Jerry Autieri: Islands in the Fog

"This is my last offer. All you need do is place your hands upon my blade and swear loyalty. Save your life and the lives of your men." Hardar Hammerhand squinted at Ulfrik from behind the cheek plates of his helmet and tipped the hilt of his sword forward. His gray-streaked beard wagged as he continued. "Go on, lad, and do what is right."

"The next time you call me lad, old man, will be through broken teeth." Ulfrik's lip curled in a snarl. The parley was the waste of time he had expected. Hardar's men stretched into a thin line behind him, outfitted for war in furs or mail coats. They idled nervously with their backs to the sea and their faces to the sun. Their beached ships hid behind them, gangplanks down for a quick retreat. Ulfrik estimated fifty men, a slight numerical advantage over his own force.

Hardar chuckled and elbowed the hirdman at his side. "Did you hear the threat, Dag? The lad plans to break my teeth."

"He's a foreigner, after all, lord. He doesn't know your strength," said the man called Dag.

"Enough of this," Ulfrik interrupted. He swept his arm across the background of grassy plains and blue mountain peaks. "These lands you claim, well, I'm here now. The families living here are sworn to me. You can threaten all you want. But like I told your messenger, Ulfrik Ormsson is no bondsman."

"And as I warned, refusal to swear loyalty while on my lands makes you my enemy." Hardar glared at Ulfrik, then at the two men with him. Both his second in command Toki and his oldest friend Snorri flanked him. "I have been patient, until now. Your refusal means you must meet me in battle."

Ulfrik laughed, shaking his head. "When did you last fight a battle? You are as fat as a walrus. Your men are farmers and boys. Look behind me, Hardar Hammerhand, and look upon the men whose swords clashed with Harald Finehair and his elite warriors. We are fresh from Hafrsfjord; the blood of battle still clings to our weapons. We are hungry for blood, still hot with killing fever. The lucky few of your men will crawl away with a limb or two intact, while we make chum of the rest. Return to your line and order the retreat, or die. Your choice."

Ulfrik slung the shield off his back and turned toward his line. Toki and Snorri fell in as they stalked away. No one spoke as their feet swished through the tall grass. The summer sun struck Ulfrik in the face, and he smiled. An attack into the sun conferred advantage to him, yet another sign from the gods he belonged in these lands.

Having fled High King Harald Finehair, he had gathered his men and their families and sailed in search of a new home. Ari, his old lord's navigator, told him of these remote islands in the oceans at the top of the world. Here was a place a man could be free, he believed. As the eldest son of the Jarl of Grenner, Ulfrik expected to inherit his father's title. In these treeless lands of grass and sheep, he established a hall and raised Grenner's standard. Ever since his brother dispossessed him of a home, flying the black elk antler standard had been Ulfrik's dearest dream. Though he flew it at Hafrsfjord, it was as a bondsman to Thor Haklang and his father, Kjotve the Rich. But Thor perished at Harald's hands and Kjotve died in a last stand on a surrounded island. Never again would he swear loyalty to another man, and especially not to one as base as Hardar.

Forty men, hard-faced men in mail coats and dull iron helmets, regarded him as he arrived before them. Precious few had bows or throwing spears, and Ulfrik feared he would not be able to whittle down Hardar's numbers during their advance. He barred the concern from his face.

"Listen. It's a hard thing to kill boys playing with swords, but that's what we do today. Hardar the whoreson thinks to push us off this slope and off our lands. But we will shove him and his boys into the sea and drown them in blood. Remember who you are: men of Grenner, heroes of Hafrsfjord!"

The rasp of swords torn from sheaths mingled with the defiant shouts of his men. Ulfrik folded into the front rank, both Toki and Snorri joining him. Without being commanded, his men formed into a tight block and joined shields. Down the gentle slope, Hardar arrayed his men in a line. He appeared to dither, his line starting and stopping its advance as he shouted.

"They're going to hit us flat. We'll roll them back down the slope." Ulfrik laughed.

"Keep them off our flanks or we'll get lapped and minced up." Snorri touched his shield to Ulfrik's, and the two shared a glance. The cuts on Snorri's face had not healed since Hafrsfjord, leading Ulfrik to wonder if he would ever stop fighting.

"Hold your spot in the line and slice a few bellies, and the bastards will flee. One look and you'll see they've no heart for this."

"If this slope were higher and we had more bows, that line would make a fat target." Snorri spit on the grass, while Ulfrik watched Hardar begin his march behind tightly drawn shields.

Ulfrik raised his sword. "Join shields, bows fire now."

A line of archers drew off the back rank and aimed down slope. Most of Ulfrik's bows were lost when he abandoned his ship at Hafrsfjord, but enough remained to provide harassing fire. The archers released and arrows shrieked along either flank, angling into Hardar's line. Shafts popped into shields, and a few men crumpled to the grass. A second volley hissed after the first, and Hardar's advance stuttered as more arrows cracked into shields or thumped into flesh. A few men at the rear ranks fled back toward the ships.

"Archers back in line," Ulfrik ordered. As he guessed, Hardar commanded his own line to charge the remaining distance. Though old, Hardar sprinted with surprising speed and his roar defeated the battle cries of his men. Ulfrik braced his shield, and the man behind bucked against him to hold the charge. A shining spear point lowered over his shoulder, the back ranks ready to weave death into the attacker's line.

Shields collided in a hollow shudder of wood and metal. Men on both sides groaned. Ulfrik slipped back, but his heels dug into the soft ground and the shallow grade of the slope proved enough to stall the charge. The man behind shoved and a spear slashed over his head into the enemy. Battle cries turned to screams of agony as blades lanced under and between the shield wall. Men staggered, some unable to fall for being pressed onto their opponents.

Ulfrik plowed his blade under his shield, shoulder to shoulder with Toki and Snorri who stabbed with equal vigor. The enemy faces contorted in pain. Hot blood followed screams. The enemy line already buckled, and Ulfrik shoved into the weakness. He flexed the line at the center, calling Hardar's name.

"Fight me, you coward! Fight me before all your men are dead!"

Hardar pushed with his head ducked behind his shield, too far along the line from Ulfrik to meet him in battle. Ulfrik's pulse throbbed in his neck. Victory was at hand, and enemy bodies piled like a tide mark at his feet. He roared laughter, shoved again, and found himself stumbling into the open. Hardar's line broke.

Men streamed down slope, Hardar running with them. Ulfrik's men hounded them, but he called them back. "Don't spread out! Stay together!"

The two ships Hardar had beached were now rolling onto the waves as men splashed alongside, helped aboard by their companions. Those who could not reach the launching ships turned back and flung their weapons into the grass.

"Hostages," Ulfrik said to himself. Warm blood leaked over his leg where the cut he had taken at Hafrsfjord had reopened. Otherwise, he sustained the usual nicks and bruises of battle. He counted it a good day, despite knowing several of his men had fallen. Hostages meant ransoms.