God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  “Hakon, I understand your dismay, and I too sorrow that you will not be at my side, these next few days. But these things are beyond our control. God has opened a door for you back home. Put your trust in His guidance and know that He has bigger and better plans for you.”

  He handed the sword ceremoniously to Hakon, who wrapped his hand around the grip and hefted it vertically before him. A beam of light danced along its edge.

  Athelstan continued. “In giving you this sword, I end my fostering responsibilities. We are no longer foster son and foster father. We are friends and fellow kings.”

  Hakon's heart thumped with a burning pride that shot through his body, replenishing those places where moments before hurt and indignation had resided. Though regrets and questions still remained, he could no longer deny the desire that pulsed in his veins.

  Athelstan held up his hand. “There is more. I planned to give you this on the eve of battle, but it is not to be.” He reached behind him and lifted a cloak of thick black wool by two of its corners, letting the rest fall toward the floor. The cloak was of the finest workmanship, thick as armor, yet soft to the touch.

  Hakon saw a golden boar woven into the fabric. He was too astonished to speak. The boar was an ancient symbol of power, a protector of warriors.

  “I cannot take credit for the boar. Byrnstan thought of it. We had it placed on your new armor and your standard, as well.”

  “My … my …” Hakon was too overwhelmed to say the words.

  Like a salesman at market, Athelstan waved his arm at the open chest behind him. Hakon rushed to it. Within lay a beautifully crafted byrnie, a chain mail collar, a shining helmet complete with a protective nosepiece, and a pair of greaves. A round shield of ash wood lay behind the chest. Like his cloak, it had been painted black and emblazoned with a golden boar that stretched from side to side. Leaning against the side of the tent was a standard in the same pattern.

  Athelstan waited patiently while Hakon examined his gifts. “There are a few items I have already had Egil store on his ships. Gifts for Sigurd. Do not fail to give them to him. It will be expected of you.”

  Hakon turned back to his foster father, still speechless. As he did so, Athelstan reached into the pouch he wore at his waist and extracted a crudely-shaped cross on a long silver chain. Lifting the chain in both hands, he hung it around Hakon's neck and let the cross fall onto his chest.

  “You will always have a place at my court, Hakon Haraldsson. May God speed you and give you victory.”

  Hakon lifted the cross and twirled it in his fingers. Unable to think of anything else to say, he croaked, “Thank you, my lord.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “On the morrow. First light.” Hakon gazed down the shore at the three ships beached near the quays of York.

  “It is a long way to go in such small ships. Are they seaworthy?”

  Hakon shrugged. “They made it here, did they not?”

  “They do not look like warships. Nor are there many men. What happens if you run into pirates? Or an enemy fleet?”

  Hakon shrugged. “I don't know what will happen if we encounter danger, but I imagine we won't. The year is growing late and raiding season soon will be over. Those who have not already made their way home will probably be staying put through the winter.”

  Louis gazed at the ships, but said nothing for a long time. “I hate boats.” It was a meaningless comment, meant only to fill the silence that stretched between them. “Do you?”

  Hakon shrugged. “I don't know. I haven't been on one since I came here. That was seven winters ago.”

  Louis looked at him. “Are you scared?”

  “No,” Hakon answered a bit too quickly. “What is there to fear? I am going back to my home.”

  Louis smiled wistfully, but kept his peace. There was nothing more to say.

  Later that evening, after most of the warriors of King Athelstan's army had fallen asleep, and their snores echoed in the night air like a thousand growling beasts, Hakon lay wide awake. Above him in the black sky, myriad stars twinkled like the campfires of some faraway army. Hakon recognized them all, though time had long since erased many of their names. He had known them once, had slaved for hours trying to memorize them as Father Otker stabbed his long index finger at the drawings.

  Hakon smiled to himself. How many hours had he sat in that cold stone scriptorium with Father Otker at his side? Hundreds? Thousands? If only he had known how much he would one day yearn to be back in the safety of that little room, scribbling sounds onto pieces of parchment while frustration tore at his nerves.

  His mind wandered to his first few days in Engla-lond. He'd been no more than a terrified little boy. How pathetic he must have seemed to everyone. Unable to eat, unable to sleep, finding every sound totally foreign and every sight terrifyingly new. And now … now the thought of leaving this foreign land was unbearable. There were so many things he would leave behind, so many people and places, so many sights and sounds and smells that had become so familiar.

  A thought struck him and he smiled up into the night. Was he not as pathetic now as he had been then? Did not the fear of an unknown future claw at his heart? Strange how life, like a never-ending circle, repeated itself.

  The first Christian king of the North. As a wolf knows to hunt and a fish to swim, he had known since the day he first heard the words, sitting at his baptism, that this was God's plan for him. The words called to him like some faraway voice. Beckoning. Urging. Tempting. As much as his insides twisted at the thought of leaving, he knew he could not stay. Honor and glory would never come in the shadow of another man, especially one as great as Athelstan. Despite the new doubts and fears conjured by what he'd seen in the smoldering tun, it was time to carve out his own existence, even if that meant a life, and possibly death, in the cold gray North.

  He reached down and ran his fingers along the steel of the sword that lay at his side, seeking comfort and security in its sharp edge, but finding only doubt. Was he crazy to think that he could succeed? A Christian boy in a heathen land with no allies and no experience, alone, save for the weak ties of a man long since estranged to him—how could he ever hope to win the favor of the warlike Northmen? Louis' question echoed in his head, and the truth shot back immediately: Are you scared? Yes, Louis, I am terrified.

  Chapter 13

  In the gloom of the following morning, the trader looked even more forbidding. Like some shape-shifter from the stories of yore, he had changed from a slovenly traveler into a hardened and fearsome warrior. His white hair had been pulled into a tight braid and rested like a snake on his woolen cloak. Serpentine bracelets in the Celtic fashion clung to his wiry arms, their patterns mirroring the dark crevices that traversed his face and the beard that fell, forked like a serpent's tongue, to his belt. A half-healed gash on his forehead marked the place of a future scar.

  The man peered at Hakon like a hunter studying his prey. “Are you ready, Hakon Haraldsson?” His voice was gruff, his northern accent thick.

  Hakon swallowed hard. “Aye,” he answered lamely.

  “Good. I will wait for you at my ship.” The man nodded curtly to both Athelstan and Hakon. He ignored Byrnstan, Father Otker, and Louis altogether as he turned and strode back down the hill to where the crews of his three knarrs were busy loading their vessels.

  “Indecent troll,” Byrnstan grumbled. “I trust that man as far as I could piss into a strong wind.”

  Athelstan ignored his friend and turned to Hakon, his face somber and as gray as the clouds above. He squeezed Hakon's shoulder. “Remember my words, boy. Find your path in life and follow it with all your heart and soul. Lead as much with your mind as with your strength. And put your trust in Christ, for He will provide.” The king's face grew suddenly longer and even more somber. He swallowed. “I will miss you. Go now.” He lifted his hand slowly from Hakon's shoulder.

  Louis, who had been standing behind Byrnstan, poked his head into the gathering. “W
rite me.”

  “Show those Northerners how we Saxons fight,” spat Byrnstan.

  Hakon smiled. He did not trust himself to answer.

  Beside them Father Otker made the sign of the cross over Hakon. “Go with God, Hakon. Remember what I have taught you these past years. I will keep you in my prayers.” The priest's eyes began to tear and he gulped back his next words.

  Hakon opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say. There was so much he had thought of saying while trying to sleep the night before, but those words somehow fell short of the emotions he now felt. How could he ever express in a sentence, or even ten, what had taken years to develop? He looked from Athelstan to Byrnstan to Father Otker, then at Louis, trying to engrave their faces in his mind.

  “I will miss you all,” he finally managed. Then he turned and forced himself to walk away.

  It seemed strange to Hakon how one's senses could conjure memories from the recesses of the mind. How a smell could recall feelings long forgotten, or a sound, an image. And how those memories, in turn, could evoke emotions long since buried in the crevices of the heart and soul, as if the memory had once again come to life.

  He had not set foot on a boat of any kind since he had come to Engla-lond at the age of eight. Now, after the passing of seven winters, it was as if nothing had changed. The creak of the oars and their familiar slap against the water's surface; the sound of water lapping against the hull; the smell of wet pine and wool, tar, salted fish, and soggy bread—all invoked images of gray waves and colorful shields, of the northern islands and fog, of hanging bodies, foreign warriors, and fear. Even the waters through which they traveled held special meaning. Not so long ago, he had sailed in the opposite direction on the same silty waters of the Ouse, heading to an unknown fate. The direction may have changed, but the fate had not.

  Hakon lifted his face and let the midday breeze blow the ghosts from his thoughts. He sat on the foredeck of the knarr, near the prow, about the only place on the vessel that was not occupied by another man or a pile of goods. The crew sat on crates, five men to a side, pulling at the oars with rhythmic grunts. Aft, Egil stood at the steer board, his cloak blowing out behind him as he shouted a cadence to his men.

  Perchance, Hakon mused as he took in the scene, it was not the senses that conjured these ghosts from the past, but the environment. Since stepping aboard that morning, the men had been appraising him with more than just curious regard. Their eyes measured him, as if sizing up the depth of his mettle. They were the very same looks that had haunted his crossing from the Northern lands as a child. Like a Night Mare's dream from long ago suddenly remembered, he watched as the men followed his every move, then turned and whispered to their rowing partners. Though Hakon pretended not to notice, he could not help feeling like an animal in a cage, prodded by the invasive glances of those who pretended not to gawk.

  Hakon had been around Northmen enough to understand that their behavior was not normal. Northmen feared nothing, save the supernatural. And the only men they set apart were those who had earned their respect through luck and strength. Hakon was neither a god nor a hero, and thus suspected their scrutiny was less than respectful.

  Putting the crew from his mind, he turned toward the green shoreline of Yorkshire. His heart ached as he watched the flat, green landscape slip past him. He wanted to jump overboard into the brown waters of the Ouse River and swim toward that shore, to leave his fate and these strange men behind and live the rest of his days in the familiarity of Athelstan's kingdom.

  “The water is cold and the current strong.”

  Hakon flinched.

  “If I were you, I would wait until we beach, then sneak away at night.”

  “You know nothing of my thoughts, Northman.”

  Egil smiled a nearly toothless grin. “You do not remember me, do you, boy?”

  Hakon studied the man closely. Those lively gray eyes, half hidden under bushy brows, did look familiar. As did the hooked nose.

  “I was with you when you came here seven winters ago. Part of the crew that delivered you to Athelstan's court.”

  “The helmsman,” Hakon responded, half to himself. “You were the helmsman of our ship.”

  The man grinned again. “Aye. That I was. And you were but a scared little pup.”

  Hakon looked away. After a moment's silence, he asked, “Why do these men stare at me? Have I offended them in some way?”

  One of Egil's thick brows arched. “You have no idea?”

  “Idea? Of what?”

  “No idea that you are the spitting image of your father. Not just in appearance, but in mannerisms as well. The way you walk; the way you move your hands and scratch your head; the way your steely eyes take in a scene. You must understand, those who knew Harald as a younger man find it hard to take their eyes from you, for it is like having a ghost in their midst.”

  Hakon chuckled. “Surely you cannot be serious. I have seen my father but thrice in my life, when I was a small child. How could I have acquired his mannerisms?”

  Egil shook his head slowly. “I don't know. Mayhap the gods are sending signs.”

  Hakon laughed again. “Signs? Of what?”

  Egil shrugged. “That you are the rightful heir.”

  “You truly believe that?”

  “I believe nothing until it is proven.”

  By midday, an easterly wind had picked up. Men scrambled across the deck in a dance of coordinated motion as they lifted the mast into the mast fish and kerling, hoisted the yard, unfurled the mainsail, and tied off the lines. The woolen sail strained against the mast and stays as the wind drove the vessel forward.

  By the time the sun sank below the western horizon—the time called Undorn by the Northmen—the three ships put in on a beach along the northern shore of the Ouse. The wind had picked up, so the men moved inland to seek shelter among the trees. Egil appointed sentries to guard the vessels, despite Athelstan's guarantee of safe passage. These were dangerous times; no one was safe, friend to the king or no. Only when Egil was sure of the beach's relative safety did he allow his men to settle down for the evening. They boiled a broth of mutton, garlic, and wild onion in portable cauldrons, and opened kegs of ale to guard against the night chill.

  As Hakon took a seat near one of the fires, a man handed him a wooden mug of ale and motioned for him to drink. Hakon took the cup gratefully and sipped of the strong ale, feeling its bitterness in his cheeks and his throat. Before him, the fire crackled and sizzled.

  The men spoke of the tide and the wind, and of their good fortune so far. They spoke of comrades who had fallen at a place called Mollebakken, and of the battle itself. Some spoke of their homes, and of what might befall their lands now that Erik had defeated many of his enemies. Hakon listened intently, hoping both to learn more about the current situation in his homeland, and to refamiliarize himself with words he'd not heard spoken in seven winters' time. Though Anglisc and Norse were similar, there were words unique to each tongue.

  “Did you know my father well?” he asked Egil as the wiry man took a seat on the log beside him and rubbed his knotted hands together to fend off the chill.

  Egil chuckled, but did not look at Hakon. Instead, his gray eyes focused on the fire as if recalling images from long ago. “Aye, Hakon. I knew your father better than most.”

  “Have you never heard of Egil Woolsark?” interjected a middle-aged man, the surprise evident in his voice. “He was Harald's standard-bearer.”

  “I … I did not know. I thought you were a trader.”

  “Ha! A trader of sword strokes, perhaps. Egil was there almost from the beginning. Accompanied your father through most of his campaigns, and—”

  “Silence!” Egil's voice boomed as he shot the man a warning glance. “We will discuss Harald no longer.”

  After an awkward moment, the men resumed their discussions. Hakon settled himself contentedly before the fire and listened to their conversation. It was then that Hakon noti
ced the bull-necked man speaking to him from across the fire.

  “I did not fully understand,” Hakon said to the bull-necked man. “What did you say?”

  Egil placed a hand on Hakon's shoulder and explained, “The men know that you are returning to fight for the High Seat. My companion here mentioned that you were a follower of the White Christ, and therefore, not someone to trust.”

  Hakon reddened at the insult. “Why do you not trust me?”

  The man grinned. In the firelight, Hakon could see the broth dripping from the man's bottom lip. “I do not wish to anger my gods.”

  Hakon raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Worry not, friend. I will not impose my beliefs upon you. There is no need to fear reprisal from your gods.”

  The man did not speak; he merely sat there studying his guest while he twirled the end of his thick red mustache between two chubby, grease-stained fingers. After a long moment, the man's fat lips slowly parted in a greasy grin. “We shall see,” the bull responded. Though he smiled, malice danced in his fierce eyes.

  A hush fell as the group awaited Hakon's response. Hakon forced nonchalance and turned back to his meal, letting the matter drop uncontested.

  The next morning, the small fleet set out before the sun was fully visible in the eastern sky. They left a cup of ale and some bread on the beach as a small sacrifice to their gods for safety and for wind. But the gods rejected their offering and brought a crisp, windless day. As a result, the men were forced to row until Undorn.

  Hakon received no preferential treatment; he took his turn at the oars with the rest of them. He did so with trepidation, for he had not rowed since he was a little boy, and the oars felt large and clumsy in his hands. His inexperience soon frustrated the crewmembers, who cursed and swore when Hakon fell off his stroke or failed to lift his oar far enough from the water. The latter proved as dangerous to him as it was aggravating to his comrades, for the water drove the oar back into Hakon's gut with such force, it either knocked the wind from him or unseated him from his bench. Egil did nothing to relieve Hakon from his embarrassment and the men from their aggravation. Hakon, he insisted, would not learn to row by watching.