Wolfsangel

18

Vali woke with a jolt as if on a beaching ship. At first he wondered where he was and then he remembered — Forkbeard’s hall. He had a thick tongue and a thicker head. He needed desperately to puke. He looked around him. Everywhere people were slumped at the benches, some with drinks still in their hands. He wanted to piss, to be sick, to do everything to get rid of the tight humming feeling in his head.

‘Ale, boss?’ said Bragi, proffering him a horn. The man was still awake, still drinking, despite the fact that everyone around him had collapsed.

‘I’ll take my next one in Valhalla,’ said Vali. Just looking at the drink made him want to be ill. He staggered outside the hall and down to the moorings, where he did what he had to do.

It was hot. The sun was high and felt like it was boiling his head. He had to get cooler so he waded deep into the water and then just lay back. The cold seemed to restore him and by the time he came out of the sea he felt better. He looked around. No one. He went to the well, drew up the bucket and poured it over himself, drinking as he did so. He glanced over to the wolfman. Someone had spread a cloth over him to protect him from the sun. Who would have done that? There was someone sleeping on the ground behind him, almost completely wrapped up in a cloak. Vali’s eyes were full of sleep and moisture, and he could neither make them focus nor force his befouled brain think about anything beyond his thirst.

He took another drink and looked out to sea. On the horizon he saw a smudge of grey in the sky. At first he didn’t recognise it for what it was. He rubbed his eyes. He was hungry and thought he’d return to the hall to see if there were any leftovers from the night before.

And then it dawned on him. That smudge was smoke. It was the fire on a ship. Longships carried rock ballast for stability, and it was possible to cook on top of it. Someone, just over the horizon, was cooking something. Why cook so close to land? Merchants could be in the village in no time, where they could ingratiate themselves with their hosts by buying food, along with the ale to wash it down. Then he remembered the raid on the abbey. Berserks cooked before they went into battle, stewing up their herbs and their frenzying mushrooms.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he told himself.

Then the truth of the situation struck him like a fist. Of course! It was an attack.

Forkbeard had gone to the regional assembly, taking sixty of his best fighting men with him. If any enemy had discovered that then they would know the Rygir village was virtually undefended. Who was left? Farmers, old warriors, women and children. What better time to attack?

It all fell into place. That was why Vali had been called away. His mother hadn’t wanted him there when the raid took place. Why hadn’t his mother sent aid? Because Authun was mad but still in command. She could buy grain, marry her daughters and send for her son, but the White Wolf’s warriors moved only for him while he was alive. Without Authun to lead the Horda, she couldn’t act to help friends or strike enemies. And hadn’t Vali’s sister Dalla married the Dane Ingwar? That had happened because the Horda were powerless — they needed marriage alliances to protect them. As long as no one knew of Authun’s illness the Danish kings would gladly offer their sons — they thought they were buying protection. In fact, they had been deceived into offering it. But why hadn’t Yrsa sent word to Forkbeard? Because she feared Vali would not marry his daughter. His message saying that he would refuse to marry Ragna had reached the Horda court. If Yrsa could not be sure that Vali would go through with the marriage then she might fear the treaty with the Rygir would fail. The queen wanted to keep her neighbours occupied with another enemy. So why had the Rygir been left unwarned? Because, in a moment of stupidity, Vali had said he would not do his duty. He had visited this calamity on the Rygir and he felt ashamed for it.

Vali ran into the hall.

‘Get up, get up! The enemy is here. Get up, get up!’ he shouted.

There were still some coals burning in the fire. He scooped several onto a bread plate, gathered some straw from the floor and ran out to the beacon, which seemed to take an age to light.

‘Hurry up, hurry up! Get your arms and shields, we’ve got a fight on!’

Bragi strolled out like a man surveying his land on a fine morning.‘What, lord?’

‘Look, the horizon — smoke. It’s warships, I know it.’

‘That or a trader cooking up some mackerel,’ said Bragi. He was calm.

‘He’s either coming here, in which case he’d eat here, or he’s going past, in which case he’d never risk alerting our ships. When have you seen smoke like that before?’

‘Not here, but-’

‘Who am I?’

‘Vali, prince of the sword-Horda,’ said Bragi.

‘Whose son am I?’

‘Authun, lord of battle.’

‘Then respect me and call to arms. Call to arms!’

Bragi shrugged but took a horn from his belt. One of the endearing things about the old warrior was that he was almost permanently dressed for a fight. He even carried his helmet with him much of the time, though he drew the line at wearing his byrnie. He had been known to take his shield if he wasn’t going far, however.

Bragi blew three blasts on his horn, then walked into the hall and started rousing the men. At first few believed him and thought it a prank but, urged on by Vali, they stumbled outside and saw the beacon burning. That was never lit as a joke. Up on the hill another one answered it. Behind that, they knew, would be others, calling the men of the farms down to defend the shore.

Vali looked at what he had. Forty men, or rather boys and grandfathers, some still half drunk. He shouted and kicked at them to arm themselves. Hungover and red-faced, they opened chests in the hall, taking out weapons, padded jackets, a couple of byrnies and helmets. Shields and spears were found in a separate storeroom. Men stumbled and tripped as they pulled on their gear, clattered into each other as they reached for the weapons.

‘Sails!’ shouted Bragi from outside. Despite being clearly very drunk, the old man had his byrnie on and had taken up two spears, one stout and long, the other shorter and thinner, for throwing.

Vali didn’t bother putting on a byrnie, though he had a right to one. He grabbed a seax, a shield and a helmet, and gave them all to Bragi.

‘Shield wall at the top of the hill, the Hogsback, on the cart track at the side of the copse,’ he said. ‘They won’t get round the back of us through the wood, not in a hurry anyway. Have these for me there behind it. Put five archers in the woods and tell them not to fire until I give the order. Nothing as the enemy advance. Nothing, do you understand?’

‘Yes, lord, but will they come to the top of the hill? Surely they’ll plunder here and be gone.’

‘They have berserks aboard. They’ll come,’ said Vali. ‘I’ll ensure it. Our only chance is to fight them there. Get to the hill and set your wall, though be ready to receive me — I’ll be coming through it at speed.’

Bragi had been amazed when Vali appeared with the wolfman. He was even more amazed at the transformation in him now.

Hogni and Orri appeared from the hall.

‘Ah, Horda — good men,’ said Vali. ‘You’ll go with the archers into the woods to cover the front of the shield wall. You’ll see that they do not fire until my command. Then, and you’ll know the time, you’ll attack the enemy from the back.’

‘Yes, lord.’ Hogni and Orri were too hungover to argue, to point out that they were veterans of five raids each. Anyway, Vali was a prince. In battle, that is what princes are for, if nothing else — they give the orders.

The longships were closer now. They could hear the baying of the berserks, the sound of them beating their shields and their bodies, the oaths to Odin and the curses on the enemy. The voices were indistinct, but if you had heard the chanting before you would know what it said.

‘Odin!’

‘That means fury!’

‘Odin!’

‘That means war!’

‘They speak our language, sir,’ said Orri.

Bragi shook his head. ‘Look at the ships; they sit so shallow in the water. These bastards are Danes — their ships do no more than kiss the waves. I saw them at Kaupangen. They’ve hired a few pirates from near here, no doubt, but these are Danes.’

Vali turned to his band. ‘I am Vali, son of Authun the White Wolf, plunderer of the five towns, peerless in battle. As the prince here, I assume command, as there are no princes of your own to lead you. There are three ships there, eighty warriors at least. It is beyond us to fight so many. Yet we will make them pay so dear a price for what they take that they will curse the day they set sail for our shores. Until I arrive at the top of the hill, Bragi is in command. Offer a prayer to your gods and tell them to prepare to receive you.’

Bragi nodded and beckoned the men after him. They streamed through the village, women, children and dogs chasing after them.

Adisla woke at the commotion. She looked around her. She had slept in the open, a borrowed cloak over her, and her hair was wet with dew.

There was shouting and screaming and the smell of fire. Children were wailing, men and women crying out. She looked over to where Vali was marshalling his force and then out to sea. Three sails. Chanting. She knew what was coming. So did the wolfman. For the first time he strained against his bonds.

She had heard what Vali had said: they were all to die. It seemed wrong that someone who had lived his life so free should die tied like a pig for slaughter. She took the bag from Feileg’s head.

The first thing the wolfman saw after Adisla was Vali. He let out a low snarl of such fury that Adisla stepped back. Feileg had remembered the face of the sleeping man and guessed who had taken him prisoner.

She looked at him. ‘I intend to let you go,’ she said, ‘but first you must swear that you will not harm me or mine.’

‘I will protect you. I will serve you.’

‘Swear it, on whatever gods you have.’

‘I swear it on the sky and the land,’ said Feileg.

‘Then this is the only service I require of you: that you will not harm him, my love, who brought you here,’ said Adisla. ‘I hold you to your oath. Can you keep it?’

‘Yes.’

She took a knife from her belt and cut through his bonds. The ships were closer now, the men almost individually visible. She sawed and cut. The wolfman was bound at the hands and at the neck. No one noticed what she was doing in the panic. Eventually he was free.

Feileg stood, moving like an old man getting out of bed.

‘Now go. You are in danger from both sides. Go!’

‘I will stay with you.’

‘No,’ said Adisla. ‘I forbid it. Go. You swore me your service now do as I say and run.’

The wolfman stared at her. In some ways he reminded her of an animal, a dog, craning its head in curiosity at hearing an unfamiliar sound.

‘The wolfman is free, sir!’

‘Adisla, stay still; I’m coming!’

Vali was a bowshot away but coming towards them at a run, a seax in his hand. The wolfman saw his advance and bared his teeth.

‘Your oath!’ said Adisla.

The wolfman took her by the shoulders. ‘I will not forget you,’ he said.

And then he kissed her — a child’s kiss, no more than pushing his lips into hers — and was gone. Adisla was rigid with shock as Vali arrived at her side.

‘Adisla, are you all right? How did he get free? Are you all right? Darling, are you all right? Where is Drengi? Where is he? Where is your betrothed?’

‘I think he went with the other men to the hill.’

Vali frowned. ‘Well, he should be looking for you. You should be his first concern.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Go to the farm and get your mother out into the fields. You must hide — you know the places. I’ll look for you when it’s done.’

Adisla hugged him and for the first time in her life understood the feelings of the women on the quayside as they wished their husbands off to war, and she knew what a man wants at such times — not reminders of the love he’s leaving, not adjurations to keep safe or wishes for luck. A man in battle needs courage, no thought that his death will inconvenience or upset anyone but himself. So Adisla kissed him and said the traditional parting words from a wife to a warrior setting out for battle.

‘Kill a hundred of them for me.’

He nodded, squeezed her to him and then let her go.

‘Run,’ he said. ‘Run for your life.’

She did, tearing up the hill towards her farm.

Vali looked back to the sea. By the quay he saw the most extraordinary thing. The wolfman was facing the three longships alone. He stood on the little beach growling and beating his chest, standing tall and upright one instant, crouching low to the sand the next. The berserks were baying to attack, but the ruddermen had brought the boats about to get a better look at him. To the sober men in charge of the ships it seemed they were confronted by a werewolf and they wanted a clear sight of him before rushing in.

Feileg was delaying the landing and that gave Vali time to act. He had no idea where Forkbeard stored his treasure — that secret was known only by a very few people indeed — but in the hall there were enough fine cups and wall hangings to suit Vali’s purpose. He tore a couple of hangings down and wrapped as many of the metal plates and cups as he could inside them. Then he tied them loosely and ran outside. He knew the berserks would follow him simply if he taunted them but he wanted to give the rest of the warriors a reason to chase him too.

Now he really could see the enemy clearly. The longships were only a short distance from the shore and parallel to it. The warriors were screaming, howling like wolves and roaring like bears, some jabbering incoherently, some even fighting each other. Berserks, definitely. Vali swallowed. Good. That was what he wanted.

The ruddermen now evidently decided that one wolfman, no matter how magical, would not stand in their way. Turned by their oars, the prows of the boats swung towards the shore. Picking up the pace, the rowers sped the longships in to attack.

The wolfman had done what he wanted, given Adisla more time to get away. Now he too ran, and Vali was the only one left in the settlement, just a couple of scouts watching him from up the hill.

He waved to them and they waved back. He got onto his horse, swinging the clanking bundles up beside him. It wasn’t easy to balance the load but he managed it, dropping a couple of plates as he did so. That didn’t matter; in fact, it was all to the good. Vali wheeled his horse towards the shore, trotting towards the onrushing Danes.

A couple of berserks couldn’t contain their desire to get at him and leaped into the water, half drowning as they tried to stay afloat without letting go of their weapons.

Vali turned the horse side on to the approaching boats and screamed at them, ‘Too late, you cowards. Can’t you see? Forkbeard’s treasure is flying from you!’

A few arrows flew from the nearest longship and Vali instinctively pulled back on the reins. Not one arrow struck him but the animal took fright, staggering sideways, bucking and kicking him off. Vali landed in the water and the tapestries spilled open, showering cups and plates into the sea. The clatter spooked the horse even more and it bolted.

A roar went up from the incoming boats. Vali was badly winded but had no time to recover. He gathered up what he could in his arms and staggered up the beach towards another horse.

Behind him he heard a heavy crunch as the ships grounded.

‘Odin, slayer! Odin, madman! Odin, war-drunk! Odin! Odin! Odin!’

The berserks didn’t even stop for the plates and cups, just charged at him. Vali made the other horse, untied it and mounted. He had one silver cup left from the hoard he had bundled into the tapestries. He raised it towards the berserks. As he did so, he saw a familiar face. At the front of the charge was a massive man in a white bear skin, a cleft right down the front of his forehead. It was the berserk who had killed the monks, Bodvar Bjarki. He had a throwing spear in one hand and the huge iron rattle in the other. So now he was their leader.

It had been three years and Vali was a stronger man than he had been then, but he reminded himself of his plan. Still, he called to the berserk: ‘Remember me, you half-witted coward? Have you come to pay me for my slaves you killed?’

The berserk heaved the spear at Vali but the prince dropped his head flat to the horse and it sailed over him.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to require a little more than a spear. That can’t be worth much, even after we’ve scraped your shit off it.’

The berserk became even more enraged, charging up the beach without drawing his weapons. Vali was sorely tempted to ride him down but reminded himself that he had faith in the merits of organisation and a cool head on the battlefield. One of the reasons he’d given his gear to Bragi was that he didn’t even want the option to fight. This battle, he thought, would be won in the mind, like a game of king’s table, and he had to stick to his plan. He urged his horse a little way up the hill and then turned to see what was happening. The more sober warriors were disembarking, and he saw the banner of Haarik, king of the northern Danes of Aggersborg — the black dragon. As he’d thought: Danes fronted by local berserks. He wondered if the berserks had suggested the raid. No time to think though. He kicked the horse off at a fast walk, careful to stay out of range of the spears but not far enough away so he couldn’t be seen.

He heard the shouts behind him.

‘We will have your blood.’

‘Catch him!’

Good. He had their attention. Already Forkbeard’s hall was burning but the berserks were chasing him. Would they lead the rest of the raiders? He stopped as he left the settlement, holding up the cup again. He saw the man holding Haarik’s standard point at him, then a group of around forty warriors began to follow the berserks up the hill at the trot.

He rode away, the taunts of the enemy at his back. The most dangerous part of his plan was about to unfold. As he approached the woods he had to let the berserks catch him. He dismounted and held up the cup.

‘Cowards!’ he shouted. ‘Cowards!’ There was no point in finer insults on the battlefield; they would not be heard. The horse panicked and ran off. Now Vali had no means of escape. He would succeed or he would die, he knew.

A scrum of six or eight berserks was following Bjarki up the hill. They were near and a couple of spears thudded into the bank beside the track. Vali turned to see them screaming and posturing, pointing at him and howling. They’d stopped following, though. Vali pulled one of the spears out and threw it back, heaving it far too far as the heat of battle filled him. Never mind, he’d achieved his goal. The berserks came charging after him again.

He ran as fast as he could, aware that he was in a narrow sunken lane and that the advantage he hoped to give to his own force could now work against him, cutting down his scope for weaving and giving his enemies a clear target.

He was lightly dressed, but so were the berserks. They were bigger, heavier men though, and he was faster than them down the lane. Another spear thunked into the track beside him, then a hand axe hit him on the back, but luckily not with its cutting edge. He knew they were close — the effective range of the axe was nowhere near that of the spear. He hoped the shield wall would be in place as he came to the crest of the hill.

It was, thirty men in four ranks crammed tight into the lane. It was then he realised he had nowhere to go. He didn’t want to tell the wall to part because he wasn’t sure it would close again in time. He glanced behind him. The berserks were no more than twenty paces away.

‘Spears down!’ he shouted, sprinting towards the wall.

Bragi was at the front. He slapped down four or five spears so they were pointing at the ground.

Vali pulled one last effort from his legs and ran flat out. Then he spotted a tree root sticking out from the bank and veered towards the side of the lane. He hit it with one foot and thrust himself up over the heads of his men, missing his footing on the bank on the way down, crashing into the back rank and sending three men tumbling.

‘Spears up!’ shouted Bragi.‘Spears up!’

The men levelled their spears as the berserks came loping and howling towards them. One of the boys at the front fainted at the sight of the enemy. The men behind pulled him back by the legs. Vali’s sword was nowhere but there was no time to think about that. He shoved on his helmet, snatched up his shield and bundled forward through the line, moving to fill the gap. It was tight-packed at the front, no room to swing a weapon, which hardly mattered as Vali didn’t have one.

‘Spear! Spear!’ shouted Vali, but no one heard him. He’d have to make do with just the shield until he got a chance to find his seax or another weapon. He gripped the straps behind the boss tight in his fist. Bragi could actually punch with a shield but Vali had never got the knack. The point, said the old man, was not to swing it but to drop your weight behind your hand in a quick jolt, the whole forward movement being no more than the width of a fist. He’d regularly seen Bragi fell men with the move for a bet when the old man was in drink, and now he wished he’d tried harder to learn the trick.

The women and the children behind him were screaming, the berserks were howling, his own men were shrieking curses and clattering their weapons. The noise alone was dizzying. The back rank, though disordered by Vali’s arrival, got some missiles away. Two spears, a hand axe and a couple of rocks flew towards the enemy. A spear took a berserk in the leg and, though he tried to run on, he was hopelessly encumbered. As the butt end of the spear dug into the bank, he screamed, stumbled and fell. The axe missed and the rocks too.

The berserks had no shields, just spears or rocks in one hand, huge axes in the other. Vali ducked behind his shield as a volley of missiles came in and was glad that he had. A spear tip punched straight through the front of his shield and stuck there, though it caused him no harm. No one around him seemed injured, and for the moment it seemed the wall had done its job.

Some of the spears had done theirs too. Vali’s shield was now heavy and unwieldy and he knew he would have to let it go if an enemy pulled at the spear and it didn’t come free. The berserks crashed into the wall, less hard than he had anticipated. They had to clear the opposing spears first, hacking them down with their axes or just grabbing them and pulling them aside. The thump that Vali had expected never came, just a squabble of weapons as each side fought for advantage. Then his own men attacked from the back rank, long spears reaching over him to stab at the attackers. One berserk got through, driving his axe into a shield deep through the rim into the wood. Then another berserk did the same, and another. Vali saw that there was more method to their attack than he’d credited them with. They were battering down the shields, or sticking weapons into them, gaining levers by which they could pull them away, with the owner attached ideally, or making them so unwieldy they were unusable.

A berserk in front of Vali hurled his axe into the wall and then took hold of the spear that was through Vali’s shield, simultaneously drawing his knife. He clearly intended to rip aside the shield and then do for Vali in close. The spear pulled free though, and he fell back. Vali did not press his advantage by coming forward to stamp on him.

‘Hold the wall!’ screamed Vali. ‘Hold the wall!’

Then he was struck again. Bjarki sank his huge axe into Vali’s shield and tore it down. His strength was so great that Vali was pulled from the line. Bjarki’s axe was briefly useless but the berserk sank a heavy kick into Vali’s belly as he ripped away his shield, sending the prince crashing to the ground. Bodvar Bjarki was not so delirious he didn’t know who he was fighting but his speech was incoherent and nonsensical.

‘Death, prince. Blood, prince.’

Someone jabbed a spear at the berserk and that took his attention. He shook Vali’s shield free of his axe and battered into the wall, knocking men to the ground. The defence collapsed. The berserk killed one man, then another, the axe taking half a farmer’s head away. Vali saw Bragi put his sword clean through an opponent but he was the only one who seemed to be retaliating. Now Vali could see the value of the berserks and was pleased there were no conventional warriors following them in. The shield wall had fallen in on itself and a charge by a second wave of attackers would be decisive. Vali recovered his wind and got to his feet. Bjarki drove his axe into another shield, ripping it away, but lost his grip on the weapon, which went clattering onto the track behind him.

Vali had no weapon, no shield and no choice. He couldn’t allow the berserk to draw his sword. He leaped at him, striking forward and with both hands at his enemy’s chin, trying to snap back his neck. Here, his attention to Bragi’s lessons stood him in good stead. He hit his man hard, pushing up with his legs to deliver a powerful two-handed blow. The berserk took a step back, tripped over a body and fell, his head slamming down against the bank, where he lay absolutely still.

Vali could allow himself no self-congratulation. ‘Attack! Attack!’ he screamed.

Bragi had got four men side by side with shields and they re-engaged the remaining berserks. There were three still fighting, tearing at the shields, beating away the spear points, stabbing and yelling. Vali picked up a spear that had been broken to an arm’s length and drove it into the neck of his nearest enemy. The weapon stuck. He had no knife to draw so just jumped at the second berserk, grabbing him around the waist and driving him to the ground. Bragi’s sword snicked past his shoulder to impale the berserk in the chest, though Vali took a couple of punches and a bite to the arm as the man died.

There was only one attacker left and he was quickly overwhelmed. A great cheer went up from his men. They’d killed seven berserks for the loss of three themselves. Bodvar Bjarki was trying to get to his feet but he was still hopelessly disoriented. Bragi came forward with his sword.

‘No!’ said Vali. ‘I want this one as my slave. Take him behind the ranks and tie him up. And make sure the women don’t kill him; I want him alive.’ The berserk was bundled away.

Then he saw Drengi, the man who — Vali had to think it — was betrothed to Adisla. ‘Hello, Drengi.’ Vali tried to keep his temper. He was furious that Drengi had not tried to find Adisla.

‘Lord.’ The man couldn’t meet Vali’s gaze. He knew what Adisla meant to Vali, and though this hadn’t stopped him pursuing her, it did mean that he found the prince’s presence disconcerting.

‘Go and find Adisla and her mother. Help them to safety.’

Drengi nodded and turned to run down the back of the hill, as glad to be spared further conversation with Vali as another attack.

‘Die for them!’ shouted Vali after him. Then he called up into the woods, ‘You did well, Hogni. Stay your hand until my command, or if I die, until our foes are about to overwhelm us. Take them at their thickest press. Our wall will stay here, behind the bodies. They can walk to us on a road of their own dead.’ He turned. ‘Bragi, where’s my seax?’

Bragi shook his head, said, ‘Vali the swordless,’ under his breath and went to the back of the line while Vali retrieved his shield. The old warrior came back with the weapon, which Vali stuffed into his belt.

There was a knocking sound. Two men fell. Then the sound again. Another man fell.

‘Arrows!’ shouted Bragi. ‘Shields up.’

‘Reform the wall!’ screamed Vali. ‘Reform the wall!’ He pulled and pushed men into position.

Vali snatched up a spear as the men packed back in, bunching to shelter under their shields. Vali knew this was far from ideal. The best formation to receive arrow fire was spread out and separate, but to resist an infantry charge they needed to be together. Never mind. He pushed the men in, raising his shield to meet the angle of the incoming arrows. The arrows made a scrabbling sound as they glanced off the shields, like rats running over boards, thought Vali. The noise came again, and again, and he crouched low. He realised that they were safe beneath their shields. Few of the arrows penetrated and those that did had been slowed beyond harm.

The noise stopped. Vali risked peeking out from over the top of his shield. Seventy warriors at least, all with shields, the men at the front in byrnies and helmets, carrying spears. The dragon standard was brought to the front of the line. This is it, thought Vali: this is where it ends. He had thought his wit and cleverness could triumph, but as he looked at the ranks of the enemy he realised the crushing power of numbers. He had only half believed it when he had told his men they’d die that day. It had been meant to encourage them, to remove the anxiety of battle. If you are certain of death then fear becomes pointless. Looking at the Danes — the strong jarl warriors at the front in their armour, helmets and swords, the young men behind them with their caps and spears — then looking at his own old men and boys, he knew the game was up. Still he’d done his best and maybe bought Adisla some time.

‘The back ranks must push forward at the moment they hit us,’ shouted Bragi. ‘That was why we got flattened by the berserk — you didn’t push. You must push. If you don’t they will overrun us.’

The Danish king looked relaxed and confident beneath his banner, jovial almost, more like a man about to welcome guests on a feast day than a warrior in the field. He was talking to someone — an odd figure. Vali had never seen anyone like him before. Clearly a foreigner, the man was dressed in a blue tunic, skirt and trousers, all edged with red. On his head he wore a blue cap, the top of which took the form of a four-pointed star drooping down over his head. Who was he? What was he doing with the Danes? Vali thought he matched descriptions of the northern Whale People, who were noted sorcerers.

The king was pointing left and right, weighing up options.

‘He must charge,’ muttered Vali. ‘He must charge.’ He knew very well that Haarik had time to cook a meal, sleep even, and then outflank them the next morning. One of the Danish jarls was sweeping his arms, gesturing around to the back of the hill. If he came around the back or even sent ten men that way, they were done for. They were likely done for whatever happened, but if they were to have a glimmer of a chance, head-on confrontation was it. Then Vali saw a beautiful sight. The Danish king shook his head, laughed and patted the jarl on his shoulder. He was too proud to do it the sensible way: he was going to charge the wall down.

The king put on his helmet and took up a spear.

‘Come on,’ said Vali. ‘Come on.’

But then he saw some men split off. One group of warriors went left, another right, leaving around fifty. Where was the king? His banner was there but he had disappeared. Vali had no time to think about that. The numbers were more even but Vali faced being attacked from the back in very short order. What to do? In king’s table they talked of ‘getting the run’. This meant that though your opponent might be in a better position, you had the advantage of time. If you didn’t let it slip away, he would never get the chance to bring his most threatening pieces to bear. It was the same here — no time for fancy tactics or movement. They just had to kill the enemy at the front before the enemy behind arrived.

Bragi, crushed in by Vali’s side, saw the significance of what had happened.

‘Looks like we’ll have to fight quick, lord.’

Vali nodded. He would still rather be captured by the Danes, sold into slavery and killed than spend another evening in Bragi’s company, but the man’s loyalty and, more than that, his competence, impressed him. He’d weighed up the situation immediately, not by thinking about it, as Vali had done, but as an instinctive reaction.

Bragi spoke: ‘You’re your father’s son. I never thought I’d say it, but you are. There was a rumour for years that he’d bought you in the Isle to the West, and not got much for his money either.’

‘Your charm is effortless,’ said Vali, but the smile he gave Bragi was genuine enough.

‘You can see why people thought that, with you being an ugly black-haired bastard and all,’ said Bragi.

Vali looked at the enemy. The swords of the men at the front were drawn. It was about to begin.

‘Bragi,’ he said.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘If we make it to Valhalla…’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Don’t sit next to me.’

The old man laughed until tears came down his face. ‘You are a king, sir, a king,’ he said.

Bragi had once told him it was a fine thing to die and Vali had thought it more homespun nonsense, but for just an instant he could feel the warmth of the sun on his face, smell the smoke of the burning village, take the weight of the spear in his hand and believe him. There was a comradeship here that he had never felt before, a bond with his fellows that went beyond any small consideration of actually liking them.

There was a roar like a landslide, and the enemy were charging, screaming oaths to Thor, the thunder god, and Tyr, god of war. The name of Odin was not on their lips. These were not berserks, and the hanged god was too peculiar, mysterious and mad for the average farmer or bodyguard.

Vali felt curiously disconnected from the scene and wondered who he should call on for help. None of the gods had ever appealed to him at all. All apart from one.

‘Lord Loki,’ he said, ‘prince of lies, friend to man, let me endure. Let me endure.’

Vali was not religious but for a heartbeat he realised the truth of the gods of his people. Every one was a god of death — of war: Freya, goddess of fertility and war, Thor, god of thunder and war, Freyr, god of pleasure and prosperity but battle bold. Only Loki was not a fighter. Only Loki stood at the sides and laughed, a laughter more deadly to the self-important gods than any sword or spear. No wonder they had chained him.

The sound of the enemy’s feet in the little lane vibrated through the ground. Now they would throw their missiles. Vali felt confident. His men were cheek by jowl, the front rank of shields locked tight into each other. The enemy were coming on in a mass somewhere between close order and spread out. They were too far apart to offer each other protection with their shields but not spaced enough to dilute the effect of an incoming volley of missiles.

Vali turned to the man on his other side and thought he had never seen him before. He was a tall pale red-haired fellow in a long brown feathery cloak. Vali wanted to shout at him for being such an idiot as to wear a something like that in the line but found he couldn’t. He struggled for words, desperate to say something to this stranger. In the end he managed it.

‘Are you with us?’ he said.

The man, who seemed able to find some space to move in the press of the wall, touched his arm and said, ‘I have been with you since the beginning.’

‘And now you’re here at the end.’

‘No end for you,’ said the man. ‘None, ever. You are always and eternal, Fenrisulfr, and soon you will see that. The gods, in their dreams, now walk the earth.’

‘What?’ said Vali.

Spears, axes and stones hammered down. Vali ducked into his shield. A man behind him fell. When he looked up, the red-haired stranger was gone and he had no time to think about how odd that was.

‘Loose!’ screamed Vali, and the ranks behind him hurled their spears. Three of the Danes fell, one in the front rank. The jarl impeded the men behind him as he fell to his hands and knees, the others spinning and leaping to get past him. Vali gripped his spear, his hands wet with the sweat of fear.

Bang! The wave of warriors hit the line. The Danes slid their shields into the spears, trying to push them up or aside or snag them, then to release their shields and hack in with sword and axe. Vali found his spear torn from his hand as a Dane came steaming in to him with his shield and struck at him with his axe. Again Vali could not draw his seax and was glad of his helmet as the axe knocked it off with a glancing blow but without hurting him. The press was so tight that it didn’t fall to the ground but wedged at the back of his shield. Then a spear was pushed over his shoulder from behind and the warrior was driven back. The helmet dropped and Vali kicked it towards the enemy. The Danes rushed forward again, under the defenders’ spears. More men pushed in by his side, still more behind him. It was shield to shield in the crush with no room to swing a sword. Those in the front rank became spectators at the fight, shoving forward and hoping not to be stabbed by spears wielded by opponents they had no hope of reaching. A Dane slipped on the body of another but Vali couldn’t move to draw his weapon. No need. The man went down under the feet of his friends.

More warriors joined the back of the Danish push, throwing weapons and heaving their shoulders into their comrades’ backs in a bid to force the defenders down the lane. Vali shoved, was shoved. He strained forward with every sinew but he felt his line giving ground. Even though the Danes were stumbling and slipping on fallen bodies, there were many more of them than the Rygir. Vali went a pace back, then two. The faces of the enemy were right in his, hurling insults, promising death, spitting, trying to bite even, but there was almost nothing the men in the front could do to hurt each other. They were too close to even kick. Behind Vali someone fell, then another, and it seemed that, in a breath, the wall would be overwhelmed.

‘Now, Hogni, now!’ screamed Vali. Hogni couldn’t hear him but the Horda was an attentive and experienced warrior who had listened well to what Vali had told him. ‘Now and quietly,’ he told his archers.

They came forward out of the woods, five of them, and released a volley of arrows from above at the back of the Danish press at a range of five paces. Then another, and another. Two Danes fell, then three, then two more before they even realised they had been outflanked.

‘Push,’ screamed Vali. ‘Push!’

Danes were trying to scramble up the bank to get at the archers, slipping on the bodies of their comrades, sliding and falling. The archers shot again and again. Vali stuck his shoulder into his shield and shoved as hard as he could. The Dane in front of him lost his footing, grabbing out and taking a companion with him. The Rygir began to gather momentum and stamped forward over the fallen men, driving down with boots, spears and axes.

The enemy broke and ran. Hogni’s archers continued shooting, though he commanded them to stop. He wanted some of the glory for himself and leaped into the lane to pursue the fleeing invaders.

Vali’s men streamed past him after the enemy. Vali shouted at them to halt. About twenty Danes had gone off on a flanking movement and he felt sure they were about to attack from the rear. But there was no hope of controlling his men, who sprinted after the Danes, followed down the lane by most of the women and many of the children, waving sticks and house knives as they ran.

Pushing back through them, Vali then ran to the end of the lane and stared down into the valley behind the hill. No Danes. Instinctively he looked over to Disa’s farm. A pall of smoke hung over it. He gave a shiver. Had Disa been able to run with her burned legs? Had Adisla managed to get her away? Her daughter would not have abandoned her, he knew that.

He glanced around for help but the only warrior near him was Bjarki, still barely conscious, tied up to the point of strangulation with a couple of small children hitting him with sticks. Vali shooed them away from the berserk, all the time looking around for any of his men who had remained.

‘Bragi, with me!’ he shouted, as loud as he could. But Bragi was gone, down to the Danes’ boats, planning to take them out to sea and deny the attackers their escape. Vali was on his own. Dread swamped his exhaustion and he ran towards the burning farm faster than he had ever run in his life.