For Me Fate Wove This

by Octavia Randolph

  Onund’s response was to spit in Hrald’s direction.

  It was Hrald’s turn to scoff.

  “Does Three Plaits know I drove you off?” Hrald turned his eyes back to him named. “But then, you are used to accepting the discards of better men.”

  Three Plaits had one response, one all were ready for.

  “Get off your horse and fight.”

  Hrald fairly jumped from his horse.

  Ashild, watching from the back of the string of Hrald’s men, tried to swallow to keep her throat open. Her right hand was gripped about her spear, the butt of which sat upright upon her saddle in echo of the war-flag Abi held. There was a sense of the unreal about all before her. She stood amidst eight or nine score men, all whole and alive. Soon many of them would be maimed and dying. She knew this; it had happened before her eyes at Oundle.

  She had heard every word falling from Hrald’s lips. He had spoken manfully, and with a cunning that had tricked the Dane into revealing his allegiance. He must seek the sword’s justice for the violence done to his men. Yet the thought that she could see him die filled her belly with ice. Jari and Asberg might fall as well.

  Do not think of this, she ordered herself. Hrald had killed Thorfast; he or his men would kill this Dane. But this was a huge force they faced. Even if her brother did kill the Dane, many of his captains would seek to slay Hrald. She fought these fears, aware she was almost gasping for breath.

  Byrgher spoke to her, gesturing her away. To their left was only a narrow margin before the trees crowded in towards the road. He turned his horse’s head left and both he and Ashild slipped into the sheltering trees. They and their animals were mostly concealed by the shrubby undergrowth. The battle would be held here, and now, and this was a safe place of concealment.

  The warriors of Four Stones were quitting their horses, walking them to the tree line to tie them. Without speaking they went about testing their leg wrappings, setting their shields, determining which weapon to lead with. Hrald led his bay to a sapling, just as any of them. Jari was at his side, whistling a tuneless song between his teeth as he did the same. Asberg, his two sons with him, gave thought to Æthelthryth, and of how he had sworn both boys would return unscathed.

  None spoke to the other in these final moments. It was a time past words.

  Hrald, ready to walk upon the field, gave thought of how this battle, facing other Danes, would unfold.

  He well knew how the Saxons fought; he had been told in great detail by Ceric. Jari and Asberg knew it from having faced them as foes, and had told him as well. There was order and discipline, and in a meeting on a field like this, a sequence to be followed. Youths spinning leathern slings over their heads let fly round river stones, pelting the massed enemy before them. A sleet of arrows followed, and when the enemy was within range, a hail of light throwing spears. This would break up the ranks and columns of the oncoming foe, so that when the shield-walls with their spears and swords met, fewer remained. Every Saxon war-chief had a battle cry, from the King to the leader of a handful of men. It was not a simple war whoop, but a word or words to remind the men for whom and what they fought.

  Here, this morning, the men would form up. Oaths and insults would be flung, and then one side would start for the other. Both leaders would want to fight each other directly and without interference. Their men would try to keep them from being injured or killed before they could do so. His father had told Hrald about the fight for Four Stones, and how he and Jari and Asberg, as well as Yrling’s other men, had protected his duel with Merewala. This would likely happen now.

  He began walking towards the greensward where he would fight. He looked carefully at Three Plaits, his shield at his feet, who was now lifting his helmet over his head. Hrald was a little taller, but the Dane broader. That his opponent had been a successful warrior there was no doubt. At the age the man was, Hrald knew he had fought and triumphed over many men.

  Asberg and Jari paced steadily at Hrald’s side. Ulf and Abi came just behind their father. Abi was not waving the staff with the raven banner, just holding it aloft, trying not to gape at what lay before him. These five were joined by a triple rank of Four Stones’ warriors, fanning out on either side of their Jarl. A few of his men were still on horseback; Hrald could hear the near jingling of bridle hardware behind him. He gave thought to Ashild, somewhere on the edges. Coming upon the enemy as they had meant that he had no parting word with her. She was in Byrgher’s care. She was mounted and safe. He trusted she would have no need to bolt, and ride hard for Four Stones.

  One of the men behind Hrald had his own grudge to settle. Hrald’s man Askil, an archer with bow in hand, urged his horse forward a few paces, then stopped him. He stood up in his stirrups, and pulled back his bow string. He let fly his arrow, then bellowed.

  “Anulf!”

  Anulf had been his younger brother, one who had been at Saltfleet.

  The arrow, shot above Hrald’s head, hit Three Plaits as he was beginning to lift his shield to his left wrist. The man was leaning forward, and the arrow caught him in the top of the chest, pinning, it seemed, the plaited beard to the man’s ring-tunic. The impact knocked him back off his feet and to the grass.

  Hrald’s men were yelling in sudden triumph. The first kill was of the enemy leader.

  The shouts raised by Hrald’s men rent the still air. They were answered in yawping disbelief by the men backing Three Plaits. Many of the Danes plunged forward, howling for revenge. But others stood back. Some may have been stunned by the sudden loss. Others looked to be making decision whether to fight or run, or gauging which of their dead war-chief’s men would try to claim leadership, and if they would follow such a man.

  Those who stormed forward did so in an explosion of rancour, a melee without form or order from the start.

  Ashild could not see who had fallen, but she had watched Askil rise in his stirrups and release the bow string. An uproar so great must mean his arrow had found home in one of the chief men of the Danes, perhaps even their leader. She could not see her brother, obscured as he was by the men behind him. Her raven flag marked where Hrald stood, and she kept her eyes on it.

  The two sides collided. Raised spears were lowered in attack, and shields lifted under the mutual onslaught. Though they moved forward almost in ranks, any attempt to maintain a shield-wall at once collapsed. Warriors broke through in streams, surrounding their foes, and fought back to back. Ashild saw the steel of swords as they swung. She heard Asberg’s two-part war-cry, which gave her heart.

  The ten archers Hrald had brought abandoned their bows and horses, and ran into the thick of struggling men, led by Askil. War-cries and whoops gave way to screams as men were hit and fell. A confusion of objects arose and fell about the knots of fighting men: spears, helmets, shields which rolled before landing on their pointed iron bosses. Men tripped and fell over this detritus, as they did over the bodies of those who had dropped bleeding to the grass.

  As men were downed or broke away to fight by twos and threes Ashild’s line of vision opened. She had let her spear down to the forest floor, resting it against the tree she hid behind. The cool damp of the day ran like a chill over her. She was straining forward over her stallion’s neck, her fingers entwined in the ghostly white of his thick mane. She sensed rather than saw Byrgher next her. Even their two horses seemed at attention, and stood with furry ears pricked forward, as if awaiting their own orders.

  The raven war-flag was off to one side of the field. A few men moved, and she saw the green of Abi’s tunic. Before him Asberg and Jari flanked Hrald, as they drove forward, spears in hand, facing four men also brandishing spears. She expected this steadfastness in uncle and body-guard and tried to take comfort in its display. They had sometimes sparred this way, and she could only hope the practice of fighting shield to shield would serve her brother now.

  Hrald, the middle of the three men in his shield-wall, must keep his spear in constant motion, whirling it in a large cir
cle before him as cover to himself and the two who flanked him. In any such formation the greatest danger was not from the man directly before you, but those on either side of that opponent. The man across you to the left would try to knock at the rim of your shield, exposing your torso to a spear coming from the right. The man on the right would look for an opening at your head and neck. Hrald was constantly checking from the tail of his eye from whence the next strike might come. He must worry those facing them with his spear-point, giving Asberg and Jari the chance to knock away their opponent’s shields or get in a sudden high jab at the head. Hrald’s greater height and long reach aided his spear in dominating the space before their opponents.

  Asberg, though unflinching at the right side of his nephew, was distracted by the presence of his young sons. Abi, holding the battle-flag, was armed with his everyday knife and had but a war-cap on his head. He feared the more for his older boy, Ulf, who would try to distinguish himself here before his Jarl. This muddled disorder was a far from ideal first engagement for young warriors. As they had stepped upon the field, Asberg had firm words for his older son.

  “Do not engage unless you must. Provide cover for Abi.”

  Ulf had proven good at this, watching the youngster’s back and using his shield with skill to deflect a rock thrown his way.

  Hrald, Asberg, and Jari pushed the four spear-men they faced across the field to the far line of trees, steadily backing them toward the uneven footing and undergrowth marking the edge of the grass. The four Danes were well-equipped, with ring-shirts and helmets. They were able enough spear-men, and even Asberg, known to be one of the better spear fighters, was taxed by the extra point they faced. Yet Jari’s presence, his spear held in his left hand, posed a special challenge to the Danes. The shield in his right gave extra protection to Hrald, while his spear clattered against the shaft of the man across from him, deflecting its every thrust. Jari had prodigious strength, and he did not tire in his spear-play. Even outnumbered as they were, the men of Four Stones steadily repelled the Danes. Every step carried the invaders closer to the trees, where they must either turn and run, tempting a thrown spear in the back, or stand and redouble their efforts.

  The Dane on the far left would choose neither. He made a sudden jump to his right, then jabbed at Jari’s left leg.

  The spear-point made solid contact with Jari’s calf. Still clutching his own spear, Jari fell to one knee, then the other, a dire oath upon his lips. Ulf, behind the men and closest to the spear-man, tried to lunge forward with his own weapon, but the man was already outside his range. The Dane ran along the line of trees before vanishing behind one of the larger of them. Downed as he was, Jari was nearly helpless against being poled or hacked at. His rich war-kit was enough to attract such attention.

  Hrald and Asberg moved with renewed fervour against the three remaining Danes. No spur was greater than a downed comrade, and they could not expose Jari to another hit. Hrald leapt at the one on the end before him, striking his spear tip to the iron boss of the Dane’s shield with ringing force. It knocked the man off balance, and the shield dropped low, allowing Hrald to get in a spear thrust just below the right shoulder. The man reeled back, and as the shield fell from his fist, Hrald made a second, killing thrust to the breast.

  This kill was enough for one of the two remaining Danes. He fled, stopped only by Asberg’s flung spear.

  “Go,” Hrald called to Asberg, as he engaged the sole Dane before him.

  Asberg turned to his sons, his orders low and urgent. “Help me get him to the side,” was his first, to Ulf, and “Stay with Hrald,” to Abi.

  Jari sat upon the ground, his hands clasped about his bleeding leg. Stunned and in pain he looked up at Hrald, still fighting. It took him back long years, to the day he had lost his fingers. Sidroc had avenged that loss, and the far greater one of Une, Jari’s brother. Watching Hrald now he thought, how alike were father and son.

  “Old fool, to be still fighting,” he muttered to himself, wincing against the throbbing fire of the gash.

  Asberg and Ulf got him to his feet, and placed him between them. The foot Jari held up behind him as they made their way to the trees ran with blood. They made for a fallen tree not far within. Jari crumpled onto the forest floor upon reaching it.

  “Where is your linen?” Asberg asked his son. Ulf pulled at the pouch at his belt, revealing the narrow roll. His father nodded. “Put his leg up on the trunk. Bind his wound. Stay with him and protect him.”

  On the field Hrald was still fighting the last spear-man. Abi, looking after his father and brother as they disappeared into the trees, saw the spear Jari had relinquished, lying where he had finally opened his fist. Jari was as an uncle to him, and he would want his spear. Even injured, a man could hold it out before him to fend off attackers. He picked it up from the bloodied grass and ran after his father, holding it upright against the staff of the raven banner. He slipped into the wood.

  Hrald, alone with the final Dane, found himself matched with a man of no great height, but possessing a speed which made his spear-point dart. He kept short thrusts of his spear aimed squarely at Hrald’s face, and kept his feet in motion, circling Hrald to give himself the greatest coverage with his own shield. Asberg too was fast in his wrists and nimble of foot, and he had trained Hrald to face such a foe. Surprise was ever an ally, and Hrald made the Dane’s own lower body his target, just as Jari’s leg had been. He made three thrusts at his knees, and got the man to lower his shield to better cover them. Then Hrald took a step back, lifted his right arm, and drove for the man’s head.

  The Dane’s helmet had neither eye-pieces nor nose-guard, but stopped at the hairline. Hrald’s spear-point struck above the left eye. The Dane’s knees did not buckle under the blow. The man fell back, arms opening, spear dropping, almost in a single line upon the torn grass. Hrald stood, panting, over him. The left eye was already obscured with blood, but the right was blue and staring.

  Hrald forced his own eyes up and away. He let his spear shaft slide through his hand until the butt hit the ground, and drew breath. Then something moved in the trees before him.

  It was Onund. The man was peering out at him from a thicket of rowans. He had no spear, but was otherwise fully armed with sword, knife, and a shield still upon his back. Hrald spent some little time looking at him before he spoke.

  “Onund. You ran, and now are back.”

  Onund had his answer ready.

  “Back to kill you.”

  Hrald scanned the area behind his challenger. The immediate line of trees opened to a small clearing, large enough to pull their swords in. They would not draw notice, fighting there. Onund stepped into the opening, as invitation. As Hrald took his first steps forward through the undergrowth to gain the space, Onund backed further away. He grinned, then turned and began making his way through the trees.

  “You run again,” Hrald taunted. “Is it me, or yourself you cannot face?”

  Onund did not answer this time, but kept slipping forward through the trees.

  Hrald would go after him. He looked at the spear in his hand. He would keep hold of it; it would prove useful as walking staff, and gave him a weapon Onund lacked. Hrald knew entering the trees held its own hazards. He had seen some of the Danes run thence, either to escape, or use the wood as a means of hidden movement, allowing them to reemerge closer to the action. Onund could be leading him to where more of the enemy waited, in ambush. But Hrald, catching a glimpse of the furtive look in the man’s eye, did not think so.

  Abi, standing at the tree line, was no longer certain where his father had entered the wood with Jari and Ulf. He walked in a short distance, brambles catching at his leggings and tangling against the two heavy shafts in his hands. He could see no one, and was loath to call out, so left the spear against a tree, where it could be recovered later.

  When he came out Hrald was gone. The man he had been fighting was lying on the ground, but there was no sign of Hrald. Abi caught his breat
h and stood scanning the field. Men stood fighting, one-on-one or in small groups, but none were Hrald. His height made him easy to pick out, and his helmet too, that which Abi’s father had given Hrald, with wolf-like creatures incised on its sides.

  He tried to look for Hrald’s shield of red and black. No man held one. But shields shattered in fighting, and men would take up any at hand. Still looking, Abi began to move uncertainly. He saw some men he thought were of Four Stones, and tried to call out to them, not knowing what he should do. His father was gone and he had lost sight of Hrald. Men were groaning from wounds, and a few lying not far from him reached an arm up in supplication. Oaths and war-cries from those still fighting joined with the shrill whinnying of horses. Some of the beasts were loose or had never been tied, and were circling fretfully, shaking their heads and flicking their tails in the confusion.

  As Abi stood there, an arrow whizzed by him from behind. Sheer surprise forced him into a run. Then he was hit by another, in the back of the thigh. The stinging force of it made him stumble and then fall. Face down in the trampled grass he heard his father’s voice shouting his name.

  Asberg ran across the field from the tree line. He pulled the arrow from Abi’s thigh, then scooped him up in his arms. He carried his son to Ulf and Jari in the wood. The raven flag lay abandoned on the field.

  Sheltered within the trees Ashild and Byrgher had watched Hrald step into the forest. They could see a man had appeared before him, but could not tell who; the distance was too great. They had seen Abi’s confusion, and watched him fall from the arrow-hit. It had made Ashild swallow a cry, to see first Jari and now her young cousin fall. They watched Asberg race to his son, and carry him off, returning to the wood with him.

  Some disturbance now was happening further down the road, where the trees on the other side began opening up to the expanse of grassland. It was the portion of the greensward where the fighting was now thickest. Directly before them was where the two sides had first engaged, and where the leader of the Danes had fallen. His body lay there still. No man as yet roamed the field plucking his battle-gain; the fighting was in places still hot. As she and Byrgher looked down the road, a troop of horsemen riding in ranks pulled their horses to a stop. She saw them turn to their saddle bags, draw out helmets and drop them on their heads.