Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

by C. R. May

  Erik’s eyes flicked between the spume flecked madness of the water little more than a dozen ship lengths ahead of the Draki, and the sail of Alf’s ship as it moved to starboard and safety. He saw the moment when Alf’s styrisman began to centre the tiller, ready to steer the ship back on its course to inevitable victory, and a pang of regret came as he thought that he had endangered the vessel in vain. But as he watched the top of Fjord-Ulf’s sail the first flicker came a moment later, and he teased the tiller on his own ship to hold her steady as his plan began to bear fruit. Anlaf Crow was watchmen and he called back from his position in the prow as the ship neared the rocks. ‘Six lengths of clear water.’

  The wind was blowing steadily over the larboard quarter, and Erik stared at the top of his opponent’s sail as he fought down his own fear of foundering. At last, just as he thought that he would have to abandon his plan and save the ship, a shiver ran down the length of the Fjord-Ulf’s sail as it began to luff, and the great woollen sheet collapsed against the mast as the Draki’s own sail stole the wind. In an instant Erik had the tiller hard over, pulling with all of his might as he willed the ship to come about, and the crew held their breath as one as the tall stem post began to swing to starboard with agonising slowness.

  Anlaf called again the concern dripping from his voice, ‘two lengths!’ and Erik fought to calm his voice as he cried out to the crew. ‘Over to the side lads, let’s give her some help.’ The Draki heeled to starboard as the men rushed to add their weight to the turn, and Erik redoubled his efforts at the tiller as a yowl beneath their feet told them all that the bottom of the ship was scraping against an unseen rock. A shudder passed the length of the ship as the keel caught, but a moment later the sea had surged to lift her clear, and Erik watched as the crew exchanged looks which told that they knew that the gods had been with them.

  The outlier passed down the larboard side as the Draki surged forward into clear water, and Erik stole a look at the Fjord-Ulf as they moved away. The current had pushed the bows to the East as he had hoped once the way had bled off the ship, and Skipper Alf’s crew were desperately hauling at the sheets as they hunted the wind. The sail was beginning to fill once again as the yard came about, but the momentum had been lost and everyman there knew that the race could only have one winner. Vaeroy broke the waves a few miles ahead, the big double bay on the landward side of the island clearly in view, and Erik centred the tiller as he led the fleet to the place where they would overnight.

  Kolbein was back on the steering platform, and they exchanged a look as the crewmen filled the ship with nervous laughter. The styrisman made to make a comment, but his mouth gaped like a fool as his mind scrabbled in vain for the right words. Finally he gave up trying, and the pair, king and huskarl shared a tight smile as Erik spoke for him. ‘Thirsty yet?’

  ‘Here she comes.’ Kolbein narrowed his eyes and peered away to the East. ‘Yes,’ he added, ‘no mistake, that is a warship. A big skei too!’

  Erik nodded with satisfaction. ‘That makes three, plus the snekkjur.’ He did a quick calculation as the fleet bobbed on the swell. ‘That gives us just over four hundred men.’ He shot his styrisman a grin. ‘Even leaving an adequate ship guard that will give us enough men to hit them hard but not so many that this King Svasi will shy away from battle, especially after we have given him good cause to seek my own head over the course of the summer.’

  The broad expanse of water known as Ofotfjord gaped to the East, with the sleek shape of the Halogaland contribution to his ship army breasting the waters as the rowers pulled out to join up with their king beneath a madness of gulls. ‘It was a good idea,’ Kolbein was saying at his side, ‘that we steered well clear of Narvik.’ He shook his head as he thought of the northern town. ‘Kaupmen, traders, the lot of them. They would sell their granny if the price was right.’ Erik nodded in agreement. This Narvik was the furthest north of the towns which bore the same name dotted up and down the coast of Norway. It simply meant knarr-vik, the harbour of the trading ships, and although the locals and Erik himself as king had grown rich on the trade from the interior, those same connections with the hinterland could very well have led to his arrival in Bjarmaland being met not with surprise and fear, but a fully mustered and battle ready army.

  They were up in the lands where the sun neither set at high summer nor rose at all in midwinter, but the gods had seen fit to keep the sea ice free all year round, unlike the coastlines of Sweden and Finnmark on the far side of the mountain chain men called The Keelbacks so a healthy trade had developed. The downside for Erik was that communications between the two regions were frequent and the path well trodden; they would have to move fast, despite the precautions he had taken to keep their destination secret.

  The men began to cheer and beat a rhythm on their shields, and Erik looked again towards the oncoming ship. Seeing the king’s pennant flying at the mast top the Halogaland ship was coming about, flashing a glimpse of her keel as it heeled over in the turn to come alongside the Draki. The other ships fanned out to give the newcomer sea room, and Erik recognised the bluff shape of Ragnar Jarl at the stern. A smile flashed from within the depths of his great beard, and Erik returned the gesture as he felt the warmth of the man even across the waves. The styrisman on the Halogaland ship brought the skei onto a parallel course a short hail from the Draki, and Erik watched as Ragnar filled his lungs. ‘Welcome to your kingdom of Halogaland, King Erik. I bring you the Orm, the Serpent, double crewed to do your bidding,’

  Erik ran his gaze along the length of the Halogaland ship. Ragnar was right, the deck was crowded with men, good fighting men, and his heart soared at the sight. That would add another one hundred and twenty or so hirdmen to the force: he had an army, despite the poor response to his war arrow from the jarl in Moerr. A single Snekkje was almost a snub, and although he realised that the district lay close to the Trondelag and Sigurd Jarl’s seat of power he had expected more. It was true that his half brothers had burned in the old jarl and his men, but King Harald had taken revenge and installed the present jarl from the family line. Arinbjorn’s sister Gytha was there, and Erik hoped that she was safe. It was a thing which would need his attention he was sure, and soon. ‘We expected you yesterday, lord,’ Ragnar was saying. ‘The beacons were lit when the watchers on the headlands saw your approach.’ Erik was about to answer when he saw the gleam in Ragnar’s eyes, even from a distance. ‘You went across to see the Mostraumen?’ Erik confirmed that they had. ‘What did you think?’ Erik’s mouth curled into a smile as he made to reply. It was obvious from the looks on the faces of the Halogalanders that they already knew what the answer would be. ‘I have seen more movement on the surface of a bowl of broth,’ he said to gales of laughter on the Orm. ‘As you can see we carry a skipsbåt amidships, a little ship’s boat which I use if I need to convene my leading men whilst at sea. We loaded it with gifts for Ægir and set the sail to carry it to the heart of the whirlpool, but all it did was spin it around in a circle and send it right back to us!’

  The crews of both ships were laughing now, and Erik regarded Ragnar Jarl as the big man waited for the ruckus to subside. Despite the warmth of the day the jarl was swaddled in the thickest bearskin, a heavy circular cloak pin at the shoulder of the type favoured by the Irish and Scots testament to the more usual destination for his summer raiding. He was an imposing sight, just the type of man that Erik needed if the raid was to be a success.

  ‘Come up in the spring, lord,’ Ragnar called across. ‘The Moskstraumen is in full flow then, that’s when Ægir collects his tribute.’ He furrowed his brow as he asked their destination. ‘We are heading north?’

  Erik nodded in confirmation. ‘How did you know?’

  The Halogalander flashed a grin. ‘If we were heading anywhere else you would have summoned us to Avaldsnes, lord.’

  Erik exchanged a look with Kolbein at his side. It was true of course, and he hoped that the rest of the population in Narvik were not as sharp witted
as their jarl.

  Ragnar was pointing ahead. ‘I will take us through the Tjeldsundet Strait and out into Astafjord. Once through that we will be well on our way to Finnish lands.’

  15

  JOMAL

  The flames flared as a gust wormed its way beneath the shingles, and the watching men coughed and spluttered as greasy black smoke swept across the yard. ‘It may be choking standing here in the middle of this shit, but it’s worth the discomfort,’ Kolbein said, his eyes red rimmed and streaming as the cloud engulfed the little group. He slapped the back of his neck, rolling yet another insect between thumb and forefinger before flicking it contemptuously away. ‘I am surprised that the little bastards can still find a place to bite. I can’t have much blood left, even if they do.’

  Erik managed a snort of sympathy, but he was as sick of the blood suckers as any. He looked up at the sky and cursed again. Thick clouds cloaked the sun, the grey mantle little higher than the treetops themselves. They could put as many outlying settlements in Bjarmaland to fire and sword as they liked, but if nobody saw the smoke they may as well have stayed at home. Finns! He spat in disgust. Ragnar Jarl knew them well as did all men of Halogaland, and he recalled the man’s description of their fighting abilities as he watched the clouds roll northwards. “They’ll not fight unless they really have to, lord, at least not against Norsemen. They will stand off and try and pick men off with their powerful bows, you will have to really stir them up, do something that King Svasi cannot ignore if he wishes to keep his king helm.”

  Arinbjorn had followed his gaze, and Erik’s foster-brother sent a ball of spit spinning into the grass. ‘Even midges need to eat.’

  ‘Well, they can go and eat someone else, the little bastards.’

  Kolbein’s reply drew a snigger from the group, and Erik threw a wink to Helgi at Arinbjorn’s side. ‘It was not a problem we had up on Jostrudal, eh?’

  Helgi snorted. ‘We had other problems if I remember rightly lord,’ Arinbjorn’s huskarl replied with a grin. ‘Like how to take a piss without it snapping off with the cold.’ They shared a laugh, and Erik took in his old friend’s features as they did so. Helgi had been a young man when they had crossed the great mountains to repay Bolli Sigurdsson for the insult at the horse fight. But the passage of time had been kind to Arinbjorn’s huskarl, and little more than a handful of grey flecks within his beard and hair distinguished him from men who had seen far fewer winters.

  Erik looked away to the South. The pale sunlight was silvering the forest canopy, but the weeks spent scathing the settlements along the banks of the White Sea had used up the days where the sun never set at all as had been his intention. ‘We will set up camp here for what passes for a night this far north. Get the fires going on the beach, hopefully they will drive these little bastards away too.’ He inhaled to continue, but spluttered and coughed as another of the insects met its end. Erik picked the tiny black body from his tongue and flicked it away. ‘We have done our harrying,’ he said with a predatory smile. ‘Now that we have a few hours of darkness to work with, it is time to hit them where it really hurts.’

  As the leaders wandered away to pass the orders, Anlaf pushed a man down the beach towards him. Erik studied him as they came. Leather boots and breeks and the same long white shirt belted at the waist that he had seen throughout these lands. Only the whorls and lines peeping out below his cuffs set him apart as a man versed in spell work from any of the other locals.

  ‘Another one, lord.’ Anlaf called as he approached. ‘There seem to be as many shaman in this land as there are common folk.’

  Erik nodded. ‘Did you destroy everything? Idols, warlock staves?’

  Anlaf shook his head. ‘I fired the hut, but this is another new one, lord. I thought that you would like to see it.’ He tossed the small figure across, and Erik snatched it from the air as the Finn was forced to his knees before him. He studied the piece, turning it over in his hand as he did so. ‘Are you certain that this thing is a god? It looks more like part of the hut.’ The features of a human face were just about distinguishable, and the remains of branches gave passable if unequal representations of limbs; above the eyes arced brows of moss, and a long beard of lichen hung from the pointed chin. He was about to ask the Finn the name of his god when a voice made him glance to one side. ‘That is Tapio, lord, he is a forest god worshipped by hunters. They leave offerings to him before they set out in the hope that he will drive game their way.’ Erik recognised the man as one of the Romsdalers, come across to help. ‘You know Finnish?’

  ‘My wife is Saami, lord.’ The man shrugged. ‘We call them all Finns much the same as the English call every man who tumbles from the side of a longship a Dane, but they are a nation of many tribes just like us. She started off as my first wife’s thrall but, well...’ He flushed and pulled a lopsided smirk. ‘You know how it is.’

  Anlaf still stood over the captive, and he snorted before reaching down to force the Finn’s head down. ‘Nobody is talking to you, god botherer.’

  Erik ignored the interruption. ‘Thankfully not, no, Gunnhild is enough for my appetites. My father does,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘It’s the reason why we are the main course for the local midges this summer.’ He nodded down at the captive. ‘I am in a good mood, despite the flies. Ask our friend if he has any last words.’

  Erik looked about as the men conversed before him. The place was like any other in this part of the world. A sandy beach stretched away to either side, the high tide mark a tangled line of bleached and wave polished tree limbs. Twenty paces from the tideline the forest was a rampart, with only the roughly hewn track which had led them to the settlement marking the presence of men. The spearman had said his piece, and he turned back to report to Erik as he fingered the shaft of his axe. ‘He said that today is a happy day, lord, he will soon be with the greatest god of all.’

  ‘Oðin?’

  ‘Jomal, lord,’ the spearman replied. ‘My wife fashioned a small idol of him at home. I am a hunter myself.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘A god is a god, only a fool would turn down a little help, wherever it came from.’

  Erik spoke again as his fingertips traced the design on the axe head. ‘He said far more than that…’ He allowed the sentence to hang in the air and cocked a brow, and Erik was gratified to see that the Romsdaler was astute enough to supply the answer he sought.

  ‘My name is Sturla, lord.’

  ‘Tell me what he said, Sturla.’

  The warrior attempted to bluff it out, but the tone in his voice betrayed him. ‘Lord?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Erik replied. ‘I am not some milkmaid who jumps at every shadow. I am a king with far too many brothers.’

  Sturla snorted at his king’s fatalism. All knew that the length of a man’s life was in the hands of the Norns, the three old hags who hovered over every life thread on Midgard with their shears of woe. The only control which a man had over his fate was to build a reputation which would echo down through the ages in the time which was given to him.

  ‘He said that he has been sent dreams of this day all his life. You are the Bloodaxe and you are a king of Norsemen. But, he says, what the gods give with one hand they often take away with the other.’ The Romsdaler looked uncomfortable again, but Erik insisted that he finish. He cleared his throat and pushed on. ‘He says that you will be five times a king, but that you will die on a windswept fell and few men will mourn your passing.’

  Erik nodded as he took a pace back and raised his axe. ‘Thank him for me,’ he said as he prepared to strike, ‘from myself and Jomal here.’ He gave his axe a look of affection. ‘I have been waiting for the gods to reveal its name to me. If things are as you say, they have spoken through this Finn.’

  Jomal sang its song for the first time as it cleaved the air, and a moment later the Shaman’s head had spun from his shoulders. As the Finn’s body slowly crumpled and blood pulsed to redden the ground, Erik ran a fingertip along the blade and flicked the
droplet away. ‘Five times a king,’ he breathed as his eyes lit up with pride and anticipation. ‘Five times! Who cares how many men lament my passing, I shall be supping honeyed mead with Oðin and my ancestors in a hall roofed with shields.’

  Erik raised his gaze, sucking his teeth in frustration as the moonlight edged the cloud with silver. Kolbein gave word to his thoughts. ‘A week of solid cloud cover and now this.’ Erik gave a shrug. ‘At least we can see where we are going.’ Ahead of them gaped the mouth of the River Dvina, the banks and forest beyond dark shapes against the moon washed sky. ‘It’s just a shame that we took the trouble to lower the masts.’ He threw a look across his shoulder. The ships’ wakes were a glistening spear aimed straight at the river mouth, the telltale ripples made by hundreds of oar blades flashing in the light. He clapped his styrisman on the shoulder. ‘Increase the speed, let’s use the fact that we can see to our advantage.’

  As Kolbein called the change, setting the stroke with a tap of his boot, Erik stepped down from the steering platform and made his way forward. The faces of the rowers were noticeably pinched as he passed, but he exchanged a nod with those who looked his way as the pre-battle tension twisted men’s guts. ‘Soon be there lads, thanks to Anlaf and his boys at least we know what lies up ahead. If we had taken one of the other channels we would have found them blocked by sunken ships.’ He drew a finger across his throat and grimaced. ‘Very sticky!’