by C. R. May
‘Here he comes,’ Thorstein murmured. ‘About time too.’
Erik could hear the concern in his old friend’s voice and gave him a nudge. The huskarl shrugged. ‘Sorcerers, seith-men and the like; I had enough of them in Finnmark, I just don’t like ‘em.’
Erik looked beyond the big man, along the tree line to the rest of the army. Hung back in the sun dappled shadows only the odd glint of steel revealed them even up close, and he relaxed a touch as he switched his gaze back to the horseman.
The latest addition to his hird was on foot, Sturla smiling a greeting to someone as yet out of sight around the front of the building; Erik clicked his tongue softly as his hopes that all those inside would be sleeping off the rituals of the previous night were dashed, and he gripped his spear a little tighter as he waited for the moment to dart forward from cover.
It was as well that the Romsdaler had thought up the plan Erik mused, as he watched the man walk free of the cover of the building out into the morning light, or they would have blundered directly into him. It was not the first time that Sturla’s knowledge of the habits of such men had been of use, both in the far North and here at home in Norway. The men had begun to only half jokingly call him Sturla Godi because of it, and the nickname was beginning to stick.
Out beyond the farmhouse Sturla was wearing a frown as he bent to lift the foot of his horse, running a hand over the hocks as he described some fictitious ailment to the seith-man. As the man went down onto one knee to examine the foot Sturla straightened his back, stared hard into the woodland beyond the building and gave a curt nod. It was the sign that there were no other men in the open, and Erik was moving in a heartbeat. All along the tree line men were bursting forward into the open, pouring forward in an unstoppable tide of leather and steel as they raced to round the farmhouse and gain the only door before the alarm was raised.
Erik looked up just as Sturla brought a hand axe down onto the unsuspecting head of his helper, his legs pumping as he gained the side wall of the farmhouse and swung around the corner. The door was ajar, just where he expected it to be, and Erik ducked inside as Thorstein and Anlaf followed close behind. Like all such rooms this wet room had a floor of stone sets, and Erik slid across to the inner door as he scanned the interior for opposition. His glide had brought him up with the inner doorway, and he leapt the sill beam as he brought his spear around to parry any possible attacker. A sea of faces were turned his way, and he thrust out with his weapon as the nearest man began to recover from his surprise. The spear slid easily into a mouth which had been opened to yell a warning, but the shaft was wrenched from his hand as the man threw himself to one side in a forlorn attempt to dodge the strike.
Erik drew his sword as he stepped further into the room, scything a path through the panic-stricken men there as the rest of his warriors burst through the door, yelling their war cries. Men who had only moments before been slumbering after their late night sorcery and spell working fell back in terror before the sudden clamour and violence of the attack, and Erik led the men further into the building as he sought to end it quickly. A man had turned his back as he made a desperate grab for one of the swords which lined the wall; Erik brought his own blade crashing down to lop off the arm before the hand could close around the handle.
Everywhere his own men were pushing forward as the enemy began to fight back with what came to hand. A smouldering log crashed into his arm as he moved forward again, and Erik twisted to face the attacker only to see him go down with Thorstein’s spear embedded in his chest. The weight of their attack had forced the defenders back against the far wall of the room, and although they were beginning to snatch up what arms they could from the walls and benches the crush of bodies was making the act of fighting back almost impossible for them.
Erik stepped aside as his men swarmed forward to finish the slaughter in a flash of steel, and Thorstein and Anlaf moved protectively to his side as he ran his eyes across the men opposite. Despite the fact that they have never met, the man he sought was unmistakable when his face hardened from the scrum; a head taller than any of his companions, the man had the shock of flaxen hair which was typical among the king’s sons, and Erik called out above the din as he began to force his way across. ‘Rognvald Straight-Boned!’
The king of Hathaland jerked his head around at the sound of his name, and Erik tore his helm from his head, freeing his own hair as he came. Straight-Boned recognised his attacker as a half-brother for the first time by their shared features, and he called out as the circle of men around him continued to shrink back under the force of the attack. ‘I am Rognvald Haraldsson, king of Hathaland. Which brother are you?’
‘I am Erik Haraldsson, king of Halogaland, Moerr, Fjordane and Romsdal and I have come to take your life, seith-man.’
‘Our father will kill you for it.’
‘Our father ordered it.’
Erik saw the horror of the realisation that his own father had ordered his death flit across his brother’s face for a heartbeat, but the iron will which flowed through the blood of all the sons of Harald Fairhair reasserted itself, and Erik felt a pang of regret that he had to kill the man despite his dealings in the dark arts. The feeling was gone in an instant as the two Haraldsson’s glared at each other across the hearth, each man rolling on the balls of his feet, dropping into a fighter’s stance as he sought an opportunity to strike.
Erik could sense his huskarls hovering a short distance away on either flank, and more of his men were beginning to detach themselves from the fight as those at the rear of the press began to run short of opponents. Straight-Boned could sense the ring of enemies closing in too, and Erik glanced across to the place where the last of the Hathalanders were being hacked into meat as he saw just how desperate his brother’s situation had become. Rognvald snatched at the chance to kill his tormentor as Erik had hoped that he would, leaping the glowing hearth and raising his sword for the killing stroke. But the look had been a ruse, Erik was faster and he ducked inside strike, sweeping his own blade low to open his brother’s thigh from knee to hip as he crashed past.
Anlaf jumped back as the warlock king’s leg folded under him and he crashed to the floor, and Erik turned quickly to hack the heavy blade down onto the back of his brother’s head before he could recover.
Erik turned his face away as Rognvald’s body shook in its death spasm at his feet. Anlaf met his gaze, and Erik pulled a grimace as his huskarl recognised the anguish there with a nod sympathy. Unlike Halfdan up in the Trondelag, Rognvald had never conspired against him nor given any cause to suspect that he may, and Erik sent a plea to the gods that he need never kill a kinsman again.
The fight was won, and Erik called out as his men moved among the wounded and the last of the Hathalanders were finished off where they lay. ‘Fire the place,’ he said with a frown. ‘Let us put as much distance between us and this lich-house as quickly as we can.’
21
BJORN THE FAR TRADER
‘Tunsberg!’ Kolbein exclaimed as the town came into view. Erik’s styrisman drank in the smell of the sea and turned to flash his lord a smile. ‘It’s been far too long, Erik. We should have journeyed here long ago.’
Erik ran his own eyes over the town and bay as they waited at the edge of the wood for the men to come up. It had been an easy ride down from Hathaland through a landscape dotted with farms and hayfields, but the horses were all but done-in following their exertions of the previous weeks and the men’s weariness was not far behind. The town which was their goal now in sight, the mood lifted as men’s thoughts turned to a weeklong rest before a leisurely ride back to Rogaland.
Anlaf was at Erik’s shoulder, and he gave voice to his thoughts as the party watched the comings and goings of ships in the great bay below. ‘It’s a rich land, lord. Such wealth can buy many spears; Kolbein was right, we should have visited before now.’
Erik snorted at his banner man’s caution. ‘My brother has not earned the eke-name Farman, th
e far trader, by being a mighty warrior. King Bjorn would rather sit in his hall and grow rich taxing merchants than go Viking.’ He shrugged. ‘As long as he recognises my right to rule when the time comes it’s a thing which suits us both. He can live an easy life free from my interference, just so long as the ships carrying my share of the profits tie up at Avaldsnes each year.’ He nodded towards the axe banner which hung limp in the still summer air. ‘Keep that furled, we are not an invading army.’
Erik hauled at the reins, and the horse turned a slow circle as he addressed the column. ‘Remember that we are guests here. Look and act like king’s men while we are at my brother’s hall and around the town; any fights or drunkenness and I will abandon you to King Bjorn’s judgement.’ As murmurs of disappointment came from the men, Erik exchanged a look of amusement with Kolbein. ‘They will get over it, I am sure that our reception will forestall any such behaviour. Come on,’ he said, putting back his heels, ‘let’s get down there. I have spent long enough in the saddle these past few weeks.’
The column trotted free of the tree line, and out onto the sun drenched farmland which ran down to the town. Fields of spelt and rye drew away to either side of the roadway, with the smattering of barley cropping close to isolated brewhouses serving to sharpen the riders’ thirst as much as the dusty air. Spirits were as high as the pillowy clouds above them as the final mile of their journey went beneath the hooves of their mounts and the walls of Tunsberg drew closer. Soon they were there, and Erik reined in as the worried looking spearman at the gate came across. ‘Welcome to Tunsberg, lord,’ the guard said with an unconvincing smile. ‘King Bjorn is waiting to greet you at his hall. If you follow this road straight through the town you will see the fortress on your right.’
Erik nodded in reply, exchanging a look of concern with Thorstein at the brusqueness of the welcome as they passed through the gate into the town itself. Erik’s prow man spoke as they drew out of earshot. ‘Something is up. Either they already know about the burning and think ill of it or something has happened at home. Either way,’ he said with a heavy look. ‘We had best keep our wits about us, and watch for any hint of trickery.’
‘They cannot know about Rognvald yet unless Bjorn also has second sight,’ Erik replied. ‘Besides my brother only has eyes for a profit, and why would anyone from Hathaland race to tell the king of the Vestfold anyway?’ He raised his chin to look along the way ahead. Everywhere the squat homes of the lower orders peeped out beneath a fringe of mossy thatch, but the walls were in good shape beneath a lick of lime wash and the children who ran thereabouts looked rosy cheeked and well fed. A line of workshops lined the road itself, gaudy signs advertising to all the type of wares available for sale or barter within. In the distance the waters of the fjord sparkled in the sun beneath a mantle of cawing gulls, the halls of the merchants and better sort dwarfing those inland as they took advantage of the freshness of the sea air and closeness to their ships and warehouses. Tunsberg bore all the signs of a well ordered and prosperous town, and Erik put his fears aside as he thought on the amount of skat it would deliver to his treasury in Avaldsnes when he succeeded to the high seat.
The wall of rock which had lent the town its name rose to their right, and Erik coaxed his tired mount away from the main road and up the final rise as the town fell away beneath them. Gaining the summit the road approached the stronghold of the kings of the Vestfold; spearmen were gathered at the entrance to a magnificent hall, the fineness of their arms testifying that these were unmistakably king’s men, and Erik knew that he had finally arrived at the town house of his brother. The hall steward came forward, the practiced easy smile of such men already beginning to rile Erik as he saw that his brother had remained within. The man opened his mouth to speak a welcome, but Erik cut him short. ‘I was told at the gate that King Bjorn was expecting me. Was I misinformed?’
‘The king awaits you in his hall, lord,’ the steward answered in the oily tone common among their sort. ‘He has asked me to welcome you to his kingdom and convey you to his presence.’
Erik was not alone in sensing the tension in the air, but he held out a hand to stop Anlaf and Thorstein as they moved to his side and returned his own best false smile to the steward. ‘Lead on,’ he said. ‘We have had a long, hard journey and my brother’s offer is welcome to our ears.’
Erik dismounted, recovering his shield and spears from their carrying places as his men clattered onto the yard to his rear. He could still sense the outrage that their lord was being treated in such a high-handed manner, and Erik growled a warning as they followed the steward towards the hall. ‘It appears that we may not be among friends here after all, but keep your tempers in check. If we are treated with dishonour there will be a reckoning, but unless we are in danger that time is not now.’
A quick headcount told Erik that the men in the courtyard were evenly matched in numbers and quality, and a sense of foreboding crept over him as the steward flashed his greasy smile once again. ‘The king extends a welcome to yourself and ten of your closest hirdmen, lord. The rest of your party will find that tents have been provided for their use; perhaps they would like to make a start pitching them while you talk with the king?’
Even a man versed in the duties of a go-between was clearly struggling to suppress a trace of mockery from his tone, and Erik had the unfamiliar feeling that the situation was slipping from his control. His men drew up as they awaited his reaction, but he turned back and forced a smile of reassurance as he ordered them away. Erik sensed his senior men bristling at his side, and he spoke softly as his brother’s spearmen looked on gleefully from a distance. ‘Whatever he says, whatever the provocation you keep your hands well clear of your sword handles. Clear?’
They murmured that they understood with obvious reluctance, and Erik led the small group up the steps to the inner room of the hall itself. The steward gestured towards their weapons, indicating that they stack them in the racks there before entering the hall itself. It was custom everywhere; large numbers of heavily armed men contained within the confines of four walls could be the cause of unlimited trouble even without the addition of copious quantities of strong drink, and the carrying strap of his shield slid down his arm as he laid the board aside with a heavy heart. His spears and battle axe joined the pile as the others followed his example, but Erik shook his head as the steward held out a hand to receive his sword. ‘Don’t presume to take the sword of a king,’ he growled. ‘Or the king’s personal guard.’ The anger and hostility he felt was obvious from the tone, and Erik was pleased to see that the man’s training had been thorough enough to recognise when to relent.
They came through the inner doorway and into the hall itself, and Erik took in the grandeur of the hall as he strode towards the figure reclining on the high seat at the far end. It was an impressive hall, cunningly carved and gold bedecked, but Erik was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of the place as he fixed his stare upon his brother. To his relief the hall was all but empty of others; spearmen flanked the king’s high seat pillars and a dozen others sat at their ale to either side, but the echo of their footsteps only seemed to add to the unreality of the moment as the steward ushered Erik to his place.
It was clear now that Erik and his men were unwanted guests, and he was no longer surprised when King Bjorn failed to rise in greeting at his approach, but it was all that he could do to contain his anger when he realised that he was being shown, not to a seat of equal standing with his brother, but that of an honoured guest. Erik paused just long enough to make his feelings plain at the slight before sitting down and regarding Bjorn across the hearth.
Erik’s huskarls took their places at the bench alongside their lord as thralls and serving wenches carried out jugs of ale and mead to set down before them. The drink was welcome at least, and the men slaked their thirst as the two kings exchanged the formalities expected of them. News and forced pleasantries flighted between them, but it was not long before the subject of their fa
ther’s health came to the fore.
‘And how is King Harald?’
‘Ailing,’ Erik replied. ‘It will not be so long before he sups sweet mead in Oðin’s hall.’ He took a sip of his own drink and fixed his gaze upon his brother. ‘I shall be king of Norwegians then, and I shall remember my friends.’ Erik paused for a heartbeat to reinforce his statement. ‘And those who have thought it a day well spent to mock me.’
‘Maybe you will not be king?’
Erik was taken aback. ‘You would seek to go against the wishes of our father?’
Bjorn gave a hollow laugh before adding with a hint of menace. ‘When Harald Fairhair is in his Howe he will have no will, who is to say what fate the Norns have in store for any of us?’ He leaned forward and a look of exasperation came to his face. ‘Why are you here, Erik? I am king here, that’s why my seat is higher than yours. There are other kings in Norway and powerful jarls; somehow I don’t think that this inheritance which you seem to believe is your right will be so easily gained. If our father is as wan as you say you should be at his side. Stay this night and prepare to leave on the morrow.’
Erik raised his brow in surprise. ‘You deny a kinsman shelter?’
‘No,’ Bjorn replied steadily. ‘That would be unworthy of any man, much less a king.’
‘My horses are spent,’ Erik explained. ‘They were pushed hard to cross the mountains from Rogaland. They require rest before they return, a week would be ample.’
Bjorn shook his head as the matter came to a head. ‘That is out of the question. I know the reputation of your crew, two nights shall be more than enough. Neither the townsfolk nor their king could suffer such a band of cutthroats to live among them any longer.’
