Chapter Eighteen: The Tormentor
Derby, 16th October 869
Faced with the might of two viking leaders, Burghræd of Mercia decided to face the lesser evil, or at least who seemed to be so. Halfdan had crushed his army not long ago and was the one with far more men at his disposal anyway, so the Saxon king chose to face Ubbe.
But the number of troops at his disposal was hardly encouraging. The last two years had been very costly, and drained most of his kingdom's fighting force, while any bigger town had a higher death rate over the course of a year than Ubbe's army during the campaigns in Gwynedd and Cornwall.
To make things worse, the king himself wasn't present on the soon-to-be battlefield – he tried to inspire resistance against Halfdan's host, advancing on Lindsey. So it was a random soldier that was tasked with facing Ubbe – the ranks of his commanders thinned out in the Ragnarrssons' invasion, the man's lead quality was to have survived a battle against the Norsemen with a permanent mark. Burghræd might have hoped that the sight of the mask would stand as a reminder or an encouragement of the Mercians.
Surprisingly (or not so), the strategy didn't work. Eadwald, the Mercian commander, took lead of the left flank and tried to stop the Norse shieldwall with arrows, only to be overrun by Þorsteinn's light cavalry, while the bulk of Ubbe's forces advanced mostly unhindered. The melee was short, brutal, and ended with a the Mercians shattering into all directions. Still, they had achieved more success than the Cornishmen, taking down one Norseman for five Saxons.
Chester, February 870
“So they are taking the offensive.” Arnfast of Lowther had delivered the news – and some rumours – personally, and so Ubbe had convoked a meeting with his advisors, who had all joined him in his camp earlier than the treasurer. While little managed to drive him out of Lúnborg, but a Mercian army setting up a siege was one of those things. Arnfast claimed it better to entrust the defence with proven warriors rather than himself.
“Ridiculous. What do the Mercians dream of accomplishing there?” Härek scoffed.
“Do not underestimate the power of a symbol”, Inwær, who had accompanied Örvar, answered. Ever since his disillusionment, his insight into Christian Saxon thinking made his opinion valued by more than just the left hand. “If Lúnborg falls, it might turn out to become one – that you Norse
can be driven out of Britain.”
“While abandoning the defence of your own land and running from the enemy”, the giant grunted. “I doubt many will see it as a symbol.”
Anlaufr smiled at the irony. The seer had heard of Härek's reputation. “You underestimate the power of faith.”
Þorsteinn nodded, but the Nordlander wasn't convinced. “Or you overestimate it.”
“I assure you that we do not. I have seen the effects of zeal and belief first-hand, and it can drive people to do a lot.” Inwær inclined his head pensively.
“The Christian is not wrong, for once”, Þorsteinn agreed. “I have seen berserkers kill dozens more foes in Odin's name despite having suffered wounds that should have downed them long before.”
“And does entrusting an accomplished, incapable loser with this siege raise the importance of the symbol?”
“Of course”, the three answered in unison.
“Then we would truly be lost!” Laughter spread across the advisors.
It was Steinn who returned to serious business first. “All this talk of symbolism, and yet I see a far bigger one – Burghræd's absence. How can this Saxon king claim to stand against us if he sends his underlings to face us instead of doing it himself, this oh so brave man? Instead he sends a fool to stand against us! Another chicken to the ravens, I say!”
Þorsteinn agreed. “This is the way of the crucified god. They claim to reign in their god's name, but lack the real strength to do so. How can he call himself king if he doesn't lead his men personally? We know who we follow.”
“And I know who I trust”, Ubbe proclaimed. “Just as I cannot be in two places at the same time. Lúnborg's in good hands. We'll seize Chester, then relieve the siege.”
He looked at Steinn. “And for my right hand, I have another task.”
Chester, April 870
“We stand no chance anyway. Understandable that some might want to save their hide.”
“At the cost of all of us!”, another woman countered. “These traitors, what are they going to do? Watch and laugh as our houses are burnt down, our men killed, we raped by these pagan swine? They are the lowest of scum, how can you even think of defending them, Ælfwynn!”
The named Ælfwynn forced a smile of compassion on her face. “What would you do for your family, Cwenburg? They are trying to save their loved ones, more than themselves.”
Another of the women was clearly siding with Cwenburg. “And all that just to die under the heathen scourge afterwards – what else do they know but violence? They may save themselves, the heavy weight of betrayal on their shoulders, just to be killed later on a whim of their new masters. It is a folly!”
“As if it would be better now, Mildrith. Have we been able to sleep fully sated even just once ever since the Norse arrived? We are suffering. My husband, he just returned from Northumbria, and he says he should rather have stayed there. Life remains hard, but the harvest is safe. Who is to say we won't all starve?”
“Isn't it better to starve rather then serve the heathen?”
“But don't you also serve the heathen if you are his victim? If we persist, alive, we might be able to enlighten him, put him on the right path.”
“Wait – how did your husband return from Northumbria?”
“He was a captive of the Norse. Until he was released. Sometimes, cooperation opens paths.” A bell tolled. Not a sign of attack, but a welcome sign for Ælfwynn, who used the distraction to make her getaway, quickly vanishing from the sight of the others. The eye and ear of Ubbe smiled to herself as soon as she left, having planted yet another seed of doubt. All these seeds won't take long to blossom and further break Saxon resolve. Now, what would be her next identity?
“It is war. Against a superior force. A pragmatic decision.”
“Yet I see that it nags at you”, Anlaufr grinned. “You are trying to legitimate their decisions, your whole faith. It isn't the first time.”
Inwær sighed. Ever since his suspicion towards the seer was left unfounded, he often found himself in discussion with him. “Love your next – that doesn't mean betray him.”
“Nor suspect him, Saxon”, Anlaufr added not without some enjoyment. “In the end, they all see that power is what has to be recognized. Undefended wealth finds its way into the strongest pockets.”
“Instead of being shared around.”
“The contrary of what your robber priests are doing, my friend. They see that people suffer even more now, but they keep thieving, for solely their own benefit.”
While the raids on their hideouts and the deterring efforts through the punishment were effective in their own right, Jorunn had declared that whatever the priests were stealing had to be paid again, until the gold found its way into Ubbe's coffers. Some peasants ended up ruined and as an example for the thieves, who continued on their merry path unimpressed.
“They are not my brethren. They have never been. In Lindisfarne, we followed the Lord's will.”
“All of you? Or were you already preparing? For now?”
“To show you the light one day, I learned your language”, Inwær answered, but without conviction in his voice.
Anlaufr noticed that. “Are you sure? Not preparing for the life after the monastery?”
“There was no life after.”
“Then you are dead. Looks like you are unlucky – even in your afterlife, us heathens are still around.”
The Saxon gave him a pained, tired look. “I just... couldn't imagine it.”
“Imagine that what you have been taught, indoctrinated in is wrong. This is not your crucified god testing your faith. And even if it was, you would have lost.”
“When you say things like these, I worry that you sent Hafrid after me.”
“And why would I care for Örvar's pet monk? Your influence is coupled with the left hand's, and it had plummeted since her discovery – while mine rises.” After a small prideful pause, he acted more like a big brother. “And you know her better than I do.”
“A simple sinner who has broken his vows.”
“Vows gain their worth through trust or power. One has to trust, for else the vow is not made in earnest. Or one needs power, in fear of the consequences of breaking the vow. Towards Ubbe and the gods, I have both. Towards your dead god, you have none. No trust, for you have seen the dark side of his followers. No power, for else, well...”
“I see where you are going – again.”
“Not hard, considering that I've been doing this for months. I simply await the day you finally realize it as well.”
Inwær took the cross, usually hanging around his neck, into his hand.
“You are living among us. Support us. Married one of us. For your people, you
are one of us. And your faith is as dead as the god it is directed at. I wonder if you ever truly believed. Or if you merely managed to trick yourself into believing it.” Anlaufr extended his hand. “Give it to me.”
The Saxon had thought about it. A lot. And in the end... Ubbe's seer was right. He handed over his cross, and Anlaufr pocketed it.
Nantes, April 870
“
Well, we aren't exactly beloved, but they call him 'the antichrist', 'Satan's spawn' or, my favourite, 'evil incarnate'.” Arnfast's words spooked through Steinn's head as his snekkja neared Nantes, the stronghold of the feared Hæsteinn.
“
He might have subdued the Bretons a bit too forcefully though. Or not enough, depending who you ask. They all banded together, intent on throwing him back into the sea.”
“
Thousands upon thousands would be besieging Nantes, Hæsteinn in there with less than a hundred fighters. But that they wouldn't dare to come close to him.”
The mayor's rumours were enough for Ubbe to send Steinn south. If he could get such a warrior, a living legend, to join him! With all that talk of symbolism, this would be a major one for Ubbe himself. But with the man's reputation, he thought that sending his right hand was a better choice than his left.
"Örvar would probably end up boiled and eaten", Arnfast had remarked, before categorically excluding to go himself.
Steinn wasn't sure what to expect. Of course the rumours were exaggerated – perhaps Hæsteinn was already dead, and nothing but arrows would await him in Nantes. Or weren't they? The town was still under siege as he arrived, at least.
It didn't take long for the snekkja to be spotted, by obviously Norse men, who made no attempt to stop it. A disfigured man with a mad, bloodthirsty grin greeted Steinn as he disembarked, few other men around. “Here to join the slaughter? Not too late, boys! Come with me!”
“And what if I wanted to plunder this town?”
“Feel free to try. Hæsteinn will be glad for the new skulls, I would welcome the practice. Besides, it would perhaps draw the cowards out there closer. So by all means!”
The man was either completely mad or too sure of his leader and himself. And Steinn respected that. “Help it is, then.”
He led Ubbe's men into the main hall. A place exuding an aura of dread. Two Breton nobles were impaled at both sides of the entrance – headless –, and Hæsteinn's sight was of the kind to cause running as a first instinct.
The hall was decorated with all kind of plunder. From the realms of the Moors, Franks, Italians, Arabs, Greeks... according to the rumours, also from Miklagard and Rome. The grim men around their leader clearly looked the part capable enough for such raids, burly men with their weapons never far from their reach.
Hæsteinn himself sat on an imposing throne, on a bear's hide which covered something looking like bone. The massive, armoured man rested his hands on two skulls, a skeletal blood-eagle behind him. “Reinforcements, merely passing by or would-be-raiders?”
Steinn took in the sight some more before answering. “Neither. An offer.”
“Interesting. Give the man some drink!”
It didn't take long for a young Breton girl to appear, and to hand Steinn a skull filled with a red liquid. Hæsteinn soon also held one, raised it to his lips and let the wine flow into his mouth, drinking it all. He set the skull down with a grin and watched his guest. Ubbe's right hand copied his host's movement.
The leader of Nantes laughed. “People speak. And if it pleases me, it becomes truth. They say I reign on a mountain of their bones. I sit on their bones. They say I drink from their skulls. So I drink from their skulls. They say I randomly pick villagers to flay. That I sacrifice children to 'my demonic gods' in front of their parents, before blinding them. That those who fall into my hands alive would prefer the apocalypse to me. The result? Look over the wall. Too scared to even be near me.”
“And they stand there.”
“Short and sharp. You have guts.” He handed the empty skull to a shivering Breton, then focused his eyes back on Steinn. “And I like that. Yes, it's probably why they chose to die here. But you did not come for the drink, nor the chat. You have an offer? If it can help me not to have to deal with these pesky cowards any more, you have my ears.”
“I am Steinn Eyjolfsson, and I come to speak on behalf of Ubbe Ragnarrsson.”
“One of the conquerors of Englaland. Sad thing I missed Ælla's end. I had my own blood-eagles, but none had that satisfying feeling of revenge with them. At least none on that scale.” His men chuckled. “Then, Steinn Eyjolfsson, what does he have to offer?”
“Ubbe offers you a part in Englaland's conquest. Lots of battle, glory and wealth.”
“Don't I already have it? All this”, he stretched his arms around his hall, “had to come from somewhere. Why would I give it up?”
“I thought you'd wanted to get rid of these pesky cowards.” This drew another chuckle in the hall.
Hæsteinn's features hardened though. “But not of my hall. Nantes is mine, and Hrolfr, back here”, He designated the skeletal blood-eagle with a movement of his head, “knows how much I hate to part with what is mine.”
“If you are satisfied to sit on your wealth with nothing else to do but watch at the Bretons you have made to hate you.”
“I am not. They fear me more than they hate.” As if to prove his point, he shouted at the one who had handed him his wine. “Just look at them!”
Unlike the Breton, Steinn remained steadfast. Shaking his head in disappointment “The man who sacked Rome... satisfied as he scares some peasants from the safety of his walls.”
The massive man rose from his throne. “Are you c-c-calling me a c-c-coward?” With his stuttering manifesting, Hæsteinn slammed his fist on the right skull, shattering it. Blood began to trickle down his hand. “Damn Hel's c-c-curses!” He shouted, bloody fist raised. Then, his attention returned to Steinn, and he grinned. “Tr-tr-truly, I like your guts. Now, w-w-why should you not r-r-replace Konan?”
“With Ubbe, you would be able to prove your skills again. Grow your legend even more. Leave the Bretons behind.” He signalled one of his companions forward, who held a small chest, revealing its golden contents. “Some compensation for the loss of Nantes.”
“I can leave and f-f-forge my destiny any time, as I have d-d-done so before.”
“You don't want that, or you would have already done so. You don't want to abandon Nantes, stain your legend with a defeat.”
Hæsteinn lowered himself back into his seat. “In th-th-this you have a p-p-point at least, Eyjolfsson. Then why d-d-don't you head to Scandinavia in my name, and b-b-bring me the men I need to e-e-end that rabble? I never h-h-had anyone to spare. We w-w-will make even greater raids in the f-f-future.”
Steinn was visibly surprised. “I have sworn to follow Ubbe. Since my childhood. As much as I admire your persistence, I cannot.”
“W-w-worth a try. Ubbe inspires s-s-such loyalty, then, that you won't even j-j-join me. Your o-o-offer is intriguing.” He looked around. “W-w-what say, boys? Shall we join R-r-ragnarr's sons? Bathe in Saxon blood?”
Steinn's mad guide was the first to shout his approval. “Better than to wait for the Bretons to grow some balls!” The whole hall was soon howling.
“There you have your answer, Steinn Eyjolfsson. But I have my conditions. Your leader will get to know them soon enough.”
Nantes was soon bustling with activity, with Hæsteinn's men readying his ships, carrying his wealth. The Tormentor, as the Bretons had taken to call him, didn't intend to leave his town in the hands of the mob without a parting gift though. Or leave it in their hands at all.
Some of his slaves would accompany him, but the rest should stay permanently. Hæsteinn crucified most of the survivors on the walls, then set the pitiful rest free. As they ran towards their countrymen, arrows felled half of them. Would they turn around, they would see the image which should burn itself into their countrymen's memory – the walls set on fire, the wailing of the men, women and children as the flames licked up their bodies. This Nantes would not be taken by the Bretons, but disappear. The Tormentor was on his way – and he would leave nothing behind but death, ash and terror; the same things he was about to bring to England.
