“You look ill, Egbert,” Hakon called to him with genuine concern, for there were dark rings under the priest's eyes and his skin looked whiter than normal.
Egbert grinned sheepishly. “I have not slept much, lord,” he admitted as his fingers entwined before him. “I, um, spent the night in prayer for you all.” His eyes ran around the circle of men sitting with Hakon: Toralv, Asmund, Harald, Bard, Eskil, Guthorm Sindri, and their host, Eyvind.
“Balls,” cursed Toralv. “It is hard enough to fight without your Christian curses being cast upon us.” He chuckled, and the others laughed with him.
Egbert blushed. “I just wanted to say good luck and God be with you all. I have the women and will take good care of them.”
“I am sure you will.” Asmund grinned, his brows pumping above his eyes.
Hakon tossed a handful of grass blades at his hirdman as the others chortled. If Egbert's cheeks turned any redder, his head would surely explode. The sight of it made the men laugh even harder.
“Here they come,” grumbled Bard, interrupting the cheer.
The laughter died on the men's lips as they followed Bard's gaze to the water. The dragonheads of the five enemy ships had suddenly appeared. It was a brisk, breezy day in the North. The sun, which had not yet climbed high in the sky, glinted off the helmets of the foemen as they scrambled to remove the dragonheads from their vessels to keep from angering the land spirits.
Hakon rose and embraced Egbert. “I thank you, Egbert. And look forward to feasting with you tonight.”
Egbert signed the cross over Hakon, then shuffled away.
“Guthorm,” Hakon called to his skald. “You, too, should leave this place. Find someplace where you can see the battle and commit our deeds to the verses you spin so well.”
Guthorm Sindri shook his head. “Not this time, lord. You need every man, and you know it.”
Hakon clasped his skald on the shoulder in thanks, then moved to his banner, which danced in the morning breeze. His men fanned out to the left and right, forming two lines along the crest of the slope that looked shockingly small against the enemy's numbers. The strategy for the day required no conversation. The men were to hold the line and beat back Harald's force, which they hoped would tire on the slope. That was all. They were too few to try any trickery, but that did not preclude the enemy from employing some tricks of their own. To guard against that, Hakon placed a sentinel off to the left, or west, to alert him should Harald try to send a force overland from their camp.
Down on the beach, the five ships landed, and the men disembarked in a cacophony of shouted orders, moving gear, and stomping feet. Hakon could see Harald in their midst, with his uncles by his sides. He sent one uncle off to the left with his crew and another off to the right with another crew. Harald took the middle with another three crews of men.
“No Fyrkat Danes,” remarked Toralv as he leaned on his axe.
“Probably got tired of following those witless fools,” growled Bard. He spat to emphasize his point.
“So much the better,” Asmund responded from behind him. “I've had about enough of those bastards.”
Hakon scanned the sea of disparate shields. There were surely hirdmen in the lot, but mercenaries too. He stepped from the group to address his small army. “These Danes,” he swept his seax toward the beach, “are a haphazard group! They will fight with less order than the Fyrkat Danes — but do not let that fool you!” As he hollered the words, he paced so that both sides of his shield wall could hear him. “Stay close and keep your guards up. Remember those you have lost and honor them with your efforts today!”
His men raised their swords and cheered their king's words.
“Do not let up! Do not retreat! We finish this here!”
Again the men cheered, and Hakon stepped back into the line. The time for words was over. It was now time to fight.
The Northmen waited as the Danes organized their lines down on the beach. It was then that a solitary figure stepped forward and began to climb the hill toward Hakon's army. Hakon had a mind to stay with his men, for he was out of words for Erik's sons. He wanted nothing more than to kill Harald and find some peace. But honor whispered in his ear, and so he walked down to meet his nephew.
The two stopped between the lines, ten paces from each other, the gentle breeze tugging at their hair. It had been just two springs since the fighting began, but already Harald's freckled face looked older and worn and somehow colder, as if the scales of life had left him with far more sorrows than joys. Hakon understood the feeling but felt no pity for the lad. He had chosen his life. Now he understood what it was like to live it.
“You look like a man who has seen enough killing, Harald. Or mayhap the pressure of leadership is eating at you?”
“I could say the same of you, Uncle.”
“How did you know to look here for me, Harald?”
The young man grinned. “The lips of men loosen when gold and mead and women are near.”
“Hakon Sigurdsson?” Hakon guessed.
“He came straight to us.” Harald scratched at his red beard, which was braided at his chin. “It is hard to believe that snake is his father's son, though I am glad he is. In truth, he was scant on details, so it is quite surprising that we found you at all. But the gods…they are mischievous. So perchance it is them I should credit for this chance meeting, eh?” Harald grinned.
Hakon's blood seethed in his veins, as much for Sigge's treachery as for Hakon's own stupidity. He should have known Sigge would turn to the Danes. Punished by his king and his own father, who else could help him regain his honor? A wiser man would have sought to regain his father's favor, but Sigge was too young and too impulsive to think things through. Besides, if Sigurd's words were true, then he trusted no one. And a man who trusts no one is either the enemy to all or hungry for a friend.
“What did you promise him in return for his help?”
Harald cocked his head, as if it were a strange question. “His life, of course. And title. Once we kill you and his father.”
Hakon scanned the lines behind Harald but saw no sign of Sigge. “Did the little goat turd come to fight, or is he cowering at Bluetooth's knee back in your lands?”
At this, Harald laughed. “We have both seen him fight. He is good enough with a sword but loses himself when the battle-thrill courses in his veins. I cannot risk that, for he is worthless to us dead. So we have kept him safe. For now.”
Suddenly, the words of Gudrod popped into Hakon's head. I hear Harald is the one to watch most closely. Gudrod had spoken those words in Kaupang, before Hakon had left to ravage the Danes. His words appeared to be true — or at least, wise counsel. For his young age, Harald was a thinker, unlike his brothers…or his father.
Hakon spat onto the grass and forced Sigge from his mind. It would do little good to dwell on him now, or to show Harald how troubled he was by the revelation of young Sigurdsson's treason. Instead, he motioned with his groomed beard toward the battle lines and changed the subject. “I see the Fyrkat Danes have deserted you. If that is true, why come seek me after three of your brothers have already fallen and the support of your Danish masters is waning?”
Harald shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Hakon's accusations. “I made an oath. If I break that oath, what am I then?”
“To whom is your oath? Your father? Your brothers? They are dead. You are free of that oath now.”
Harald's icy expression never changed. “I made the oath to my mother, and she yet lives.”
Which made sense. Harald's mother cared about little else but power. Even if it came at the cost of her husband and her sons. Some men called her a witch. Hakon knew not if that was true, though he had seen the steel in her emotions and because of it, heard the truth in Harald's words. “And so, because of that bitch, you will follow your kin to Valhall. Bid them greetings from me.”
“Careful how you speak of my mother. As for me —” he shrugged. “If I die, then the gods have wi
lled it, and I will feast with my father and brothers once again. If I succeed?” From his cold countenance cracked a wicked grin. “I will live well in the knowledge that I have sent you to your death.”
And so the cycle would continue, just as Hakon knew it would. Upstarts would seek power, while battle-weary kings and jarls and chieftains would try to cling to it. And the gods would condone the chaos, and young men would revel in the bloodshed and the fame, despite the heartache it wrought. Harald would never walk away from this fight, but if he did, another would come. And another. And in the end, only the gods and the ravens and the maggots would be happy.
The thought of it sickened Hakon, but more than that, it tired him. “Do you relish this fight, Harald?”
Harald's brows creased at his uncle's strange question. “Relish it?”
“Aye,” said Hakon. “Do you look forward to seeing your friends die and the blood of your comrades spilled on the grass of this —” he waved his arm about his head “— this insignificant rock?”
“No,” admitted Harald. “I relish killing you. That is all.”
Hakon had hoped to weaken his nephew's resolve. To sow the seeds of doubt in his thought chamber. But his words had only served to stiffen the young man's determination, at least on the outside. Hakon nodded at Harald. “Very well. You shall have your chance this day. I will be looking for you, Harald.” Hakon turned his back to his nephew and walked up the slope to join his men. He retrieved his shield from where it lay on the grass and pulled Quern-biter from its sheath.
Toralv looked at the blade. “A bit long for a shield wall, is it not? Where is your seax?”
Hakon smiled and walked out in front of his line. Those nearest him held their tongues so they could hear their king's words. The silence rippled down the line until all men turned his way. Hakon called to them as he lifted Quern-biter. “The Danes are led by Erik's son, Harald, and his uncles, Alf and Eyvind. But Harald is a pup, and his uncles are incompetent. We are Northmen, and fear is our ally this day. Let these Danes feel your strength and your ferocity. Let them know what it is like to fight the army of a king! Let them feel the strength of our shields and the work of our blades and the chaos we forge with our efforts. There will be no quarter. There will be only slaughter!” Hakon swung Quern-biter around his head as his men cheered his words and pounded on the rims of their shields with their blades and shafts. Hakon stepped back into the line and donned his polished helmet. It was unlike him to join in the battle-clamor of his men, but today he did not hold back. His voice rose with theirs as he pounded the flat of Quern-biter on his shield.
Down the slope, the Danes joined the din until their battle-horns wailed, calling them forth to the fight, each step taking them closer to their fate. The shouting and pounding never ceased. Rather, it grew like a wave approaching shore. Hakon glanced down his lines at the men in his ranks with their shields raised, their weapons ready, and their feet planted firmly. They were old, but they were experienced. They had seen battle before and would not retreat. They would die before deserting their king or their comrades, and that knowledge swelled Hakon's chest with pride.
Hakon's eyes scanned the enemy line, which was, like his, two men deep, though wider. His line would need to curve back on itself to keep from being flanked. Harald and his hird marched directly in front of Hakon, which was good — they would know soon enough who was the better man. As far as he could see, they had no archers, except the boy Reinhard. Though just where he was in the stomping mass of Danes and whether he brought his bow to the fight was impossible to say.
At fifteen paces, Harald raised his arm to halt the Danes. They stopped and hefted their spears. Hakon had expected this and called out a warning to his men. He need not have, for they had braced themselves behind their shields to form a perfect shield wall. With a whip of Harald's hand, the spears flew. At this distance, they barely arced as they sought their victims. One slammed into Hakon's shield, knocking it sideways. Another whizzed past his head. Cries of pain tore the air as warriors collapsed, wounded or dead. Hakon cut away the spear shaft and prepared himself for what was to come.
The Danes followed their spears up the pitch with a deafening roar. Into the waiting Northmen they ran, driving hard with their shields and their swords and their spears. An axe man came at Hakon and was mid-swing by the time he reached the king. Hakon jabbed Quern-biter's tip at the man's throat to fend him off. The axe-Dane lifted his shield to block the thrust but a moment too late. The shield drove the blade upward so that it connected with the nose guard of the man's helmet. The sword point then slipped off and into the man's eye. He screamed and disappeared into the press.
A moment later, a spear slipped through a gap in the shield wall and tore into the right side of Hakon's mail shirt. Toralv severed the spear shaft, then backhanded his axe in the direction of the spearman. His blow met with a shield and shattered it. The warrior behind it lurched backward to avoid the champion's axe-blade. Toralv had not expected that, and his momentum carried him out of line and toward the enemy. Hakon saw this friend's peril and parried a blow aimed at the big man's neck, then hacked at the head of another warrior to back him off. Toralv righted himself and stepped back into line.
Something slammed against Hakon's right greave. It buckled his leg but did not penetrate his armor. Hakon stepped sideways to regain his balance and jabbed back with Quern-biter. The blade struck something hard but came away unblooded.
“Hakon!” came a call. “Where are you?”
Hakon lowered his shield just enough to see Eyvind Skroia and Alf Askman, Harald's two uncles, pushing through the lines, their armor streaked with the blood of Northmen. Hakon's eyes sought Harald. The flow of battle had moved him farther to Hakon's left.
“I am here!” called Hakon to Harald's uncles. “Come as you are coming, and you shall find me!”
Eyvind and Alf turned their heads at Hakon's words and pressed forward, shoving their own men out of the way to get to Hakon. Eyvind beat his brother to the king and swung wildly at Hakon's head as he stepped forward, trying to catch his target by surprise. But his sword never connected. Toralv had seen the blow coming and slammed Eyvind with his shield as his blade came down. The blow staggered the warrior, giving Hakon just enough time to bring his own blade down hard on Eyvind's head. Quern-biter bit through the metal of Eyvind's helmet and split the warrior's head in two.
Alf, who stood nearer to Toralv in the press of warriors, watched as his brother died and cried out in anguish. Blinded by his fury, he attacked the giant, but underestimated Toralv's speed. Sensing the blow coming, Toralv whipped his shield around to block the strike. The foeman's sword stuck in the battered wood of Toralv's shield, giving the big man just enough time to windmill his axe into Alf's neck. Like his brother, Alf collapsed in an explosion of his own blood.
There was a flash as something kissed Hakon's cheek. He flinched involuntarily as a man cried out behind him. Hakon raised his shield to protect himself and looked back. There stood Asmund, grasping at an arrow in his throat. The hirdman's eyes found Hakon's for the briefest of moments, then they rolled back in his head as he collapsed to the earth.
The sight of it enraged Hakon. He stepped forward and knocked a spear thrust aside with his shield, then met a man's slash with his blade. To Hakon's right, Toralv battled on, grunting curses as he smashed warriors aside and hewed through others. To Hakon's left, Bard fought with seax and hand axe, a pile of Danish corpses at his feet. He had lost his helmet in the fight, and his black hair and wild face were sticky with blood. He ducked a wild sword swipe, then cleaved his attacker's leg off at the knee. As the dying Dane hollered and fell backward, Bard finished him with a slash to the throat.
The Danes directly before Hakon turned on their heels and ran. Others saw their flight and began to peel away from the fight. Hakon was about to charge in pursuit when he noticed Harald fighting nearby. The young prince and his hird had bitten deeply into Hakon's lines and were looking for more Northm
en to kill.
“Harald!” Hakon hollered. “I am coming for you!”
But Harald never gave him the chance. In that instant, Erik's son noticed his men fleeing and called the retreat, lest he and his men be abandoned on the hill. In a fit of fury, Hakon roared to his army, “Kill them all!” He wanted Harald and his Danes annihilated, destroyed before they could slip away. He wanted every last enemy to feel the edge of his army's blades and their story to die with them this day. And so he charged down the slope after Harald and his men, killing those Danes within his reach.
Harald's hird turned just as they reached the strand, forming a haphazard shield wall to guard their lord's withdrawal. Hakon and his men slammed into their defenses and quickly overwhelmed them, but not quickly enough. Harald had climbed over the gunwale of an escaping ship and slipped from Hakon's grasp.
Hakon pointed to the retreating ship and called for spearmen. As he did, something struck his left arm. He recoiled, thinking an errant shield must have knocked him aside. But as he regained his footing, he saw an arrow protruding from his upper arm. It had pierced his byrnie and lodged deep in the muscle below his shoulder. Hakon blinked at the arrow and then turned back to the ship, trying to comprehend what had happened.
And there, in the prow, stood Reinhard, his bow in hand and a triumphant grin on his face.
Chapter 25
“The king has been wounded!” called Toralv as two Danish ships slipped away.
Those closest to the king — Bard and Harald and Eyvind Finson, who himself was wounded in the arm — turned at the champion's call to see what had happened. Moments before, the king had been hale. None had seen the arrow fly or strike, and so they stared, mouths agape in their blood-caked faces, at Hakon and the arrow sticking from his byrnie.
Hakon waved them away. “It is nothing,” he growled, though he could feel the warmth trickling down the inside of his mail. “See to yourselves, and to the others.”
War King Page 27
