weight of the spear in his hand and believe him. There was a comradeship here that he had never felt before, a bond with his fellows that went beyond any small consideration of actually liking them.
There was a roar like a landslide, and the enemy were charging, screaming oaths to Thor, the thunder god, and Tyr, god of war. The name of Odin was not on their lips. These were not berserks, and the hanged god was too peculiar, mysterious and mad for the average farmer or bodyguard.
Vali felt curiously disconnected from the scene and wondered who he should call on for help. None of the gods had ever appealed to him at all. All apart from one.
‘Lord Loki,’ he said, ‘prince of lies, friend to man, let me endure. Let me endure.’
Vali was not religious but for a heartbeat he realised the truth of the gods of his people. Every one was a god of death — of war: Freya, goddess of fertility and war, Thor, god of thunder and war, Freyr, god of pleasure and prosperity but battle bold. Only Loki was not a fighter. Only Loki stood at the sides and laughed, a laughter more deadly to the self-important gods than any sword or spear. No wonder they had chained him.
The sound of the enemy’s feet in the little lane vibrated through the ground. Now they would throw their missiles. Vali felt confident. His men were cheek by jowl, the front rank of shields locked tight into each other. The enemy were coming on in a mass somewhere between close order and spread out. They were too far apart to offer each other protection with their shields but not spaced enough to dilute the effect of an incoming volley of missiles.
Vali turned to the man on his other side and thought he had never seen him before. He was a tall pale red- haired fellow in a long brown feathery cloak. Vali wanted to shout at him for being such an idiot as to wear a something like that in the line but found he couldn’t. He struggled for words, desperate to say something to this stranger. In the end he managed it.
‘Are you with us?’ he said.
The man, who seemed able to find some space to move in the press of the wall, touched his arm and said, ‘I have been with you since the beginning.’
‘And now you’re here at the end.’
‘No end for you,’ said the man. ‘None, ever. You are always and eternal, Fenrisulfr, and soon you will see that. The gods, in their dreams, now walk the earth.’
‘What?’ said Vali.
Spears, axes and stones hammered down. Vali ducked into his shield. A man behind him fell. When he looked up, the red-haired stranger was gone and he had no time to think about how odd that was.
‘Loose!’ screamed Vali, and the ranks behind him hurled their spears. Three of the Danes fell, one in the front rank. The jarl impeded the men behind him as he fell to his hands and knees, the others spinning and leaping to get past him. Vali gripped his spear, his hands wet with the sweat of fear.
Bang! The wave of warriors hit the line. The Danes slid their shields into the spears, trying to push them up or aside or snag them, then to release their shields and hack in with sword and axe. Vali found his spear torn from his hand as a Dane came steaming in to him with his shield and struck at him with his axe. Again Vali could not draw his seax and was glad of his helmet as the axe knocked it off with a glancing blow but without hurting him. The press was so tight that it didn’t fall to the ground but wedged at the back of his shield. Then a spear was pushed over his shoulder from behind and the warrior was driven back. The helmet dropped and Vali kicked it towards the enemy. The Danes rushed forward again, under the defenders’ spears. More men pushed in by his side, still more behind him. It was shield to shield in the crush with no room to swing a sword. Those in the front rank became spectators at the fight, shoving forward and hoping not to be stabbed by spears wielded by opponents they had no hope of reaching. A Dane slipped on the body of another but Vali couldn’t move to draw his weapon. No need. The man went down under the feet of his friends.
More warriors joined the back of the Danish push, throwing weapons and heaving their shoulders into their comrades’ backs in a bid to force the defenders down the lane. Vali shoved, was shoved. He strained forward with every sinew but he felt his line giving ground. Even though the Danes were stumbling and slipping on fallen bodies, there were many more of them than the Rygir. Vali went a pace back, then two. The faces of the enemy were right in his, hurling insults, promising death, spitting, trying to bite even, but there was almost nothing the men in the front could do to hurt each other. They were too close to even kick. Behind Vali someone fell, then another, and it seemed that, in a breath, the wall would be overwhelmed.
‘Now, Hogni, now!’ screamed Vali. Hogni couldn’t hear him but the Horda was an attentive and experienced warrior who had listened well to what Vali had told him. ‘Now and quietly,’ he told his archers.
They came forward out of the woods, five of them, and released a volley of arrows from above at the back of the Danish press at a range of five paces. Then another, and another. Two Danes fell, then three, then two more before they even realised they had been outflanked.
‘Push,’ screamed Vali. ‘Push!’
Danes were trying to scramble up the bank to get at the archers, slipping on the bodies of their comrades, sliding and falling. The archers shot again and again. Vali stuck his shoulder into his shield and shoved as hard as he could. The Dane in front of him lost his footing, grabbing out and taking a companion with him. The Rygir began to gather momentum and stamped forward over the fallen men, driving down with boots, spears and axes.
The enemy broke and ran. Hogni’s archers continued shooting, though he commanded them to stop. He wanted some of the glory for himself and leaped into the lane to pursue the fleeing invaders.
Vali’s men streamed past him after the enemy. Vali shouted at them to halt. About twenty Danes had gone off on a flanking movement and he felt sure they were about to attack from the rear. But there was no hope of controlling his men, who sprinted after the Danes, followed down the lane by most of the women and many of the children, waving sticks and house knives as they ran.
Pushing back through them, Vali then ran to the end of the lane and stared down into the valley behind the hill. No Danes. Instinctively he looked over to Disa’s farm. A pall of smoke hung over it. He gave a shiver. Had Disa been able to run with her burned legs? Had Adisla managed to get her away? Her daughter would not have abandoned her, he knew that.
He glanced around for help but the only warrior near him was Bjarki, still barely conscious, tied up to the point of strangulation with a couple of small children hitting him with sticks. Vali shooed them away from the berserk, all the time looking around for any of his men who had remained.
‘Bragi, with me!’ he shouted, as loud as he could. But Bragi was gone, down to the Danes’ boats, planning to take them out to sea and deny the attackers their escape. Vali was on his own. Dread swamped his exhaustion and he ran towards the burning farm faster than he had ever run in his life.
19
Drengi had arrived in time to at least face the invaders. He was a farmer not a fighter though, and he was lying by a feed trough with his own axe embedded in his chest. The old Dane Barth had been shown no mercy by his countrymen and was slumped next to him as if dozing in the sun. Little Manni was dead at the doorway of Disa’s house, Vali’s old seax still in his hand.
Vali closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. He had no time for mourning; he needed to find what had happened to Adisla and her mother. He ran into the smouldering building. The Danes had tried to set it alight but the turf roof would not burn well and the smoke looked more like that from a dung heap than a fire. Disa had been murdered in her bed. Blood was everywhere, a grisly scarf of red extending down the front of her white smock. He approached and saw that her throat was cut. He could imagine all too well what else had happened to her.
Vali knelt beside her and took her hand. She had been his mother, or the nearest he had to one. He said nothing. So far that day he had learned what it was to believe in a fight and take up arms in a cause that was beyond plunder. Looking into Disa’s eyes, it seemed impossible that he would ever do anything else. He did not cry, which surprised him. There was something inside him too cold for tears. It was a certainty that seemed to lodge in his throat like a bolus, stopping up any emotion. He would have vengeance for this. Adisla had told him to kill a hundred of them. He wouldn’t stop there. He would kill the Danish king and all his stinking race, tear down his halls
