For a long moment, the men sat by the fire, staring at Garth's dirt sketch while weighing their options.
Hakon broke the silence. “My first hope was to ensure that Lord Halvar made it to Fyrkat and delivered his message. That has been done, and the Danes know now who faces them. I also hoped to learn of some weakness in the Fyrkat defenses, but I am thinking now that those weaknesses do not exist. Therefore, we will continue with the plan to draw them out against us.”
“For how long?” Trygvi bluntly asked and forged ahead even after Hakon frowned. “We cannot do this forever. I say we attack the fort and be done with it or move on to better pickings.”
“From the sounds of it, attacking the fort is folly,” Sigurd grumbled.
“So instead we wait for the Danes to gather their entire force and come against us? How much bloodshed will that bring?” Trygvi countered with a scowl.
“I understand your concern, Trygvi, but wish to remind you of why we are here.” Hakon looked at him square in the face and held his gaze. “We are here to fight. It is time to destroy the Danes or at least cripple them so badly that they will think twice before raiding our shores again. But we must fight with intelligence.” He tapped his temple. “If Garth speaks truly, then attacking their fort is folly. So we must wait for them to come against us, and we must find a spot that is suitable for that battle. And when we are through with them,” Hakon smiled faintly, “the door will be open for us to raid until the plunder threatens to sink our ships.”
As if God had heard his very words, the sentries blew the warning horn. The lords stood abruptly and without further word, jogged to the gates.
Chapter 17
Hakon and his men hastened to the edge of the camp, where Harald sat astride his steed, shouting at the sentries who had leveled their spears at him.
“Lower your spears! I am King Hakon's man, you louts,” he bellowed as he removed his hood. “Where is the king?”
“Let him through!” Hakon called to the sentries.
The guards opened the gate, and Harald dismounted. Sweat slickened his face and dampened his hair, and fresh mud caked his clothing. Froth bubbled at the corners of the horse's mouth. Hakon handed Harald his water skin, which he took gratefully.
“The army moves from the north, lord,” he said after swallowing several mouthfuls and belching loudly. He showered his face with the water and wiped it away with his palm, leaving streaks of dirt on his cheeks. “They left last night, under cover of darkness.”
“How many men?” asked Hakon.
“Mayhap three hundred men, give or take. A few horsemen, but most on foot.”
“Headed to Fyrkat, you think?”
Harald nodded. “I know. I trailed them until early morning. They met a warrior bearing the Fyrkat shield on the road and followed him south. That is when I left them.”
Hakon hooted and slapped Harald on the shoulder. “You have done well, Harald. Get some food and rest. We shall march soon.”
By noon, the army had assembled and started to move. He left a rearguard of fifty men to watch the ships and the captured thralls, though he knew it was not enough, should things go wrong. Hakon sent Bard, Garth, and Harald out on horseback to scout ahead, and rode with Sigurd and Toralv by his side.
Though he did not say it, he felt strangely naked without Egil nearby. He had never fought a battle without the old warrior close, and Hakon found his absence both sharp and constant. It was not that Sigurd, Toralv and Trygvi weren't formidable warriors — they were. Egil had been the warrior whose mettle kept men in the shield wall when the gods felt unreachable and the battle, dire. Just who might fill that role now was hard to say, and that uncertainty clung to Hakon's thoughts like a wet tunic clings to the body.
“Think you that they may try to come down the fjord?” asked Sigurd as they passed the area that had belonged to Halvar. The sun had disappeared behind a veil of thin gray that muted the vibrancy of the summer landscape and added a crisp bite to the air.
Hakon studied the shadowed waterway through the trees. “I doubt they would split their forces, unless the intention of my nephews is to leave their allies stranded. Even so, I have Garth watching for ships. We will know if they come from that direction.”
Sigurd nodded, satisfied, and turned his eyes back to the tree-dotted countryside that stretched ahead. “It is beautiful land, this. Fertile. Rolling. I am glad I came to see it.”
Hakon smiled. “You are glad you came to plunder it, more like.”
Sigurd barked a laugh. “Aye, that too. But in seriousness, a man could make a good living on the land in these parts.”
“A rider is approaching,” said Toralv, interrupting their pleasantries with a due-west stab of his finger. There, a single rider galloped down the face of the hill. The warriors at the front of Hakon's column drew their swords and waited.
“Hold!” Toralv thundered. “It is Bard.”
The hirdman came at speed toward the column. “Lord!” Bard called as he reined in his steed and walked it through the press of men who parted to let him through.
Hakon moved to meet him. “What news?”
“The armies have met. They must have marched through the night and joined. They are moving toward us now.”
Hakon nodded resolutely. It was as he had hoped. The Danes had left the safety of their forts and come for battle, and so, by the grace of God, Hakon would give them one.
“Lord?” said Sigurd with his eyebrow cocked.
Hakon looked at Bard. “You have seen the landscape, Bard. Where would you choose to fight?”
Bard did not hesitate. “You are gazing at it,” he said as he pointed to the hill before them. It was a low, wide hill with a thick copse of trees standing on its crest. “The Danes are coming straight down the path that skirts the south side of that hill. They will march right into us.”
Hakon nodded. “Very well. Forward, then.”
They rode west and up into the trees at the top of the hill. On the far side, just within the tree line, they stopped and peered out over the landscape. Below them stretched a long, grassy slope that leveled off into a wide, flower-dotted field where several tall oaks stood like ancient sentinels. A dirt track bordered the south side of the field, beyond which a forest of birch trees stretched south to the fjord. Two arrow flights to the northwest was another, lower grass-covered hill.
Hakon's heart dropped. “Where are the Danes?” he asked.
“Some ways off yet,” Bard responded.
Hakon nodded. “How far?”
“They will arrive by nightfall. Mayhap sooner.”
“It is decided, then.” Hakon turned to his lords. “Make camp. We shall meet them here, at this hill.”
Hakon spent the late afternoon moving his army into position, arranging them so that they wrapped in a semicircle around the western side of the hill. This he did openly in the hope that the enemy scouts would see his movements and know what force they came against. He did, however, hold Sigurd's Tronds and Halogalanders back in the trees and away from the enemy's eyes. It could not hurt, he reasoned, to show less strength to the Danes than he actually had.
The enemy, however, did not come as he expected. They stayed away and camped to the west of Hakon's army. From the top of the hill, Hakon could see the sky brighten in the gathering evening where their myriad campfires burned. Below him, his warriors lit their own fires and settled in, seemingly unfazed by the Danes who camped so near. Their banter floated in the air like the bubbling of a stream.
A leaf crunched behind Hakon, and he turned to see Sigurd standing a few paces away, scanning the fading landscape with his eyes. “What are you thinking?” Hakon asked the old jarl.
“I am trying to put myself in their minds,” Sigurd responded. “You?”
Hakon turned his eyes back to the distant skyline where the enemy camped. “I, too, am trying to divine their thoughts.”
“And?” asked Sigurd. “Have you determined anything?”
“No. Though something tells me that mischief will be part of their plan. If the forts are only as large as an arrow's flight across, then they cannot house more than several hundred men. Even two such forts cannot total half our army in numbers. If you were their commander, would you march straight into the mouth of an enemy that is twice as large as you?”
“You have,” replied Sigurd. “More than once.”
“I had either surprise on my side or my pick of a spot to defend. I am not sure I would rush headlong into this battle.”
“Your thoughts mirror my own,” Sigurd said. “Have you scouts out?”
“Aye,” Hakon answered as his thoughts turned to Garth and Bard and Harald, all three of whom had reported in and gone back out to watch the Danes. So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Hakon had a sudden thought and pushed himself to his feet.
“What is it?” Sigurd asked.
“A hunch. Nothing more. I will be back.” He strode down the hill and searched the camp until he found Toralv. The champion rested by a small fire, sharpening his axe blade in silence. On the opposite side of the flames, Asmund checked his byrnie for loose links. They both stopped their work when he appeared.
Hakon wasted no time on pleasantries. “Set twice as many guards as normal tonight and have the men sleep in their armor,” he said. “With their weapons and shields close at hand.”
Toralv looked at Asmund, then back at his lord. “You are expecting a night attack?”
“I know not what I am expecting,” Hakon replied honestly. “But I have misgivings. So best to be cautious.”
“Sleeping in armor is not easy, as you know,” Asmund chimed in as he waved his hand before him to clear the smoke from his eyes. “The men will be tired when they wake on the morrow.”
“Better tired than dead,” Hakon countered bluntly.
“You make a convincing point, lord,” Asmund admitted with a grin.
Hakon looked back to Toralv. “Spread the word.”
“Aye, lord,” Toralv said as he climbed to his feet, then strode off to issue the command.
For the remainder of the night, Hakon sat at the crest of the hill with his back against a tree. Beside him lay Egbert with his hands under his head. The monk's eyes were closed, though his mouth moved as he offered silent prayers to the night sky. Down below Hakon danced the fires of his army and the dark forms of his warriors. Their dwindling conversations had melted into the sounds of the night — the breeze, the rustle of the leaves, the hoot of an owl, the howl of distant wolves on the hunt. Overhead the shroud of cloud persisted, masking the stars and the moon and casting the landscape into something formless and frightening.
It made Hakon uneasy. In his fingers was his cross, which he twiddled in circles as his mind wandered from one worry to the next. He wondered what Erik's sons might do and when they might do it. He wondered where his scouts were and why they had not yet returned. He wondered if he had positioned his army correctly and whether his men were prepared for what was to come. At least a dozen times, he thought he saw something moving out in the field, and sat up straighter to watch and wait. But no alarm sounded. No cry rang out. And eventually he would settle against the tree again and wait.
“You are worried, lord,” came Egbert's whisper. “Do not be.”
“Why?”
“Because God is with you.”
Hakon smiled wryly into the night, for age and loss and experience had made him cynical. “That does not guarantee my victory, Egbert. God has been with many leaders who have died fighting heathens.”
“Aye, but they perished in the name of good, and their souls were welcomed in Heaven. Does that not give you comfort?”
Hakon thought on that for a moment. “I should welcome that thought, Egbert, but I do not wish to die yet, even if God and Heaven welcome me. I want vengeance. God can take me another day.”
“Vengeance is not yours to take,” Egbert countered. “ 'It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time, their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.' So sayeth the Lord, Hakon.” Egbert crossed himself and said no more. Soon Hakon heard his friend's soft snores.
Hakon pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. He must have dozed, for a shake of his shoulder woke him. “Lord. The enemy comes,” said a voice in his ear.
Hakon sat up and wiped his face to remove the cobwebs of sleep that clung to him. He turned to the voice and saw Garth kneeling beside him. Bard and Harald were also there, kneeling in the morning's gloom. Hakon shook his head and took in his surroundings. Birdsong heralded morning, though it was yet dark. “Where?” he croaked. His back and neck screamed in protest of his awkward sleeping position, and his cold limbs had not yet found sensation. He blew into his hands to warm them.
“Everywhere,” Garth said.
“What?”
“They come from our front and our two sides,” explained Garth. “The army broke camp some hours ago. We came as soon as we were sure of their battle order.”
“What is it?” Egbert asked as he sat up.
Hakon stayed him with his hand. “They are not behind us?” he asked.
“No, lord. Not yet, anyway.”
Hakon stood and looked out over the dark, flat field to the west of the hill. He could see no enemy forces yet, or at least no irregularities in the landscape that might indicate an approaching army. “How far off are they, and how strong is this force? It must be bigger than expected to be coming from three sides.”
“More men came during the night,” added Garth. “From the west. Not Fyrkat men, but others.”
“They will be here soon. We have not much time.” This came from Harald.
Hakon ran through the options in his head. “Are we still the larger force?”
“It is hard to say, lord. If we are, it is not by much.”
“Call the men to arms and send Trygvi to me. Spread the word that everyone should eat what they can and prepare themselves. We fight here. Tell no one that the rear is open.”
The men looked at each other, and each nodded in turn.
“Go now!”
The scouts rushed down the hill, shouting for men to awaken. Their calls were followed quickly by the long, resonant call of horns filling the air. Quickly, men stood and assembled. Even in the darkness, he could sense their confusion, but they would know soon enough what awaited them.
“Why tell no one about the rear?” The question came from Egbert, who was scratching at his head.
Hakon glanced at him. “Leaving an escape open is an old trick. It lures armies into thinking there is a way out. I want my men to fight like berserkers, like there is no path to safety.”
Dark bags hung below Egbert's eyes, and these seemed to darken further with Hakon's response. “I had not thought of that,” he admitted morosely.
“Have cheer, Egbert,” Hakon offered. “Today we rid ourselves of the Danish threat.”
“God willing,” the priest added and tried to smile. “Which reminds me…will you pray with me, lord?”
Hakon shook his head. “There is no time for that, I'm afraid. Too much still needs my attention.” Hakon patted his friend's shoulder and smiled. “Pray for me, Egbert. Make it a good one. We shall need it this day.”
The priest nodded and disappeared into the trees, his place taken by Sigurd, who came up alongside his king and surveyed the field. The enemy was still not visible, but there was no mistaking the sound of metal on shields or the tread of a thousand warriors coming for blood. Hakon quickly recounted the scouts' findings to Sigurd, then added, “I want half of your men to remain here, in the trees, with someone you trust to command them.”
Sigurd began to bluster, but Hakon raised his hand. “I do not want to hear your protests. We need men in reserve, and I want Erik's sons to think we are lighter in numbers than we are. It is why I kept you in the trees last night and away from their scouts. Now go speak with your men. Those you choose to bring forward, move
to the north.” Hakon pointed in that direction. “They will guard our right flank. I will move the men currently there to the west.”
Sigurd grumbled but agreed. As he did, Trygvi came lumbering up the hill. He stopped before Hakon and nodded to both men. “What are my orders?”
“I need you to take the left flank, Trygvi.” Hakon pointed south, then turned so that he could look both men in their tired faces. “Keep your men on the hill and hold the higher ground. Do not move your men unless the enemy is broken and in disarray. Is that clear?” Hakon moved on to a new thought before either man could respond, for he was beginning to feel the battle joy in his veins and his thoughts were coming quickly. “Sigurd, the men you leave here in the trees must guard our rear. If the enemy appears there, they are to sound three quick blasts of the horns, then engage them. We will send men to help, if we can.”
“And if they do not attack our rear?”
“Then the path to the sea is open,” Hakon responded, pointing east. “But that is not a path we can take. Do not let your men fall victim to that temptation and retreat. We must make our stand here and end this. Do you both understand?”
Sigurd nodded, while Trygvi spat poignantly into the grass.
“Erik's sons and these Danes want to be our masters. That cannot happen. We must end the spawn of Erik here. We must break their resolve.” Hakon stared into the grim faces of his commanders, as if he could pass his own boldness to them through his gaze. “I will see you both when this is over.” They clasped each other's wrists, then the two jarls left for their posts.
Hakon grabbed his shield and gazed out over the field, out to where the Danes were just beginning to materialize in the fading darkness. There were hundreds upon hundreds of them, amassed behind two vast lines of warriors holding red shields. Hakon moved to the right along the hillcrest. Another vast army greeted his vision, smaller than the main force but toting yellow shields to denote their connection to another fort or lord. And to the south stood the Fyrkat Danes in numbers that equaled the northern force. Hakon took a deep breath and jogged to the opposite side of the hill. Nothing but empty land greeted his gaze. It was a path to the sea, to his ships. But he would not give in to it. The fight was here, and this was where it would end.
War King Page 20
