Chapters (42)
- Title Page
- Tor Copyright Notice
- Thrall
- Chapter One - NORTHEAST COAST OF ENGLAND, A.D. 865
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Carl
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Jarl
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Also by Harry Harrison
- PRAISE FOR - THE HAMMER AND THE CROSS
- Copyright Page
Shef had few preparations to make—the poorest man in the column. He dropped the reins of his nag, a grudging loan from his stepfather, pulled the wooden shield from his back, and loosened his only weapon in its sheath. All the armor he had was a leather jacket with such studs as he had been able to collect sewn onto it. He took position immediately behind Edrich and stood ready, his heart beating fast and excitement clutching his throat—but all outweighed by a vast curiosity. How would the Vikings fight? What was the nature of battle?
On the Viking side, Sigvarth had grasped the situation as soon as he saw the first riders coming toward him. Dropping his heels from their tucked-up riding position, he rose in his saddle, turned, and bellowed a brief command to the men behind him. Instantly the Viking column dissolved in practiced disarray. In a moment they had all dismounted. One man in five, already told off for the task, seized horse-reins and led the mounts to the rear, bending down, as soon as they were clear of the throng, to drive pegs into the ground and knot the reins to them. As soon as this was done, the two dozen horse handlers clustered in the rear and formed a reserve.
Meanwhile the others halted for the space of twenty heartbeats. Some in grim silence, others swiftly reknotting their shoes, or gulping water or pissing as they stood. Then all simultaneously unslung shields, loosened swords, passed their axes to shield-hands, poised the long battle-spears in their casting-hands. Without further words they spread into a line two-deep, from edge to edge of the road, where it dissolved into swamp on either side. At a single shouted word from Sigvarth at they stepped forward at a brisk walk, the flanks falling back until the line formed a broad shallow arrow pointing directly at the English levies. At its apex was Sigvarth himself. Behind him his son Hjörvarth led a picked dozen—the men who, when the English line was broken, would sweep through and round to the rear, cutting men down from behind and turning setback into rout.