Battle Blue
by Laura Thompson
The ship pulled slightly to the right as a gentle wind caught her sails and nudged the Ulfich closer to the shoreline. The wolf’s head on her bow bobbed with the waves, its open mouth appearing to howl with the wind.
“Men, ready the ship for landing!” Thorsten shouted over the sound of the sloshing waves.
His cry created a flurry of activity as sailors ran to the bow and the stern of the ship approaching land to prepare for the inevitable bump onto the swampy beach of Fortriu in Pictland.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon,” Thorsten cautioned the men as they jumped from the sides of the vessel into the mud and sand.
As he jumped down to survey the messy landing spot, Thorsten called, “Watch for those blue bastards!”
Pictland was home to the ferocious warriors who painted themselves blue for battle. Thorsten’s men were mariners and fishermen, though they could fight as well as any Ostman. He thought of the decorative paint his own men used to circle their eyes, and on their faces and arms. A blackish-blue dye they carried in their pouches. Bjorn’s bear symbol on his left cheek. Ivar wore an inked wolf’s head on his upper arm. A fish hook under Sven’s mouth.
Thorsten knew that Pictish warriors were notorious for attacking while sailors were disembarking, busy with the ropes and fighting the frequent changing tides that threatened to suck a ship back into the water. The Picts were known for their treachery even amongst their kinsmen, and their reputation painted them as savages to those unlucky enough to encounter them. And their habit of painting their skin blue for battle did well enough to cause them to be feared by men on land and sea.
“Fast up that hill, like your lives depend on it. No telling when they may crest the top and rain down on us with all their fury.”
Thorsten pitched in. Sixteen Ostmen could be outnumbered by a large Pict tribe, which often counted up to thirty men.
Six men were pulling ropes, guiding the ship further up and into the mud of the shoreline toward a huge rock that sat between mud and the grass beyond. The rock had no earthly reason to be there. It had been rolled down the grassy hill by the ancient Ostmen who first sailed to these shores. The men wrapped the ropes around the natural anchor point and knotted them tightly on the backside.
With the ship anchored, the rest of the men began to throw down the cargo of supplies, weapons, shields, and haaf fishing nets. Their long oars would serve as poles on which the nets could be strung for catching the skrei that would migrate from the Barents to spawn in warmer waters.
The voyage from Anslo to the southern coast of Norsk and eventually across the West Sea between the two lands took almost three weeks. The voyage to Caledonia allowed them to use the sun and stars to keep the ship on route. No small feat given the Ulfwich’s shallow hold and heavy weight. Unlike trips to the Barents in the bitter northern cold, where the sun shone for days with no nighttime and no stars to guide the way.
A shrill battle cry jolted the men into action. A tribe of Picts was attacking, a frenzied rush of men and spears on the horizon.
“Swords and shields!” Thorsten shouted. The men ran to the pile of weapons and grabbed whatever was on top. They hurried, though in somewhat ordered fashion, to form a line.
On Thorsten’s command, the men formed a shield wall, advancing one synchronous step at a time, toward the blue scantily dressed figures running at them. A few of the Ostmen had served in the Great Army and had taught sword skill to the others.
The Picts, armed mostly with spears, jabbed at the Ostmen furiously, but could not penetrate the shield wall. Only one or two wielded axes and those landed on the hard wooden shields formed in front of and on top of Thorsten and his men. Thorsten counted thirteen blue painted men, long hair streaming, save the knots of hair on the tops of their heads.
“Push!” Thorsten yelled. The Ostmen advanced in lockstep.
“Thrust!” Thorsten yelled again. This time the Ostmen took a step and stabbed through the small slits between their shields, swords biting through Pict flesh.
Thorsten’s long sword slid into a tall enemy, who looked at him with wild eyes, face painted with blue swirls and dots. Thorsten wondered what the symbols meant. But another blue warrior was hacking down on his shield. He reacted by jamming his sword into the man’s belly as the shield wall began to break apart.
“Fight!” one of the Ostmen yelled. Then another, “Finish them off!”
There were only six Picts left, who formed a circle, back to back, as Thorsten and the other Ostmen formed a larger circle around them. They had not lost any men, though four were badly wounded.
The remaining Picts held their weapons in a fighting stance, moving slowly in a clockwise circle. The Ostmen closed in, walking slowly at the tribesmen. The Picts, with their high pitched battle cry, ran at the Ostmen, who responded with ferocity.
After much hacking and thrusting, the Picts fell defeated. The tide began to lap onto the shore, and blue paint swirled into the water, mixing with the red of the blood from the battle fallen men. A dark purple formed and soaked into the sand.
Thorsten stared at the painted bodies, some with painted symbols showing beneath the blue skin. One young Pictish man had what looked like ocean waves painted on his upper arm, which lay limp and lifeless. He had seen such a symbol many times on Ostmen from fishing villages.
These men were not so different, Thorsten thought. Fishing. Foraging. Fighting to live another day.
He watched as the blue paint on the Picts washed into the waves, leaving only a tangle of slaughtered half-naked men. The Ostmen were now the only painted men on the beach.
Thorsten smiled as he thought of the similarity. But the day belonged to his men, and this band of Picts was surely part of a larger tribe, waiting, painted for battle, beyond the horizon.