Hakon's Saga

Chapter 11

The rain came before the night was through. It began slowly, gentle enough to stir Erik"s sleeping army but not rouse them from their slumber. Soon, however, the sky opened up, drowning the last precious minutes of sleep with raindrops the size of stones, awakening the warriors, who responded with bitter curses and grumbles of discontent.

After a cold, fireless morning meal, Erik ordered his warriors to assemble, which they did in shuffling silence. The main force would consist of Erik"s warriors — men of Hordaland, Rogaland, and the Fjord — with Erik and his blood-brother Arinbjorn at their head. On the left were the Orkneymen, whose responsibility it was to guard the shoreline either from an unexpected sea assault or from any attempt by the enemy to retreat to their ships. On the inland, or right, flank were the Danes, led by Svein of Jutland, kinsman to the Danish king. The Danes were to swing around to the north as soon as the engagement began and block any attempt to retreat inland.

When the men had organized themselves to Erik"s satisfaction, he gave the signal to advance. There were no horn blasts or cheers, no swords beating on shield rims. Erik wanted to approach his half-brother"s estate as silently as possible, which, in the downpour, was not silent at all. The men tripped and fumbled their way through the trees in the heavy rain, cursing aloud as they slipped in the ooze or ran headlong into low-lying branches. Visibility was never more than twenty paces in any one direction. Messengers stumbled between the forces to make certain that contact was not lost.

Some of the warriors, certain that this weather was a portent of bad luck, groped at the talismans at their necks. Erik, however, remained optimistic. As long as the torrent kept up, he felt certain that the pounding of the raindrops would mask the sound of his army"s advance. In addition, he could be relatively certain that no one would see him coming, for it was highly unlikely that any person with their wits about them would be out in such a downpour. And if they were, they certainly would not be expecting an attack. Still, he took the precaution of avoiding open ground so that even if the rain did stop, his army"s movements would be concealed.

By midmorning, they"d reached the edge of the woods on the outskirts of Olav"s estate. Erik halted his army to give them time for last-minute preparations. Men besought their favored gods for skill and battle-luck. Others invoked the deities to strengthen their armor and their weapons, or to fetter their foes in the heat of combat. Then, one by one, the grim-faced, rain-drenched men hefted their shields, yanked blades from scabbards, and readied themselves for battle.

“A fine day for the wolf"s feast.” Sigurd looked up into the rain and pulled his long auburn hair — now wet and smooth — back behind his head. A wide grin brightened his heavy face.

Beside him, Sigfrid shivered. “You act as if the attack comes today, in this torrent. How can you be so certain?”

“I cannot. I only know what I would do, were I Erik.” He patted his king on the shoulder with a laugh, then started off for the beach where his men were beginning to assemble.

“So what does that mean? Should we prepare ourselves?” called Sigfrid.

Sigurd stopped and turned. “Aye. It may come to naught, but why risk it? The locals have not yet shown, so let us do what we can before Erik appears. Take your hird and remain on the hilltop with the work group there. Help them prepare the defenses, but be wary of an attack. Keep your shields and weapons to hand. I will help the men here on the beach complete the defenses. Whichever way Erik comes, we want him climbing at us, not encircling us, so these beach defenses need to be strong.”

Just that morning, the kings had decided to divide their men into separate work groups to prepare for Erik"s attack. Olav"s men were sent to chop down trees in the nearby woods to be used as barriers. Half of Sigfrid"s men, the Tronds, were tasked with hauling the logs to the top of Mollebakken, which lay just to the west of his estate, while the other half dragged their logs to the beach. Still more men worked to create another barrier on the opposite side of the hill, with the goal of slowing any flanking move by Erik.

Sigurd glanced at the hilltop, wondering for the hundredth time why Olav was so opposed to fighting behind the walls that encircled his estate. He understood that Olav feared being trapped inside or having it burned to the ground when the rains stopped. Those were legitimate concerns. But if Erik"s army was really as large as the reports suggested, then fighting in the open — even on a hilltop — was folly. He sighed. “Good luck, Sigfrid.”

“And to you, Sigurd.”

“What word?” Erik blinked at his messenger through the rain.

“My lord. The enemy does not appear ready. They are spread about and toil at their defensive works. Some work in the woods not far from where the Danes wait. Others drag the wood to the hill near the estate or to the beach below. Not one man is dressed for battle. No helmets. No chain mail. Some do not even carry weapons.”

“How many men?”

“Four hundred at most. Mayhap more. I could not count those that work in the woods.”

A tinge of guilt shot through Erik"s veins as he listened to the words. This, he mused, would be as easy as killing a child. So be it then. Let them die.

Suddenly, a shout rang out in the morning air, ending his reflection. It had come from his right, where the Danes lay in waiting. Erik hefted his battle-axe, pressed past the messenger, and started forward. “Follow me!” he bellowed as his feet carried him through the trees.

The fight for the North had begun.