EINAR Tvaertungur HARALDSEN
It was a bittersweet evening. The dry blood of Englishmen still caked beneath his fingernails as he clutched his horn of mead in a heavy hand. The battle was a blur in his memory; the one detail he had a firm grasp of was a low howl escaping him and echoing around the battlefield before he fell into a blood rage. The Englishmen he had felled had taken their fair share of lives though; he had spied scores of his own men scattered in the mud. No matter, they would ride with Odin now, as would Erik, their Lord and commander, who now burned ahead of him.
Einar cast a long shadow. His size made him an intimidating figure, especially to the enemy, and even more so when his teeth were clamped over the iron rim of his shield, but it also made him an easy target. He ached; he had had to pull half a dozen arrows from his mail, and his wolf pelt was tattered. Without it, his balding head felt cold; the ring of hay-coloured hair did little to abate the winds.
Through the haze of the ale coursing through his blood, the flames danced an eerie dance. It was a shame they couldn’t have sent Erik out to sea to burn, but he would respect Åse’s wishes. He had fought alongside Erik for many years, he respected him as a warrior, even as a friend. Any man would have been happy to die on the field of battle, but that didn’t stop him feeling a pang of sadness as the smoke billowed higher into the sky. Erik had held such high ambitions, and now they burned along with him.
What now then? With no leader to rally behind, the men and women would scatter. Some would take up homes in the Danelaw, some would venture back home. What would he do? Return home free of the riches he had promised England would deliver? He couldn’t. Perhaps he could head further east to Kyiv and take up with this Varangian Guard he had heard so much about?
Or perhaps, as some rumblings suggested, he could sail west, beyond the scope of man’s reach?
