The Scathing

by C. R. May

  The English champion was already calling his own invocation to the gods as the priest moved back past him with a final blessing, and a steady thrum got up as the Engles beat spear on shield:

  one…one-two…one,

  one…one-two…one…

  The Britons at the foot of the slope were catcalling, gesticulating as the warrior jumped and danced, calling down the spirits from the smoke black sky, and Eofer studied the man at the centre of the storm. He had always thought Feóndulf a braggart and a bully like all of his kind, and he was keen to see if his deeds would match up to his boasts. Hanging about King Eomær’s hall back in Theodford like a bad smell or off causing trouble for decent hard-working folk, the king’s bear shirts lived outside of what men considered normal society. They neither married nor worked, farmed, collected scot owed to their king or any other duty: they were kept for war, mad dogs ready to be unleashed on the king’s enemies, and this was their day.

  Feóndulf was striding the slope beneath the snarling head of a bear, the headdress and pelt which hung at his back teased out in the freshening wind. His face and bare body were a mass of runic spells, and Eofer saw for the first time that the markings were dedicated not to the Allfather as he had expected but to the warrior god of their ancestors, Tiw. Woden the Allfather had been the first to learn the secrets of runes following his self-sacrifice on the windy tree, but Tiw was the old god of war and bunching his personal rune in groups of three was powerful magic.

  The baritus got up then, the warriors in the front three ranks of the English shield wall swinging the great boards before them as the sound began to build. A low hum at first, the sound soon rose to fill the hillside as the men called on the gods to bear witness to their bravery in the coming battle. Each sound change in the war cry was accompanied by a movement: left foot forward...unsh! right foot...aah! before the shield came up to catch the final cry, amplifying and deepening the shout as it boomed and rolled around the valley: ooosh!

  The baritus came again: Unsh...aah"...ooosh! as the English champion spun and cavorted before them. Still no challenger came from the ranks of the men opposite, and the thrill of the fight to come began to course through the eorle as the men all along the line began to beat their spears upon their shields and cry the age old English war cry:

  Ut!...Ut!...Ut!

  Out!…Out!…Out!

  The rolling wall of noise was suddenly interrupted as Feóndulf, now a frenzied slathering madman, tired of waiting for an opponent and launched himself downslope. The English line roared as their hero drew back his arm and sent his spear sailing over the British, and he drew his sword as the ritual dedication to the Allfather arced down to bury itself within the ranks of the enemy near the red dragon banner of Cynlas Goch himself. Eofer watched in admiration as Feóndulf gathered speed on the slope, his legs moving smoothly as they delivered him to his death.

  At the top of the rise the whole of the army of Mercia was craning forward, eager to witness the moment of impact as the bear man aimed for the centre of the Welsh line. A heartbeat before the man hit a shiver of fear ran through the men facing him, as they came to know that it was they who would have to stop this mad charge or pay for the failure with their lives. The eyes of every man on the field were concentrated at the point of contact, and the very air seemed to still, time itself stand frozen in anticipation as Feóndulf reached the foot of the slope and powered on. The crash as the men met came a moment later, Eofer crying out as loud as any as the first men were bowled aside by the Engle’s momentum. The wan light of that storm-darkened morning shone dully on the blade of the bear-man as he hacked and hacked again at the heads of the men before him; scything a path through the front ranks to scatter those at the rear, where the battle-shirkers shrank before him and melted away like ice in the sun.

  Eofer looked away as the Britons began fold around the hero, exchanging knowing looks with the other thegns and leaders of the army lined up to either side. The attack had done its work, the English fighters were ready for battle and filled with confidence despite their lack of numbers, and Eofer stood proud of the battle line as the noise began to trail away. He knew that Feóndulf had been overwhelmed without the need to look; at this very moment he was going down under a blizzard of spear and sword blades as he paid the price for his bravery, and Eofer hoped the gods had witnessed the man’s end, despite his earlier feelings towards him.

  A howl of outrage came from the front ranks, but Eofer and the other leaders were already in place, ready to reimpose the discipline which each of them knew would be the difference between victory and death that day as the jeers from the foot of the slope came again. As the line steadied, Eofer took a look back to the west. The men of Powys had obviously expected the lone attacker to be little more than a battering ram, opening up a gap in their defences through which the men at the top of the hill would sweep down and through. The relief that that had not been the case was evident now in their voices. Already Cynlas Goch had sent the Welsh leading men moving through their ranks, shoving men into position as they began to prepare for an advance of their own.

  A line of golden light cut the meadow, and Eofer glanced up in surprise. A tear in the cloud cover had allowed the early morning sunlight to sweep the field for a heartbeat before the rent had closed again. The glow had lingered on the small troop gathered in their war glory beneath the red and gold banner of the Saxon giant. Seaxwulf was clearly visible, and the eorle gave a snort as he recognised the bearskin clad figure to his right, his weorthman from the first meeting still in place like any good right-hand-man should be.

  The boy Seaxwine was there, the group staring his way as they picked out the burning hart from among the war banners on the hill, and he fought against the desire to raise a hand in acknowledgement as the light faded again. Another band of blackness was sweeping in, darker this time than the one which had gone before, and Eofer wondered who would benefit the most when the inevitable rain followed. The earlier rainstorm had been blinding for the men on the hill, but the slope before them had taken a pounding from the horsemen as the Welsh rushed across the bridge and deployed at the start of the day and the rains had only added to the mess.

  Not knowing the English battle plan the horse-welsh had been sent to cover the deployment of the spearmen as they streamed across the only bridge to take up their position at the foot of the slope. They were not to know of course that the English had had no desire to take the fight to them while they were still divided and disorganised, but if the rains were about to return just as it seemed that the Britons were about to mount their own first attack of the day, the slope could quickly become a quagmire.

  As war horns sounded at the foot of the hill Eofer took a last look around him. The place of slaughter had been chosen on his recommendation and he felt the weight of expectation despite the fact that the final decision had been Icel’s. Away to his left the battle line was firmly anchored to the spur of land which came down from the hillside. Heavily wooded, the rising land beyond would be impassable for horsemen and heavy going for all but disorganised groups of spearmen. To his right, the place where the shield wall ended had largely chosen itself. There the land fell away as water meadow became marshy riverside, impassable to horsemen and spearmen alike. They had taken and now held the highest point on the valley floor, despite the rigours of the night march down from the old hill fort and the tense transit of the ancient trackway.

  Icel had set his banners on a knob of land to the rear, his own personal herebeacn of the black raven alongside the white dragon of Anglia, and Eofer regarded the figure of his lord with pride as he picked out the blond mop of hair surrounded by his gesith. Ready to rush to the aid of any point in the line which came under intolerable pressure or exploit a weakness in the enemy, Haystack’s personal guard were some of the toughest and most experienced warriors on the field.

  He had done all that he could to give the army of Mercia, the very first here to bear that name, a fighting chance. His confi
dence boosted by what he saw Eofer turned his face towards the enemy. If they could just hold out until the Lindisware arrived to roll up the Britons from the rear he felt certain that the day would be theirs.

  High above, thunder rolled as the first drops of rain began to spatter the ground around them. The wind had dropped to little more than a breath, the wind-driven chaos which had thrown the earlier droplets like slingshot forgotten as the Welsh crashed their shields together, let cry a roar of defiance and came to claim their victory.

  Eofer’s mind recalled previous fights as he watched the slow ascent. When the scops and bards weave their tales and drink befuddled men toast their victories as the wind howls about the eves, lines of heroes come on undaunted, facing down the arrow-storm in their desperation to come to grips with the enemy. No man was afraid, there were no battle-shy dragging their feet as they attempted to filter to the rear of the line. It was never like that in reality he knew, as fear twisted guts and turned the contents of bowels to water. But there was one thing that the poets did get right, every time: each man, be he a king’s gesith, thegn or herdsman, a warrior for the day, was a hero. If he survived the fight he became one of the few, the men who would in later life roll back his sleeve as wide-eyed children gawped at his scars and tell them that he got them fighting for king and folk at such a place, on such a day as this.

  The men of Powys had come to a halt, shuffling back into line as the dips and hollows of the slope worked to tease it apart. The leading men were bawling commands as they prepared to come forward again, and Eofer raised his gaze to sweep the vale one last time before the rain blotted out the view. The Saxons were still on their terrace, ready to move forward when summoned by their paymasters. At the foot of the hill the Welsh leader and his hearth troops, the men they called cantrefs, were facing upslope, ready to carry the red dragon banner forward as soon as the English line broke under the coming onslaught. The pieces of the game were perfectly placed, and his thoughts melted away as a cheer rent the English line.

  ‘This should thin them out,’ Osbeorn was saying.

  Eofer looked and saw that the remaining bear shirts were coming out to do battle with the fiend, and he watched as the giant men took up position a dozen paces from the English spear hedge. A wild-eyed warrior, bare chested, his arms ringed with gold jogged up, bared his teeth in a wolf-like snarl and turned to face downhill.

  ‘What is his name, Ozzy?’

  ‘Blódulf, Blood-wolf, lord.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘He thinks he is, he is a bear shirt after all.’ He sniffed. ‘A nuisance most of the time, but if he is anything like his mate Feóndulf it may have been worth putting up with their antics all these years. Despite the fact that they are bear shirts they call themselves the wolf brothers. Each of them has replaced his birth name with a wolfish name, Feóndulf we have already seen, Blódulf there and his mate Hæþstapa, heath-stepper, beyond him.’ Osbeorn lifted his chin as he leaned forward from the line. ‘That looks like Mearcweard, border-watcher, beyond them.’ He hesitated, narrowing his eyes as he looked along the face of the war hedge. Finally he shook his head. ‘Sorry, I can’t tell the others apart from here.’

  ‘No matter, the scops will recall them when they weave their verses. The boys have balls,’ Horsa said, ‘even if that is unlikely to last. Six men against how many?’

  Eofer had quartered the enemy as they formed up and had the figure to hand. ‘Just shy of two thousand,’ he answered confidently. ‘If you don’t include the cantrefs and Seaxwulf’s Saxons.’

  ‘So that’s…?’ Osbeorn murmured as he attempted to work the odds.

  ‘About three hundred each,’ Eofer replied with a grin. ‘So don't begin tucking in to your breakfast just yet, we still have work to do.’

  The Engles were yelling their war cries and beating their shields as the Welshmen dressed their lines, threw their shoulders into their war boards and came on. They were close now, so close that even the most reluctant spear man had accepted that the only way to escape was through the ranks of those at the lip of the rise, so they gathered their courage, put their faith in God and climbed. The bear shirts were filling the vale with their own battle songs, the notes rising and falling in time with their movements as they crouched and flexed, springing this way and that as they clove the air with their wide blades. The stygian gloom which had descended on the vale was suddenly lit by a flash as great as any which had gone before: lightning wove wild patterns in the sky and a curtain of rain swept down to veil the scene.

  Thunder boomed, and as if waiting for the sign the bear shirts launched themselves down the slope.

  The men of Mercia howled and yelled encouragement as their countrymen hacked and slashed only yards away, and great bites were torn from the battle line opposite as the Powys’ shrank back before the onslaught. Eofer blinked the rain from his eyes and checked to left and right. The wolf-men were cutting deep swathes through the British ranks, hewing to left and right as the enemy recoiled before them, but the thegn knew that the fight could only last a short while before they were enveloped and cut down. He turned his head, calling instructions to the men of his hearth troop as the first of the Britons began to break through. ‘Ready lads, here they come. Mark your man and make every thrust count.’

  Instinctively his left foot slid forward, just a touch, readying himself to spring forward as he listened for the signal. Drawing confidence from the press of friendly bodies all around him, Eofer glared above the rim of his shield as he watched the first of the attackers push their way past the place where Blódulf was still dealing out death all around.

  The Britons attempted to close up as they poured through the gap and Eofer fought down the overwhelming desire to attack while the men before him were disorganised and at his mercy. The Welshmen knew how vulnerable they were at that moment, and Eofer took delight from their fearful glances as he willed the war horn to sound. Suddenly it came, the haunting wail repeated up and down the line as other horns blared. With a cloud ripping roar the English line moved forward as one, a shimmering wave of steel and leather which swept into the disorganised men before them, crashing through their makeshift defence before it had the chance to reform.

  A man had turned to flee but there was no way back through the crush of bodies and Eofer drove his spear into his spine, twisted it clear and took a step forward. Another Welshman had kept his wits as panic began to grip his countrymen and Eofer watched as he threw his shoulder into the back of his shield and came on screeching like a gull, desperate to break through into the clear spaces beyond. The Engle braced and a heartbeat later the air was driven from his lungs as the big boards came together with a thunderous crash. His opponent was powerful, short and stocky, a difficult man to unbalance. Eofer felt his body tipping forward as his feet struggled for grip on the rain sodden grass, but his duguth were there and the pair took a pace to left and right, wedging him with their shoulders until his feet gained a purchase.

  It was his opponent’s turn to feel terror’s icy grip now as the momentum went out of his attack, and he twisted in desperation as Osbeorn and Horsa took it in turns to stab at his unprotected sides. The man went down with a final snarl of defiance, and Eofer ground his boot into the spearman’s face as he stepped forward, thrust his spear into the back of another panic-stricken Briton, released the bloody shaft and drew Gleaming from its scabbard in one fluid movement.

  The attack was faltering, and Eofer risked a look towards the river as a space cleared before him. English banners were moving forward all along the line as the fiend were forced backwards by the ferocity of their counterattack and, looking back to the front, Eofer was shocked to see the bare chested figure of Blódulf emerge from the crush. Still wary of his slashing blade despite their desire to be away from the place of slaughter, Welshmen were channelling around him as they fled down the slope.

  The English battle line moved forward far enough to gather in the wolf brothers who had survived the brawl, fight
ing alone like rocks in midstream as the enemy flowed all around them. Even the Engles were careful to give the madmen a wide berth until they were sure that the fury had left them, and Eofer exchanged a look of surprise with Horsa as he saw that the skies were clearing. The eorle closed one eye, squinting up at the patch of blue as the men around him jeered at the backs of the enemy. ‘That’s your mackerel sky for you,’ he said. ‘Never long wet, never long dry.’

  22

  ‘They don’t look so cocky this time.’

  Eofer looked back down the slope to the Welsh positions. It was true, they had underestimated the will of the English war host and he had been surprised by it. The leaders of Britain might be their own worst enemy, too busy fighting among themselves to unite and drive the real enemies from their island, but nonetheless they were not complete fools.

  He ran the events of the morning through his mind yet again as the spearmen of Powys shuffled into line. Three times they had come, and three times English steel had sent them scurrying back to the foot of the rise. They seemed determined to end it as quickly as possible: did they know about the Lindisware? Was there a traitor among the Britons in the Mercian army? At the back of his mind Eofer knew that his greatest worry was that Ioan and his men had betrayed them to Cynlas Goch, but Cynfelyn had satisfied Icel of his loyalty back at the hill fort and Haystack was nobodies fool. Besides, if that had been the case they would have been intercepted long before they appeared before the walls of Hreopedun, there were more than enough places where they could have been annihilated on the march. What if they had pitched up at Bruidon and the hill fort had been filled with the enemy? It was obvious that the Britons had not the slightest inkling that the army of Mercia was about to appear before them from their reaction that dawn: so what was unsettling his mind, being a bloody nuisance, digging and poking about in there like a boy with a stick?