Norseman Raider (The Norseman Chronicles Book 4) (2 page)

PART
I – Anglesey!

987 A.D. – Early Summer

CHAPT
ER 1

The battle had raged since the dawn.

It had been characterized by waves of activity.  Like the ebb tide, periods of low consumption, cursing, contact, and collapse were quickly followed by violent episodes of the f
low tide where men rammed trés, elbows, and fists into the faces of their opponents.  Men and blood ran.  Ale flowed.  The old men watched, reminded of the splendor of their youth.  The children pointed, laughing, the boys hoping to one day become captains on the field, the girls hoping to marry one of those future leaders.  The young maids congregated together like hens, clucking, giggling, and feigning indifference, all the while keeping a sharp eye on us as we strutted and fought.  The battle, though the participants were exhausted and long since drunk, would rage to the gloaming and through the morrow if we couldn’t end it soon.

Our band of Norsemen, who hailed of late from Greenland and were considered foreigners on this Isle of Man, had formed one side for the ongoing knattleikr contest. 
The island’s king considered the game something of an initiation for us.  We were Leif, Magnus, Tyrkr, me, and twenty or so others.

Our opponents were
made up of the experienced men of Godfrey’s small army.  How a man remained a king with only a few dozen armed men at his disposal was beyond my understanding at the time.  I knew this, however, about his followers: they were full bodied, muscled.  I was the largest among the members of my team.  I was a head taller than any man I had ever met.  Yet my girth could not compare to those hardened raiders of Man.  Their legs seemed like the trunks of trees that sprouted stoutly from the ground.  Their arms were the size of a man’s waist.  At least it seemed so that day.

They had spent the morning pummeling us on the field of sport.  The
grounds were paced out south of town on a high, flat shelf that dropped off in a series of rocky crags down to the Irish Sea.  A spear with a waving rag tied onto its shaft was rammed into the ground to mark off each of the four corners of the field.  We had no boundary lines because we knew we could count on the exceedingly drunken spectators to argue among themselves and keep us somewhat honest when a man or the wooden ball tumbled out of bounds.

As it was
, ten of our Greenlanders were already strewn about the edge of the playing field, their exhausted bodies further delineating the sidelines.  They laid there with contusions or broken limbs.  It was not by choice that they now sat out, nursing their battle wounds with more and more ale.  Our opponents were hard men and they picked out one of us at a time to purge, to painfully relieve us of our chance at play.

Yet we
continued on, for if we had any hope of becoming integrated into their society, we’d have to demonstrate as much tenacity as them.  We’d arrived only weeks before after Leif and I had been exiled from Greenland for the massacre of our countrymen.  We didn’t kill them, of course.  Our women, children, and fellow men fell during a battle with the shrieking skraelings.  Leif and I were blamed for starting the fight in the first place.  As a result, and to appease village elders, Erik had banished us for thirteen years – one year for each one of our townspeople who’d been killed.  Erik was the jarl of Greenland.  He was also Leif’s father and my adopted father.

Godfrey’s warriors
had tried to eliminate Leif first.  He was still the smallest among us and they assumed he would be the easiest prey.  It was yet a few years before Leif would find the broad-shouldered body he’d have throughout his adult life.  His red whiskers were only slowly beginning to fill his face.  Godfrey’s man, Brandr, clasped a large hand on Leif’s jerkin and yanked him off his feet.  Brandr used his other arm to swing down the trés, which was a long thin club made from oak.  The trés was supposed to be used to bat the oaken ball down the field from man to man, however, in practice and all-too-common it was employed as a weapon.  We used it thus.  So did Godfrey’s men.  They were better at it.

But
at that moment Leif proved to be too quick.  He gave a single tug on the leather straps that were tied at the top of his jerkin.  They loosened and he released his bat, lifting his arms up, so he could slide his entire body down and out of his shirt.  It happened so quickly Brandr couldn’t adjust for the reduction in weight at the end of his arm.  The same arm that now held a dangling leather jerkin, shot up into the air.  Brandr’s own trés, instead of knocking out Leif, crashed down onto his arm with such force that Brandr was the first casualty of the game for Godfrey’s men.

The
Manx warriors had lost no others since.  They gave up on the crafty Leif and took us down one by one until it was our dozen against their twenty-something.  Their success was just beginning to take its toll, however – on them.  You see, every time the men from the Isle carried the oak ball across the end line after a maximum of five bats, it was considered a score.  A young maid would step forward to keep track of their points so that our opponents had fourteen maidens lined up on their side.  We had only four young lasses.  I say their ample scoring was beginning to catch up with them because with each maid stepping forward, the scoring team had to drink a pot of ale – each man had to drink a pot.  We took no time for rest or food all day; so that even the most experienced drinkers among them were beginning to falter on wobbly legs.

Randulfr clutche
d the oaken ball.  He was their best batter and after he took his allotted four steps, I knew he would whack the wooden sphere down to where his men were already running.  Though it was a little terrifying, I ran straight toward him to what we called the silly spot.  More than one of our team had found his way to the sideline after Randulfr batted the heavy wood ball directly into their noses.  Godfrey’s lieutenant took just one step.  He saw that my intent was to ram my trés into his chest and steal the ball before he could hit it.  Randulfr immediately stopped, leaving three of his steps unused.  He lightly tossed the ball into the air.  It was a short toss because he saw me coming quickly.  I was tired of losing all day and had vowed to, at last, make a game of it.  I lowered my head and stuck out the club.

He hadn’t thrown the ball high enough.  We both knew it instantly.  It sank down to the green sod before he could bring the bat around.  Randulfr
then made the same decision I would have.  He carried his swing right on through, knowing that on I came.  His trés connected with the fingers of my left hand so that I released the bat.  Though I knew that at least two of my digits were broken, I decided that the injuries were minor enough.  My blood was up.  I ignored the ball that hit the ground with a great thud and went headlong into the mighty batter of Man.

Randulfr
seemed surprised that I hadn’t clamored after the ball as I had all day long.  It was time to take the game they played back to them.  I drove my forearm into his neck.  Because he was off balance from his swing, he fell back and I landed on top of his chest.  I heard gasps and cheers and shouts from the crowd.  An old man teetered on the side of the field and began shouting a host of obscenities.  In a rasping voice he called, “Damn Odin, you puke child.  Why don’t you shove that trés back up your ass where it came from?  You wouldn’t know knattleikr if it bit you on your manhood!”  I still don’t know for which side he cheered.

I rammed a knee onto Randulfr’s arm
, pinning it and the bat it held to the ground.  With a great balled fist, I rapped his cheek with my right hand.  Then, because I was enjoying a few moments of success, I forgot about the throbbing pain in my fingers and balled the left hand.  I don’t need to tell you that as soon as that hand rained down onto his other cheek, I instantly recalled the pain.  I howled and rolled off on top of the ball.  Randulfr spun toward me and used the bat like a whip.  First, it hit my ribs, then my arm.

All of a sudden Randulfr’s head was jerked back.  His body was forced to follow.  I looked up to see that Tyrkr, our German thrall, had seized
Randulfr’s long hair.  Tyrkr had the fingers of both hands wrapped amid the strands and used all his strength to heave the man up and off me.  It was Randulfr’s turn to scream.  He winced.  I think I saw a tear jump from one eye.  Yet he held onto the bat and began using it to blindly swat the chest of the dedicated German slave.

A true melee began.  Loki
tackled Tyrkr.  Our man, Magnus, in turn, piled on Loki, using his thumbs to press into Loki’s eye sockets.  Man after man, more of theirs than ours since the teams had become so lopsided, leapt onto the pile.  Even Godfrey, the unrefined King of the Isles joined in.  I kicked a man in his sack.  I had hoped it was one of our opponents, but later that night I saw Tyrkr cradling his crotch like a new mother holds her firstborn.  Someone stepped on my already broken fingers.  The crowd cheered.  Even the old women, some were as old as forty-five, I think, shouted with glee at the action.

Randulfr had somehow wriggled free of Tyrkr’s grasp.  He crawled through the
scrummage and found me, mostly where I had been left.  Randulfr gave me a wicked smile.  It looked so thoroughly frightening that I thought he meant to kill me.  He reached down.  I threw up my hands to guard against the knife I was sure he had hidden beneath his shirt.

He didn’t
have one.  He stuck his hands under my back and flopped me over.  “Where’s the ball, lummox?” Randulfr shouted.  He was a smart player, using the ongoing brawl to move the ball down the field.  I laughed in relief.

“What’s so funny?”
Randulfr barked as he scraped his hands through the grass.

“I felt the ball
under my back a moment ago,” I said as I crawled to my feet at the edge of the fight.  “You can’t find it?”

“It’s not here!”
  Randulfr was swinging the trés in my direction to keep me at bay.  I heard it zip as it passed my face.

“Well
, where is it?”  We both began scanning the ground amidst the pounding feet and falling bodies.

A shrill whistle tore
through our deep throated shouts.  Our struggle paused.  I heard a smack as a combatant got in one last punch.  We all turned to face the headland of the field where young Leif held the wooden ball in one hand.  He took one step over the end line to score a point for us, the first since midday.

“Too many steps!” cried Loki, pointing his finger at Leif.  All of our opponents and their supporters claimed likewise.
  Pots of ale were hurled onto the field, empty pots.

Leif smiled and gave a playful shrug.  “Are your rules different than ours?
”  Leif pointed to the pretty maidens lined up on the sidelines.  “Had these beauties seen an infraction, I would have been called long before I reached the headland.  Yet, here I am, scoring a point and a drink for my men.”  Everyone knew that the crowd had been focused on the skirmish near centerfield.  No one had paid attention to the smallish man who had stolen the ball from under me and trotted down to score.  The men of Man began furrowing their brows and tightening their grips on their trés in order to renew their attack.

Leif had
merely produced a brief pause in the battle with his score.  It was Godfrey’s turn to put an outright halt to the fight.  The king gave a belly laugh.  I looked over to him.  His lithe frame wiggled.  Blood trickled down from his nose and from a short, but deep, laceration near his temple.  He didn’t bother wiping it away.  King Godfrey Haraldsson waved his bat down the field toward Leif and then toward me.  “I’d say these men know how to make a play when the odds are against them!”  He planted one end of the bat into the ground like a cane and casually leaned on it.  Godfrey waved his other hand.  “You won’t win the day, Greenlanders, but you’ve won my respect.”

He balled his fist.  “Now g
et your ale!  We won’t fall for that one again.”

. . .

We lost the knattleikr contest, badly.  It would have been worse had the ale not slowed down Godfrey and his men while simultaneously soothing our wounds, dulling the pain they’d dished.  As it was, when the sun had long since fallen and the burning torches lingered, throwing their undulating light across the grass, the number of maids standing in Godfrey’s line was four or five times the number in ours.  Our men were exhausted and whipped.  We had lost the game badly, but we had entered the brotherhood of Godfrey’s men boldly.

I was the last man standing for our team.  In truth, even I wasn’t standing.  I ended the game flat on my back, my chest heaving for air, one of my eyes swollen shut, my broken fingers three times their normal size.  I stared up at the blackness of the sky and saw the bright belt of stars that ran from one end to the other
.  Below the rocky crags at the meadow’s edge the surf from the Irish Sea pounded in its incessant manner.  It had done so since before Ask, the first man, and Embla, the first woman, had been sprung from the trees.  I was not yet a follower of the One God in those days.  So back then, I knew the waves were created by Jormungandr, the serpent that coiled itself around the entire world.  His breathing stirred the waters where they started as mere ripples until the wind and rains forced the waves to blossom into the behemoths that crashed into the dominions of mankind.  The sea and her sounds had long been a comfort to me and hearing the proof of the gods that night brought a reprieve from my physical agony and fatigue.