The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  “Why not?”

  “The river is a boundary between our territories.” He points westwards. “We have an agreement. No warbands within a mile either way. We’re here to remind them of that.”

  “A warband…” The word brings an image of a force more coherent and fearsome than anything we could muster in the camp. “Are we really ready to face them?”

  “Don’t worry. The wealas are soft and weak. They’ve depended on others for protection for far too long — they have forgotten how to fight.” He pats my shoulder again. “It’ll be fine.”

  I turn to leave, then remember I wanted to ask him something else.

  “What’s Hilla’s problem with the Britons? Why does she hate them so much?”

  He glances towards the tent I share with the girl. Hilla sits before it on the grass, sharpening a wooden stake.

  “If she hasn’t told you herself, I doubt she’d like you to hear it from me,” he replies. “But if the rumours are true, she has more reason to want to kill them than anyone here.”

  We cross the River Arn at dawn. It flows lazily here, split into many streams and rivulets meandering through marshy ground. By the time we reach the dry ground on the other side, my breeches are soaked through with oozing, slippery, ice-cold, reddish mud. I can’t remember when I last felt this woeful.

  We reach a clearing and Eirik calls for me, Hilla and another bandit, Ubba, to follow, while the rest of the warband stays in place. Eirik leads us down an unseen path to the edge of the forest, and bids us hide in the tall ferns before showing us the target.

  No more than a hundred paces of blasted heathland separates us from the settlement. It looks similar to Weland’s village, set among piles of slag and charcoal ash. I count maybe ten round huts, built in the old Briton manner, surrounded by a remnant of a low earthen wall, more to guard against beasts than men — when there was enough of it. The huts all appear empty, save one in the centre. The enemy warband — the name hardly fits, it’s no more than a dozen men altogether — has settled in a handful of tents, scattered among the huts. Four watchmen stand in the corners of the village’s perimeter.

  This isn’t the only such warband roaming in Andreda, Eirik tells me. Aelle’s army controls the greatest swathe of the forest in the east, but here in the west the situation is more complicated. There are outlaw camps scattered from the Stone Road all the way to the foothills of the Belgs and Atrebs.

  I ask how long it has been going on, but he can’t tell for sure — it was already like this when he joined Aelle. I don’t know what to think about it. Nobody in Londin ever mentioned that there were Briton bandits in these woods as well as Saxon; nor that they have divided these forests among themselves into strict territories, territories running across the tribal and provincial boundaries, ignoring any effort of the official governments at controlling the land that, by law, belongs to them. The Andreda might as well be its own separate island. Was Wortigern aware of this when he sent me here? Was Wortimer?

  “They don’t look that weak to me,” I remark. The Britons — and they all are Britons, as far as I can tell, though with no tribal markings it’s impossible to determine where they’re from — who wander among the tents have the bodies and postures of trained warriors. They’re all armed with at least long knives. I spot a couple of swords tied to the belts. The watchmen lean on iron-tipped spears. “And they appear to expect an attack. What’s the plan?”

  “You younglings go first. We follow.”

  I scowl. That’s it? That’s the strategy? I don’t mind him sending us new recruits in first — this is the manner in which battles have been fought since the Greeks — but I expected a little more effort from our commander. This is more like the play fighting back in Ariminum, with the Saxons launching into a mindless brawl against the Briton defences.

  “You’re free to lead your men however you wish,” Eirik tells me, “but I wouldn’t expect them to be able to grasp any… subtlety,” he adds, to Ubba’s grim grin.

  I take another look at the village and spot an oddly straight line of dark ferns and thick bramble running between us and the earthen wall, at an angle. I point it out.

  “An irrigation ditch,” says Ubba. “It would once divert water from the river to cool the furnaces. Now it’s just mud and weeds.”

  “It will act like a moat if we attack from here,” I say.

  Eirik nods at the heathland, surrounding the village from three sides. “They’ll spot us if we try to flank them. It’s the only way.”

  “What if we crawled?” asks Hilla. She has kept silent until now, studying the village with more intensity than any of us.

  “The younglings are not trained for this. They’d be spotted a mile off,” replies Ubba.

  “Then it must be your men who go first,” says Hilla, in a voice that brooks no argument. This elicits a chuckle from Eirik and Ubba.

  “I’m serious,” Hilla presses. “If you want us all to get destroyed in that ditch, go ahead, send us first. But I don’t see what that would achieve, other than warning the wealas of our attack.”

  The way she pronounces the word wealas is the same in which she would pronounce the word dung.

  I hasten to support her. “She’s right. I will not lead these men to such mindless slaughter.”

  “I don’t think you’re aware of your position, boy,” says Ubba, but Eirik silences him.

  “You’re overthinking this, Aec,” he tells me. “They’re just a bunch of outlaws. Get in there and draw them out of those tents, and leave the rest to us old ones.”

  “And if you won’t, we’ll find someone else in your place,” adds Ubba.

  The ten of us launch from the edge of the forest, yelling and waving what weapons we have over our heads, like wild men. And even though Hilla and I warned them about the ditch, half of the men lose themselves in the tangle of brambles and vines.

  Hilla is the first to reach an enemy. A grey-haired Briton emerges confusedly from his tent to see what the commotion is about, when she swirls her hatchet and buries it in his shoulder. I rush past her, grab an approaching outlaw by the sword arm and plunge the knife in his bowels. I push his body at another foe, turn just in time to duck an incoming spear and jab at the chest of the man holding it. The blade swishes in the air in vain — my knife is shorter than the seax I’m used to.

  The camp is by now all up in arms and gathering around us. I glimpse one of the fresh recruits fall with a knife in his throat. The remaining four of us are soon separated from those we left in the ditch. Hilla fells another of the outlaws and tears a spear from the hands of another. It seems Eirik was right, these Britons offer no fight when pressed. Fighting in the narrow confines of the village reduces their numerical superiority, but not for long. They grow cautious of Hilla and me and, seeing no point in risking more deaths, force our backs to the daub wall of the central hut, where they surround us in a wide crescent, Hilla to my right, the two remaining recruits to my left. One of them panics and starts to run, but I hold him back.

  “Stay in place! You’re safer here.”

  I look nervously towards the forest’s edge. I see no movement. Eirik is taking his time. The fighting in the ditch is fierce, but brief; only two of the recruits survive to scramble out and flee into the trees, pursued by a handful of outlaws.

  “They’re just Saxon brats!” shouts one of the Britons. “Is this the raid we were so worried about?”

  “Careful,” replies another. “There might still be more in the wood.”

  “Throw your weapons,” the first one addresses us in broken Saxon. “And we’ll let you live.”

  The scared recruit to my left drops his club. I glare at him, and he picks it back up. The spear blades edge closer to us.

  “Try me,” spits Hilla. She waves her hatchet before her and the spearmen leap away.

  “Enough,” an authoritative voice speaks from inside the hut behind our backs. “Cut them down.”

  The Britons let out a faltering b
attle cry and charge. A spear pins the recruit to my left to the daub wall. His shriek of pain splits my ears and breaks my heart, though I can barely remember the boy’s name. As Hilla and I rush into the brawl to fight our way out, a thought flashes in my head. Is this it? Is this how I die, an outlaw brawling outlaws in some abandoned village, with nobody even knowing my real name?

  Hilla slips in the mud. Falling, she grabs an attacking Briton’s tunic on a reflex and pulls him on top of her. His hands reach for her throat as she frantically searches for the hatchet she dropped, her eyes bulging, her face turning purple. I tackle an outlaw out of my way and reach for Hilla’s attacker. We grapple; he smacks me in the face. I see stars and fall back. But it’s enough for Hilla to free her hands and, using the throw I taught her, launch the Briton into the air.

  I help her up and we barge through the foes towards the nearest hut. I ram the wicker door down. Hilla cries out and pushes me down just in time for a blade of a sword — a Roman spatha — to swish over my head. I grab and tackle the enemy to the floor.

  The inside of the hut stinks of rotting flesh. I spot two decomposing corpses in the corner, huddled together right where they were struck. They must have been lying here since the bandits attacked the village.

  I turn back to the entrance, to face the enemy. A roar of a dozen throats fills the air. Just behind the Britons, Eirik, Ubba and his men appear, out of nowhere. The clubs, axes and knives fall on the enemy’s backs. In a blink of an eye, half the outlaws lie on the ground. Some make a valiant stand among the huts, in the reversal of the battle. Others soon panic and disperse into the heathland. There is no pursuit. Eirik focuses his men on those who remain in the village. I step out of the hut to help, when a strong arm grabs me from behind. I feel the cold steel of the spatha at my throat.

  I’m pushed forward. The man holding me shouts out in decent Saxon. It’s the same voice I heard earlier from inside the central hut.

  “Let me through and the boy lives!”

  Slowly, the fighting ceases throughout the camp and everyone’s eyes turn at me — and the man behind me. I count the dead — two Saxon veterans have joined the younglings on the ground, at the cost of twice as many Britons. Two of the outlaws still stand, their backs leaving a bloody trail against a hut wall.

  “I’ve lost half a dozen children like him today,” says Eirik, aiming the point of his short sword towards the voice. “What makes you think I’ll care for this one?”

  “The fact that you haven’t rushed at me yet,” replies the Briton. “This one fights differently than the other younglings. You’ll want to keep him. Show him off to your… warchief.”

  “Don’t try my patience. Let the boy go.”

  “Don’t you need someone to survive to tell the tale of your victory?”

  We’re still inching towards the edge of the village. Eirik nods at the others to surround me and the Briton.

  “I’ll just send out one of these guys,” Eirik says, pointing to the two wounded.

  “They’ll never make it out of the forest.”

  The blade presses against my skin. I feel blood trickle down my neck and bite my teeth. I try to break free, but the grip on my arm is tight like a vice. Judging by where the voice is coming from, the Briton is a tall man. I can feel his muscular chest pushing against my back, heaving. Eirik glowers, his sword hand trembles.

  I hear a high-pitched cry. A weight strikes against the Briton and me from behind, and we both tumble. The spatha thuds onto the ground. I roll aside and see Hilla sitting astride the Briton, his face in the mud. She’s stabbing his back repeatedly with a knife; my knife.

  Eirik steps over and pulls the girl off the dead Briton. “Enough,” he tells her, softly. “We’re done here.”

  Still shaking, Hilla stands up. The bloodied knife slips from her hand.

  “Get all the weapons and armour that can be of use,” orders Eirik. “Then burn this place down.”

  “What about these two?” asks Ubba, nodding at the wounded Britons.

  Eirik walks up to them and plunges his sword into the heart of one of the men. “Patch the other one up,” he says. “Their chief was right. We’ll need one of them to warn the others what happens when they get too close to Aelle’s territory.”

  I look to Hilla, searching for a glint of pride in her eyes. Seeing none, I approach her and pick up the spatha from the dirt.

  “You killed a chief,” I say and hand her the sword, the trickle of my blood still on the blade. “You deserve this.”

  Her eyes light up at the sight of the sword. It is a fine weapon, an old pattern, with empty gem socket on the handle. It must have been a family heirloom stolen from some Roman officer’s household, or maybe dug out from a grave. The blade is rusty and notched, but still sharp enough, as my stinging neck can confirm.

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” she says, staring at her reflection in the cold steel.

  Despite our heavy losses, there is a sense of elation in the camp after the battle. The funeral of the fallen, buried hastily in the damp heather peat, turns into a celebration feast, a great sending-off of their valiant souls to Wodan’s Mead Hall. Even the skies seem to share in our mirth, as the overcast skies, the thick layer of cloud, is replaced by a bright, clear azure, dotted with delicate wisps of white.

  For many, even the older bandits, this is their first taste of victory in a pitched battle. It’s making them feel like an army, a squad of warriors rather than a mere band of outlaws. Our losses are not as severe as first feared, even among the young recruits, and I’m more relieved at learning this than I expected, considering I barely know any of these people. I remind myself not to grow fond of any of them. I was sent here to find a way to thwart their designs, after all. I might end up causing the deaths of all of them yet…

  Hilla’s mood has also improved greatly, not least since now she has a tent all to herself. As I watch her swish and thrust her newly-won weapon, I struggle to contain a satisfied grin.

  “What are you laughing at?” she snaps.

  “This is your first time, isn’t it?” I say. “You look just like I did when I got my first real sword to play with.”

  “Oh, I expect you’ll now want to teach me how to use a sword.”

  “Only if you so wish.”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll manage this one on my own,” she says and, with a deft slash, she cuts a thick oaken branch neatly in twain.

  “Ah.” I take a sip of the victory ale. “Is that something you learned at the Oars?”

  She turns grim in an instant. She thrusts the sword into her belt and sits down next to her new tent, which she set up as far away from mine as the crowded camp grounds permitted — a whole ten feet away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say and offer her the ale mug. She stares into it in silence.

  “I’ve been moved from one Briton dungeon to another since I was five,” she says at last. “First for petty stealing in the New Port harbour. Then, when my crimes grew more serious, they sent me to man the oars at the merchant galleys.”

  This certainly explained the strength of her limbs I experienced so often during our wrestling, the muscles bulging, almost pulsating, under her tunic.

  “You’re from New Port?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know where I’m from. There are Saxon orphans like me roaming all over the south coast. Sooner or later we all end up in the town gangs.”

  “You’re a Seaborn?”

  “There are other ways in which a Saxon child can get orphaned.”

  “Such as…?”

  A shadow mars her face. “The Saxons came here as soldiers of fortune, but what good is a soldier when there’s no war? So they fight among each other for the scraps from the Briton table. At least where Pefen’s hand doesn’t reach yet.”

  “Pefen?”

  “You don’t know even that?”

  In truth, I have heard the name before. The Regin merchants often mentioned him in conversation — some with fear, others with grudging
respect. But Hilla doesn’t need to know that.

  “I told you, I know nothing about the world outside my Master’s villa.”

  “Pefen is the one who is going to unite the warbands. All wealas shiver when they hear of him.”

  There is a strange glint in her eyes when she speaks that name.

  “You’ve met him,” I guess.

  “He took us from the galleys. Gave us food and shelter.”

  “Us?”

  “Other orphans like myself. When the Regins started asking too many questions about what happened to their little slaves, he bade us hide in the forest. That boy they speared through yesterday, was one of us, too.”

  We fall silent, remembering the fallen, though the noise of continuing celebration just a few feet away makes our solemn reflection difficult.

  “You must have seen much of the world on those merchant ships,” I say. “Have you ever sailed outside Britannia?”

  “All I ever saw was the inside of a galley deck,” she replies with a glower. “And it’s something I don’t want to remember ever again.”

  She throws the mug in the dirt, stands up and disappears into her tent, just as the bandits erupt into another song praising their weapons and women.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE LAY OF HILLA

  No more than a week has passed since the funerals when a messenger arrives at the camp. I have no idea how he’s managed to find us in what appeared to me until now a randomly chosen glade in the middle of a vast forest. Eirik wastes no time in announcing the news. It is clear by the look on the faces of his veteran soldiers that they’ve been expecting it for some time; indeed, they’ve grown impatient waiting for it.

  “Yes, Ubba,” he says, as we gather around the fire, “we’re moving against the Stone Bridge tomorrow.”

  “Then Aelle’s warband is finally here!” Ubba claps his hands.

  Eirik nods. “Not only them. Nanna’s band is coming from the east. This will be a battle that will strike fear into the hearts of those soft Britons all over this island once again. They will remember what it’s like to tremble before the Saxon sword!”