‘Tell me again; the truth this time.’ a voice whispered from the shadows.

A righteous backhand slapped Halldor across the face; his chains rattled hard against the dank lichen carapace of the cell wall as he winced against them. Halldor slumped back down against the stone wall, allowing his dark matted hair to linger and drag slowly behind him as he sat, his arms still suspended above him by the strong iron links.

‘Go fuck yourself, and tell that English dog Godwinson to go fuck himself too.’ Halldor growled. ‘ that bastard will get nothing from me.’

Stars danced across the blackness of Halldor’s vision as another blow from a studded leather fist struck him, this time bursting his lips and spraying blood and spittle across his bare chest. The depredations of captivity had done little to erode Halldor’s muscles, although he was now somewhat leaner and his face had become drawn and sharp.

‘There will be no need for that.’ Once again slid a voice from the darkness, even and unconcerned. ‘Godwinson is dead my friend; the Bastard has you now.’ Halldor shifted his eyes from the gaoler stood in front of him and tried hopelessly to search the shadows for the source, finding nothing. ‘Though he is as yet undecided how best to dispose of you. Tell me what I want to know, and I will see that you leave here unharmed. He’s no enemy of yours, of that I’m certain.’

Several long moments had passed before Halldor spoke.

‘How did he die?’ he asked softly.

‘A Norman arrow took his eye at Hastings. The battle raged for almost a full day, losses heavy on both sides, but the Bastard is a wily one. Just as it seemed the English would carry the day, the Bastard ordered the retreat.  It was a ruse. The English Housecarls gave chase against their king’s orders, raging and hoping to wipe out the Norman invaders. The Bastard had archers hidden in the treeline at the base of the hill; the English never stood a chance; they were cut down by the dozen. Oh, Harold and his guard fought on, might have even survived to fight another day had a Norman archer not found him. England belongs to the Bastard now, as do you.’

Halldor softened slightly, leaning easier against the damp wall.

‘What happens now?’ asked Halldor, a little more vigour entering his words.

‘Now? That is simple my friend. You tell me about the Hadrada, about his wars, about his women, about his hopes and fears. You tell me about his youth, about Byzantium. You tell me it all.’

‘and if I do not?’

‘Then you take your chances with William. Perhaps you live, perhaps you die, who knows? The Norns are cruel mistresses are they not?. The Bastard is not known for his mercy.’

It seems I have little choice then, but first, tell me; who are you? ’  Halldor replied as he looked towards the shadows of the cell.

Halldor watched closely as the stranger slipped from the gloom of the cell as he finished speaking, the soft light of the torch flickering and casting a shadow across his hooded face. He was a man of middle years, tall with blonde hair the seemed to merge with the rich vein of gold thread running through his cloak, and his braided beard held several small rings. Jewellery covered his hands, yet his arms were bare of the oath-rings a warrior would carry. A merchant then? But why would a merchant risk travel across a war-stricken countryside to speak with him?

His concerns assaulted his mind. Who was this man? Why did he wish to know about Harald? He fought hard to keep these thoughts from his face.

‘Free me, and we will speak.’ Halldor said with a confidence he did not feel.

A wolfish smile spread across the stranger’s face. ‘But of course,’ he turned to face the gaoler, ‘You, take this man somewhere more pleasant and have him fed and cleaned.’ He spoke again to Halldor ‘We will speak again on the morrow.

He turned and left the cell as silently as he had entered.

Halldor sat at a battered wooden table and rubbed at the deep purple bruises on his wrists as if trying to coax the blood back into his hands. Still, though, he thought to himself, his conditions had improved considerably. The stranger had been as good as his word and Halldor had been moved to a rather spartan room, containing only a bed, a table and a bucket, but at least it was clean.

Halldor marvelled as the daylight entered the room through a narrow arrow-slit and gave thanks that the previous occupant had had the good grace not to piss and shit all over it. While pleased, he was still apprehensive. His hair had been washed and combed, after a fashion, and his face had been rather rudely shaved. A chill travelled down his back as he considered his position, despite the improvement he was still a prisoner. He had no reason to believe Gold-cloak would keep his word.

The door opened as if in answer to his thoughts, heavy and ominous as if to remind him of his position. The stranger entered, once again wearing the gold cloak, which fluttered as he moved. The stranger drew up a chair.

‘Shall we resume our discussion?’ he said smartly ‘Tell me everything.’

‘Who are you?’ Halldor asked with a stony expression.

The Stranger shrugged ‘I’ve been known by many names. You may call me Einarr, but perhaps you will know me better as Skalaglamm.’

‘I have heard of you. Skalaglamm, the scales?

‘You are correct. I am the scales of antiquity, it falls to me to weigh each man and find his worth, to remember those who have served the old gods and sing their songs. I am the last the skalds.’

‘Harald had no love for the old gods, he served Christ.’ Halldor spoke with conviction, but he could not bring his eyes to meet Einarrs.

‘He paid lip service to Christ, no more. The Hadrada was nothing if not a pragmatist Halldor.’ He clasped Halldor’s wrist tightly upon the table and glared fiercely into his eyes. ‘Make no mistake Halldor Ulfsson, Ragnarok is coming. This Christ from the East is powerful, he wants blood and he wants obedience. There is no room for the Aesir in his world.’

Halldor looked furrowed his heavy brow, unsure of what he was being told. The room seemed to darken as Skalaglamm spoke, the metal threads of his cloak chiming as he moved around the room.

‘I was there you know,’ Skalaglamm whispered ‘the night you swore an oath to Odin, the night you became Harald’s man and wore his oath-ring around your arm.’

Halldor looked closer at his face…yes, there was something…

Skalaglamm continued ‘Now tell me of Harald, tell me the story of the last Viking.’

Halldor was enraptured and began speaking.

‘Stiklestad. It all began at Stiklestad.

Stiklestad 1- Cut?

            King Olaf called, and the Icelanders answered. That is how the skalds would tell you it happened. There is some little truth to it I suppose, but things are rarely that simple, No? King Olaf called, this much is true, but The Thing, The Council of Jarls and landowners who controlled Iceland, talked and talked but did nothing. Iceland was at peace and wealthy, what man would wish to fight another’s wars when things are so?

             Olaf had lost his throne to Cnut and had Cnut reigned Norway well that would have been an end to the matter. What is the difference ruler and another when you are prosperous?  But Cnut had not reigned at all.

            The Jarls who supported him were well rewarded with lands and title, and first among then was Hakon Eirikson, who ruled now in Cnut’s name much as his father had done before Olaf seized power. Hakon was a brutal man, feared, respected and strong.

            Then, there was a storm. There is always a storm in the sagas is there not? Why not this one? Hakon’s ship was smashed upon the rocks of Orkney, and Norway was suddenly without a ruler. Olaf was in the East fighting for the Rus when the news reached him. Two years had passed since his defeat, since he had called his allies to retake his throne. Cnut and his followers had not been kind to Iceland. Again The Thing talked. They argued and rowed, cursed and almost came to blows, but this time The Thing would answer. My father, Snorri Thorgrimsson, was a chieftain of Western Iceland, would lead fifty ships and I, Halldor Snorrasson, would travel with him.

            I was scarcely eighteen summers, tall and slim with a beard not yet thickened. I had fought small skirmished with pirates at sea; protecting our slovenly Knarrs, small trade ships broader with a deeper draught than our longship escorts, against raiders from the Baltic and Ireland, but I was yet to stand in a shield-wall or raised my axe in a full battle against seasoned warriors. I am not ashamed to admit I was as scared as I was excited. My father had given me a coat of shimmering mail, fresh links that shone in the sun, and a lean sword of Frankish steel that I named neck-biter, and a heavy axe that I was not certain I could yield yet.

            Our small fleet of fifty ships set sail for Sweden to meet with the forces Olaf had brought from the East. My father took the knee to Olaf, proclaiming him the rightful King of Iceland with the full support of the thing, on the promise that Olaf would speed the word of Christ throughout his domain. Then we marched on Cnut.

            Cnut, however, was no fool. He knew that we men of the North were the finest sea-ravagers in the world, which his Saxon army had little seacraft.

Stiklestad 2

            The sun beat against the shields and helmets of our enemies, almost pushing them back it seemed as they trudged across the leafy grass towards us across the field. Our line was spread thinly across a low, narrow ridge ahead of them, only a few warriors deep. Heavily outnumbered, King Olaf was gambling that fighting uphill into the sun against hardened warriors would level the field against our foes superior numbers, at least until our trap was sprung.

            Even as we waited, listening to the rhymic pounding of sword on shield of our enemies as they encroached, calls to the old Gods for victory now clear, Dag would be marching his men hard; wide through the surrounding countryside to smash his Swedish Huscarls into our foes flank after the battle had begun. A risky manoeuvre requiring timing and luck, but in such ways were thrones were.

            Olaf paced along the line before us, screaming curses at the enemy and speaking words of encouragement to our warriors, although his words were lost against the beating of my heart within my chest. The morning was cold despite the sun’s glare, a brisk wind blowing easily over the open field, yet I could feel sweat forming on my brow beneath my helmet and in the crook of my fingers clutching my shield. I watched intently as some of our more impetuous archers fired early, their arrows still some way short of the creeping army. My knees shook with a will of their own, although none seemed to notice.

            Close now! Close enough to see the patchwork byrnies and small farm axes some of their number carried. Close enough to see the rusty helmets and homespun shields, those few who were lucky enough to carry even that. These poor souls may outnumber us, but they would die swiftly when they met our shield wall. They were will more than fodder, cursed to sell their lives cheaply against us. Elation surged through me, forcing its way along my veins and pushing my fear aside in its wake.

            Men fell as arrows began to find their marks in the space between the enemy shields, spaces quickly filled from the press of men behind them. The sound of thousands of boots striking the floor rose, first to a growl, then into a thundering as though the sea was about to engulf us. Soldiers now fell in droves as spears plucked them from their feet, and arrows took them.  

            ‘SHIELDS!’ the order was called along our line as they came again.

I dug my heels instantly, circular shields overlapping that of our neighbour, the shields of the second line cast over us. We braced hard against each other, and I roared my defiance as the wave of men surged up towards us, crashing against us like foam smashing against the rocks, all conscious thought slipping away as though the world ended at the tip of my sword. I felt leather and flesh tear and rip, the smell of piss and shit coming from the voided bowls of those who fell in front of us. Neck-biter leapt over shields, stabbing into unprotected face, smashing through bone. It was slaughter. Fire rose in me as I hacked and slashed, only a hand on my shoulder stopping me from breaking from the wall to kill freely. Harald, he flashed me wolfish smile, fangs bared, but said nothing.

I could feel the weight of the bodies pressing down on our shields, increasing by the moment as more of the enemy joined the fray, as though we were fighting from under an avalanche of swords and sweat. Men screamed as silver-edged seax struck home, tearing flesh and hacking bone. Now and then an axe-head would bite into the top of one of our shields, trying to pull it from your grasp and expose the man next to you. Unprotected ankles were slashed. When a man in our wall would fall the gap would be filled instantly. Kalf had used precious little strategy, confident that we would tire ourselves killing farmers before unleashing his own Huscarls to end us.

And how we made him pay for it. We killed. The Bonders died by the score as they threw themselves against us. They had pushed us back some way from the crest of the ridge by sheer weight as the sun rose in the sky, but we held firm.

Harald had not stood in the shield-wall besides Ulf and I. He was tall but not yet strong enough to bear the burden. Instead, he stood in the third line, wielding two short hand-axes, named for Odin’s ravens Hugin and Munin. They flashed again and again, through whatever gap Harald could find, each blow somehow finding a kill. War came to Harald as though he were born to it. It was almost as though Tyr, the god of war, was with us, dancing through the battle such was the speed with which he moved, axes blurring as they bit into some unfortunates neck or face.

 By now the battle had been ablaze for hours, I found myself bone weary, my shield arm numb from incessant blows, the muscles of my sword arm ached and cramped, but there could be no rest, forced to my knees more than once by the sheer endlessness of our attackers. The battle ebbed and flowed as battles will, and our line was starting to shrink as we were pushed inexorably back. We were exacting a heavy toll upon them, but it seemed like the Bonders were winning. Where was Dag? If he could strike at the head the of the bonders army and cut it off, we would still prevail.

The skies began to darken. The sun, which had so far been our ally, became our enemy. The battle slowed to a crawl as men on both sides stepped back, craning their necks upwards in absolute terror. The light of the sun began to fail, and the devil’s hand closed around it. What else could cause such horror? The Sun was now little more than a black disc in the sky, deep blood-red light bleeding from its edge. The fear I had felt before the battle had been deep in my stomach, but this was different. The icy fear now wrapped itself around my heart and paralysed me. Had the Gods abandoned us?  Was this Ragnarok, when the great Wolf Fenris devoured Midgard?

Slow minutes passed, men on both sides looked around in terrified confusion. It was Kalf who seized the opportunity. Slowly, so slowly, the light was returning. I ran my tongue along dry lips, realising I could taste the coppery tang of blood from a blow to the mouth I did not remember, as Kalf charged his Huscarls towards our King.

‘Forward! Forward Crossmen!’ Kalf shouted although a whisper would have carried over the battlefield then.

Cries of excitement ran along the enemy line; they had broken through. Kalf had committed his huscarls, fresh warriors well-armed and armoured, and they had smashed a hole through our tired wall to assault Olaf directly. Enemy warriors poured through the gap in behind us, and like that, the wall fractured was and gone. The fighting became even more savage as it became a battle for our very survival now. My mail saved me who knows how many times as it deflect swords blows and axes that I did not even see.

Only a handful of us stood together now, Harald, Ulf, Rann and some others, forced to fight back to back and kept alive only our savagery, the Bonders keeping a healthy distance from us and trying to steal killing strikes. They could sense victory was close, so none wanted to be the next man to join the pile of corpses scattered at our feet. By now Harald had stopped his dancing, it would seem even Gods tired, still every strike killing or crippling, finding a neck or a hamstring.

‘To the King, protect the King’ Harald bellowed, finding heart from some deep place.

The sky was still dark as or blades began to sing their song of death once more, hewing men down as a farmer scythes his wheat. We fought our way through to Olaf. The enemy were stonger here, Kalf had sacrifced his bondsmen for this moment, and now Thorir Hund led Kalf’s Huscarls in search of Olaf’s head. Equally matched for skill at arms and carrying they same heavy war-axes, they were bloodying their weapons on tired troops.

Olaf’s own Huscarls were fighting valiantly, determined to keep their King safe, but defeat was inevitable as the enemies rained blows down on them. Harald was reinvigorated as we smashed into Olaf’s attackers, the surprise stunning them just long enough for us to make inroads towards the King. It was all we could do to keep pace with Harald, standing in the wall for so long had drained us. He was like an angel of death, picking out exposed armpits and throats expertly as he moved. Men fell before him.

Still, Thorir and the Huscarls were having the better of the slaughter. Harald cut his way through the throng, determined to fight beside his brother, maiming and killing, but always moving forward. He had lost himself in the battle-song, and we pushed ourselves hard to keep up. Harald was moving towards Kalf and Thorir, his vainglory looking to end the battle and give the skalds another hero to sing of.

The commotion caught Thorir’s attention. He was a thickset bear of a man, ridged eyebrows above a nose that had been broken and set countless times. In place of mail he worse a reindeer hide that was said to turn away even the sharpest steel, enchanted by the witchcraft of the Lapps far to the North. He carried a thick war-hammer, both ends covered in gore and darken blood already.

Harald struck at him, dodging under hefty swings of the hammer, any of which would have ended him had they struck. Harald’s hands moved like lightening, but blow after blow bounced off Thorir’s hide. Hararld ducked under a swing of the hammer, so intent up the move that he missed the fist, heavy with rings of rune crossed iron, that smashed into his teeth and took him off his feet. Blood poured from Harald’s mouth as he scrambled backwards along the blood-soaked dirt, looking little more than a child.

Harald screamed in agaony Thorir’s boot smashed down hard on his ankle, the break audible even over the ringing of steel and shouts around him. We fought to get to him, each of us occupied by Kalfs men, desperate but unable to cover the ground in time to stop Thorir landing a killer blow. Harald rolled onto his stomach, frantically dragging himself along on dirtied elbows to escape his fate. Thorir smiled a gruesomely as he set about making Harald suffer.

‘Strike that dog down!’

Olaf. He had seen his brother fall, and was now fighting his way to us to save him. Thorir sat across Haralds chest, raining blows freely onto his face, ignoring all around him save the King’s brother. Bjorn, Olafs marshall, smashed a sickening axe blow into Thorir’s back. I watched in horror as Thorir responded, with a vicious upswing of his hammer, taking Bjorns jaw clean off in a spray of blood and saliva. Bjorn was dead before his body hit the floor.

Thorir was on Harald now. I pushed aside the man I was fighting, ignoring him totally in my haste. I slipped, scrambling hard to regain my footing, but finding little purchase on the sodden turf. Around me I could see Ulf and the others were all engaged in battle, we would fail in our duty to protect our Lord. He lifted his foot and brought it down on Haralds face, smashing his nose and knocking him out.

Thoir picked up his hammer, both hands gripping the haft so hard his knuckles whitened, and raised it above his head. He struck.

Battles are like storms. They take time to build ferment and build, before whipping themselves into maelstroms of blood and death. As with the very worst of storms, battles have an eye. A single moment of peaceful clarity, upon which the future can pivot. Battles slow as men hold their breath to await the outcome. This was such a moment.

The hammer blow aimed at Haralds spine landed with such sadistic force the rings of mail it struck exploded outwards. But it was not Harald’s exposed backbone which absorbed the blow. The King had used the time bought with Bjorn’s life to cover the distance between them an it was his forearm the hammer struck. He rolled with the impact, quickly back on his feet, arm hanging limply where the blow had struck. He grimaced in pain as he turned to face Thorir again, an axe cutting deeply into his thigh from his side as he did.

Olaf swung blindly as he raged, his sword finding the throat of the coward who had blindsided him. Blood flowed freely from the wound, small rivulets of black-red liquid finding their way along his mail. He staggered, hands clutching for a nearby rock to keep himself upright, his sword abandoned in his enemies throat.

Thorir released his war-hammer, drawing short spear from his back as he walked Olaf down. Around them, Kalf and his bodyguard cut down Olaf’s remaining Huscarls.

‘I have dreamt of this moment, old friend’ Thorir growled, his voice deep and angry. His face was close to Olaf’s as he spoke. He placed one hand on Olaf’s shoulder and drove the spear up beneath his mail, easily ripping into the flesh it found beneath. Olaf jolted, his back arched and his head thrown back as if to scream, but no sound left his mouth.

            Thorir stepped back, content to watch our King die slowly and in pain. His eyes never left Olaf’s.

            ‘For my son.’ He said, almost tenderly.

            Kalf intervened. He may have been our enemy, but he was still a man of honour. He drew a small seax almost gently across Olafs throat, opening it. Olafs face whitened, blood cascading down his mail. Olaf’s lifeless body crashed to the floor. It was over, we had lost.

            ‘Finish them, kill them all,’ Kalf said, almost absently.

The Bonders sensing victory close at hand renewed their attack, surging for forward in the hope of looting our corpses. By now I had joined with Ulf and Rann, those of us left stood over Harald, protecting him. It was pointless, death was inevitable but we would not die cheaply.

I had thrown my shield, smashed and shattered, and now fought shoulder to shoulder with Ulf, slashing at those who approached. The light had almost returned by down, its treachery complete. It was too late for us.

Or was it?  An uproar to somewhere ahead of us. Shouts and calls came as a wave of men ploughed into our attackers from the rear. The shockwave travelled through our enemy as those in front of us turn to the source of the commotion and paid with their lives for the mistake.

Dag! Whatever spell the Bonders had used to confond the sun and keep him from the battle had passed. His Swedish troops on loan from King Otnud joined the fary, unware the day was already lost. It would be enough for us to exact a small piece of retribution, but it had come too late. Sooner or later we would fall defending our lord.

Jarl Rognvald Brusason fought with us still. He cast aside his mail and helmet, greying hair now exposed, revealing his advancing years, and ran to Harald. Even without the mail, Rognvald was almost as large as Thorir. He grabbed Harald as easily as one would grab a child and tossed him over his shoulder.

‘You two…’ he called to me and Ulf ‘…follow me and defend your lord.’

Even carrying the weight of a man in mail, we struggled to keep pace with Rognvald as he shouldered his way through the press of men, that weary were we. The battle still raged on with Dag’s arrival, and we could hear Thorir shouting insults at Harald and Rognvald as they fled. We broke free of the battles pull, ditching our armour, keeping only our weapons to speed our escape. 

Ulf raced ahead and returned swiftly with horses he had found, it was unlikly their owners would be needing them now anyway. Rognvald lashed a protesting Harald across of the back of the largest horse, as we mounted and took up flanking positions. We rode hard for the tree line to the south, never turning as the batttle carried on without us. Men were beginning to rout now, it would not be long until the fighting became murder.

WOODS – rewite properly.

Rognvald led us through the forest of thick cedar and ash for what seemed like hours. It had been late in the afternoon when we had escaped the bloodshed and by now the sun was threatening to betray us for the second time that day, the last of its light fighting its way through the branches.

Eventually, the trees gave way to a small clearing, in the centre of which was a small farmstead. Rognvald dismounted and led his horse, which carried a prone Harald across its back, on foot.

‘Carsten! Carsten are you home? It is Rognvald. Come out, we need your help.’ Rognvalds voice echoed across the clearing.

The door of the house opened and a small man with beard and hair that were almost one came out, his wife peeking over his shoulder as he did. The farmer looked around carefully, scanning the treeline, as though unsure whether to welcome us or draw back the bow he carried.

‘Jarl…’, he said ‘…been a long time. What brings you here?’

            The mans wife barged past him, short and round with a hard angry face, and made her way straight to the injured Harald.

            ‘Shut up Carsten, can’t you see this boy needs our help?’ She looked across and me and Ulf. ‘You two, make yourselves useful. Get him inside and lay him out near the fire. Carefully.’ She shouted the last word, as though we planned on lashing him to the floor.

Clearly, the sight of heavily armed men covered head to toe in blood did not imtimidate her in the slightest, so we did as we were told. A look at Carsten’s brow-beaten face told me this was not the kind you argued with[cc1] .

Carsten, somewhat reluctantly, lit the fire and prepared a meal for us while his wife and son tended to Haralds wounds. I had not been hungry until the aroma of the broth found me, now I was ravenous. I’m almost ashamed to admit that Harald, Olaf, the battle and death were all forgotten as I ate. It felt like I had been hungry my whole life. War is a strange beast indeed.

Before he would join us for food Rognvald insisted on hearing about Haralds condition. Carsten’s wife reassured us that Harald was in no danger of joining his brother, but he would require time to convalesce. It might be weeks before was fit enough to travel. Rognvald did not seem pleased by this news, pushing his wooden spoon around his bowl, yet eating little.

            The three of us sat together at a small wooden table, close to the fire, as we ate our stew. Rognvald broke the silence.

‘ I cannot stay. Tomorrow come first light I must recover what I can of our forces and return East. Magnus will need me. He remains in Holmgardr and no doubt Cnut would like to see him dead. I will take the men I find there.’

I must confess to the guit I felt. Beyond what happened to Harald, I had thought little about what must happen next, or even what had happened to my countrymen. I resolved to be more like Rognvald; he always had one eye on what the future, always planned for every eventuality. He looked at us, as though waiting for a response, but neither or Ulf or I had any.

Rested and cleaned, the reality of the battle was now beginning to sink in. We had suffered a heavy defeat, almost failing in our task to protect our oathsworn lord. Our failure had cost our King his life. We both sat, shoulders stooped, thoroughly miserable and dejected.

            Rognvald’s fist slammed down on the table. ‘Listen to me.’ He hissed through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t give a fuck about your self pity. We lost, but we endure. You will stay here with Harald until he is well enough to travel, at which time you will take him to East into Sweden, the South to the Sigtuna. King Onund is no friend of Cnut, I will see there is a ship and men to bring you to Holmgardr. Stick to the forest until you are over the border. Kalf may have men looking for stragglers still. Do you understand?’ The reflection of the flames of the fire seemed to set his eyes ablaze as he chastised us.

‘Yes Jarl.’ We replied in unison.

‘ One other thing, Carsten and his wife...’ his voice barely a whisper now, he looked towards the room where the family slept, ‘…The are decent people, but make no mistake, they would sell Harald’s out for gold as readily as the next man. Under no circumstances are you to reveal his identity. Call him by some other name for now, I’m sure you can come up it something apt. Am I clear?’

Once again we nodded and replied together ‘Yes Jarl.’

‘Good, now finish your meal and get some fucking sleep. Things will seem better on the morrow. They always do.’

 Rognvald was correct. The white light of dawn punched through invisble gaps in the thatch, illuminating floating dust motes, and seemed to bring with it fresh hope. We were alive, there was still that. As I stirred I saw that Rognvald had already risen.

Kneeling at my cot, he whispered to me. ‘Halldor, it is time for me to leave. Remember what I have told you, Magnus will need Harald. I have left you what gold I can spare. Stay to the woods and you will be fine. Trust no-one. Cnut would pay well for Harald’s head. Tell Harald I will see prepare a weclome in Holmgardr. Fare well.’

With that, Rognvald threw his cloak over his shoulder, opened the door, and was gone.

Time passed quickly on the farmstead. Carsten and his wife were quick to put us to work, and if I’m honest, we were grateful for the distraction. By day we help Carsten around the farm, mending fences or whatever task he saw fit to assign us, by night his wife would put us to work tending the hearth and helping with her chores.

Each day Ulf and I would make time to spar, with sword, axe and fist. It was important that we stay sharp, and truthfully we both enjoyed it. Ulf was younger than me, but to look at him, you would believe he had been spared the ordeal of childhood. Perhaps his father was a frost giant? Who could say?

I was a capable, if unimaginative, fighter; pitting myself again the bear-like Ulf daily opened me up to new ways to fight. I was no strippling, but unable to match his brawn head-on, I improved my wits. Speed would be my ally, trips and dodges forming much of my new repartee. Some days Ulf would have the best of it, and I would discover new and exciting ways to get hurt. Ulf was a fearsome warrior already, if not much of a conversationalist.

I always liked to think Olaf had chosen us as Harald’s guardians for a reason. Ulf was to be his hound; fiercely loyal, if none too bright, prepared to do that which must be done. He would follow Harald to battle Jörmungandr, the serpent encircling the realm of Midgard and laugh as they sailed off the edge of the world if Harald so asked.

 I, on the other hand, was to be Harald’s naysayer. My role was to bring balance to his headstrong tendencies and conceits. To help him see the right path and reign in his excesses, much as Rognvald had always done for Olaf. Harald was like molten steel in the forge, burning brightly but still shapeless. I would be part of the mould, that which gave him shape and direction.

Harald was young and strong, and his body mended itself quickly. Within a fortnight the[cc2]  wounds on his face were little more than pink marks where the scabs had already fallen. His nose had a slight crook to it now, still slightly swollen, but it seemed to make his face nobler somehow, earned grace perhaps rather than given.

His soul, however, had not fared so well. It was clear that Harald felt responsible for his brother’s death and by extension our loss at Stiklestad. Each day he would first rage at us, then turn sullen and sour. Little seemed to bring him any cheer. Only Carsten’s son’s incessant questions about anything and everything seemed to distract him from his malady.

Ulf had even managed to make the situation worse somehow. He had taken Rognvald’s instruction to heart and made sure Carsten’s family did not discover Haralds’s identity. The morning after the battle Carsten had called us for breakfast, the smell of fresh bread most welcome. Ulf had made a point of waking Harald. I was outside, squatting over the cesspit, hidden behind a wicker screen, still only half awake when I heard his voice, deliberately loud and obvious.  No doubt the fool thought he was being subtle.

‘Come, Nordbrikt, our hosts have prepared food. Nordbrikt? Nordbrikt wake.’ He practically yelled. 

I drew my pants up as quickly as I could, racing to get inside before Ulf could dig his hole any deeper, but the damage was done. I made it inside just as Harald began to stir, leaning up on one elbow, eyes still covered thick with sleep. Confusion sat heavily on his furrowed brow as he tried to make sense of Ulf’s bellowing.

‘What are you blathering about Ulf? Who is…’

‘Ah Nordbrikt, you’re up…’ I cut in through ragged breaths ‘…How are you feeling?

I knelt as though helping him to his feet, whispering into his ear as I did ‘just play along.’ Harald was quick witted enough to make no acknowledgment, instead testing his ankle. He took a step and stumbled hard, falling backwards onto his cot.

‘Well that’s fucked.’ He said, wincing.

*

            It was a battle in itself trying to keep Harald from setting off for Sigtuna. He was not yet fully healed, but farm life suited him ill. A clearly bored Ulf helped matters little with his constant complaints and musing on what our men would be doing at that moment? A part of me wanted to set off every bit as much, concerned that the summer would pass all too soon and we would be trapped until the next sailing season, but I had taken and oath to protect Harald, ad that included from himself.

            In the end, it was Harald’s own vanity which undid him.

            ‘You are still limping, lord’ I said to him, ‘Do you think your brother’s men would follow a young cripple? Would they limp after you into battle?’

            I could see the resignation on his face as my words hit home, clearly, they pained him, but the truth is often unpalatable. Harald’s status among the older warriors was far from safe. It would take all his charisma and not little help from men like Rognvald and Rann. In the end, good sense prevailed. [cc3] 

*

            In less than one turn of the moon, Harald was whole enough to travel. We were all restless, bickering easily over nothing, it was time for us to leave.

Holmgardr

            ‘Sails!’ The cry went up.

I looked up from my oar with a start at the lookout’s call; Harald stood and trod his way carefully past twisted ropes and sea-cheats to the bow where the stafnbuaror stood on a small raised deck at the prow.

‘Where? How many? Show me!’ Harald said all at once, excited.

‘Sit your fucking arse back down and row boy’ a voice roared from the stern somewhere, cutting with ease through the noise our rowing made. Storri, our coxswain, was a broad-shouldered Swede, coarse as sandpaper yet one of the finest seamen of King Otnuds fleet. Harald may have given the orders on land, but upon the waves, he took them like the rest of us. He bristled at Storri’s rebuke but thought better of answering him back. He sloped back to his oar, flashing a wolfish grin at Ulf and I as he did.

‘Could you see anything’ I asked.

‘Looked like the Rus, it looks like King Jaroslav has seen fit to provide me with an escort.’ He replied; I half thought he meant it.

‘I think we will need a bigger boat for that head of yours boy’ I said, mocking the coxswain’s voice.

An elbow hit me square in the ribs on the other side, knocking the wind out of me.

‘Who told you pair of bastards to stop rowing? ‘ Ulf burst in, his face flush ‘this oar is fucking heavy you know.’

I hadn’t even realised I had stopped rowing; such was my interest in the approaching Rus Escort. Ulf was always the largest and strongest of us, but his love of ale and his dislike of drilling had not left him with particularly good lungs. More than once he had lost the contents of his stomach after a good spar. I smiled to myself as the Baltic sun smiled on us and the Rus longships gradually fell into formation with us and guided us along the Dnieper until we reach the port of Holmgardr. Sat there, oar in hand and the sun on my back, the horrors of Stiklstad seemed a lifetime ago and it looked to us then that Norns were once again giving us a future full of promise.

There are some days that, over the course of a lifetime, will stand out from memory. The day we made port in Holmgardr will always be one such day for me. I was no more than twenty, and although I considered myself a man I was not yet worldly. I had heard of the famous cities of the Romans, of their high walls and tall stone buildings, of marvels a hundred times the size of a man, but a part of me had always dismissed then as fables. The people of the north had always used the rich timber and turf the land provides. Yet that day I saw that they were real.  

The harbour was a hive of activity, as small skiffs and knarrs darted around the longships patrolling the waters. Rognvald was there with a small party to meet us as we disembarked. Harald ran down the small distance down the jetty and threw his arms around Rognvald in a bearlike embrace. Rognvald then grabbed Ulf and me in turn, slapping Ulf on the back hard enough to make the big lummox stumble, no mean feat. Rognvald’s smile was warm and filled most of his broad face, he had always been Olaf’s man and had taken responsibility for Harald after his death. News was always unreliable at best, so he was thankful that we had made it to Holmgardr and his oath to Olaf was intact.

‘Welcome, welcome’ he boomed ‘It does my heart good to see you boys alive and well. I the sea air has done you good, last time we spoke you were all half dead.