God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  “My horses are in need of care. Have you a place to house and feed them?”

  Sigurd nodded and called to a few of his thralls. Brand inclined his head to Sigurd and Hakon, then turned and stepped back to his men. As he did so, Sigurd frowned a warning at Hakon.

  The Uplanders grabbed their saddle bags and followed the group into Sigurd's hall as his servants led their horses away to the barn. Sigurd sat Brand and his men at a table near the hearth. Before the food arrived, Brand reached into his saddle bag and produced two thick silver armlets inscribed with runes—gifts from his father to Sigurd and Hakon. Hakon picked his up and admired it in the light of the glowing hearth. The workmanship was beautiful, though the presence of runes made him wonder if this was another of Brand's affronts. Surely King Ivar knew that he was Christian …

  “It is a rune to guard against the perils of sea travel,” Brand explained with a smile that stretched his scar obscenely. “Wear it while you sail. It will protect you.”

  Hakon feigned appreciation.

  The meal came and the Uplanders ate and drank with gusto. They spoke not a word while they ate and devoured everything placed before them. When they finally finished, Brand belched and rubbed his belly. “You serve a nice fare, Sigurd.”

  “I thank you for the compliment, Brand, but I know you have not traveled all this way to taste my food. What news from the Uplands?” Sigurd's tone had grown business-like and his face, so often creased with good nature, smoothed to impassivity.

  “The gods favored us this last winter, if that is what you mean. The Yule was a mild one compared to last year, and our lands produced a bounty.” Brand lifted his mug and drank deeply. “Your ale is good. May I have some more?”

  Sigurd waved his servers over. When everyone's ale had been replenished, Sigurd continued. “Although it gladdens me to hear you survived the winter in good order, that is not what I meant by news of the Uplands. Did your father receive my request for support against Erik?”

  Brand nodded. “Aye. But there has been a … development, shall we say, that has hampered his response.”

  “A development?”

  “Erik has made some offers of his own.” Brand's crooked smile mocked them.

  Hakon glanced sidelong at Sigurd, who accepted the news with a stone-faced calm. “What was his offer?”

  “A larger take in the odal tax and support in opening up trade routes.” Brand casually sipped his ale.

  “Trade routes through my realm, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  Sigurd grinned. “So, Erik has made you promises?”

  “Aye. He has given my father generous tokens of friendship to show his sincerity. Silver and other fine jewelry, glassware, honey, and thralls.”

  Sigurd remained unimpressed. “He has made promises to others as well … before he killed them.”

  Brand smiled. “Indeed. Which is why I am now sitting here before you. We have no interest in empty promises, Sigurd. Like you, we see no future in Erik. My father is interested in your offer. He believes, as you do, that Erik needs to be removed. And he also realizes he cannot do it alone. It will take agreements such as the one you propose.

  “But he also understands that Erik is not the only man to make empty promises. If there was a way we could … secure such an agreement between our peoples, to bind it somehow …” He did not finish his sentence, but turned his attention back to his cup.

  Sigurd's jaw clenched. “A marriage.”

  Brand's eyebrows shot upward and he pulled his nose from the cup. “The very thing.”

  “Who, then?”

  Brand's eyes shifted eloquently to Hakon.

  Hakon's mouth dropped open. “No! That is impossible!” The words exploded from his mouth before he could stop them.

  Brand frowned at Hakon. “I would urge you to watch your tongue. My sister, Groa, is most beautiful and of royal blood, and would be a decent match for any fledgling king.”

  Hakon glared at him.

  Sigurd shifted the conversation. “You mentioned that Erik offered a larger take in the odal tax. You understand that we plan to abolish the odal tax, do you not?”

  “Your message mentioned that.”

  “I would think that your father might leap at Erik's offer, given your problems with the Swedes.”

  “It is true that my father could purchase more men to help him fight the Swedes, but at what cost to him and his people? Erik can be ruthless, as we all have seen. My father fears that Erik might thrall-bind him in exchange for support.”

  “So, you come in search of guarantees from us in the form of Hakon. You support us now; you get Hakon and the support of his army in the future. I give credit to your father for his clever thinking.”

  “He is a clever man. So—” he clapped his hands together “—when shall the children meet?”

  “Child? I am no—”

  “Soon,” Sigurd interrupted, placing a calming hand on Hakon's forearm. “Erik will return as soon as the seas calm. We must be prepared before that day arrives.”

  “We would be happy to escort Hakon and your men back when we leave.”

  Sigurd sat back and stroked his beard. After what seemed like an eternity, he leaned forward and spoke. “Your people and ours have never been friends. Your grandfather attacked us twice, and there are families here who still remember. Bad memories die hard, as you well know. Nevertheless, I believe that dangerous times require all people to—how shall I put it—re-evaluate their situations. The moon sits now as a half moon. By the next half moon, we will visit your father and meet your sister. I will make no deals until Hakon has had a chance to see the girl and we can meet with your father directly. At that time, if all is in order, we can negotiate some terms.”

  Brand sipped calmly on his ale in an obvious effort to stall for time. He slowly lowered the cup and looked from Hakon to Sigurd. “You both realize that if Erik attacks you before then, he will come to us to support him in his effort. If we are to gain anything from this affair, we will have to side with him.”

  “That, Brand Ivarsson, is a chance we will have to take.”

  Brand smiled, and once again his purple scar stretched like a moving snake on his face. “So be it. We will leave on the morrow and deliver the news to my father.”

  “How dare you use me like some political tool of yours!” Hakon paced from one side of the barn to the other, fists clenched at his sides. The kine sensed his agitation and lowed in response. “Do you not care what I think? What I want? You sacrifice people in front of me without regard for my beliefs. Now you offer me up for sacrifice to serve your purposes!”

  Sigurd looked sardonically at Hakon.

  Hakon stopped and glared at Sigurd. “You hold me out like an object to be taken if it suits the parties involved.” He began to pace again, ignoring the agitated shuffles and groans from the animals.

  Sigurd held up his hands. “Hakon. You have not met the girl and nothing is decided in the way of your marital state. But if it is marriage, think you what a small price to pay, for a kingdom.”

  “A small price! Is that what you think?”

  “Yes, Hakon. It is. As tough as it might be to hear, marriage is a political game. So it has always been, and so it shall always be.”

  Hakon stopped his pacing and glared at Sigurd. “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to marry?”

  “Yes, Hakon. It occurred to me. And you will have the choice of whether or not you want to marry Groa when you see her, as she will with you. If you have no interest in marrying, then say no. But bear in mind that if you say no, or if she refuses, we will have no support from King Ivar and our cause will most likely die.”

  Hakon knew Sigurd spoke the truth. And, though it was not easy for him to hear, he knew he had to accept it. Still, the fact that Sigurd had taken the liberty to speak—nay, to decide—for him on matters of his own future, enraged him. “I consider you a friend, Sigurd, and I am indebted to you for helping me gain a f
oothold in the North. But I will not hesitate to search elsewhere for that support if you ever make promises concerning me, or even hint at them, without my prior consent. Is that clear?”

  Sigurd met his gaze steadily, his face unreadable. Then something happened that Hakon did not expect. Rather than frown or fume, a barely detectable smile wrinkled the corners of Sigurd's eyes. It was not a malicious grin, but one that bespoke conciliation and goodwill. “It is clear. Accept my apologies.”

  Still angry, but disarmed by Sigurd's grin, Hakon turned and stalked through the barn door.

  Chapter 28

  The day after Brand and his Uplanders departed, a small group of men from the northern and southern shires of More brought invitations to an assembly. Sigurd and Hakon gladly accepted. Leaving half their men on his estate, Sigurd and Hakon followed the More-men southward with the rest.

  Bad weather hampered their progress. While Trondheimsfjord remained relatively calm, the spring rains and sour weather churned the seas into a frenzy of whitecaps and rolling mountains of water that turned the day-long trip to their meeting spot into a three day journey of heart-stopping peril. It was with a mixture of excitement and relief that Hakon looked upon the hump of land known as Fane, or Temple Island.

  “Is that where we are to meet the More-folk?”

  “Aye,” Sigurd replied.

  Hakon studied the island as they approached. Puffins and seagulls teemed on the steep cliffs that made the island virtually impregnable on its west and south sides. Atop the cliffs, the land was flat and fertile—one of the few stretches of good grazing ground Hakon had seen along the coast. As they rounded the southern side, the cliff sloped downward to an eastern-facing bay protected by a natural jetty of giant boulders. It was there, beyond the jetty, that the More-folk had beached their longships—four in all.

  Hakon recalled what he knew of the man they were supposed to meet there. Jarl Tore's father was called Ragnvald the Mighty, and had been one of King Harald's closest friends and truest allies. When Harald became king, he gave Ragnvald the jarldom of North and South More, and the stretch of land that lay between, called Romsdalen. Upon Ragnvald's death, King Harald handed the jarldom to his son, Tore, and gave Tore the hand of his own daughter, Alov, in marriage. Sigurd married their daughter, Bergliot, and in doing so, irrevocably entwined the ruling families of More, Trondelag, and the king. In a strange twist of fate, that alliance, forged by the hand and mind of Harald, now bound the ruling families of Trondelag against Erik, Harald's favored son.

  A large group of men met them at the beach when they landed. At their head stood a richly-dressed man whose dark eyes were half-hidden beneath shaggy gray brows. His nose lay flat and red on his face, as if someone had smashed it with a hammer, and his graying beard tumbled helter-skelter down his chest and over his pot belly.

  “Tore, you old troll. You just get more handsome with age.”

  Tore grinned but said nothing.

  Sigurd stepped forward and placed his big hand on Tore's shoulder. “It is good to see you again. As always, it has been too long.”

  Tore responded in a voice that sounded as if he was gargling water while trying to speak. “And you as well, Sigurd. How fares my daughter?” With each sentence he seemed to breathe in deeply, then speak on the exhalation.

  “Like you, she just gets better with age.” Sigurd chuckled at his comparison and smacked his father-in-law on the shoulder. “In all honesty, I believe she fares well. I sent her and our daughter away to my cousin's farm in Island, out of danger.”

  Tore nodded, then looked past Sigurd to Hakon. Unlike so many others, he displayed no outward emotion at the sight of Hakon, or at least none that Hakon could detect. Instead, his somber gaze moved casually from Hakon's face, down his body to his feet, then up again. Finally Tore grunted and spoke again to Sigurd in his raspy whisper. “He is a handsome lad. It is a shame all my daughters are married.” The compliment took Hakon off guard and he blushed.

  Three other richly-dressed men behind Tore stepped forward, greeted Sigurd, then introduced themselves to Hakon as hersar, or minor chieftains, in Tore's service. Two were older, and brothers. The third was a man perhaps in his mid-twenties, and a cousin to Tore on his father's side. Their introductions were terse; once done, the men quickly stepped back behind their leader.

  Tore motioned to Sigurd and Hakon. “Come.”

  Sigurd turned to his crew. “Egil. Pick ten men and follow us. The rest of you stay at the ship.”

  The group marched up the trail to the grassy plateau above. As soon as they breached the ridge, a strong easterly wind tore at their clothes and hair and threatened to force them back down the trail. The plateau itself was void of any trees, and was divided into two separate levels by a gentle slope that stretched from north to south like some ancient rampart long-covered by grass. The higher level stretched away to the west, where it stopped suddenly at the cliffs Hakon had seen on his arrival. On the lower level, on the eastern side of the plateau, stood a stone hall with four stone outbuildings that, judging from their dilapidated condition and the long grass growing near their walls, had been long abandoned.

  Tore and his group had made their camp among these structures. The wind flapped tents pitched at the base of the stone walls; nearby, men huddled over flickering fires. They cast curious glances at Hakon, but made no attempt to rise as Tore led him and his group into one of the decrepit structures.

  Though worn down and devoid of furniture, the hall's interior offered a welcome reprieve from the elements. In its center, a peat fire coughed and sputtered billows of gray smoke that stung the eyes but provided comfortable warmth. The wonderful smell of cod wafted from a large cauldron hanging over another small fire in the northwest corner of the room. Tore and his hersar sat on woolen blankets beside the large fire and motioned Hakon and Sigurd to join them. As they sat, a man brought them cups of ale and a plate full of bread.

  When they had settled themselves, Tore spoke. “You seek support against Erik?” The directness of his question took Hakon by surprise.

  Sigurd tore a chunk of bread and chewed. “Aye, Tore, we do. And in return for your support, we offer the return of every man's odal rights.”

  Tore grabbed a chunk of bread from the plate. As he did so, Hakon noticed the scar that stretched from below his right ear to some invisible point beneath his graying beard. Tore noticed Hakon's gaze and turned to him. “It happened almost ten winters ago, in a battle.”

  Hakon blushed. “I did not mean—”

  Tore waved his apology aside and croaked, “You are a youth and, by nature, curious. Make no amends.” The creases at the corners of Tore's dark eyes tightened and twisted upward in what Hakon took as a grin, though it was hard to tell through the smoke. Tore turned back to Sigurd. “Odal rights, you say? That is good for the commoner, Sigurd. But what of us? Me and my hersar?”

  Sigurd shrugged. “Harald has made you all wealthy men, and there are still many ways for you to collect taxes.”

  Tore drank deeply from his ale and gargled his mouthful before swallowing. “You must forgive me. My throat swells from too much use. Tosti, please explain to them what I mean.”

  The hersir called Tosti leaned forward. “Sigurd, you know the divisions of this land better than most, but to enlighten our young guest, I will mention them again. Our land is not what it appears. North and South More are two divided, dissimilar lands with unique needs. Here in the north, there is good farmland and access to the higher mountain pastures. The south does not have such luxuries. The coastline is rugged and arable land is scarce. Nature has forced many of these men to seek other means of survival. Before Harald, it was fishing—which is a hard and dangerous profession, and one that offers little return—and piracy, which, in the minds of the southerners, is a legitimate means of income.

  “When Harald became king, he realized the importance and fruitfulness of good trade, and so he established a constant naval presence along the coast, especially in t
hose areas where piracy was most pronounced, like South More. His strategy proved effective. Piracy dropped, and trade flourished.”

  He swept his arm southward with a look of disgust. “Things have changed now. Erik has decreased his father's coastal patrols in this area for reasons unbeknownst to us, and has forced us to maintain our own order. The pirates have come back, and threaten us again. And now the Danes come too, for they know that we are preoccupied with maintaining our own order and that we do not have the resources to protect ourselves from those without.”

  Tosti seemed to deflate as he turned his hands outward submissively. “You see, the odal law provides us nobles with substantial land dues that help us raise navies and keep order. Though our navy is not large, it is all we have to protect our waters. Abolishing the tax would make this land even more chaotic than it has already become.”

  Hakon listened quietly to all this. When he was sure Tosti had finished and that Jarl Tore had nothing to add, he spoke. “How did Harald form this navy of his?”

  Jarl Tore responded in his raspy whisper, “Through the odal tax, mainly. Harald allowed each jarl to keep a third of the dues, which we used to build ships and pay for men. He augmented our own navies with his own navy, which he supported through his own take.”

  The answer confused Hakon. “So why can't Erik provide the same?”

  Jarl Tore deferred to Tosti, who immediately answered, “We know not why. Despite repeated queries and embassies, we can glean no reason. The last messenger we sent never returned.”

  “I can answer this,” chimed in Sigurd. “As foul and backhanded as it may seem, Erik is actually supporting those pirates in order to gain more wealth. You see, last summer we caught some of those rag-pickers, who swore to us under torture that they worked for Erik. It seems that Erik is doubling his take of the booty. First, through taxes. And secondly, through piracy.”

  Hakon's thoughts turned to Wessex, and the scip-fyrd there. “I understand from this conversation that you still keep a third of the odal tax and use it to maintain your own navy. How is it that you raise this navy?”