by C. R. May
‘I want to hit this fort, and hit it hard. Anything less than the complete destruction of its garrison and the wooden parts of the structure itself will be considered a failure.’ He flicked a look up at Alyn and saw that he was lending his weight to the steering oar. The Briton was guiding the boat into the final turn before the fort itself came into plain view. He would have to be brief, but they knew their business and he could see that they brimmed with confidence to a man. ‘You have all heard how Alyn has described the interior of the fort, but we will run through it now. Ask any questions that you can think of, or put me right if you think that I have misunderstood anything myself.’ He gave a self-depreciating shrug. ‘It has been known.’ His finger stabbed out as he asked the first question of the men.
‘Finn.’
‘Yes, lord?’ The new duguth beamed, proud to take the honour of answering the first question.
‘What will we see as we approach the fort from the river?’
‘The main walls come down to the riverbank and then extend out into the river itself for several yards. The beginnings of a jetty has been constructed to enable boats to unload, but this will almost certainly still be incomplete.’
‘So?’
‘So the area will be strewn with building materials and the like, things to keep an eye out for if it’s gloomy.’
Eofer nodded and moved his finger across to Anna, from the newest duguth to the latest youth to join his troop. The boy had lost his father, his only remaining family in the fighting at the ridge, back in Daneland during the war of fire and steel. Eofer had allowed him to tag along during the migration to the new land, but the lad had more than proved his worth in many ways and all had been delighted when he had sworn an oath to Eofer and joined their band.
‘What else will we see there?’
‘A wall, lord, twenty paces from the river’s edge.’
‘None of us have ever seen this wall, Anna. Describe it for us.’
The boy flushed as faces turned his way, but he cleared his throat and carried on. ‘The wall is made of vertical timbers driven directly into the soil. This screen is about ten feet high, a good height to allow defenders stood on the interior fighting platform to stab down with spears at any attackers below them.’
‘There is no earth bank?’
‘No lord, neither inside nor out.’
‘Porta. How do we get past this wall?’
‘Through the gate, lord,’ the youth grinned. ‘Which they will leave open for us.’
Eofer snorted as gentle laughter rolled around the group. ‘Let us hope so. But if they don’t, you all know what to do and who your partner is?’
A sea of nodding heads accompanied guttural grunts as the men confirmed that they did.
‘Has this wall a gatehouse?’
Porta shook his head. ‘Only a covered section above the gate, there are no defensive features as such.’
‘Grimwulf, what will we see when we enter the compound?’
‘Four leather tents, lord. Two on our left to house the workmen who are building the fort, and two facing them across the way who belong to the warriors whose job it is to defend them. Eight men to a tent in the Roman fashion makes twenty warriors and a similar number of artisans.’
Smithing had given Anna a sharp mind, and he threw a questioning look at his fellow youth as he tallied up the numbers involved. Grimwulf delighted in explaining his number work to the amusement of the others. ‘Each ten man group is assigned a tent, but a quarter of them are always on guard duty. So,’ he smiled as he poked the boy with a finger, ‘they only need room for eight men in a tent at any one time.’
Eofer bobbed his head in agreement. ‘And?’
‘And that’s about it, lord,’ he answered with a satisfied smile. ‘They have been kept busy constructing the defences. The only building so far within the boundary of the fort is the church which stands near the main gate. The horses are picketed in the corner opposite.’
Eofer nodded with satisfaction as a sharp whistle came from the rear of the boat. Eofer looked across to see the steersman pointing forwards. The bows had cleared the final turn, and Alyn was centring the steering oar as he guided the craft the final hundred yards or so to the landing place. The crewmen were moving for’ard uncoiling the ropes which would tie the craft to her moorings, and Eofer gave his final instruction as the first challenge carried to them from the rampart.
‘Einar.’
‘Yes, lord?’
‘You fight with the duguth. Grab your gear lads, and anything which might make you look like you are trying to be helpful. Once we are inside hit them like Thunor’s hammer!’
Anna handed him his grim helm as he passed, and Eofer secured it to his belt as he retrieved his shield and spear from their stowage place amidships. Shouldering the great board he bent again to hoist a sack from the deck and waited for the boat to ground. His men were doing likewise as Alyn pushed the rudder away from his body and angled in towards the bank.
The sky was still an ochre wash to the west, but the waterfront was mostly in gloom, and despite the tension of the moment Eofer once again wondered at the fact that the British had left the stand of alder in place so close to the fort. It was slapdash, and he hoped the man in charge here was as slack in other areas of his defences. He could see now that the gateway into the fort was still open, two spearmen lounging there as they waited for the new arrivals, and he knew that Alyn had been truthful when he had told them that the sight of his distinctive red hat would quash any suspicion that the incoming boat could contain anything but friends.
The boat gave a shudder as the keel brushed the shelving river bottom, and Eofer looked on as the Welsh lads leapt ashore and made her fast to the mooring posts. Moments later he too was on the bank, and he moved aside as the others landed beside him with a crash of boots and a jangle of metalwork.
Alyn called out, and the guards at the gate exchanged a look before one of them reluctantly ambled down to the water’s edge. Stepping from shadow into light, the man shielded his eyes as he called to the boatman in their native tongue. ‘Who are your friends, Alyn?’
‘Sacsoniaid,’ he replied. ‘I am taking them up to the big fort.’ The boatman smiled. ‘Some Engles rustled their horses at the Cair, so they hitched a lift with me.’
The guard flicked a look across to the place where Eofer and Horsa were waiting for the rest of the duguth. Saxons or not, the sheer size and the aura of belligerence coming from the men before him demanded that they afford the newcomers respect. Barbarians were unpredictable at the best of times, if they had had their horses stolen from under their noses their precious sense of honour would have been badly knocked; they would be itching to fight someone, anyone who gave them half an excuse, and he knew from experience that gabby Britons, allies or not, would do just fine.
Alyn had read the spearman’s thoughts, and he called over again. ‘It’s alright, this lot are just off the boat. They can’t understand a word of Welsh.’
Eofer caught the man rolling his eyes. Osbeorn had noticed it too, and Eofer had to stifle a laugh as he recognised the mischievous twinkle he knew so well come into the duguth’s eyes. The guard sauntered across, motioning to Osbeorn as he came. ‘Come on then, hurry up. Get that stuff inside and we can all eat.’
Osbeorn narrowed his eyes, his expression deadpan as he feigned incomprehension. As the guard let out a weary sigh, the big man offered up his sack of goods with an imbecilic smile.
‘No I don’t want it, take it that way,’ the guard snapped, blind to the fact that the rest of the war band were moving past him towards his lone friend at the open gate. The Welshman tried again, raising his voice and slowing his speech in the manner of all Britons when faced with a foreigner unable to understand their tongue. Eofer, despite the tension of the moment had to turn his face aside, masking his laughter with a cough as he caught the exchange.
‘Go…that…way.’
‘Bitte?’
‘Follow�
�your…mates…you…thick…Hermann.’
Eofer raised his gaze, his blood quickening as he saw that Horsa and the leading men were a dozen paces from the gaping entrance and its dozy guard. He shouldered his spear and followed on just as another figure appeared framed by the posts, silhouetted by the campfires within. Eofer narrowed his eyes as a spark of recognition kindled within him, but his stomach went into free fall as the figure took a pace forward into the last of the day’s light, the horror on his face plain to see as English plans became dust.
14
As the double doors began to close, Eofer snapped into a run. The others had recognised the man too and Horsa threw himself forward, hoping to shoulder the doors wide before the locking bar could be dropped into place. Shouts were carrying to them from the compound, and they all knew that the chances of the attack being successful were sluicing away by the moment. Horsa crashed into the gate, the force of the strike causing a cloud of ochre dust to billow from the boards, but Eofer saw with consternation that the defences were solidly closed to them. Already the duguth were moving to the sides and Eofer cried out as he came on. ‘Youth! Get those shields ready!’
The back-up plan quickly took shape, the youth fanning out to either side of the gateway as all need for pretence fell away. The duguth had turned back, taking the few paces necessary to make the leap, and Eofer felt satisfaction despite the ruination of his original plan that he was now best placed to lead the attack.
Anna and Bassa were the first to get into position and Eofer angled his run towards the pair as they gripped the shield tightly, flexing their knees as they made a platform between them. A heartbeat later and Eofer was leaping, right foot leading as he drove forward and up. His momentum slammed him into the palisade, the roughly hewn wood scouring his cheek as the youth lifted him with a grunt and he flew upwards. Lights flashed like suns before his eyes from the fires within the compound and he knew that he had cleared the top of the wall. Eofer’s arm shot out to hook himself up and over; a moment’s free-fall and his back crashed onto the fighting platform and he rolled, bracing himself as he tumbled down into the fort itself.
Back on the ground the eorle sprang to his feet, his spear coming around as a dip of the shoulder caused his shield to slide down on its carrying strap. The instant his fist closed around the handle the shield came up, and Eofer threw his shoulder behind the big board as he prepared to face the first of the defenders.
The guards had recovered quickly from their surprise and a spearman was almost upon him, but Eofer sprang forward yelling his war cry, driving the thrill of an easy victory from the attacker’s expression in an instant. His aggressive reaction had drained some of Briton’s confidence, but the man was committed to the attack and he pushed down his fears and came on. Eofer took the spear thrust on the face of his shield, deflecting the dart aside as he drove forward. Horribly exposed to a counter strike, the Briton twisted in desperation as he sought to open the distance between them, but Eofer stabbed downwards as his opponent spun away, the point of his spear sliding smoothly into the soft calf muscle of his trailing leg. As the spear came back Eofer twisted his grip, angling the spearpoint upwards and thrust again. It was an old trick, one which he had used a hundred times in battles and skirmishes, and it worked again. The Briton raised his shield in desperation as the blade came in, but blind now he did not even see the moment that the Engle dropped the spearpoint and thrust again. The scream of pain as the blade opened his groin told Eofer that the strike had been true, and as the first man to lead the counterattack fell away Eofer swung around to face the next threat.
Another Briton was following in, hefting his spear as his friend lay howling at the base of the palisade. Eofer braced again to receive the attack but the man suddenly slid to a halt, raising his eyes in horror before turning tail to run back towards the centre of the fort.
A quick look to left and right confirmed what he already suspected, and he sprinted towards the enemy campsite as his duguth rained down into the compound from the walkway above.
As his head snapped around he was already drawing back his arm, ready to let fly with his spear at the nearest Briton. The retreating guard was a dozen paces ahead of him, his panicked warning cries echoing in the space, and Eofer sighted and released as the camp began to come to life. The spear flew true, spinning the Briton around as it took him in the shoulder, and Eofer watched as the gore spattered point emerged from his chest as the man fell.
Eofer was still moving, his legs pumping like bellows as he leapt the prostrate figure. Beyond the fallen guard he saw for the first time that a start had been made to a watch tower at the centre of the compound, and his eyes darted to left and right as he searched for any other changes to the layout as he ran. The tents which he had expected to see now flanked the wooden structure, and he concentrated his gaze on the right-hand group as the men there began to rise from the fireside. The glint of firelight on steel confirmed Alyn’s description of the campsite, here were the warriors, and he angled towards them as Gleaming slid from its scabbard.
He was still thirty paces away, the first men were rising to their feet and he pounded on, desperate to get among them before they recovered from their surprise.
Twenty paces, and the first Welshmen were snatching up spears from a rack.
Ten paces and the eorle threw his shoulder into his shield and braced for the crash. His world narrowed as he came on, the rasping of his breath the only sound to break the rhythmic pounding of his feet in the moments before contact, and then he was airborne, leaping the flames and yelling his war cry. An explosion of sound enveloped him as his great battle board hurled spearmen aside, and his sword arm swung as he landed among them. Men who only a short while earlier had been relaxing with friends, sharing meat, ale and laughter at the end of another easy day spent watching others toil under the hot sun were bowled aside as the English warlord cut a murderous path through their ranks. Gleaming swept in a bloody arc before him, men falling like barley before the harvest reaper as he cut a bloody swathe.
Taken by surprise, unarmed, the closest men scrambled away as best they could from the death dealing madman who had appeared in their midst, and Eofer yelled and attacked again, hacking at unprotected heads and shoulders as the terrified men scattered before him. A space opened up, and Eofer paused for a heartbeat as he searched out the most likely threat.
Near the cooking fires a small group, more finely dressed than most, had been the first to recover their wits, snatching up shields and weapons as they moved shoulder to shoulder and prepared to come against him. The man in the centre stood a head taller than any other, his mouth twisted into a snarl of hatred behind a close cropped beard as black as night. A linen tunic of brilliant white trimmed with copper-gold braiding at the hem, cuffs and neck was cut by a baldric of rufous leather, and Eofer watched as the man calmly drew his sword and hefted his shield. Here, he knew, was the leader of the warriors at the fort, and Eofer’s mind raced as he saw that the man’s stand of defiance, the calm eye at the centre of the storm which swirled around him, was drawing more men to his side with every passing moment.
The Englishman knew that he must keep up the attack or risk losing the initiative and his eyes slid downwards, seeking to wrest any advantage he could from the few feet which separated them as he grimly stood his ground and waited for help to arrive. A faggot nestled at the edge of the hearth, the flames licking hungrily at the ties which bound the bundle together, and Eofer’s heart leapt as he saw the strand part and the individual sticks tumble in a blazing heap. Eofer seized the chance, springing forward like the maddened boar of his namesake as the Welsh battle lord dropped into a fighting crouch and prepared to receive the charge.
As Eofer leapt he trailed his right leg, dragging the toe of his boot through the powdery ash as he once again vaulted the flames. The moment that he felt his boot slide beneath the bundle his foot shot forward, scattering burning sticks in a comet tail of flame and sparks.
T
aken by surprise the Britons instinctively flinched as the fiery brands rained upon them, snatching heads aside, taking a backwards step as Eofer leapt the gap to crash down among them. The flaming sticks had cleared a space for him, little more than the width of his shield in depth but it was enough, and Eofer stabbed out as a face appeared to his right. He was beginning to tire as the effects of the blow to the back of his head earlier that day came back to sap at his strength, but he knew full-well that the moment he let the intensity of his assault drop, even a little, the Welsh would rally and overwhelm him.
Within a heartbeat the counterattack he had feared arrived as the British chieftain recovered from his surprise, the big man driving his shield forward in a powerful punch as Eofer faltered. The domed metal of the boss crashed into the eorle before he could haul his own shield across to cover, and although the metal face plates of his grim helm saved him from suffering catastrophic damage, light flashed in his vision as the pain at the back of his skull returned with a vengeance. A wave of nausea swept over him, powerful and unstoppable like a tidal bore, and all Eofer could do as his legs threatened to collapse beneath him was hurl himself forward and hang on to the Briton as he prayed to the gods that help would arrive soon.
The Engle dug in with his feet as he felt the heat of the hearth scorching the back of his calves, flexing his legs to return the push, and as he began to recover he realised that his desperate action had brought him face to face with the brawny Welshman. Little more than a hand’s width separated his own helmeted head from the black beard of the brute, and Eofer braced himself for the pain which would follow as he gritted his teeth and drew back his head. Helmet-less the Welshman was wide open to the attack, and Eofer felt and heard the crunch as his head came forward and his opponent’s nose crumpled under the very first blow. The Briton wavered, taking a rearward step as Eofer drove his head forward again and again and the black beard reddened.
