Chapter One Hundred and Fifty-Nine

‘Is that the one?’ asked King Svend.

Their gazes were firm on the horizon. The ships were silent, apart from some whispered talk. The warriors were at their posts, oars at the ready. The commanders had gathered at the aft on Svend’s longship to spy the horizon.

Finn rubbed his legs. His muscles were sore. He had not slept well, and his bones ached from the weather. There was good wind today, and the morning had brought rain. By now, the rainclouds had given way to patches of sunshine, but Finn’s legs still ached from the weather.

‘Nej, I know those colours,’ Jarl Eirik finally said. ‘That’s one of Jarl Sigvald’s ships.’

Finn twisted on the helmsman’s bench to look over his shoulder, hand still firm on the steering oar. A new ship had come around the island. This one was larger than the last few, and it was understandable why Svend might believe it to be Olaf Tryggvason’s ship, but it did not strike Finn as quite impressive enough.

Jarl Eirik was clearly nervous at the prospect of the battle, but the King of Swedes seemed unbothered, and then there was King Svend, who carried such anger in his eyes. His hands were fondling the bleeding dagger arrived to him from hand to hand, with words of his sister. He wanted King Olaf dead, and though everyone understood why, perhaps none did so well as Finn.

Although he had never seen them together, Finn was well aware that Svend did not look at Tyra as most men looked at their sisters, and when she had sailed away on her wedding night, and especially when later rumours had announced that she was marrying abroad, Svend had chosen to blame King Olaf for her leaving. Receiving the bleeding dagger from the hands of a young parent-less girl had made him all the more certain; ever since the dagger had come into his possession, Svend had been set on death and revenge.

‘That’s the one,’ said Svend, with urgency.

Before anyone could confirm, the King of Swedes was running down the ship to join his own fleet and Jarl Eirik muttered curses to himself as he set out for his own longship.

Svend blew his horn. The hollow sound rang around the ships.

Finn glanced over his shoulder. There was a new ship out there, and it seemed to shine, but he could not quite make it out. His eyesight was not as good it had been, once. Thankfully, he knew the oceans and Svend’s ship well enough to still be trusted as its helmsman.

Svend was blowing his sad horn when his warriors pushed off from port. Svend’s ship, the Howling Beast, named for the way the ship sang when the wind came astern, was the first to leave the long island port. They had docked on their starboard side, and under the ship commander’s shouted orders, they turned the ship to face King Olaf.

Their fleet was wide and almost made an island of its own. Seventy ships pushed out around the Howling Beast. Never before had Finn sailed in such a large fleet. Deep down, although he knew that times had changed, Finn could not help but wonder what would have happened if as many ships had gathered to protect Jutland back when Ash-hill had been burned.

Times were different now, with kings ruling more land than any chief ever had. Every summer, Svend’s fleet grew. It had a steady thirty ships now; allied with the King of Swedes and Jarl Eirik they had gathered more ships than anyone had seen sail together in at least a hundred summers.

The sails and yards had been lowered on all seventy-one ships. The masts were up, though, so that they could make a quick escape, if needed. They rowed on half oars, and even so, thousands and thousands of oars splashed in the waters.

The Howling Beast turned around swiftly. King Olaf’s bright ship had lowered its sail, and so had others out there on the horizon. Finn counted nine ships, but he knew his count was not as accurate as it had once been.

‘Eleven ships,’ Svend muttered at his side, confirming Finn’s suspicions. His eyes had betrayed him again. His raiding career was coming to an end. Sooner or later, his sight would get Finn killed in battle. Perhaps today would be the day, at long last. As long as his corpse did not fall into the sea to Aegir’s and Ran’s hall. Finn had always sought and been destined for the glory of Valhalla. Nothing less would do.

The rowers fell into a good rhythm. They had taken up a chant. It was not a complicated chant, but they had come up with it themselves and they were proud of it. ‘War! War! War!’ they chanted with each oar take, and on the fourth they cried, ‘Val-hal-la!’ Then it was back to: ‘War! War! War!’

Finn was glad to be sitting down as they rowed closer to battle. His armour was heavy on his crooked back, and he could use the rest. Svend had drawn his sword and Tyra’s dagger was fastened to his weapon belt, bleeding down his trousers. Again.

They were coming close, so close that even Finn could begin to make out the specific ships, and indeed there were eleven. People on the seventy ships behind them had taken up the simple rowing chant as well, all shouting for war and Valhalla.

Seventy-one ships ready for battle, but their ships were not equal to those of Olaf. The opposing fleet was made up of huge longships. Olaf’s own ship was like none Finn had ever seen before, and it did shine. It seemed to have been dipped in gold or silver, or some other metal. It had to have at least a hundred and twenty oars. It looked large enough to carry three hundred warriors. At once, Finn understood why they called it the Long Serpent. The ship was as long as the Midgard Worm.

Svend’s fleet was made of much smaller ships. The Howling Beast carried an impressive eighty sailors, but no other ship in their allied fleet came close, and eighty warriors was nothing compared to the Long Serpent.

Finn stared at the gold ship as they sailed closer. His mind wandered, and he imagined what it would be like to sail a huge ship like that. He wondered if it wrought in the waters like Svend’s ship did, bending and adapting to the waves, or if it was stiff and bumped up and down on waves, and made even old sailors seasick.

It was an impressive looking thing, no matter, but Finn was glad not to sail on it himself. He could not imagine that it sailed well on the sea, and it looked too large to steer up narrow channels and into the fiords of home. It was a ship built not for seafaring, but to impress and terrify.

Terrify it did. Svend’s people were all glancing over their shoulders to the gold-dipped serpent as they rowed towards it.

Rowing orders were delivered with sharp commands. The oar-takes steered the ship straight towards the golden Long Serpent. Finn merely clenched onto the steering oar in case of emergency, and a little bit for support too.

Finn let out a sigh. Today did not feel like a day for fights.

‘Are you good?’ asked Svend, concerned as ever.

Since Tyra had left him in Jomsborg, he had been desperate to never lose a comrade again, more and more so with time. Often, he told Finn to stay behind when he went off to wage war and battles, but on this occasion, Finn’s presence had been required: when they won, they would have new ships to sail home, and no one became familiar with new ships quite as quickly as Finn, who had sailed all his life.

‘I’m good,’ said Finn with another sigh. ‘Just weary.’

‘Be careful,’ Svend instructed. He did not tear his eyes off the Long Serpent, and more specifically its aft, where Finn imagined King Olaf was, probably decked out in blues and gold, as Svend’s father would have been.

‘You too,’ Finn warned. Svend had such hatred in his eyes, and nothing killed a man quicker than a hot heart.

‘War! War! War!’ the rowers were still chanting. The words seemed to give them strength. The ship was thrust ahead with strong oar-takes.

‘Oars in! We’ll drift the last of the way,’ the ship commander yelled.

Startled, Finn looked up straight. He had not expected to be put to work, but it was true that the currents were in their favour, and it was always better to drift the last way to a battle at sea so your boarders were not at their oars when the ships collided. The rowers were already lifting up their own shields and readying their weapons.

Four midship sailors had crawled up the tarred shrouds. A good position with spears and swords, but Finn felt the ship’s weight tilt to the port side as they moved about.

‘Ballast,’ he shouted. Boarders on the starboard side crawled up the shrouds as well, to even the ship’s weight and make their sailing smooth. The rowing had given them decent speed, but the movement of the warriors hanging onto the shrouds cost them momentum.

The Howling Beast was headed straight for the Long Serpent’s gold side. Finn steered them true. Some of Svend’s people stood ready with the cloth fenders to take the blow, and others with ropes to tie the ships together. A wall of shields had formed in front. Finn could hardly see where he was steering them, not that he could see much these days anyway. He fixed his gaze on the blurry shape of the Long Serpent’s mast and steered at that.

Arrows swished over them. Finn heard yelling from the midship, and saw a warrior fall from the shrouds, but blocked it all out. He trusted Svend to protect him if arrows or spears were thrown directly at him. Eyes fixed on the Long Serpent’s mast, Finn took them in.

The ships bumped together.

Boarders jumped from one ship to the other before they had even been bound together.

‘Do you have shit in your trousers? Tie the ships up!’ Finn yelled after the young ones as he secured the steering oar. He knew that he sounded like a grumpy old man, but that was what he had become.

The Long Serpent’s defenders were quick to cut the ropes that Svend’s followers tied. The ships began to drift apart. The fighters at the fore of the Howling Beast were roaring and Finn saw their blurry shapes and heard the thump of their anchor being thrown onto the Long Serpent midship.

Spears were pointed at the warriors on the Long Serpent to keep the anchor safe. Meanwhile the aft of the Howling Beast was drifting out from the larger ship.

‘Don’t do anything reckless,’ Svend warned Finn with a teasing smile before he darted off to the fore of the ship where his people were jumping from one vessel to the other. In two heartbeats he had disappeared in their midst.

‘Ja, ja, ja,’ Finn responded, a little late, and dragged himself to his feet. He picked up his shield. Already, his muscles were sore from holding it, and his body needed a good few steps to really get going again.

He picked up his spear, too. In the end, when warriors got old and weary, a spear always became the preferred weapon. In younger days, Finn had fought with swords and axes, and saxes too, but in the end, the spear was better. It did not require nearly as much movement as a sword or axe did. Besides, it doubled as a walking stick. The spear was the old and wise man’s choice, which was why the Alfather, too, fought with a spear.

Most older men stopped taking their shield to battle when they switched to spears, to rid themselves of the additional weight, but Finn refused to admit that he was quite that old. Even so, Svend continuously tried to convince him that he would move better without it.

A ship bumped into the starboard side of the Howling Beast, and Finn stumbled from the force of it. He caught himself with the spear and glared at the new arrival, one of Jarl Eirik’s.

The Howling Beast drifted back towards the Long Serpent from the blow. Older sailors at the aft pushed ahead in another attempt to tie the two ships together.

Clashes of war rang loud around Finn, and young fighters from Jarl Eirik’s ship bounded past him. Battlelines had taken form along the edges of the Howling Beast. For a heartbeat, Finn stood back and assessed the battle to find a good place for him to join.

Familiar coloured shields were already roaming around the Long Serpent. Finn would have bet that Svend was among the first to have jumped ship. He always was, and that was why warriors thought him worthy and wanted to fight under his command.

Battlelines took form at the fore of the Howling Beast and on the Long Serpent. Finn could not quite make out where Svend’s people stopped, and Olaf’s started. He would have to get closer.

‘O Odin,’ Finn sighed, and half sang to an old song as he leaned against his spear for a few good heartbeats, watching the chaos of it all. ‘O Alfather. Let me go with honour and serve in your hall.’

Today was the day, Finn decided as he pushed off from his spear. His body ached and he was ready to let go of Midgard and feast and fight with the Alfather until the end of days. His life had already been long, and Svend had grown up and become a king. His debt to Einer had been paid. His promises had been kept. He was ready to meet the gods.

Determined to make it so, he marched along the Howling Beast, lifting his legs high over each rowing thwart, not running on top of them like the younger men. He steadied himself with his spear hand on the edge of the ship.

The newly arrived ship, at the Howling Beast’s starboard side, drifted off and left a gap between the two ships. The ropes were coming off.

‘Hei! You didn’t tie it properly,’ Finn shouted after the young folk who had bounded past him earlier, but to no one in particular. He rushed to the edge of the ship and grabbed one of the ropes before it slipped into the waters. Finn placed his shield against the side of the ship, let his spear rest in his embrace and fumbled with the ropes to undo the poor knot and tie it again properly.

He was still grumbling over the hasty young sailors who refused to learn their knots, when more of them came bounding across Jarl Eirik’s ship.

Finn ducked under the sweep of an axe. He fumbled to grab his shield, but it was so heavy. By the time Finn had managed to stand with it secure in his left hand, two more warriors had joined the first.

He reached for his spear with his right hand as the man on the right flank twisted his shield to the side and revealed a large sword. Finn’s fingers slipped and the spear slid down towards the edge of the ship.

The warriors laughed. The one with the sword smiled and charged. Finn stopped himself from fumbling after the falling spear—his fingers would be cut off, if he tried. Instead, he lifted his foot high, and stepped hard onto the edge of the spear. The tip of it sprang up again. It was heavy.

When Finn looked up at his three foes again, the spear had hooked the charging warrior mid-air. The man must have tried to jump onto the Howling Beast. Had Finn not stepped on the spear, he would have succeeded, too.

The other two stood back, startled. Keeping his eyes on them, certain that the sword-swinging warrior was too occupied by the spear through his shoulder to attack, Finn reached for his spear with his right hand, and stepped down from the end of it.

The sword-wielding man slid down. Finn took the weight of the spear shaft with a grunt, and the sharp end sliced out of the warrior’s shoulder. The man’s feet slipped on the ship’s timbers, and he fell between the two ships, into the water with a splash. Finn’s spear tip trembled, scraps of cloth and skin stuck to the edge.

‘Never underestimate an old warrior,’ Finn told the remaining two boys on Jarl Eirik’s ship. He too had once been young and foolish, but even he, in his young summers, would not have been foolish enough to die like that. ‘Tell yourself that there is a reason he has survived so many summers.’

‘Ja,’ said one of them, sneering. ‘Cowards flee and cowards live.’ He leapt up onto the rowing thwarts, lowered his shield to protect his legs, and hopped onto the edge of the ship.

Quick as a hawk, Finn let his spear fall again and grabbed his sailor’s knife. He shifted to the side, allowing his flank to be exposed to the third boy for a moment, and thrust the knife into the leaping warrior’s foot. The knife went straight through the foot and into wood. Finn let go, then swept up his spear again as the man started screaming. The last warrior didn’t seem to know if he should leap ahead, or stay put, or flee.

The second man was still screaming, and was trying to backtrack, but his right foot was stuck on the edge of the Howling Beast. Finn lifted his shield and slammed it down over the man’s toes. The warrior yelped, and his shield dipped to the side, just enough. Finn thrust his spear straight into the man’s face.

‘And the over-confident are easily killed,’ Finn told the man’s corpse. He stepped back and steadied his footing on the deck of the Howling Beast.

The third man said nothing. His stance was hesitant. He couldn’t decide if he should charge or flee.

Finn sighed. ‘So, not today either,’ he complained to the Alfather. ‘Send me someone worthy next time.’

He retrieved his sailing knife quietly. The third man didn’t try to attack. Finn gave the man a long stare. The kid was terrified. Finn sighed, lowered his spear and shield and walked away from him. There had to be worthier opponents elsewhere. So many at war—there had to be someone with the worth to give him a proper fight, and win.

While Finn had rid himself of the two warriors and tied Jarl Eirik’s ship securely to the Howling Beast, sailors had struggled at his back to heave the ship closer to Olaf’s Long Serpent. They had somewhat succeeded. Two ropes now joined the ships at the aft oar holes. The gap between the ships was two arm-lengths wide, still much too large for Finn to jump.

The fore part of the Howling Beast had turned into a proper battle. Finn couldn’t quite tell who fought for who under the shadows of helmets and armour.

‘King Svend!’ he bellowed to find out.

Those who fought for Svend and his cause roared the name. Finn easily picked out the voices and found his kinsmen. There were more of King Olaf’s men on the Howling Beast than Svend’s own. Something to fight for. A worthy death.

Finn smiled as he raged the last three steps towards the fight. He slammed his spear into the neck of a man who hadn’t seen him arrive. The man fell. Finn stepped back over the rowing thwarts. The mast fish was full of perfectly coiled ropes. Finn swept the clue lines down to deck as he backed away over rowing thwarts.

The dead body of the man he had stabbed in the neck was sprawled over two thwarts. The man’s shield mates turned towards Finn, roaring for revenge.

Finn lowered his shield with a smirk. He was just an old man who had killed their friend. An old, frail man. They would easily take him.

The first of them stepped forward, shield and sword glistening with blood. His shield-mate, too, approached, with a harsh stare at his dead friend.

They advanced on Finn, their shields together in a slim wall. Finn kept his spear pointed at them, moving the tip to point anywhere they weren’t covered. But there were two of them and Finn only had one spear. If one of them could get past his spear-tip, Finn was done for.

The long-bearded man at the port-side, closest to the widening gap between the Howling Beast and Long Serpent, looked ready to charge. His axe was tight in his hand. Finn tried to redirect his spear, but too late. The warrior leapt onto a rowing thwart and charged.

Finn slid the spear back in his hand and thrust forward, hitting the man on the shin. He kept coming. His friend charged after him.

Finn lifted his shield to protect himself from the first warrior, and guided his spear under the second man’s shield, straight at his crotch. The first pushed ahead. Their shields clashed. Sharp pain cut Finn across the back as his spear jolted with a hit. Finn tried to shoulder his shield up and push the first man overboard, but it was too much weight. The man retrieved his axe. Finn felt it sliding out of his back, and a chill went through him.

His legs gave under him, and he rolled to the side between two thwarts. The first man overbalanced and fell forward; he tried to recover, but his back was exposed. Finn got up quickly, reaching for the knife at his weapon belt, and leapt at the bearded man’s back. His knife went in deep, and the man collapsed. Finn groaned as he heaved himself up from the man’s back.

The other warrior was squirming weakly between two rowing thwarts. Not only had Finn’s spear penetrated his crotch, the man had also hit his head on the mast-fish as he had fallen.

A third man was leaping ahead to join them. In his eagerness, he tripped over the ropes Finn had swept aside earlier. Finn clambered to his feet with a sigh, leaving his shield weighed down by the first man. His opponent struggled to unhook his feet from the ropes, as Finn snatched up the fallen warrior’s axe and slashed him in the side. Then he hooked the sharp end of his axe around the man’s back, and the warrior went down with a groan.

Finn rushed back to his own shield and spear. He pushed the first man aside to recover his shield and struggled to get his long spear free of the second man, and then he stabbed them, all three men, right in the throat to make sure they were dead.

When he was done, he was panting for breath, and had to sit down on a bloodied rowing thwart to regain his composure. The wound on his back ached and itched, but his bones ached more. His left arm hurt. The shield was unusually difficult to hold. He must have strained a muscle trying to push the one man overboard.

The way had cleared to the Long Serpent while Finn had fought. The battle had moved that way, onto the huge golden ship. The two ships had drifted further apart, but the Howling Beast’s anchor kept the fore of the ship fastened to Olaf’s ship.

With a groan, and leaning on his spear, Finn climbed to his feet again. His legs were sore, and he grimaced and grumbled as he moved. There were no more warriors trying to get onto the ship, or paying much attention, so Finn calmly transferred his weighty shield onto the Long Serpent’s tarred deck first, and then carefully climbed over.

He plucked up his shield again and found a proper foothold.

Olaf’s ship rocked on the small waves. There were no permanent rowing thwarts. The deck was higher than on Svend’s ship, and it felt like Finn might fall off at any heartbeat. He didn’t trust himself not to stumble, so he kept to the middle of the ship. Then, at least, he wouldn’t drown if he fell over.

‘Where is Olaf?’ someone bellowed. The fighting had almost stopped; King Olaf’s men were fleeing. If their king was gone or dead, no one was ordering them to war anymore. Finn brushed shoulders with two middle-aged men with long beards as they left the Long Serpent.

He walked across corpses. Svend’s colours were easy to pick out at the aft. He was standing at the steering oar, staring down at his feet. Finn made his way towards his king and friend. Svend had taken wounds, but none significant. None that seemed to hinder him.

All around them their people searched and yelled to find the coward King Olaf, but he had fled.

Svend was not searching. The anger from before the battle was gone from him. Tyra’s bloody dagger hung limp from his hand. Blood dripped slowly off the tip onto the deck.

Finn set aside his spear and put a hand on Svend’s armoured shoulder. ‘Svend, where is King Olaf?’

‘He jumped overboard,’ Svend replied, but he was not looking at the sea as he said it, rather at a strange pile of ashes at his feet. ‘He’s dead.’