Hakon's Saga

Chapter 12

In a few quick strides, Erik was out of the woods and sprinting across the field toward Olav"s hall. A glance confirmed the truth in all that the messenger had relayed to him. The enemy was there, but not arrayed for battle. Not even dressed for battle. They saw Erik"s men and ran helter-skelter for their weapons and shields. To his right, axemen fled before the onslaught of Erik"s Danes. To his left, near the bay beside Olav"s hall, the Orkneymen charged along the water, advancing quickly on men who were hastily trying to prepare themselves behind a shabby wooden wall. Erik thought he glimpsed Jarl Sigurd among them, but could not be sure. Ahead of him, on a small rise that led to the base of Mollebakken, a knot of enemy warriors saw Erik"s men and scrambled up the hill to the safety of their larger force.

Erik"s men climbed the rise in a few strides. To his right, the defenders battled the Danes, though it was a paltry few against an overwhelming onslaught, and they soon broke and retreated up the hill. Every so often a hapless retreater would lose his footing on the muddy slope, slide back into the mass of screaming foe, and die beneath their blades. Along the beach, the men were putting up a stauncher fight behind their makeshift defenses. Erik"s main force ran about him, finishing off thralls and women, animals and anything else that stood in their way.

“To me!” His voice tore through the morning like a clap of thunder. “Hordalanders! Fjordmen! To me!” Beside him, his hirdman gave a long blast of his battle horn.

The Northmen finished their s*******r and regrouped around the axe standard of their leader. On the hill, the defenders had reached the crest and were organizing into a defensive line. That, he knew instinctively, was where his brothers would be.

On the right, the Danes did not wait for the signal to attack. Instead, they scrambled after their prey and assaulted the defenses, taking heavy casualties from spears and other projectiles that tore through their ranks. Many of the Danes simply lost their footing on the slick ground and slid, cursing and yelling, down the hill. Others reached the defenders" line, only to be killed or repulsed by the blades of Erik"s brothers.

Erik elbowed the man with the horn and pointed his axe at the Danes. “Call them back. We need to attack as one.”

The horn sounded and the Danes retreated. On the hill, two banners rose, listless in the rain, but defiant.

Jarl Sigurd had just finished carrying a log from the forest when he heard the shouts. He knew in an instant what was happening and without even turning to look, dropped the log and ran for his gear. His men followed his lead.

“Leave your armor,” Sigurd growled at one of his younger hirdmen. “We do not have time.”

The trees to the east of the estate seemed to bleed warriors. Hundreds came at his small group, splashing across the beach and through the shallows of the bay. Sigurd rushed for the small rise on which they had built a flimsy defensive barrier — two levels of logs supported by upright stakes. It was not much, but it would at least slow the attackers and give Sigurd and his men something behind which to stand. When he reached it, he raised his sword and yelled, “To me!”

One by one, his Tronds joined him at the wall and faced their enemy. The attackers, more than a hundred men, came on at a full run, screaming their war cries and insults. Sigurd glanced at his men, then back at the enemy, knowing as they came on that he would die this day. And in knowing that, he clenched his jaw, kissed the talisman at his neck, and prepared to meet his fate.

“Shield wall!” he shouted, and his men locked shields in practiced precision.

The enemy slammed into them with a rippling c***k so loud, it would have made Thor jealous. Steel pounded on shields. Wood cracked and splintered. Men cried out in pain and frustration and belligerent fury. The Tronds slipped and grunted under the onslaught even as they jammed their own blades into the guts and throats and limbs of their attackers. A speartip knocked Sigurd"s helmet askew. He recovered and rammed his blade at a man"s shoulder but missed.

More attackers joined the fray. Sigurd staggered as an axe smashed into his shield. The man swung again, missing his mark and falling, off balance. Sigurd drove his sword deep into the warrior"s side. Before he could pull the blade free, another man came on. The man sensed Sigurd"s peril and brought his sword downward in a powerful two-handed swing. Sigurd met the stroke high with his shield, worked his sword free, and swiped across the man"s stomach with his blade. The metal rings burst and the man crumpled to the ground. Another man swung his sword at Sigurd"s head, missing narrowly. Sigurd dispatched him with a thrust to the throat.

The foemen fell back to regroup, leaving piles of moaning wounded and wrecked corpses behind. They gathered about their standard, one that Sigurd recognized immediately as that of Orkneymen. He wondered briefly if they belonged to his brother, who long ago had left for the Orkney Islands, then he cast the thought aside — it mattered little now.

“We cannot hold off another attack,” called a senior hirdman named Egil. The man had once fought as Harald Fairhair"s standard bearer and his advice caused Sigurd to look about. The rank of Tronds had thinned dramatically and he knew instinctively that Egil was right. The Orkneymen would come again, and when they did, they would overwhelm the Tronds. Their position was no longer tenable.

Though he could no longer see what as happening elsewhere, Sigurd could hear the sounds of struggle over on Mollebakken. He hoped that Olav had made it up the hill. He hoped that Sigfrid was still alive. Beside him, Egil swayed on his feet. A gash in his forehead spilled blood over his left eye.

“You are hurt.”

“It is a scratch.” Egil wiped the blood away. “We cannot stay here.”

Sigurd nodded. “Come.”

Erik found the Danish leader, Svein, at the base of Mollebakken. He was gathering the remnants of his Danish army while a warrior wrapped a gash in his right forearm.

Svein smacked the man angrily over his head. “Leave it be, you lout! I"ll tend to it later.”

Erik scanned the hillcrest. “What do you make of their defenses?”

“The defenses are weak and could easily be penetrated, were it not so impossible to stand firmly and fight. Fighting head-on is folly. Mayhap another direction would be easier.”

Erik nodded as the Dane confirmed what he already knew. “This is how we shall proceed. Arinbjorn. Come.” He motioned to his foster brother. “The plan is as follows. You, Svein, shall attack the north side of the hill, as you have just done. And you, Arinbjorn” — Erik pointed to his white-haired friend — “shall take up position to the south with your Fjordmen. I will attack from here with the remainder.”

“But Erik,” Svein began to protest, “the ground is —”

Erik silenced him with a glare. “I know well what I am about. Now, Arinbjorn, do not conceal yourselves when flanking the hill. I want our foe to see you moving. When I blow the horn, you, Arinbjorn, will lead off the attack. Svein, wait until you hear the second blast of my horn before attacking. Is that clear?”

The men nodded.

“Good. Now go, and may Odin bring you luck.”

Jarl Sigurd"s situation was now dire. His men had retreated into the woods behind the rise, taking with them any man able enough to fight. The enemy pursued as soon as the Tronds began their retreat and quickly gained on their prey. It did not take long to realize that Sigurd and his men, many of whom were wounded, would not be able to outrun the Orkneymen. To make matters worse, there was a wide river somewhere before them and fording it would be difficult at best. Tunsberg lay to the north. Sigurd had hoped to find a place in the woods to mount a defense, but there was nowhere to go.

Sigurd ordered a halt and turned. He could see the enemy weaving through the trees, coming ever closer to his men. Around him, his men struggled for breath or wiped at the sweat and blood that mingled with the rainwater on their skin.

“What is the plan?” Egil stood beside him, his chest heaving. The gash on his head continued to flow, albeit not as badly as before.

“Ready yourselves. We are going back,” he said.

Erik"s men shifted about anxiously, fingering their weapons, checking their armor, their shields, and their helmets. Moments before, he had ordered everyone to remove their boots, hoping traction on the slope would be better with bare feet. Though shivering from the rain, the men obeyed their king.

The attack was going as planned. On the crest of the hill, Erik could see the defenses shifting to meet Arinbjorn"s onslaught from the south. At any moment, he would hear the song of battle. Screams. Curses. The crash of wood. The ring of steel. He waited…

There!

“Sound the second horn!” he yelled at his signalman.

The stentorian blast wafted over the landscape, followed instantly by the roar of Danes as they attacked the northern side of the hill. With a wave of his hand Erik called his men to advance, his toes sinking into the cold mud, but holding firm. Behind him, his men moved forward like wraiths, the sound of their approach drowned by the falling rain and the din of battle on the hilltop above.

Halfway there, and still the defenders had not seen them. Two hundred paces. One hundred fifty. One hundred. Fifty.

Someone yelled above them. Erik"s men whooped and brandished their weapons at the foe. Through the rain, Erik could see Sigfrid"s standard above him, though his brother was invisible behind the shield wall of his towering bodyguards.

“Erik! You witch"s spawn! I will kill you myself!” The words came from the cousin of Sigfrid and a loyal member of his hird.

Erik hefted his battle-axe, swinging madly, unaware of the bellow exploding from his throat. The cousin"s shield shattered under his blow. The man tried to recover but Erik was already swinging again. The man parried with his sword, but Erik"s axe knocked him backward. Before he could regain his footing, the axe blade crushed his helmet and split his skull.

Another man stepped in Erik"s way. Erik swung low and cleaved through the warrior"s knee. The man fell screaming to the ground and Erik silenced him with a blow to the chest.

The Danes broke through the northern lines, shattering the defenders" left flank. To the south, the defenders held fast against Arinbjorn and his Fjordmen, though order was quickly slipping into chaos. The hilltop was a maelstrom of hacking blades and yells and rain and blood, and Erik laughed, for the battle l**t had possessed him and he reveled in it.

Before him, the shield wall of Sigfrid"s hird was crumbling, the hapless defenders falling back into battered pockets of desperate men. Erik and his hirdmen pressed into the foe with the bloodthirsty fervor of those who can smell victory. Through the chaos, Erik could see his brother preparing for the final onslaught. His skin was pale, his face a grimace of pain and anger. A blade had sliced through his tunic and blood poured from the opening. Beside him, his standard bearer lay dead on the ground, a spear buried deep in his chest.

“Sigfrid!” Erik"s voice carried across the gap that separated them.

Sigfrid was too weak to do anything but turn and look. Erik saw recognition creep into his brother"s eyes and watched as it transformed to loathing.

“Lay down your sword,” Erik yelled, “and you will be spared!”

There was a moment"s hesitation as Sigfrid considered Erik"s words. Then, suddenly, he spat a glob of blood from his mouth and smiled. To Erik, it looked almost sad, as if he understood what fate had in store and had resigned himself to it. “I will see you in Valhall, brother.” He then lifted his sword and planted his feet.

Around him, the remnants of his bodyguard cheered his bravery and the struggle began anew. Another warrior stepped into Erik"s path. Erik brought his axe down toward the man"s unprotected head. His opponent saw the move coming and parried the blow high, before it had time to gather momentum. Erik kicked the man between the legs, sending him to his knees, then decapitated him. As the man fell, Erik looked to where his brother had been, but he was gone.

Erik pressed forward and found Sigfrid on the ground, his shield arm smashed, a gaping wound in his chest. Erik forced his way to his brother"s side and knelt. Sigfrid"s eyes turned slowly to Erik and a distant smile drifted onto his face. “The gods curse you and your reign, brother.”

To Erik"s left, a mighty cheer rose across the hilltop. Olav, too, had fallen.

Erik stood and turned to his men. “Behead my brothers,” he growled to a warrior nearby, “and send their heads to their families. I want all to know what happens to those who defy me.”

“We must reach the ships!” Sigurd yelled as the Orkneymen neared. “Stay together and do not stop! If you stop, you die. Onward!” he broke into a run. Behind him, his men joined the cheer.

The shock of seeing the Tronds charging them halted the unorganized Orkneymen in their tracks. Many stood alone with only their shields and their weapons to protect them against this unexpected move. Sigurd sliced through two men before they could even react. A third ducked his blow. Sigurd did not stop to finish him. His legs burned and his lungs stung, but he did not stop to fight.

Ahead of him, a second group of Orkneymen had gathered in a hasty defensive line. A few attempted to throw spears as the Tronds charged them, but the throws were rushed and landed harmlessly. Sigurd lowered his shoulder and barreled into a defender"s shield. The man sidestepped at the last moment, his foot tangling with Sigurd"s as he did so. Sigurd toppled to the ground, half expecting to feel the burn of the man"s blade in his back, but the strike never came. Sigurd scrambled to his feet and ran on.

The shapes of the longships appeared through the trees not more than one hundred paces ahead. A mass of foemen had gathered on the beach near them. They must have heard the fighting in the trees and come to defend the ships. But Sigurd would not be stopped. He would not be killed so close to his ships! Lifting his sword, he let loose a roar of defiance. To his surprise, it was answered by a cacophony of shouts from his Tronds behind him.

With a horrible crash the two lines met on the beach. Defenders toppled backward under the momentum of their assailants. Shields shattered. Bodies crumpled. Weapons hacked and sliced, searching for blood. The Tronds tore into the Orkneymen with every ounce of energy they had left, using whatever weapon was at their disposal: rocks, fists, feet, blades. They fought possessed, for indeed, their survival depended on it.

A group of Tronds broke free and ran for a small knarr, knowing it would be easier to move than the heavy longships. Amidst flying spears, they pushed it into the surf and scrambled aboard, then yelled for their comrades to follow.

More Orkneymen joined the fray. Sigurd cut down another man and prepared for more. At his back, his hirdman Frosti fought two men at once.

“Frosti! We must break from here!”

Frosti swung at an enemy, gaining some room for himself. “I shall not leave until you are safe. Go!”

“Frosti —”

“Go!”

There was no time to argue. Sigurd swung at the foeman facing him, then broke from the engagement. The warrior pursued, but Frosti hacked into the man"s back before he could take a step. Four knarrs now rocked in the surf as one by one, the Tronds climbed aboard. Sigurd splashed into the water, then up onto the gunwale of the closest knarr. A pair of hands hauled him into the craft and he collapsed to the deck with a thud.

On the beach, Frosti fought on, his back now to a tree. He swung his sword in great arcs before him, keeping the Orkneymen at a distance. But his arms were weakening, his sword no longer swinging as it had. A man came from his side and drove his spear into Frosti"s powerful chest. Still, the mighty Trond managed to retaliate, killing the man with a final desperate swing before he too collapsed to the earth.

More Tronds broke from the battle and climbed aboard the awaiting boats. The enemy pursued them into the water, swinging wildly at the men and the ship. Those already aboard held off the attackers with spears. Quickly the surf filled with Orkneymen and the bodies of those Tronds not quick enough with their escape. It was no longer safe to stay — they had to go.

“Row!” Sigurd yelled.

The men pulled hard at the oars, gliding away from the deadly beach and out of range of the flying spears. Silhouetted in the flames of Olav"s great hall, the last of his Tronds — those who had not made it to the boats — fell under the blades of their enemy. Sigurd watched in feeble rage as one by one they fell.

The North was lost.