Tim Severin - Odinn's Child

The thunderous opening crash immediately gave way to a confused, indiscriminate chaos, the sound of axes thudding into timber and stretched cowhide, the ringing clash of steel on metal, shouts and curses, cries of pain, sobs of effort, the scuffling grunts of men fighting for their lives. Somewhere in the distance I heard the high, wild, urgent notes of a war horn. It must have come from the High King's army because we had no war trumpeters as far as I knew.

The two opposing battle lines lost all formation within moments. The conflict broke into swirling groups, and I noticed how the Norsemen tended to fight with Norsemen and the Irish with Irish. There was no cohesion, only larger clumps of fighters clustered around their own war leaders. Sigurd's raven banner was the centre of the largest and most unified group, and Brodir's contingent appeared to be the chosen target for the men who followed Ospak. My own role in the conflict was minimal. The two war hounds panicked at the sound of the initial collision between the armies and bolted. Foolishly I had tied their leads around my wrist and the dogs were so strong that I was plucked off my feet and dragged ignominiously over the ground, until the leather thongs snapped and the two dogs raced free. I never saw them again. I was scrambling back to my feet, rubbing my aching wrist to restore the circulation, when a light spear thudded into the ground beside me, and I looked up to see an Irish warrior not twenty paces away. He was one of their kerns — lightly armed skirmishers — and thankfully both his aim and courage were inadequate to the situation. Just as I was realising again that I was unarmed, apart from a small knife hanging inside my shirt, the Irishman must have thought he had ventured too far inside the enemy lines, and he turned and scampered away, his bare feet flying over the turf.

Already the opposing armies were growing exhausted. First the skirmishers disengaged and withdrew, and then the knots of hersirs, the Norse warriors, began to disentangle as both sides fell back to their previous positions, and paused to count the cost of this first engagement. The losses had been severe. Badly injured men sat on the ground, trying to staunch their wounds; those who were still on their feet were leaning over, propped on their spears and shields, as they gasped for breath like exhausted runners. Scattered here and there were dozens of corpses. Mud and blood were everywhere.

'Seems that we're not the only ones to have slippery allies,' said a tall, thin soldier who was trying to stop the blood running down into his eyes from a sword slash that had nicked his forehead just below the brow line of the helmet. He was looking across at a large Irish contingent of the High King's army, which now stood some distance away from the rest of his battle line. It was apparent from their fresh appearance that these cliathaires as the Irish call their fighters, had not joined in the charge, but had stood by, watching. 'That's Malachi's lot,' explained one of our Ostmen. 'He laid claim to be the High King before Brian Boruma pushed him off the throne, and he would dearly like to have it back. The moment Malachi joins in the battle, then we'll know who's winning. He'll throw in his troops to join whoever is about to be victorious.'

'Form shield wall!' bellowed Brodir, and his men moved into line and began to lock shields again. A concerted ripple of movement among the High King's troops farther up the gentle slope of the hill showed that our opponents were getting ready for a second charge.

This time they picked their targets. The elite of the Irish forces was Murchad's bodyguard. As the High King's eldest son, he was entitled to an escort of professional men-at-arms, many of them battle-hardened from years of fighting in his father's numerous campaigns. The most menacing among them were the Gall-Gael, the Irishmen known as the 'Sons of Death', who had been adopted into Ostmen familes as youths and trained in Norse fighting methods. They combined their weapons skill with the fanaticism of re-converts, and of course their Norse opponents regarded them as turncoats and traitors, and never gave them any quarter. The result was the Gall-Gael were as feared as any berserk. In their earlier charge Murchad's bodyguard had singled out Mael Morda's Leinstermen. Now they shifted their position along the Irish battle line to join forces with Ospak's raiders and strike at Brodir and the contingent from Man.

They came screaming and bellowing at us, running downhill with the advantage of the slope, and the shock of their charge broke our shield wall. I found myself being bundled here and there in a shouting, swearing mass of men as Murchad and his bodyguard erupted through the first and second ranks of the swine array, closely followed by chain-mail-clad troops from Ospak's division, who surged into the gap torn in our line. I thought I recognised the face of Wulf, the cantankerous card player, over the upper rim of a red and white shield when the tall, gangling warrior behind whom I was standing, took a direct hit in the chest from a spear. He gave a surprised grunt and fell backwards, knocking me to the ground. As I squirmed out from under his body, one of the Gall-Gael careering into the attack took a moment aside from the more serious fighting to glance down and casually club at me with the back of his battleaxe. Even in the hubbub of the battle he must have heard the loud snapping crack as the axehead struck my spine. I caught a glimpse of his teeth as he bared them in a grimace of satisfaction before turning away, satisfied that he had broken my back. The shocking thump of the blow sent a terrible pain searing through me and I let out a gasp of agony as I fell face forward into the earth. I was dizzy with pain and when I tried to move, I found I could only turn my face far enough to one side to breathe.

As I lay there semi-paralysed, I watched from ground level the fight raging above and around me. I recognised instantly the Irish leader, Murchad. He was armed with a long, heavy sword and using it two-handed to thrust and sweep as he carved his path through the disorganised swine formation. He had no need for a shield because fully armoured bodyguards kept pace with him on each side, blocking the counter-blows and leaving Murchad the glory of killing his opponents. I saw two of Brodir's best men go down before him, no more than five paces from where I lay, and then Murchad was called away by someone shouting urgently in a tongue which, even in the waves of pain coming from my spine and ribs, I could understand as Irish. Then someone trode heavily on my outflung arm, and the edge of a grey cloak passed across my field of vision. I closed my eyes, pretending to be dead, and after a moment's pause I opened them a slit and saw that it was Wulf the Quarrelsome who had tramped over me. He still held his long pike in his hand and was headed for the huge figure of Brodir, who was sweeping with his battleaxe to fend off a frontal attack from two more of Ospak's men. I was too tired and in a state of shock to shout a warning, even if I had thought to do so. It probably would have been the death of me, for Gall-Gael and Ostmen thought nothing of spearing a wounded man lying on the battlefield. Instead I watched Wulf come within pike thrust of Brodir and pause, waiting for his chance. As Brodir's axe swept down on one of his adversaries, Wulf lunged. He was aiming for the weakest spot in Brodir's famous mail shirt, the place in the armpit where even the most skilful armourer finds it impossible to make a flawless join between the metal rings which protect the shoulder and the torso. The point of the pike pierced the mail and carried into Brodir's side. The huge Manx leader staggered for a moment, then turning, pulled the weapon free. His face had gone deadly pale, though I could not tell whether it was from the pain of the stab or the shocking realisation that his talisman, the famous mail jacket, had failed him. Wulf had stepped back half a pace, still holding the pike, its point wet with Brodir's blood, and then stabbed again, hitting the same spot, probably more by good luck than judgement. I had expected Brodir to counter-attack, but to my dismay he began to retreat. He switched his battleaxe to his uninjured arm, and took several steps backwards, his body hunched over to protect his wounded side while still swinging his battleaxe to keep off his attackers. From his ungainly posture it was clear that he was hurt, and even more obvious that he was strongly right-handed and not at all accustomed to using a battleaxe with his left hand.