War King

by Eric Schumacher

  “Oars up!” he roared as Dragon rode the white churn of surf into the shore.

  As soon as her prow bit, Hakon and his men leaped from the gunwales with weapons and shields in hand and raced for the dwellings. Four other crews did the same, each with a yell in their throat and menace in their eyes. The remainder of the ships waited off shore.

  The folk who lived in the village never had a chance. Some died in their sleep. Others woke long enough to see their death coming before the blade took their life.

  “Spare the young and the animals!” Hakon called over the screams and mayhem. A chicken ran across Hakon's path, and he kicked it aside. It clucked in pain as its feathers flew.

  “What should we do with the prisoners?” called Bard as he exited a house dragging a young boy.

  “Put them in the pen with the pigs,” ordered Hakon. “And guard them!”

  Hakon rushed into a dwelling. A middle-aged man lay dead on the floor. His wife was splayed across the only table in the room, screaming as a warrior ravaged her from behind. In the corner, a little girl yelled for the warrior to stop hurting her mother, but he was oblivious to her pleas. Hakon grabbed the girl roughly and pulled her free of the dwelling. He could do nothing for the mother.

  After depositing the girl in the pen, Hakon found Toralv and grabbed him by the arm. “Have the men search the dwellings for anything of value and pile it down near the beach. Go!”

  The Northmen made short work of the dwellings and the people within them. Before the remainder of the ships landed, the houses were cleared and the inhabitants killed or captured. They did not burn the structures, for Hakon did not want other Danes to see the smoke. Not yet, anyway. He wanted to understand more about their surroundings before alerting nearby Danes of their presence.

  Hakon studied the measly pickings they had collected. A silver bracelet. A few knives. An amber brooch. Two hand axes. Several shields. A dented helmet. Nothing more. These were simple farmers who lived off the land. They had no need for silver or implements of war. Hakon turned to the pen, where ten sobbing children huddled with the grunting pigs and bleating sheep. At least they had thralls and food.

  The army quickly began the work of building a camp. Though he had purposefully not burned the dwellings, Hakon was certain that word of his army had already started to spread throughout the land. The Danes had sentries all along the coast, and a fleet as large as Hakon's would not go unnoticed. Should Danes come sooner than expected to drive them away, he wanted to be ready. And so his men felled trees and began the hard work of building a fence that could be used as a defensive perimeter. On the outside of this fence, others dug a shallow ditch in which they placed stakes whittled into deadly points. With the work under way, Hakon then saw to their next move. On some of the ships were horses, and these they brought ashore for their scouts. Mud flew from the horses' hooves as the scouts galloped off to locate targets that could swell their supplies and add to their paltry team of horses.

  By noon, most of the scouts had returned to deliver their reports. They came to Hakon's tent, where the king sat in council with Sigurd, Trygvi, and Egbert around a small fire. It was as Hakon expected. Small farmsteads and fields dotted the countryside, though there was one larger hall not far to the south.

  “How many men at this hall?” Hakon asked the scout who had discovered it.

  “I counted roughly twenty, lord. Warriors and thralls both.”

  “Horses?” asked Sigurd.

  “Several, lord.”

  Hakon contemplated the news. “Bring me one of the prisoners.”

  The scout returned shortly with the blond girl Hakon had taken from her dwelling. Hakon gazed up at the girl through the campfire smoke. She was mayhap a few winters older than his own daughter, Thora, and in fact resembled her a bit — a realization that unnerved Hakon. Her bloodshot eyes and her crestfallen manner spoke to the trauma of her day and the bleakness of her future, and he felt for her. Still, he could not let his feelings show to his men, and so he studied her stiffly.

  “What is your name?” he asked coldly.

  “Signe, lord,” the girl said with a swallow of fear.

  “There is a lord's hall to the south of here. Who is the lord of this hall, Signe? And how many warriors serve him?” He held up his finger to warn her. “You would do well to remember that I have the power to kill you or spare you, so speak truly.”

  Tears welled in her eyes at his harsh words. “His name is Halvar, lord,” she said through her tears. “But I know not how many men he has.” Her voice sounded desperate.

  Hakon studied the girl for a long time. It had the intended effect. She shifted her weight nervously, and looked at her feet, but she shared no more.

  “Very well,” said Hakon as he stroked his short beard. “Do you know of the ring fort at Fyrkat?”

  She stiffened. “Aye, lord.”

  Hakon glanced at his lords, then back at the girl. “Can you tell me of this place?”

  Uncertainty clouded her face. “I have never been there, lord. I know only what I hear and that is that a great army lives there. I have not seen this place with my own eyes, but one of the men in our village helped build the fort.”

  Hakon sighed, knowing the man was dead and of no use. “Is this Lord Halvar connected to the warriors at Fyrkat? Do they serve him?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “This is useless. The girl knows nothing,” Sigurd grumbled in frustration. “Let her be.”

  Hakon waved her away, but she pushed the scout's hand away before he could grab her. “What is to become of us, lord?”

  “You are to be thralls, Signe,” Hakon told her bluntly.

  The girl's face dissolved into tears as the scout pulled her away.

  “We have our next target,” said Trygvi to no one in particular. “We should attack the lord's hall now.”

  “Agreed,” said Hakon. “Gather the horses and twenty of your men, Trygvi. I shall do the same. Sigurd, I want your men to go out to the farmsteads. Take what food and goods and thralls you can find. Leave Hemming here to guard the camp.”

  Beside him, Egbert blanched, but wisely kept his lips tight.

  Hakon and his small troop set out shortly thereafter, following the scout down a small track that skirted fields of sea grass and sand dunes. The track eventually turned inland toward flat fields of grass dotted with birch trees. It was here that the scout left the path and continued southward along the dunes until they reached a thicker forest of birch under which the grass grew thick and green. He stopped about a hundred paces from the trees and waited for the others.

  “We head into the trees, then angle west and follow the river, which will be on our left. Not far from where we enter, we will reach a meadow. That is where the hall sits.”

  “Lead on,” Hakon ordered.

  Once within the shade of the trees, the men spread out and slowed their horses to a walk. There were no paths here, so the men picked their way carefully through the shadows, keeping their eyes open for signs of trouble as they bent and leaned to dodge the low, white-barked branches. Off to their left, a river flowed lazily, its surface twinkling in the midday light.

  As the trees thinned, the meadow and the hall came into view. Hakon called for a halt some fifty paces from the meadow and studied the scene before him. Men, women, and children streamed from the hall and the outlying structures, carrying buckets, sea chests, and other possessions to the water's edge, where a ship lay. A few women pulled goats with ropes. Some of the children carried chickens whose wings flapped in protest. A man stood near the ship in armor and helm, urging the people to hurry.

  “They know of us,” said Trygvi at Hakon's ear.

  “Then let us give them a proper send-off.” Hakon drew his sword, Quern-biter. His men followed his lead. “You take the hall. I will take the ship. And Trygvi, I want some of them alive.”

  Hakon tightened the grip on his sword and drove his heels into his steed's flanks. The horses raced forward,
zigzagging through the forest as they approached the meadow. Ahead of them, the people heard the snapping of branches and thundering hooves and screamed in fear. Hakon cleared the last of the trees and sped into the meadow, his horse kicking up clumps of mud and grass as he dashed for his prey. Hakon's men charged beside him, filling the air with their battle cries, hungry for the slaughter and the booty that would soon be theirs.

  “Protect Halvar!” called a burly man who stood near the lord. The man had drawn his sword and came forward with three others at his side.

  Hakon pulled hard on the reins and dismounted, calling his hirdmen to him as they too leaped from their steeds. He yanked his shield from his back as his men gathered about him. “Capture the lord!” he yelled.

  An arrow whipped past Hakon's face as he raced toward the lord's defenders. The burly man raised his sword to thwart Hakon's attack. As he did, Toralv swung his axe into the man's shoulder and dropped him. Hakon spun and hacked into the armored side of another man who was swinging at Bard. The man arched in pain, and Bard took his head from his shoulders. A man hollered in pain. Hakon turned in time to see the scout go down with a spear in his chest. Asmund skewered the scout's killer with such force, it lifted the man's feet from the ground.

  Another arrow zipped past Hakon. He turned toward the new threat and located the archer. The man stood in the shadow of the hall, shooting his weapon as quickly as he could pull the arrows from his quiver. Hakon cursed at the man and rushed for him. The archer saw Hakon coming and clumsily nocked another arrow, pulled, and released. The arrow sailed past Hakon's shoulder. Seeing his peril, the man turned and tried to escape into the forest on the west side of the hall, but Hakon chased him down and sliced Quern-biter across the man's spine. He screamed and fell, and Hakon finished him.

  Hakon turned back toward the meadow and the chaos. The women and children had dropped their goods and now ran for the safety of the trees, chased by the Northmen. Some of Halvar's warriors fought on, though most lay dead or wounded in the field. Chickens flapped noisily. Sheep bleated as they trotted helter-skelter from the fighting. Screams and curses echoed in the hall. Back at the ship, Halvar knelt at Toralv's feet. Hakon made his way to his champion's side.

  “You are Halvar?” asked Hakon.

  The kneeling man gazed up at Hakon. He was a portly man, with wide blue eyes that danced with fear and straight blond bangs that clung to his sweating forehead. “I am,” he croaked.

  “Why do you kneel, Halvar? I did not think Danes knelt to any man.”

  “Please,” implored the lord. “I have silver. If you let me go, it is yours.” Behind Hakon rose the cry of captured children and the scream of women. Halvar ventured a glance at the scene before turning his haunted gaze back to Hakon. “Please.”

  Hakon could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and his eyes narrowing. “Only a coward looks to his own safety before that of his women and children,” he growled.

  “Aye. Of course,” blubbered Halvar with his hands raised to calm the warrior who stood before him. “My silver for the safety of all my people. Please.”

  Hakon had a mind to skewer him then and there, but the hard truth was, he needed Halvar alive; so he swallowed the bitterness of his wrath. “Show me this silver. If it is enough, I will consider your life and the life of your people.”

  The man's eyes narrowed. “Swear that you will let me live, and I will bring it to you.”

  Hakon scowled and raised his blade so that the point poked Halvar's neck. “You are in no position to bargain, Halvar. Get your silver.”

  Halvar rose and moved to the ship. He reached over the gunwale and lifted a small chest from the pile of possessions that had made it onboard. This he placed at Hakon's feet, opening the lid to reveal hundreds of silver coins. Halvar stepped back and gestured to the chest. “Take it.”

  Hakon did not move. Halvar's eyes shifted from Hakon to Toralv and back to Hakon.

  “Bind his arms, Toralv.”

  Toralv moved to the ship and returned with a coil of rope. From this he sliced a smaller section and tied Halvar's arms behind his back. The Danish lord grunted in pain as Toralv tightened the binding.

  “You will do something for me now, Halvar,” said Hakon. “You will go to Fyrkat and tell the warriors there what you saw here.”

  The man nodded fervently. “Aye, lord.”

  “Tell the lord at Fyrkat that Hakon Haraldsson, king of the Northmen, has arrived and wishes to repay them for the death they brought to my realm. Tell them also that I will ravage this land and its people until they come to fight me.”

  The man's eyes grew at the mention of Hakon and his intentions. “I will tell them, lord.”

  “Good. Now go.” Hakon pointed west with his sword.

  “What of my people?”

  “Your people belong to me.”

  Halvar frowned but wisely kept his mouth shut. He turned and waddled westward toward the trees.

  As he disappeared into their shade, Hakon called Garth and Harald to his side. He turned to the animated Garth, whose dark eyes moved right and left, then back to Hakon as he listened to his lord's instructions. “Follow him to Fyrkat, Garth, but do not let him see you. I want to know he made it. And I want to know every detail of that fort. Do not engage anyone. Do you understand?”

  Garth nodded and took off after Halvar.

  Hakon then turned his attention to Harald, who was wiping the blood off of his seax with his pant leg. He was not a born scout, but he was a Dane and knew these parts, which made him a better option for the mission Hakon had in mind. “I need you to head north, Harald. There is supposed to be a road that leads to a fort at a place called Agger. Take a horse and find it.”

  “And what then?”

  “Watch it. If an army emerges, come find me. If there is no fort, or if no army appears, return in four days' time. Stay hidden.”

  “And if someone should find me?”

  “Act like a Dane.”

  Harald smiled. “I am a Dane.”

  “Precisely. Now go!”

  For two more days, Hakon and his army brought ruination to the Danes. Only now, the king wanted the presence of his army to be known, and to be felt. He wanted the Danes at Fyrkat to see the smoke and the destruction, and to wallow in their impotence until they could stand it no more. But just as importantly, he wanted to fulfill his promise to his men, and give them a taste of early victory. For a greater fight would soon be upon them that would take more than sword edges and spear points to prevail. It would take morale. And so he let his men carpet the fields with Danish blood, burn their halls and trample their crops, until Danish plunder filled his ships, and the sky above this bleak strip of Danish coastline rippled with the mournful cries of its people. It was brutal and it was vicious, but it was necessary to bolster the spirits of his men. At least that was what he told himself in the darkness of his tent each night as he prayed with Egbert for strength and for forgiveness.

  Early on the morning of the third day in Jutland, Garth returned. He sat by the fire with a cup in his hands, mud-caked and red-eyed but otherwise hale. He was too tired to fidget and so just gazed at Hakon with eyes glossy from lack of sleep. Hakon gathered the jarls, Sigurd and Trygvi, and convened a small fireside council with a simple question. “Did Halvar make it to Fyrkat?”

  “Aye, lord. The Danes met him at the fortress gates.”

  Hakon accepted the news with a nod. “Tell us then of Fyrkat, Garth. What have you learned?”

  Garth set his cup aside and grabbed a long stick, then smoothed the ground with this hand. He drew a circle in the dirt and, to the east of it, a long semicircle from which two lines extended east. Farther to the west, on the opposite side of the first circle, he drew a number of small, scraggly circles. “This,” he said, poking the large circle in the middle, “is Fyrkat. It is a circular earthwork structure that sits on a small hill, overlooking the head of the fjord here.” He stabbed the semicircle. “And a small forest, here.” He poked
the small circles to the west. “A narrow road leads north from the northern entrance of Fyrkat and south from the southern entrance. There are several dwellings that sit on the shore of the fjord and six warships at the dock.”

  “How large is Fyrkat?” asked Sigurd.

  Garth shrugged. “As far across as an arrow can fly, give or take.”

  Hakon stroked his beard. “And its defenses?”

  “In truth, it is not what I expected.”

  “How so?”

  “It is —” Garth paused to think of the word “— rudimentary. Still, it would take many men to attack it. First, warriors would need to charge up the hill while being fired upon from the walls of the fort, which look to be the height of four men. If our men manage to get to the base of the fort's walls, they would then need to attack up the sloping walls of Fyrkat to get to the men at the top. Or, they would need to get through the gates, which are thick-timbered and guarded from above by a bridge.”

  Hakon looked at Sigurd and Trygvi, both of whom were lost in thought as they studied Garth's diagram.

  “That is not all,” said Garth. “There are structures on the inside of the fort. Halls, it looks to be. Though how many is impossible to say from the outside.”

  “What of the fjord, Garth?” Hakon asked. “Is it guarded?”

  “Aye, though not well.” He took the stick and drew some lines out from the semicircle eastward. “There are guard towers on either side of the fjord, here and here. There are several men in each.”

  “And approaches to the fort?” asked Sigurd. “Is there a track or road from the fjord to the fort?”

  “Aye, Jarl Sigurd. On the north coast, about fifty paces in from the fjord, is a track that intersects with the northward road, just at the base of the hill on which Fyrkat sits.”