|
Thorgrim Night Wolf, now somewhere on the south coast of Engla-land, may be closer to his goal of returning home than he has been since reaching Ireland years before, but he is still very, very far away. His son Harald, however, has ambitions beyond just getting home. Given command of one of the ships in the fleet, Harald sees a chance to put his courage on display, unleashing consequences that will lead Thorgrim into a fight against the powerful armies of Wessex, a fight he does not want.
As Thorgrim struggles to keep his men alive, his eldest son Odd leads the resistance to King Halfdan’s ruthless attempts to expand his rule over Norway. When a plan to bring Halfdan to heel goes terribly wrong, Odd alone is taken prisoner, and brutally punished as an example to those who would defy their king. But Halfdan’s brutality does not cow the freemen: rather it stokes their anger into a red-hot rage that only freeing Odd and extracting further vengeance can cool. |
The Midgard Serpent sample chapter
Harald Broad Arm was pulling an oar on Dragon’s starboard side, all the way aft, though Herjolf had not ordered him to do so. Indeed, Herjolf seemed unwilling to give Harald any instructions at all, even though he was now in command of Dragon and Harald was just one of her crew, no more or less. Harald was Herjolf’s to order around as was any man aboard.
But Herjolf did not seem inclined to do so. He hardly seemed inclined to give any orders at all. So Harald took it upon himself to take up the oar. He could never stand by while others labored. If anyone was working hard, Harald felt compelled to work twice as hard. He had always been that way. He would die before he would let anyone think he was shirking his duty.
But there were other reasons Harald chose to row, reason of which he was only vaguely aware. He had achieved a certain status among the men, the younger warriors in particular, and he did not want to jeopardize that. His outrageous attack of the whale was already becoming legend. One day, Harald was sure, the skalds would sing songs of it. The fact that he had been stripped of his command as a result was not looked on as a shameful thing, but rather as an injustice and a mark of honor. Harald had stood up to Thorgrim Night Wolf, commander of the fleet, former Lord of Vík-ló, warrior of renown, and on top of all that, his own father. Little wonder he was admired by the others.
But Harald also knew that the quickest way to lose the admiration of those men was to act as if he deserved it. Deciding to not pull an oar while the others did would not be looked on kindly.
Beside, Harald liked to row. He liked the rhythm of the work, the steady back and forth, the pull on the muscles of his arms and his back. It calmed his mind, and his mind certainly needed some calming now.
He had been in a quiet fury when he sat down at the oars, a fury directed at his father. The old man did not understand that Harald was making a display of leadership and courage in going after the whale. He failed to appreciate how much good it would do as far as cementing the men’s loyalty. And because he could not understand, he had taken away the command that Harald so coveted. And had so earned.
He was calmer now. He had been rowing for half a day. Even when Herjolf had switched out the rowers Harald had declined to give up his oar. And the work and the quiet and the chance to think had all worked their magic on his spirit. He had not forgiven his father, not even close, but at least his fury had ebbed away like the tide.
So entranced had he become with the steady pull of the oar that when he heard Starri’s cry, far off but distinct and completely recognizable, he could not immediately place it. He frowned and looked off to toward the shore and thought, Now, what was that?
It was then that he saw the fleet coming around the bend in the river and he felt the rush of comprehension — Starri’s war cry and a gathering of enemy ships bearing down on them. And with that came the familiar sensations he always felt at such a moment: the tightening in his stomach, the energy like tiny bolts of lightning shooting though his arms and legs, the image of an ax coming down and slicing him right where his neck and shoulders met. It was an image that was ghastly and frightening and for reasons he did not understand it always came to him in the moments before a fight. It filled him with fear, and the fear made him ashamed, but he pushed all those feelings down the way he always did.
The sudden appearance of the fleet was like a cold wave washing over him, one he had not seen coming. He was stunned for a moment by the surprise and the shock of it. And then the shock was gone and he began to think once more.
You bastards, you bastards, that was a clever thing, Harald thought. The English had let the big ships go by first, and that meant that Dragon and Fox and the rest of the smaller ships at the end of the line were in a bad place.
“What by the gods was that?” Herjolf all but shouted. He was looking forward, toward the source of the sound, Starri’s unearthly cry.
“There, Herjolf, there!” Harald shouted, pointing as best as he could with his chin, unable to take his hands off the oar.
“What?” Herjolf asked. He was looking at Harald, not where Harald was gesturing.
“There! Behind us! Coming from the river!” Harald shouted and Herjolf turned and looked.
“Oh! Son of a whore!” Herjolf shouted, his back to Harald, his eyes fixed on the ships in the river. More and more of them were coming into view around the bend.
Harald pressed his lips together. We need to arm, we need to get under arms! he thought.
Thorgrim had planned to get the fleet closer to the town before the men donned mail and took up weapons and shields, and that made sense, since the arms were a hindrance when rowing. He would not have anticipated an attack over the water. None of them would have imagined the English would have so many ships at their disposal, and Harald wondered where they had all come from.
Behind him Harald could hear the shouts and curses of the other men at the oars as they, too, saw the approaching fleet. He wished Herjolf would stop staring at them like some paralyzed fool and order the men to take up arms, but he kept his mouth shut. It had been drilled into him from an early age that there was only one man on broad a ship, or leading men in battle, who gave orders. Everyone else was to remain silent and listen.
But sometimes remaining silent was absolute torture.
Harald watched the lead ship of the English fleet turn until its bows were pointed right at Dragon, its banks of oars lifting and falling, the others astern of it turning as well. He realized two things. One was that his father had intended for Fox and Dragon and the smallest of Bergthor’s ships to be last into the fight, but instead they would be first. The other was that his father had made a big mistake in arranging the fleet in that manner.
Both thoughts pleased him quite a bit.
As he pulled back on the oar he swiveled around and looked ahead, past the bow. The rest of the Northmen’s fleet seemed to be reacting to the sight of the English, turning out of line, left and right, the fine parade of ships becoming a chaotic mess. There would be no unity in their attack, no coordination, while the English, Harald imagined, had planned their own attack quite well.
He leaned forward for another stroke and saw Herjolf look from the English fleet behind them to the rest of their own fleet ahead and back again. And still he said nothing.
Come on, come on…Harald thought, trying to will Herjolf into making a decision as he leaned back again for another pull. Then Herjolf looked forward again and his expression was more determined now, as if he had finally made up his mind. He pulled the tiller toward him and Harald saw the shoreline sweep past as Dragon began to turn.
Good, good, Harald thought. Herjolf was spinning the ship around to drive her first into the fight. But the men would have to get their weapons and shields, and get them quick.
Then the shoreline stopped sweeping past and Harald saw that Herjolf was not turning the ship all the way around. He was simply changing course to get clear of the approaching enemy, and despite himself and all his long-ingrained discipline Harald shouted out.
“Herjolf! Where are you going?”
Herjolf looked from the bow toward Harald and he still looked as determined as ever. “Your father said the big ships go into the fight first, and I’m getting clear of them!”
“That was when we went ashore!” Harald argued even as he pulled back for another stroke. “Not this! No one saw this coming!”
“Just row, do not argue with me!” Herjolf shouted back and he lifted his eyes from Harald and looked over his shoulder, back at the English fleet, now directly astern. Harald felt his fury and disbelief and confusion boiling over. His duty, he knew, was to do as Herjolf said. And he did not care.
He leaned forward with the others, bringing his long oar back for another stroke, but unlike the others held it there, and when the man forward of him pulled their oars became tangled, and the next oar ahead became tangled as well, and the oar ahead of that and ahead of that until the entire starboard side was a flailing mess. Men were shouting and cursing and Harald heard at least one man fall right off the sea chest onto the deck. Dragon began to slew around as the larboard rowers continued to pull.
“You clumsy whore’s sons, get those oars straightened out!” Herjolf called, trying to fight the pull of the larboard oars by pushing the helm to starboard.
“I’ll get clear, I’ll get clear!” Harald shouted and he pulled his oar in through the row port. The oar was considerably longer than the ship was wide at that point, but rather than lift the oar above the heads of the larboard rowers Harald ran it straight across the ship, starboard to larboard. The handle of the oar passed between two of the starboard rowers as they were leaning forward for the stroke. They cursed as they became entangled in the oar, which Harald was swinging side to side like a long club, one of the men losing the grip of his own oar.
In an instant the starboard side was in as great a confusion as was the larboard. The men cursed and shouted and Dragon slewed sideways as her headway dropped off and Herjolf stood at the useless tiller, his mouth hanging open.
Harald leapt to his feet. “We won’t get clear now, Herjolf, we better get ready to fight!” Dragon was now broadside to the English, like a makeshift wall between the enemy and the rest of Thorgrim’s fleet, and they would never get the oars straightened out before the English were on them.
“Run your oars in! Take up arms!” Herjolf shouted and the men obeyed instantly, because it was quite clear now that the English would be aboard them in moments and they had better be ready to receive them. Most of the oars came sailing in and were laid fore and aft, while the others were pushed out through the row ports and let to drop in the water. The men leapt to their feet and grabbed up shields from the shield rack and the spears and axes and swords that had been set down on the deck, ready for the fight.
Harald plucked the nearest shield from the rack and reached down and pulled his sword Oak Cleaver from its scabbard, the sword of his grandfather, Ornolf the Restless, a fine Frankish blade, and relished the feel of the familiar grip in his hand.
“The deaths of these men, they’ll be on your head, Harald Broad Arm!” Herjolf shouted as he too adjusted the grip on his weapons and waited for the enemy bearing down on them. But Harald’s spirit was singing now, every inch of him on fire, any thought of an ax blade splitting neck and shoulder long banished.
“You’ll thank me!” Harald shouted back. “You have the chance to be a hero now, alive or dead!”
Herjolf scowled, then hopped down off the afterdeck and hurried forward to join the others. The forward-most English ship was close, one hundred feet away and coming on fast and it showed no inclination to avoid slamming into the smaller ship. There were men crowded on either side of its bow, helmets in place, spears held up like saplings, waiting for the two vessels to come together.
This is a big bastard… Harald thought. The ship had to be seventy or eighty feet long and might have a hundred or more warriors aboard. Dragon had thirty-six men in her company.
Should make for a fair fight, Harald thought. The English ship was driving at Dragon’s midsection and Harald wondered if her master meant to run right over Dragon and crush her and sink her, and then he wondered if he would be able to do so. And he knew he was about to find out.
“Fight like furies, you men!” Harald shouted. “We have to hold them until the rest come up!” It was not his place to shout such things, but he was no longer thinking that way, nor did he care. They would all likely be dead in the next few moments so the time for niceties was past.
Then the English ship struck, just a little forward of Dragon’s beam. She hit with the audible sound of crushing wood, but rather than drive over Dragon she lifted the smaller ship up, rolling her hard to one side, knocking some of Dragon’s crew off their feet. The English ship was perpendicular to Dragon when they struck, and as she drove forward Dragon began to pivot on the Englishman’s bow. The big English ship was brushing Dragon aside on her way to fight the bigger of the Northmen’s ships.
“Oh, no, you son of a bitch!” Harald shouted. The English were ignoring Dragon and Harald felt personally insulted by that. He tossed his shield aside and sheathed Oak Cleaver. He ran aft and grabbed up a grappling hook and walrus-hide rope, the same one he had used to catch the whale, and stepped up to the ship’s side.
The big English ship was still driving right through Dragon, pushing her aside, pushing her clear, as she went after larger prey. Harald swung the hook once, twice, then sent it sailing across the water between the ships.
He saw the heavy iron grapple clear the side of the English ship and strike one of the oarsmen there, knocking him clean off his seat. He dropped his oar and it tangled with the one behind it and in an instant the English sweeps were in a garbled mess just as Dragon’s had been.
Harald heaved away at the rope and as he did he turned to shout an order down the deck, but he could see there was no need. One of the Dragons forward had already flung the other grapple and Harald saw it disappear over the side of the Englishman’s ship and saw the men of Dragon haul away quick. The rope rose up out of the water as the strain came on it, just as Harald was putting a strain on his own line. And then a dozen men were swarming around Harald, grabbing up the rope and pulling hard, hauling Dragon up to the Englishman’s side.
If the English ship looked big coming bow on, it looked considerably bigger broadside, and Harald could see the hoard of men crowded down her considerable length. He could see shields and spears in abundance, and the warriors aboard her were yelling and cheering and seemed as eager as Harald was for the two ships to come together.
There was twenty feet of water between them when the English spears started flying. A fellow named Vebjorn was standing ten feet away from Harald, right against Dragon’s side, shield in one hand, ax in the other, when the first of the spears struck him right in the shoulder.
He roared in pain and dropped his ax and pulled the spear free from his flesh. One handed he spun the spear around and was about to fling it back when another spear caught him right in the chest, striking with enough force to knock him flat on his back, and that, Harald knew, was the end of Vebjorn.
“Pull! Pull!” Harald shouted. The only way to not be killed like deer in a pen was for them to get alongside and get aboard this bastard. And the others knew that as well. They heaved away, shouting as they did, some screaming for blood, some screaming from the spears that had impaled them.
Then the two ships came together, hitting hard enough to send a shudder through Dragon’s fabric. Harald wrapped the rope quickly around a cleat and turned to leap aboard the English ship but was met by one of the English warriors leaping aboard Dragon, which did not seem right. In his mind, Harald had pictured him and his men boarding the Englishman and somehow it had not occurred to him that the Englishman might board them instead.
All this passed through Harald’s mind in the instant it took him to pull his sword and knock the tip of the English warrior’s spear aside, then drive Oak Cleaver straight at the man as he tumbled aboard. But the Englishman had his shield up in time, through luck or skill, and Harald’s sword glanced off. The man fell the rest of the way, hitting the deck with his shoulder and Harald could see it was an easy kill to be had.
He lifted Oak Cleaver over his head as the man on the deck swung his spear sideways like he was threshing wheat. The spear hit Harald’s legs right at the knees and they buckled and Harald felt himself going down. He hit the deck hard, flat on his back, and saw the other man leap to his feet.
Not good, not good… Harald thought as he saw the man draw the spear back over his head. Harald had managed to land on top of Oak Cleaver, pinning the sword between him and the deck, and he was unable to get it free.
He braced himself, eyes on the spear tip, waiting for the right instant to move. The Englishman hurled the weapon straight down, right at Harald’s chest, and as he did Harald twisted to one side. He felt the point of the spear nick his tunic as it went past, heard it made a distinct thud in the deck. Then Harald twisted back, pulling Oak Cleaver free as he did and slashing the Englishman across the thighs. He saw the man’s legging open up and the flesh below them open up as well, the instant pulse of blood. The man doubled over in pain and surprise and Harald kicked him to the deck then pushed himself to his feet.
He looked forward. This was not working out the way he had envisioned. Not that he had put a lot of thought into it. Or any, really. Dragon’s starboard side was lashed to the Englishman’s larboard, but Harald could not see the rails of either ship under the press of men who were swarming aboard.
The cumulative roar of the battle was terrific, particularly after half a day of near silent rowing. The English were coming over the side in waves; the Northmen were wildly outnumbered, and unlike the English they had not been prepared for this fight and it was starting to tell. Beyond the English ship lashed alongside Harald could see more of their fleet pushing past to grapple with the other ships of his father’s fleet, pulling straight and true and in good order.
He looked past Dragon’s bow. Thorgrim’s ships and Bergthor’s ships were turning to meet this new threat but they were in no particular order and, in truth, seemed to be a great confusion, some ships turning the larboard, some to starboard, some still pulling ahead. It looked as if Black Wing and one of Bergthor’s ships had managed to run into one another.
Harald snatched up the shield at his feet and put his arm through the strap and grabbed hold of the grip inside the boss. With a shout he ran forward, into the fight, but he did not have to run far. The English had overrun the ship and pushed the Northmen back from the rail — there were more of them aboard Dragon now than there were Dragon’s crew.
He drove shield-first into the nearest of them, taking him by surprise, knocking him sideways and slashing down with Oak Cleaver. He felt the blade bite, saw the man scream — he could not make out the individual voice through the din — and saw him stagger back. Not dead, but wounded and out of the fight. Good enough.
A spear thrust at him through the press, though in the madness Harald could not tell who was wielding it. He felt the sharp tip jab into his side and he twisted as the weapon drove forward. He felt the point scrap along his side and was aware of the warm, wet sensation of blood running down flesh, but he felt no pain. He hacked with his sword, pushed with his shield, hacked again.
The noise was incredible, the deck of the ship so packed with men he could feel the very fabric of the vessel trembling under the weight.
There was no form, no organization, no thought in this sort of fighting. It was a just a brutal hack and stab, shield and mail against blade and point, and in fights such as that it was numbers that generally won. Even if these English were untrained men, timid men, it would be hard to defeat so many. And Harald could see they were not that.
Mail… he thought. He just noticed how many of the English had mail and swords. Less than half, to be sure, but even that meant they were better fitted out than he was used to seeing in any English army, or Irish or Northmen, for that matter.
Who are these men? Harald wondered, even as he was forced back a step, and then another. It did not seem possible that the English could have organized such an army, and a fleet as well, in the short time since he and the others had dragged the dead whale onto the beach.
He took another step back, swatting a spear point away with his shield in one direction, thrusting Oak Cleaver in the other. He felt the bite of a sharp blade on his shins and he shouted in pain and surprise and stepped back again. Someone had reached down under the shields and gone for his legs but in that crowd of men he could not tell who. Once again he felt the warm blood running over skin and he knew this would be agonizing if he was still alive when the fighting was done.
Another step back, and then one more, and then Harald knew he was pressed against the larboard side, driven right across the deck, and there was nowhere left to go. He tried to look forward, to see how the fighting was going down the length of the deck, but he could not see much beyond the men surrounding him, Northmen and English. One of his shipmates was on his right, two on his left, and for all he knew they were the last four of the crew still alive.
Hope this was worth it… Harald thought. He did not mind laying down his life in bloody combat, but he hoped that by sacrificing his ship and crew he had given the others a chance to attack in some semblance of order.
Not my ship…. he remembered and he felt that old rage, born of injustice, well up again. He roared and shoved his shield forward and knocked two of the English warriors off balance. He hacked down with Oak Cleaver and felt the blade bite and hoped it hit something worth hitting, but he could not tell in that melee.
From the corner of his eye he saw another spear coming at him and he slashed down with his sword and felt it knock the point away. He was bringing his sword up again when he felt the tip of a blade ripping into his upper arm. He shouted, twisted, and slashed in the direction from which the thrust had come.
We’re done here…Harald thought. There was no place left for them to go and not nearly enough of the Northmen to drive the English back.
Then through the shouting and screaming and clashing of weapons Harald heard a long, piercing note, a horn cutting though all the confusion. He had no idea what it might mean, but the English did, apparently, because they began to back away, retreating back across Dragon’s deck as quickly as they could while still putting up a defense against the men in front of them.
It made no sense. They were moments away from killing every one of them, every man on Dragon’s crew. But suddenly Harald found himself with no enemy in front, just a stretch of blood-soaked deck between him and the retreating English.
He looked up. On the far side of the English ship, looming above the rail as if it was floating in air, was a sight he knew well: the leering, fang-bearing figurehead of Fox, run up on the enemy’s far side, and one of Bergthor’s ships just behind.
But Herjolf did not seem inclined to do so. He hardly seemed inclined to give any orders at all. So Harald took it upon himself to take up the oar. He could never stand by while others labored. If anyone was working hard, Harald felt compelled to work twice as hard. He had always been that way. He would die before he would let anyone think he was shirking his duty.
But there were other reasons Harald chose to row, reason of which he was only vaguely aware. He had achieved a certain status among the men, the younger warriors in particular, and he did not want to jeopardize that. His outrageous attack of the whale was already becoming legend. One day, Harald was sure, the skalds would sing songs of it. The fact that he had been stripped of his command as a result was not looked on as a shameful thing, but rather as an injustice and a mark of honor. Harald had stood up to Thorgrim Night Wolf, commander of the fleet, former Lord of Vík-ló, warrior of renown, and on top of all that, his own father. Little wonder he was admired by the others.
But Harald also knew that the quickest way to lose the admiration of those men was to act as if he deserved it. Deciding to not pull an oar while the others did would not be looked on kindly.
Beside, Harald liked to row. He liked the rhythm of the work, the steady back and forth, the pull on the muscles of his arms and his back. It calmed his mind, and his mind certainly needed some calming now.
He had been in a quiet fury when he sat down at the oars, a fury directed at his father. The old man did not understand that Harald was making a display of leadership and courage in going after the whale. He failed to appreciate how much good it would do as far as cementing the men’s loyalty. And because he could not understand, he had taken away the command that Harald so coveted. And had so earned.
He was calmer now. He had been rowing for half a day. Even when Herjolf had switched out the rowers Harald had declined to give up his oar. And the work and the quiet and the chance to think had all worked their magic on his spirit. He had not forgiven his father, not even close, but at least his fury had ebbed away like the tide.
So entranced had he become with the steady pull of the oar that when he heard Starri’s cry, far off but distinct and completely recognizable, he could not immediately place it. He frowned and looked off to toward the shore and thought, Now, what was that?
It was then that he saw the fleet coming around the bend in the river and he felt the rush of comprehension — Starri’s war cry and a gathering of enemy ships bearing down on them. And with that came the familiar sensations he always felt at such a moment: the tightening in his stomach, the energy like tiny bolts of lightning shooting though his arms and legs, the image of an ax coming down and slicing him right where his neck and shoulders met. It was an image that was ghastly and frightening and for reasons he did not understand it always came to him in the moments before a fight. It filled him with fear, and the fear made him ashamed, but he pushed all those feelings down the way he always did.
The sudden appearance of the fleet was like a cold wave washing over him, one he had not seen coming. He was stunned for a moment by the surprise and the shock of it. And then the shock was gone and he began to think once more.
You bastards, you bastards, that was a clever thing, Harald thought. The English had let the big ships go by first, and that meant that Dragon and Fox and the rest of the smaller ships at the end of the line were in a bad place.
“What by the gods was that?” Herjolf all but shouted. He was looking forward, toward the source of the sound, Starri’s unearthly cry.
“There, Herjolf, there!” Harald shouted, pointing as best as he could with his chin, unable to take his hands off the oar.
“What?” Herjolf asked. He was looking at Harald, not where Harald was gesturing.
“There! Behind us! Coming from the river!” Harald shouted and Herjolf turned and looked.
“Oh! Son of a whore!” Herjolf shouted, his back to Harald, his eyes fixed on the ships in the river. More and more of them were coming into view around the bend.
Harald pressed his lips together. We need to arm, we need to get under arms! he thought.
Thorgrim had planned to get the fleet closer to the town before the men donned mail and took up weapons and shields, and that made sense, since the arms were a hindrance when rowing. He would not have anticipated an attack over the water. None of them would have imagined the English would have so many ships at their disposal, and Harald wondered where they had all come from.
Behind him Harald could hear the shouts and curses of the other men at the oars as they, too, saw the approaching fleet. He wished Herjolf would stop staring at them like some paralyzed fool and order the men to take up arms, but he kept his mouth shut. It had been drilled into him from an early age that there was only one man on broad a ship, or leading men in battle, who gave orders. Everyone else was to remain silent and listen.
But sometimes remaining silent was absolute torture.
Harald watched the lead ship of the English fleet turn until its bows were pointed right at Dragon, its banks of oars lifting and falling, the others astern of it turning as well. He realized two things. One was that his father had intended for Fox and Dragon and the smallest of Bergthor’s ships to be last into the fight, but instead they would be first. The other was that his father had made a big mistake in arranging the fleet in that manner.
Both thoughts pleased him quite a bit.
As he pulled back on the oar he swiveled around and looked ahead, past the bow. The rest of the Northmen’s fleet seemed to be reacting to the sight of the English, turning out of line, left and right, the fine parade of ships becoming a chaotic mess. There would be no unity in their attack, no coordination, while the English, Harald imagined, had planned their own attack quite well.
He leaned forward for another stroke and saw Herjolf look from the English fleet behind them to the rest of their own fleet ahead and back again. And still he said nothing.
Come on, come on…Harald thought, trying to will Herjolf into making a decision as he leaned back again for another pull. Then Herjolf looked forward again and his expression was more determined now, as if he had finally made up his mind. He pulled the tiller toward him and Harald saw the shoreline sweep past as Dragon began to turn.
Good, good, Harald thought. Herjolf was spinning the ship around to drive her first into the fight. But the men would have to get their weapons and shields, and get them quick.
Then the shoreline stopped sweeping past and Harald saw that Herjolf was not turning the ship all the way around. He was simply changing course to get clear of the approaching enemy, and despite himself and all his long-ingrained discipline Harald shouted out.
“Herjolf! Where are you going?”
Herjolf looked from the bow toward Harald and he still looked as determined as ever. “Your father said the big ships go into the fight first, and I’m getting clear of them!”
“That was when we went ashore!” Harald argued even as he pulled back for another stroke. “Not this! No one saw this coming!”
“Just row, do not argue with me!” Herjolf shouted back and he lifted his eyes from Harald and looked over his shoulder, back at the English fleet, now directly astern. Harald felt his fury and disbelief and confusion boiling over. His duty, he knew, was to do as Herjolf said. And he did not care.
He leaned forward with the others, bringing his long oar back for another stroke, but unlike the others held it there, and when the man forward of him pulled their oars became tangled, and the next oar ahead became tangled as well, and the oar ahead of that and ahead of that until the entire starboard side was a flailing mess. Men were shouting and cursing and Harald heard at least one man fall right off the sea chest onto the deck. Dragon began to slew around as the larboard rowers continued to pull.
“You clumsy whore’s sons, get those oars straightened out!” Herjolf called, trying to fight the pull of the larboard oars by pushing the helm to starboard.
“I’ll get clear, I’ll get clear!” Harald shouted and he pulled his oar in through the row port. The oar was considerably longer than the ship was wide at that point, but rather than lift the oar above the heads of the larboard rowers Harald ran it straight across the ship, starboard to larboard. The handle of the oar passed between two of the starboard rowers as they were leaning forward for the stroke. They cursed as they became entangled in the oar, which Harald was swinging side to side like a long club, one of the men losing the grip of his own oar.
In an instant the starboard side was in as great a confusion as was the larboard. The men cursed and shouted and Dragon slewed sideways as her headway dropped off and Herjolf stood at the useless tiller, his mouth hanging open.
Harald leapt to his feet. “We won’t get clear now, Herjolf, we better get ready to fight!” Dragon was now broadside to the English, like a makeshift wall between the enemy and the rest of Thorgrim’s fleet, and they would never get the oars straightened out before the English were on them.
“Run your oars in! Take up arms!” Herjolf shouted and the men obeyed instantly, because it was quite clear now that the English would be aboard them in moments and they had better be ready to receive them. Most of the oars came sailing in and were laid fore and aft, while the others were pushed out through the row ports and let to drop in the water. The men leapt to their feet and grabbed up shields from the shield rack and the spears and axes and swords that had been set down on the deck, ready for the fight.
Harald plucked the nearest shield from the rack and reached down and pulled his sword Oak Cleaver from its scabbard, the sword of his grandfather, Ornolf the Restless, a fine Frankish blade, and relished the feel of the familiar grip in his hand.
“The deaths of these men, they’ll be on your head, Harald Broad Arm!” Herjolf shouted as he too adjusted the grip on his weapons and waited for the enemy bearing down on them. But Harald’s spirit was singing now, every inch of him on fire, any thought of an ax blade splitting neck and shoulder long banished.
“You’ll thank me!” Harald shouted back. “You have the chance to be a hero now, alive or dead!”
Herjolf scowled, then hopped down off the afterdeck and hurried forward to join the others. The forward-most English ship was close, one hundred feet away and coming on fast and it showed no inclination to avoid slamming into the smaller ship. There were men crowded on either side of its bow, helmets in place, spears held up like saplings, waiting for the two vessels to come together.
This is a big bastard… Harald thought. The ship had to be seventy or eighty feet long and might have a hundred or more warriors aboard. Dragon had thirty-six men in her company.
Should make for a fair fight, Harald thought. The English ship was driving at Dragon’s midsection and Harald wondered if her master meant to run right over Dragon and crush her and sink her, and then he wondered if he would be able to do so. And he knew he was about to find out.
“Fight like furies, you men!” Harald shouted. “We have to hold them until the rest come up!” It was not his place to shout such things, but he was no longer thinking that way, nor did he care. They would all likely be dead in the next few moments so the time for niceties was past.
Then the English ship struck, just a little forward of Dragon’s beam. She hit with the audible sound of crushing wood, but rather than drive over Dragon she lifted the smaller ship up, rolling her hard to one side, knocking some of Dragon’s crew off their feet. The English ship was perpendicular to Dragon when they struck, and as she drove forward Dragon began to pivot on the Englishman’s bow. The big English ship was brushing Dragon aside on her way to fight the bigger of the Northmen’s ships.
“Oh, no, you son of a bitch!” Harald shouted. The English were ignoring Dragon and Harald felt personally insulted by that. He tossed his shield aside and sheathed Oak Cleaver. He ran aft and grabbed up a grappling hook and walrus-hide rope, the same one he had used to catch the whale, and stepped up to the ship’s side.
The big English ship was still driving right through Dragon, pushing her aside, pushing her clear, as she went after larger prey. Harald swung the hook once, twice, then sent it sailing across the water between the ships.
He saw the heavy iron grapple clear the side of the English ship and strike one of the oarsmen there, knocking him clean off his seat. He dropped his oar and it tangled with the one behind it and in an instant the English sweeps were in a garbled mess just as Dragon’s had been.
Harald heaved away at the rope and as he did he turned to shout an order down the deck, but he could see there was no need. One of the Dragons forward had already flung the other grapple and Harald saw it disappear over the side of the Englishman’s ship and saw the men of Dragon haul away quick. The rope rose up out of the water as the strain came on it, just as Harald was putting a strain on his own line. And then a dozen men were swarming around Harald, grabbing up the rope and pulling hard, hauling Dragon up to the Englishman’s side.
If the English ship looked big coming bow on, it looked considerably bigger broadside, and Harald could see the hoard of men crowded down her considerable length. He could see shields and spears in abundance, and the warriors aboard her were yelling and cheering and seemed as eager as Harald was for the two ships to come together.
There was twenty feet of water between them when the English spears started flying. A fellow named Vebjorn was standing ten feet away from Harald, right against Dragon’s side, shield in one hand, ax in the other, when the first of the spears struck him right in the shoulder.
He roared in pain and dropped his ax and pulled the spear free from his flesh. One handed he spun the spear around and was about to fling it back when another spear caught him right in the chest, striking with enough force to knock him flat on his back, and that, Harald knew, was the end of Vebjorn.
“Pull! Pull!” Harald shouted. The only way to not be killed like deer in a pen was for them to get alongside and get aboard this bastard. And the others knew that as well. They heaved away, shouting as they did, some screaming for blood, some screaming from the spears that had impaled them.
Then the two ships came together, hitting hard enough to send a shudder through Dragon’s fabric. Harald wrapped the rope quickly around a cleat and turned to leap aboard the English ship but was met by one of the English warriors leaping aboard Dragon, which did not seem right. In his mind, Harald had pictured him and his men boarding the Englishman and somehow it had not occurred to him that the Englishman might board them instead.
All this passed through Harald’s mind in the instant it took him to pull his sword and knock the tip of the English warrior’s spear aside, then drive Oak Cleaver straight at the man as he tumbled aboard. But the Englishman had his shield up in time, through luck or skill, and Harald’s sword glanced off. The man fell the rest of the way, hitting the deck with his shoulder and Harald could see it was an easy kill to be had.
He lifted Oak Cleaver over his head as the man on the deck swung his spear sideways like he was threshing wheat. The spear hit Harald’s legs right at the knees and they buckled and Harald felt himself going down. He hit the deck hard, flat on his back, and saw the other man leap to his feet.
Not good, not good… Harald thought as he saw the man draw the spear back over his head. Harald had managed to land on top of Oak Cleaver, pinning the sword between him and the deck, and he was unable to get it free.
He braced himself, eyes on the spear tip, waiting for the right instant to move. The Englishman hurled the weapon straight down, right at Harald’s chest, and as he did Harald twisted to one side. He felt the point of the spear nick his tunic as it went past, heard it made a distinct thud in the deck. Then Harald twisted back, pulling Oak Cleaver free as he did and slashing the Englishman across the thighs. He saw the man’s legging open up and the flesh below them open up as well, the instant pulse of blood. The man doubled over in pain and surprise and Harald kicked him to the deck then pushed himself to his feet.
He looked forward. This was not working out the way he had envisioned. Not that he had put a lot of thought into it. Or any, really. Dragon’s starboard side was lashed to the Englishman’s larboard, but Harald could not see the rails of either ship under the press of men who were swarming aboard.
The cumulative roar of the battle was terrific, particularly after half a day of near silent rowing. The English were coming over the side in waves; the Northmen were wildly outnumbered, and unlike the English they had not been prepared for this fight and it was starting to tell. Beyond the English ship lashed alongside Harald could see more of their fleet pushing past to grapple with the other ships of his father’s fleet, pulling straight and true and in good order.
He looked past Dragon’s bow. Thorgrim’s ships and Bergthor’s ships were turning to meet this new threat but they were in no particular order and, in truth, seemed to be a great confusion, some ships turning the larboard, some to starboard, some still pulling ahead. It looked as if Black Wing and one of Bergthor’s ships had managed to run into one another.
Harald snatched up the shield at his feet and put his arm through the strap and grabbed hold of the grip inside the boss. With a shout he ran forward, into the fight, but he did not have to run far. The English had overrun the ship and pushed the Northmen back from the rail — there were more of them aboard Dragon now than there were Dragon’s crew.
He drove shield-first into the nearest of them, taking him by surprise, knocking him sideways and slashing down with Oak Cleaver. He felt the blade bite, saw the man scream — he could not make out the individual voice through the din — and saw him stagger back. Not dead, but wounded and out of the fight. Good enough.
A spear thrust at him through the press, though in the madness Harald could not tell who was wielding it. He felt the sharp tip jab into his side and he twisted as the weapon drove forward. He felt the point scrap along his side and was aware of the warm, wet sensation of blood running down flesh, but he felt no pain. He hacked with his sword, pushed with his shield, hacked again.
The noise was incredible, the deck of the ship so packed with men he could feel the very fabric of the vessel trembling under the weight.
There was no form, no organization, no thought in this sort of fighting. It was a just a brutal hack and stab, shield and mail against blade and point, and in fights such as that it was numbers that generally won. Even if these English were untrained men, timid men, it would be hard to defeat so many. And Harald could see they were not that.
Mail… he thought. He just noticed how many of the English had mail and swords. Less than half, to be sure, but even that meant they were better fitted out than he was used to seeing in any English army, or Irish or Northmen, for that matter.
Who are these men? Harald wondered, even as he was forced back a step, and then another. It did not seem possible that the English could have organized such an army, and a fleet as well, in the short time since he and the others had dragged the dead whale onto the beach.
He took another step back, swatting a spear point away with his shield in one direction, thrusting Oak Cleaver in the other. He felt the bite of a sharp blade on his shins and he shouted in pain and surprise and stepped back again. Someone had reached down under the shields and gone for his legs but in that crowd of men he could not tell who. Once again he felt the warm blood running over skin and he knew this would be agonizing if he was still alive when the fighting was done.
Another step back, and then one more, and then Harald knew he was pressed against the larboard side, driven right across the deck, and there was nowhere left to go. He tried to look forward, to see how the fighting was going down the length of the deck, but he could not see much beyond the men surrounding him, Northmen and English. One of his shipmates was on his right, two on his left, and for all he knew they were the last four of the crew still alive.
Hope this was worth it… Harald thought. He did not mind laying down his life in bloody combat, but he hoped that by sacrificing his ship and crew he had given the others a chance to attack in some semblance of order.
Not my ship…. he remembered and he felt that old rage, born of injustice, well up again. He roared and shoved his shield forward and knocked two of the English warriors off balance. He hacked down with Oak Cleaver and felt the blade bite and hoped it hit something worth hitting, but he could not tell in that melee.
From the corner of his eye he saw another spear coming at him and he slashed down with his sword and felt it knock the point away. He was bringing his sword up again when he felt the tip of a blade ripping into his upper arm. He shouted, twisted, and slashed in the direction from which the thrust had come.
We’re done here…Harald thought. There was no place left for them to go and not nearly enough of the Northmen to drive the English back.
Then through the shouting and screaming and clashing of weapons Harald heard a long, piercing note, a horn cutting though all the confusion. He had no idea what it might mean, but the English did, apparently, because they began to back away, retreating back across Dragon’s deck as quickly as they could while still putting up a defense against the men in front of them.
It made no sense. They were moments away from killing every one of them, every man on Dragon’s crew. But suddenly Harald found himself with no enemy in front, just a stretch of blood-soaked deck between him and the retreating English.
He looked up. On the far side of the English ship, looming above the rail as if it was floating in air, was a sight he knew well: the leering, fang-bearing figurehead of Fox, run up on the enemy’s far side, and one of Bergthor’s ships just behind.
