I swallowed, aghast at what I was witnessing. Gwawrddur squeezed and moved the knife blade fractionally. The Norseman whimpered beneath Cormac’s hand.
“Tell him,” Gwawrddur said.
I told him in Norse, though words hardly seemed necessary.
“Does he understand?” asked Gwawrddur.
I asked him and he grunted and tried to nod his head, which was difficult and dangerous with Cormac’s hand clasped over his mouth and his blade jabbing into his throat. Gwawrddur seemed satisfied.
“Remove your hand, Cormac,” he whispered.
Slowly, Cormac pulled his hand and knife away and moved back from the Norseman, giving Gwawrddur more space.
“Keep watch, Cormac,” Gwawrddur said. “I don’t want any of those Norse bastards creeping up on us.”
Without a word, Cormac sheathed his eating knife and stepped into the darkness.
“Tell him,” Gwawrddur said, his voice oddly calm, “that if he tries to call out for help, I will slice off his balls and shove them in his mouth before killing him.” I could hear my blood rushing in my ears as my heart hammered against my ribs. A gust of wind rattled the trees and a sighing spray of rainwater fell through the canopy. I shivered. I could not utter the words.
“By Christ’s bones, boy,” whispered the Welshman. “You must speak my words. There is no time now for any of your monkish softness.” His words stung, but still I was unable to say the words he asked of me. “Come on, boy,” he growled. “Each warrior must use the skills he has for the good of the warband.” I looked at him. His face was a shadowed mask in the gloom, but his eyes seemed to blaze from the darkness. “Do you not say that God placed you here for a reason? Then use the skills He has given you.”
I sighed. He was right, of course. With a nod, I told the Norseman Gwawrddur’s message. He glowered up at us from where he lay in the wet leaf mould, but after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.
“Ask him where the third ship has gone,” Gwawrddur whispered.
The Norseman listened to my question. He seemed to ponder my words, perhaps wondering whether to answer or not. Gwawrddur gave the flesh in his left fist a tug and the sentry spoke in a rush.
“He says that the ship belonged to Øybiorn. Five of Øybiorn’s men were slain today. He decided the gods were against him and he did not want to sacrifice more of his crew.”
“But Skorri decided to stay?” Gwawrddur asked.
The Norseman nodded. He glared up at us and I could feel the hatred coming off him like waves buffeting a cliff.
“Skorri says we will take many thralls, silver and gold,” he said. “These houses of the nailed god are rich and,” he hesitated, “unguarded. Or so we thought. Øybiorn said that slaves and treasure are no use to dead men.” The Norseman flicked his gaze down to where Gwawrddur clutched his delicate flesh against the cold steel of his seax blade. “I am beginning to see the wisdom of Øybiorn’s words.”
I translated his words and Gwawrddur chuckled. Something about the interaction between the two men shifted imperceptibly in that darkened, rain-washed glade. I wondered what had changed and then it struck me. There was now a grudging admiration between the two warriors. Gwawrddur for the Norseman’s bravery in the face of torture and death, the Norseman for the courage of the defenders in inflicting losses on the raiders and perhaps our audacity in coming to their camp.
Perhaps Gwawrddur would let him live after all. The man was brave, of that there was no doubt, but the idea of this bearded brute, with his huge arms and their boulder-like muscles and savage scars, standing before me in combat threatened to turn my bowels to water.
“When will Skorri attack?” Gwawrddur asked.
The Norseman shrugged and offered the Welshman a thin smile.
“When there is enough light in the sky for us to see the faces of those we are killing.” The Norseman’s teeth flashed in the darkness. Here he was, bound and helpless, with his captor holding a knife to his manhood, and yet he was grinning and defiant still. By God, what manner of man was this? Is this what warriors were? I glanced at Gwawrddur’s rigid posture, his gleaming eyes. He was like a hound on the hunt, eager and excited, scenting blood on the wind. The faint glow of the moon shone on his seax blade. Could I ever truly be like these men?
Another gust of wind shook the trees, but along with the rustle of leaves, clatter of branches and shower of rain around us, came a new sound. One that filled me with dread. A voice bellowed out a warning in Norse. The loud shout was taken up by others and soon the night was echoing with the cries of angry men. Panicking, I looked to Gwawrddur for guidance. His eyes glimmered red and with a startled gasp I realised the night was no longer dark. Spinning about, I looked through the trees towards the Norse camp and the sounds of alarm. Great gouts of flame lit the sky. The boles of the alders and sallows were black against the bright conflagration.
A muted rasping cry pulled my attention back to the Norse sentry and Gwawrddur. As I watched, Gwawrddur pulled his blood-smeared blade from the man’s throat. By the light of the fire that blazed back at the beach encampment, I saw at a glance that the Welshman had not gone through with his threat of emasculation. The Norseman shook and writhed as blood pumped and gushed from the deep slash across his neck. His beard was slick with his lifeblood and his eyes glared accusingly at Gwawrddur. But he made no sound loud enough to call his comrades to our location. Gwawrddur had hacked through his windpipe as well as his arteries. Bubbles formed in the blood that welled there and with a final gurgling sigh, the Norseman shuddered and lay still.
“Cormac,” Gwawrddur hissed. He cast about us in search of the Hibernian. For a heartbeat, I could not pull my gaze away from the dead Norse sentry. Blood still pumped from the ruin of his throat, but his body was unmoving, his eyes unblinking and unseeing. Gone was the powerful hatred and defiance of moments before. He was nothing more than meat now; carrion for the animals of the forest.
“Cormac,” Gwawrddur called out again, raising his voice slightly, but still not much above a whisper. The screams and shouts from the Norse camp were louder now and the flames brighter.
“Where is he?” asked Gwawrddur, his tone sharp and impatient.
I did not know. I scoured the dark, flame-licked forest. My mind span. What had happened? Had Cormac been captured somehow? What was burning? And then I spotted movement. Moments later this was followed by the crash of branches, as Cormac came bounding through the dense foliage towards us. Behind him the night was ablaze, as red and bright as a setting sun.
I pointed.
“There.”
Gwawrddur looked and his eyes must have been sharper than mine, or his mind was less confused and addled by what was happening, for he instantly saw Cormac’s pursuers. There were three of them, long hair and beards aglow in the firelight. Two carried axes, the third held a sword in his meaty fist.
“You take the left one,” said Gwawrddur. Without another word, he slipped behind the thick trunk of a tree, drawing his sword from its scabbard as he did so.
For the briefest of moments, I stood there, watching Cormac running towards me. I did not know if he or the men on his heels had seen me, so I followed Gwawrddur’s example and leapt to the side of the path that they would follow. I leaned my back against the rough bark of an alder and dragged my sword from its scabbard. It felt cold and heavier than ever before in my hand.
The night was filled with sound and light, but above the crackle and hiss of the fire, I could hear the approaching crash of Cormac and his hunters. The Norsemen shouted, telling him what they would do when they caught up with him. They would pull his entrails from his stomach and have him watch. They would tear his lungs from his back and drape them over his shoulders. I shuddered, in no doubt that they would offer me the same hospitality should I fall into their hands. I looked down at the bloody corpse of the Norse sentry. The night, like the day, was already filled with blood and death. There would be no chance of quarter here. We needed to slay the men who purs
ued Cormac and then flee. If we were captured, we would not only be killed, but we would be tortured and we would give up all the secrets of Werceworthe’s defenders.
I took a deep breath. The damp, heavy verdant scent of the forest was tinged with the acrid bite of smoke. Cormac rushed past my position. The sword-wielding Norseman was just behind. A heartbeat later, the second pursuer ran past. Gwawrddur sprang out from his hiding place, scything his sword into the man’s thighs. The Norseman screamed and tumbled to the earth in a scattering of leaves, twigs and mud.
At hearing the noise of fighting, Cormac spun around and faced the attacker closest to him. Their blades clashed and I pulled my gaze from the confrontation, waiting for the final pursuer.
But he did not come.
He must have been alerted by the fate of his comrades. Even though I had not run anywhere, my breath came in short gasps as I stood with my back to the alder. I clutched my sword and tried to listen for a sign of the third Norseman’s position, but the night was a cacophony of yelling and distant snapping and crackle of blistering burning wood.
Cormac and his adversary exchanged blows. Gwawrddur had dropped onto the second warrior, plunging his sword into the man’s back before he was able to rise.
My feet were as rooted to the ground as the alder. I could not move. Where was the third warrior? Had he gone back in search of help? Should I go to Cormac’s aid?
Gwawrddur turned back from the man he had slain and looked in my direction. His eyes widened, red and aglow with the reflected firelight, like a fox’s eyes in the night.
“Hunlaf!” he shouted.
His cry broke the spell that had fallen on me. He had no more time for a warning, but somehow, perhaps by the direction of his gaze, I knew with sudden terrible certainty that the third warrior had crept up on the other side of the tree I had hid behind. Without thought, I threw myself to my left and away from the trunk of the alder. Splinters of bark showered my face as the man’s axe bit deep into the wood where my neck had been. Without Gwawrddur’s warning, that axe would have taken my head from my shoulders. But now there was no time for thinking. The moment for fear and concern was gone and I rolled in the mud and came to my feet in one smooth motion. Absently, I felt a tugging sting in my shoulder as Hildegyth’s stitches parted.
The Norseman roared at having his prey escape him at the last possible moment. He tugged his axe free from the tree and came towards me bellowing like a bull. He had no shield and neither did I. As Gwawrddur had taught me, I watched the man’s eyes and his shoulders, rather than his blade. I was calm now, filled with the energy that washes through me when blades clang and blood flows in battle. Perhaps the man saw that I was not frightened of him, or maybe he became aware that his two comrades in arms had been killed, for Cormac had dispatched his enemy. But whatever the reason, my opponent hesitated for an eye-blink before deciding to attack. In that instant, his eyes showed me where he was going to aim his strike and when it came I rolled under his swing and buried my blade high in his chest. Such was the force of my lunge that I lifted the Norseman off his feet and we both tumbled into the muck. Gwawrddur ran forward and kicked the man’s axe out of his hand. At this, my opponent’s eyes widened and he groaned in abject terror, though he must have already known he was dying, with my sword jutting from between his ribs.
Gwawrddur grabbed hold of me and pulled me to my feet. I drew my sword from the dying man’s body with an effort. The flesh sucked at the blade as if it wanted to keep hold of it even as the soul left its shell and headed to hell, for that is surely where this heathen would go.
Scooping up the axe, Gwawrddur tossed it to me. I caught it. Its smooth ash handle was still warm from the grasp of the man I had killed.
In the distance, there were more shouts as the flames grew ever more intense. What was burning? Was the forest itself alight? How could that be?
Gwawrddur did not pause. He lifted the axe from the man he had slain, and tugged a seax from the Norseman’s belt and then he hurried towards Cormac.
“Take his sword,” Gwawrddur snapped, nodding to the dead Norseman at Cormac’s feet.
Cormac picked it up and grinned. How could he be happy, I wondered? But then I recalled the savage sense of joy that had filled me moments before as I took the life of the axeman. Who was I to judge the Hibernian?
“Come on,” said Gwawrddur and, without waiting, he led the way through the dancing shadows of the forest back to where we had tethered our boat.
No more enemies loomed out of the darkness, and the sounds of chaos and the light and heat from the great blaze behind us, dimmed in the distance. We slid down the rain-slick bank and lowered ourselves into the boat. I untied the slimy rope and pushed us out into the river.
The glow from the far-off flames shone against the dark waters and lit Cormac’s smiling features as he pulled at the oars.
“What have you done?” hissed Gwawrddur when we could no longer hear the shouts of the Norse in the night.
“I have evened the odds,” Cormac said, his grin widening.
“How so?”
“Well, not only have we slain more of the heathen whoresons, but I have burnt their ships too! Those Norse bastards are going nowhere now!”
Fifty-One
“What have you done, you fool?” roared Hereward. He shook with fury. Spittle flew from his lips, flecking his beard. His fists were bunched and he raised them up before Cormac. I thought he would strike the Hibernian.
A baby started crying and the sound seemed to pull Hereward back from the brink of violence. He looked over to where Wulfwaru rocked her son soothingly. She shook her head sadly at Hereward. Her eyes were shadowed in the dim light of the tallow tapers that burnt and guttered with their foul-smelling smoke. Despite her face being veiled in the gloom of the hall, her disapproval was clear.
Hereward swallowed, and with an effort, lowered his fists. It was yet before dawn and most of the villagers had still been asleep until his outburst. Now people were sitting up, bleary-faced and frightened, perhaps believing that the raiders had attacked again in the pre-dawn darkness. The thought made me shudder. They would not wait long to exact their revenge for what we had done, I was sure. Hereward knew it too.
“What in the name of all that is holy were you thinking?” he asked, his voice lowered from a shout, but still tight and clipped with anger.
Cormac did his best not to quail before the Northumbrian thegn. He squared his shoulders and stood as tall as he was able.
“We killed more of our foe-men. That is a good thing, is it not?”
For a time, Hereward’s rage engulfed him and he was unable to speak. His face reddened and the muscles of his neck bulged and bunched.
“But the ships,” he said, letting his breath out with a sigh, as if his anger, like a summer squall, had dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving nothing behind it but a gentle breeze.
“I saw a chance to even the odds and I took it,” Cormac said, jutting out his chin defiantly.
Hereward looked about him as if in search of an ally, someone who would understand the reason for his rage. His eyes settled on me.
“Hunlaf,” he said, “you are a clever lad. Certainly not such a fool as this Hibernian jester.” I wanted to look away, but he held my gaze as a hawk that stares at a mouse in a field of scythed barley. I could sense everyone in the hall looking at me. “Do you think it was a good idea to put the Norse ships to the flame?”
I did not want to answer him. Not with all the people of Werceworthe listening. Hereward had impressed upon us the importance of morale, of not showing the people we were defending that we had any doubts in our ability to win against our adversaries. But now it was Hereward himself who was threatening to break the fragile hope we had managed to build in the villagers with our plans and the victory we had won the day before.
He was staring at me, his expression implacable.
“Well?” he asked, his tone sharp. “Perhaps you too are as foolish as Corma
c. Do you believe he should have burnt their ships?”
I could not remain silent in the face of his ire.
“No,” I mumbled, shaking my head.
“No,” he said with a sigh. “And why not?”
The reason was clear to me. When Cormac had told us what he had done on the boat as we rowed back to the shingle beach on the southern side of the river, Gwawrddur and I had grown sombre. We had told Cormac what we thought of his actions but then, as now, he refused to accept any guilt and stood by his decision with resolute stubbornness.
“Speak, Hunlaf,” Hereward said. “Explain to this dolt what he has done.”
I swallowed. I flicked a glance at Cormac, but he was ignoring me, instead staring angrily at Hereward.
“He has taken from them any means to leave,” I said.
“So what will the Norse do now?” he asked, his voice taking on the same tone Leofstan used when speaking to a particularly dim student.
“They will fight,” I murmured.
“They will fight!” he exclaimed, slapping his hands together. The sharp sound startled Aethelwulf, who started crying again. Wulfwaru muttered a curse and turned her back. Some of the other children joined her son in weeping now, frightened by Hereward’s anger.
“They were already going to fight,” exclaimed Cormac. “All we have done is to lessen their chances by slaying more of them.”
“The Norse you killed are not the problem here,” snapped Hereward. “Even with those you have slain and the men who left on the third ship,” he looked about him and lowered his voice now, as if suddenly aware that he could be heard by all the inhabitants of Werceworthe, who thronged the hall, “do you really believe we can defeat all those who remain?”
“It is my plan to kill all who come before me,” said Cormac.
“By Christ’s teeth,” said Hereward, pushing both his hands over his head, his fingers entwined in his hair as if he planned to rip it out. “They will fight like trapped wolves,” he hissed. “Our only hope of victory was that they would tire of being killed by us and that they would go elsewhere. Now they cannot flee.”
A Time for Swords Page 37
