by C. R. May
A cry rent the air, and Erik glanced across to see that the Scots had begun their advance, the long line of armoured men breaking into a trot as they crossed the water meadow. Erik looked back and urged his army forward with the sweep of an arm. ‘To the ditch, lads — Oðinn is with us!’
He turned his attention to his bodyguards as the warriors thundered past. ‘We will back up Helgrim at the bridge. He has done his work there, denying the Scots any chance of an easy passage until we had shared our plans and made our dispositions.’
Erik threw a look away to the north as he regained the roadway, blinking in surprise as he saw how near a loping gait had carried the enemy in such a short space of time. What had been pale smudges only moments before had hardened into hate-filled faces, and as the men of the Draki fanned out to either side of the little bridge the first volley of javelins left the hands of his countrymen to arc through the air. A moment later the throwing spears fell among the onrushing Scots, and Erik looked on with satisfaction as men were punched backwards by the force of the strike. Those following on leapt the falling bodies of the dying and injured, increasing the pace to come to grips with the enemy before they too could be struck down by the deadly darts, and as a follow-up volley darkened the sky the leading Scots gained the ditch. A moment later the attackers were airborne, launching themselves across the gap to land among the Norsemen in a thunderous clash of wood, muscle and steel. Leading the line Erik braced as a raven haired Scot grew to fill his vision. The blow when it came rocked him back on his heels, but his huskarls were there and as the king threw his shoulder into the boards they moved in to lend their weight to the push. Despite the crush of bodies Erik worked to free his spear, twisting his grip to angle the long blade almost vertical as the man before him scrabbled to find a foothold on the crumbly edge. Unbalanced, the Scot could only look on in horror as Kolbein’s hand shot out to grip the hem of his mail shirt, and as the armour was tugged upwards Erik’s spear was already moving. An instant later the blade was worming its way beneath the folds, and Erik grunted with effort as he felt the point touch yielding flesh and he stepped in to drive it upwards. A gasp of rancid air washed over his face as the breath was driven from the attacker, and Erik threw his bodyweight forward to send the dying man tumbling back into the ditch.
With his opponent now bleeding out in the burn below Erik raised his eyes to seek out the next threat, but the look told him that the following wave was only just setting off across the meadow. Satisfied that the immediate danger had been taken care of Erik took a rearwards step, and he raised his eyes to scan the battlefront as a crewman slipped into his stead. The majority of the first wave had been beaten back and were now lying in a bloodied line at the foot of the slope; here and there tiny bridgeheads had been gained where the meander of the burn had closed the distance between the two banks to little more than a hop, but the resistance was fierce and he doubted that the Scottish van could force its way through before the main body of attackers arrived to add weight to the push. Erik’s eyes slid across to the bridge. Helgrim Smiter and the young Hordalanders were standing mid span, the whistle of Helgrim’s war axe as it arced through the morning air clearly audible above the shouts and cries of warring men. As yet the threat posed by the trio seemed to have warded off any thoughts of attack in the enemy ranks, but that would not last Erik knew, and he gave a snort as he imagined the big man’s unease and embarrassment at being the only man in the army yet to wet his blade.
Erik’s respite was short lived, and he firmed his grip on shield and shaft as the next wave of attackers arrived to crash down upon the Norwegian line. A yard to his right the wall was breached, and as triumphant Scots poured into the gap Erik let out a roar and counterattacked. His spear stabbed out as a face swam into view, but his opponent was quicker still and Erik felt his shoulder jar as the man’s shield brushed the attack aside to send the spear spinning from his hand. Before the Scot could follow up Thorstein was there, the huskarl’s desperate counterstrike enough to thwart the attack on his lord as Erik drew his sword and took a sideways step. Still hunkered into his shield as he looked to bring his spear into play, Erik’s attacker had made the fatal mistake of losing sight of his first opponent, and the king took full advantage as he swept the blade in to take the man in the neck. As the sword cut a rictus and blood spurted the Scot crumpled; Erik shoved the body back into the ditch, rushing in to plug the gap before more of the enemy could leap across. A Norwegian was down in the mud, stuffing ropes of black-blue guts back into a savage rent in his belly, but Erik had no time to drag him clear of the stamping feet as he forced his way back into the front line. Before him the ditch was rapidly filling with bodies as attack after attack was beaten back, and Erik braced to meet the next as the Scots came on screaming their war cries.
As far as he could see the first waves of attackers were lying dead or grievously wounded in the ditch now, and back on the lip Erik saw at a glance that those following on were of the lesser sort. But if their weapons, leather caps and jerkins marked them out as levy men their numbers and fighting spirit were still potentially overwhelming, and Erik raised his sword as they reached the far bank and slid down the slope without hesitation. Rank after rank followed on, and Erik prepared to deal out death from his position above them as the first scrambled across the dead and dying and clawed their way up the slope.
Halfway up the rise a spearman made a lunge, aiming to catch Erik in the vulnerable spot beneath the steel plates of his greaves; it was a cunning strike, but Erik had seen too many winters to fall for such a thing and he raised his foot to bring it crashing down to pin the shaft to the edge of the rise. The attacker looked up in desperation as he worked to free his only weapon, and the surprise of the counterstroke just had time enough to register on the face of the Scotsman before Thorstein’s spear blade arrived to make a horror of it. Erik raised his eyes again as Thorstein and Kolbein covered him; the Scots were pouring across the far side of the burn to crash upon the Norwegian line like a breaking wave, and he knew that he must extract himself from the fight if he was to fulfil his duty to the army. Another face appeared beneath him, and Erik’s boot shot out to pulp a nose as he called to his hirdmen above the furore. ‘Here, ‘he said, ‘step up and take my place lads.’
The moment he felt the presence of the men at his shoulders Erik took a backwards pace, and as his oath sworn slotted in to take the positions of the king and his guards they retreated into the clear space between the fighting and the huts beyond. Sturla Godi stuck staunchly at his side, the bloodied axe war banner of Erik Haraldsson flying proudly alongside the dark raven of Óðinn as the king led them across to the roadway. Raised a few feet above the level of the riverside in an effort to hold the worst of the spring floods at bay, the causeway which carried the road offered by far the best overview of the fighting tactics of the enemy to the Norwegian leader, and Erik’s eyes swept the field as his guardsmen clustered protectively around him.
Straight ahead the earlier reticence on the part of the attackers had been overcome, and the blade of Helgrim’s axe was cutting a bloody swathe as the Scots attempted to force a passage across the bridge. To either side the Norwegian shield wall was holding firm for the most part, but where the ditch began to peter out as it approached the sea the enemy were across in force. Raising his chin Erik could clearly see Harald and the men of the Skrípi pivoting as they swung inland to attack the flank of the enemy breakthrough, and although the flooding tide would help to secure their own wing for now it was plain that they were placing themselves in some danger by doing so.
The men had fought well and the little beck had become a midden stacked high with the broken remains of Alba’s best, but Erik knew that the time had come to withdraw or risk being overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. ‘Sturla,’ he said, as a war cry rent the air and the Scots surged again. ‘Send a runner to tell Helgrim and the boys to abandon the bridge: then make the signal to withdraw to the huts.’ Erik switched his gaze to the
men about him. ‘We will make a stand here. It is only a few yards, but I want us to give our lads the best chance to retreat without being forced to turn their backs or fight their way out. As soon as the shield wall begins to retreat, the enemy will be on them like a pack of wolves.’
Sturla caught his eye as a spearman dashed across to the entrance to the bridge, raising the war horn to his lips as he sought a final confirmation that the king wanted the signal made. Erik gave a curt nod and the horn sang, once, twice, three times — the sound hanging like a pall over the field of battle as the first faces, pale, drawn and bloodied by the intensity of the fighting, turned his way. Sensing a breakthrough the signal drew a roar from the attacking Scots, but Norwegian discipline held firm and Erik watched as they retreated step-by-step from the edge of the ditch. With the shield wall intact the attackers soon came to realise that their foe remained undefeated, and as the flood plain opened up before them and the pressure to gain a foothold on the southern bank receded with it the Scots began to disengage, falling back to regroup before renewing their assault.
With the men retreating in good order and the ferocity of the Scottish attacks momentarily on the wane, Erik raised his eyes to search out the far bank. The oncoming waves of spearmen were all but spent, the last of the Scots now bunching up against the far bank as they waited for the attack to begin again, but it was the absence of Mael Colm’s war flag which caused the king’s stomach to lurch, and his brow furrowed as his eyes searched the length of the water meadow in desperation. He gave voice to his worries, more in hope than expectation. ‘Can anyone see Mael Colm?’
Thorsten and Kolbein Herjolfsson were at his side, and the pair shielded their eyes from the bright morning sun as they scanned the opposite bank. Kolbein spoke first, the old campaigner’s voice betraying his unease as he confirmed Erik’s worst fears. ‘No, lord,’ he said. ‘There is no sign.’
The last of the men of the Draki were just reaching their new defensive position, and Erik had opened his mouth to speak when he realised that the man Sturla had sent to retrieve the three on the bridge was stood before him. A quick check told him that Helgrim, Grettir and Gunnar were standing firm, their weapons glinting mid span, and he nodded that the man speak as he watched the newcomers swell the Scottish ranks to cut off the trio’s retreat.
‘Helgrim asked for your leave to stay, lord. He believes that he can hold the bridge even if he is surrounded, but that if it is his fate is to die here he will raise a horn to us all in Valhöll. He did try to insist that the others leave,’ he added, ‘but they refused. They said that it would be cowardly of them to allow him to tread the rainbow bridge alone.’
Thorstein growled at his side. ‘We will see about that.’ He turned to Erik. ‘Let me lead a charge to get them out, lord. I’ll not watch a friend of mine lay down his life for a ramshackle bridge in the arse-end of nowhere.’ He cast a dismissive glance towards the enemy before speaking again. ‘We will cut through this rabble and be back here before they know what has hit them.’
Erik shook his head. ‘Smiter knows what he is about. Now that we know that Mael Colm has fled the field, the Scots will never break through his defence. Abandoned by the king, only a lackwit would match himself against Helgrim’s axe for a forlorn cause.’ He raised his eyes to scan the far bank once more, hoping against hope that he would see the banner of his enemy hove into view. He was to be disappointed. ‘If the bastard has found a way to escape us again, this whole summer campaign has been a waste. We could have feasted away every day in York, and I would still have saved silver.’
As if to confirm the king’s worst fears, the first sounds of fighting were beginning to drift across from the Southwest: Erik turned to look, only to find that the source of the conflict was masked by the buildings of Stonehaven. Either the king of Alba knew of another route through the maze of bogland to the west, or the men who had answered Mael Colm’s call to arms had heard the fighting from the nearby encampments at Fetteresso and were rushing across to lend their weight to the assault. Neither was good news, and Erik’s eyes flicked across the field before him as he pondered what to do. With Mael Colm gone the battle before him was now meaningless, but until the Scots retreated the Norwegians would have to hold their position or risk being overtaken and hacked down from behind. Erik ran his eyes over the enemy again. The demeanour had changed, the savagery of the earlier attacks had left them as word spread that their king had left the field, and Erik knew immediately what needed to be done. ‘Sturla!’ he snapped. ‘Sound the attack! I have had enough of skulking behind my shield, it’s time these Scots discovered what type of men they are facing.’
As the low moan of the battle horn drifted above the armies, Erik walked free of the line and turned his back on the foe. With the enemy front rank little more than a two score paces away it was an act of scorn intended to put the fire back into the bellies of men unused to being on the defensive, but if any had harboured a doubt as to their mettle the Norwegian fighters quickly drove it away. As Erik raised Jomal high and the sound of the war horn lay heavily on the battlefield he called a rallying cry, turned and broke into a run: ‘Follow me lads! Back to the ditch!’
Erik powered across the clearing, sweeping his axe in deadly arcs as he did so — war horns blaring as his name filled the air:
Blóðøx! Blóðøx! Blóðøx!
Taken by surprise the Scots quailed before him, and Erik was thrilled to see the first of them abandon the field and flee across the ditch to safety before he even reached them. A moment later he was there, Jomal scything through flesh and bone in a gore spattered crescent before his foemen could cobble together an organised defence. A spearman waved his weapon in a half-hearted attempt to drive him back, but the attack was gutless and Erik let the point snag in the links of his mail shirt as he crushed the man’s skull. The harsh crash of wood on wood and the softer sounds of steel striking flesh told the king that the rest of his army had reached the foe, and Erik swept out to either side as the Scots fell back in disarray. Without warning the ditch opened up before him, and Erik stood panting on the lip as he watched the last of the enemy throw themselves across the dead and dying in a desperate attempt to escape the slaughter. Erik looked to either side as his guardsmen reached him, the familiar thrill of victory sending his spirits soaring as he watched the rest of the army drive the Scots before them like deer before fire. Away to the west the first of the fugitives were melting into the reed bed fringing the wetter ground, and Erik spat his disgust as he saw that he had been right; there was another pathway which lead inland from the settlement. It was obvious now that Mael Colm had squirmed from his grasp once again, and as the realisation caused the elation of victory to drain away Thorstein spoke at his side. ‘Look lord.’
Erik replied without taking his eyes from the fleeing Scots. ‘Yes, I know — as we feared, there was another path.’
Thorstein spoke again. ‘No, lord — look.’
Erik dragged his eyes away from the enemy and followed the huskarl’s gaze. There, half a mile to the north, a party of horsemen sat highlighted against the skyline.
19
A King at Bay
Picking his way through the jetsam of bloodied torsos and limbs which marked the high tide of the Scottish advance Erik crossed the little bridge, shaking his head as he surveyed the carnage all around. ‘What were you thinking? If we had been forced back all the way to the southern bridge, you would have been cut off and overwhelmed.’
Helgrim shook his head. ‘Up here I could see more than you down on the bank,’ he replied. ‘I was the first to see that Mael Colm was preparing to flee to the marsh. I tried to warn you,’ he added apologetically, ‘but I was assailed on all sides. If I had turned my head any further, I would have been run through before I could gain your attention.’
Erik nodded that he understood, taking a backwards step as he ran his eyes quickly over the body of his friend. As was usual there were no visible wounds, and the blood which freckled
his arms and mail shirt had belonged to his enemies. He turned his head, shooting Grettir and Gunnar a smile as the pair finally rested the heavy shields against the parapet of the place they had helped to defend throughout the battle. The wooden boards showed brightly where spear blades had sliced through the leather covering, and a smattering of arrowheads on hastily broken shafts showed the king how well they had fulfilled the task he had given them at the start of the fight. ‘I see you were kept busy lads,’ he said with a nod towards the shield faces. He ran his eyes across the dead underfoot. The majority of those who had attacked the trio were lightly armed levy men, and Erik felt a pang of pity imagining the fear as they rushed the armoured giant in a desperate attempt to swamp the Norwegians and force the crossing. Despite their bravery Helgrim’s axe had made short work of them, and all that remained to tell the tale were mounds of broken bodies amid the unseeing eyes of the dead. ‘No axe man can ply his trade without support,’ the king said as he looked. ‘You did your work well.’
As the pair stood tall at their king’s praise the first clatter of hooves drifted down to them from the roadway, and Erik turned his attention to the north to see that an army had overtaken the scouts on the skyline and were approaching beneath the wild boar banners of Orkney.
The sounds of fighting which had drawn his attention earlier flared suddenly, and Erik exchanged a look with his huskarls as the oncoming riders slowed the horses to a trot. There was clearly a savage fight taking place nearby, and Erik forced down the desire to plunge into the marsh and seek it out with difficulty as he awaited the news the Orkneymen would bring. The army of York was far from home; he had already been forced to divide the invaders and it was not the actions of a wise king to blunder into fights without a plan, but he allowed himself a snort of amusement that age had tempered his hot blood even as he hoped that Gamli Eriksson would show the same restraint at his position guarding the western roadway. The leading riders were clearly in view now, and Erik painted his face in a welcoming smile as the familiar features of Arnkel Torf-Einarsson hardened from the crowd. The jarl-brother returned the gesture, curbing his mount as the king walked forward beneath his own war banner — but the smile fell away to be replaced by a covetous look as the Orcadian saw into the depths of the burn for the first time. ‘You have a victory lord,’ he said, forcing a smile back into his features. ‘It would seem the gods are not on my side today.’
