God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  “Dark elves!” yelled someone above the din. “Wraiths!”

  Then Hakon heard the clang of steel on steel and an unmistakable battle-call. He turned to Egil, mouth agape. “Sigurd attacks too early!”

  “Then we must also,” answered Egil, “or Sigurd will die.”

  Hakon did not hesitate. He ran forward, Quern-biter drawn and ready. Behind him he heard others following, but he did not turn to see how many. He squinted into the smoke ahead. Sigurd's attack had driven the superstitious enemy in full flight across the village, straight toward Hakon and his men. Hakon saw them coming through the smoke, but it was too late to stop. The press of his own men kept him moving forward. He lifted his sword and yelled.

  The enemy saw him. Some dropped their weapons at the sight of the mud-streaked demons and ran for the woods. Most turned toward the beach.

  Hakon plunged in among those that remained, cleaving the head off the first man before the man could duck the blow. The second warrior saw Hakon, but too late. His thrust beat the enemy's parry and entered the man's chest just above his stomach. The man crumpled backward, and Hakon yanked his blade free.

  A third man turned and swung his axe at Hakon's head. Hakon blocked the blow with his shield, though the power behind the swing nearly knocked him to his knees. Before he could recover, the man swung downward. Hakon rolled to the right. The axe blade missed his arm by a hair's breadth.

  Rising, Hakon struggled to regain his footing. The warrior stepped forward and raised his axe for the final blow. But the blow never came. Hakon raised his head to find Toralv standing over the enemy's headless body, the white crescent of his smile showing through the mud caking his face.

  Hakon squinted through the smoke and coughed. Here and there, pockets of warriors struggled amidst the flaming huts. Hakon rallied his men and led them at a run toward the beach. Flames licked at his face and clothes and burned his lungs, robbing him of breath. He struggled to keep his footing on the slippery planks of the walkways; at one point, he stumbled to his knees. Someone lifted him to his feet and pulled him forward through the maze of ash and flame.

  He burst from the town and found himself on a rise above the beach. His vantage brought him to a dead halt. On the shore, a large body of enemy warriors regrouped under the command of a man who paced through their ranks, gradually imposing order. The leader shouted at his men to hold fast. Above his head he waved a mighty, two-headed battle-axe. Hakon did not need to see his face to know this was Erik.

  Hakon turned back to the remnants of his own force, a paltry few compared to Erik's followers, and he understood the situation immediately. If he waited, if he let Erik bolster the confidence of his men, he would lose the momentum—and the battle. He had to attack.

  Hakon raised his sword and plunged down the hill toward his brother. He did not hear the yells that roared from his throat, or the yells of those who followed him. His focus, his attention, his mind concentrated on one thing only—survival. He raised Quern-biter before him and prepared to meet the enemy now charging his way.

  The armies clashed with a sound like a thunderclap.

  A warrior rose before Hakon, spear thrust forward. Hakon knocked the spear aside, then brought his blade full circle and swung at the warrior's exposed ribs. The blade bit through leather and flesh, and the man dropped screaming to the ground.

  Red flashed toward Hakon's shoulder. He lifted his shield just in time to meet the blow, then lashed out blindly with Quern-biter. When he looked, no one was there. He turned and sought another foe. To his right, a giant of a man hacked at Egil, and knocked him to his knees with a blow to the shield. Hakon stepped in and took the man's leg off at the knee, then finished him with a blow to the neck.

  Hakon looked around but found no other enemy near. The main force had broken and ran headlong for their ships. Farther down the beach, a shield wall had formed around Erik. Two hapless Tronds, crazed with adrenaline, attacked it. One fell wounded under an enemy spear thrust. The other backed away.

  Slowly the shield wall retreated into the surf. A few Tronds tossed spears, but they glanced off the wall and fell harmlessly into the sea. Hakon grabbed a spear from the blood-soaked shore and waited for Erik to show himself. The shield wall reached one of the ships and waited as their king grabbed the gunwale and hoisted himself up. For a moment, Erik climbed with his back to the enemy.

  Hakon hesitated. Though others tried and failed to hit him, something would not allow Hakon even to try. He dropped the spear and watched as Erik and his hird disappeared over the gunwale of the retreating skeid.

  Erik's face appeared at the prow. The smoke masked the details, but Hakon knew his brother's eyes rested on him. Slowly, Hakon lifted his sword and leveled it at his brother's ship. As if in answer, Erik's axe rose above his head.

  When the ships were gone, Hakon turned and forced himself to look on the devastation around him. Though he had participated in its creation, the sight sickened him. Rivulets of blood trickled from the dismembered and mangled bodies strewn over the shore and the rise beyond. The Tronds walked among them, thrusting their weapons into those of the enemy who still lived. Seagulls, encouraged by the sudden quiet, landed on the corpses and fought over the gory remains. Hakon's stomach heaved, and he vomited onto the pebbles.

  He straightened and wiped the spittle on the back of his hand, then noticed Sigurd standing nearby, watching him. “Can you not find something better to look at?”

  Sigurd guffawed, unbothered by Hakon's reproach. “Think of it this way. At least you still have a stomach to puke with.” He patted Hakon on the shoulder. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  Hakon followed the jarl from the beach to an area not far from the burning huts. As they neared, wind-borne ash seared Hakon's lungs and eyes. Sigurd stopped and pointed to the ground.

  Hakon's eyes followed the finger; he froze. He felt the bile rise in his throat again and fought to keep it down. There on the ground lay an elderly man and woman. The woman lay on her back, naked, her arms and legs tied to stakes. Beside her, the man lay face down, spread-eagled. Like the woman, his hands and feet had also been tied to stakes, but unlike the woman, the man's back had been torn apart as if by some hungry animal. The man's ribs had been broken from his spine and pulled outward to reveal his innards from behind. Worse, his lungs had been pulled through the opening in his back and laid between his shoulder blades.

  “The blood-eagle. It is a favorite of your brother's.”

  Hakon stared in horrified silence, unable to grasp the fact that any man could be so vicious. “Why do you show me such horrors?”

  “I saw you on the beach as Erik climbed onto his ship. You should have thrown the spear, Hakon.” Sigurd walked away.

  By late morning the flames had died, leaving in their wake a forest of blackened, smoldering beams and long tendrils of smoke that disappeared into the low gray clouds above. Though the day was windless, it was bitterly cold; if the clouds let loose, there was sure to be snow—the first of the year.

  The attack had been devastating for both sides. Over half of Erik's men lay on the field, while nearly one third of Sigurd's force had perished, including three of his hirdmen. Another twenty-three sat with wounds of varying severity; three were expected to die before nightfall. The men spent the remainder of the day tending the wounded and placing the dead aboard Erik's half-burned skeid, which was then put to the torch and cast off from the quay.

  “I am too old for this,” remarked Egil as he slowly lowered himself to the ground. His knees cracked like the wood in the fire at which Hakon and Sigurd now sat. Both looked up from their meal of dried cod, but neither spoke. When Egil had settled himself comfortably, he said, “I saw Finn amongst Erik's men.”

  Sigurd's hand dropped from his fish-filled mouth. “Ah, come. Finn would never. He may be angry at me, but I do not think he would ever stoop so low as to support Erik.”

  Egil shrugged, pulling a strip of dried cod from a bag of Erik's discarded su
pplies. “Believe as you like.” He eyed the cod closely, then tore a chunk with his teeth and said around the mouthful, “I only know one man with his coloring. And I saw that man on the battlefield today.”

  Sigurd waved his story off. “Your eyes must have tricked you.”

  “I think not. I know what I saw.”

  Sigurd shrugged. “It is of no consequence.”

  Hakon changed the subject. “So, what happens now?”

  “I cannot speak for Egil,” Sigurd said with a smile, “but I have plans to eat until I feel sick, then sleep like a dead man.”

  Hakon frowned. “That is not what I meant.”

  Sigurd's smile vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. “Hakon, please. You worry too much about the future.”

  Egil pushed himself to his feet. “The boy is right to ask, Sigurd. Personally, I think we should head south and take the battle to Erik. We can win support for our cause on the way. Tore the Silent would surely help us. Can he not be summoned?”

  Sigurd shrugged his round shoulders. “What does it matter? With winter so close, the venture would be folly.”

  Egil scowled and spat. “King Harald would not have hesitated to fight.”

  Hakon had been picking some ash from his food when Egil mentioned his father's name. He looked up. “I do not think we should head south, Egil,” he offered. “There is too much work to be done here.”

  Egil guffawed and waved his arm expansively. “We are done here.”

  “Not here. I mean in Trondelag.”

  Both men stared at Hakon. Hakon hesitated, suddenly feeling as if he had overstepped some unseen boundary.

  “What is on your mind?”

  “It is nothing. A thought only.”

  “Speak it, then.”

  “I was just thinking that those who experienced Erik's wrath, but escaped, must now be homeless and without food.” He did not wait for a response. “With winter coming on, they will need support. Shelter.”

  Egil shrugged. “So? It is their lot. Besides, they have family and friends elsewhere.”

  “Mayhap they do, but what if we could assist those who do not? Do you not think we might gain the support we've been seeking?”

  Sigurd looked intrigued, and leaned closer to Hakon. “Aye, perchance. What is it you have in mind?”

  Hakon looked at both men. “Excuse me for referring to this, but I think the lessons of the Christians can help us here. They build monasteries, and their priests take in the sick, the hungry, and the poor—”

  The creases deepened in Egil's face. “I do not think the Christian ways will—”

  “Let the boy speak, Egil.”

  Hakon continued. “I am not suggesting bringing in Christianity, only the principle of it. We can use their charitable ideas for our own purposes. Use Sigurd's estate to offer warmth, food, and comfort. Hospitality. It will not be a Christian house, but a house of charity for those needing it. A place where people can stay during the winter months, until spring comes again.”

  Sigurd considered the notion. “There cannot be that many people that Erik affected in so short a time. It should not be too problematic to house them …”

  “True. And there is more than enough room on your estate. As for the stores, we have some time to fish and hunt, and mayhap there is some food left on those farms that have been destroyed.”

  Sigurd scratched his chin. “It will most assuredly help us win more support among the people. For when they see the generosity of their new king, they will not doubt that he has their best interests in mind.”

  Hakon grinned. “Precisely.”

  Egil picked at a piece of cod that had lodged in his teeth, then flicked it aside. “I still say we take to our ships and head southward. It is no crazier an idea than what the boy suggests.”

  Hakon ignored Egil and kept his eyes on Sigurd. “So you think it will work?”

  “I do.”

  Egil spat into the flames.

  Sigurd grinned at his friend. “Ah, Egil, it is not so bad. You will still be able to wield a blade. Only it will be for chopping firewood, not men.” Sigurd's laugh rang through the smoke-darkened air.

  Chapter 23

  Like wildfire through a summer forest, word spread that Sigurd's estate was open to all those in need of food and shelter for the winter. The only stipulation was submission to Hakon as their king, which, judging by the numbers that soon came, bothered no one. To Hakon's utter delight, more than fifty refugees from West Trondelag arrived within a few days—far more than they had expected—and more still from the coastline of North More, which Erik had attacked on his southward retreat. Thanes, freemen, and thralls alike came by boat, by horse, and on foot. Most brought their livestock, household utensils, and any food and possessions they'd rescued from the remains of their homes. An unfortunate few, however, arrived with nothing save the clothes that covered their starving frames, and came to place their heads to Hakon's knee on limbs weakened from cold and exertion.

  Sigurd housed those who came according to their rank. Thanes and their families slept in the main hall, freemen occupied the guest hall, and thralls crowded into the various huts. The available spaces were soon filled to the point of overcrowding. Sigurd fretted that patience would soon wear thin among his guests as comfort dwindled along with the amount of free space. Surprisingly, it was the wealthy who caused Sigurd the most grief. Long accustomed to household servants, or perhaps lulled by the ease of Sigurd's manner, they let their belongings spill out onto the floors of the main hall, draping the interior in a multicolored mantle of hose, tunics, cloaks, boots, and belts that one could not help but trample underfoot. It was impossible to move from one side of the hall to the other without bumping into another guest.

  Work began immediately on expanding the estate to accommodate the swelling number of newcomers. With the gray skies now carrying a promise of snow, the men swiftly set to the task of building a second hall, a storage shed, a barn, and an oven in the hopes of providing enough room and comfort in time for winter. All about the estate, the air reverberated with the unremitting thunk of axes, the crack of broken tree limbs and falling pines, and the yells of those toiling in the wooded hills surrounding Sigurd's hall. Horses labored with carts stacked high with planks and reeds for Sigurd's walls, posts for support, and small logs for firewood.

  By the end of the second week, the skeleton of two structures rose in the empty spaces between Sigurd's halls. Crudely carved beams swung upward under the grunts of those working them into place. Women worked in, under, and around the men as they wove the wattle between the thicker posts. Nearby, the children set to work on the daub that would be packed into the crevices between the wattle.

  Not everyone focused on carpentry. Sigurd employed other men and women in solving a more basic need—food and clothing. He sent them to the fields to harvest the rye and barley that grew there. Fishermen headed for the waterways in search of salmon, herring, and cod. Sigurd sent one large ship north for seal, walrus, and, with any luck, whale. More men were sent into the forests for elk, deer, hare, and squirrel to supplement the slowly dwindling supply of meat in Sigurd's stores. Women spent the days making cheese, butter, and breads; sewing cloaks and bedding; spinning flax for weaving; and cooking huge cauldrons of porridge and gruel. Smaller children were sent in teams to gather nuts, to prepare fish for drying, and to wash the ever-increasing amount of clothes in the streams behind the estate.

  Hakon's spirits rose along with the walls of the new buildings. From the ashes of Erik's attack grew the sense of belonging Hakon had always hoped to feel. Though the people's acceptance of Hakon was reluctant at first, it grew with each passing day shared in sweating toil. Hakon measured their acceptance in their jibes and quips and their willingness to engage him in friendly banter. In the evening, they began to ask Hakon of his time in Engla-lond, which he gratefully answered with tales of Athelstan and his wondrous realm. Those who listened accepted Hakon's words with approving grunts and appreci
ative nods, a fact that diminished the boyish uncertainties that had plagued Hakon's mind.

  Toralv played a large part in this newfound comfort. Hakon and he had become almost inseparable in the two weeks they'd spent working together, eating together, and conversing long into the night about subjects varied and full of imagination, laughter, and fantasy. These moments were Hakon's escape from the very real worries that plagued his thoughts and the everyday pressures of his life. Deft with sword and glad of speech, optimistic despite the senseless death of his father, Toralv filled the lonely holes in Hakon's heart with an outlook that was almost too thoughtful, lively, and deep for someone of their age.

  “I feel as if we are building a town,” remarked Toralv one day as he and Hakon laid the last bundles of thatch on the roof of the new barn. They stood side by side on a beam, Hakon laying his thatch to one side of the roof, Toralv to the other.

  Hakon straightened and took in the busy scene, then glanced back at Toralv, noticing with a start how much of the softness had fallen from the boy's once round, stubbled cheeks since their meeting at Frosta. “Then you have not been to many towns, my friend.”

  “My father had plans to take me to Kaupang this coming summer, to teach me trading …”

  Hakon, who had resumed his work, stopped when his companion's voice trailed off. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “No, Hakon. Do not apologize. You just said what was on your mind.”

  Hakon scrambled to change the subject. “Sigurd mentioned that I should start looking around for my hirdmen; he said there might be a few candidates among those who have come. What do you think?”

  Hakon did not have to turn to know that Toralv had shrugged. Despite the newness of their friendship, he knew Toralv's habits as he knew his own.

  “I think you would be hard-pressed to find anyone who does not hate Erik with a passion. But whether there are men here willing to join your hird, it is hard to say.”