‘Wrong! Do it again, you useless bastards!’
Skarphedin Harsson – Skar to his friends – stood before a Skjaldborg, a defensive formation of shields formed by the five potential new recruits for Ulrich’s Úlfhéðnar company. On his command they had snapped their shields together fast enough but now, as he cast his experienced gaze across it, the big man could see it was not up to the standards he expected.
‘Call that a shield wall?’ he yelled. ‘My grandmother could split that open with her walking stick. And she’s been dead for fifteen winters.’
‘For Thor’s sake,’ Bragi, one of the new men said, dropping his shield out of formation and standing up. ‘We all know how to make a Shield Fort. We’ve done it thousands of times. You’ve made us do it thousands of times just today. We’ve done it when it really matters: In battle. We don’t need to do it over and over again in training.’
The warrior’s eyes were wide, his nostrils flared. Breath snorted in and out in clouds that rose on the cold air.
‘You will do it again,’ Skar said, his voice dropping to a growl. ‘And again. Until you get it right.’
Bragi locked gazes with him for a moment longer, then spat into the snow and went back into position.
‘Break,’ Skar shouted. The formation split apart. ‘Go!’
Each of the warriors, their swords in one hand and shields in the other, began running in different directions. The drill was taking place in a training field that lay beyond the barns and the king’s feasting hall at Avaldsnes. King Eirik of Norway’s residence covered all of a peninsula, a ness, that jutted out into the waters of the strait of Karm. The ness was almost an island, defended on all sides by water except for a narrow strip of land connecting it to the mainland. King Eirik’s huge feasting hall dominated the highest point. It was surrounded by booths, barns and many other outbuildings necessary to maintain the running of the king’s main residence.
Skar had been putting the men through their paces for some time now and the snow that covered the flat practice ground was smeared and churned by their footprints from end to end. The new recruits were supposed to scatter then come together in a moment at Skar’s command. However, their movements lacked real effort, their run was little more than a jog and their dispersal more of a wide bunch.
‘You lazy bastards look like a shoal of herring,’ he called to the jogging crew. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. Part of the exercise is to teach you to get into formation fast. You’ll keep running ’til you spread out.’
He turned to see a figure approaching. The newcomer was much shorter than Skar, though most men were. His dark brown hair was shorn short and receded from his forehead though he was not an old man. He was of wiry build and swathed in thick furs against the cold. Around the small man’s shoulders was a dark, almost black wolf skin cloak. In one hand he carried a spear that he was using as a walking staff as he clambered through the snow. Unlike most men, he was clean shaven. Some would have said this was unmanly, but no one would have dared to suggest that to this man. Skar straightened up as he recognised his old friend and leader of the Úlfhéðnar company, Ulrich Rognisson.
‘Well?’ Ulrich said as he joined Skar. ‘What do you think of the new lot? Any with potential?’
Skar grimaced.
‘They’re supposed to be the king’s most fearsome warriors,’ Ulrich said. ‘He said he’d given us the best of the best.’
Skar blew out his cheeks. ‘That’s part of the problem. They’re not used to taking orders. They’re dangerous men, no doubt about that. Hard men. They’re fit enough too. We made them row up and down the sound twice before we even started drills. They’re mostly all berserkers, though. I’m just not sure they have the right temperament. They definitely don’t have the discipline.’
Ulrich did not reply but instead cast his gaze on the men who continued running in a tight group, openly flouting Skar’s commands. He reached into his fur cloak and withdrew a wineskin.
‘Never mind, eh?’ Ulrich said, uncorking the skin and handing it to his big comrade. ‘Here. From the king’s own collection. You deserve a drink for wasting your time nursemaiding this lot. I’m wondering how we tell the king his best men aren’t good enough for us.’
At the sight of the wineskin Skar’s face lit up. He took it and glugged a swig from it. With an appreciative sigh he lowered the skin and wiped the back of his gloved hand across his beard.
‘This is the life, eh Ulrich?’ Skar said. ‘Here at King Eirik’s Court. Wine, beer, meat. No fighting. Not freezing our arses off sailing across some Gods-forsaken northern sea just to kill someone then sail back again. It’s good to take a break every now and again. The All Father knows we deserve one.’
Ulrich snorted. ‘Don’t get too used to it. We leave for Jorvik soon. Eirik wants the Raven Banner.’
Skar nodded. ‘How do you think the girl is getting on? Will she have found it by the time we get there?’
‘Probably,’ Ulrich replied. ‘She’s got potential that one.’
Skar looked at him sideways. ‘Do you mean to join our company?’
‘Why not?’ Ulrich said.
‘Because she’s a…’ Skar trailed off as he thought about Affreca’s abilities. Then he turned his mouth down at the sides and nodded.
‘What about Einar?’ he asked. ‘You know he’s there too.’
Ulrich shrugged but did not reply. Instead he reached for the wineskin and took a long swallow.
‘A ship arrived this morning,’ Ulrich said in a nonchalant tone as he wiped his own lips then passed the wineskin back. ‘Jarl Thorfinn of Orkney was on it.’
Skarphedin paused for a moment as he brought the wineskin to his mouth, then proceeded to drink again. Passing the skin back, the tall warrior met Ulrich’s gaze.
‘So the Skull Cleaver has come to King Eirik,’ Skar said. ‘Do you think he knows what happened in Iceland?’
Ulrich’s eyes flicked left and right then fixed on Skar again. ‘I don’t know. I’m surprised he has the balls to show his face here. Eirik knows about Thorfinn’s dallying with Guthfrith of Dublin. That makes him a traitor. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t end up fighting the Blámaðr.’
Skar felt a shiver scuttle down his spine. There was little in the world that scared him but there was something uncanny about the Blámaðr – the Blue Man – and it unnerved him. He was a giant of a man, taller and broader even than Skar himself, his chest and limbs heavy with huge muscles. Some said he was half troll, for his skin was all over very dark blue-black. Not the sort of dark brown colour that comes from too long spent in the sun but the skin itself was black in colour. No one understood his language but he understood everything the Norse around him said. King Eirik kept him as a sort of pet, the way some kings keep captive bears or other huge beasts to reflect their own power. He had inherited the Blámaðr from his father King Harald and no one was sure of his age. If anyone displeased the king, they were made to fight a wrestling match with the Blámaðr; a contest to the death where there had only ever been one winner. The Blámaðr was kept in chains in a hut in the forest but supplied with meat to keep him strong and the occasional woman to keep him happy.
‘If Thorfinn tells him what we were up to ourselves then we could all end up fighting the Blámaðr,’ the big man said. ‘Do you think we’re in any danger?’
Ulrich shrugged. ‘By rights, Thorfinn should have more to worry about than us. King Eirik however is in a weak position. He’s surrounded by enemies. Thorfinn is his most powerful ally. Can Eirik really afford to lose him?’
‘But Thorfinn betrayed Eirik,’ Skar said. ‘He made a pact with Guthfrith, one of Eirik’s enemies.’
‘True,’ Ulrich said. ‘But kings and jarls work statecraft the way a seiðmaðr works witchcraft. A traitor can be turned into a friend and loyal men can become inconvenient nuisances in the blink of an eye. Let’s keep our eyes and ears open. Yes?’
Skar nodded. ‘Eirik is no fool, but you know how these things work. If he moves against us, it will be through someone we trust.’
‘Indeed,’ Ulrich said. He turned his attention back to the jogging recruits. ‘Now perhaps it’s time we showed this lot who’s in charge. Which one’s got the biggest mouth?’
‘That has to be Bragi,’ Skar said.
Ulrich smiled. ‘With a name like that, should we be surprised?’
Then he screamed ‘Skjaldborg! Here! Now!’
The new men jogged over. They made no effort to hurry. When they came together, they closed shields but with a cacophony of bangs and clatters, instead of the expected, crisp clack of men working as one.
Ulrich cursed and stomped over to the formation, fur boots sending up clouds of snow. He thrust the butt of his spear into a gap between two of the shields and wrenched it upwards, forcing them apart to reveal the faces of the men crouching behind.
‘Pathetic,’ Ulrich yelled. He lowered the spear butt a little and poked it through the opened gap, whacking it into the exposed face of Bragi.
The berserker shouted in consternation. Then he dropped his shield and weapon and jumped to his feet.
‘Who in Hel’s name do you think you are?’ Bragi roared. His cheek had split where the spear butt hit him and blood was starting to dribble from it. ‘No one does that to me. No one! Especially not a dwarf like you. You’re not fit to lead this company.’
‘And who is? You?’ Ulrich said, his upper lip curling.
Bragi’s eyes rolled in their sockets like he was very drunk. All around could tell he was fighting with the anger and confusion of other emotions that boiled within him. Then he lost his battle and the berserker rage took him. He screamed and ran straight at Ulrich, his eyes glaring, nostrils flared, teeth barred, arms reaching to grab and tear at the flesh of Ulrich’s neck.
At the last moment, Ulrich stepped out of his way. Bragi grasped at thin air, his momentum sending him on past where Ulrich was standing and sprawling face first into the snow. With another yell he was on his feet again. Ulrich turned to face him as he charged once more. This time Ulrich, using his spear like a vaulting pole, swung both legs high. His feet connected with a nasty crack on the point of Bragi’s chin. The berserker’s head snapped back, his charge halted and he dropped to his knees.
Ulrich, landing on his feet, struck Bragi backhand with his fist across the face. The berserker toppled onto his back. Ulrich discarded his spear and fell on him. Straddling Bragi’s chest, knees pinning his arms to the ground, Ulrich rained punch after punch down on Bragi’s face. At first the berserker tried to move his head from side to side to avoid the blows but there was little he could do. There was a crunch as Ulrich broke his nose. Another blow and Bragi stopped moving. Ulrich landed a couple more punches then stopped.
Breathing heavily, Ulrich held out his blood-splattered right hand. Skar grabbed it and hauled his skipper back to his feet.
Bragi lay flat on his back, unmoving. The snow around his head was splattered red with blood and grey with snot. He still breathed, though his breath bubbled and popped through the blood that streamed from his nose and mashed lips.
Ulrich glared at the other recruits. They had fallen into total silence.
‘Anyone else think I’m not fit to lead this company?’ he said.
No one spoke. A couple of the new men gave a quick shake of their heads.
Ulrich let the silence continue for a few more moments, then gave the prone figure beneath him a kick.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then maybe you’ll start listening to orders. Bragi here, has proved he is not fit to be in my wolf pack. When he wakes up, he can return to the king’s hearth men.’
There was a gasp from the others and Ulrich and Skar noted the fear on their faces. The Úlfhéðnar and the king’s berserkers were both elite warriors but there was an aura of added glamour and mystery about the Wolf Coats that meant every man longed in secret to be one. To be an Úlfhéðinn was the height of every warrior’s ambition. Most men never even came close to having the chance to try to be one. To be on the verge of becoming one then have it snatched away was horrifying.
‘Bragi has just thrown away his chance,’ Ulrich said, making sure he rubbed the point in. ‘Think about what he will feel like when he wakes up. Imagine the crushing sense of personal failure he will feel. If that isn’t bad enough, he’ll have to face the scorn of the other warriors in the king’s service. You think they’ll let his failure pass without comment? Or the fact that he was arrogant enough to think he was better than the rest of them and could try to be a Wolf Coat?’
‘Run three laps of the field,’ Skar said. ‘And then we will start again. Go!’
The recruits jogged off, this time with a more obvious spring to their step.
‘Ulrich.’
At the sound of his name being called, Ulrich turned around. A group of men were approaching from the direction of the king’s feasting hall. The winter sun danced on the polished metal of their helmets and the iron rims of the shields they bore. The shields all bore the image of a long-bladed axe, painted on the wood in deep red paint: King Eirik’s symbol of the bloody axe. Ulrich and Skarphedin tensed. One of the armed men broke away from the others and approached. He wore a helmet and mail but around his shoulders like Ulrich and Skarphedin he wore a cloak made from the grey pelt of a wolf. Both of them recognised him as Atli Bjarnarson, one of Ulrich’s Wolf Coat company.
Ulrich and Skar exchanged glances. Skar’s earlier words, if he moves against us, it will be through someone we trust, surfaced in both of their minds.
‘Greetings Atli,’ Ulrich said.
Atli pulled off his helmet, unleashing a torrent of blond hair that fell around his shoulders. He was smiling which relaxed his two comrades a little.
‘Ulrich, the king wants to see you,’ he said. ‘I’ve been sent to get you.’