I was running now, sword in my right hand. Surely, the invaders would slaughter the defenceless people cowering there before I could reach them. Yet still I ran. Cormac was some way ahead of me, but I could see that even with his head start he would be too late. And then something unexpected happened.
Just before the Norse reached the terrified villagers, a small group stepped forward to intercept them. These were the old and the infirm and I saw that Ingild, broken collar bone and all, was amongst them. Aethelwig was at the centre of the small band that blocked the Norse warriors’ path and I marvelled at the bravery of it. These greybeards and peasants stood no chance of halting the Norse attack and yet they threw themselves into their path in an effort to buy enough time for the women and children to escape.
“Flee!” came Aethelwig’s hoarse shout to Wulfwaru and the others.
The women and children were pale-faced, sobbing and terrified, but Wulfwaru pushed and cajoled them into motion, moving back towards the hall and away from the Norse.
The tanner clutched a knife in his hand, nothing more. Some of the other men carried axes. One bore a hoe, another a rake. The Norse wore byrnies of burnished iron, their heads were covered in metal helms, their faces part-hidden by grim eye and nose guards. In their hands, these raiders wielded long swords and axes as if they had no heft at all. These were wolves meeting sheep and the outcome of the encounter was inevitable.
I let out a roar of rage and desperation as the first of the villagers was cut down and blood sprayed crimson. Another fell, head smashed and opened by a savage axe stroke.
“To me!” I shouted, remembering Runolf and the others who had been near me at the hall. “To me!” My breath tore at my throat and my shoulder screamed as I ran. I could feel hot blood soaking into my kirtle from the reopened wound.
Wulfwaru screamed and I saw that Aethelwig had fallen, battered under the force of the Norse charge. Skorri’s red cloak fluttered and flapped about the tall Norse warlord as he fought, blending with the blood that misted the air.
The women and children were some distance from the fighting now, but I could see that Wulfwaru could no longer loose arrows without fear of striking the defenders and so, like me, she was forced to watch in impotent rage as the men were hacked down.
Like Cormac, who sprinted before me, I ran directly towards the bloodletting. My mind had gone blank and all I knew was that I had to defend these people; my people. I was as certain as I have ever been of anything before or since that it was my destiny to fight those Norse and that my presence would somehow make a difference, perhaps even turn the tide of the fight.
What pride, what hubris the young. To think that I, little more than a boy who was more monk than warrior, could stand before those men of battle! It was madness, and yet, as is so often the case, it is not the cautious warrior who lives to tell of his exploits, but the foolhardy and the mad. And it seemed I was not the only young man consumed with that madness on that blood-drenched morning, for with a bellowing scream that gave all those fighting a moment’s pause, Cormac careened into the gap left by Aethelwig in the defensive line. The Hibernian sprang over the tanner’s prostrate form and flung himself at the attackers. He fought with a frenzied savagery, smashing his sword into shields and using the momentum of his rushing run to push the Norse warriors back.
I could scarcely believe what I was seeing, but in that first hesitation, Cormac’s blade found the neck of a broad-shouldered brute who had been swinging a great axe with abandon. Blood fountained and Cormac let out a cry like that of a beast. More animal than man then, Cormac scythed his blade into another warrior’s chest, bursting the rings of his byrnie so that they flashed silver, like sparks in the rising sunlight.
The Norse were wary now. They took a pace backward and Cormac followed them, taunting and screaming. The few village men who remained on their feet faltered. They were not killers and they saw that Cormac might have gained them enough of a respite to flee back to their families. He had sped to their aid and now they deserted him and I could not blame them. But Cormac was my sword-brother and I would not allow him to fight alone. We were all doomed anyway and with that thought, I threw away all concerns. We would both die but we would die fighting. Even then I was sure that God had brought me to that moment. That it was my divine calling.
The first man Cormac had struck was on the ground, his blood turning the earth about him to mud. Without pause I kicked him square in the face. Blood sprayed from his ruined neck and he flopped back, unmoving. I scooped up his shield and lifted it just as one of the other Norse sent a vicious swiping blow of his sword at my chest. Despite the unfamiliar bulk of the byrnie, I was fast and the battle instinct was upon me. At such times it always seemed to me as though I could move faster than any opponent, and see them react almost before they knew it themselves. I can barely walk twenty paces now without losing my breath. I am slow and decrepit and it is many a year since I was quick and deadly. But then, as I hefted the shield taken from the dying Norseman’s hand and felt the reassuring weight of the iron-ringed shirt upon my shoulders, I felt invincible. I caught the sword blow on the rim of the shield and turned the blade away. I was dimly aware of the pain in my shoulder as I positioned the shield, angling the board to deflect the blows that came thick and fast, but the real pain would come later. In that instant, with the blood coursing hot through my veins, I shrugged off the hurt. As in every fight since, I would not truly acknowledge the injuries my body has sustained until after the battle was over.
To my left, I saw that Cormac was battling against the huge leader of the Norse. Skorri laughed as the young Hibernian flung himself at him time and again. Each time, the jarl stepped away, using his shield to slide the attacks effortlessly away, or raising the blade of his sword to parry with a ringing clang that reminded me of Werceworthe’s warning bell. From the briefest of glances, I could see that Cormac was struggling. Skorri was clearly not just large and strong, he was a master swordsman and Cormac’s brutal onslaught had carried him as far as it would without more skill to back it up.
But there was no time for me to watch. I had my own Norse brute to contend with. The Norseman before me was raining stinging strikes on my shield. He was strong, massively muscled and powerful and with each hit splinters flew up from the linden board. His blows were so vigorous and relentless that I could not find an opening. I was skilled enough that I could soak up his attacks on the shield and my blade, but if I did not end this soon, one of his comrades might turn their attention to me, plunging a blade into my unprotected back or side. Failing that, the warrior, clumsy as he was, might still land a lucky blow.
Around us, the rest of the Norsemen, now no longer held in check by the greybeards and ceorls, headed towards the retreating men, women and children. There was nothing either Cormac or I could do to halt them. We were both locked in struggles to the death. I put the fate of Wulfwaru and the others from my mind and focused all of my attention on the man before me. His attacks followed a pattern and I quickly saw that he relied on his prodigious strength to defeat his opponents. Another strike splintered my shield and I felt the force of it rattling down my arm and into my shoulder. I remembered what Gwawrddur had taught us.
“You do not have to take your enemy in the neck, head or chest to win a fight,” he said. “These are the blows all men seek to land, and most expect to defend against.”
I saw another attack coming. I took it on my shield as I had all the previous strikes, but this time, instead of sending my own counterattack towards his midriff, where he too would easily block it with his shield, I dropped down and hacked my sword into his foremost foot. He wore stout leather boots, but the animal hide did nothing to stop my blade, which sliced through flesh, sinew and bone.
I wrenched the blade free and my assailant let out a shriek like that of a woman in childbirth. His face was a mask of agony and shock. Without hesitation, I sprang up from where I knelt and drove the point of my sword into his exposed throat. His
cry was cut off and his body stiffened for the briefest of moments as my blade plunged further and further up into his head. I felt the tremor of the blade as it connected with bone and I heaved it upward, breaking through the skull. His life left him in a flash and instantly he grew limp and collapsed. My sword was embedded deeply in his brains and his dead bodyweight wrested the weapon from my grasp as he fell.
I staggered at the suddenness of his death and for a heartbeat I was standing alone. Behind me I could hear the sounds of combat, presumably as the Norse reached the fleeing men and their families once more. A woman screamed and the wailing cry of a baby rose above the tumult of the fighting. I should run to their aid. I was filled with the joyful ire of battle, blood-spattered and panting. Perhaps this is what God had intended for me all along; to singlehandedly defeat the Norse who, without my intervention, would rape and murder the weak and defenceless. But I could not rush to help the people of Werceworthe. I did not even turn to witness how the fight was going. For to my left, Skorri seemed to have tired of fighting the wild Hibernian who still beat at his shield with abandon.
As I watched, aghast, the red-cloaked jarl pushed an overreaching lunge away with the iron boss of his shield and in the same instant he sent a savage riposte slicing into Cormac’s side. It was a terrible blow, swung with great force. I noticed the sparkling flash of iron rings shattered and flying. Cormac’s face drained of colour and he stumbled. His sword tumbled from his grip and he fell to his knees in the wet grass. Blood sheeted down his side.
Skorri turned away from Cormac, certain of his victory. Our eyes met and I had never known such fear before. The jarl’s eyes were not those of a man, they were devoid of feeling, like the cold, killer eyes of a pike that lurks deep beneath the surface of gloomy waters. I could see Cormac moving from the edge of my vision, but I could not pull my gaze away from those eyes. Cormac gasped and whimpered, lifting his hands to try to prevent his gut rope from spilling out. The vivid red of his blood was spreading out, reminiscent of the way that Skorri’s cloak was draped over his shoulder. I stared into Skorri’s animal eyes and all I saw was death.
“Do not falter, Hunlaf,” rasped Cormac with a great effort.
His voice spurred me to action. I had stared into the face of death, and knew that it might well claim me that day, but I would claw and fight against its cold embrace until I could no longer draw breath. I darted forward and grasped my sword. Its grip was blood-soaked; warm and sticky. I tugged it hard, but the man’s brains and skull would not relinquish their death-grip easily. Skorri swung his sword with a flourish and stepped forward.
He chuckled.
“By Óðinn, is it only the boys who fight in this land?” he said. His tone was bemused and he clearly spoke to himself, not expecting me to understand his tongue.
Shaking his helmeted head, as if saddened by what he witnessed, Skorri raised his sword. The blade was smeared with Cormac’s blood. I heaved at my weapon, almost losing my hold on it. In a heartbeat, he would strike me down and all would be for nought. Was this what God had intended for me?
“Jesu, give me strength,” I screamed.
With a sucking pop the sword came free of its fleshy prison and I swung it up to parry Skorri’s downward stroke. The swords rang out and the shock of the man’s strength shook me. My hand throbbed from the blow and I knew then that I could not beat him. Cormac fell onto his side in the blood-stained grass and I leapt back, making space for me to be able to use the footwork Gwawrddur had spent so long teaching. I might not be able to win, but I would not die easily.
“I am no boy,” I said in Norse, spitting the words at Skorri. His eyes widened behind the face mask of his great helm. “And neither is he.” I pointed with my blade at Cormac’s fallen form.
“Well, what have we here?” said Skorri, his voice amused and as relaxed as if we were chatting over a horn of mead in a feast. “A boy who fights and knows my tongue. You are intriguing indeed. But, alas there is no time to talk and I doubt I will ever know your story.” He raised his shield and sword and lowered himself into a fighting stance. “For the dead do not talk.”
“I will not die so easily,” I said with a bravado I did not believe.
“We shall see,” he said. “You will die soon enough, unless you can fight better than your friend there.”
And with that, he jumped forward with incredible speed and power, and the skill of a warrior seasoned in countless combats.
Fifty-Five
I raised my shield, barely able to deflect the blow and too off balance to counter. I staggered backwards.
Skorri came on, slashing and hacking his sword remorselessly into my shield. Such was the speed and ferocity of his attacks that I could barely defend against them. I allowed him to drive me back, but I knew that soon, he would seek to alter his attack, hoping to catch me off guard. A heartbeat later he turned an overarm swing into a feint, changing the direction of his strike in an effort to slice into my sword arm.
This was what I had been waiting for. I could not beat him strength for strength and so I must use my speed and guile if I was to have any chance of success. Gwawrddur would be pleased to know I had been listening on all those long, hot days of endless repetition.
I twisted my body, pulling back my arm so that Skorri’s blade slashed past harmlessly. Seizing the opportunity, I cut upward. If I could have made the same blow in a downward motion, with my weight behind it, I would surely have severed Skorri’s hand, but as it was, my attack lacked power. Still, it was a hit and I felt my blade snag on the jarl’s clothing as he snatched his hand away with a sharp intake of breath. Blood bloomed and his sleeve was soon red and wet with it. It was not a deep wound, and I could see that it would not impair his ability to swing his weapon. And yet still it was a victory and I grinned in savage delight at having claimed first blood.
“So,” he said, glancing down at his blood-soaked sleeve, “the boy has teeth.” His eyes narrowed. “It was you who came to our camp last night, wasn’t it?”
“I was not alone,” I replied, flicking a glance at Cormac’s still form.
Skorri laughed.
“Well, you are alone now,” he said. “Every man is alone when death comes for him.”
His words filled me with a sudden fear and again I was staggering back, parrying and blocking his flurrying attacks. This time, his speed, strength and skill got the better of me. Using his shield to block mine with a bone-rattling crash, he dragged his sword across my left shoulder. The byrnie stopped the blade for an instant, before it slid from the iron rings and cut into the flesh between my neck and shoulder. I screamed, feeling the hot blood stream down my back and chest, mingling with the blood already oozing from the axe wound.
I flicked a wild swipe at his face, catching the side of his helm with a sonorous, hollow clang. He pulled back and I let him go, glad of the respite.
Skorri shook his head and fumbled at his helm. Perhaps I should have slain him then, but I was too concerned with my own wounds. My shoulder was a burning agony. I tried to raise the shield, but even though I was able to push away much of the pain, I was not sure I would be able to move the linden board with enough speed to make it useful against such a powerful enemy.
Casting his helm aside, Skorri shook his head like a dog leaving a river. He roared and the sound of his fury chilled my blood.
Behind me I could hear cries of pain and the splintering of sundered shields. Skorri looked in the direction of the fight, but I dared not turn away from him for an instant. If there is one thing I have learnt over the years it is that you do not turn your back on a killer, any more than you would pet a wolf. Skorri frowned.
“By Óðinn, boy,” he snarled, “this has gone on long enough. Now you die.”
I had struggled before to defend against him. Now, he was injured and fury-filled, and my shield shattered under the brunt of his attacks. Soon, I had little left in my hand save the iron boss, splinters of linden and tatters of hide. He hammered another
blow at me and I somehow managed to deflect it with the shield boss. The sound was like that of a smith at his anvil, and as if at the forge, sparks flew. I groaned at the impact and the toll on my shoulder.
I aimed a lunge at Skorri’s unprotected face, but he took the attack easily on his shield. I felt a jolt to my left leg and Skorri laughed.
“Time to die!” he jeered.
I stumbled back. Looking down, I saw crimson soaking my breeches. Skorri’s blade had clanged off my shield boss and buried itself in the flesh of my thigh, a hand’s breadth beneath the protection of my byrnie. He strode towards me and I tried to adopt the warrior stance, legs bent, ready to leap backward or forward. My left leg gave way and I sprawled to the earth.
“It is almost a pity I will not learn of your tale, boy,” Skorri said, stepping close. I swung my sword at him, but he clattered the rim of his shield into my wrist and the weapon fell from my numb fingers. He kicked the blade out of my reach. I squirmed, trying to slide away. If I could gain some distance from him, I could regain my footing. I yet had the seax in my belt. I could still fight. As if he could see the thought in my eyes, without warning he jumped forward and placed a booted foot on my waist. His foot covered the seax, preventing me from pulling it from its sheath.
“Pray to whichever god you worship, boy,” Skorri said, turning his sword so that the blade pointed downward towards me. I realised then that I was already mumbling the words of the paternoster under my breath. I did not know when I had started to pray, but I hoped that the Almighty would hear my supplication for mercy and welcome my unshriven soul into His kingdom upon my death. For I could no longer deny it. Death was upon me. There were no more words, no more feints or attacks I could use to prolong the fight. Skorri stood over me and he would plunge his sword into my flesh. Cormac’s blood, still slick on the blade, would mingle with mine and I would die. I wondered if I would meet Cormac in heaven.
A Time for Swords Page 40
