by C. R. May
Erik nodded as he ran the idea through his mind; high above the stars were paling as he switched his gaze to take in the rocky outline of Dun Foither once again. Although a good deal smaller, the great stronghold reminded him of Byrgisey up in Orkney — Fortress-Isle — the place which had sheltered his family during the darkest days following the loss of Norway. Whereas that outcrop became an island at high tide, the one before him was still connected to the mainland by a knife-edged ridge, but a quick appraisal by the king told him that it was no less formidable for that. A pathway switchbacked down from the clifftops where the men of his hird now sat patiently, bottoming out in a wide gully. From there the path climbed again before entering a narrow cleft in the sheer sided rock face which led up to the summit and the walls of the fortress itself. From the moment an attacker left the tree line to descend the slope, they would come under arrow shot from any bowmen manning the walls above. Gaining the gully would add to their difficulties, as javelins added their weight to the deadly hail. Any who had survived the onslaught thus far would now be channelled into the narrow passageway which led to the summit, and Erik harboured no illusions as to their likely fate as they attempted to force their way up and all manner of weapons, rocks and boiling liquids cascaded down upon them from the heights above. It was the perfect killing ground that had drawn the groan from Erik the moment he had first laid eyes upon it, but any thoughts of assault and siege were pushed gratefully aside as the first brands winked into life on the battlements and he came to realise the truth. Erik turned to Helgrim as shouts of alarm carried to them across the void, and his breath fogged the cool air as he spoke again. ‘Come on,’ he said thankfully. ‘Let us return to the roadway — Mael Colm is not here.’
A shouted command followed by the clatter of shield on shield told Erik that he was nearing the roadway, and a heartbeat later he rode clear of the trees. A wall of Norwegian shields lined the path, the rising sun throwing long shadows away to the west, and Erik curbed his mount’s headlong dash as the men of the Draki spilled from the tree line. A quick scan of the men arrayed in battle order before him and the king’s eyes went to the war flags of his sons; Erik instinctively passed judgement on the disposition as his own huskarls gathered around. Thorstein spoke, echoing the king’s thoughts. ‘There is nowt wrong with that defence Erik,’ he said, the approval obvious in his voice. ‘You’ll not catch Erikssons unprepared for war.’
Erik ran his eyes along the formation as he slid to the ground. Thorstein was right — strung out in line of march the column was vulnerable to a surprise attack. But with Gamli and his men guarding the head of the column and Harald the track which led down to Dun Foither, the two most likely places that foemen could launch an assault were well covered. A glance to the south confirmed that the banners of his remaining sons were bringing up the rear, and as Harald came up Erik snapped out an answer to his son’s unspoken question. ‘He is not there.’
Harald’s expression became a mix of relief and surprise that Erik was certain must echo his own as he spoke. ‘You are sure, father? You were barely gone long enough to ride there and back.’
Movement to the king’s right caught his eye, and Erik glanced across to see Gamli trotting back down the column with the scout, Hauk, in tow. He waited the few moments it took for his eldest son to arrive before repeating his conclusion. ‘If he was heading there, Mael Colm has not yet reached the fortress,’ he said to them both.
The brothers shared a look, and Erik’s war lust flared as he recognised the excitement which passed between them as he explained his reasoning. ‘The rock was in darkness when we arrived at the head of the clifftop path, and it was not until we exited the tree line and revealed ourselves that the guards reacted. Helgrim and I were sat on our horses in full view for some time before brands were lit and the sound of the alarm being raised carried to us. It was plain that their king was not holed up there, if he was he would have told them of the chase south from Moray and they would have been expecting the pursuers to arrive soon after.’ Erik flicked a look across to the place where Hauk was waiting patiently, before returning his gaze to his sons. ‘What do we know of the situation ahead?’
Gamli summoned the scout with the wave of an arm. ‘Tell the king what you told me.’
‘The town looks quiet, lord,’ Hauk reported. ‘A few early risers going about their business, but no sign of armed men and nothing which would suggest that they are expecting any.’
Erik nodded. ‘Describe it to me.’
‘Stonehive is pretty unremarkable — a score or so huts and a few shacks down by the beach for the fisherfolk. From what we could make out this road runs directly through the settlement and then north across the bog.’ He glanced up at the rapidly lightening sky. The sun had climbed a little higher since Erik had returned and the woodland to the East was fringed with light. ‘It was dark of course,’ Hauk added apologetically, ‘it will be far easier to see now; but I have left good men in position on the ridge above the town who will ride back and report anything significant I may have missed. We didn’t want to enter the town because there were too few of us to seal off all the pathways, and it would have left us unable to warn you here if anything changed. It is only a couple of miles away at most — now that we know that our rear is secure we can be there in no time.’
Erik clapped Hauk on the arm and threw him a heartening smile. ‘Lead us forward and we shall push on through this collection of hovels.’ He glanced at the sky and smiled. ‘With the returning light we can increase the pace — once we are on the northern causeway it will be an easy matter to block the road and wait for Mael Colm to come to us.’ He returned his gaze to his sons. ‘Gamli — Harald; when we reach Stonehive take your men and block the road which leads to Fetteresso, we don’t want the Scots who have already arrived at the muster to attack our rear if they get wind of our presence.’ Erik recognised the look of disappointment which washed across the faces of his eldest sons and he explained his reasoning. ‘It will not take five hundred of our finest men to block a narrow causeway. A king must face a king in battle, and I would feel a whole lot easier knowing that my rear was secured by my best men.’
Erik crossed to his horse, unhooking his war helm from its carrying place as the boys relayed his orders, and as the headpiece slipped into place the clearing was filled with the clatter of men doing the same. Erik threw his huskarls a grin as he hauled himself back into the saddle. ‘Come on lads,’ he said. ‘We have a war to win.’
Gamli was just mounting his own gelding as Erik swept by, and Hauk urged his horse into a gallop as the scout led the army north. With the sun now lighting the way Erik increased the pace to a gallop, and in what seemed little more than moments the trees were beginning to give way to cultivated fields, but as the first rooftops of Stonehive hove into view he was forced to drop to a canter as a horseman came racing into view ahead.
As he drew closer Erik recognised the man as Thord, the young scout who had won a silver arm ring for spotting the ford before the attack on Haydon the previous summer, and as the rider turned to come alongside he cocked an ear to listen. ‘There is a strong force of mounted men approaching from the North, lord,’ Thord called across the sound of beating hooves. ‘They are very close — within a mile now I would guess.’
Erik nodded that he understood as he threw back his heels. The road was stony and rutted this close to the town, but he knew that with the bulk of his army still back at Stroma it was imperative that they reach a good defensive position before the arrival of what must be Mael Colm and his raiding army or invite catastrophe. Taking the next rise at a gallop the way ahead opened up, and as the early morning light finally revealed the town and its environs, he raised his chin to look. A mile away the causeway shimmered as the sunlight lancing in from the East played upon helm and mail, and dropping his gaze Erik searched frantically for a place to make a stand. The first of the Scots were already across a wide river and coming on fast, but the nearest buildings were littl
e more than a hundred yards ahead and he knew what he must do.
The thunder of hooves beneath him changed to a clatter as his horse crossed a rickety bridge, and a heartbeat later he was across and beginning to slow as he put the southernmost buildings behind him. In a matter of moments he had reached the far side of Stonehive, and as Erik slid from the saddle and took up his weapons the rest of his hird were fanning out to do the same. Sleepy faces stared at him from the depths of the huts, and Erik snapped a command which had them quickly melting back into the gloom. As the last of the doors were slammed shut and locking bars clunked into place the king was releasing his shield from its carrying place, and the reassuring weight of the piece firmed the muscles of his forearm as he prepared for the fight. By the time he had turned back his guards were out of their saddles and at the king’s side, and Erik threw them an order as he made his way forward. ‘Cut the roadway — form up between the buildings either side, we will use them as a bulwark.’
The sunlight returned as Erik came clear of the buildings, and the king forced down his disappointment as the light revealed just how close the enemy were. Mael Colm was clearly in view beneath the war flag of Alba, and although a quick tally told Erik that he would be outnumbered roughly three to one it also revealed what he knew would be his salvation. He turned aside to share his joy, and saw that Helgrim Smiter was already drawing the haft of his Dane axe across his shoulder before stooping to prop the great dome of his shield against a nearby wall. The big man planted a kiss on the blade of the axe as he straightened his back, turning his head to address his lord as the others began to pour into the clearing. ‘I shall hold them at bay while the men move forward to the gully,’ he said.
By the time Erik had thought to reply the huskarl was already halfway to the bridge, rolling his shoulders and neck as he warmed muscles chilled by a hard night’s ride for the killing time ahead. The war axe was a two handed weapon and deadly for close-in combat, but nigh on impossible to use and wield a shield at the same time. Erik turned back, his eyes flying across those cramming the gap between the two nearest halls until they found the men he wanted: ‘Grettir — Gunnar!’ The brothers’ heads snapped around as they recognised the voice of the king. ‘Helgrim is our axe man on the bridge — take shields across and protect him from spears and arrows.’ The pair nodded, and Erik added words of encouragement as they squirmed clear of the crush and trotted by: ‘and show these Scots how Hordalanders fight…’
Safe for now, Erik strode clear of the buildings as he sought to use the opportunity to organise the defence. The quicker he could do it, the quicker he could recall the defenders from the bridge; he had to give them the best chance he could. A line of longhouses ran parallel to the burn, and although the watercourse was not much more than a trickle at the height of summer, the fact that the inhabitants of Stonehive had felt the need to steepen the banks to contain the flow during the wetter months should make it a formidable obstacle when the enemy attacked. Fifty yards on, what flow there was meandered across a pebbly beach before discharging into the cold blue waters of the German Sea. Several small boats had been drawn up amid the nets and drying racks of their trade, and Erik realised the danger to his flank as the last of his men surged through the gaps between the buildings and formed up.
To Erik’s surprise Harald Eriksson was one of them, and as his eyes picked out the figure of the king he hurried across. ‘We have found the road to Fetteresso father,’ he said, ‘and it is a piddling thing. Gamli was able to set up a defence four men deep straddling the path using the crew from the Vindalfr alone, so I brought my men across to see if we could be of more use here.’
Erik’s hand went to the silver hammer at his throat in thanks. With the majority of the Christians absent, either with Regenwold in the west or back in York with the returning Oswald Thane he felt more comfortable displaying the emblem of Þórr, and old red beard would know that the king would very soon have need of every shield, spear and axe he could get. Erik plucked at his son’s sleeve, turning him to face the early morning sun. ‘Take yourself down to the strand and anchor the line there,’ he said gratefully. ‘If you get time you may be able to drag those boats across to form a rudimentary wall, if not make sure that axemen render them unusable. In fact,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘stove the sides in anyway in case you are overrun and lose the opportunity. Whatever happens we cannot let Mael Colm reach Dun Foither, either by turning our flank and regaining the roadway or taking ship and doubling the headland.’
Harald gave a curt nod and strode away. Erik allowed himself a moment to wallow in self-regard despite the nearness of battle as he watched his son go. The eyes of Harald’s hirdmen were eagerly following the young man as they awaited his command, and Erik let his gaze linger even as the first roar of defiance rolled down upon the beleaguered Norsemen from the Scots across the ditch. It was not until Harald reached the first of the shoreside huts that Erik reluctantly tore his gaze away, and turning his head to the north he was just in time to witness the last of the enemy exiting the causeway and dropping down onto the riverside meadow.
Erik could see Mael Colm clearly now — walking the front rank just out of arrow shot, surrounded by his personal guard as he sought to instil the fighting spirit they would need to cross the ditch and come face to face with battle hardened Norsemen. Erik smiled his war smile as he looked, and his cares sluiced away as he came to see just how weary the Scots must be regardless of their numbers. A couple of nights’ broken sleep had fogged his own mind somewhat, despite the few hours he had snatched following the Skulissons’ torture and demise. He was not a young man now, well into his sixth decade on Midgard so the skalds told him; Mael Colm was older still, and he had just been chased all the way from Moray. But it was not the ages of the respective leaders in the upcoming fight which had lifted his mood, but the realisation that the Scots were already hastening to form their battle lines and desperate to force the issue. If he was outnumbered here, then Erik’s experience told him that was unlikely to last. To race south, throwing your army at the enemy you have avoided all summer long without taking the time to rest up or spy out the battlefield beforehand was the act of a desperate man. The army of the Orkneys and their new Moray allies were not only close behind, they must be coming on in overwhelming strength. Erik knew that if he could hold them here until the northerners arrived he would win the war — Mael Colm would die, and the crown of Alba would be added to that of Northumbria, Orkney and the Sudreys. Then, while the southern English hid behind the skirts of their sickly king, he would assemble an army from all the lands north of the Humber and add that crown too.
18
Spears and Shields
The cries of the enemy were building as Erik walked forward to address his fighters, and a snatched glance northwards confirmed that the Scots were on the cusp of making their first assault of the day. Time was short, but there were no novices among the ranks before him, no downy lipped boys putting on a brave face as the enemy cavorted and chanted only yards away, and at Erik’s appearance before them the men quietened and turned their faces to him. The king lost no time in addressing them:
‘Norsemen,’ he cried, ‘men of the North — Norwegians.’ He smiled as he saw a hawkish look come into faces up and down the line as he did so. ‘I have no need for fancy words, exhortations or appeals to your manliness, and I would not shame you to do so. The end of our summer long campaign is in sight. Yonder…’ he said with the dismissive waft of an arm, ‘is Mael Colm. No man remains king for as long as he without fox-cunning, but he has outrun his luck and this morn will be his last.’ Erik’s gaze drifted from face to face, pausing here and there to share a nod or the ghost of a smile with favoured veterans. ‘We are outnumbered for now and faced by desperate men — they will hit us as hard as they can, but even so we will prevail.’
The rattle of spear shaft upon shield carried to the king, and Erik knew that the enemy attack was only moments away. Sturla Godi was alongside him wh
ere banner men must be, and Erik reached across to raise the huskarl’s war horn high as he outlined his battle plan. ‘We move forward to the edge of the ditch and hold them there as long as we can. It’s a day for spears and shields lads,’ he said with a gleam in his eye. ‘The longer we hold the lip of the ditch the more of them shall fall, but their numbers may tell in the end so keep an ear cocked for this. Three blows on the horn signify the moment we retreat back to the buildings. Regain the positions you occupy now and hold them there. If there is any sign of a breakthrough or that one seems likely, three more blows of the horn will send us back to guard the road south.’ Erik ran his eyes along the line, pinning men with his gaze as he drove home the final point. ‘Gamli and Harald are anchoring our wings, so they will not outflank us through force of arms — but whatever happens here we must deny Mael Colm passage to the fortress at Dun Foither. If the war horn sounds a third time, fall back and form a skjald-borg on the far side of the little bridge we crossed on the ride in.’ He made a fist and glowered. ‘If we can pin the Scots here until the Orkneymen arrive we shall crush them in a vice, if not Mael Colm will escape us again and we shall have to return next year to hunt him down afresh.’
