The Norseman

by Jason Born

  I had never been to this city before, but grew to enjoy it during our month long stay. It was growing nicely into a trading center because of its easy access to the Baltic, yet protected harbor and lake. It was nearby the Danes and their trading vessels and sat between the sea and several prosperous interior kingdoms. It was not as amazing as London with its old Roman buildings and the vast array of merchandise and social ills for sale, but the populace had a positive air.

  Within in days of our arrival, an earl from the west arrived at Burizlaf’s travelling court. His name was Sigvaldi and I hated him. He was an acquaintance of Burizlaf, but in my mind he spent too much time passing out compliments from his dancing lips. Even my king, whom I have told you appreciated my honesty in the past, was taken in by the man’s words. Olaf became intoxicated by his false praise.

  Sigvaldi had dark hair that was straight, long, and combed back tightly against his head. Though I never saw him do it, I swore he used lard to keep the hair in a perpetual state of grease. He smiled constantly. Not the simple smile of the dim-witted, but the smile of the cunning. It was like he knew something that you did not; a joke to which only he was privy. A large mole sat on his left cheek and all I thought about when he spoke his slithering words was to grab that mole and lop it off. He was thin and tall. His hands looked pale and smooth, like he would bleed if he even tried to perform manual labor.

  Whenever Burizlaf and Olaf sat talking, Sigvaldi inserted himself into the conversation. He asked questions, listened with a feigned interest to the answers. He ingratiated himself for the entire month we were there. And I prayed for the day Olaf would awaken and ask me to kill Sigvaldi. That day never came, so as a last resort I practiced my patience for the day we would leave and I could be rid of him.

  The trip was worthwhile, though. The two kings vowed an undying friendship and increased trade and perhaps a military expedition together, should the need arise. Our day of departure came and I awoke to a brilliant sunrise. Like so many times in my life, I faced the sun that morning and closed my eyes. I saw the light through my eyelids and felt the warmth upon my face. It was going to be a hot day, the air was already heavy. I thought about Kenna and how I missed her, but didn’t weep. I thought about the soothsayer all those years ago who said I would love again; he was right. I smiled there in the sun, happy that Olaf was my father and friend, that he loved me enough to throw me in the river that day to awaken me from my bleak winter. Again, the one-eyed, black-toothed seer appeared in my mind. He said that Olaf would be king and convert many to the True God. He was right about so much, but seemed wrong about one thing. When Olaf left, the seer told me that the king’s reign would be short. It was now five years that Olaf sat on the throne and he just finished making a powerful alliance. Sweyn seemed to be held at bay. The sons of Haakon were neutered in Sigrid’s court. I thought about how many predictions out of ten have to be correct to be considered a seer.

  Laughs from Olaf and Burizlaf made me open my eyes. They made a joke out of their propensity to give bear hugs and embraced each other roughly and began dancing together. The men of both kings howled. A musician found a tune and the two danced longer. I joined the men in their hysterics.

  When they said their goodbyes, I climbed into the saddle atop my horse and held the reins of Olaf’s destrier for him. Olaf swung up to his own saddle and then anger pierced my heart. From the stables rode Sigvaldi and his troop of men. They came among us and clearly meant to accompany us to the shore. In front of Sigvaldi I questioned Olaf, “Lord, will he be riding with us?” I said “he” with disgust.

  Olaf answered, “Yes, he will. He leaves Burizlaf with us. Sigvaldi’s ship is at the Baltic, next to our own. How fortunate, eh? He has agreed to return to Kaupangen with us and see its wonders first hand so that he can travel back to his home and encourage trade. I couldn’t believe it when he told me, but he assures me that he knows a faster route through the Danish islands and has agreed to show us. I have sailed my whole life, but never knew of such a course.”

  Sigvaldi bowed deeply in the saddle, “Good, true King Olaf, I mean only to improve your own kingdom with more efficient trade. I humbly beg of you not to take offense at the chance occurrence that I have learned of the path before you.” I wanted to be sick.

  “Think nothing of it!” said Olaf. Then he tapped his heals into his horse’s belly and we left. I said nothing during the ride, staying behind Sigvaldi and Olaf. Cnute and Einar were next to me and they too scowled ahead at the earl. Sigvaldi prodded and poked and plied information from Olaf, who happily chatted away.

  We reached the shore quickly without incident except for the tortuous pain of listening to the slippery words of Sigvaldi. He asked for and received one of Olaf’s white banners with the dragon so that he could use it as a signal. There was a narrow that we would traverse on his route and he recommended that we lower our sails as we approached, using oars to navigate through. He would raise the banner to tell us when to do so. With the banner tucked under his arm he boarded an austere rowboat that was outfitted with a small sail to carry him to his lone ship anchored off shore. The breeze was fair and when the tide pulled us from the shore we hoisted our sails.

  We moved northwest along the coast. After five hours of sailing, instead of continuing straight in the direction from which we came toward Copenhagen, we turned west with the shoreline to follow Sigvaldi. I had been this way too. It was no secret and it was not shorter. Now that Olaf and I were finally away from the slinking earl I asked Olaf, “Do you really think that he knows a secret route?”

  Olaf chuckled, “Of course not. I live in these waters, but he is trying to impress me and that is alright. We’ll follow him, lower our sails when he thinks it is important, get home and compliment his route. It will make him feel better. We’ll never follow his instructions again, but we’ll get trade from him.”

  For the first time since Sigvaldi came into our lives, I felt more at ease. Olaf knew he was a sycophant. But then I worried, “What if he means us harm?”

  Olaf watched a seagull race our ship off starboard. It glided on outstretched wings, using its strong breast muscles to adjust to the variations in the wind. Then he answered me with a reprimanding tone, “Halldorr, he is one ship, we are eleven. There are four times as many men on Long Serpent alone. We are warriors, he is not. I have Berserkers, he does not. I believe we’ll live.” I nodded that he was correct, for he was, and dropped the subject.

  We camped that night on the southernmost tip of one of the large islands of Denmark and I thought of Sweyn. What would he think if he knew we were in his kingdom burning his wood for a great bonfire? Sigvaldi and much of his crew joined us on shore and I must admit we had a fine time. Olaf was careful to post sentries, but morning came and we had no trouble.

  Our eleven ships plus one moved northwest along this island’s southern coast and by mid-day turned north through a channel, one we had all been through a hundred times, that Sigvaldi the Fool thought was a secret. We moved through the channel’s center but he began to lead us closer to the western shore as the day waned. I thought he must have a place where he liked to stop for the night on that side of the channel. We were now close to a narrow island, shaped like a finger pointing to the north. I knew we would soon pass the tip of the island and behind us, to port, another branch of the channel would head off between the finger island and the mainland. I stood on the prow watching Sigvaldi’s ship ahead when some activity caught my eye. One of his men had unfurled Olaf’s dragon banner and was struggling to fix it to a rope on their mast to run it up. They were too far ahead and I could not hear him, but saw that Sigvaldi berated the man for the delay in getting the flag placed. I thought it strange that he would get so upset about the flag. First, there was no real reason we would have to lower our sails at this point in the channel and second, if Sigvaldi believed there to be an important reason for it, why had he not lowered his own? Then something bothered me. Something was different about Sigvaldi’s ship than
it had been the day before when I watched it slice through the water. The small rowboat that originally carried him to it was gone. It had sat in the ship aft of the mast yesterday so that I could plainly see it. Today it was gone. Something was wrong, but I didn’t know what.

  Sigvaldi was now past the end of the finger island and the dragon banner finally reached the top of their mast. He at last, slowly and inefficiently, lowered his sail and Olaf ordered that Long Serpent lower hers. Our men were efficient and it was down swiftly. I turned and saw that the boats behind ours were also lowering their sails as they had been ordered to do, but when I looked forward, Sigvaldi was again hoisting his and putting distance between us. We slunk past the tip of the island and I looked to port down the leg of the channel hidden by the finger and nearly pissed my pants. Tucked in the natural bay was a vast armada moving toward us. Fife would have known the exact number of ships, but I knew it was at least one hundred.

  I ran amidships and screamed, “Hoist the sails, hoist the sails!” The confused crewmen looked at me then looked to Olaf who looked disgusted with me. “We’re being attacked! We need to flee!” All eyes on Long Serpent followed where I pointed and curses and gasps sounded.

  Olaf shouted, “Hoist the sails!” And he shouted the same to the boats aft. “I’ll not flee from any battle, but we need to maneuver! Get those sails up!” The men pulled hard to bring the sails up, but it was too late. We would end up lowering them to receive the assault, for the attackers were under full sail when we first saw them and had quickly maneuvered themselves into three brigades, surrounding us. The center brigade was flying the banners of Sweyn Forkbeard. To the left were the banners of Eirik and Sveinn Haakonsson and to the right flew the banners of the Sigrid’s Swedes. In the distance I saw Sigvaldi’s ship moving away north through the channel no doubt laden with silver as payment for his treachery. And there, moored to a tree on the tip of the finger island, was the small rowboat from Sigvaldi’s ship which had been used to tell the enemy of our approach.

  The attackers were closing on us. The weather had been hot and none of us travelled with our armor, so our men scrambled to cloth themselves in leather or steel and to strap their belts about their waists. Olaf and I had our gear stowed near the steering oar and we helped each other dress. I just completed the buckle of my belt when the first arrows began slamming into our decks. Einar and two other men launched their own missiles back to the enemy. Einar’s enormous bow shot arrows a half a foot longer than most, and with more force. I watched them, one after another, crash into the faces of three Danes, pinning one to the mast. I then saw Sweyn. He stood barring his teeth on the prow shouting to his men. The screams of men being killed around me from the hailstorm of arrows was so great that I could not hear what he said. One arm was perched on the figure head of the prow of his ship and his own best mail glittered underneath the hot sun.

  Sweyn brought his brigade of ships, the largest of the three, toward us, because he knew Olaf would be on board Long Serpent with its gold gilding. The two Thorkels brought the Short Serpent and Crane next to us to receive the first blows. The Haakonssons took their contingent of ships around us to meet a second group of our ships which included the awkward ship of Olaf’s uncle and Hail Fury, the boat commanded by Meili. The brigade of Swedes swung around the other side, port, to attack our final group of ships which were lashing themselves together. On one of the Swedish warships I saw Truls, the cavalry man we met on our marriage venture to Sigrid. He stood proudly on the deck, adorned in leather armor, and looked like he was ready to exact some revenge for Olaf’s affront to his queen.

  There would be no maneuver, only slaughter. No warriors’ dance, only head-on power and thrusts and blood. We faced so many ships, we were already lost. Between Crane, Short Serpent, and Long Serpent we had all of three hundred men to meet Sweyn’s forty ships and close to one thousand six hundred men. But Olaf shouted that there would be no retreat, and so there wasn’t. I was sure death would meet me in mere moments. I would again meet Kenna and we would spend eternity in paradise.

  But then a brief flicker of hope happened. Thorkel Leira, the young, pompous captain of Short Serpent, with his many boasts, got his oarsmen to perform a great feat. They used their powerful backs and arms to propel the ship forward with profound speed. They proved their worth, and the Short Serpent’s agility, when they turned the ship as if it were a twig in the hands of a juggler. He got his wish. Short Serpent’s beard of iron spikes slammed into the port side of one of Sweyn’s longboats. One of the Danes was impaled on the end of a spike as the prow of Short Serpent rose atop the enemy ship, pushing it down into the water. The Danish ship took on water while Norsemen hurled spears at the Danes struggling to stay afloat. In minutes, while the arrows and spears still slammed into us and while we sent them back, the Danish ship was sunk. Most of the well armed men sank into the depths from their heavy mail, but those who wore leather or no armor swatted at the waves to stay alive. Short Serpent’s oarsmen beat them in the head, creating a slick of brain and bone-mixed blood that floated in the channel.

  And the flicker, as brief and bright as it was, faded. Thorkel Leira received a spear in his back as three Danish longboats grappled toward Short Serpent. One of them came along each side and the third tied off to her stern. Then Danes poured over their gunwales and began the killing. Swords sang and clashed. The heavy thuds of axes thumping into shields rang across the water, echoing back to us from the shore.

  My attention left Short Serpent to focus on killing the Danes. I forced my heavy yew bow into shape and strung it with its cord. I let the arrows fly. Beside me, Olaf also fitted his bowstring and joined me in sending death to our enemies. Cnute and Vikar swore terrible curses at the Danes approaching as they hurled spears and javelins into their ranks. Einar, many feet to my left was a killing mill. He turned his arms in the practiced motion: retrieve an arrow, swing it to the cord, nock it, pull, aim, release. Again. Again. Again. On one such draw of the bow two Danish missiles pierced the taut bow at the same time. His grand bow shattered to pieces in his hands and he fell to the deck from the loss of balance. Ox-foot lent him a hand up, but before Einar grasped it, a javelin struck Ox-foot in the ear and was buried deep within his skull. The force threw him to the middle of the ship like he was a girl’s rag doll.

  Einar looked stunned by the sight, but climbed to his feet, raced to the king, and snatched the bow right from his hands. Olaf didn’t miss a beat but took the chance to draw his sword and bark orders of encouragement to the men. Einar set an arrow on the king’s bow, but so great was his strength compared to Olaf’s, that he pulled the head of the arrow past the bow’s belly. He let the arrow go, but it shot harmlessly into the water below. Einar screamed at the bow, “The king’s own bow is weak! How can we defeat the filthy Danes with this?” In his anger he threw the bow into the channel where it bounced off of a Danish longboat then splashed into the water. And more men died around us.

  Thorkel Dydril, the hardened commander of Crane, shouted and swore at his men. He hit them in the back of the head with the flat edge of his sword. And then he was silent and still. A spear found his heart beneath the chain mail and skin and ribs. A thick mass of blood flowed from the wound, confirming that his heart pumped normal blood, not seawater. He crumpled to his knees after teetering for a moment, then fell the rest of the way to the decking. Soon his ship, my ship, I thought, the one I built from the trees from the forest, had Danes swarming over her gunwales. The men put up a valiant shield wall, but their corner was easily turned by so many enemy and they were hacked down one by one. Even our horses, the gifts from Sigrid, were killed.

  Then, for a moment, there was silence in our area of the channel’s battle. No Danish vessels approached us any longer. No more missiles came on board Long Serpent. The din of Norsemen dying at the hands of Haakon’s sons and the Swedes clattered across to our ears, but then even that stopped for our countrymen were all dead. Though I didn’t see it, I knew Olaf’s uncle w
as dead. Meili was dead. Long Serpent was surrounded by ships bristling with spears and swords. We were beaten.

  Those of Olaf’s Berserkers who remained alive instinctively huddled around their king to create a human shield. Olaf stood on the raised steering deck behind us. I was directly in front of him with Cnute and Einar on either side of me. Vikar, Thrond Squint-eye, and Bersi the Strong were in front of us and one hundred fifty panting Norsemen searing with rage stood before them; the bodies of their friends and relatives strewn about their feet. Crevan, whose gout was gone, kneeled next to our king praying fervently in Gaelic, Latin, and Norse as if the One God may have been partial to a certain language that day.

  And the drunk Twobeard spoke, “Olaf, how good of you to come to our battle today. You may wonder how it is that we had any idea when and how to prepare a fleet and have it ready right here in this very spot. You’ve already guessed that Sigvaldi happens to be in my employ, I am sure. But you may not know how I ever guessed to send him to Wendland in the first place.” His words slurred and I wanted to kill him. I could hear Olaf’s teeth grinding with fury behind me. “Your silence tells me that you are, in fact, curious. It’s a good tale, you’ll like it. Some years ago a Norseman came to visit me. He was most displeased with his new king, King Olaf, and offered his services to me. I was certain that I would never need the man, since you and I were such close allies, but welcomed him since a king can never be too careful. It turns out that he knew of your whereabouts many times since you were frequently a guest on his island and ate in his hall. Now he stands with me today, but alas, he cannot fight since his fingers are gone from his hand.” Erling from the Isle of Most, the man whose fingers I sawed off, stood next to Sweyn wearing a rich cloak and a smug grin. Then Forkbeard continued, “As much as I look forward to a good bit of exercise, I have to tell you I tire of all this blood. My men will have to scrub for days to get these stains out of our decks. Now you should surrender so that we can get all this over with. I offer fair terms. You’ll live as my servant and half of your men will be put to death, starting with that insolent Halldorr of yours. The rest will be sold as thralls in the market in Dyflin. You’re familiar with the market in Dyflin, are you not?”