Norseman Chief (14 page)

My eyes were the only part of my body not completely concealed.  I knelt in a shallow hole I dug myself, wincing from the broken ribs with each shovelful.  An old hide covered me and the hole.  Hurit had made sure that all the hides covering all the men in the same manner were sufficiently disguised with snow.  Ten of us lined each side of a path we dug through the deep snow across the now-frozen river that ran adjacent to the village.

At first that afternoon, the faces of all the men gathered outside the chief’s mamateek fell to a grey, ashen color when I translated the news of the coming mayhem.  Ahanu quickly recovered and mustered a bit of courage as he thought of possible avenues of retreat or defense or even attack.  But none offered any real promise of victory or even survival.  The plans all just delayed the inevitable doom that was coming – a delay of only moments at that.

“A weaker force can win.  I’ve seen it before,” I said at the time, mostly to encourage the young men, because I had no true idea of how we could make it happen.

“What do we do, Halldorr?” asked Kesegowaase.  “You have seen more bloodshed than all of us combined.  How do we beat these dogs back?”

“These are your trees and valleys.  Your people fight these people.  What have you done in the past?” I asked in return.

Ahanu cleared his throat, “We have survived through evenly matched battles.  I remember stories my grandfather told of his grandfather’s battles with the Mi’kmaq.  Each was different, yet they were all the same.  War would be called.  A council would be called.  They or we would send out warriors.  The attack would happen and the battle won based on who stole the most captives and received the least number of deaths.”

“That doesn’t help today.”

“Halldorr, you ask what our experience has been.  It has been what I just stated.”

They looked to me, all of them.  Ahanu and Nootau had been strong in youth – that much was plain to see.  Nootau, though at least ten years my senior, still carried muscle beneath a small layer of excess flesh.  Both men wore tattoos which told of battles won and prestige taken.  Yet, that day, with time waning, they looked to me for a plan to bring about a miraculous victory.

I suppose it makes sense that they did this.  I have killed many, many men in my life.  I have never bothered trying to count them, because battle after battle brought them to me as on a platter.  I cut them down in ones and twos.  That is what I did.  It made me.  It clothed me not unlike my very trousers or helmet.  I brought death to men and spread the remnants of that death across to their families, the sorrow to be felt like waves for a generation or more.

Plans.  I made plans for battle, for death.  It was my plan that brought about a massive, lopsided victory at Aber Tawe.  I planned our escape from the Battle of Swoldr with sharp steel pointed at my face.  I planned the ending of the blood feud between Bjarni’s family and mine.  I planned the victory over Ahanu’s own people when they attacked Straumsfjord years ago.  And I planned this battle in the snow against the Mi’kmaq people of the Pohomoosh village.  The men looked to me then, and I planned it.

“Trickery or reducing their numerical advantage, these are the only way to win this,” I said with authority, still not knowing what we should do.  As an afterthought, I said, “Using both would be better.”

Still thinking out loud, I continued, “We have the natural barrier of the river.  We must use it somehow.”

Kesegowaase spurted out, “It’s frozen.  That is no advantage.  A child could walk across it without being in any danger.”

“Shhh!” hissed Ahanu.  “Let us hear what this man says.”

“We know the general direction from which our enemies come.  What if we can direct them where to cross the river?  Then we choose the battle field, we narrow their entry point, and hopefully control the outcome.”

“But how?”

That conversation was hours ago.  The entire community helped prepare for this very moment when I saw the first dark outline of a Mi’kmaq emerge from the deeper forest.  We would succeed on the hard work of the village or fail based on my weak planning, I decided.  More figures materialized around and behind the leader, they crouched or hunched, their heads turning rhythmically to see or hear any danger.  Their hands clutched spears, clubs, or axes – no bows that I could see.  Bows would not prove a favorable weapon in the zigzagging paths of the village.

The roaring fire from the center of the village cast its light like a beacon to the path on the river, making it call to the Pohomoosh, enticing them like the painted women had done to so many men on the filthy streets of Dyflin.  Ahanu helped the women pile dry, crackling wood into the flames.  They chanted around the fire, dancing, singing.  They sang an odd song for winter, about a bountiful harvest.  I think that the women were just nervous, not knowing what else to sing.  At least they didn’t sing about victory in battle, tipping the raiders off that we did in fact know that they came to us.

Our entire plan rested on the Mi’kmaq’s belief that Chief Ahanu’s people were completely unaware of the danger that approached from the wood.  It was Kesegowaase’s rib-fracturing jolt that gave me the idea.  Give the enemy what it is you want him to focus upon.  While he stares at it, mesmerized, slip the saex into his soft belly or between his ribs to drain the life from him.

They approached the path on the river, wide and inviting.  But these warriors were cautious, intelligent, and experienced.  I could see this from their movement.  They did not entirely trust their senses.  It may make them old warriors someday, but I hoped not.  I prayed to the One God that they would find a quick death in their youth.

Several of the soldiers examined the path by placing a foot on the ice and exerting force.  It held their weight.  They gained confidence.  After we had shoveled the path, I had the women and children walk back and forth dozens of times from the village to the forest and back to give the corridor and each end the well-worn appearance of regular use.  The final bait was Kesegowaase’s idea and it was a good one.  He had the women bring some of the newest pelts and hides to the village end of the pathway.  They placed them there as if they were in the process of being finished.  The greedy Pohomoosh would not resist the chance to steal such finery when it was within their grasp.  And they didn’t.

The warriors, I counted just over thirty, walked in rough, undulating rows of about five wide as they crossed the path.  They did not practice the more disciplined fighting style I had learned on European battlefields with strict lines.  An army fighting in such a loose manner across the ocean would be decimated in moments.  But here, in this strange place and beyond, in the merki, such rules did not apply.

I watched them pass my position early on.  I was at the end of the river path nearest the forest to prevent the Mi’kmaq from making a retreat once we sprung the trap.  We wanted them fully committed.  They would either kill us or we would kill them, no withdrawal for either party would be permitted.  It was my decision to be here to hold the line, though secretly I worried that I would fail because the pain in my chest sent blinding jolts through my core whenever I swung my blade.

I placed Kesegowaase in the most important role of the battle.  Nootau and the others who now crouched in their own snow caves along the path, all agreed as we had laid out our scheme.  My Norse friends worried that such a task would fall to one so young, but after I told them just a small amount of the trials he had undergone, they relented.  If the dreaded Mi’kmaq made it past the point where our trap was to naturally spring without being snared, Kesegowaase would initiate our assault with a frightening war whoop.

Despite the cold, sweat poured out from every part of my body, making me shiver.  It was the sweat of battle, drenching me before the clash to prepare my muscles for action – action that came without thought.  Taking time to think in battle usually meant you were ill-prepared and would likely die.  I had seen brilliant men, sliced like the dumbest fool only because they stopped to think.  Thought, preparation, design, the time for these tasks was long before a battle ever began, when the blood made the head bright.

Damn!  Why had the attack not begun?  I could not see the leaders of the Mi’kmaq without turning and creating a ruckus, so I waited, impatiently.  Then I heard the unmistakable creak I had been waiting for.  It was only slightly muffled by the quiet shuffling of the warrior’s feet, but it was there.  The attackers heard it too and all movement stopped.  For an eternity, probably ten slow heartbeats, all was silent except for the chanting women in the distance.  Then another creak came, loud this time because of the stillness in the night.  The invaders began talking in a language similar though not identical to the al gumna kyn.  The shuffling feet began again, quicker this time.

The piercing, shrill war whoop sounded like the call of the legendary banshee I had heard the Irish whisper about while they cleaned out my dung bucket in Dyflin.  Giving no thought to the achiness that had crept into my joints or the breath-stealing pain in my chest, I rose while simultaneously throwing the hide behind me.  By the time I began to skid down the pile of snow into the base of the path, Kesegowaase had already slammed into the Mi’kmaq leader.  The force of the jump, combined with the weight of the two men, fractured the ice in the exact spot we had spent hours thinning with axes and fire.

Kesegowaase and the leader disappeared below the surface of the river water flowing beneath the ice.  The crater in the ice grew rapidly, sucking in four other Mi’kmaq men who howled as their bodies felt the frigid water.  They too were swept away toward the sea in the dark ice-capped tomb.

The rest of Ahanu’s defenders poured over the sides and began falling onto the men who had expected an easy victory.  The Pohomoosh warriors began collapsing under the axes and spears of the al gumna kyn.  They turned to retreat and saw three giant strangers blocking their path.  We wore chain mail, helmets and carried steel blades almost as long as they were tall.  I wore the tunic emblazoned with the cross that Olaf had given to me years and years earlier.  Our hair and beards were fair and long.  We were all taller than the tallest of them.  We three Norsemen were a frightful sight to men accustomed to fighting others similar to themselves.

The Mi’kmaq paused for only one or two moments, but then Ahanu’s young warriors began hacking them down from behind so they came at us with renewed strength.  The first Mi’kmaq I had ever killed seemed shocked as he ran straight onto my extended sword as if he could not believe I sliced into his innards like a paddle slips into the water.  His momentum was so great that he ran all the way to the hilt.  In his mad, dying spasms, his legs kept marching toward me nearly pushing my hand into him.

I was too weak to hold him up and slide my sword back out, so I let the entire mess drop.  Another warrior’s face was already in my own.  He climbed on his fallen comrade, lunging at me.  The man’s black eyes bore into mine while a horrible screech escaped from his mouth.  He must have been left-handed, because his right hand gripped my beard, jerking down.  His plan was to bring the war club held aloft in his left hand down onto my helmet.  I surprised him by following the tug on my beard, rolling into his knees.  The man tripped backward and landed on my sword, protruding from the first man’s back.

I scampered to my feet, wheeling about looking for more to kill.  One of my countrymen was bleeding from an arm wound, yet fought on, two bodies at his feet.  The other Norseman, Ulfr, nodded at me as I called, “Forward!”  I drew my father’s saex, cutting across a fleeing warrior’s chest.  His warm winter wraps were spread apart and I cut him to his ribs, possibly splitting one or more.  He stumbled ahead two steps before being gored with an iron-tipped spear in the hands of Ulfr.

At least two more men fell before me until I brushed shoulders with Nootau, who panted from the exertion.  His tattooed face was splattered in blood.  He smiled at me, revealing a mouth with only a tooth or two missing – a feat for man his age.  I realized then that we would win the fight.  There were only three Mi’kmaq warriors remaining, hissing like wounded rats standing amongst and atop their fallen brethren.  Our men had closed around them in a tightening circle, weapons drawn.

By now Ahanu and the rest of the village had come to see what was happening with their men.  They spread themselves onto the snowy river and its banks, some carrying torches, their icy breaths fluttering away like the steam from a dragon.  One of the last Mi’kmaq recognized his rival tribe’s chief and called, “Chief Ahanu, I spit on your people.  Our great Chief Luntook will take this land for his hunting grounds.  It we be our own territory to expand the rule of the Pohomoosh and extinguish the Beiuthook.”

Nonplussed, Ahanu said, “Not today young warrior.  Why do you bring war against my men, so that we are forced to spill your red life force into the white snow?”

“Your men!” he spat.  “You have no men, only women who steal from the winter traps of the powerful Mi’kmaq.”

Our women hissed at him and his audacity, heaping insults on the Pohomoosh men, but Ahanu laughed, shaking under his cloaks.  “Oh, then we are surely strong women for all of your band will be dead tonight – your scalps decorating our mamateeks.  You will likely die with the shame that comes from the weaker killing the stronger.  If I were you though, I would die with pride knowing that Kesegowaase and the Enkoodabooaoo led a fine killing party this night.”  My friend paused for a moment, then continued in a most menacing voice, “Kesegowaase, see that they are tortured for their invasion of our lands.  Send their burnt, broken bodies back to their Chief Luntook when you are done.”