by C. R. May
Erik looked. His huskarl was right he was barely beyond spear shot, but he had seen the effect that the victory had had on both hosts and he sheathed his sword as he reached behind his shoulder to the place where he carried his battle axe. ‘You lads stay with me,’ he replied. ‘I have a better idea.’
As the pair took up position on either flank Erik walked down to the place where the horse had come to rest. The wounded animal was still attempting to rise, and Erik looked deeply into the dark pools of its eyes as he placed a foot upon its neck and raised Jomal. The axe flashed in the sun as it swept down to take the horse’s head in an echo of King Harald’s horse sacrifice, the day that he had gifted Jomal to his heir on a distant strand. The significance was not lost on those present, and Erik stooped to collect the head from the spreading pool of blood and began to make his way back towards the shore. Men there had realised what he intended, and an oar had been retrieved from one of the ships and was being driven into the ground by the time that he had returned. He gave the men a nod of recognition for their quick thinking as they returned to their friends, and Erik fixed the head in place as Anlaf raised his banner high.
As the field once again fell silent Erik, as king and godi of the nation, cut runes into the shaft of the oar before fixing the head of the horse to the landward end. The head was now pointing uphill, directly at the place where Gudrod and Olav’s standards were teased out in the fitful breeze, and Erik spoke the curse as the men of both hosts nervously fingered talismans and charms.
‘Here I set up a níðstang to curse Gudrod Haraldsson and Olav Haraldsson.
‘This curse pole I turn also on the spirits who dwell in this land that they may wander, not reaching nor finding their home till they have driven out the pretenders and taken up their rightful king.’
26
BATTLE AT TUNSBERG
The enemy had quietened since he had set up the scorn pole, but they were still drawn up in a strong defensive position. The river and a smaller bay off to the right acted to squeeze the land into a bow shaped peninsula, with the beachhead at the point where the hand grip would be. The bowstring was formed by the armies of Gudrod and Olav, with the kings themselves occupying the higher ground almost dead centre and the wings anchored to the river and bay at either end. Given enough time to pack the higher ground with men, Erik was certain that any competent war leader could hold the position all day long, pinning the invaders in place until he had weakened them enough to finish them off; he had to hit them like a thunderbolt before that could happen.
The howl of a war horn drew worried glances to the North. Caught out of position it would be a hard run race to return to their respective armies should the enemy launch a downhill attack, but Erik rolled his eyes and turned back with a snort of derision as he saw what has happening there. ‘If they think that unleashing the dogs will turn the tide for them they had best think again.’ He turned his face from Ragnar Jarl to Arinbjorn Thorirsson and back again. ‘Thor sent winds to drive our ships eastwards and his father Oðin gave me victory over the horseman. The gods have allowed us to seize the advantage, and I am not going to throw it away by letting our men’s battle zeal drain away.’
Arinbjorn thought that he already knew what his foster-brother had in mind, and his face was aglow with excitement as he said the word. ‘Svinfylking?’
Erik shook his head; ‘not one, three.’ He continued as the howls and screeches of the Eastland berserks began. ‘Because we split up to scathe the fjord we arrived here already deployed in our divisions. All we have to do is form up and charge. It looks as if we still outnumber them, but who knows what the hill is concealing from us? What I do know,’ he continued, ‘is that the longer we leave before we attack, the more chance there is that men will arrive to bolster their position, and the more chance that our boys will begin to lose their battle fervour.’ The trio looked across at Erik’s army. The men there were still abuzz after their king’s single-handed victory over the galloping spearman, but they would begin to calm with time and all three leaders were experienced enough to recognise that the time to strike was now.
Erik pinned Ragnar with a stare as the jarl’s eagerness to get to grips with the enemy set him shifting from foot to foot in anticipation. ‘As I said before we outnumber them for now, but who knows how long it will be before the men of the levy reach the field? The swine array was gifted to men by Oðin himself, and my victory over the lone horseman will have shown those men on the hill which side the war god favours.’ He pulled a lupine smile as the challenges rolled down the hillside from the men lining the ridge. ‘Now I have cursed them too, so let us see how long their resolve lasts once we get among them. Drive along the bank of the inlet and outflank them; turn in and roll them up. If you can break through into the rear all well and good, but make sure that you pin them in place and cut the road to the berg.’ Ragnar gave a grim nod by way of reply, and Erik switched his gaze to his foster-brother. ‘Arinbjorn, you do the same on the left. Watch out for the river though, you don’t want to end up fighting with your backs against it if they prove to be stronger than we expect. I will head straight up the rise towards my brothers’ flags. The fighting will be hardest, but as soon as the banners go down the slaughter can begin.’ Erik threw them both a grin. ‘What? You thought I was going to share the glory?’
The pair laughed at their leader’s joke and their own confidence, although never shaky, strengthened a little more. ‘Remember,’ Erik said finally with a snarl which drove the smiles from their faces. ‘Gudrod and Olav die today. If Olav was foolish enough to think to blood his own son here, then we can try to get him too…and Bjorn’s boy,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘But they will be sauce on the meat. Gudrod and Olav die.’
The trio clasped forearms before Ragnar moved off to begin forming the battle wedge of the men of Halogaland. Arinbjorn had to move across to the left flank of the army, and he called across his shoulder as he trotted away past the lines of catcalling warriors and the odd bared arse. ‘Keep you eyes open for the wolf warriors, brother. They have a nasty bite!’
Erik flashed a smile in return. ‘I will throw them a stick. It works every time!’
Thorstein and Anlaf were waiting impatiently for his return and he threw them a comment as he came up. ‘You can relax now lads, I am back.’ The pair exchanged bashful smiles at their lord’s words, both men loathe to admit just how anxious they were anytime that Erik was away from them when danger was near.
‘Svinfylking!’ he called. ‘Get it organised!’
Erik ran his eyes across the men of Rogaland as they began to shuffle into place. The face he was seeking hardened from the crowd surrounded by his men, and Erik called out as he looked across and saw that Arinbjorn was already in position and itching to lead the army of Fjordane uphill.
‘Helgrim Smiter!’
The man turned his head as he heard the shout. Harald Fairhair’s old huskarl had been among the first to pledge his oath to Erik when his lord took the rainbow path to Valholl, and Erik had always had it in mind to show his gratitude when the right moment presented itself. That day had come, and Helgrim’s face lit up like the morning sun as his king called out so that all could hear. ‘Will you honour both myself and the memory of my father by leading the swine array this day?’
‘Yes lord!’
‘Well, lead on. We have not a moment to lose.’
The wedge began to form as Helgrim took the lead and his two doughtiest warriors stood shoulder to shoulder at his rear. As the next three men formed up behind them and the wedge began to take shape, Erik strode free of the line so that all those on the field could see him. Anlaf Crow planted his war banner at his side so there would be no mistaking the man as any but the king of Norwegians, and Erik raised the bloodied axe above his head and roared his battle cry.
‘Blóðøx!’
The answering cry shook the ground beneath their feet as the army of the West roared in unison, war horns blared and Helgrim Smiter too
k the first pace forward of the advance. Three times the battle cry rolled across the hillside, and each time the answering roar grew louder until it petered away to be replaced by the steady tramp of booted feet. The formation opened up to admit the king as it passed, and Erik and Anlaf joined Thorstein, Kolbein and Sturla Godi tucked in to the rear of old King Harald’s men.
Erik looked across to the place where the Halogalanders were moving off beneath their lurid flags and banners, watching in fascination as men left the beach and the formation swelled by the moment until it became a tidal surge of leather and steel. The hillside was gentler there, far less steep than the climb which faced Erik and his men of Rogaland, and Erik took a last look as the northerners increased the pace and began to draw away.
Westwards the men of Fjordane had already put the low lying riverside behind them and were moving to outflank the men on the hill, and Erik felt his calf muscles tighten as the land before them trended upwards. Erik’s head swept from left to right as he judged the perfect moment to order the charge. Each svinfylking was advancing across contrasting ground; it was one of the things which made the peninsula such a wonderful defensive position, and Erik tried to push down the thought as he wondered how many men had died on the hillside in the days since Oðin had started the first war. It was imperative that the three fists hit the enemy wall at the same moment; punch through the hard outer shell and they could spill out and attack the soft belly of the enemy, or be fought to a standstill and it would be the invaders who would die and the assault would fail. Thankfully in Ragnar and Arinbjorn Erik had two leaders who had fought all over the northern lands and beyond, and he watched in admiration as the two men adjusted the pace of their own advance to help bring that about.
A hundred and fifty paces ahead the wolf men and bear shirts were being driven into a frenzy by the closeness of the enemy and their unwillingness to be overawed by the howled threats and gyrations. Beyond them the shields of the eastern armies came together with a crash which resounded across the hillside as snarling faces jabbed spears and beckoned them on to their deaths.
The point was fast approaching when he would have to order the charge regardless of whether the armies were in position or not, and Erik’s head flew from left to right as his mind weighed how the distances and angles would affect each prong of the attack. Go too soon and the slope would sap the men’s energy, weighed down as they were by mail and helm and struggling for footing within a crush of warriors. The attack would begin to lose momentum at the critical moment before they hit the enemy line; leave it too late and that momentum would never have time to develop.
Shields were raised as the first arrows began to spatter the formation, any moment now and the berserks would attack; Erik had waited long enough, and he placed his trust in Oðin as he growled into his beard: ‘Anlaf Crow!’
The banner man was poised and waiting for the order, and he snapped a reply before raising the horn to his lips: ‘Ready!’
‘Signal the charge!’
The doleful howl was greeted by a cheer as the westerners picked up their feet and gathered speed. Erik thought to check on Arinbjorn and Ragnar, but the thud of steel on wood made him think better of it as Thorstein moved an arm to pluck an arrow from the sky. Erik peered ahead, across the bobbing heads of Helgrim and his men as the gaudy shields and banners lining the ridge grew to fill his vision.
The berserks were bounding down the slope, their faces contorted by hate as they sought to close the distance before the swine head could get into full stride. With the run of the slope to aid them it seemed only a matter of moments before the men to Erik’s side and front were bracing themselves to receive the attack, and Erik watched in fascination as the nearest bear shirt prepared to throw himself upon their spears. At the last moment, just as it seemed that the man must become empaled upon the fence of spears the berserk leapt into the air; twisting like a whirlwind, the thick bearskin brushed the spear points aside as he crashed through into their midst. Men were bowled aside by the force of the strike, and before he could move Erik found himself staring directly into face of the slathering madman. Before the bear shirt could recover his balance Erik had planted his spear into the soil, freeing the hand to move across and snatch at the handle of the short seax which lay across his belly.
Men said that berserks’ minds were Oðin-giddy when the madness was upon them, barely aware of reality, their bodies unfeeling and impervious to pain; but Erik saw the flash of recognition in this man’s eyes that he was face-to-face with the high king of Norway which gave it the lie. The crush of bodies told against him, and Erik felt panic begin to sweep through him as he realised that his arm was jammed hard against his side, but a heartbeat later the berserk’s look of triumph was replaced by shock as the point of a dagger emerged from his mouth in a spray of blood. A hand reached forward to tug the bear head back and away, and within moments the warrior’s unprotected head had disappeared beneath a flurry of blades as the man was hauled to the ground and finished off.
Erik looked about him as the immediate danger passed, and he was pleased to see that the last of the attackers was suffering a similar fate. If Erik had died in that moment the day would have been lost; without their king and leader the armies of the West would have had no reason to fight on. But there was no time to dwell on the fact, and spurred on by the massacre of the berserks the men of the svinfylking let out a cry, threw their shoulders into their shields and charged home.
The opposing armies came together with the crash of rolling thunder as Helgrim Smiter hacked and hacked, driving the swine head deep into the ranks of the easterners as the men behind him stabbed and slashed, punching out with their shields as they widened the breach.
Erik stepped over the first bodies as he too reached the old front line, raising his eyes as he sought out his brothers’ banners, and he felt a kick of joy as he saw just how close Helgrim’s attack had carried them. The war flag of Vestfold was little more than a dozen paces ahead of him, and dropping his gaze he saw the man who must be Olav for the first time. Despite their kinship the two had never met, but the magnificence of his arms and the way that the guard were drawing about him confirmed to Erik that this must be the king.
Up on the Ridgeline now Erik could see what he had suspected all along; the enemy shield wall had been stretched painfully thin in the brothers’ attempt to hem the invaders in, denying them the opportunity to turn the flank until reinforcements could arrive. But he was nearing the high point now, and a quick glance across to the East told Erik that Ragnar’s northern army had brushed the defenders aside with ease and were turning inward to roll up the line. To the West Arinbjorn and the men of Fjordane were still out of sight, but the backs of the furthest defenders were coming into view as the line began to curl back on itself and Erik knew that it too was doomed.
Erik dropped his spear and the hand went to the haft of his war axe, but he hesitated as he saw that the enemy were still fighting hard. Jomal could easily cut a swathe through them to the king but the war axe was a two handed weapon, and he would need to break free from his own men before he could bring the devastating power down upon the heads of his foemen. The hand moved back down to his side, and he raised his voice above the din as he drew his sword and hefted his shield:
‘Ready?’
Growls came at his shoulder in affirmation, and Erik raised the sword and cried his battle cry as the men before him took a pace aside:
‘Blóðøx!’
The shout was taken up, and the wedge surged forward again as Erik lowered his head and threw himself at the men facing him. A face flashed into view as he shouldered his shield, widening the breach, and Erik saw the look of dismay in the man’s eyes that the Bloodaxe had chosen him of all the men on the hillside to receive his first attack. It was the look of a man who knew that his death was upon him, that the three hags of destiny were at that very moment poised to snip his life thread with their shears of woe, and a moment later Erik had brought reality to
that fear as his sword blade drove down through helm and skull.
Step forward, shove again, and Erik was across the body of the first to die and hacking down on the heads of his foe with all the power and control honed to perfection on the hayfield before Thorir’s hall so many summers before. Withdraw, stab, step up and hack again. The enemy were beginning to wilt under his attack, and Erik could sense that one big push would see them break. Thorstein and Kolbein were at his side, the shadow of his axe banner shading the men immediately to his fore showing that Anlaf Crow was a pace behind, and Erik roared his battle cry again as he barged a spearman aside.
He felt a spear blade snag in a link of mail, and he was twisting aside before the point could worm its way through as Thorstein brought his sword blade down to take the assailant’s arm off at the elbow. Kolbein was scything a path towards the place where King Olav still stood beneath his banner, and Erik dropped his sword, reaching behind him to grasp the haft of Jomal as a space opened up before him. The shadow of his war banner retreated from the faces of the men opposite as Anlaf moved back to give his lord room, and Erik wound his body, the great curved blade of the axe whistling gleefully as it too cleaved the air. The first sweep took two heads clean off, the faces still showing looks of surprise and horror as they bounced away across the turf. Men were falling back under the pressure of their assault, the rearmost beginning to cast longing glances towards the safety of the distant tree line.
To Erik’s left Helgrim Smiter and his men had broken the line, spilling out into the rear to double the crest and cut the king’s line of retreat. The men of Vestfold and Ringerike had seen it too, and they broke before they too could be swept up in the net like a shoal of silver herring. Suddenly the hillside was filled with running figures as panic swept Erik’s foemen, and men threw aside weapons and armour, anything which would hinder their headlong flight.
