of polished silver plate glinting in the sun, that he knew
Reinen
was lost too. For Harald had been driven back to the raised platform at
Reinen
’s stern and now stood a little forward of the tiller, his sons Sorli and Sigmund beside him, shields raised. Slagfid was there too, the champion’s shoulders sagging with exhaustion now, though his shield was high and his great, worm-looped blade yet promised death to all who faced him.
‘Faster, Svein,’ Sigurd growled and Svein obeyed, shoulder muscles billowing with each stroke, the veins in his neck corded like walrus-skin ropes as he took them ever closer to
Reinen
’s stern, making sure to keep a good distance from the two ships attacking her and also from
Sea-Eagle
, which now thronged with Jarl Randver’s warriors.
Then Sigurd saw a small shieldwall stepping backwards along the port side and caught sight of Olaf barking commands at this last knot of Harald’s household warriors. Thorvard was amongst them too, blood-spattered and grimacing as he defended their meagre shield rampart against the weight of the attack bearing down on them.
‘
Little-Elk
has broken off!’ Aslak called, which was something at least, and Sigurd saw the frenzied panic in that ship, heard the clump of oars as men took them up from the deck and pushed the staves out through the ports and began to row her away from the slaughter whilst Randver’s men showered her with arrows. Sigurd could almost hear Asgot spitting curses and invoking the gods to come down from Valhöll and piss on the worm Jarl Randver.
Yngvar lay dead over
Reinen
’s sheer strake, still clutching the horn as though even now they hoped King Gorm would come to fight at their shoulder, but there was no sign of Biflindi and it was too late now anyway.
‘Father! Sorli!’ Sigurd called but the battle din was so loud that they could not hear him, or if they could they were too embroiled in the fray to take notice. With
Little-Elk
pulling away from the slaughter and
Sea-Eagle
already taken, Jarl Randver was able to set all of his warriors against those few of Jarl Harald’s hearthmen still holding their ground at
Reinen
’s stern. More hooks thunked against ships’ ribs and thwarts, more ropes were passed to Randver’s men already brimming Harald’s deck so that this floating platform now belonged to the rebel . . . but for some two spear-lengths of oak deck upon which the great warrior in the glittering, raven-beaked helmet held dominion with his best warriors and those of his own blood. Sigmund, who was a great fighter, ran two steps and jumped, thrusting his sword down behind an enemy’s shield and into his neck, then he slammed his shield into the dying man’s own and leapt back into his own shieldwall, a wolf’s grin on his face. Sigurd’s chest filled with pride at his brother’s skill and daring even as he knew all hope was lost.
Now another horn blew, this one Jarl Randver’s, and Sigurd saw that the rebel meant to offer terms to his defeated enemy. But Harald roared that Randver was a rancid goat’s turd and the treacherous cunny snot of a slobbering whore and his men thumped their swords and spears against their shields to echo the insult and acclaim their defiance.
For a moment Randver’s men seemed unsure what their jarl wanted of them but Harald made their minds up for them by taking a spear from Sorli and hurling it with such strength that it pierced a warrior’s shield and pinned his arm to his chest, raising a cheer from those aboard
Reinen
who knew they would soon sit with their ancestors in Óðin’s hall and drink to this moment.
The rebels’ shieldwall stretched right across
Reinen
’s deck and must have been five men deep, a tide of steel and flesh that would drive Sigurd’s father and his brave men into the sea or see them butchered in a sea of their own blood on the oak boards. Both sides roared as the skjaldborgs struck and the sword song played for the amusement of the Æsir. But
Reinen
was lost too. For Harald had been driven back to the raised platform at
Reinen
’s stern and now stood a little forward of the tiller, his sons Sorli and Sigmund beside him, shields raised. Slagfid was there too, the champion’s shoulders sagging with exhaustion now, though his shield was high and his great, worm-looped blade yet promised death to all who faced him.
‘Faster, Svein,’ Sigurd growled and Svein obeyed, shoulder muscles billowing with each stroke, the veins in his neck corded like walrus-skin ropes as he took them ever closer to
Reinen
’s stern, making sure to keep a good distance from the two ships attacking her and also from
Sea-Eagle
, which now thronged with Jarl Randver’s warriors.
Then Sigurd saw a small shieldwall stepping backwards along the port side and caught sight of Olaf barking commands at this last knot of Harald’s household warriors. Thorvard was amongst them too, blood-spattered and grimacing as he defended their meagre shield rampart against the weight of the attack bearing down on them.
‘
Little-Elk
has broken off!’ Aslak called, which was something at least, and Sigurd saw the frenzied panic in that ship, heard the clump of oars as men took them up from the deck and pushed the staves out through the ports and began to row her away from the slaughter whilst Randver’s men showered her with arrows. Sigurd could almost hear Asgot spitting curses and invoking the gods to come down from Valhöll and piss on the worm Jarl Randver.
Yngvar lay dead over
Reinen
’s sheer strake, still clutching the horn as though even now they hoped King Gorm would come to fight at their shoulder, but there was no sign of Biflindi and it was too late now anyway.
‘Father! Sorli!’ Sigurd called but the battle din was so loud that they could not hear him, or if they could they were too embroiled in the fray to take notice. With
Little-Elk
pulling away from the slaughter and
Sea-Eagle
already taken, Jarl Randver was able to set all of his warriors against those few of Jarl Harald’s hearthmen still holding their ground at
Reinen
’s stern. More hooks thunked against ships’ ribs and thwarts, more ropes were passed to Randver’s men already brimming Harald’s deck so that this floating platform now belonged to the rebel . . . but for some two spear-lengths of oak deck upon which the great warrior in the glittering, raven-beaked helmet held dominion with his best warriors and those of his own blood. Sigmund, who was a great fighter, ran two steps and jumped, thrusting his sword down behind an enemy’s shield and into his neck, then he slammed his shield into the dying man’s own and leapt back into his own shieldwall, a wolf’s grin on his face. Sigurd’s chest filled with pride at his brother’s skill and daring even as he knew all hope was lost.
Now another horn blew, this one Jarl Randver’s, and Sigurd saw that the rebel meant to offer terms to his defeated enemy. But Harald roared that Randver was a rancid goat’s turd and the treacherous cunny snot of a slobbering whore and his men thumped their swords and spears against their shields to echo the insult and acclaim their defiance.
For a moment Randver’s men seemed unsure what their jarl wanted of them but Harald made their minds up for them by taking a spear from Sorli and hurling it with such strength that it pierced a warrior’s shield and pinned his arm to his chest, raising a cheer from those aboard
Reinen
who knew they would soon sit with their ancestors in Óðin’s hall and drink to this moment.
The rebels’ shieldwall stretched right across
Reinen
’s deck and must have been five men deep, a tide of steel and flesh that would drive Sigurd’s father and his brave men into the sea or see them butchered in a sea of their own blood on the oak boards. Both sides roared as the skjaldborgs struck and the sword song played for the amusement of the Æsir. But
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