Egil pointed with his sword toward the gates. “Look.”
Hakon twisted and peered back at the gathering group of warriors. He turned back to Egil. “Come on.”
They covered the distance quickly. As they approached, they saw the warriors crowded around someone on horseback who spoke with Ivar and Sigurd. Hakon did not recognize the rider.
Sigurd noticed Hakon and motioned him forward. Hakon pushed his way through the gathering and eyed the man's lathered horse, his mud-spattered breeches and byrnie, and his hollow eyes. All spoke of hard riding and sleepless nights.
The man paused when he saw Hakon. “Is this the boy who would be king?” He spoke without any hint of respect as he gestured toward Hakon.
Hakon pulled himself up to his full height. “You may address me, visitor.”
The newcomer turned away from Ivar and Sigurd. “Then I have found Hakon Haraldsson?”
“Aye. Who are you, and what do you want?”
“I am Toki from Oslo. I come to tell you that your brother Erik has landed there and is moving this way.”
Hakon glanced at Sigurd and Ivar, then looked back at the messenger. “You are sure it is Erik? And you are sure they are headed north?”
The man scowled. “Do you not believe me?”
Hakon remained firm. “Forgive me, but the news you deliver is grave and would require the movement of an entire army. Naturally, I want to be sure that if I move, it is for good reason. Now, are you sure it is Erik? And are you sure—”
At this, Ivar cleared his throat to interrupt. “Toki is a devoted member of my hird. I have charged him with watching my southern borders for any approach of an enemy. His word is good.”
Hakon felt his cheeks heat, but refused to apologize. “Where are they now?”
“As I was telling Ivar, I stayed in Oslo as long as I could. Though I did not actually see the army move north, I saw groups of scouts moving north into the hills toward me. That was yesterday morning. My guess is that if they moved north,” he glanced at Hakon, “they are probably a few days' march from here.”
Hakon shifted, feeling suddenly uneasy. “How many men?”
“Fourteen ships—two skieds, the rest dragons. Maybe a thousand men.”
The men within earshot exploded into agitated discussion that quickly spread to those behind them.
Sigurd spat in disgust, his face twisted by distress. “Son of a whore!”
“Assemble the council,” Ivar called to the gathered men. “I want my hersar here by mid-afternoon. No later.” His men ran for the stables.
“Toki. Come with me.” Ivar whirled his rotund frame and barreled for the main hall, followed by the remainder of the crowd.
By mid-afternoon, Ivar and his sons, local hersar, thanes, and hirdmen as well as Hakon, Sigurd, Gudrod and Trygvi, had crammed into his main hall and waited impatiently for the assembly to begin. Thrall-women did their best to provide drinks and food for the gathering, but the men's agitation made serving them difficult. Finally, Ivar rose and lifted his hands for silence. The councilors slowly fell silent and turned to their leader.
“Let us dispense with the pleasantries. Erik Bloodaxe has landed at Oslo with nearly a thousand men and is moving his army north. We all know his intentions. He must be stopped.”
His words met with silence.
“What about the Tronds?” called one of Ivar's hersar. “Seems to me, they are responsible for this affair. Why are they not here?” A drone of agreement ran through the hall.
“We do not need the Tronds,” spat Trygvi. “We can handle this affair by ourselves.”
Sigurd jumped to his feet and glared at Trygvi. “Silence, Trygvi. You, of all people, should know that foolhardy pride earns you nothing but the worm feast. If Erik has even seven hundred men, he has double the number at our disposal. Those are bad odds. As to the rest of you, we cannot assume that the Tronds are coming. Erik might have defeated them before he came here, in which case we can no longer count on their assistance.”
“How is that so?” This came from another of the hersar.
Sigurd recounted to the room the plan they had set in motion before he and Hakon ventured over the mountains to the Uplands. If Erik had acted quickly enough, he could have surprised the men at Lade while they waited for Fynr and his Halogalanders. When Sigurd finished, the room fell into a long, depressed silence.
Sigurd's words weighed on Hakon. Though he knew in the back of his mind that the outcome was in God's hands, he could not help feeling that he, as the future king, was at least partially responsible for solving their problems. He shifted uneasily as his mind grasped at ideas and discarded them one by one. Finding nothing he could offer as a true solution, he finally settled for a bit of optimism. “Before we think our situation lost, I propose we send a group of men to track down the Tronds, if indeed they are out there. What can it hurt? In the meantime, let us work on a plan to defeat Erik with the army we have at our disposal.”
“And how do you propose to do that, with Erik's army nearly twice as large as our own?”
Hakon shook his head. “I have no idea. However, this land is yours and known to you. Erik is a foreigner in it and does not have the same advantage. Whatever plan we devise, it should take this into consideration. Let us stop our sulking and get on with it. Time is not our ally.”
The grin that stretched across Ivar's face took Hakon by surprise, for it was almost warm. “Indeed. Hakon is right. Brand, take our best trackers in search of the Tronds. You have until tomorrow at first light. We will move our army then, so do not dally in your search.”
“And if my search finds them too far away to get here by dawn, what then?”
“Then send someone back to alert us. We will devise two separate plans—one that includes the Tronds and one that does not. If we learn that you have found the Tronds, we will alter our plans accordingly.
“Now then,” Ivar continued after Brand strode from the room, “let us work out the details.”
The assembly broke as the sun began to sink below the horizon. The councilors rode hard to their various estates, hoping to gather as many men as they could before the following morning. Those left in the hall began their own preparations. They took their swords, knives, and spears to the smithy and his apprentice for sharpening. Those with byrnies made sure the links of their armor held fast. They polished their helmets and checked their shields and carved runes onto any item that did not yet have them. Those with an appetite took their evening meal on the run.
By the time Hakon finished his tasks, late evening approached. Tired of being inside the cramped hall, he climbed one of the ladders to the walkway atop the southern wall and gazed out at Lake Mjosa. It was a windless night and the moonlight stretched across the lake's surface and up onto the beach where he had a spent so many hours.
It reminded him of his baptism, when the citizens of Winchester had lined the shores of the River Itchen to watch a heathen boy be cleansed of his sins. The image left a palpable emptiness in his gut, as if someone or something had reached inside him and yanked a part of him out. He had tried to remain as pious and dedicated as he could, but he knew in his heart that he had faltered. As the words of so many sermons warned, the Devil had found chinks in his Christian armor and exploited them. Days had sometimes passed between prayers. He had eaten meat on Fridays and partaken of heathen feasts. He had not celebrated the most holy of holidays—Easter—nor had he really been penitent for his lack of vigilance. And then there was Aelfwin and the yearning he felt for her. A yearning for a violated woman. Was that the Devil-sown lust the priests preached about, or was it merely the lovesickness he'd heard of in heroic tales?
Without a priest to guide him, or to forgive him, how could he expect to know the answers to these things, or continue to turn away from the evils that surrounded him? He felt as if he clung to a piece of wood in a maelstrom—alone, scared, barely afloat in his faith. And what would become of him if he died in the upcoming battle? Would
demons drag his wretched soul into the depths of Hell to spend eternity in screaming agony, as the priests so often reminded their congregations? The thought gave rise to a familiar fear—one he had felt often while listening to his priests—that brought goose pimples to his skin.
“It has finally arrived.”
Hakon jerked at the voice, but did not turn; he knew who it was. “What has arrived, Toralv?”
“The day we spoke of. Do you remember?”
Hakon searched his memory. “Aye. We were sitting on the rampart at Sigurd's estate, enjoying the year's first rays of sunshine.” He paused in recollection, but only for a moment. “Toralv, do you think the Tronds are out there?”
“Aye. I do not think Erik caught them unawares. But whether they are close enough to help is another question.” Toralv sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Only the Fates know that.”
“Your Fates know nothing,” Hakon retorted. “God is the keeper of such knowledge.”
“As you say. Only God knows, then.”
Hakon heard the sarcasm in his friend's voice and turned to him. “You think me foolish for following the religion of Christ?”
Toralv sighed loudly. “In all honesty, I know not what to think. My father was a well-traveled man and he told me before he died that other people have other gods whom they worship as devoutly as we worship our own. So it seems to me that either the sky is filled with all sorts of gods, or that only one religion has the right of it; but none of us will know the truth of it until our day has come.”
Despite the blasphemous words, Hakon could not help but smile at his friend's simplicity. “And if I tell you that the Christian God is the One True God and that all others are false?”
Toralv smiled. “So be it, then. So long as we prosper under his care, I have no qualms.”
Hakon turned back to stare at the lake for another long moment. “Toralv, will you do something for me tonight?”
“Aye. Name it.”
“Go to Aelfwin. Tell her to keep her faith and to pray for my success. Tell her that if I prevail, her bondage will quickly come to an end. I have told her these things before, but it has been days, and I—”
“There is no need to explain. It will be done.” With that, Toralv turned and left Hakon alone with his thoughts.
Chapter 38
The hersar and their men appeared before the light of morning brightened the walls of Ringsaker. Within moments, the grim-faced men of the Uplands filled the courtyard and the grounds beyond. Hakon's horse shifted under him as more and more men pressed in around him and made ready to go.
Sigurd jockeyed his steed up alongside Hakon's. “Brand did not find the Tronds.”
“I know.”
“So we move without them?” Didrik, who sat just behind Hakon, made no effort to hide his dismay.
Beside them, Egil grinned. “Stop worrying, Didrik. It just means you will have two men to fight.” His comment produced an uneasy round of laughter from those close at hand.
“Come on. It is time.” Hakon urged his horse forward, careful not to trample any of the foot soldiers assembled around him.
Hakon had dressed himself as the king he hoped to become: golden helmet, shining byrnie, boar-crested battle cloak draped down his back and over the rump of his horse. To his left, the fork-bearded Egil carried his standard. Sigurd, immaculate in his own finery, rode to his right.
Ivar waited for them just beyond the gate, with Thorgil and Udd at his sides. He eyed Hakon as he approached and said dryly, “I hope you fight as well as you dress.”
“Ask Udd,” responded Hakon.
Ivar chortled. “Indeed.” Beside him, Udd sneered but remained silent.
Thorgil, who rested on the horn of his saddle, spat loudly. “It appears, Sigurd, that your Tronds cannot be found, and that the fighting will be up to us.”
“They will show.”
“Let us hope so,” said Ivar. “I have sent Brand back out with his scouts. Udd and a few of my men will wait here for them. Should your army show, Udd will direct them to us.” With that, Ivar turned and rode out the gate.
Hakon was about to follow when a pinpoint of light caught his eye. He glanced in its direction. There, beside the thrall hut, stood Aelfwin in a dirty woolen shift. The cross he had given her lay on her chest, glinting in the morning sun. The sight brought a giant lump to Hakon's throat.
Beside him someone cleared his throat. Hakon blinked and turned to see Sigurd frowning a warning. Hakon glanced back at Aelfwin and winked, then coaxed his horse forward.
Ivar and his army passed uneventfully through the rolling countryside of the Uplands and, as planned, reached their destination by nightfall: a hill just south of Lake Mjosa, where they could view the landscape in all directions. The hill stood at the end of a long valley through which Erik would come, for it was the only logical route for an army as large as his. The hilltop was broad and flat, offering plenty of space for the warriors to pitch their tents and build their fires. A line of trees ringed the hill about two hundred paces below the crest.
Many of the men had not slept the previous night, and had rested little during the daylong march southward. When they arrived, they built fires and ate in silence, then simply collapsed.
During the ride, they'd sent scouts to range ahead, and these returned after many of the men had retired. Two of the scouts had seen nothing, but the third reported the army of Erik camped not more than a day's march south from their present site.
“What of their scouts?” asked Sigurd. “Did you see any?”
“No, my lord. We saw none.” The scout was an older man, close to Egil's age, with a deeply wrinkled face and a mouth devoid of most of its teeth.
“How is he coming?” This came from Ivar. “Is it as we expected?”
“Yes, my lord. His army is too large to move across the hills. He is coming through the pass to the southeast.”
Ivar nodded. “That is good. Then we shall move according to plan and ambush them. Before dawn breaks, take the archers to their positions. Once you have slowed Erik's army, move to the river. Is that clear? It is imperative that we slow them so that we have time enough to build our defenses. We will start chopping some of those trees below, come first light.”
“Yes, sire.” The scout turned to go.
“Wait. I will go with you.”
All eyes turned to Hakon, but it was Sigurd who spoke. “You will not. Your place is here, among the army.”
“I appreciate your concern, Sigurd, but I will take my chances. I want to see my brother's army, to gauge it for myself. I will not get in the way.”
“You are too valuable to send, Hakon. Your capture, or death, would end us all.”
“Doesn't your faith preach that you die when it is your time? If tomorrow is my time, I would rather be fighting than chopping trees on a hillside.”
Sigurd grunted. “Do as you wish, Hakon. Egil, you go with him. Make sure he returns alive.”
Egil smiled.
“Then it is settled. Hakon and Egil will go out tomorrow with the archers.”
The old scout nodded his understanding and turned to Hakon. “I will retrieve you before first light. There will not be much time, so be ready to move quickly.”
“I will be ready.”
Chapter 39
Erik lifted his arm to halt his column. For a long moment he sat gazing at the pass above which Hakon, Egil, and the archers now sat, waiting.
“He sniffs trouble,” Egil commented mildly.
Hakon nodded, eyes scanning the army that snaked down the overgrown cart path behind Erik and disappeared into the distance. In the morning sun, hundreds of helms and byrnies glinted darkly, like the scales of some overgrown serpent.
Hakon thought of the archers concealed about him and prayed that they would keep their wits during the ambush. Arun, the old scout, had split their forces between the two sides of the pass, deploying them in trees that topped the hills to either side. From there they
could fire at will upon Erik's army, provided he came through the pass.
“Arinbjorn.” Egil motioned with his chin to the white-bearded fellow who stopped at Erik's side. “One of your brother's closest advisors. He is jarl of the Fjord district.”
Hakon watched with growing unease as Erik pointed his axe toward the trees The man called Arinbjorn nodded, turned in his saddle, and barked a command. A column of horses broke off to either side of Erik's army and headed for the slopes at full gallop. Hakon cursed.
“What do we do?” one of his archers whispered frantically.
“Train your arrows on the horsemen,” responded Egil. “Do not let them climb this hill.”
The horsemen kicked their mounts up the soft slope. Beside Hakon, Arun pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, pulled the bow up, and aimed. The string snapped forward and the arrow shot out in a graceful arc toward its victim. A man near the head of the column screamed and grabbed at the arrow shaft stuck in his thigh.
Pandemonium ensued. Arrows hissed from the trees, darkening the sky. Before they'd fired the second volley, cries of pain flooded the air. The arrows tore through the column with impunity, piercing byrnies and flesh alike. A man spun backward off his saddle as an arrow pierced his skull. Others slumped forward without a sound. Sensing danger, horses bolted, many dragging their dead riders with them. Across the pass, a mount reared up with an arrow shaft protruding from its chest, then toppled backward with its rider still on its back. Hakon could hear the man's bones crunch beneath the weight of his steed.
While Hakon's eyes registered the horror, his mind and body reacted automatically to the duty at hand. With steady precision, he shot arrow after arrow, aiming for any target that crossed his path. Three victims fell from their saddles. Two others he wounded. After Hakon's fifth shot, someone yelled to fall back.
Hakon took one final look before turning away. Pure destruction greeted his eyes. The enemy dead and wounded lay on the ground, their bodies twisted and mangled by the force of their falls. So great was the number of arrows protruding from their bodies and the ground that it appeared a fresh layer of grass had grown on the slope. Nothing moved save those horses that had miraculously survived the hailstorm of arrows and now ran helter-skelter up and down the pass.
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