January 25th, 867
The village burned.
The village of Amounderness was like every other village in this area, undefended and an easy target. The main plunder here wasn’t gold or silver, there was barely anything here. Even its Church had barely more than five silver pieces; the real prize was in the effect it would have upon the people. Upon entering Lancaster, the five thousand men under his control was divided into two, with Ubbe and his son, Sigfrid, besieging Lancaster’s castle, while he plundered the countryside. By attacking the common people, it would mean two things; the first that many people from the countryside would flee to entrenched areas such as towns and castles. That would mean they would become rapidly overpopulated causing problems for the lords opposing them. The second was that come harvest, very few farmers would be around to produce more food, causing famine and disaster for the region. The county would be unable to send any further supplies or men to aid the campaign against Halfdan.
An added bonus was of course the women. By virtue of their sea voyage, very few women had come with the army. With the long voyage from their homeland to this place, it was understandable that the men were frustrated. Frustration led to anger and resentment against the lords who brought them to this strange place. It was good that the men be allowed off the leash occasionally and who better to take their frustrations against than the defenceless Christians who could do nothing.
He bellowed with laughter as he split the head of another man who tried to rush him with a rusty knife in his hand. This was no battle, this was just a slaughter. Around him, the village burned and his men killed. Women screamed as they were taken, the prettier ones in particular suffered. Blood splattered the ground, and the smell of smoke in the air filled him with memories of his youth.
“Stop this!” A voice suddenly bellowed. “Stop this madness, in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ, I beg you to stop!”
Halfdan couldn’t help but gape slightly as he saw a man dressed in woman’s clothing rush out into the middle of the slaughter. None of his men touched the man, they either laughed or just stared in bemusement.
“Stop killing these people!”
The man in woman’s clothing finally saw him, and rushed over. He threw himself in front of Halfdan, his arms spread out. “Please, lord, these people are innocent. They have no weapons, do not kill more of them.”
Halfdan glanced around, seeing only a few of the villagers still alive, while not a isngle man from his army lay dead. Finally, he nodded. “The killing will stop!” He bellowed to his soldiers.
“Thank you, my lord,” the man looked grateful.
“Herd them up, and see who can be sold. Any who can’t, kill them.”
“Please, no!”
Halfdan ignored the protest. “Who are you, and how can you speak our language?”
The man looked plaintive, “I am Bishop Hamelin, chaplain to King Charles of West Francia. I was in the village on business regarding the Church in Scotland, when I was caught up in this hell.” He licked his lips, looking around nervously as he saw men from Halfdan’s army gather around him in a semi-circle, leaving him no room to escape. “Perhaps we can talk elsewhere, my lord? I have good wine from my country.”
“Fine,” Halfdan grunted. He followed the bishop to the Church, which had been spared the burning. Hamelin flinched as he saw another frocked man dead on an altar, his skull split open by an axe. Other men from his army were busy digging around the altar, presumably looking for plunder. A cross which had some few jewels on it had been torn down and was in the process of being smashed apart by one of his soldiers. Hamelin opened his mouth as though to protest, only to stop and make a strange signal on his chest before entering a smaller room in the back of the Church. Two more of his men were in there, only to leave when Halfdan glanced at them.
The priest pulled out a flagon and two cups, pouring each a large drink. Halfdan took his cautiously, waiting for the priest to take the first sip before he drank. His eyebrows raised slightly as he tasted a beautiful blend of sweetness with a strange, yet fulfilling, taste.
“May I ask your name, lord?” The priest asked.
“No.” Halfdan replied, reaching over and taking the priest’s cup, pouring more of the wine into his own cup.
“I…ah…”
“How do you know my language?” Halfdan took another gulp of the wine.
“I was taught by a convert from your lands.”
“A weakling.”
“A good man,” the priest reproached him.
Halfdan felt a rise of anger, but held it, regarding the priest with curiosity. He was a brave man, to have approached him and his army like that.
“What do you want?” Halfdan asked.
“I was sent here on a divine mission, my lord. Clearly, Christ wanted me here this day to save you pagans from sin, and to lead you into the kingdom of heaven.”
“Oh?”
“Yes!” The bishop’s voice had become enthused; he stood up and began walking up and down the small room. “My Lord, can you not see what you do is wrong? Killing is a grave sin! The murder of innocent men and women will see you sent to hell, where you will burn for eternity! Christ will not forgive you, unless you allow him into your hearts. Repent, my lord, bring yourself into the Catholic Church and you will be forgiven! Christ will lead you into heaven, and the angels will rejoice that another sinner has been saved from hell!”
“Heaven? What is this heaven?”
“A place of beauty and peace, where men are equal in the eyes of God, where we will feast with Jesus Christ and all will be good.”
Halfdan stared in disbelief at the priest, who had spittle on the sides of his mouth.
“How about this,” Halfdan finished the dregs of the wine. “You give up this God, and you embrace Odin instead.”
Hamelin spat on the ground, staring in anger at Halfdan who felt his own rise in return; “I would rather die than give up my faith!” Hamelin declared, pointing a finger at him. “Confess your sins, my lord, and let this talk of false Gods end-”
The priest suddenly began to choke as Halfdan placed his powerful fist around his throat. Halfdan lifted the priest off of the floor, staring into the priest’s eyes as he squirmed and jerked, unable to breath.
“You have a honeyed tongue, priest; almost as sweet as that wine. I will show you mercy for the drink, and let you live, although not without consequences.” He pulled a knife out of his pocket. “Open your mouth.”
The priest shook his head, and continued to try and escape Halfdan’s grip. Halfdan signed, and slammed the butt of the knife into the bishop’s stomach. His mouth gaped with the sudden pain, and in that instant, Halfdan released the bishop’s neck and threw him on the floor. He coughed and wheezed, gasping for air. He suddenly choked again when Halfdan’s fingers reached into his mouth, grabbing his tongue and pulling it out. He squealed as best he could as he felt a sudden pain and blood came gushing out.
“Don’t worry bishop, I won’t kill you.” Halfdan smiled as he turned to a fire and began to heat up the blade. “I’ll keep you alive, for now. You did give me good wine after all.” He turned back to the priest, who by then had fallen to the floor, blood streaming out of his mouth. He jammed the red hot blade into his mouth, cauterising the wound and causing the priest to let out a gurgled inhuman screech. Halfdan merely smiled as he turned back to return to his soldiers, idly, he wondered if there was any food around.
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May 27th, 867
Lancaster had fallen completely. There had been no villages untouched, no castle unbreached, no man or woman who had not felt the fear of the Norseman. Its lords had fled to the court of Ella of Northumbria, hoping for a time when they would return to their lands. It was a hope not to be realised.
Halfdan was gathering his army for a push north when a horse galloped into his camp. He glanced in interest; a horse was a very rare sight in his camp, he very rarely favoured its use except when gathering his forces together. A man had to be seen to be enduring the same as his ordinary soldiers were, otherwise who would follow such a lord who did not understand his men?
“Father!” The messenger leapt off of the horse and sprinted over to his father; he blinked in recognition as he saw the face of his second born son, Gudfrid.
“What are you doing here, boy?” He asked in curiousity. Gudfrid had been left at Jorvik, where the army had landed. He had chosen to leave him behind, and take his first born and third born sons with him into battle, believing it best to ensure that if the campaign hadn’t gone as planned, his family would at least survive partially. There was also the fact that Gudfrid had no mindset for battle, he was better placed for diplomacy and if necessary, intrigue, despite it being the weapon of a coward. Gudfrid gasped for air, struggling to get the words out. Halfdan felt irritation rise and his fist clenched, only to halt when the boy finally spoke.
“Wessex, father. Wessex has come. They’re marching through Jorvik with over 2,000 men heading north.”
“They’ve finally come,” Halfdan grinned. He walked past his son, standing in front of a group of his men, many more coming to join the circle forming around him. “My soldiers, we’ve had quite a bit of fun here. There was nothing but pillaging and looting, none dared face us. That is over from now on, the enemy have come, and we will meet them. Wessex has marched north to meet us with only 2,000 men, believing that their God will protect them against the might of over 5,000 Norsemen. Shall we show them just how wrong they are?”
The men began to roar their assent, banging their weapons against shields, causing a drumming noise. More men began to join the drumming as word spread of the enemy. Halfdan only grinned as 5,000 men banged their shields, the drumming sounding like sweet victory already.
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October 16th, 867
The effort to hunt down the Saxon army had been a long and difficult one. Word of their march towards Jorvik had only inspired the Wessex army to march faster, reaching Durham early in June, forcing Halfdan to halt the eastern march towards Jorvik and turn north instead. The army reached Westmorland in late July, where word arrived that Wessex was beginning to march north again to join the remnants of the Northumbrian army that had been shattered by several battles by Ivar, Halfdan’s brother.
They were too slow, however, and were caught at Durham unawares. They had been distracted by the presence of 2,000 Norsemen who served his brother, Ivar. The armies had been evenly matched, and were cautiously about committing to full battle. However, their caution would be their doom. Halfdan had come up and joined the 2,000 extra men, many of whom had captured mounts making them a deadly force. Now, the battle was 7,000 Norsemen against only 3,000 Saxons.
The battle would take place on a flat plain, Halfdan observed. Nor did any rivers obstruct him, making this a simple battle. If Wessex wanted to stop Halfdan, they would either have to retreat or hold. The former simply wasn’t possible, as he would pursue them completely and wipe them out, no matter what. The latter was essentially a death sentence for Wessex. They only way they could hold would be through an extraordinary amount of luck, such as the sudden death of himself and all of his captains, or if their Christian God sent them aid. He idly rubbed a ring on his finger to ward off bad luck.
The Wessex army would fall here, and his conquest of Northumbria would be unstoppable.
“Form up, you runts!” Halfdan bellowed as he walked towards his section of the shieldwall. “Today, boys will be made men, and men will be made heroes! We fight in the sight of the Gods, this day, and by Odin, I will not be have any of you be seen lacking. I expect each and every one of you to kill at least two each, and I care not that there’s less of them than there are of us, I expect you all to make up the difference somehow by the time this day’s done!”
His men roared back their assent, slamming their weapons against their shields as Halfdan took his place in the very front of the line. He nodded to his hornblower who took a deep breath before blowing the sound to advance. His men cheered as they began walking forward slowly, making sure that their shield connected with their neighbour.
The shieldwall was a simple enough tactic. You took all your men, put them together, making sure that every man’s shield touched their neighbours shield on the right, which meant that both you and your neighbour were protected. The Saxons practiced the same tactic, so in the end it would come down to numerical superiority and morale. And that was something which Halfdan’s army had in abundance.
Halfdan glanced down his army, his left flank was led by Ubbe, who he knew to be a fine warrior, and relentless in battle. His centre was held by one of his most seasoned captains, who had spent the greater part of his life in battle, both at sea and on land. He was a clear choice to lead his centre flank, and was supported by many of his captains.
Arrows began hissing past overhead as enemy archers opened fire. Several inexperienced boys threw their shields above their heads, only to be cursed for fools and have their arms dragged back down into the proper position. Many of his men were green as grass, Halfdan thought to himself. In a shield wall, your shield’s position was of the utmost importance, if the two shields lost their connection even for a second, a seasoned warrior would immediately take advantage and kill one of the two. Despite the looting and raiding that his army had indulged in the past months, they had not come across a proper enemy army. Still, those that survived this day would be all the more experienced for their victory, and have separated the weak from the strong.
The Saxons were close now, close enough that spears were being thrown back and forth between the two armies. The Saxons had formed their own shield wall, bristling with spears. They shouted insults in their language at the Norsemen, who just as readily shouted back, roaring and growling at their enemy. It was always this way, Halfdan knew. Before a man could be persuaded to charge into close combat with another man, he had to be inspired; he had to have his blood up, to feel as though he was invincible. Until that was done, neither side would move from their position.
Halfdan began to slam his weapon against his shield, crying the names of the Gods in every beat. His neighbours began to copy him, and their neighbours them, until the whole army was doing the same thing.
“Odin!”
“Freya!”
“Thor!”
“Odin!”
“Freya”
“Thor!”
Finally, Halfdan could feel it, the blood rushing all over his body, he felt invincible, ten times larger than any man who faced him this day, ten times quicker with his axe, ten times as mighty as any champion they could put on the field that day.
Halfdan roared, rushing out of his place in the shieldwall, raising his axe above his head. Behind him, he heard his men scream his name and begin running after him. The Norse shieldwall struggled to maintain its coherence as individuals ran out, the rage of the berserker in their hearts. The men of Wessex did not stand against him, many cried out in fear as they saw him rush at them. They tried to run back, to push back against the mass of men behind them, but to no avail. Halfdan roared in triumph as his axe began to rise and fall, the cowards at the front falling like flies. He vaguely recognised the rest of his men join him in the slaughter, the shield wall reforming as the berserkers did their duty and ploughed through the Saxon lines, creating holes that the Norse shieldwall was more than happy to take advantage of.
The destruction of the left flank took less than five minutes before they broke. The Saxons fled, the slowest amongst them slaughtered as they fled. The battle was not over, however. Halfdan calmed down enough to see what was going on around the battle. The left flank under Ubbe had similarly crushed their enemies, leaving only the centre still fighting. The Saxons had not broken like their counterparts on the flanks, but in holding their ground, they had only doomed themselves.
Halfdan and Ubbe’s forces slammed into both flanks of the Saxon shield-wall, which was unable to react thanks to being locked in place.
“Look out!” A voice suddenly screamed as cavalry suddenly swept through Halfdan’s lines. Halfdan’s shieldwall, which had crumpled when they had charged into the Saxon flank, collapsed into a mass of individual warriors clumped together for protection. The unified defence of the shield wall failed and was replaced by anarchy. Halfdan grunted in displeasure as he ducked a swing from a sword. The previously fleeing Saxons from before had began to rally and return to the battlefield, helping the Saxon centre flank push back Ubbe’s forces. There was a chance, as slight as it is, for the Saxons to turn the battle around.
“Alfred, Alfred, Alfred…” The Saxons were chanting a name, using regained confidence to push back his centre.
Halfdan swirled around furiously, his axe firm in his hand; he would not allow the enemy to win. He suddenly saw a warrior ahead, dressed unlike others. He was clearly a lord, from the cut of his clothing. He wore chainmail and a fine cloak, with a sword in his hand and a beautiful horse underneath him. He was roaring orders, gesturing with his sword, and men ran to fulfil his command. Halfdan growled, if he wanted to win, then he would have to decapitate the Saxon command; literally.
“You lot!” He shouted at a group of warriors. They were about twenty strong, having formed into a small circle with spears pointing outwards to ward off the enemy cavalry. “We’re going to kill the enemy leaders, I promise to pay his head’s weight in gold to whoever brings it to me!”
He didn’t wait for a response, but began to run at his enemy, trusting that his men would follow him. The enemy leader finally noticed him, and gaped in surprise that a group of unarmed men would dare challenge mounted warriors. He shook himself free of his surprise and spoke to the men around him, pointing a sword directly challenging Halfdan, before kicking his horse into a gallop towards the charging men, followed by his bodyguard.
Halfdan waited to the last second before he leapt to one side, feeling a rush of wind as the Saxon’s sword swept less than an inch from his eye. Some of the men who had joined his charge had not been so fortunate; many were dashed onto the ground by the power of the charging horses, or slashed from high with swords. The enemy leader turned around to make another attack, but too slowly. Halfdan rushed towards his horse, his axe raised above his head before he swung it with all his might into the head of the horse. It shrilled loudly as he wrenched the axe back out. The horse collapsed onto its side, its occupant managing to move his leg before it became trapped.
Halfdan chopped downwards, but missed as the man scrambled backwards. Halfdan struggled too pull his axe out of the ground as the man recovered his sword. He swung at Halfdan, just as he’d managed to pull his axe from the ground. He blocked it successfully, throwing a punch at the man but only hitting the armour uselessly. The two men continued to duel it out, their eyes not leaving each other, each reflecting the other in hatred and contempt for their foe.
Before the battle could continue, however, two men threw themselves at Halfdan, forcing him to parry repeatedly. Behind his two opponents, he saw his enemy back away from the fighting, mounting a new ride and begin to ride off. Finally managing to drive off the last man, both of them having proving skilled enough to push him back, he stared in frustration as the man rode away into the distance, followed the remnants of the Saxon army. Thousands of dead lay on the field, victory was complete. Although he had failed to kill his opponent, he had succeeded in destroying the only Christian army capable of stopping Halfdan.
Northumbria’s door had been kicked wide open, and Halfdan intended to burn the place to the ground.
