The Midgard Serpent

by James L. Nelson

  He turned toward the bow, his attention back on the wider world, and was surprised to see how much things had changed in the few moments he had been attending the king.

  Leofric had taken command of the king’s ship and had apparently led the men in driving the heathens back aboard their own ships. The ropes binding the cluster of vessels together had been cut and there was twenty feet of water between them now.

  “Oars! Get to the oars, damn you!” Leofric shouted. The men seemed to be staggering around, unsure what to do, as if they had each taken a hard blow to the head. But some at least heard Leofric’s orders and understood and began lifting the long oars and thrusting the blades through the row ports.

  The deck was a vision of hell. Dead and dying men were tossed around in every part of the ship. Some had strength enough to crawl and beg for help, some had strength only to reach out feebly or move their legs in a useless manner. Most were not moving at all. English and heathen, they were all scattered together.

  And the lion shall lie down with the lamb… Felix thought. But the dead and wounded were in the way of the rowers now. Felix was about to say something when Leofric beat him to it.

  “Get those wounded out of the way! Get the Englishmen out of the way!” Leofric called. “Throw the damned heathens over the side.”

  More and more of the survivors regained their senses, and they worked in pairs to get their fellow Englishmen clear of the rowing benches and toss the heathens into the bay. Knives were out, leather pouches or purses on the heathens’ belts were cut free before the whores’ sons were dropped over the side.

  Felix watched as a couple of the house guard grabbed up one of the brutes, a big man with a braided beard, head lolling, eyes wide and fixed, and with some effort they tossed him over the sheer strake. The dead man hit the water with an audible splash that sent spray back aboard. The two grabbed up another of the heathens, one who still had life enough in him to wave his arms in a weak attempt at defense, and he too went over the side.

  Felix lifted his eyes to the water beyond Æthelwulf’s ship. The king’s vessels seemed to be drawing off from the heathens, oars coming out, bows turning toward the shore. The long note of retreat that the frightened young man had blown on his horn had indeed cut through the fight, and the others had heard it, recognized it, and obeyed.

  We’ll sound the horn again, Felix thought. The ships seemed to be retreating toward the river mouth, but he could not tell for certain. He looked forward, searching out the young man with the horn. He saw him on the larboard side, jammed up against the second rowing bench forward. His face was white as fine linen, his eyes and mouth open. Blood had formed a neat, round pond on the deck under him.

  Maybe not, Felix thought.

  Someone dragged the dead horn player clear as a rower took his place on the bench, thrusting the oar through the hole in the ship’s side as he did. Leofric called an order and the men already at the oars, more than half of them, leaned back and pulled and the ship began to move. Stroke by stroke it gained momentum, pushing past the smaller heathen ships.

  Felix surveyed the Godless enemy as they passed close by. The heathens seemed to have no interest in continuing the fight. Felix could see the same stunned look on their faces that he had seen on the English warriors. He could see the heaps of dead and wounded, the damage to the bow and rails of the ships. No one aboard the Northmen’s ships was moving very quickly, and most were not moving at all. Those still standing were simply watching the big English ship gather way.

  Leofric stepped up beside him. He nodded to the heathen ship slipping past. “We may be the ones breaking off the fight,” he said. “But those bastards got the worst of it, by far.”

  Felix nodded. “We did what we had to do, I think. We did great slaughter to them. And we kept our own army together. Which means the pilgrimage may go on.” Of course, he did not really know that. That statement was as much hope as fact.

  The last of the heathens’ ships, drifting and broken, was left astern and there was nothing but water between Æthelwulf’s ship and the mouth of the river from which they had come. The rain that had plagued them all day had eased off to a fine mist, relieving them of that constant irritant. Toward the middle of the bay the other English ships were also gathering way, oars driving them through the scattered heathen vessels, forming a line as they followed the king’s ship in.

  Felix took a few steps toward the ship’s stern. Æthelwulf’s mail shirt had been removed somehow and the king was sitting up, his back against the ship’s side. Father Aelfgar was kneeling beside him, pressing a bloody cloth against the wound in the king’s chest. Around the wound the padded tunic hung in shreds.

  The spear seemed not to have done as much damage as it first seemed, and for that Felix thanked God. But it could still go putrid and kill him quickly enough, as so often happened.

  “Sire, how are you faring?” he asked, squatting down opposite of Father Aelfgar.

  Æthelwulf scowled at him. “A heathen just ran a spear through me, how do you think I feel?” he said and Felix took delight in the strength of the king’s voice and spirit. “What’s happening? Where are we going?” From where he sat on the deck Æthelwulf could see little beyond the ship’s sides.

  “We’ve broken off the fight, sire,” Felix said. “The heathens are all but done for. We did great slaughter. No reason to lose any more of our own men.”

  Æthelwulf grunted, but he did not protest, and Felix was glad of it. It had been he, Felix, who had ordered the retreat with no real authority to do so. It was a decision he would have to answer for if it turned out to be the wrong one.

  They pulled into the mouth of the river and continued on until the wider bay was lost from sight. Soon after they reached the place where they had tied up the night before, and once again eased against the bank and ran lines ashore. Behind them the other ships came up the river in random order and each in turn tied up broadside to the land.

  The train of wagons with all the supplies for the campaign, tents, rugs, portable beds, food, drink, cooking equipment, had been left in Hamtun, to which they had intended to return. Leofric gave orders that a makeshift tent be set up for the king on shore, and soon a ship’s sail and a dozen oars had been lashed together in clever fashion to form a tolerable shelter.

  Guards were posted at the perimeter of the naval camp, and others were sent farther afield to see what the heathens were doing. The English fleet had launched a very successful surprise attack on the Northmen, and they did not need the Northmen returning the favor.

  Once the king had been moved ashore and settled, the wounded attended to, and what food and drink they had aboard doled out, the ealdormen and thegns began to gather in Æthelwulf’s tent. They were men who had survived a bloody and exhausting battle against a tough, skilled enemy, and they looked it. Some of the nobles sported bloody bandages around arms and legs, some limped, some carried their arms in slings. Their hair was matted with blood and sweat. Many had great rents in their mail.

  They would none of them dare show up looking unscathed, Felix mused. If they’d received no wounds in the battle they would have wounded themselves before showing themselves to the king.

  Not all of the ealdormen or thegns were there, of course. Several had been killed, several more wounded and unlikely to survive. Which meant that those who still lived would be maneuvering for the lands left lord-less, the shires in search of new ealdormen. Soon the real battle for Wessex would begin.

  But there were more immediate decisions to be made, plans to be formulated, business on hand that needed attention. They had won the day, or so it seemed, but they had not driven the heathen host away. The wolf was still among the flock.

  Æthelwulf sat enthroned on a chair made of barrels covered over with blankets. He still wore his blood-soaked padded tunic. His face lacked its usual color, his movements their old vitality, but for the most part he seemed strong enough as he congratulated the men on their victory and asked for op
inions as to what action to take next.

  Ealdorman Byrnhorn led off. “The heathens are still here, but they’re reeling. Badly hurt by that brilliant attack, led by King Æthelwulf. I say we strike again, and fast, while we have the army assembled.”

  Felix watched heads nod, but none with any blatant enthusiasm. It was not that these men did not want to fight, they simply did not want to express their opinion one way or another. Byrnhorn might be old enough, and close enough to the king, with a long history between them, that he did not worry about such things, but most of the others would not offer any suggestion until they knew Æthelwulf’s thoughts on the subject.

  “We may be getting ahead of ourselves,” Ealdorman Alhmund offered. He, too, had fought with Æthelwulf in the younger days and that gave him more leeway than most of the others enjoyed. “We don’t yet know where the heathens are, if they’ve gone to Hamtun or headed back to sea. Or maybe they all sank.”

  That suggestion made Æthelwulf chuckle and so the others laughed as well. But Alhmund had a point: they could hardly make plans until they knew what the Northmen were up to.

  Happily a rider appeared just then, one of the scouts who had been given a horse and sent off to keep an eye on the enemy. He made his way into the king’s makeshift tent, not bothering to ask for leave to enter, knowing how much the nobles and thegns of Wessex were waiting on what he had to say.

  He bowed to his king. “Sire, I’ve just come from the mouth of the River Itchen,” he said in a sure voice. “I could see the heathen fleet well, sire. They made their way up the bay, but they did not land in Hamtun. They landed on the south side of the River Test, sire.”

  Of course they did, Felix thought. They may be Godless heathens, but they’re not fools.

  The English camp was south of Hamtun. About four miles north of them the River Itchen and the River Test joined to flow into the bay, and the town of Hamtun sat on the triangle of land where the rivers met. If the heathens were in Hamtun they would be very vulnerable to a quick attack by the English army, the very attack that Byrnhorn was advocating. But instead the heathens had gone ashore on the far side of the river. Now the English army would have to march miles out of the way, along the banks of the Test, to come to a place where they could cross. There would be no swift counterattack now.

  Let us withdraw to Winchester, Felix thought. That was the thing he most wanted to do. Any sort of military engagement entailed considerable risk, and Felix did not care for risk, not with everything that hung in balance. Æthelwulf had nearly been killed once that day already — they did not need to chance it again.

  But Felix kept his mouth shut, because he was not an ealdorman, or a thegn. He was not even English. He was the king’s secretary, sent from the court of Charles the Bald, and even if he had a vastly better sense for the grand picture of world affairs than did these provincial nobles, he was in no place to offer an opinion.

  Byrnhorn, however, did not feel the need to remain quiet, and the news from the scout had not tempered his desire to fight. “This makes our business harder, I’ll grant,” he said. “But an attack is still the best course. Hit them hard, now, while we have the men, I say. Let us stamp them out.”

  This had heads nodding again, more vigorously now, as they could see Byrnhorn’s speech seemed to meet with the king’s approval.

  “There’s an old Roman bridge, only a mile or so up the Test,” Ingwald offered. “When last I saw it it was in good repair. That would take us around to the south shore fast enough.”

  More heads nodded, and Felix could see that the enthusiasm was building for Byrnhorn’s plan. “Lords,” he said, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “If I may be so bold. I can’t question your judgement in such things, obviously. You know far more about this business of war than I do. But…as secretary to our beloved king…I dare say, with his late wound, he’ll be in no position to lead this campaign. He for one must be given time to recover. But if you feel that this fight may proceed without the king in command, then I would not deign to argue the point.”

  He looked around at the faces of the gathered men. He waited to see which of them was willing to suggest that Æthelwulf was not needed in the coming fight, that they would be fine without him. They were all thinking it, Felix knew, but he waited to see who might dare say as much out loud.

  No one spoke. Finally Byrnhorn cleared his throat, breaking the grave-like silence. “Perhaps we’d best to go back to Winchester, then? See to the defense of the city?”

  Heads nodded again.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thence sent messengers

  the potent prince

  through air and water,

  succours to demand.

  The Poetic Edda

  King Halfdan’s face showed no expression. It was fixed, immobile, like that of a dead man. He had never been one for expression. Joy, sorrow, anger, amusement, boredom, he felt them all, as any man did, but they did not show on his face.

  He had always been that way. And it served him well. His face was a mask, unchanging, despite what was going on behind it. Still, he guessed that Skorri Thorbrandsson, standing in front of him, needed no hint to guess at the rage that was roiling behind the façade.

  Skorri’s face, half lit by the various candles burning in Halfdan’s big tent, also showed little expression. Halfdan suspected that Skorri cultivated that trait. It made him seem competent and fearless, and Halfdan’s feelings were mixed when it came to that. He liked men who were fearless. But not entirely fearless. Not so fearless that they were not afraid of him.

  “Dead, lord,” Skorri said.

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, lord. We found them out in the tall grass, about a quarter of a mile off.” Halfdan had just asked Skorri about the guards who had been standing outside the prisoner Odd’s tent.

  “Their helmets were off and lying beside them. Their throats were cut,” Skorri added.

  Dead… Halfdan mused. Just as well...

  If the guards had allowed Odd to escape through their incompetence they would certainly have run off rather than stick around to see what he, Halfdan, would do to punish them. The example he was setting, punishing Odd the way he was, was having a wonderful effect on those who would rebel against him, and it was having the same good effect on his own men as well.

  But now Odd was gone, though not for long. He would be found and those who helped him would be found and then there would be even more men at the whipping post.

  “So…” Halfdan said, “at least we know that the two guards weren’t part of Odd’s escape.”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And Onund Jonsson?” Halfdan asked.

  “Ah, yes…” Skorri said and now there was some inflection in his voice, some note of hesitancy. No one liked to bring Halfdan bad news, and that was doubly true if the news suggested some mistake on Halfdan’s part. Such as misjudging a man’s character.

  “We have not found Onund, lord,” Skorri went on. “I thought he might have been killed along with the guards. We looked all around the field, followed the trails left in the grass, searched the camp, but found no sign of him.”

  Halfdan said nothing. It was clear that this treachery had begun with Onund, but Skorri did not want to say as much, because Halfdan had trusted Onund and clearly he had been wrong to do so.

  For a long time Halfdan just stared at Skorri. Most men would have been profoundly uncomfortable under Halfdan’s gaze, but Skorri remained as still as a carving. Halfdan took note of that, though his thoughts were not on Skorri. They were on Onund. And they were not good thoughts.

  Onund, who knew the people of Fevik well. He was a friend of Odd and Amundi and even of Thorgrim Night Wolf. And he was a man whom Halfdan had trusted. A man Halfdan had put in a position of great responsibility. Onund had earned that trust several times over. He was the one who had told Halfdan about Odd’s sister, who had facilitated Halfdan’s bloodless capture of Odd.

  But now? Onund, appar
ently, had changed sides. Betrayal of any sort was intolerable, but betrayal by one who had been so trusted and so rewarded was something else entirely. And it made Halfdan furious indeed.

  I saw this a long way off, Halfdan thought. He had had misgivings about Onund, once this business with Thorgrim Ulfsson’s farm had begun, but he ignored them. He thought Onund’s connections to the people of Fevik would be an asset. Now he saw it for what it was — the seed of treachery.

  “How much of a head start do they have?” Halfdan asked.

  “The guards were cold, lord, and their blood was not running. They’d been dead some time. Killed somewhere in the very late night. After all was quiet in the camp.”

  The sun was just rising now, which meant the fugitives might have been running for half the night already. Skorri, making dawn rounds of the camp, had been the first to see Odd’s tent unguarded. He sent men off to search even before alerting Halfdan that the prisoner was gone, no doubt hoping to have Odd back before telling his king what had happened. Halfdan couldn’t blame him for that.

  “And now?” Halfdan asked.

  “My men are searching, lord. My best trackers. The trail leads off in one direction, but I have men searching in all directions in case the trail we see is meant to deceive.”

  “Good,” Halfdan said and he felt a fresh rush of rage sweep through him. He wanted to leap up, to draw his sword, to drive it through the nearest man. He wanted to have the guilty men before him — the guards who had let this happen, the men who had plotted to set Odd free — and he wanted to kill them as slowly and patiently as could be done. He felt as if only the screaming and the blood and the expressions of suppressed horror on the faces of the onlookers could soothe the burning fury.

  But he had no one to punish. Not yet. He let the surge pass over him before he spoke again.

  “There is nothing…nothing…of greater importance than capturing Odd and the men who came to his aid,” he said at last. “You understand that?”