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Prologue
THE BLACK HEART
They fell out of the midnight sun like a swarm of bats: black silhouettes in the silver light, black cloaks flapping, black swords and black axes. And then the screaming started. Shrill and hysterical above the grunting of the horses and the thunder of the hooves. The scream was the Norwegians’ battle cry. It was the bloodlust of a thousand tortured banshees and struck terror into the hearts of the Fin.
At the bottom of the valley the column of Fin braced themselves for the impact. They were not warriors like the Norsemen. They were farmers and herders, gathered in haste, armed with pitchforks, hoes, scythes and wood axes, to ward off the invading forces and protect their homesteads and their families. Fear and courage were writ large in their staring eyes as the charge descended on them. Their one hope, their one shred of hope, that they outnumbered the Norwegians five to one. Five hundred strong they braced themselves, their weapons held in front of them, a wall of spikes to meet the charging horsemen.
This much they knew as the tidal wave of cavalry struck: do not slash or cut. Thrust and stab, thrust and stab at the horses’ muzzles and at their eyes. Make them rear and turn in confusion. And so it was. The horses, battle crazed by their masters’ screams and howls, were met by the thrusting, stabbing, improvised weapons of the Fin, and they reared and swerved in wild confusion as the Norwegians swung their swords and their axes, but were unable to get close enough to engage their enemy. Blood spurted from a horse’s mouth. It reared, kicking the air, attempted to turn but collided with another, turning beside it, its rider swinging low for an exe blow. Both riders and horses fell in a tangled mess and were instantly impaled and slashed by pitchfork and scythe, their feet jerking under the writhing mass of their horse’s bodies.
The cavalry wheeled and turned in apparent confusion. At their centre a rider stood in his stirrups bellowing at them in Norse. His hair, platinum and long, glistened in the midnight light. His beard, burnished red and plaited, hung to his waist. Above his head he swung his long silver blade in slow circles. The horsemen turned and galloped away.
A cheer rose from the Fin. Their line began to waver and break. Voices cried out in mounting panic: ‘Hold the line! Hold the line!’
At fifty paces the horsemen wheeled left and charged along the face of the Fin line. The Fin watched them, uncertain, not knowing. The line wavered again and seemed to harden. Voices cried out again: ‘Hold the line!’
The horsemen wheeled a second time and now it was clear they intended to circle round and charge from the rear. The Fin had prepared for this. ‘About turn!’ And with something like discipline, and with mounting hope, the Fin turned smartly and prepared to meet the new charge from the other side. But in dismay they saw the horsemen wheeled yet again, too soon. Level with their flank the horsemen split into two columns. And then the screaming started again as the riders spurred their mounts to full gallop, hunched forward on their beasts, their weapons held low. One column hurtled along the face of the line, the other along the rear. The Fin turned this way and that in chaos not knowing which column to face. The line broke as the horsemen struck.
The hard steel and iron blades tore two savage gashes of blood and gore along the helpless line. Here and there a Fin in insane desperation plunged home a pitchfork or a scythe. And animal or a man screamed in agony and plunged to the turf, now soaked in blood. But these were few and the swords and axes of the Norsemen rose and fell in a terrible rhythm of slaughter taking their frightful toll. Their leader, Gunnar Dverdalin, circled the carnage watching the ruthless massacre. His mouth beneath his plaited red beard betrayed no emotion. His pale blue eyes registered the massacre with no feeling.
Among those doing the killing, his pale eyes sought and found Borg; Borg Ødergård, the giant who now swung his massive double-bladed axe left and right in one hand as though it were a lady’s dagger. And beside him, his constant Companion, Olaf Olafsen.
