Bloodaxe (Erik Haraldsson Book 1)

  BLOODAXE

  ERIK HARALDSSON

  C. R. MAY

  Copyright

  This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on real figures, are purely the work of the author’s imagination.

  It is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the writer’s prior consent, electronically or in any form of binding or cover other than the form in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Replication or distribution of any part is strictly prohibited without the written permission of the copyright holder.

  Copyright © 2018 C.R.May.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-9996695-0-8

  Contents

  Glossary

  Norway

  I. Viking

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  II. Ship Army

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  III. Konungr

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Afterword

  Characters

  Places/Locations

  About the Author

  ALSO BY C.R.MAY

  Sorrow Hill

  Wræcca

  Monsters

  Dayraven

  Fire and Steel

  Gods of War

  The Scathing

  Terror Gallicus

  Nemesis

  Bloodaxe is for Henry, my own Berserk

  Glossary

  Bonder - A freeman, typically a yeoman farmer, who pledged allegiance to a lord in return for legal and if necessary armed support.

  Drekkar - A large warship similar to a skei but heavily ornamented. A dragon ship.

  Faering - A four-ing, a small rowboat with four oars.

  Hersir - A landowner and local chieftain who owed tax collecting duties and military service to his jarl and king.

  Hird - The armed retinue of a warlord or king.

  Huskarl - House-man. A bodyguard or retainer to a powerful chieftain, jarl or king.

  Jarl - A regional lord responsible for administrating a province on behalf of the king for whom he collected taxes, duties and owed military service.

  Karvi - A ship typically mounting sixteen to twenty oars, used to carry cargo and/or fighting men. Wider in the beam than the more specialised skei and snekkja, the ships excavated from Oseberg and Gokstad are examples.

  Knarr - An ocean-going cargo ship.

  Skat - Tax, tribute.

  Skei - ‘that which cuts through water.’ A large sleek warship mounting thirty oars and above.

  Snekkja - ‘thin and projecting.’ A small warship mounting twenty to thirty oars.

  Styrisman - The helmsman on a ship.

  Thing - An open air assembly of freemen, where matters of law and politics were debated and a ruling made by the lawspeaker.

  Part I

  Viking

  1

  THE NOR’ WAY

  Wimborne Mynster

  The year of our Lord 955

  His work begun, the scribe looked up and flashed a smile brimming with youthful innocence. ‘Tell me about King Erik, Your Grace.’

  The archbishop blew the froth from his ale and peered across the rim, chuckling softly as he took a sip. ‘Bloodaxe?’ The man sat before him looked too young to scrape the down from his cheeks, at times he felt as old as the hills, a relic from another age; he had been a kingmaker, negotiating as an equal with foreign kings on the borders of Northumbria like a Caesar of old. ‘You have to be more precise with Norsemen,’ he gently chided the youth. ‘They have more kings and sea kings at any given moment than have ever been pontiff in Rome!’

  The hearth flared as a log settled to send tongues of flame curling upward, and Wulfstan crossed to the window with a sigh as his attempt to add a touch of jollity to the conversation failed to alter the lad’s beatific expression. Taking another pull from his cup the old churchman looked out across the fields. The days were shortening quickly as the year wound down. Soon it would be time to chant the Christ Mass, and his eyes ran down to the water meadow and the River Stour beyond as his mind began to drift back across the years. Trees reached skyward, skeletal in their winter slumber beneath a dark cap of rooks; somewhere in the distance the harsh bark of a vixen set the dogs to yapping in the nearby kennels.

  ‘Bloodaxe,’ he said with a disarming smile: ‘Erik Bloodaxe. You know if a young cherub like you had called him that to his face, he would have taken his axe and split you like a log.’ The old Northumbrian flicked a look at the West Saxon and was gratified to see that the name of his friend still carried power, despite the year that had gone over since his passing. ‘Erik Haraldsson, most favoured son of King Harald Fairhair,’ he went on as the scribe lowered his head and began scratching his marks onto the vellum before him. ‘If it is an undeniable fact that Harald was the greatest Norseman, his son Erik was perhaps the greatest Viking, although he too was a king five times over to my certain knowledge. I will tell you all that I know for it will add to his reputation, and reputation, as all men of worth are aware is what fighting men crave above all. But if you are to understand my tale you will need to do more than form letters of ink.’ He waved a dismissive hand at the lush greens and gentle slopes of Dorsetshire. ‘You will have to work your mind’s eye to people a land where snow capped peaks reach the clouds, the seas roar and boil and men are as hard as the rock which surrounds them.’

  Wulfstan looked across the room. The clerk was scribbling dutifully away; he doubted that the young man possessed the imagination to carry his thoughts beyond the minster walls, but his mind settled to the task as the fire sputtered, the warmth seeped into his bones, and the ale worked its spell.

  ‘Erik was sent north to foster when he was a lad of seven winters, to a hersir named Thorir Kolbeinsson in a region the Norsemen call Fjordane. This hersir was a great warrior, one of Harald’s greatest fighters in the days of his youth, days when they had riven shield walls in a brotherhood of spearmen and axemen, driven all who dared to oppose them from the land and forged the first kingdom of the Nor’ Way in the crucible of war...’

  The blade wailed like a banshee as it cut the air. The young Norseman skipped backwards and dropped his shield to deflect the blow but the axeman knew his work, and a heartbeat later the heel had hooked the rim and sent it spinning from his grasp.

  Erik’s eyes darted from side to side as he judged the distance to the board, but the men before him only laughed and closed in for the kill. ‘What are you going to do now? Nowhere to hide, outnumbered and cut off from your friends.’ The spearman dropped the tip of his weapon and glared above the rim of his own shield as the pair circled.

  Erik swung in slow deliberate arcs as his attackers searched for a way to unlock his stubborn defence, his eyes flicking from spear point to axe blade as he attempted to keep both men in view. Even deprived of the protection of his shield both attackers knew that they had a cornered a wolf, and a wolf at ba
y was as dangerous a thing as any man was likely to meet on Midgard.

  A quick look was all that was needed, and Erik knew that the hand grip was beyond his reach. Years of training imposed themselves upon him and he discounted the thing, pushing it from his mind as he concentrated on the figures before him. They were splitting up, circling, spear and axe jabbing forward as they tested his makeshift defence and sought a weakness.

  Arinbjorn attacked first, the silvered blade of his spear flashing in the pale sunlight as it stabbed low; but Erik was ready, and a skip of his feet sent the lunge darting past his calf. Perfectly balanced his own spear was already in motion, the point of the blade cutting an arc in the still air of the morning as it scythed towards the attacker’s face. Arinbjorn pulled his head back at the last moment, the blade whistling through as he steadied himself to counter.

  The older man made a move as he spotted an opening, and his war axe stabbed forward even as the boy swung around to face the attack. But before the blade could connect Thorir was gasping with surprise and admiration as Erik, at his mercy a moment before leapt forward, turned somersault and rolled back to his feet. The boy’s spear was already moving as the pair sought to shepherd him between them, and the base of the shaft shot out to strike Arinbjorn’s knee with a loud crack which resounded around the field. As the spearman crumpled under the blow, Thorir came back again. Opening his body, the veteran snatched his shield aside as he moved in for the kill.

  The last attack had disabled one opponent but it had left Erik wide open to the counter, and Thorir sensing final victory put his all into the jab. The joy which lit his features lasted little more than a heartbeat, and he stared in disbelief as the point of the boy’s spear whirred through the air to prick at his throat. As Thorir froze, Erik flashed him a grin. ‘Was that fast enough foster-father?’

  The tension drained away as the men lowered their weapons, and the pair shared a laugh as Erik dropped the spear point and took a step back. Arinbjorn hobbled across, his expression a curious mix of pain and amusement as he flexed his knee and grimaced. ‘Did you have to hit me so hard foster-brother?’

  Erik smiled again. ‘Just be thankful that we had bound the ends of the spears with wool cloth.’ He glanced down at the bloody tear in his friend’s breeks. ‘Or you would have been hobbling for the rest of your days.’

  Thorir clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘Then it is good thing that we shall always be friends.’ He raised his head and called across to one of the thralls as he went about his work. ‘Amlab!’ The slave was halfway across the courtyard, water slopping from the pails as the yoke at his shoulders swung and lost momentum; he paused and turned his head. ‘Yes, Master?’

  The hersir took a deep breath and rubbed the growl from his belly. ‘Tell them that we will eat outside this morning.’

  The thrall bobbed his head, waddling away with his charge as they ambled across to the knoll. It was a good place to break their fast, grass covered and dry for the most part despite the morning dew, and they lowered themselves to the ground with a sigh as the slave disappeared inside. Thorir spoke first, and the younger men shared a smirk as Arinbjorn mouthed the words in time as they came from his father’s mouth.

  ‘I never tire of this view, lads.’

  Erik followed Thorir’s gaze to the West, out beyond the naust, the boat sheds which had given the settlement of Naustdal its name, down the waters of the fjord to the distant peaks. The wolf grey rock capped the higher ground, matching ribbons streaking the clefts and crevices as scree channelled down to the shore. The early morning sun had cleared the higher ground away to the East and the waters of the fjord shone sword blade bright.

  It was almost a ritual now, and a good one Erik thought, that the three of them would finish morning practice at this place. The sound of hammering drifted up from the boat sheds on the strand as men went to work; Thorir’s carter and his boy were yoking the ox in the field below as the day’s toil began. Arinbjorn straightened his leg with a grimace as a woman ducked through the door of the hall with a jug of ale.

  Thorir screwed up his face and peered at the sky. High up mare’s tails flecked the heavens, drifting towards the snow capped peaks of Jostrudal; lower down a scattering of leaden clouds were ambling due east. Even in high summer a downpour was never far away in Fjordane. The drink arrived, and the girl knelt before them to fill the cups as the men waited impatiently. Morning practice was thirsty work; parched throats made it difficult to talk, and the first cupful disappeared in moments. Arinbjorn flicked the tip of his tongue as he licked the drops from his moustache, holding the cup forward for a refill as another thrall approached with warm bread and hot sausage.

  Erik pulled his knife, wiping the blade clean on the leg of his trews as the platter was placed before them. A snort and a nod from the elder at their eagerness, and the younger men were stuffing the food into their mouths before the woman could straighten her back.

  Thorir tore at a loaf as he threw his son a look of mischief. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Do we think that the lad has the balls to go Viking?’

  ‘Of course father,’ Arinbjorn shot back. ‘We are always in need of ballast.’

  The trio chuckled as Erik moved forward to top up the cups. Thorir watched the liquid turn from dun to gold as the morning sunlight caught the flow. Slapping his lips in anticipation he waited until the jug had moved on before sinking a mouthful with relish. ‘It may be sometime yet until our young lad becomes full-grown, but he will attain the legal status of a man at harvest time.’ He fixed Erik with a look before he went on. ‘A young huskarl, Helgrim Smiter, came from your father the king this summer at the Gulathing.’

  Erik’s cup fell from his lips in surprise at the revelation, and his eyes went from father to son as the pair exchanged looks of amusement. The huskarls were a lord’s closest companions, the best of the best. He looked at his foster-brother, and the twinkle he saw in his eye confirmed Erik’s suspicion. ‘You knew, you bastard!’

  Thorir chuckled happily as Erik made to poke his son’s swollen knee with the toe of a boot, before revealing the reason for the visit. ‘This Helgrim is one of your father’s most promising young fighters, a lad who had already carved himself a reputation as a fearless warrior in the South.’

  The inference was clear, the king was taking a special interest in Erik’s progress as manhood approached, and Erik listened intently as Thorir confirmed his suspicion. ‘King Harald wanted to know my thoughts on your king-worthiness. Naturally, I told him that you were a hopeless arse.’ He paused to let the words sink in, before flashing a grin at his crestfallen young foster. ‘But a big arse, who fights like any two men and eats like three.’

  ‘Part of it was true at least,’ Arinbjorn cut in. ‘I will leave you to guess which part I mean!’

  Erik’s hopes rose again as Thorir speared a length of sausage with his knife. Erik was hanging on every word now. It was not the custom for a boy at foster to meet with or even set eyes upon his natural father until he had come of age. Communication between the two had been nonexistent since he had travelled up from his father’s hall at Avaldsnes four long winters before, but men told him that he had grown into the very likeness of King Harald: tall; broad shouldered; fair of face beneath a shock of honey-blond hair. His father was the greatest Norseman that had ever lived, the man who had grasped the disparate people of the North Way and forced them together for the first time by sheer willpower and force of arms. Others expected great things of him, but none expected more than he did himself.

  ‘However, an arse who has yet to kill a man, or even sail to foreign lands,’ Erik countered as he began to recover his grit. ‘That needs to be put right foster-father.’

  Thorir nodded. ‘That it does. That is why I rode over to Hestad, to the grove there. Offerings were made to Oðin, gold and precious things: the Allfather spoke.’ The old hersir moved a hand to his neck. Withdrawing it he looked at the spots of blood from Erik’s spear strike and shrugged. ‘The priests said
that there will be blood and fire in the North lands before the crops are sown in the spring. That’s why I have stepped up our training.’ He looked from one to the other: ‘blood, fire and death.’

  2

  BOLLI SIGURDSSON’S CHALLENGE

  The knarr cut the waters of the sound as Hisaroy came up broad on the starboard bow, and Erik hauled the tiller to his chest as he guided the ship into the channel. The Gulathing was only a few miles ahead now, and oars slid free of the hull as the winds dropped to a whisper in the lee of the island. As the sail was hauled and sheets made fast, Arinbjorn hopped up onto the steering platform and frowned. ‘Hopefully the calmer water will do the trick. Who would have thought that he would get seasick?’