The Road to Vengeance

by Judson Roberts

  I turned to where Hastein was pointing. The Franks had forced a wide hole in the shield-wall in front of Ragnar’s standard. Only Ragnar and one of his housecarls still stood in front of it, trying to keep the Raven banner from falling. As I watched, a rider hurled his spear into the housecarl’s breast, then spurred his horse forward. Its shoulder crashed against Ragnar, knocking him to the ground. The Frank drew his sword and hacked at the banner pole, while Ragnar rolled aside to avoid the stomping hooves of the horse above him.

  I swung my bow up and shot. My arrow hit the Frankish rider in the side of his head, just in front of his ear. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose as he fell sideways from his horse.

  Ragnar staggered to his feet and swung his long axe with both hands, nearly decapitating the dead man’s horse. As it fell, another rider urged his mount forward through the crush of bodies and raised his spear to stab at Ragnar’s back, but Ragnar spun to face him and swung his great axe again, striking the Frank in his leg just above the knee, severing it.

  Other archers had joined me on the hillside now. We poured our fire into the Franks at point-blank range. Hastein shouted to me again. “Where is Tore?” he cried. “We must give the signal!”

  But Tore was lost somewhere among the swirling mass of warriors hacking and stabbing at each other in front of the standards. I ran back down the slope to where Tore’s quivers lay on the ground, and dumped their contents onto the grass, searching for the fire arrow. When I found it, I pulled my flint and steel from the pouch at my belt and struck them together, over and over, showering sparks over the bundle of dried grass and tinder Tore had lashed to the arrow’s tip with strips of frayed linen. Finally some of the loose threads caught and held the sparks. The bundle began to smoke. I blew on the smoldering embers until they burst into flame, then lay the arrow across my bow and shot it arcing over the field of battle, showering sparks behind it like a falling star.

  A moment later, even over the screams of beasts and men, and the clashing of steel, I heard it—the distant peal of Ivar’s horn.

  9 : Grim Fruit

  The battle began in brave and desperate deeds, but it ended in slaughter. Ivar and his men poured from the wooded ridge extending along our left flank, and fell upon the rear of the disorganized swarm of Frankish horsemen that were pressing forward to attack our shield-wall. The warriors along the back of the Franks’ line, recoiling from Ivar’s assault, spurred forward into the rows of riders in front of them, in turn pushing them forward against the bristling hedge of the shield-wall’s spears. In the end, the Franks were packed so tightly together by the press of their own men and mounts that they could barely move at all. They bravely tried to fight, but we swarmed around them, stabbing and hacking with our spears, swords, and axes in an uncontrolled orgy of killing. We let their blood wash away the fear of death we all had felt, and our anger and sorrow for the many comrades we had lost.

  Many songs and stories have been composed about the great victory we won that day. But there is much that is never told in the tales that skalds spin. The screams of the wounded and dying, and the blood—the thick, red blood that was splattered over everyone and everything, soaking the ground until it squished underfoot—such things are not remembered in song. Nor are the weeping of wives and children when they learn they will never see their husbands and fathers again. War may be glorious in tale and song, but it is grim in fact.

  Some few of the Franks’ army escaped by breaking through the encirclement on the river side, and fleeing desperately from the field. Their leader, Count Robert, must have been among them, for his body was not found. Others, several hundreds of them, threw down their weapons and were taken prisoner. But most of the Franks—thousands of them—died that day.

  We made the Frankish prisoners do the grim task of fetching the dead from the field of battle—our dead only. We left the Frankish dead where they fell, though many of our warriors wandered among the bodies, stripping the slain Franks of their weapons, armor, and valuables. After the battle, not a man among our army, no matter how poor, was not equipped with brynie and helm, and the markets of Hedeby and Ribe would be flush for many months after our return to the north with captured Frankish armor and weapons offered for sale or trade.

  For days after the battle, the sky overhead was black with circling carrion birds, and foxes and wolves skulked in the fringes of the trees, waiting for night to fall so they could sate their taste for flesh.

  We also forced the Frankish prisoners to fell trees in the forest, haul the cut wood out onto the plain, and construct a huge pyre. Ragnar announced that in three days’ time, we would hold a funeral feast and burn our dead.

  The mood in our army was grim. Every ship’s company had taken heavy losses. Among the Gull’s crew, three of our ten archers had died—Odd, Hauk, and another warrior who’d bled to death from a javelin that had skewered his thigh. And two others were wounded, one badly. Four of our crew who’d fought in the ranks of the shield-wall had also been slain, and almost all the rest had wounds of some nature. Although one man had lost a hand, another an eye, and a third would probably walk with a limp for the rest of his days, all of our injured would likely recover if they did not develop a fever. But our crew, which had numbered thirty-nine when we’d sailed from the Limfjord, had now been reduced to twenty-four warriors, and five of those would not be well enough to fight again this season. We did not even have enough men left to man all thirty of the Gull’s oars.

  Around the cook fires of the army, men complained bitterly about the losses we had suffered, and questioned Ragnar’s wisdom in challenging the Franks when it had not been necessary.

  Tore, in particular, was vocal in his anger. “What did we gain from this battle?” he grumbled to anyone who would listen. “What did any of us gain? Are we wealthier men as a result of this victory? Does anyone truly believe our own homes are safer because of the Franks we killed here? Their numbers are vast. There will always be more of them. But who will replace our comrades? Who will replace our warriors who died?”

  I, too, thought the battle had been ill-considered, given the heavy losses we’d suffered, though I did not voice my feelings as Tore did. It was true we had utterly crushed the force of Frankish cavalry that had faced us. But they had been only a part of the entire army the Franks’ King Charles had mustered. And his was only one of three Frankish kingdoms. Like Tore, I did not believe we had crippled the might of the Franks. I did not see how this victory had truly made our own land any safer.

  Ragnar was aware of the army’s discontent. “Even if from no one else, he has heard it from Ivar,” Torvald told me. “They almost came to blows. Ivar is a son who does not hesitate to criticize his father, and he speaks his mind bluntly. Ivar weighs the success of a campaign more by silver won than blood spilled, and by his measure the plunder we have won so far from the Franks does not nearly compensate for the men we’ve lost. And now our army is too weak, in his judgment, to achieve any further successes on this campaign.”

  “What of Hastein?” I asked. “What does he think about the battle?”

  “The jarl is keeping his own counsel so far,” Torvald answered. “Though he is very concerned about how many men we have lost from the Gull’s crew. And Stig, too, lost more than a few warriors from the Serpent in this battle. Between the two ships, Hastein has lost many experienced warriors who followed him.”

  At least Svein and the crew of the Sea Wolf had been safe back in Ruda. Perhaps Hastein would draw men from their crew to help us man the Gull when the time came for the long voyage home.

  “Would Hastein have risked this battle had he known the cost we would pay?” Tore demanded. “I do not believe so. The jarl is wiser than that. I think he was misled by Ragnar.”

  Torvald shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know the jarl’s mind, nor do you, Tore. But do not be too quick to criticize Ragnar. His plan did accomplish what he sought to do: We crushed the army of Franks who faced us. Years from now, men will remembe
r only the victory. They will forget the cost.”

  “I will not forget,” Tore said. “I will never forget Odd. He was my comrade for many years, on many voyages. We fought side by side in many battles. I will not forget him and I will never believe this victory was worth his death.”

  Torvald shook his head as Tore stomped off angrily. “He should watch his tongue,” he said. “Though many may be unhappy about this battle, Ragnar is still our war-king, and he is a powerful and dangerous man.” He looked down at me. “Hastein wishes to speak with you,” he said. “You are to come with me to his tent.”

  When we reached Hastein’s tent, I was surprised to see Ivar and Bjorn were there, sprawled in front on the great bearskin Hastein used to entertain guests on. All three were drinking wine. From Bjorn’s appearance, I suspected he had been for some time.

  “Ah, it is the hero of the battle,” Ivar said, mockingly raising his cup to me as I approached. I frowned, not understanding what he meant.

  “Oh, do you not know?” he said. “Your name is on many men’s lips. It is said that but for you, Father would have been killed in the battle. And possibly Hastein, too. I thank you for saving Hastein, but do not expect me to show gratitude about Ragnar.”

  “Shut your mouth, Ivar.” Bjorn spoke in a thickly slurred voice. “He is still our father.”

  Hastein stood and beckoned me to follow him into the tent. Inside, he filled a cup with wine and handed it to me. “Do not mind Ivar,” he said. “He is just angry. But not at you.” I wondered what had angered Ivar so. He had never struck me as one who cared overmuch about the lives of common warriors.

  “Have you not heard the stories men are telling about you?” Hastein asked. I shook my head. “I suspect Ragnar himself may have started some of them. But they are not undeserved. But for your rallying of the archers, and your signaling Ivar, we might well have lost the battle. And there might not have been a successful river crossing, or a battle at all, had you not found and killed the Frankish sentries.”

  Perhaps it would have been better, I thought, if the river crossing had failed. Many deaths would have been avoided.

  “Why do you say Ragnar may have started the tales?” I asked.

  “Warriors like a hero,” Hastein said. “They are stirred by tales of brave and daring deeds. The army is in a dangerous mood now. Ragnar knows they are, and wishes to distract them. Tales of your deeds may be one way he is trying to. The Gods are another.”

  “The Gods?” I asked.

  “Ragnar is now saying that this victory was a gift to our people from the Gods—from Odin, in particular. He is calling the battle a victory of our Gods over the White Christ. He plans a great sacrifice at the funeral feast to thank them. I think he feels our men are less likely to question his decision to fight the Franks if they believe the victory over them was a gift from All-Father Odin. It is, of course, unwise to be ungrateful to the Gods.

  “But I did not call you here to discuss these matters. I am thinking of making you captain of my archers.”

  I was dumbfounded. I did not know what to say. “But Tore…” I stammered.

  “Tore failed me dangerously during the battle,” Hastein answered. “He forgot the responsibility I had entrusted to him. Had you not found and shot the fire arrow, the battle’s outcome might have been very different.”

  To command the archers who fought under so great a leader was an honor I had never even dreamed of. It was a long way for a former slave to have come.

  “You have not given me an answer,” Hastein said. “What would you say, if I asked you to command my archers?”

  I realized Hastein was not saying he wished me to command—he was asking me what I would do if he offered it to me. Was this some kind of test? Or was he still undecided in his own mind?

  Tore had saved my life that day in Ruda when Toke’s man, Snorre, had tried to stick a knife in me. Though perhaps not a friend, he was a comrade. I could not do this to him. And becoming the captain of Hastein’s archers would bring me no closer to fulfilling my vow and avenging Harald’s death. I had a different path to follow.

  “I do not think it would be fair to Tore,” I told Hastein. As I spoke the words, I doubted if Tore would have had any concern at all about being fair to me were our roles reversed. No matter. “Tore saw the Franks beginning to break through our shield-wall,” I continued. “He joined the line to try to help drive them back. Once he was caught up in the fighting….”

  I did not finish. I had been planning to say Tore had just forgotten about the fire arrow once he was caught up in the fighting. But that, I supposed, was Hastein’s point. And although I believed Tore’s actions were at least in part a reaction to the grief and anger that had filled his heart at Odd’s death, I feared Hastein would not think that any excuse at all.

  “I am honored,” I told Hastein. “But I do not feel I have the experience to lead other warriors, especially ones as seasoned as the Gull’s crew. There are still too many things I do not know and have not done. Tore is more fit to lead the archers than me.”

  Hastein stared at me silently for some time, as though he was trying to read my thoughts and know what was truly in my heart. “I am not certain I agree with you,” he finally said. “But for now, we will leave things as they are. Tell no one what we have spoken of.”

  As I was walking away, I could hear Ivar complaining again to Hastein and Bjorn about the battle.

  “Great victory? Hah!” he said. “Ten thousand people. Dozens of churches and monasteries. And with no wall protecting it all. Capturing that would have been a great victory. This was more of a disaster.”

  The day of the funeral feast, the sky was dark with clouds and threatened rain. For Ragnar’s sake, I hoped the storm would pass. If the funeral pyre would not burn because of rain falling from the heavens, it would be hard to convince our army that the Gods themselves had given us the victory. If they had, surely Thor, the thunder God, would not prevent us from honoring our dead.

  The funeral pyre had been built far out on the plain, away from the ridge and the field of battle. It was a long platform, as tall as a man, built of layers of large, crisscrossed logs. The hollow interior of the pyre was filled with dead brush and the branches that had been cut from the felled trees. Its top—the platform on which our dead had been laid—was built of smaller logs, laid side by side across the framework to create a level surface.

  It was a very long pyre. There were many dead to burn. One hundred and eleven longships had rowed upriver from Ruda. Every crew had lost warriors in the battle.

  We arrayed ourselves around the long platform in our ships’ companies and listened as Ragnar—standing atop it, so all could see and hear him—told us how favored we all were to have been a part of so glorious a victory, and how our valiant dead were already feasting in Valhalla with the Gods.

  I could not keep my thoughts on Ragnar’s words. I kept looking over my shoulder at what lay behind us. A solitary oak tree, huge and ancient, towered over the plain not far from the pyre. Frankish prisoners, dozens and dozens of them, sat or squatted together on the ground near it, surrounded by armed warriors from the crew of Ragnar’s ship, the Raven.

  Oak trees were sacred to Odin, the God of war and death. Sacrifices to the one-eyed God were often hung upon oak trees, although I had never seen other than beasts sacrificed that way. I remembered now with horror that Hastein had said Ragnar planned a great sacrifice to the Gods to give thanks for the victory they had given us. I could not tear my eyes away from the Frankish prisoners huddled miserably near the giant oak. I wondered if they knew or suspected what awaited them.

  The pyre was lit, and the roaring flames began to consume the bodies of our dead. A huge plume of dark smoke rose into the sky. What followed next was a scene I wish I could erase from my memory.

  Each ship’s crew chose a victim from among the terrified Frankish prisoners—a sacrifice to be offered to Odin in honor of the ship’s crewmembers slain in the battle. One by
one, the Franks were marched beneath the ancient tree and hoisted by nooses that Ragnar, acting as godi for the sacrifice, tied around each of their necks. Up into its branches each prisoner was pulled, kicking and struggling in a desperate dance of death.

  When the time came to hang the Gull’s wretched sacrifice, Tore eagerly stepped forward and helped haul upon the rope. He asked me to join him, to honor the memory of Odd, but I declined. I could not. I had killed Franks in battle, but this was different. The man standing before us was weeping and begging us for his life. He would surely not have surrendered had he thought this might be his fate. There was no honor in this. It sickened me.

  I turned away and began walking toward the river. I had to leave. I could not listen any longer to the cries of the terrified Franks, nor see the desperate panic in their eyes as they awaited their turn to die.

  I was standing at the edge of the river across from the downstream island, staring at the current flowing by. How many days would it take for the water passing by me now to make its way to the sea?

  I had wandered there after leaving the sacrifice, hoping that being in the forest might bring my troubled heart some peace. It did not. I realized that my feet had led me to a spot not far from where I had killed the third Frankish sentry. Was there nowhere I could escape from death?

  I felt exhausted. Weariness weighed on my body and my heart. Every night since the battle, my sleep had been fitful and restless, and my dreams had been haunted by ghostly faces of men I had killed. Some of the faces I did not even recognize. But all of the faces told me, speaking in strange, whispering voices, “You killed me.”

  Last night, the dream had been different. Last night, a woman had appeared. She was very, very old. Her face was wrinkled and her cheeks sunken. Her hair, which flowed long and unbound over her shoulders and down her back, was as white as snow. Yet despite her aged visage, she stood erect and tall, and there was a strange, almost glowing beauty about her features.