The Last Berserker

by Angus Donald

  This was Bjarki’s allocated position. This was the section of the defences give to the refugees from the Fyr Skola. As their captain, Bjarki had fifteen men and women under his command. He had been expecting resistance from Ivar Knuttson – perhaps a confrontation or a refusal to fight under his authority. But Ivar had shrugged and said: ‘If that is what the duke and the king of the Dane-Mark have decided, who am I to disagree?’

  This reasonable response completely wrong-footed Bjarki. He had expected to have to dominate Ivar, force him to accept his authority, maybe fight him. But he had no time to ponder the Boar Lodge man’s acquiescence. Since the council meeting the day before, Bjarki had been too busy organising weapons, armour, rations, provisions and shelter for the people in his charge.

  Nikka the Dreamer, once more a fighting Rekkr, was clad in rusty knee-length ring-mail, moth-eaten fur vambraces and an ancient steel helm, and armed with sword and a long spear. She was given the left flank of the Fyr Skola position with five young Barda to support her; Ivar Knuttson, with another five Barda, was given the right flank to guard, and Bjarki, Tor, Gunnar, Eldar the gothi, and a none-too-bright Boar Lodge man called Erik held the centre of the twenty yards of fence that they’d been given to defend.

  They were at the end of a long line of defenders, the extreme east of the west rampart. Beyond Ivar was Duke Theodoric’s son, a handsome young Saxon warrior called Widukind, and his forty oath-sworn men, and beyond him a crusty old Jutland hersir with his retinue, and so on into the distance. Below them and behind them, down on the reverse slope of the rampart were ten fifty-man-strong companies of hersirs and seasoned warriors. They were stationed on a rough dirt road that had been hacked out of the turf of both the east and west ramparts ten paces below their summits, and which ran miles in both directions. When the Frankish troops attacked, these Storm Companies, as they were called, could easily be moved along the ramparts behind the front line to where they were needed. It was a flexible defence structure, as King Siegfried had rightly boasted.

  Yet Bjarki suspected, deep in his heart, that Tor might be right. They were simply too few defenders. If the king were to send in two simultaneous attacks of a couple of thousand Red Cloaks each, and they got over the channel somehow and up the ramparts in great numbers, the defenders would be overwhelmed. They’d fight to the bitter end, of course, and die bravely but… There was no point thinking like this, Bjarki told himself. No point at all. And if this battle were to be the end for Bjarki Bloodhand, he would do his very best to make it a death for the skalds to sing about.

  Tor sliced away a final clump of hair, cursed, tilted her head to the side, squinted and said: ‘That will have to do, oaf. At least it’s out of your eyes.’

  Bjarki stood up, thanked her, ran a hand through his crudely shorn locks and said: ‘I’m going down to check on the spare javelin stocks—’

  Tor stopped him. She gripped his arm. ‘Look,’ she said, pointing south.

  Karolus, mighty king of the Franks, had come to the Dane-Work.

  * * *

  The massed troops of the King of Francia completely filled the horizon – rank after rank, scara after scara of Christian warriors, all slowly coming forward together. Thousands of men – in the front two ranks of red-cloaked men alone there must be two thousand, at least, advancing as if they shared but a single mind. Bjarki felt a cold ripple of awe right down to his boots.

  They came tramping forward in their scarae, about three hundred men in each regiment, warriors from Austrasia, from Neustria, from Burgundy, Province and Aquitaine, swords at their sides, spears in hand, many with the red cloaks and red shields of the standing army, still more in their own dress and arms under their regional counts and bishops; green-clad men from the mountains of Swabia – Gerold’s men – as well as warriors in brown leather jerkins or dun-coloured cloaks from as far away as Septimania and Gascony.

  The scara were grouped into blocks of six companies, known as cunei; each cunei – or company – being made up of about fifty fighting men. Bjarki did a tally of the scarae he could see; even the ones in the distance, which were no more than smudges of red or brown. He must be imagining it – could there be thirty-two scarae here? Surely that was not possible.

  He counted again. No. He was right. Bjarki watched the approaching horde with his mouth open. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes. He had supposed that the king might bring five thousand men to this conflict, or six thousand, outnumbering the defenders by a very comfortable margin. But this was an unheard-of force, more than nine thousand warriors. It was an extraordinary display of Karolus’s might and power.

  ‘Looks like the whole of fucking Francia’s come out to play,’ said Tor.

  It was a sea of enemies, an ocean of Franks… In the centre of the field, at the heart of this huge army in a dense, defined, thousand-man block, were the Scholares, the king’s bodyguard – three scarae – some companies of them on horseback, but most of the men on foot.

  ‘How many do you think, Tor?’ said Bjarki, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.

  ‘Looks like…’ Tor sucked her teeth. ‘All of them.’

  ‘Seriously, how many?’

  ‘Ten thousand? How should I know? Enough to swamp us easily.’

  At a distance of about three hundred paces, far beyond the range of the defenders’ mightiest bows, the front line of the Frankish army came to a halt. The scarae shook themselves into perfect squares; the cunei formed, leaving neat lanes between the individual blocks of fifty men. The officers of the scarae, helmets decorated with plumes, brought their black, green and scarlet standards, and the symbols of their honour, to the front and stabbed them into the turf. These were mostly Christian crosses sewn on the material, along with a symbol of their lord or region – lightning bolts, bulls, lions, sunbursts – flapping at the end of poles adorned with bells and streamers.

  He seeks to intimidate us with the enormous numbers he has brought, thought Bjarki. It is a tactic. Do not let it succeed. Don’t let fear rule you.

  ‘Look at all those lovely meat-bags,’ whispered his gandr. ‘More than we could ever need. So many soft white bodies, ripe and ready for a blade.’

  There was movement in the centre of the mass of the scarae – in its dark heart – and Bjarki saw that a group of horsemen, perhaps fifty of them, all Black Cloaks, was coming forward. There was a flash of bright colour in the centre and he saw that there were several priests in the midst of them, and – there – Karolus himself under his eagle banner in glittering mail and a golden crown, in the centre of the group of his guards. Now for a parlay, Bjarki thought. A little chat before the bloody business of the day begins.

  Then Bjarki noticed something a little unusual. Clean open spaces divided the front cunei, and the scarae they belonged to; wider lanes between each regional unit. And the scarae behind the foremost ranks were also clearly delineated. But at the rear of the vast army before his eyes, where it stretched into the far distance, there were no lines or lanes, or so it seemed, the troops there were formed in one solid block. It was as if the men at the back were one super-scara containing scores of cunei all mingled and mixed together. They looked like a rabble, although it was hard to be certain.

  Was it just the sunlight shining in his eyes? It seemed that the further back he looked into this dazzling array of Frankish martial splendour the worse their order became. So what? he thought. Karolus’s most disciplined troops have all been stationed near the front. A very sensible arrangement.

  He dismissed the thought from his mind.

  The cunei of fifty Black Cloaks was approaching the channel. One of the lead riders was now holding a large white flag, and riding out in front of the pack. Bjarki turned left, glancing over at the command post on the east rampart, where both Siegfried and Theodoric had placed themselves.

  He saw a corresponding white flag appear through the front shutters of the post, and then the Duke of Saxony and the King of the Dane-Mark strode out of th
e wooden shelter and climbed up to the top of the wooden wall, staring down, contemptuously, or so it seemed, at Karolus, Duke Gerold and Bishop Livinus, who trotted out from the mass of Black Cloaks and came up to the very lip of the channel, about sixty paces from the position of the two leaders of the North.

  A skilled bowman, Bjarki thought, a keen-sighted one might just be able to hit… and then he cursed himself for entertaining such a dishonourable notion. A warrior who broke a truce under an acknowledged flag of peace would never be accepted into the Hall of the Slain. Odin would never reward him. He would be reviled as a nithing for as long as he was remembered.

  ‘People of Saxony,’ said Karolus. He spoke loudly, in a clear, ringing tone that was perfectly audible up on the summit of the rampart.

  ‘Men and women of the Dane-Mark – I come with one last offer of peace. An offer of peace and prosperity for all our people.’

  Bjarki saw that Valtyr had emerged from the command post too, and was standing beside Duke Theodoric, listening to Karolus’s words. Looking down at the gatehouse of Helligar Fortress, he saw that Jarl Snorri had come out on to the open platform above the heavy wooden double-gate to hear the proclamation from the great Frankish monarch on the far side of the water.

  There were no more than forty paces separating Jarl Snorri from Karolus and Bishop Livinus and the company of Black Cloaks. And most of that space was wet. Since the drawbridge had been wheeled back there was no dry way of crossing the deep channel without a boat – or a pair of wings.

  He was aware that his own Fyr Skola folk were all around him now.

  ‘I want nothing more than peace between our peoples,’ repeated the King of Francia. ‘That is all I desire!’ Bjarki remembered how reasonable the man could sound. He had to fight to recall how treacherous he truly was.

  ‘All I ask is that you come down from your ramparts this very hour and submit to me. You will do homage before me, and swear to turn away from your false gods and heathen practices. If you will swear to follow the teaching of the priests, and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Saviour and to follow the One True Faith evermore, we shall all become good friends.’

  An eerie silence fell over the field. The King of Francia conferred with Bishop Livinus, who gestured at the huge gate of Hellingar. Karolus nodded.

  ‘If you will agree to this very modest request,’ said the king. ‘I shall be more than generous with you – you may return to your homes and take up your lands and your lives again. I shall not seek to enslave or persecute any man nor woman, nor to punish your leaders – I have no quarrel with you, my noble duke, nor you, Siegfried Siegfriedsson. Let us talk and be friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ called down Theodoric. ‘Why would I choose to be friends with a man who butchered my people and stole my lands from under me?’

  ‘I would be a friend to you, nonetheless. I can find a use for a man of your talents, Duke Theodoric, but within the realm of Francia. I could make you a count and royal counsellor and give you dominion over Thuringia or Frisia or Septimania, if you so choose. You would be a great lord of the Frankish nation! And for you, Siegfried, King of the Dane-Mark, a high governorship, perhaps, of Jutland and the islands and the Little Kingdoms.’

  ‘I believe I already rule Jutland and all the islands,’ said Siegfried.

  ‘Yes, but for how much longer?’ came back the calm reply.

  Siegfried turned his back rudely on Karolus. ‘I’ve heard enough,’ he said, and the king of the Danes hopped down from the wall, landing lightly as a tomcat on the turf, and began walking back towards the command post.

  ‘Do not choose the path of war, O King!’ shouted Karolus. ‘Nor you either, Duke Theodoric. You can see the vast might of my holy realm spread before you. I could crush you like a toad beneath the ploughman’s blade. Choose, instead, the blessed path of lasting peace!’

  ‘I am a warrior of the North,’ yelled back Theodoric. Bjarki could see he’d gone bright red in the face. ‘We are bred in the bone here to fight for our land and our honour. More than that, I am Rekkr; the gods have chosen me as their red instrument. War lives in my heart. I shit all over your peace.’

  * * *

  The Green Cloaks came at them first. Bjarki watched as five full scarae of these light infantry troops, some fifteen hundred men, came trotting forward towards the wide channel from the centre-left of the vast Frankish army.

  He remembered from conversations with the Auxilla in the longhouse in Aachen that the Green Cloaks were specialists, trained for mountain warfare and to fight in thick forests. They were Duke Gerold’s men, bred in the uplands of Swabia, and they were used to traversing the frozen passes. Lightly armed, fast, able to march great distances at speed over very rugged terrain.

  The Green Cloaks crossed the three hundred paces of no man’s land in a terrifyingly short time. They were heading straight for the west rampart.

  ‘Get ready!’ yelled Bjarki. And all the way along the line the hersirs and jarls were exhorting their own men to prepare to receive a full assault.

  The first wave of Green Cloaks reached the southern edge of the channel. Bjarki could see that they were armed only with slender ash spears, short, thick stabbing swords, round shields and their steel-cap helmets. They wore no armour over their moss-green tunics, and their footwear was light, kidskin shoes, rather than the iron-studded boots the Red Cloaks favoured.

  Then he remembered the other skill for which the Green Cloaks were so renown. He watched in amazement as the first of the enemy soldiers reached the channel and demonstrated it. He saw the lead man hurl his round shield, like a discus, right across the twenty-yard stretch of water to bounce on to the grassy ground on the other side. The other Green Cloaks were all doing the same, skimming their shields across the water. Their spears were next; they tossed them high, sending them arcing over the water barrier twenty yards to the far bank where they stuck, quivering, in the turf.

  Then, without the slightest hesitation, the Green Cloaks dived one by one into the murky channel. In a few short strokes they were climbing out on to the far bank, dripping, retrieving arms and forming up in squads.

  Now it came back to him. Swimming – the Green Cloaks were famous all across Francia as champion swimmers. Not that the narrow channel would be much of a challenge for such accomplished water-folk as they.

  The Green Cloaks took only a little time to organise themselves in their companies. And then they charged.

  ‘Javelins!’ Bjarki bellowed, without looking round at his Fyr Skola comrades to see if they were ready. ‘On my signal! Wait for it, wait…’

  The foremost Green Cloaks, a couple of dozen lean men, were sprinting straight up the steep grassy slope of the west rampart as if it were as flat as a table. Bjarki could see the lines of determination on their pale, sweaty faces as they pounded up towards him.

  He hefted his javelin.

  ‘Kill them!’ he shouted and launched the light spear in his hand at the nearest Green Cloak, a long-faced man, who was leading the charge.

  The javelin took him right through the throat, the ash shaft sliding in to its midway point. The Green Cloak was jerked back down the slope by the force of the throw. All around Bjarki, the Fyr Skola fighters were hurling their spears over the wooden barrier, skewering the charging Green Cloaks, punching the sharp points through their unarmoured green chests, transfixing limbs, knocking the lightly armed men down in their dozens and scores.

  Bjarki snatched up another missile and threw it into the green swarm, adding it to the lethal rain of missiles that was decimating their bold, uphill charge. They were throwing all along the line now, pelting the enemy with wood and steel. He could hear Ivar Knuttson calling out, ‘Ha!’ with every javelin he launched. Tor beside him was a blur of motion, too fast to see, as she grabbed spear after spear and flipped them into the attacking Green Cloaks with an awful precision.

  Bjarki reached for another javelin from the stack leaning beside him on the chest-high fence and threw it h
ard into the face of a wild-eyed man just a few strides away from the summit. It took the fellow in his rolling right eye; his head snapped back and he gave out a horrible scream of rage and pain, clawing at his own face, and slithered back down the blood-greasy side of the rampart, tangling the feet of the Green Cloaks pounding up behind him.

  Bjarki put out his hand for another missile but, by the time he had lifted it, there was a Green Cloak right at the fence line, only a foot or two away, who lunged at him with his own spear, and he had to twitch his head to one side to avoid the strike. The spearhead hissed past his face and Bjarki’s left hand shot out and he grabbed the fellow by the front of his green woollen tunic. He dragged the man forward to the fence, slammed his face into the top of the wood, and jammed the point of his own uncast javelin down into the hollow by the struggling man’s collarbone; forcing the shaft deep into his torso, right down, shoving it inside him till the man stopped wriggling.

  There were Green Cloaks all along the fence now, pressing up hard, jabbing with their spears at the defenders, lunging over the barrier, swearing, screaming, spitting at the enemy – and the men of the North fought back with their own long weapons, cursing and shouting, jabbing at their faces, smashing mouths, slicing into scalps. The sunlight was spotted with gore.

  Some of the Greens were tearing at the wooden fence with their bare hands, trying to pull it down. One of the Storm Companies came up the slope behind Bjarki’s men – reinforcements. Their bowmen hauled back their strings and loosed into the enemy line from a dozen strides away, showering the Green Cloaks with their arrows, picking them off in ones and twos, forcing them back, sweeping them away from the line.

  Bjarki’s hand clutched below the fence for another javelin but he was snatching at air. All gone. He seized the long handle of his bearded axe, which was leaning against the wattle by his knee, and swinging it high over his head he chopped down and split the helmet of a Green Cloak who had just drawn back his spear. The man crumpled, dropping his lance.