The Saxon Spears

by James Calbraith

  I look around. At least a dozen dead Saxon lie scattered around me — more than half of Aelle’s best warriors, gone in one, fell, treacherous swoop. The head of the warband has been cut off — but there still remains the body, a mass of bandits, most of them still not yet realising what’s going on, some not even yet taking part in any of the fighting, waiting for their turn at the palisade.

  Offa catches up to me. I dodge his axe again. I weave my way towards Beadda, putting enough distance between me and his axe to make him lose interest: he can’t move too far away from Aelle. The Gesith blows again, a third signal, this one aimed at our allies. According to the plan, the Britons should now sally from behind their fortification, to make the best use of the chaos in the Saxon ranks. With them striking at the front and us fighting at the rear, we will soon make short work of the bandit army, shorn of its best fighters and mired in confusion.

  But nothing happens.

  Beadda blows one more time; there’s a note of desperation in the horn’s tune. The confusion cannot last long. Aelle is still alive, and he will soon rally his troops around him. I look nervously to the palisade. At last, I spot a change. The Britons behind the stakes shift and waver. They raise their shields and move — but in the wrong direction.

  “Beadda!” I call. “The wealas are retreating!”

  “What?”

  He follows my gaze and swears aloud. The abandoned stockade falls down in several places and the triumphant Saxons charge after Brutus’s men, only to be met with another wall, of shield and spear, the same tactics the Britons used at the Stone Bridge — and just as successfully. Step by step, their line pulls away from the palisade, away from the mouth of the valley — away from us.

  “What are they doing?” booms Beadda. He grabs an attacking Saxon’s throat and casts him aside like a straw toy. All around us, the Iutes and the Saxons are in the grip of deathly combat, as more of Aelle’s men are realising what’s happened.

  “They’re… leaving,” I say. “Leaving us… to die.”

  The betrayers have been betrayed. I curse my naivety. Of course the Britons serving under Wortimer would not care about the Iutes and Saxons killing each other. While we do so, they will retreat to the safety of their fortified outpost… To later face a much-diminished enemy — whoever survives the battle. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.

  “We’ll see about that,” says Beadda. He toots a beckoning call on his horn. “Hiréd! On me!”

  “A last stand, then,” I say grimly. Those of the Iutes who are able to respond to Beadda’s call fight their way towards us. I sheath the seax and draw my Anglian spear instead, gripping its shaft tightly. I whisper a prayer to the gods embedded in the blade by Weland’s skill. Christ will be no use to me today. He never was.

  “Maybe not,” says Beadda. He reaches for the henbane skin at his side. “We will fight our way out of here yet.” He looks up; his gaze sweeps the hilltops. “If there is a way out of here.”

  “The way back to the village is barred by the wealas,” I say. “And before us is only the forest, full of Aelle’s men.”

  Then I spot it — the eroded remains of an earthen rampart on one of the hilltops, enclosing the valley from the east. A scattering of boulders along its top forms a rudimentary defensive wall. It must be as old as the barrows and the standing stones. Who defended it and in what war is a story long lost in the mists of ages? — but there’s still enough of the wall standing to shield us from the Saxons.

  I point it out to Beadda.

  “I see it!” he says. “It will do — for now!”

  He uncorks the water-skin and takes a deep gulp before handing it out to the nearest of his men. He spots my curious look.

  “You’re not used to it,” he tells me. “It would do you no good.”

  As he speaks, his eyes grow wide, and veins on his brow begin to pulsate with rushing blood. He roars and beats his spear against his shield. The other Iutes around us do the same. The effect is almost physical — they all appear to grow taller and broader in shoulders. The Saxons pull back for a moment… and when they resume their attack, their blows are weaker, more fearful, less accurate. They know, instinctively, they are no longer fighting mere mortal men.

  “That hilltop!” Beadda cries, spitting foam and blood from a lip bitten in rage. “Follow me — and slay all who stand in your way!”

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE LAY OF ORPEDDA

  “Beorn. Stuf. Wilfrid. Saeberht. Aette.”

  Five names. Five bodies, dead, lying somewhere at the bottom of the valley. Five friends, five tribe members, two of them fathers of young children — one, Aette, a mother. With each name, a cup of water is spilt on the stone. It should be strong mead, and it should be set aflame, to light up the way for the Waelkyrge guiding their souls to the Hall of the Slain. But we have no mead, and we dare not light a fire. We huddle in the cold at the top of the hill, the ancient earthen rampart our only shelter. Beyond it, the Saxon warband sits in the darkness, watching, waiting…

  I have never seen anything like these twenty warriors, maddened with henbane and battle fury, fighting their way through Aelle’s band. I saw one man, his axe-arm cut off, pick up the axe in his left hand and fight on. I saw another, a shieldmaiden, take a spear in the stomach, snap its shaft in half and use it to crush the skull of the attacking Saxon. Each of the five fallen must have taken at least five enemies with them to their grave.

  Even all this, for a moment, did not feel enough. The hillfort, at the far end of the valley, was almost a mile away, up a steep slope. After an hour of drudgery and blood, we were not much nearer to it than when we started. The effects of henbane were beginning to wear out, and all around me, the Iutes were succumbing to their wounds and weariness. I remember Stuf fall first, just as he stood, without warning. One second he was thrusting his seax into a Saxon’s belly, the next he let out a great howl and dropped to his knees, blood gushing from his many open wounds. Wilfrid was the next to perish, cut down by a bandit’s hatchet.

  And then, the ranks of the enemy parted before us, as if we tore through a curtain. We were breaking out, at last. Before us was the open meadow at the end of the valley, with the salvation of the ancient fort at its end.

  It was not a glorious sight, fifteen brute warriors running for their lives up a muddy slope, pursued by a horde of baying enemies. A warrior’s honour would have required us to make the last stand and die, swords in hands, so that our souls could reach Wodan… But there was no honour in being betrayed and slaughtered if salvation was so near at hand — even if the salvation was only temporary.

  The eroded remnants of the embankment were barely sufficient as protection. Had Aelle ordered one more push, we would’ve been overwhelmed even there. But the Saxons were as exhausted as we were by the battle, and wary of us turning again into wild boars, and so, as the sun set beyond the hills at the far end of the gorge, they pulled back, leaving us alone for the night.

  I see their campfires now, flickering in the forest, all around the foot of the hill. There are few of us left with enough strength to keep watch through the night. I suffered only bruises and cuts, as the Saxons focused on the greater threat of the rampaging Hiréd, and so I volunteer to take the watch post closest to the enemy camp. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight anyway.

  I see some movement in the shadows. I grip the spear and peer into the darkness, ready to raise the alarm. The shadows move closer. It’s only a small group, not enough to mount an attack, and they move towards me without any precautions.

  “Halt!” I cry, pointing the spear towards the dark.

  I hear several thuds on the grass, and the shadows vanish. I wait a moment, then approach cautiously. I spot shapes in the dirt. My fingers touch the steel of mail, of helmets, bloodied blades. It’s the bodies of the slain Iutes. I turn to call for help.

  “I was disappointed, Aec. Or is it Fraxinus? Or… Ash? You seem to have many names.”

  I drop
to the ground, spear raised in my trembling hands. I scan the darkness for Aelle’s silhouette, but it’s no use — he, too, must be hiding in the moonless night. His voice is slightly muffled. Is he lying among the bodies? I haven’t counted them — and in the darkness, I couldn’t identify them all for certain.

  “I always suspected you would betray us,” Aelle continues, “but for a moment, when you arrived with those Iutes, I thought… I hoped — you were really coming to join us.”

  I scoff. “Why would I? You are just some bandit who killed my Master.”

  “Is that all you think of me? After everything you saw? After everything I told you about our plans?”

  “Your plans only concerned your tribesmen in the south. If you had stayed there, none of this would have been needed.”

  “The riches we needed for our plan to succeed were all here. Undefended. The merchants’ stores. The nobles’ homes.”

  “One of those is my home.”

  “Your home should be among your people, Ash. On Tanet, or in one of the settlements. Not a villa of the wealas.”

  “I am a wealh!” I say, forcefully. “And Ariminum is my home. I know no other. I will defend it with my life.”

  Aelle falls silent. I hear him shuffle, change his position. Against the stars, I think I can spot his silhouette now, raised on an elbow.

  “Those Britons today don’t share your enthusiasm,” he says. “They abandoned you to your death, along with the other Iutes. To them, you’re nothing.”

  “Not all wealas are like them,” I reply. “There are good people in Londin. People who see Iutes and Saxons as worthy allies. And there would’ve been more if it wasn’t for you and your warband.”

  “If it wasn’t for my warband, the Britons would never have agreed that the Iutes could move from Tanet.”

  I open my mouth to retort in anger, but I realise, with shock, that he’s right. It was the threat of Aelle’s raids that convinced Wortigern’s Councillors to allow Beadda’s Hiréd to settle in Beaddingatun — and then, when the attacks increased, let Orpedda’s group set up another village.

  “Next you’ll tell me that was a part of your plan all along.”

  “Not at first. My father and I didn’t know what to think of these Iutes — we weren’t sure if they would be our enemies or allies.”

  “So you killed their chieftain.”

  “That was an accident of war. I wasn’t looking for a fight with your people. I still don’t. Why do you think I let you live today?”

  “Let us live?”

  “Come now, Ash! Not even Beadda’s men would prevail against my entire warband. I ordered them to let you pass to this enclosure. And to leave you alone for the night.”

  “You just didn’t want us to slaughter any more of your men.”

  “That, too.” He chuckles. “But most of all, I wanted to give you and the Iutes another chance to put this misunderstanding behind us. You can still join us. All will be forgotten.”

  I want to tell him this would never happen, though after witnessing Brutus’s betrayal, I am no longer certain where their loyalties lie. For that matter, I’m not even so sure of myself anymore…

  I can now reconstruct Wortimer’s plan with some clarity. With all the Iutes slain in the battle, he would find little trouble convincing the other Councillors that we’ve betrayed them. Aelle’s wish would become a distorted truth. Even the Dux would be forced to admit that the test has failed. The Iutes would be expelled, and Wortimer, the only one who foresaw all this, would sweep aside all opposition…

  And it all may yet come to pass, if we can’t get out of here alive.

  “I understand it now,” he says. “Their misled loyalties notwithstanding, the Iutes may not yet be prepared for an all-out war against their Briton hosts. But maybe you could convince them to… stand aside. Let us get on with our task — and join us only when they’re ready.”

  “And to what end?”

  “So that perhaps, one day, the Iutes could do the same thing my father wants to achieve in the south. Force the wealas to acknowledge them as equals.”

  “There are other ways to achieve this than force.”

  He sighs. “This has not been our experience. The Regins don’t appreciate…”

  “Londin is different,” I interrupt. “There have always been other people there, coming to trade, to live, to love, from all over the Empire, and beyond. The city thrived on newcomers. They understand the world does not end at Britannia’s shores. And they will, given time, come to understand how the Iutes are an asset, not a burden.”

  “Then why are there only wealas in the Council? Why do only the wealas own the great villas? Why do we have to grovel for work, beg for land to till, and even then we’re only given the uphill scraps the Britons don’t want?”

  This sounds like a very specific complaint. I wonder, is this what really drove Pefen and Aelle to their rebellion?

  “We are new in this land. They have lived here for centuries. But things will change. They already are. I have a villa of my own — I’m allowed at Wortigern’s Council — others will follow, I’m sure…”

  “You said yourself, you are one of them.”

  “And you didn’t believe me.”

  I can almost hear him smirk. “Once a Saxon, always a Saxon. That’s not my words — it’s what your London wealas have been saying in New Port.”

  “They do not speak for everyone.”

  “So you keep saying. I wonder whether you believe it yourself. You are making a mistake, Ash,” he says and stands up. “Have a talk with Beadda. I’ll give you until dawn to decide.”

  “And what if we refuse?”

  “Then at dawn, you all die.”

  “We all swore an oath,” says Beadda. “To protect the wealas in exchange for the land.” He slams his fists together. “I won’t be forced to break it by this… boy.”

  He splays his palms in front of the fire to warm them. Now that we know the Saxons will not attack us at least until dawn, we’ve allowed ourselves this little luxury. By its flickering light, a group of warriors is digging five shallow graves in the hill’s hard soil.

  “Even if I wanted to betray the wealas, I cannot make such a decision without Hengist’s approval. He must know that.”

  “We could just… stay here,” I say. “Wait until Aelle goes back to the forest. Would this violate the oath?”

  He stares at me, wearily.

  “You, of all people, should know this is about more than just what we swore before the gods. When Hengist sent us here, he had a vision. Britons and Iutes, living together in peace. I believe in that vision. I thought you did, too.”

  “Nobody will know what we died for here,” I say.

  “The gods will know,” replies Beadda. “And we are not dead yet.”

  My stomach rumbles. I rub tired eyes and look around. We have no food, and only a little water. We are all tired and hungry. Several men are so badly wounded they might soon join the five bodies in the shallow graves, if they are not attended to.

  “We have no henbane left,” I say. “And we are surrounded by Aelle’s entire warband.”

  “I doubt it,” says Beadda. “He wouldn’t keep all his men stuck here — not when his real targets are still somewhere out there. I bet most of those campfires around us are just for show.”

  “Even so, it is madness to hope we can break out of here.”

  “You’re probably right.” He nods, and smooths his moustache. “You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he says. “I’m sure you could sneak out in this darkness.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” I reply.

  It’s not that I’m afraid to die, here, on this forgotten hilltop. It’s just that my survival would achieve more than my death. If I hurried, I could reach Londin by afternoon. I could confront Wortimer about his treachery, while his troops were still fighting the Saxons at Saffron Valley. I would have no proof, but my word still counted for something at the
court. Perhaps this way, at least, the Iutes’ deaths would not be in vain…

  “If I can sneak out, then why not the rest of you?” I ask.

  “The Iutes don’t sneak,” he replies. “I’d rather stay here and take as many of those whore-sons as I can with me to Wodan’s Hall.”

  I look around again, helplessly. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

  “If I were your Gesith, I would have ordered you to save yourself,” says Beadda. “You’re too young to die like this, and no oath binds you here. But you are not of my tribe. I cannot tell you whether to stay or go.” He looks to the East. “There is still some time before dawn. Maybe you should get some sleep. The gods sometimes come with advice in our dreams.”

  A falling star shoots across the black sky, from South to North. Then another. Three more follow. Five stars, five souls, led by the Waelkyrge to Wodan’s Mead Hall.

  I look down. I am in a grove of tall, mighty ashes, each grey trunk as wide as my spread arms. One stands tallest of all, more a mountain than a tree. A deep pool of dew has gathered between its gnarled roots. Before its top disappears out of sight in the night sky, it splits in two, and I recognise in its forked shape the Y-rune Fulco introduced me to in his first secret lesson. There is something hanging in the spot where the tree forks. Some one.

  I climb up the trunk towards him. I don’t know how long it takes, but it feels like hours; I climb through the dew and through clouds. I feel no weariness or injury, instead my limbs are filled with some outer power.

  The man, bearded and long-haired, is hanging with his outstretched arms tied to the branches, and his feet bound to the trunk. He’s naked save for a loincloth and a patch on one eye.

  “You are Wodan,” I say, though his face also reminds me of someone else I know…

  He looks at me with the healthy eye and winks.

  “You would rather see your Roman God?” he asks. “He would never show himself to you like I do.”

  “You are mocking his sacrifice.”

  “Or perhaps he is mocking mine?”

  There’s no point arguing with a god.