“Halfdan, stay near me!” Harald shouted.
Rolf fell, a spear through his throat and one leg nearly severed by a sword cut. Harald seemed everywhere at once, whirling and turning. He lunged to the right, thrusting Biter before him, then whipped his sword behind him, and two of our attackers were down. His shield moved as though with a life of its own, blocking, parrying, deflecting, and always Biter darted out from behind it, chopping at hands, slashing at legs and arms, keeping our attackers at bay. Its blade whistled through the air as Harald whipped the deadly steel, now bright red with blood, back and forth.
“Ulf, my back,” he cried, and spun again toward the stone wall, trying to cut a way clear.
Three more pursuers had circled around and now stood before us, arrayed side by side, blocking our way. Harald feinted to the left, then struck at the warrior in the center. The man blocked and swung a return cut, but Harald was already gone, ducking low and scuttling back as the warrior on the right jabbed out at him with a spear.
As the warrior on his left lunged forward and swung a cut at Harald, I thrust my sword at his chest, but his mail brynie deflected my blow and the point skidded aside. He swung his shield and its edge struck my wrist, sending my sword flying from my grasp. The warrior lifted his own sword overhead and hammered down at me with it. I raised my shield in a clumsy block that saved my head from being split, but the blade chopped through the rim of my shield and knocked me off balance. My feet slipped in the now blood-slicked grass and I stumbled back and sat down hard. I threw my hand behind me to keep from falling fully on my back and it found my bow, lying on the ground where I’d dropped it. I swung it up and stabbed the sharpened tip into the warrior’s eye as he wrenched his sword free of my shield and raised it to strike again.
The man screamed and staggered back, bumping into the villain beside him. As he did, Harald spun forward again, swinging a cut low at the feet of the uninjured man, then jerked Biter up and stabbed him in the mouth as he thrust his shield down to block the low attack. The man staggered back, spitting blood and teeth. Harald lunged to the right, punching his shield forward and blocking another spear thrust from the warrior there. Then, spinning completely around, he whipped Biter in an arc that ended in the neck of the man I had wounded.
“Go!” he shouted and pulled me to my feet.
Behind us, men with spears rushed Ulf from three sides. He blocked one, but the other two impaled him on their spear points and continued charging forward, bearing him to the ground, flailing at them in vain with his sword as he fell. As I started to run, the remaining warrior between us and the wall swung his sword at Harald’s head. The blow glanced off his helm. Harald dropped to his knees as though stunned, but swung Biter in a sweeping arc that cut the man’s legs from under him.
As Harald balanced there on his knees, swaying, I stopped and turned back to face him. Our eyes met for an instant. Again he said, though this time in little more than a whisper, “Go.”
As I turned and fled, a wave of attackers charged at Harald from behind, knocking him face forward on the ground. Three continued on past him in pursuit of me.
It was my good fortune that none who chased me carried spears. As I ran, I flung my shield back toward my nearest pursuer. He swerved aside and it missed him, but it gained me a few precious strides.
I was younger and faster than the men who chased me, and unburdened by armor or shield. Fear gave extra speed to my feet. Two of my pursuers quickly fell behind. The third, the one I’d thrown my shield at, kept pace behind me though, neither gaining nor losing ground. As we neared the stone wall, I clawed an arrow from the quiver slapping against my hip. I cleared the low wall in a leap. As I struck ground on the far side, I spun around and fitted the arrow to my bowstring. There was no time to aim, for my pursuer was upon me. I barely had time to draw and release, but my shot struck home, the arrow darting from my bow into his stomach as he leapt the wall, sword raised to cut me down. I threw myself sideways and he sailed past me, a startled look on his face, then crumpled into a heap, groaning, when he hit the ground.
More of the enemy had joined in the chase, but were still some distance away. The remaining two of my original pursuers were nearing the wall now, though, and began sprinting toward me when they saw their comrade go down. I crouched behind the wall and, as quickly as I could, pulled arrows from my quiver and launched three, one after another. Two found their marks, dropping the two closest men. The third streaked toward the running warriors further back. The man I shot it at caught it with his shield, but he and the men around him skidded to a halt and dropped low, squatting behind their shields. They were close enough by now for me to see their eyes shining over the rims of their shields, even in the dark.
I nocked another arrow and shouted, “Who dies next?” Apparently none wished to, for the man I’d shot at began scuttling backwards behind the cover of his shield, putting more distance between himself and my bow. After a moment, the others followed his lead.
The man I’d shot as he’d leapt the wall lay on the ground behind me, moaning and cursing. I stabbed him with the sharpened horn tip of my bow in the side of his neck, where the big stream of lifeblood flows close beneath the skin. As his life left him in red spurts, I pulled my arrow from his body, then began running, crouched low behind the cover of the wall, toward the dark mass of the sheltering forest that lay at its end.
10 : Halfdan's Run
The men who still pursued me followed my progress at a distance, but made no serious attempt to catch me. They’d learned to fear the reach of my bow. When I came to the end of the wall and disappeared into the forest, they turned back and rejoined their fellows.
I stood a few feet back inside the tree line, hidden among the shadows, and watched the hellish scene before me. The wooden frame and timber walls of the longhouse were now burning, and the light given off by the blaze lit the cleared lands of the estate. Where Harald’s and Ulf’s bodies lay in the grass, and elsewhere across the fields where men had fallen, clusters of the enemy stood, pulling and tugging at the dead like dogs fighting over bones, stripping their bodies of armor, weapons, and even clothing.
Their leader appeared from behind the blazing longhouse, shouting at his men and waving his arms. Though he was a considerable distance from where I watched from hiding, I understood why his voice had sounded familiar to Harald. The helm and mask that earlier had covered his face were gone now, exposing a wild mane of long black hair and beard. The leader of the attackers was Toke.
At first my heart and mind had felt numb as I’d stood there watching, catching my breath after my run and trying to comprehend what had happened. Now though, the numbness dropped away. I could feel my heart, my whole being, filling with hatred. Toke! At that instant, if I could have, I would have killed him with my bare hands and teeth, and reveled at the taste of his blood. But there was nothing I could do. The distance was much too great for a bowshot. And if I ran back out of the woods now and tried to attack him, I could never fight my way through his men. I would only be cut down, and Harald would go unavenged. I was powerless in my hatred. At least, though, now I knew who I had to kill.
I believed in the gods of the Danes. I believed, at least, that they existed, though never before had I prayed to them. Gods seemed all too willing to ignore the wishes of men, even of great men. I’d always doubted they would even heard the pleas of slaves. Since becoming free, I’d never bothered to learn how to address the gods. Few men think to thank the gods while good fortune is smiling on them, though many beseech the heavens for aid when all seems lost. But though I did not know how, I prayed that night. I turned my thoughts and my heart to Odin, and sought his help, for he, I knew, was the god of vengeance and death.
Oak trees are sacred to Odin, that much I knew. He had been pinned with a spear to a great oak once, and had hung there for nine days, but had survived. By his suffering he won for the gods and for men the knowledge of poetry, and of the runes. I knew that it is in memory of his s
uffering on the tree for the sake of men that sacrifices to Odin are hung on the branches of oaks.
At the forest’s edge a great oak grew, its trunk bigger around than three grown men could span with their arms extended. I embraced the tree, my face against its rough bark, and spoke into it, willing the slumbering forest giant to awake and hear me, and carry my prayers to Odin.
“Father Odin,” I said, “hear this oath, and give me the strength and will to fulfill it.” I spoke each word slowly and clearly, in case the speech of men was difficult for trees to understand. “I swear to avenge my brother Harald, and Ulf, and Rolf, and Aidan, and all of the others who died with them this night. I swear to slay Toke, and all who aided him. Help me in this, All-Father. Give me my vengeance. Let my heart not feel peace until my oath is fulfilled.”
I had no sacrifice to hang upon the tree. I took the dagger Harald had given me, and cut into the heel of my palm. As the blood welled up out of the wound, I pressed my hand against the tree and let my blood soak into its bark.
I felt a cool breath on my cheek as a sudden passing breeze, heralding the coming dawn, whispered through the trees. Above me, the leaves of the great oak rustled, and its branches creaked and swayed. The tree had heard—I was sure of it—and it would tell Odin of my oath.
Out in the fields, Toke’s men began dragging bodies to the burning longhouse and throwing them inside. While they were occupied with their gruesome task, I crept back out of the forest and across the pasture, moving at a low crouch through the scattered strips of low mist that were forming on the ground as dawn approached. Once among the trees again on the far side, I worked my way through the woods down to where, behind the privy, the trees came closest to the longhouse. It was from that same patch of trees that the enemy’s archers had launched so many deadly shafts at us when we’d tried to escape from the byre.
In the dark, I tripped over a body. He was one of Toke's archers, for a bow lay beside him and a quiver of arrows was slung by a strap from his shoulder. In the dark and confusion, he must have been forgotten by his comrades. By now I was running low on arrows—I had only eight left—so I took the arrows from his quiver, plus the arrow—it was one of mine—that had pierced his chest.
Just inside the edge of the woods, I lay prone beside a fallen log, spread my cloak over my body, and covered it with the dry, dead leaves that carpeted the ground under the trees. I would not be hidden from a close inspection, for the ground was obviously disturbed where I’d gathered the leaves. But I was concealed from anyone who merely scanned the tree line from a distance. Hopefully when daylight came, Toke would give me a chance for a killing shot.
Fatigue must have overwhelmed me, for I was startled awake by the sound of horses. It was still the gray hours of early morn. I peered from under the edge of my cloak and saw a large group of armed men on horseback approaching down the cart path. In front of me, the longhouse had burned until nothing remained but rows of stumps, low flames still flickering upon them, marking the boundaries of the walls. They were all that remained of the great timbers that had formed the frame of the structure and supported its roof. Smoking mounds of ash and charred wood filled the area within. Looking out across the smoldering ruin, I saw that the Sea Steed, Toke’s ship, was now moored in the cove.
I watched as thin trails of smoke rose from a half-dozen points in the wreckage of the longhouse, only to be scattered by the morning breeze that was blowing in off the water. So, too, my life now lay in ruins, and my dreams were scattered and blown away. For a brief time I’d been a free man, a carl and warrior—the dream I’d cherished as a slave. I had even been raised up and acknowledged as the son of a chieftain. For a brief time I’d known the warmth and joy of a loving family. For one night only, I’d owned this land and longhouse, and had walked on lands where I was lord. Now I was nothing, only a shadow hiding among the trees like a wild creature, hoping for vengeance.
The leader of the approaching horsemen held up his hand, and the party of riders stopped. Toke, ringed by a group of his men, approached from the ship. Neither Toke nor any of his men now wore armor or bore shields, and they were armed with only their personal weapons, sheathed in their scabbards or stuck through their belts. As Toke came closer he held up both hands, palms outward, to show he carried no weapon and came in peace.
I watched closely for a clear shot, thinking to kill Toke now. I watched in vain. Whether intentionally or not, Toke kept himself surrounded by his men.
The leader of the party of riders wore no helm. His head was shiny and bare of hair on top, but long gray hair from the back and sides of his head hung down his back in two thick braids, and his gray beard was thick and long. He wore a short, sleeveless brynie of mail and bore a shield, and was armed with a long spear and a sword that hung in a scabbard from his belt. Though he appeared aged, his bearing left no doubt he could use both.
“I am Hrodgar, headman of the village that lies down yonder road. Who are you? What happened here?” he asked.
“Bandits attacked,” Toke replied. “They burned the longhouse and killed the folk of the farm. We saw the light in the sky from the flames, but arrived after their foul work was done. We were in time to gain some measure of vengeance, though.”
The riders’ leader nodded to a warrior beside him. The man spurred his horse forward and rode slowly around the longhouse, in an ever widening circle, leaning over in the saddle and staring intently at the ground.
“Bandits, you say?” the old man asked. “There have been no reports of bandits in this area. Why should we believe that tale, rather than that you and your men have done this thing?”
“Hrodgar, do you not recognize me?” Toke asked. “I am Toke, Hrorik’s son. This farm belongs to my father.”
Hrodgar leaned forward and stared hard at Toke, then sat back in his saddle with a grunt.
“Thor’s hammer, but you’ve grown as large as a bear. Still, I do recognize you. How go things with Hrorik and your brother Harald?”
Toke gave a loud sigh. “So the news has not reached here. Hrorik was mortally wounded in battle during a raid on England earlier this year. Harald brought him back for burial here in the land of the Danes.”
There was murmuring among the horsemen and Hrodgar said, “This is grave news indeed. Hrorik was a great chieftain and well liked among the folk along the Limfjord.”
“I fear there is more grave news,” Toke said. “My men and I are but recently returned from the same raid in England, and had hoped to rest here from our travels. We made camp for the evening some distance down the Limfjord, but during the night we saw the glow of the fire in the night sky and came to investigate. We found the longhouse already ablaze, and none but the bandits in sight.”
Toke turned and signaled to a group of men who’d been standing back a ways, beside the work sheds. They came forward, dragging between them a struggling man whose hands were tied behind his back. He began shouting in an accent that sounded strange to me. One of Toke’s men quickly clubbed him into silence.
“What was he trying to say?” Hrodgar asked. “I could not understand his words.”
“It is because he is English Saxon,” Toke replied, and I knew the man must be one of the prisoners Toke had captured in England. “Their tongue is very similar to ours, though it sounds different because of how they speak it.
“We captured this man in the fight with the bandits,” Toke continued, “He seemed to be their leader. It is my thinking that he’s an escaped slave.”
“And those?” Hrodgar asked, pointing with his spear. For the first time I noticed a row of bodies lying in the grass beyond the remains of the longhouse, near the work sheds. I knew Toke’s men had thrown the bodies of our dead into the burning longhouse. These bodies, I guessed, must be some of Toke’s men that we’d killed.
“They are the rest of the bandits that we killed,” Toke answered. “It was a stiff fight. Three of my own men were slain, and several wounded.”
Hrodgar stared at the
Sea Steed, then at the men standing now around Toke. “Only three of your own men were killed?” he asked. “Then you travel with a small crew.”
“We took losses in England,” Toke replied, shrugging his shoulders.
The rider Hrodgar had dispatched returned at a canter. “The ground has drunk blood heavily in several places,” he said. “It appears that those inside the house tried to break out from the byre using yon oxen to shield themselves. When the oxen fell, there was a moving battle in the direction of the wall that lies between the pasture and the fields. The heaviest fighting occurred a spear’s throw from the wall. I judge that many men died there, although from blood on the ground, at least one died on the far side of the wall.”
Hrodgar looked at Toke suspiciously. Toke shrugged his shoulders again. “I cannot say what happened,” he said. “I was not here when it occurred. When my men and I arrived, the bodies had been moved by the bandits and had already been thrown into the fire.”
“There was one other area where much blood was spilled,” the scout added. “There, by the work sheds, there is much blood on the ground.”
“That I can speak to,” Toke offered. “It was there that we fought the bandits and slew those whom you see.”
“You spoke of other grave news,” Hrodgar prompted.
Toke pointed to the Englishman held by two of his men. “Note you the brynie he wears, how it has fine leather trim at the neck and sleeves? I recognize it as my brother Harald’s brynie. And this,” he added, taking a sword that one of his men had been holding in his hand. He drew the blade partially from its scabbard and showed it to Hrodgar. “This is Harald’s sword, there can be no doubt. He called it Biter. This scum was wielding it when we clubbed him to the ground.”
Hrodgar looked shaken. “We had no word that Harald had come. He would have come to the village to pay his respects if he was here. And how could he have traveled so far from the estate in the south? I see no ship other than yours.”
Viking Warrior Page 18
