“This is a night of celebration, as it should be. We feast this night to honor what we have achieved together, because on the morrow, we will part. We came together and formed this great army, and sailed to the land of our enemies, far from the safety of our homes. We have fought here together and have won many victories. But we have also seen many of our comrades find the ends of their fates here. Look around you, and be proud. This is a company of warriors who have won glory and honor, who deserve the songs and tales that will be told about our deeds here for years to come.”
The arena erupted in cheers. When the noise died down, Hastein continued.
“You have heard many chieftains and our war-king, Ragnar, himself, praise you for what we have done here in the land of the Franks. I cannot speak fairer words about you, about our army’s successes, than those already spoken this night. So I will not try. Instead, let me entertain you. Eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves while I tell you a tale of brave deeds and dark treachery, of bold warriors and of evil, cowardly men—no, not men, less than that: Nithings. Let me be your skald this night, and entertain you while you feast.” And so Hastein began his tale: the tale of Harald and Toke—and me.
“Once there were two brothers, as unlike as day and night. One was fair and brave, a warrior loved and admired by all. The other was dark and brooding. He was a berserk, feared by many.
“Their father was a mighty chieftain, a leader among the Danes. Ireland, England, Frankia—they all trembled with fear when his ships appeared. Eager his warriors were when battle loomed. And their fine silver-clad swords, gilded sword-belts, and arm-rings of gold and silver attested to their prowess and success.”
I had not realized Hastein possessed such skill as a storyteller. He made these men sound like legendary heroes of old. Had I not known of whom he was speaking, I would not have recognized my father, nor his men. Though they were certainly doughty warriors, gold and silver arm-rings and gilded sword-belts had not been something commonly seen in my father’s longhouse.
“The fair son accompanied his father on many distant raids and daring voyages, winning much renown,” Hastein continued. “He was a loyal son and a brave comrade, and his father trusted and loved him above all others. The dark son, jealous and angered by the love his father showed his brother, left home to seek his own fate and fortune. In time, he became a renowned chieftain in his own right.
“The threads of life of all men, even the greatest, sooner or later are cut by the Norns, for no man lives forever. During a great raid against the English, in a fierce battle, the chieftain was struck down. Knowing his father was dying, the fair son brought him home. There, on his deathbed, the chieftain divided his lands and treasure. And he entrusted the care of his youngest son—one not yet old enough to have followed his father as a warrior—to his fair brother. ‘Teach him well,’ their dying father said. ‘Help him become a warrior as fine and renowned as you.’”
I was very pleased at the way Hastein was telling this tale. I especially liked the way he omitted the fact that I had been a thrall in my father’s household.
“Here is where this story truly begins,” Hastein said. “For the division of the chieftain’s possessions led to the deeds of courage and of treachery I will tell you of this night.”
Hastein paused and reached his arm behind him. Cullain, who’d been squatting behind Hastein’s chair, stood and handed him a silver cup filled with ale. Hastein drained it and handed the empty cup back to Cullain to be refilled before he continued.
“But first, I should put names to the men whose deeds I tell you of. For these men are not ancient heroes, known only in legends or in songs sung by skalds. These are warriors who have walked among us—whom some of you may know, or may have fought beside.
“The chieftain’s name was Hrorik, son of Offa. Some of you may recall him as the leader of the first great raid against Dorestad, when that rich town was sacked and much treasure was won. I myself knew Hrorik well, and have fought beside him. Hrorik died early this year from wounds he received while fighting in England.”
Up on the platform, Ragnar was staring at Hastein and frowning. Ivar, seated beside him, had a small grin on his face. Although Ragnar did not know what Hastein intended, Hastein had told Ivar of our plan, and had enlisted his help with it.
“The fair son,” Hastein continued, “was named Harald. Again, I myself knew him; some of you may have, also. His skill with a sword was widely admired. And the name of his brother, the dark son, is Toke.”
I had been watching Snorre, who was seated up on the raised platform. Until now, he’d been slouching back in his chair, laughing and talking with the chieftain beside him. He’d been paying no attention to what Hastein was saying. But at the sound of Toke’s name, he sat up and began listening, a puzzled look on his face.
“When Toke learned of his father’s death—Hrorik was, in truth, his foster father—he returned to the land of the Danes to discover what inheritance awaited him. He was enraged to learn that Hrorik had left him nothing. Most of Hrorik’s lands and treasure had passed to his son Harald—all save one small estate on the Limfjord, in the north of Jutland, which Hrorik gave his younger son, whose name is Halfdan.”
Ragnar’s puzzled frown had turned to a scowl by now. He leaned forward across the table and spoke to Hastein in a voice loud enough to carry to where I sat, just beyond the edge of the platform. “What are you doing, Hastein? I thought you said you intended to entertain the army with a tale.”
Hastein answered him in a low voice, “Do you think they are not entertained? We will see what happens. The best is yet to come.”
Ragnar threw himself back in his chair, glancing restlessly from side to side. “I am entertained, Father,” Ivar told him. Ignoring them, Hastein continued.
“I met Halfdan earlier this year and took him into the crew of my ship, the Gull. His brother, Harald, taught him well. He is a formidable warrior who has fought well here in Frankia as part of our army. Though but a young man, he has already won much renown. Our war-king himself has honored Halfdan. He may be better known to you, the warriors of this army, by the name Strongbow.”
Tore, who was seated on the ground beside Torvald, looked over at me. “The story the jarl is telling is about you,” he said in a surprised voice.
“Your wits are as quick as ever,” Torvald told him.
“There is more than one way to inherit wealth and lands,” Hastein said. “Harald and Halfdan traveled north to the Limfjord to inspect the estate Halfdan had been left by their father. They were not expecting trouble, and were accompanied by only a few of Harald’s housecarls. Toke followed them there with his entire retinue of warriors. He thought to win with murder the inheritance his foster father Hrorik had failed to leave him.
“Toke struck in secret in the night, no doubt hoping to slay Harald and Halfdan in their sleep. But his cowardly attempt at murder failed. And though badly outnumbered, Harald and Halfdan and their handful of men beat off Toke’s attack and barricaded themselves in the longhouse.
“Hoping to protect those who had no part in the fight, Harald secured a promise from Toke that the women, children, and thralls of the estate could leave the longhouse in safety before the next assault. Toke gave his oath—he pledged his honor—that they would not be harmed. But if an oath is sworn on the honor of a man who has none, it is meaningless.”
As he was speaking, Hastein had stepped forward to the edge of the platform. He nodded down at me now and said, “You should hear from one who was there how Toke honored his oath. Tell us, Halfdan. Tell the noble warriors of this army what happened when the women, children, and thralls left the safety of the longhouse.”
Hastein leaned down and extended his arm to me. We clasped wrists, and he pulled me up onto the platform.
I turned and looked out over the army of warriors seated on the fire-lit floor of the arena, a sea of faces that were now all staring at me, and said, in the loudest and clearest voice I could manage, “I wi
ll remember what happened that night for the rest of my life. I saw Toke step into view. He was holding a torch and called to the women and children. He urged them to leave the longhouse saying, ‘Come this way to the light and safety.’ They went to him, trusting in the promise he had given. Then, when all were beyond the reach of any aid we could give, Toke shouted to his men, ‘Kill them all! There can be none left alive to tell the tale.’”
Angry murmurs swept across the floor of the arena. “That is a grave accusation you have made,” Hastein said.
“But it is true,” I told him. “You are a godi. You are wearing the oath-ring. Let me hold it and I will swear upon it.”
Hastein slipped the gold ring from his arm and held it out in front of him, clenched in his fist, and stated, “Do you swear to Thor, God of oaths, and of strength and honor, that you speak the truth?”
I clasped my hand over the other side of the ring and answered in a voice loud enough to carry out across the floor of the arena. “I swear it. I give my oath, upon this unbroken ring and upon my honor, that all I say is true, and may Thor himself strike me dead if I lie. Toke and his men murdered innocent women, children, and thralls, after he swore an oath to my brother, Harald, that they would be safe. And there is more. After that dark deed was done, Toke and his men set fire to the longhouse, seeking to burn alive the warriors they could not best by force of arms.
“We tried to fight our way clear of the burning longhouse and reach the safety of the surrounding forest, but once in the open, we were too few, and Toke’s warriors too many. In the end, only Harald and I were left. Harald died cutting a path clear through the surrounding warriors, so I could escape. ‘Someone must survive to avenge us,’ he told me. I did survive. And I have sworn to avenge the murderous deeds done that night.”
Ragnar could restrain himself no longer. Pushing his chair back so violently that it fell over with a clatter, he stood and pounded his fist on the table.
“What are you doing, Hastein? What are you playing at, with this business of oaths and accusations? This is a feast. We are here to celebrate our army’s victory. This is not a Thing.”
Hastein had warned me Ragnar would be angry. Ivar had agreed. “This feast is Father’s last chance to remind the warriors of our army what his leadership has won for them. He will not like you distracting them from that.”
Hastein turned to Ragnar and told him, “You are right, Ragnar. This is not a Thing. And I am not bringing a lawsuit, nor is Halfdan. Not here, not now.”
Turning back to the upturned faces of the army, all of whom by now were watching intently, Hastein said, “Why am I telling you this, my comrades? Why have I told you this tale tonight, one that as yet has no ending? It is because you have proven, by your deeds here in Frankia, that you are brave and honorable men. For the rest of your lives, you will be respected and honored for having fought and won here.
“But there is one among you, and perhaps more than one, who does not deserve that honor and respect. Some do not deserve to be a part of this company of men. Knowing that Halfdan escaped that night up on the Limfjord, knowing that one witness to his treachery had survived, Toke sent one of his most trusted followers to find Halfdan and slay him. He sent a man who had helped him kill the innocent women and children up on the Limfjord, and who had helped him slay Harald and his men—a man who had as much to gain by silencing our comrade Halfdan as Toke himself did.
“I have told you this tale, my comrades in arms, because there is a murderer among us—one who is guilty of niddingsvaark. It is time to unveil him, so all here can know him and his master, Toke, for what they are.”
While Hastein spoke these last words, I walked down the platform until I stood in front of where Snorre was sitting.
“I accuse you, Snorre!” I shouted. “You were there that night. I accuse you of murder for helping Toke kill my brother Harald, and his men, and the women and children and thralls of the farm who were promised safety. I accuse you of joining this army and coming here to Frankia, not to fight our enemies, but to try to murder me. This night I will see you pay.”
For a few moments, there was only silence. No one in the arena spoke. Snorre himself looked stunned, as if he was unable to comprehend what had transpired. Then he regained his wits. With an angry roar, he leaped to his feet and jerked his sword from its scabbard. In an instant, Stig and Svein were also on their feet. They seized Snorre’s arms, twisting them behind him, and knocked the sword from his grasp.
Ragnar, who was still standing, shouted at Hastein, “Look what you have done! Have you forgotten that I have forbidden our warriors from fighting each other while we are in Frankia?”
“The army disbands on the morrow, and we sail for home,” Hastein told him. “One duel this night will do no harm—especially if it is approved by you.”
“And think, Father,” Ivar added, “this will add to the tales men will tell about your campaign here in Frankia. It will make the farewell feast you have given this night one that will long be remembered. Besides, you should think of our warriors, of what they would want. Hastein promised to entertain them. What better than a fine show of blood and death?”
I had walked back down the platform and stood before Ragnar. “I did not do this to anger you,” I told him. “But bringing vengeance to those who killed my brother is my fate, and I will not shirk it. You told me not long ago that you were in my debt. I ask this now of you in return. Let me fight Snorre this night.”
“You have planned this together, haven’t you? All three of you,” Ragnar growled. “You have been very unwise this night, young Halfdan. You had won much when you earned Ragnar Logbrod’s gratitude. It was not a thing to be so lightly discarded.”
While a runner went to Snorre’s ship to fetch his weapons and armor—I had brought mine to the feast, knowing what was to come—our army’s warriors relocated to the rows of stone benches overlooking the arena’s floor. Judging from the volume of their voices and laughter, their spirits were high. Ivar had been right—they were definitely entertained by the prospect of watching a duel.
I, on the other hand, was feeling increasingly nervous. I hoped it did not show. In my impatience to strike some blow against Toke, had I made a terrible mistake? What had made me think I could best Snorre in a duel?
Torvald and Hastein were with me, helping me arm myself. I’d already pulled on my padded jerkin and mail brynie, but when I reached for my helm, Hastein stopped me.
“Not yet,” he said. “Its weight will tire your neck and shoulders. Do not put it on until you need to. You must not waste any of your strength. You will need it all. A duel is unlike any other kind of fighting.”
Hastein’s remarks were no doubt supposed to be helpful, but they were having the opposite effect. My stomach was feeling queasy—had I eaten a full meal, it would surely be coming back up—and I was feeling light-headed and short of breath. At this rate, by the time the duel began I would not be able to walk, much less fight.
“Have you ever fought a duel before?” Torvald asked, looking at me closely. I shook my head. “Hunh,” he said. Then, after a long moment, as if he could come up with nothing else to say, he finally added, “Well, it is good to get your first one out of the way.” I wondered if he was thinking it would likely also be my last.
“Remember, quickness is very important in a duel,” Hastein said, continuing with his worrisome advice. “Few duels last long. Unlike in battle, you and your opponent have only each other to concern yourselves with. The smallest advantage can be decisive; the smallest mistake fatal. I myself do not like to use the shoulder strap on my shield when dueling. I have more speed and freedom of movement without it, though eventually it is more tiring.”
Ivar sauntered up. “Hail, mighty Strongbow,” he said. “You are quite the talk of the army this night. If the duel goes well, your reputation will be made. Of course, if Snorre kills you, the fine tale Hastein has taken so much trouble to spin will not have the right ending at all.
/> “But did Hastein leave some parts of the story out? I, too, knew Harald and Hrorik. Now that I give some thought to the matter, I do not remember Harald ever mentioning a younger brother, nor Hrorik a younger son. And Snorre is telling all who will listen that you are a slave, or at least were born one.”
I wondered if Hastein had foreseen this. I certainly had not.
“Is there nothing else you have to do now, Ivar?” Hastein asked.
Ivar ignored him and continued. “A slave who becomes a famous warrior, and who pursues a vow of vengeance. The skalds will love this tale—if it does not end tonight.”
Einar joined us. “I have been talking with some warriors who’ve spent much time in Ireland,” he said. “Several of them claim to have seen Snorre fight duels before.”
“What do they say?” I asked.
“They are betting on him,” he answered. That was encouraging to hear. What else could my comrades do to boost my spirits? “They say he fights with a great-axe, and that he wields it well.”
Hastein frowned. “Interesting,” he said. I thought alarming was more apt. “He certainly has the size to handle one, and with his long arms, it would give him quite a reach.” Turning to me, he asked, “Have you ever fought against a great-axe before?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. It had been my father’s favorite weapon, but when Harald had trained me, we’d never worked with axes. He did not fight with one.
“I myself have never seen one used in a duel before,” Hastein said. “They can be deadly weapons in battle because of the great power of their blows, but most men think them too much slower than a sword to use in a duel. But Snorre is a big man. If he grips the axe near the end of its handle, be especially careful, for with its full length added to that of his own arms, he will be able to strike at you from beyond the reach of your sword. And you must be very careful how you parry his strikes with your shield. A great war-axe can easily shatter one.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. “Are you comfortable fighting with a spear?” he asked.
The Road to Vengeance Page 21
