God's Hammer

by Eric Schumacher

  “No.”

  Her hand slipped from his cheek and entwined with her other as she grabbed her knees and pulled them to her. Her eyes turned away and focused on the fire that snapped before her. “Go now, Hakon, and pray for my soul.”

  “Do not do this, Aelfwin.” His voice came as a desperate whisper. “We can find a way.”

  She did not answer.

  “Please, Aelfwin.”

  He waited for a long moment, but she kept her eyes averted. Tears streamed down her cheeks, flashing in the firelight as they fell to the ground. With each new drop, Hakon's heart tore a little more.

  “I love you,” he whispered as his own sight blurred with tears.

  Other than a slow blink, Aelfwin showed no sign of having heard. She was gone.

  Yet, try as he might, Hakon could not leave her. He wanted her close, even if they spoke not a word. Even if all they did was stare into the fire together. Hakon would not allow her last moments to pass without knowledge that somebody still cared for her, that somebody accepted her despite her sins. He reached for her hand and held it tightly within his own, speaking his feelings and his emotions through his touch, since she would no longer respond to his words.

  They sat that way until the camp began to stir for the sacrifice. Hakon watched in silent dismay as the warriors grabbed the other two thralls and dragged them to a large, flat-topped boulder that stood close to the center of camp. Like wolves sensing a kill, the army quickly gathered around. Since there was no godi to administer the sacrifice, Ivar, as jarl, pulled the one-eyed thrall up to the rock.

  Aelfwin stood. Hakon tried to hold her back, but she pulled her hand free and, eyes on the victim on the rock, she approached the gathering crowd.

  “To Odin Alfather.” Ivar's words rose above the shouts and calls of his men. “We beseech you, Father of the Aesir. Bring strength to our arms. Bring cunning to our minds. Grant us the power to prevail over Erik.”

  As he spoke, Aelfwin forced her way through the crowd to the sacrificial stone. When she reached it, Ivar stopped in mid-speech, knife in hand, and looked down upon her. The pause was brief, but long enough for Hakon to see the bloodlust in his gaze. He turned back to his victim. “Let the blood of this man represent the blood of our enemies!”

  Ivar yanked the poor man's head backward, exposing his neck. With a flash, Ivar's blade sliced him from ear to ear. For a moment, the man staggered before the silent crowd, the dark liquid of his life drenching his neck and chest. When he finally fell, as limp as if he had no bones in his body, a cheer rose into the air.

  Ivar reached down and pulled the middle-aged woman up onto the stone. She proved not so tame as the man, and struggled like a cornered bear against her killer. Ivar punched her in the stomach, then motioned his two sons onto the rock. Each grabbed an arm and tried to hold the woman still.

  “Thor,” Ivar intoned. “Look down upon us and see what we give to you. We beseech you with this gift to bestow the strength and courage for which you are known.” Beside him the woman screamed. Another cheer rose from the army, as if they were fueled by her horror. Ivar smiled at this unexpected surprise, then dispatched her in the same manner he had the one-eyed man. Brand and Thorgil held her until her head fell forward, then they dropped her to the ground beside the other lifeless thrall.

  Ivar said something to his sons and they left the rock, their eyes upon Aelfwin. Ivar motioned to her with his knife, a sickly sneer on his face. For a moment nothing happened, and Hakon prayed that she had changed her mind. His heart pounded beneath his ribs. Please, Aelfwin. Do not.

  But his hopes were for naught. Aelfwin climbed onto the rock and turned to face the crowd. Ivar handed her Hakon's cross; she clutched it to her chest. Hakon's emotions threatened to choke him as he wiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks. He wanted to shut his eyes to the horror, but something would not allow him.

  “We turn back to you, Odin Alfather, for this last sacrifice. Let our killing of this beautiful creature speak to the esteem in which we hold you …”

  Aelfwin turned her head toward Hakon, and though he could not see the details of her face, Hakon knew that her eyes were fixed upon him.

  “… if you grant us victory in the coming battle.”

  Ivar lifted his blade into the air. Hakon tensed. The blade came down. Hakon shut his eyes. When he reopened them, Aelfwin was gone and Ivar stood alone. The army cheered wildly and brandished their weapons above their heads.

  Hakon vomited.

  Chapter 43

  On the eastern horizon, fiery slivers of light announced the sun's imminent return. Hakon stood still for a moment, taking in the serenity of the new day, but seeing no beauty or wonder in it. The joyous sound of birdsong only mocked his misery. He studied the blushing embers of the myriad campfires and the orange glow they cast on the huddled figures of his heathen army—an army he suddenly wished to be rid of. He looked up at the stars still twinkling overhead, wondering if Aelfwin might be looking down upon him.

  Hakon gazed at the sacrificial stone. He wanted to go to it, but his feet felt rooted to the ground.

  “Sleep evades you, boy?”

  He did not have to turn to know Egil spoke.

  Egil came up beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your father used to do the same before a battle. He told me once that waking before the others was his way of enjoying what might be his final moments alive. Is it not the same for you?”

  “No,” Hakon answered flatly. “It is not. I did not wake early because I did not sleep.”

  Egil's chest heaved. “Ah. I see. You think of the girl.”

  Hakon did not answer.

  “Fear not, boy. She died so that you could prevail. Her life was not wasted.”

  Hakon whirled on his friend. “She died because the Northmen stole her from her home and used her. And she died because I noticed her, paid attention to her, and slighted the honor of the man whose daughter I am to marry. A daughter for whom I care nothing. Aelfwin died because of me.”

  Egil studied Hakon's face. “It was her Fate, Hakon, and had nothing to do with you.”

  Hakon tensed. “A curse on your Fate,” he growled.

  Egil's eyes narrowed. “You are angry. That is good. Do not forget that anger today, Hakon. Look upon it as a gift and use it to your advantage. Perchance then, if you gain the victory, you can say that in some small way, she contributed to your fight.” Egil turned and walked off.

  If a rock were handy, Hakon would have picked it up and thrown it at Egil. Seething with anger, he sought out a place to be alone and calm himself down. He found it in on the newly-constructed wall that lay just below the crest of the hill.

  For a long time, Hakon struggled to control his wrath and the clutter of emotions that wracked his mind. When he failed at this, he brought his hands to his lips and bowed his head, trying for the moment to forget all else save the image of the Almighty Father, the Prince of Peace. But instead of God, he saw Aelfwin standing in the midst of a bloodthirsty crowd and the shining tears that streamed down her cheeks. The curved blade of Ivar's ceremonial knife flashed before Hakon's eyes, drowning him in a sea of guilt and shame. She died because of me. I could have stopped it. I could have given it all away for her.

  Lost in his despair, Hakon tried to recite the Latin of his school days, hoping that the words might somehow ease his pain, but even as his lips moved, his mind wandered. Images from his days in Engla-lond danced beneath his closed eyelids: Aelfwin's innocent face smiling like a summer sun at his baptismal feast; her laughter at the pool during the log fights; her bashful smile as she handed him the dilapidated Yule wreath. He tightened his eyes, as if doing so might squeeze away what his tormented mind could not. The images persisted.

  He opened his eyes and gazed out at the horizon, now a brilliant orange, realizing that he did so through tear-blurred eyes. “God help me,” he whispered as he blinked the tears away. “God help us all.”

  Just then, something mov
ed below him. He froze and peered down at the tree line on the lower slope, but saw nothing save dark shadows and the gray morning mist. A deer feeding in the trees, he told himself, and tore his eyes away. As he rose to go back up to the camp, he saw another movement. This time, he was sure it was not a deer. He froze, watching. The dark form of a man emerged from behind a tree, then dashed to the protection of another.

  Hakon turned and looked at the closest sentry, who stood not fifty paces below him beside a boulder. Judging from his relaxed stance, the guard had not seen the movement.

  Hakon thought to call to the guard, but realized that the man might not hear him. He had to get to a horn and blow a warning.

  Hakon raced back up the hill. Before he had taken three strides, a horn blasted somewhere, disrupting the still morning. Confused yells broke the new day's peace; frightened birds fluttered into the air. Horses whinnied anxiously as men jumped to their feet and looked around. By the time Hakon reached the camp, the place had transformed into a mass of running, shouting, cursing, weapon-wielding men. In their midst, Ivar called out instructions from the sacrificial stone, directing his warriors to form up around the perimeter of the hilltop.

  Beside Ivar, Sigurd shrugged into his byrnie and strapped on his sword belt. He looked up as Hakon approached. “Where have you been?”

  Hakon ignored the question. “What is happening?”

  “That whoreson Erik has surrounded us. Dress yourself.”

  Hakon ran for his tent and donned his battle gear as swiftly as he could. When he re-emerged, Egil approached on horseback, towing Hakon's steed behind his. He handed the reins to Hakon, who swung himself up into the saddle. Together they rode back to where Sigurd and Ivar now waited on their mounts.

  Ivar spoke first. “Your brother is a crafty troll. We told him we would answer him this morning. He is increasing the stakes to ensure he gets the answer he seeks.”

  Hakon gave little thought to the news. It did not matter. “Why are we on horseback? Should we not be on the ground, fighting?”

  “We need time to organize. Riding to Erik with an answer gives us that time. Otherwise, we are doomed.” Ivar spun his horse. “Thorgil. Udd. Come here.”

  Thorgil and Udd approached on the run and stopped beside Ivar's horse.

  “Keep your men in this circle. If we are not back by late morning, pull your men together into a boar's head, and charge northward through their line. When you are through, keep going until you can safely regroup. Is that clear?”

  “I understand.”

  Ivar straightened in his saddle, gathered the reins, and turned to the others. “Come. Let us get on with this.”

  They rode wordlessly through camp and descended toward the tree line below. As they neared, Erik's hidden army beat their shields and the terrifying rhythm that Hakon had heard the day before began anew. Only this time, Hakon paid the pounding little heed. Fear held no sway in a man who no longer held his life so dear.

  “Any ideas?”

  Ivar glanced at Sigurd. “No. You?”

  “As you said, Erik has forced our hand. We have naught but two choices as far as I see: fight or deal. And I have no desire to deal.”

  Ivar shook his round head. “I agree. We will stick with the battle plan.”

  As they drew nearer to the trees, Hakon expected at any moment to hear the whiz of arrows and feel the force of steel piercing his armor. He found himself hoping for the sting that would end his life, mentally urging the enemy to shoot. How good it would be to end the pain that now wrenched at his heart and twisted his stomach, a pain that seemed to well up from his very soul and suck at his emotions like a leech.

  They reined in twenty paces from the trees. Ivar stood in his stirrups, byrnie clinking softly as he did so, and cupped his hand around his mouth to call out, “We wish to speak with Erik.”

  The shield-beating grew in answer to Ivar's statement. Hakon's mount pranced and tossed his head in nervous protest.

  “Are you too cowardly to face us, Erik?” Sigurd yelled above the din.

  They waited a moment longer, then saw a figure guiding his horse between the trees. A moment later, Erik emerged, alone, and rode toward them. In his hand he carried his fearsome battle axe. The butt of the rune-inscribed handle rested upon his thigh so that the fanning arc of its blade faced menacingly forward. A great, fur-lined battle cloak swept down from his broad shoulders, partially covering his knee-length byrnie. On his head he wore a conical battle helm gilded with a single band of gold. Its protective noseplate added to Erik's ominous appearance.

  He reined in his mount and smiled broadly. “Good morrow. I trust that everyone slept well last night.”

  Sigurd scowled. “Dispense with the greetings, Erik. Let us get down to business.”

  Erik shrugged. “Very well. Have you come to a decision, brother?”

  Hakon eyed Erik blandly. “There will be no deals, Erik. If I fall today, the kingdom will be yours. Otherwise, it is mine.”

  Erik's eyebrows disappeared under the rim of his helmet. “Otherwise? There will be no otherwise, Hakon. My army surrounds and outnumbers your own. One last time, brother. Submit and earn your Vestfold kingdom, or die with your friends.”

  “I will fight.”

  Erik snorted. “You leave me no choice. I'll see you in the next life, brother.”

  Hakon shook his head. “No, Erik. You won't.”

  He spun his mount and kicked him into motion. The horse dug into the soft earth and leapt powerfully up the hill. Sigurd, Ivar, and Egil followed close behind. When they reached the camp, the four dismounted and sent their steeds away.

  “Remember, Hakon,” Sigurd said. “Do not let the men rush down the hill. The longer we can hold this position, the better.”

  “I will remember,” Hakon responded flatly.

  “Good luck, then.”

  Hakon nodded, then found a spot among the line of warriors on the hilltop. As was his duty, Toralv took up a position just to Hakon's left. Egil, with Hakon's boar standard planted firmly in the ground beside him, stood to his right. Fanning out from them stood Ottar, Didrik, Gunnar, Sigurd, and the rest of the Tronds who had accompanied Hakon.

  Once set, Hakon allowed himself a quick look around. According to plan, most of the warriors arranged themselves behind the wall that stood four logs high. Those with bows stood farther up the hill and would shoot until Erik's army came under their range. At that point, they would rush to the wall with swords and spears, or whatever weapon they had handy.

  It was Sigurd's idea to space the leaders apart, so that no section was weaker in leadership than another. Ivar and his hirdmen, including Udd, stood facing west, while Hakon and Sigurd took up positions to the east. Gudrod and Trygvi faced south and Brand and Thorgil, north.

  Sigurd walked before the men, checking their equipment and making sure the younger warriors were ready for the onslaught. Every so often, he adjusted a shield or turned a belt so that the sword lay in easier reach. He told jokes to a few men, while others he strengthened with heroic tales of their fallen kin.

  “Best put your helmet on, Hakon,” he advised when he passed. “The arrows could start flying at any moment.”

  Hakon followed Sigurd's command as he had done everything else that morning—in a detached and uncaring way. He recognized the source of these emotions and wished silently that it could be otherwise. He reminded himself that, by day's end, he might finally obtain what he had hoped for and struggled toward for so long. But in his heart, he knew that any victory would be a Pyrrhic; that without Aelfwin, there could be no true victory, only an unsated void left by the sacrifice made to obtain it.

  Below him, the enemy began to beat their shields once more, tearing Hakon from his brooding. His army beat their shields in response, calling out obscenities and gnashing their teeth as they did so. Somewhere down the hill, a horn blasted.

  Chapter 44

  Men stepped out from behind the trees with bows raised before them. They released
their arrows high into the air. Hakon's eyes followed the deadly shafts as they darkened the morning sky and rained down onto his army.

  “Down behind the wall!” Sigurd bellowed.

  The men hastened to kneel behind the wall and hold their shields over their heads. An eerie, heart-stopping moment passed as the men waited for the arrows to fall. Hakon tensed and held his breath.

  Suddenly the world erupted. Screams blended with a discord of thuds and thwacks—the death song of hungry arrows. When it ended, Hakon pulled his shield down. Below him, the enemy archers loosed another volley. Again the sky darkened, and again the army ducked behind the protective wall and lifted its shields to meet the lethal rain. This time, however, the archers found their angle and the arrow points found their victims with frightening effectiveness. An arrow smacked into Hakon's shield, knocking him backward. Behind him a man fell to the ground clutching his leg and howling in pain. More cries tore through the morning air, sending chills down Hakon's spine.

  A third and then a fourth volley came at them, killing or maiming more men. An arrow narrowly missed Hakon's thigh, and another scraped his byrnie at the hip. They could do nothing but wait. The enemy archers fired from concealment; it would be a waste of valuable arrows to shoot back. Down the line, some of the younger warriors, terrified by the deadly hail, broke ranks and ran. Such flight was futile. There was no place to go.

  The noise within the trees rose to a deafening pitch. It was followed by a clatter of metal that set Hakon's nerves on edge.

  “Here they come,” called Egil.

  Hakon glanced over the wall to see Erik's army coming at them like a wave of devils. The sun had partially risen in the eastern sky, and its rays glinted off their armor and blades as they dug their feet into the slope and worked their way upward. Hakon crossed himself as he gazed upon their unending numbers, then he reached for Quern-biter.