come again, but they surprised me in how fast they mustered an army.” His mind suddenly turned to the Dane at Avaldsnes and the words he had spoken. I am but one warrior. Where I fall, ten more sword-Danes will soon come, and with one purpose in mind: to win for our king even more land and wealth. The words sent a shiver through Hakon as he thought back on them now.
Astrid remained silent as Hakon mused. He could sense her sadness but could do nothing to stop it, could say nothing to change it. “If you stay,” he continued, “I will not be able to protect you.” His mind flew again to the bruised and bloodied face of Gyda. “What they did to Gyda was unspeakable. I will not have the same done to you if, God forbid, something happens to me.” He clutched the cross at his neck to ward off the evil spirits who might have heard his words.
She swiped at her cheek, and Hakon realized that she was wiping away a tear. He sighed deeply. “I will send for you when all of this is over, Astrid. For now, though, I need you, Thora, and Unn to go with Alf. He knows this land and will get you back to Lade safely. Please tell your father that he was right.”
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