“Men are strange creatures,” Sigurd remarked to Hakon as the men gorged themselves on his supplies. “They will shun your protection, but eat your food.”
Hakon studied the revelers from his seat on the grass. A mug of Sigurd's ale rested on his lap. “Today did not go as planned.”
Sigurd, seated beside him, chuckled hoarsely. “Today was just the beginning, lad. We will win these men to us yet.” He finished this statement with a long, deep swig of ale.
Nearby, two lines of men pulled on a sealskin rope in a tug-of-war. To make things more challenging, they had built a small fire between them into which the losers would fall. “So what happens now?” Hakon asked, watching them.
Sigurd shrugged. “It is important that we appear undefeated, so tonight we celebrate like victors. Tomorrow we return to Lade and prepare ourselves for a long winter.”
“And if Erik hears of this meeting?”
“Hakon, we have prepared as much as we can. Lade knows what to do if Erik attacks while we are away.” A scream tore through the air. Both Hakon and Sigurd looked in time to see a man roll away from the tug-of-war. His friends hooted as they doused him with water.
“And if Erik attacks here?”
“Well, he will have a hard time of it.”
Hakon pulled some blades of grass and tossed them, dejectedly, away from him.
“Put your worries aside, boy. We have prepared as much as we can. It is in the gods' hands now.” Sigurd stood, brushed himself off, and turned to offer Hakon a hand up. “Come, Hakon. Let us be merry for a time.”
Chapter 20
Longing was not a foreign feeling to Hakon. He had lived with it his entire first year in Engla-lond with the persistent memory of his mother's cooking, the warmth of her modest home, the comforting scent of her hair as she told bedtime stories of Northern gods. At night, he had closed his eyes to Athelstan's dark hall and once again seen the glorious waterfalls that lined the fjords, and the majestic, snow-covered mountains to the east; smelled the salt of the sea as it blew in with the autumn winds; heard again the familiar cry of gulls and puffins above the crashing waves.
Now he was back among all those things he had missed so as a child, but time had dulled his former attachment to the land. His mother was dead, her comfort and stories gone with her. The Northern gods had long since succumbed to a far greater being called Christ, through whom Hakon drew solace in lonely and trying times. The land's incomparable beauty, once a constant source of wonder, now hid the darkness of fear and bloodshed within its crags and fjords.
In a strange twist of déjà vu, Hakon now found himself pining for Winchester as he once had his mother's home. He missed the succulent mutton prepared by Athelstan's cook, the smell of the crab apple trees beyond the estate that wafted through the household during spring and summer, the rigidity in his foster father's jaw and the long, uncomfortable hours at prayer. He yearned for simpler times, like those spent manning Winchester's walls with Louis, protecting the city against imaginary enemies. Even Byrnstan's incessant jibes and Father Otker's reprimands weighed heavily in his memories.
He supposed that, with time, even his warm memories of Winchester might freeze in the cold of the Northern kingdom. He hoped not, but he held no preconceptions. Ruling these men would take all his time, all his energy, and every scrap of his wit. He doubted there would be much room for sentimental longings.
Hakon stretched, shifted in search of a more comfortable position on his rocky seat, and breathed deeply of the icy air. He dug a rock out of the mud and tossed it far out into the open air beyond his perch, watching as it splashed into the gray waters of the fjord below. He listened to the wind rustling the dry pines and watched as they swayed majestically in the autumn wind. Below him, a fish flopped in the water close to where he had thrown the rock.
Time had passed quickly since the assembly in the Frosta fields. With winter approaching, the tempo of life on Sigurd's estate drastically changed. His fields needed harvesting; his larger livestock, slaughtering. Fishing boats had put out for salmon, cod, and herring. Traps had been set in the woods for small game. Final repairs were made to the thatch on the halls, sheds, and boathouses before the heavier rains and snows came. These tasks and many others kept the men and women of Sigurd's estate busy from early morning to evening. Hakon might be a prince, but Sigurd's household was too small in number to spare him from the labor.
“There you are!” Sigurd sat on the boulder beside Hakon. He gestured to the circles in the water left by Hakon's rock. “Trying a new fishing method?” He laughed at his little joke, then gave his surroundings a cursory glance. “So this is where you come in your free time? The men were starting to worry that you might be an elf, vanishing on your free days as you do.”
Hakon smiled. He had found this spot shortly after his convalescence, on one of his many walks. It was a point of land that jutted like a finger out into the fjord, just to the east of Sigurd's estate, where the Trondheimsfjord bent northward in its course. From his perch on the finger's tip, Hakon could gaze up and down the wondrous waterway while never losing sight of the beach below Sigurd's hall. “It is quiet here. I like to come and think … or pray.”
Hakon's admission did not seem to bother Sigurd, who nodded thoughtfully. “And what is it your young mind thinks about? Women? Glorious battles? Riches beyond compare?”
Hakon smiled but said nothing for a moment, then: “What must I do to win over Trondelag? Since the Frosta assembly, no one else has come forward.”
“Have patience. They will come around with time.”
“But we have sent messengers and gifts. We have visited many farmsteads in the surrounding area. And still we receive only courteous responses, but no real support. Can we offer them more than we already have? Can I do any more to convince them?”
Sigurd shook his head. “All we can do now is wait. It is the time of the harvest, an important time of year.”
Hakon glanced sidelong at Sigurd, who divined his thoughts and grinned. “Patience, Hakon. Our winters here are far harder and much longer than any Athelstan has ever seen. As you know from this last month, there is plenty to do to prepare. The people will respond when they are ready.” Sigurd plucked a twig from the ground and rolled it between his fingers, watching as a few of the dead needles fell to the muddy earth. “I have been thinking much about your army, Hakon.”
Hakon frowned. “What army?”
“As I said, come spring, things will be different. We will have an army, you will see.” He flicked the twig aside and turned to Hakon. “In any case, you will need your own hird. I will speak to Egil about this.”
Hakon found another stone and flung it as far as he could. It broke the dark surface of the water with a ka-plunk and sent a duck in search of a quieter spot. “You are confident that men will accept me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
Sigurd shrugged. “Call it a hunch. I have lived here my entire life. I know these men and I know what they want.” Sigurd gazed at the beach below his estate, where a small ship had just arrived and a crowd had begun to gather. Just then, the sound of a horn echoed through the morning air.
One-two-three warning blasts.
“Thor's balls!” Sigurd cursed. He leaped up and ran toward his estate. Hakon followed without thinking. Together, they wove through the trees toward the beach.
“What is the matter?” Hakon called as they arrived.
“Erik has attacked!”
His mouth dropped open. He glanced at Sigurd, his mind unable to grasp the truth in what he had just heard.
“When did he attack? Where?” The run had robbed Sigurd of his breath; the gasped questions formed clouds before his face.
The messenger's eyes watered from the cold. His cheeks were cracked and ruddy from the icy sea winds. “He attacked all along the fjord as far east as Halla,” he answered with the difficulty of one whose lips were numb. “Laid waste to every dwelling he could find along the coas
t! He is headed this way.”
“When did this happen, Haki?” Sigurd asked quickly.
Haki wiped at his running nose. “Erik attacked before sunrise this morning. He burned every dwelling and killed everything in his path. His men violated our women, then he hung the bodies of those he killed. The trees are littered with their corpses.”
Hakon found it hard to believe Haki's horrifying words. As Sigurd's household broke into an agitated babble around him, he asked, “Did he take hostages?”
Haki turned to Hakon and shook his head. “No hostages. He is killing everyone he lays his hands on—men, women, children, even animals.”
“Did anyone escape?” asked Sigurd. The color had drained from his cheeks.
“A few fled east and warned us. We came here to warn you.”
“What of Hrolf Einarsson?”
“Dead.”
Sigurd began to pace. “You say that Erik is headed here?”
“Aye, my lord. So it would appear.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“He stopped at Halla. That is the last place he was seen.”
Sigurd continued to pace. “How many men does he have?”
“We heard two skeids and two smaller dragons, although I am not exactly sure.”
Sigurd stopped for a moment and rolled his eyes upward, as if calculating something. When he looked at Haki again, his eyes were wide. “Nearly three hundred men! Are you certain?”
“Aye.”
“A bit large for a raiding party,” Egil offered. “He means to put an end to us.”
Sigurd stroked his beard. “So there is a chance he might reach us as soon as tonight.”
“Mayhap. But he has been harrying the land since last night. His men will need to rest. My guess is that they will camp somewhere near Halla—mayhap in it—tonight.”
“Well, Hakon,” Sigurd said as he turned to face his charge. “What say you?”
Hakon turned to Haki. “Can you lead us to where you last saw Erik?”
Haki looked from Sigurd to Hakon, his concern evident. “Aye.”
Hakon looked at Sigurd. “Can we rely on support from others?”
“We can probably rally men from along the banks of the fjord. But any others will be too far away to reach.”
“How many men will that give us?”
“An additional twenty, if all agree to fight. With Haki's men and my own, that will give us nearly eighty.”
Hakon breathed deeply to calm his nerves. Outnumbered three to one, and without precise knowledge of their enemy's position, their situation looked grim, at best. “If we decide to attack, we must surprise him. If we cannot, we are doomed.”
Sigurd nodded. “I agree.” He turned to his men. “Alert the farmsteads. Take as many men as you can find and be back by sunset. We will move with nightfall and attack before the sun rises if the opportunity presents itself. Go.”
Chapter 21
By midnight, Sigurd's men had recruited a few dozen men from the lands close to his estate. Most were freemen of middling income and possessed neither the equipment nor the training to make them much of a fighting force. But all were driven by a desire to protect their homes and families, and that, in Hakon's mind, counted for more than fancy weapons and armor.
Since they didn't know where Erik and his men were camped, Sigurd and Hakon decided to stay clear of the waterways altogether. Running into Erik on the water with an inferior fighting force would eliminate the element of surprise. Besides, with the rugged landscape that bordered the Trondheimsfjord, Erik would be expecting it. Though they would have to walk for some distance to reach the foe, the forest trails offered too many advantages to be ignored—the trees would mask their approach, and they could send out scouts to determine where and in what disposition Erik's army lay, long before making contact with the enemy. If their plans went awry, they could retreat into the trees, a far better option than diving into the chilling sea.
Their army moved west along the coastal trails with no equipment to slow them down save their weapons, shields, and what little armor they had. The night was cold, the sky clear and star-filled, and a gentle breeze carried the smell of pine and damp sea air. Occasionally they heard the hoot of an owl, or the rustle of nocturnal foragers.
As the path fell away behind them and the night wore on, Hakon's mind wandered. He saw himself again on York's northern wall, pondering the whereabouts of the Scottish host with a mixture of excitement and dread. He had been right to feel dread, for the duel with Udd had taught him what to expect in fighting a man. Still, he had yet to experience those things that every man must—the rallying blast of battle horns, the rush of adrenaline as armies clashed, the primitive satisfaction of killing a man. As a newborn craves its mother's milk, he yearned for these things. And yet, even as he craved them, he feared the burning kiss of the sword, for he was no stranger to its sting.
The return of one of the scouts brought Hakon from his reverie. He crowded in closer to hear the man's words.
“… camped in Halla, as we expected. They are using the huts for shelter.”
Sigurd stroked his beard, and for a long moment did not speak. “Very well,” he whispered. “Let us move closer. Spread the word to be as quiet as possible. If any man is heard, it could be the death of us all.”
Like most seaside settlements in the North, Halla had been carved out of the rugged landscape and struggled against nature for its very existence. But in Halla's case, the ever-encroaching wilderness had won, claiming the land in the absence of man's perpetual attempts to keep nature at bay. The long-abandoned dwellings stood side by side in a semi-circle, their broken boards and hanging shutters creaking in the night breeze. Between them lay planked walkways long overgrown with grass, weeds, and ivy. Buckets, stalls, troughs, and other signs of trade lay scattered about in various stages of decay. On the beach nearby, Erik had anchored his four mighty ships beside two quays that poked into the water like the decrepit fingers of an ancient hag.
Hakon lay on his belly in the underbrush, studying the village. The dying embers of last night's fires glowed in windows and on the beach beyond. Wisps of smoke reached for the gray of the early morning sky, carrying on their tendrils the savory smells of roasted meat. Though most men slept, the dark forms of guards moved vigilantly through the half-light.
“Why do the guards stay so close to the camp?”
Sigurd's answer was barely audible. “They fear the elves and trolls that roam the night forest.”
When they had completed their reconnaissance, Hakon and Sigurd melted back into the shadows and returned to their waiting men.
Egil approached them. “How does it look?”
Sigurd shook his head. “It is worse than I feared. There are many men, and most lie within the town. It will be a bitter fight, among those structures. We have to rout them out somehow.”
As Sigurd spoke, a plan began to form in Hakon's mind. “I have an idea.” He grabbed a stick, cleared a space on the ground, and sketched a diagram of the village in the soft earth. “If the men fear elves and trolls,” he whispered as the men gathered around, “then let's give them what they fear most.” He began to map out his plan. When he finished, the men nodded approvingly, and set about the tasks necessary to execute it.
“It grows lighter,” Egil whispered.
“Then we cannot wait any longer.” Hakon turned to Sigurd. “Remember—wait for the swimmers before you fire your arrows. Do not attack until you see the sign.”
Chapter 22
Sigurd nodded, clasped Hakon briefly on the shoulder, then led half the men inland through the trees. As Hakon watched them go, the handful of swimmers stripped to their waists and disappeared toward the beach and the anchored ships. Hakon smeared mud on his face and plastered dried leaves in his hair along with the others. When all had thus masked themselves, they crept forward to their position along the forest's edge.
Hakon breathed deeply to settle his nerves, then said a s
ilent prayer to calm the cold fear that wrenched his gut. He wiped at a trickle of sweat that had formed on his brow as he watched his archers gather what dry twigs and branches they could find. Beside him, Egil scanned the town with his intense gray eyes.
Suddenly a shout went up from the guards stationed near the quays. Hakon looked on as one of the dragon ships pulled out to sea. In front of Hakon, more of Erik's guards turned toward the disturbance. Roused from sleep by the commotion, men crawled from their tents, gazing in confusion toward the beach.
The swimmers had succeeded. The first phase was going as planned.
Egil growled a command and three warriors struck flint to stone. Within moments, the gathered twigs and branches were ablaze. The archers dipped their cloth-wound arrows into the flames until the tips caught fire, then they turned and loosed them at the dwellings. Before those landed, they sent another salvo of arrows into the backs of the dumbstruck guards. The sheer velocity of the fire arrows doused the flames on some; others landed on the aged thatch of the village structures and immediately burst into flames. Hakon watched as flames streaked from Sigurd's group concealed in the opposite tree line. As planned, their arrows struck one of the beached skeids.
Pandemonium erupted in the once sleeping camp as warriors cried out warnings and fumbled to find their weapons and shields. A few boarded one of the skeids to chase the stolen ship. Others instinctively sought water to douse the growing flames on the roofs of the dwellings and the deck of the other ship. The more disciplined among them noticed their fallen comrades and tried to rally the men to face the real threat.
With the town and ships now ablaze, the archers turned their attention on the camp and felled their victims with deadly efficiency. Hakon's eyes searched the smoke-filled village for his brother, but all he could see were the shadows of running men. On the beach, the second ship had pulled away with a handful of men on its decks. Hakon's heart leapt. The attack was progressing exactly as planned.
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