God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  At the head of the army, Erik spun this battle axe in huge arcs over his head, urging his army to follow him.

  Egil jarred Hakon's shoulder as Erik's army began to move forward. “Time to leave.”

  Hakon did not wait to see Erik's army surge forward. Rather, he stood and ran as fast as his young legs would take him back to where he had tethered his horse. Without looking back, he prodded his steed into a gallop and, with the grim awareness that there would be more killing that day, rode silently with Egil to the next designated spot.

  Chapter 40

  Erik's fists curled into frustrated balls. Engorged by spring runoff, the river Erik had to ford was a frothing torrent of muddy rapids and high swells. The blackened, skeletal remains of the river's bridge—Erik's only hope for fording the river—listed above the current. A loose board from the bridge waved in the water, as if mocking Erik.

  Erik immediately sent scouts to search the river for another bridge, or a suitable spot to ford. They returned by midday, pointing southward. With no other choice open to him, Erik turned his army and followed his scouts.

  Hakon, Egil, and the archers tracked Erik's army as it moved. Tracking them was a simple task, for the army's progress was painstakingly slow. Trees and brush lining the bank forced Erik's men to fight their way downriver. It was easier going for the men on foot. But the supply wagons could not follow until the thick underbrush was cleared from their path.

  It was early evening by the time Erik stopped his men. They had reached a small bend in the river where the water spilled down a falls and gathered in a pool formed by a semicircle of rock. The pool slowed the flow of the water and rendered the river swimmable, at least for the horses. A little farther on, an ancient pine had fallen across the water, forming a natural bridge across which the men could walk. Hakon smiled at Arun, for the old scout had predicted that Erik would choose this spot to cross.

  For Hakon and the archers, this was a far more dangerous position than the pass. There were no long slopes to protect the archers—only the water, a thin beach, and a few trees. To succeed, they would have to choose their time wisely. If they attacked too early, Erik's men would simply vanish into the underbrush on the opposite side of the river; too late, and Erik's men could easily overcome the archers in a frontal attack. Hakon crept to a hiding spot that offered him a good vantage of the log-bridge, and then settled down to wait.

  “Send guards across first,” bellowed Erik. “And secure those trees on the opposite shore.”

  When Hakon heard his brother's command, he glanced at Egil, who crouched a few paces away. Egil did not return the gesture. His bow was nocked and ready. He studied the approaching army with predatory eyes. Hakon turned back to the enemy and slowly pulled an arrow from his quiver.

  A group of warriors gathered on the opposite shoreline and prepared themselves for the crossing. Some beat their shields in anticipation of the unknown fate that awaited them. Others thumped their chests with tightened fists to show they were not afraid. A few stared intently at the tree line, as if they saw their enemy and were trying to intimidate them with their fierce glare.

  Hakon nocked his arrow and trained it on the leader of the warriors about to cross the log. He took a deep breath to calm his breathing and to steady the shaking in his hands.

  “Now!” commanded Erik as he pointed forward with his great axe.

  One by one the warriors leapt onto the log and bounded across it.

  “Wait,” commanded Arun to his group of archers.

  Some of the warriors lost their footing and splashed into the water below. Those behind did not stop to help their comrades. The group made it to the beach; they began to fan out on the run, heading for the trees. Hakon instinctively crouched lower as they came ever closer to the spot where he hid. Behind the first wave of warriors, another group stepped onto the log and began to cross.

  “Now!” hissed Arun.

  A warrior came directly at Hakon. He was so close Hakon could see the flecks of gray in his beard and the nicks in his armor. Rising quickly, Hakon let his arrow fly; it struck the man squarely in his chest and knocked him from his feet. Hakon did not pause to survey the damage. He nocked another arrow, turned, aimed, and dropped a second man just as he stepped from the log onto the beach. A third arrow slammed into the leg of a man crossing the log at full run. The man's leg failed and he collapsed to the log, but managed to stay atop it. The men behind him hurdled him and charged on.

  Along the line, bowstrings twanged and arrows hissed. From this distance, there was no arc—the arrows traveled in a straight, deadly line to their victims. Screams shattered the air as men fell to the ground or dropped into the flowing river. The attackers came quickly, but the arrows came quicker; the attackers soon lost heart and stopped crossing altogether.

  On the opposite bank, Erik grabbed men by their collars and shoved them forward. “Attack!” he shouted. “You cannot stay here! Get across that river!”

  A man refused Erik with a shake of the head, then turned to retreat toward the underbrush. Erik hefted his axe and beheaded him. The head spun away and landed with a splash in the water. As if unsure of what to do, the body remained on its feet for a few heartbeats, spitting blood from its severed neck, before finally dropping to the ground.

  Erik turned on the next man, who jumped to his feet and scampered for the log. He was followed by another man, then another. Heartened by the sudden rally, other men rose and charged ahead. Up and down the line, pockets of men stood and followed their leaders toward the source of the arrows hailing down on them.

  The tide of the battle changed with this third wave of attackers. This time they came more cautiously and used their shields more skillfully. While some were still cut down, the majority suffered less life-threatening wounds. Erik had also organized his own archers to lay down a covering fire. Most of the arrows landed ineffectually within the trees. Some, however, found their way through the foliage and slammed into the ground near Hakon. The danger forced Hakon to pick his chances more carefully, which ultimately stemmed the flow of his barrage.

  Within moments, it was clear that too many of the enemy had forded the river. Hakon reached for a final arrow and found his quiver empty. He glanced right, toward Arun. The old scout lay motionless on the ground, an arrow lodged in his eye socket. Hakon scrambled for Egil and grabbed him by the arm. Egil needed no words—he shouldered his bow and followed Hakon to the horses. Behind them they heard the enemy crashing through the trees in wild pursuit.

  Hakon leapt for his steed and yanked the reins. Around him, other archers were doing the same. With a final glance over his shoulder, Hakon kicked his mount into motion and followed Egil and the others to the safety of their camp.

  Chapter 41

  It was late. The sun had long since faded into the western sky, and with it went the high spirits brought on by the day's successful ambushes. Most of the camp had retired, exhausted from a long day of chopping trees and building the long wall that would guard the hilltop. Hakon ate a quiet dinner with Egil and Gunnar, but was called away by Sigurd halfway through his meal to a fire pit where Ivar and Thorgil already sat.

  “We were just about to discuss our plans for tomorrow,” said Thorgil as Sigurd and Hakon found their seats. “In my mind, our situation has become almost hopeless. Erik is close at hand and the Tronds still have not arrived. Our wall is not near completion; we need another day. Two, if possible.”

  Hakon frowned at Thorgil's pessimism, which had grown by the moment since their arrival at their hilltop camp. “Have you an alternative suggestion, Thorgil? Or will you weigh us all down with your gloom?”

  Thorgil sneered. “Aye, Hakon. I do. I suggest we return to Ringsaker. There we will last longer, and defend ourselves better, until the Tronds arrive.”

  Ivar shook his head. “We cannot, Thorgil.”

  “But we have defended ourselves from there before, father. Why not now?”

  Ivar eyed his son. “First, we have nev
er been attacked by such a large force. They would have no trouble surrounding us and either waiting for us to submit, or burning us out. And second, being within the walls destroys our mobility. That is not so bad against a small force, but when it is as large as Erik's, we cannot afford to be immobile. We must use the natural defenses we have available to us. To lock ourselves up, my son, would be our doom.”

  Something in what Ivar said kindled an idea in Hakon's head. He broke in before Thorgil could respond. “We could continue to ambush them until the Tronds arrive.”

  Sigurd scoffed. “Would you be known as the man who fought such a battle in the face of Erik? Men would remember you as a coward, afraid to face trouble head-on. Ambushing once or twice is acceptable, but to fight a whole battle that way? Hah. I would rather die facing Erik.”

  Hakon winced at Sigurd's blunt rebuke, but could not refute the truth he spoke. “That leaves us one choice, then. Fight him with the men we have.”

  Thorgil threw up his arms in exasperation. “It is folly. There must be another way.”

  Hakon shrugged. “I see no other choice.”

  “There is another.” The flames of the fire danced in Ivar's eyes as he stared into it.

  Intrigued, the men leaned forward, but Ivar did not speak.

  “Would you like to share with us?” asked Sigurd after a moment. “Or will you stare into the fire all night while we take turns guessing?”

  Ivar pulled his gaze away from the flames and looked at Sigurd, a grin slowly growing on his round face. “I have an idea. It is simple, and will give us only a little more time to build our defenses.” He turned to Hakon. “And it will depend on your nerve, Hakon.”

  Hakon steeled himself. “What is on your mind?”

  “Listen closely. Here is what I propose.” Ivar spoke for a long time, laying out a simple, yet effective plan. He spoke without pause and without interruption, and when he finished, the others smiled too. If they were careful, the plan just might work.

  “I take it from your smiles that you accept this idea?”

  To the man, they agreed.

  “Good. Then let us retire. Tomorrow will be a long day. Think of what I have told you, Hakon. We will work through the wording on the morrow.” He stood and stretched his stocky frame. “Sleep well.” Then he walked off into the night.

  Hakon slept little that night. The day's images battled for attention in Hakon's frayed thoughts, overshadowing, but not totally subduing, his apprehension over the coming morning's task. Nerves churned his gut with painful spasms. The night was one long, dreadful stretch of physical and mental torment. More than once, Hakon rose to ease the tension, but to no avail. As soon as he lay back down, his mind took off at a run with fear guiding it along.

  The next morning, Hakon met with Sigurd and Ivar and they went over the plan in more detail, ignoring as best they could the incessant thwack of axes and the yells of those employed at the defensive wall. They rehearsed dialogues, making sure that Hakon would not only anticipate his brother's actions, but would be prepared for blind-sided arguments, should Erik use them. Though exhausted, fear kept his mind attentive to the task at hand.

  They were interrupted by a scout. “Erik approaches.”

  Ivar glanced from Sigurd to Hakon. “Come,” he said after a moment. “It is time.”

  Hakon watched in grim silence as Erik's army unfolded on the field below them. They came along the road—horsemen, foot soldiers, and supply wagons—and filed in no particular order onto the field Ivar had selected as the battleground: a wide, gently sloping meadow bordered by trees on the right and a steep hill on the left. Prior to this morning, Hakon had seen them in a long line, wherein their number had seemed great but not overwhelming. Now, spread out, their sheer volume conjured in Hakon a sudden urge to piss. They practically covered the entire field.

  Like the Anglisc, the Northmen did not fight from horseback. When they reached the lower end of the field, those on horses dismounted and sent their steeds to the rear to graze. The untrained men clumped around the waving standards that marked their particular units until the jarls and nobles arranged them into long, uneven lines and called out encouragement to them. In the front line of each group stood the most highly-trained men—the berserkers, hirdmen, and mercenaries—to set an example. Behind them stood the archers and spearmen, and those too poor to afford decent weapons or coats of armor.

  A cold chill crept up Hakon's spine. Beneath him, his steed snorted and danced at the apprehension it sensed. “Look at them all,” Hakon muttered to no one in particular.

  Sigurd, who sat beside Hakon, nudged him and nodded toward the enemy line. “Look. In the center there. You can see the hair of your rag-picking brother from here.”

  Hakon followed his gaze to the largest unit on the field, which stood at the vanguard of the assembling army. At the front and center of this unit flapped a crimson standard. Near its base stood the man whose bright hair Hakon now associated with fear and brutality. “What is that on his standard?”

  “An axe,” Ivar answered acidly. “Come. It is time.” He prodded his horse forward.

  As arranged, Hakon trotted a few paces ahead, while Sigurd, Ivar, and Egil with Hakon's golden boar standard fell in behind him.

  “Remember what we discussed, Hakon,” coached Ivar as they worked their way down the gentle slope to the long grass of the field.

  “I will not forget,” he called over his shoulder.

  When they reached the middle of the meadow—a little over an arrow's flight from Erik's army—they reined in and waited. At first no one saw them, so busy were they with preparing themselves. But that did not last long. A blood-curdling yell rose and rippled through the ranks as the men recognized their enemy. Then, one by one, they brandished their weapons and began beating them on the edges of their shields. The wild pounding drowned out all other noise and sent nesting birds screeching into the air. The sound sent Hakon's heart, and his mount, into a panicked prance.

  “Steady, Hakon. They do this to intimidate us. Do not pay attention to it.”

  Never before had Hakon seen such a paralyzing display, and the gentle strength of Sigurd's voice did little to ease his tension. He felt his bowels begin to move, and he tightened his stomach against the strain.

  “He comes.”

  Three figures galloped toward them, then stopped ten paces away. Hakon recognized Erik immediately. Fiery and wild of both hair and eye, Erik appeared more a cold-blooded killer than a king, more insane than sound in mind. His shining byrnie and silver-ringed wrists bespoke wealth beyond compare. Wealth, Hakon knew, that had been reaped from the murder of kin and the plunder of his own people. Hakon studied the antagonism in his brother's weatherworn face, the pride in his out-thrust chest, the challenging gaze of his gray-green eyes, and suddenly understood how Sigurd could hate this man so intensely. Even Hakon, who hated no man, was conquered by a burning revulsion that tore at his insides and threatened to overwhelm him.

  The two who rode beside him were no less impressive, yet conjured none of the hatred and disgust their leader did. One was the white-haired Arinbjorn; the other was more darkly complected.

  Erik raised his right fist, his penetrating gaze never leaving the men before him. Behind him, his army fell into an uneasy silence. Though no law stated who might speak first, Erik's imposing figure seemed to dictate that all should wait for him.

  “So, you are Hakon Athelstan-fostri,” he finally said. His voice neither mocked nor flattered.

  “Hakon Haraldsson,” Hakon corrected, surprised by the control in his voice. “And you are Erik. The one they call Bloodaxe.” He nearly spat the last word.

  Erik studied the faces of the men around Hakon, but did not acknowledge them. His eyes shifted back to Hakon. “You find yourself in perfidious company, brother. It is a shame, for now I will have to kill you, as well.”

  Hakon clenched his jaw. “It must be a sad existence, Erik—killing your kin like sheep at a feast. Does it not eat
at your conscience, or have you none?”

  If Hakon's words affected Erik, he did not show it. “What do you know of Northern conscience, Christian? What do you know of this land, and the killing of my brothers?” His eyes pierced Hakon's. “Nothing. You are but a child in a man's game.”

  Hakon felt his cheeks heat.

  Erik saw, and pressed his advantage. “You think you understand the situation, Hakon, but you are merely a pawn to Sigurd and Ivar. They will use you for their own gain, then turn on you as they turned on my father and me.”

  “Hakon,” Sigurd whispered from the corner of his mouth. “Remember why we are here.”

  Hakon stayed Sigurd with a barely perceptible lift of his hand. “Seems to me, Erik, that you see things incorrectly. For, had you been half the man that father was, you would find no need to kill your kin. As it is, you are here and so am I. It is a shame, for I would have liked to have a brother.”

  Erik eyed Hakon closely. “There is a way, Hakon, and you and I both know what it is. I can offer you riches beyond compare and a kingdom of your own.”

  Hakon felt his heart flutter as Erik spoke the words Ivar had thought he might. Hakon had to calm himself, lest he appear too eager and kindle Erik's distrust. “I ask you, where, Erik? Trondelag? The Uplands? Even if I could, would I be foolish enough to accept with both jarls beside me? Perchance you mean one of your kingdoms? Would you be so treacherous as to offer your districts out from under your own jarls? And on the brink of battle? I think not. Do not offer what you will have trouble giving.” Hakon grinned despite the tense feeling in his gut, for events were unfolding just as they had planned. “Besides, I would have to be convinced that your army was capable of defeating my own, and as I look at them, well …”