God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  Toralv lowered his enormous body onto the snow beside Hakon. “So soon? You have not yet begun to rule.”

  “Aye, so soon, Toralv. This place, these people, they are all—” Hakon sought carefully for an inoffensive word “—new to me. I am afraid it is taking me longer than I expected to get used to them.”

  Toralv belched, unaffected by Hakon's statement. “Used to them? What is there to get used to? They are people like any others.”

  “I … I do not know. It is just that … well …” Search as he might, Hakon could not find a way to express what he felt. “It is nothing.”

  “No,” Toralv insisted, leaning closer to show his interest. “Tell me. You have something to say.”

  Hakon sighed heavily, then eyed his friend. “Toralv, have you ever felt … alone in the midst of a crowd? Alone because you are different?”

  Toralv's brow wrinkled as he searched his memory. After a bit, he shook his head. “No. I don't think so. Is that what you feel now?”

  Hakon nodded, but did not elaborate.

  “This place and these people—they make you feel lonely?”

  “Well … no. Yes. Sort of. Oh, I don't know.” Hakon scratched his head, frustrated by his inability to express himself. “I guess I just feel out of place because of the differences in our … beliefs. No matter how close I get to you or Sigurd or Egil, or any of these people, there will always be that gap that divides us.”

  Toralv pursed his lips. “You could change.”

  “I will not,” Hakon spat.

  Toralv looked down, then backhanded a bulb of snow. Hakon scanned the woods to the east of Sigurd's estate. For a long stretch, they sat in silence.

  Finally, Toralv patted him on the back. “Well, if it will make you feel better, the common people like you, Christian or not. I hear them say it all the time. It matters not to them that you have a different belief, or so it seems.”

  Hakon's lips bent in a wistful grin. “Thank you, Toralv. That is nice to hear.”

  Toralv stood and wiped the snow from his cloak. “It will soon be time for the feast. Come in, before the cold kills you.”

  Hakon declined with an upraised hand. “I will be there soon enough.”

  Hakon lingered on his perch a long time after, ignoring the cold and the darkening sky.

  Then, lured by the smell of roasting meat, he rose and headed to the hall and the feast now raging within. He found the hall crammed with people, and he had to push his way to his seat at the head table. Once there, he grabbed a cup and filled it from the pitcher of dark winter ale.

  When the guests sat, Sigurd served the meat of the beasts that had been slaughtered that day, along with salmon, cod, and herring, cakes and breads doused with honey, skyr and salted cheese, and winter ale in abundance. Skalds and the hauntingly beautiful music of local musicians entertained the guests while they ate. It was a pleasant affair, one marked by good spirits and delicious food.

  When the eating finally slowed, Sigurd came forth with the Yule log. This he handed to the godi, who pulled from his robes the same long knife he had used to kill the sacrifices. Blood still streaked the blade.

  “Does he plan to sacrifice the log, as well?”

  Hakon's acidic tone brought a smile to Egil's face. He responded from the side of his mouth, “Do not be so disrespectful.”

  “Guests!” Sigurd had climbed on top of one of his tables and held out his hands for silence. All eyes turned to him, though the laughter and muffled jabber of feasters continued. “It is time for the Yule log. Astrid.” He bowed gallantly to Arinbjorn's wife. “We shall start with you.”

  Arinbjorn turned to his wife and whispered something in her ear. Her mouth dropped open and she immediately blushed a deep crimson, though her smile told the crowd that Arinbjorn's whisper had been a jest. She stood. “Very well. My husband,” she smacked his shoulder, “would have me say my breasts.” The crowd roared with laughter and she blushed again. “Though I will say my persistent cough.”

  Sigurd beamed. “The cough it is. Horvarth.” He motioned to his godi, who started to scratch the log with his knife.

  Sigurd went around the room, asking the guests what they wanted to shed. Laziness, they called out. Forgetfulness. Clumsiness. Envy. Poverty. Slothfulness. Skin blemishes. Hakon watched Horvarth in torn and bitter silence as conditions too numerous to remember were carved onto the log by the killing blade.

  Sigurd stopped in front of Hakon. “Hakon?”

  Hakon faltered.

  Egil nudged him. “Go on, Hakon. Say something.”

  “Erik Bloodaxe,” he blurted.

  The hall exploded with cheers and the sound of banging fists, knives, and cups. “Here, here! Hail Hakon!”

  Sigurd exploded, “Balder granting, so you shall!” He raised his cup. “To Hakon!”

  “To Hakon!” those in the hall repeated. Hakon beamed as the praise washed over him.

  The godi did not wait for the crowd to silence itself. With a flash of steel, he drew the blade across his hand. He let the blood drip onto the log while asking Balder to grant those things etched into the log. Then, lifting the log in both hands, he cast it into the fire. As if by design, ashes spouted into the air. The onlookers hushed in reverence.

  The elated flush warming Hakon's cheeks cooled before the ashes could settle back into the flames. Where moments before exhilaration had beat within his chest, now all he felt was the pressing weight of a guilt so great and so sudden, it robbed him of his breath and turned his stomach inside out. He had known that casting wishes on the Yule log was wrong, yet he had forged ahead, drawn by the innocence of the act and the pressure to belong. That he could do something so blasphemous and so utterly pagan in the wake of his words to Sigurd and Toralv, disgusted him.

  “Hakon, are you well?” The words came from Egil. “You look pale.”

  “Fresh air,” was all Hakon could muster as he rose and half walked, half stumbled from the hall.

  Then he was running. He ran without direction. His legs carried him east across the snow-blanketed fields toward the gray outline of hills. He kept running, fighting through the drifts of snow until his legs could carry him no more and his heart felt as if it would burst from his chest. He fell, got up, then fell again. When he looked back, the walls of Sigurd's estate were nothing more than low-lying shadows in the dark.

  “Lord!” he shouted from his knees at the stars overhead. “Lord! Why?” He hit the snow with his fists as the tears streamed over his cheeks. “Please Lord, help me find my way. I am lost.” The sobs came then. Deep. Body-wrenching. Uncontrollable. “Lost,” he mumbled.

  He did not know how long he sat in the snow, only that when he returned, his fingers were death-white and stiff. Inside Sigurd's hall, the decadence continued unabated. Hakon ignored it and crept to a quiet spot beside the fire.

  Chapter 26

  Winter's tight grip began to ease two full moons after the Yule feast. Though frost still hung heavy in the air, the wind and snow that had for so long ravaged the area had finally receded. With growing confidence, Sigurd's guests left the security and warmth of the halls and ventured outside to stretch their cramped and weakened limbs. The cold air burned the sour household odors from their lungs and replaced them with the freshness of pine and the tang of the sea.

  For Hakon, spring's glorious rebirth dulled the painful memory of the winter Yule. The snow melted on the slopes of the fjords, transforming the waterfalls into glimmering showers that dispelled the gloom in Hakon's heart. Tiny buds formed on the limbs of sleeping trees; blades of grass sprouted from the thawing ground; robins chirped in the morning sunshine. Each reminded Hakon of the strength and resilience of life, despite the trials one often faced. The world had begun anew.

  And so, too, did life around Sigurd's estate, which soon buzzed with activity. Though it was still too early to sow crops, the guests set about repairing and rebuilding tools and equipment in preparation for the spring planting. Weapons were sharpened for
the hunt. Animals were led out to the thawing fields. And ships, worn by long months in their boathouses, were checked from bow to stern, then painstakingly repaired.

  Though the estate strained under the burden of so many people, the added hands helped strengthen the defenses against a potential attack from Erik, and quickly restored Sigurd's food supplies exhausted during the winter months.

  True to his word, Sigurd began to organize Hakon's security as soon as the weather turned. He handed Egil over to Hakon and assigned him the task of choosing and training Hakon's hirdmen. As Toralv had expected, Egil refused to heed Hakon's declaration that Toralv was a member of his hird. “The honor must be won, Hakon, and friendship is not one of the criteria.” Despite Hakon's bitter protests, Egil held his ground. “We will hold a competition,” Egil argued. “Toralv will have his chance.” And that was that.

  Word spread, and within days, over fifty men and boys assembled at Sigurd's estate to compete for the honor of joining Hakon's elite troop. There were wrestling bouts, running races, swimming contests. There were archery and spear-throwing tests, duels, and tests of wit. There was a full-fledged battle in which the contestants wielded long wooden swords and shields. As they competed, Sigurd's own hirdmen jeered at them from atop the earthwork. When time permitted, the womenfolk gathered in giggling, pointing groups that drove the men to strive even harder. And over it all presided Egil with his forked beard and dour scowl.

  At the end of it all, Egil chose only four men: Gunnar and Didrik, twin brothers from southern Trondelag; Ottar, Egil's own nephew; and, to Hakon's ultimate delight, Toralv. Though the twins fell short of Toralv in height and strength, they bested him in agility and experience, for both were veterans of travels to the east. They were identical in appearance: short and thick in stature, with shoulder-length blonde curls and large, round eyes the color of polished oak. Were it not for a scar that wound from Didrik's bottom lip to his chin and pulled his face into a constant sneer, the two brothers would be impossible to tell apart.

  Ottar had recently arrived at Sigurd's estate. His father had died when Ottar was young, leaving Ottar to be raised by Egil's sister. They lived far to the north, along the border with Finnmark, where Ottar had spent his younger years fighting, hunting, and trapping among the inhabitants of that land. Like Egil, Ottar's wiry frame belied his power, and gave him a dexterity with weapons unparalleled among the others.

  Egil's training began shortly thereafter with words that Hakon would not soon forget: “I will not kill you, but I will try.” True to his words, Egil went out of his way to make the lives of his trainees more miserable than anything Hakon could have imagined. The routine, which sometimes began in the dark of night, lasted from the time they rose until the time they collapsed, too exhausted to eat. Although he was not expected to, Hakon joined his hird during their training. Although Athelstan's warriors had taught him much, he still had plenty to learn, and he found both his body and mind ready for the challenge.

  And challenge it was. Sometimes he felt as if he spent the entire day on his back, the victim of one of Ottar's moves or Toralv's throws. His lungs screamed at the unfathomable distances Egil made them run. His fingers blistered, then bled from shooting arrow after arrow. At night, it was all he could do to lift his eating knife to his mouth, for his arms and shoulders ached from wielding sword, spear, and shield.

  One particularly torturous exercise Egil liked to call “sailing.” They were required to row a large ship until someone either vomited or collapsed from the strain. Then, to revive that person, he ordered all of them into the chill waters of the fjord, where he forced them to float until they began to sink. As their heads slipped beneath the surface, he pulled them back into the ship and yelled at them until they'd rowed the ship home. When they returned to the hall, they were often too tired to humiliate the weak one amongst them and simply fell asleep at the table with their food untouched.

  The purpose of Egil's training, Hakon realized, was surprisingly simple: train the hirdmen to be so physically strong that torturous exertion would not weaken their minds, no matter what circumstance the gods threw at them. He wanted them to react automatically to danger, to be confident that their prowess would protect their leader in any circumstance. And just as importantly, he wanted them to react together, as a unit, for many of their maneuvers would demand it.

  In time, Egil's training produced the reaction he sought, only it came as a complete surprise to everyone. On a day hammered by a brutal sideways rain that impaired everyone's vision and soaked the men thoroughly, Egil was feeling particularly evil. He ordered the men to carry their shields and swords on an excruciating mountain run over slippery, mud-soaked trails that wound through the foothills surrounding Sigurd's estate. By the time the men returned in the early afternoon, steam rose from their sweaty, mud-caked bodies. Their legs quivered with exhaustion. Swords and shields dangled useless from arms too tired to lift them.

  The run ended outside the gates of Sigurd's estate. Hakon, who had joined his hird that day, stood with his hands on his knees, gasping. Drops of water and sweat rained from his plastered hair into the pools of muddy water at his feet. He did not care who witnessed him in his unkingly state—his only thought was to remain on his feet.

  The others fared no better than him. Toralv, who had never truly taken to long-distance running, vomited nearby. The twins leaned on each other. Ottar had collapsed on the sodden ground, already too wet and physically exhausted to care that he sat in a pool of muck.

  Heart-stopping yells snapped Hakon alert. A knot of men charged at him from the gates of Sigurd's estate. There was no time to consider who they were or why they charged at him. He automatically lifted his shield and sword and considered his options. To run was folly—in his weakened state, he would be overrun and quickly killed. Better to die with his face to the enemy. With an eye trained for weak spots, Hakon scanned the advancing foe. He shifted left, toward a weaker opponent, then braced himself for the attack.

  Suddenly the foe vanished behind a wall of bodies and interlocking shields—his hird. Hakon could no longer see the enemy or how they attacked. He fought rising panic; it was a strange feeling to be protected so thoroughly, and yet be forced to relinquish control of the situation.

  “Stop!” Egil's voice boomed above the shouts of the enemy.

  The din died down. The enemy charge slowed to a jog, then to a walk. Hakon's men lowered their shields to face a grinning group of warriors. Sigurd's own hird.

  Like a proud father, Egil stood watching them all, hands on his hips. It was the first smile Hakon had seen on the man's face in quite some time.

  “Well done.”

  Chapter 27

  “It is beautiful, is it not?” commented Toralv one day as he and Hakon scraped the remnants of their midday meal into their mouths.

  Hakon put his trencher aside and drained the last of his warming ale. The meal had left him tired, content, and full, and he leaned back lazily on his elbow. They were enjoying a momentary reprieve in their training regime. The weather was fine—bright and sunny—and Hakon had asked Toralv to join him atop Sigurd's earthen ramparts, where they could gaze out over the glinting waters of the fjord as they ate their meal.

  Hakon followed Toralv's gaze to a waterfall that stretched down the rocky cliffs across the fjord from Lade. “Aye. The long winter made me forget just how beautiful it can be here.”

  Toralv spat, then watched the gob sail over the rampart's edge. “Hope no people are below.”

  Hakon grinned evilly. “Best not be, for I will not support you if there are.” Hakon suddenly became serious. “It will soon begin, you know.”

  Toralv shrugged his massive shoulders. “I know.”

  “We are not ready.”

  Toralv nodded. “I know that, too.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  Toralv gulped his ale, then loudly cleared his throat. “Nah. I am more afraid of Egil than I am of Erik.”

  Hakon chuckled. He
rolled onto his back, hands beneath his head, and gazed up at the cloudless sky.

  No sooner had Hakon laid back than Toralv nudged him with his foot. “We have company.”

  Hakon sat up and followed Toralv's gaze to a group of men, twelve in all, who approached from the east on horseback. The newcomers raised their hands to show they meant no harm when one of Sigurd's sentries raised his horn to his lips and blew the warning blast. Hakon and Toralv hurried to the gates to await their arrival. Sigurd and Egil soon joined them with a group of other men.

  “Who are they?” Hakon inquired when the party drew closer.

  “They look like Uplanders,” commented Egil with a wry smile.

  “Indeed they do.” A grin creased Sigurd's face as he watched the men approach.

  When the men were fifty paces from the gate, they dismounted and came the rest of the way on foot.

  “Who are you?” demanded Sigurd when they were ten paces away.

  Their obvious leader, a man in his mid-twenties, stepped forward. He was tall, almost as tall as Toralv, with straight, ruddy hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a beard that fell in a single braid like a ship's rope over his thick chest. A purple scar zigzagged from his forehead through his left brow and over his cheekbone. He wore a coat of shaggy black wool that fell to his booted feet and partially covered his leather breeches and byrnie. His eyes scanned Sigurd, then came to rest on Hakon. “I am Brand, son of King Ivar of the Uplands. My men and I come in peace to deliver a message to Hakon, son of Harald.”

  Hakon bristled. In calling his own father king and omitting the word before Hakon's name, Brand was, in essence, placing his father on a higher level than Hakon. It was a well-rehearsed affront that brought Hakon's blood to a boil. “What claim has your father to—”

  Sigurd stayed Hakon with a hand to the shoulder. “You are well met then, Brand. Come, you have ridden far. Let us offer you food and drink before we speak of this message.”