Authors: Giles Kristian
'Wait, Sigurd,' Black Floki said. He was fixing a plait which had worked itself loose, spilling dark hair across his face. 'I want to see these Englishmen as I'm killing them.' When it was done, Floki put on his helmet, thumping it down securely. 'Let's make Týr wish he was with us,' he growled, invoking the Norse battle god whose hand was bitten off by the fettered wolf Fenrir.
'For Týr!' Svein the Red roared.
'Týr!' Bram repeated, hefting his axe, and the others invoked other gods too, such as Óðin and Thór, and some men called on the souls of their fathers.
Sigurd revealed his wolfish grin. 'Let us repay English generosity,' he said, nodding to Ivar and Asgot who removed the makeshift barrier. With a roar like a bear, Sigurd, son of Harald the Hard, charged into the firelit night, and the women who had come to watch the heathens die screamed.
In a heartbeat the Norsemen were amongst the English, slashing and stabbing with a fury like the wild ocean. They made no shieldwall this time, as the English would have surrounded it easily, but instead picked out the best-armed warriors and fought them man to man, desperate to break their enemy's spirit. I stood at the door of Ealdred's hall, looking for my chance, but it was mayhem as the English, who were now defending their homes, fought with ferocity to match the heathens'. The noise of battle, of iron on wood, and confusion and slaughter ripped into the night. Men cursed and screamed.
'Fly, Raven!' Knut shouted, and so I threw down my shield and ran towards the great dark hill overlooking Ealdred's hall, towards the shingle path that glistened wetly in the moonlight. The rings of my brynja jangled as I ran and then I tripped over something in the long grass, biting my tongue savagely. My mouth filled with blood and I spat, then something bright caught my eye. A shock of white in the moonlight. Pale arrow fletchings fluttered above the corpse. Eric had removed his mail so he would run faster and he had almost made it clear. Óðin's maidens found you, Eric, I thought, wiping bloody spittle from my chin. Air slapped my face from an arrow whipping past and I ducked and ran up the path, screaming, 'Come and take me if you can! Come, bitches of the dead! Come, demons!' I should have put Njal's sword into Eric's hand to ensure his place in Óðin's great hall, but to stay was to die and so I scrambled on, following the stream and hoping to wake the dragon who lived there, for it would add chaos to a night already drenched in it. And the gods love chaos.
But when I pushed through the long, sharp grass of the brow overlooking the beach, my guts twisted and pulled taut. It was raining fire on
Serpent
and
Fjord-Elk
, burning brands flying into their hulls from almost a dozen small craft bobbing on the flame-lit sea. And Glum's men were teeming across both longships, slinging pails of water everywhere, picking up the firebrands with their bare hands and throwing them into the sea. A knot of Norsemen stood in a shieldwall before the ships, waiting for an attack from the darkness whilst their comrades struggled to save their beloved dragons.
I looked for Ealhstan among the throng, but it was too dark and I was too far away. Even with the flying firebrands, it was impossible to make out individuals, and so I yelled down to the Norsemen that Sigurd was fighting for his life. But even if they heard, which was unlikely, they had their ships to look to, for without them they would be stranded and it would be a miracle if any Norsemen survived to see the next sunset. Then, in the breeze that bent the long grass towards me, bringing water to my eyes, I would have sworn I felt one of Óðin's handmaidens swooping past, brushing my face with her breath as she flew towards Ealdred's hall. I knew Norsemen were dying so I turned my back on the struggle below, thumped my helmet down securely and ran back along the stream's bank towards Jarl Sigurd, finding my way more easily now that my eyes were accustomed to the night. I would have run straight past Eric's corpse, but I saw the cream-coloured war horn at his waist and stopped to rip it free before continuing.
I passed between the low hills, seeing a dim pall of light in the sky from Ealdred's village, then crested the rise and stopped to catch my breath, looking down into the settlement as the cries of the dying carried up to me. Sigurd's men had fought their way to the south side of the village where they had made the swine array, their backs towards me, their shields overlapping as they fought off the English. But then I made out a band of Ealdred's men cutting round from the west of the settlement, using the houses for cover as they sought to surround the Norsemen. There was no time to descend the slope and warn them. In a few heartbeats Sigurd's men would get blades thrust into their backs. I gripped the war horn and leant back, filling my lungs with cool, predawn air, then blew hard enough to wake the gods. The note soared into the night like the promise of approaching dawn and it was deep and long and true, and then a great cheer came from the darkness below. And the Sword-Norse were not alone in thinking their brothers had come to add to the slaughter, for the English suddenly broke off their attack and retreated, keeping their shields towards their enemies. I bent low, hoping the English would not see me, for then they would know I was alone, and I ran to Sigurd's swine array. Before I got there Black Floki turned, flashing his teeth at me in the darkness.
'The English are coming round from the west,' I said, pointing to where I had seen the war band trying to blindside the Norsemen.
'I've seen them,' Floki hissed, stepping aside to let me take my place between him and Bram.
'Glum's not coming, then,' Bram growled, glancing down at the war horn still in my hand.
'They're trying to burn the ships,' I said, and Bram grunted as though he had already accepted that this would be a fight to the end. Arrows were thudding into shields and striking helmets.
'I say we leave this turd of a village,' Svein the Red said, as though it were a simple matter of just walking away.
'Eric?' Olaf said, keeping his eyes fixed on the torchlit English shieldwall which was growing in density a spear's throw away. I did not reply. 'Well, lad? Is he with Glum?'
'I'm sorry, Olaf,' I said, feeling the weight of other men's eyes on me. Sigurd turned and held my eye, as though trying to take from my mind the manner of Eric's death, but Olaf remained silent. Then the big man strode forward, abandoning the relative safety of the swine array, and marched towards the English line.
'Well, you sons of goats?' he roared. 'You snot-swilling, shit-eating pig bladders! Come and feel my sword in your puke-filled bellies! Come, English dog-faces, come and feel my spear in your stinking brains!'
Sigurd stepped forward. 'I have seen old ladies fight better than you dung heaps!' he yelled at the English, and as one the swine array marched forward beating their swords against their shields, until they were level with Olaf and Jarl Sigurd and spitting distance from their enemy. I quickly tied the war horn to my belt and gripped my sword in both hands. The battle fever shook my limbs and soured my guts, and the English, who were not as well armed and who did not resemble gods of war as these Sword-Norse did, must have seen their deaths approaching with the orange glow in the east.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE CHRISTIAN HEAVEN AND HELL SHOULD HAVE BEEN GLUTTED
then, with English souls torn from pain-racked bodies, and Óðin's dark maidens should have been bent low with the weight of brave warriors, ascending to the great hall of the slain. But two high-pitched blasts from an English horn sent a shiver through Ealdred's shieldwall and as one man it stepped back, leaving the broken dead between.
'Cowards!' Olaf yelled, still in fury's grip, his beard soaked with white spittle and his eyes impossibly wide. 'Whore whelps and cowards! Fight me! Fight me!'
Then the English wall cracked in its middle, leaving a dark passage from which a figure emerged. It was Ealdred himself, his sword arm bound in bloodied linen, but otherwise firm and grim-faced.
'Enough!' he shouted, ignoring Olaf, his eyes instead boring into Sigurd's. 'Enough of this madness! We are not animals!' His huge bodyguard was beside him. The man looked ravenous for death, as though he sought to avenge the harm done to his lord and prove his own worth if any who saw Ealdred's blood were in doubt. 'Sigurd, it was not meant to come to this between us. Where is the honour in senseless death?'
'You have no honour, Englishman,' Sigurd countered, spitting on the ground. 'You have no understanding of the word.'
Ealdred's long moustache quivered then, but he gave a slight nod and showed Sigurd his palm. 'The men who attacked you in my hall will be punished,' he said. 'As you know, it is no easy thing to keep a rein on warriors.' He winced in pain. 'Their hearts are burning brands but their wits are slow. They will be punished.'
But Sigurd, who still gripped his gore-slick sword, pointed the blade at an English corpse. 'I have seen to that myself, dog!' he yelled, and again Ealdred seemed to shudder.
'They were gathered merely as a precaution, Sigurd,' he said, 'but hatred of your kind is planted in us at our mother's tit. Our churchmen nurture that hatred and it grows strong.' He looked skyward. 'For my own part I wonder at the inconsistency of a God of peace who commands us to kill other men, even unbelievers.' Then he stroked his fair moustache. 'We might wonder how much is God's will and how much is our own.'
But Sigurd had no patience for the ealdorman's musings. He raised his battered shield and stepped forward, and there was violence in the movement. Ealdred's bodyguard moved forward too, but his lord muttered something to him and reluctantly the man took a step back. The English waited, deaf to the insults Sigurd's men hurled at them, their shadowed faces anxious or fearful.
'Whether you believe it was not my intention to attack you means nothing to me, heathen,' Ealdred spat, abandoning diplomacy now, the shadows sharp on his lean face, 'but for your own sake and for the sake of those who call you lord, don't be a fool. I know the empty ambitions of your black hearts. The thirst for fame consumes your people, Sigurd, twisting their sight and leading them to folly, to death and destruction for the sake of stories.' The ealdorman smiled emptily, but his men remained tight-mouthed, expectant of battle. 'Make no mistake, Sigurd, you will all die here' – he threw out his uninjured arm – 'in this Christian land. And your deaths will have earned you nothing of the renown you crave.'
'We will take our fame to the Far-Wanderer's hall, where our fathers will know our faces and drink with us again,' Sigurd called. 'For Valhöll!' he roared in Norse, bringing a cheer from his men.
But Ealdred shook his head slowly, and in that small gesture there was enormous power, perhaps enough to make even Sigurd doubt his own words. I was afraid of Ealdred in that moment, because I knew he possessed a sharp mind, sharp enough to influence men, for how else had he got so many to break themselves against Sigurd's shieldwall, his skjaldborg?
'Sigurd, your men are loyal, I can see that. They are brave and they have a talent for death.' He grimaced. 'Our widows will attest to that.' He nodded at Olaf and Svein the Red. 'They will follow you to the grave and I commend you for them. But you can give them more than six feet of English soil. Hear what I have to offer you.' He raised both arms then. 'If my words fall short, if my offer stinks like pig shit . . .' he shrugged, 'we will kill each other and join our fathers.'
'Fuck you!' Olaf yelled, and some of the other Norsemen echoed the sentiment.
But Sigurd was a jarl. And a jarl wants more for his men than a hole in the worm-riddled mud of his enemy's land.
'Speak, Englishman,' Sigurd commanded, as though Ealdred were his slave, and Ealdred, because he had the mind of a fox and because he knew the tides of fortune had shifted to his advantage, bowed his head obediently and took another step forward.
'You have come upon a rare opportunity, Sigurd. I expect you have stolen many passable trinkets from Christians who could not defend themselves, but they are nothing compared to what you stand to gain if you do the king's will.'
Sigurd pointed to the ealdorman. 'You Christians are fools,' he said. 'We have known this for countless years. You build your churches by the sea and fill them with gold and silver. Who guards them? Christ slaves! Men in skirts, feeble as old women. Your god makes you weak, Ealdred.' Sigurd gestured to his own warriors. 'We have no fear of him. We take what we want.'
Ealdred's mouth twisted beneath the moustache and his bodyguard dropped a hand to his sword's hilt. 'Easy, Mauger,' Ealdred muttered. 'I don't want you ruining Sigurd the Lucky's reputation.'