The two fell from sight and Thorgrim could spare them no more attention. The other English riders were breaking around Failend’s and the spearman’s horses and charging toward them, still shouting as loudly as they could. But they had not taken Thorgrim and the others by surprise, and now the Northmen were shouting as well and charging to meet them.
Starri had managed to get his tunic off and his two battle axes in hand and had let go of the reins as he urged his horse forward. He drove past Gudrid and Hall, who were also racing into the fight, forcing them to swerve out of the way. Starri’s horse seemed in a blind panic now, as out of control as Starri himself. It careened into the two English warriors leading the way, checking their momentum, making their horses twist and buck in fright.
In one fluid move Starri leaped up into a crouching position on his saddle and flung himself from his horse to that of the nearest Englishman, axes flailing as he flew through the air.
But Starri’s madness did not slow the other Englishmen as they rode around the terrified mounts and met the Northmen coming at them. Harald and Brand had turned their horses and were going in side by side, Brand swinging a long battle ax and Harald with Oak Cleaver in his hand. They met two of the English head-on, coming up on either side like ships in a sea-fight, hacking down with weapons, meeting shields with shields, bringing the weapons back and hacking again.
Thorgrim was still not in the fight. He urged his horse forward once more but the animal balked, turned part-way back around, tossed its head, and Thorgrim could see it was near panic. The English were riding mounts trained for combat, the Northmen were not. And Thorgrim’s seemed to be the shyest animal of them all, and that would not do.
“Come on, you stupid beast!” he shouted as he pulled the reins back, trying to make the horse turn, but he could see his efforts were only pushing the horse into greater terror. Then one of the English riders broke through the swirling fight ahead, spear leveled, riding right for Thorgrim and the horse he could not control. Thorgrim felt his aggravation crest like a wave and break.
The rider was fifteen feet away and closing fast when Thorgrim slipped the shield off his arm and flung it, edge-first, at the man. It sailed neatly through the air and hit the Englishman hard on his own shield, hit with the combined force of Thorgrim’s throw and his horse’s forward momentum. The rider was knocked back in his saddle and his carefully aimed spear was knocked out of line, but the horse under him kept coming.
Then Thorgrim’s horse finally, accidentally, did what Thorgrim wished it to do. It turned to the right, coming hard against the spearman’s horse. The man’s shield was still on his arm and Thorgrim reached out with his left hand and grabbed it, pulling hard. The rider, already off balance, was jerked forward. Thorgrim brought the pommel of Iron-tooth down on the back of his neck and the rider continued on down, tumbling off the horse and under the stomping hooves as Thorgrim swung his leg off his own horse and onto the animal just vacated by the English warrior.
Even as his feet found the stirrups Thorgrim could tell this mount was a breed apart from the last. There was no hesitancy, no sense of panic in the way the animal moved. Thorgrim whirled the horse around in a half-circle. Godi had two men around him who were just trying to keep clear of his long ax.
Louis was engaged with another. Thorgrim watched the Frank’s quick blade parry a thrust and get in past the man’s shield. He saw the Englishman’s eyes and mouth fly open wide with surprise and Thorgrim knew that was it for him.
Another rider was coming along side, screaming, sword raised, a big man with a massive red beard, more like a Northman than an Englishman, Thorgrim thought. He was mounted on a horse that was white with random patches of black, as if it had been haphazardly daubed with tar. The man brought his sword around hard and Thorgrim raised Iron-tooth to stop the hacking blow from the weapon.
Thorgrim had no shield now, but that was not a problem: indeed it seemed on horseback he was better off without it. He turned the sword aside and thrust, but the Englishman’s shield was there to deflect the blow. The Englishmen cocked his arm back and thrust at Thorgrim’s belly but Thorgrim knocked the point aside with his mail-clad arm.
He dug his heels into the horse’s flank and the horse drove forward, right into the other horse, well within reach of Iron-tooth’s point. Thorgrim thrust for the man’s neck, hidden behind the red beard, but the man twisted and the tip of the sword drove into his shoulder. It was not enough to kill him, but enough to put him out of the fighting.
Good horse, Thorgrim thought and just as he did he felt the horse going down, its front legs buckling under it. He felt himself pitch forward in the saddle and as he did he saw the shaft of the spear that had been driven into the horse’s chest jutting out. The horse hit the bricks of the Roman road and it started to fall sideways and Thorgrim was tossed right over the horse’s neck. He hit shoulder first on the unforgiving surface of the road. He felt the impact in his shoulder and back and then through his whole body as he came to rest.
His first impulse was to just stay put, to remain as he was until he was certain he had not shattered his entire frame, which he felt he had done. But a voice in his head was shouting for him to stand and with a groan he rolled onto his side and pushed himself to his feet. His helmet was gone but from long practice he had not lost his grip on his sword.
He held Iron-tooth up and in front, ready to fend off the next attack, and then he realized there would not be one. The English men-at-arms were scattered on the ground, some moving, some not. He could see three others, including his red-bearded adversary on the white and black horse, riding off as fast as their mounts would take them. In the distance he saw a handful of the riders who had been watching them. They had apparently been coming to join the fight, but on seeing how the surprise attack had played out they too turned and headed for Winchester.
Starri was off his horse and looking frantically around for someone else to fight. Harald and Brand and the others were still on their horses, and Louis was just sliding down from his. They were all there, all apparently unhurt.
Save for one.
“Where’s Failend?” Thorgrim asked, and he could hear the sudden worry in his own voice.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Their horses shook themselves,
and from their manes
there sprang dew into the deep dales,
hail on the lofty trees,
whence comes fruitfulness to man.
To me all that I saw was hateful.
The Poetic Edda
Failend was on the ground. She could hear the fighting going on around her. From her supine position she could see the wild dance of horses’ legs, hear the shouting, see others standing or lying on the stone road. But for her the fight was done.
She had experienced quite a bit in just a short few moments: surprise, then fear, then any thought or emotion shutting down as training and instinct took hold.
The English men-at-arms seemed to come out of nowhere, but she was ready, as ready as she could hope to be. Somehow Thorgrim had seen it coming. His wolf’s sense, the pagans might say, but she would not say that. She did not believe in such things.
But neither could it have been the hand of God. God would not help the heathens in such matters. She did not know what it was, or how Thorgrim could have known the attack would happen. She only knew that he did, that his unnatural sense was a real thing. She had seen it before in him.
So when Thorgrim said they were about to be attacked, that they should don helmets and get weapons ready she, like the others, did not hesitate. Helmet on her head, shield on her arm, her seax in her right hand which held her reins as well.
She could feel her stomach twist, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her back under her padded tunic. It was the fear she always felt as she stood on the edge of the fight. The Northmen did not feel fear, or so she thought — she had never asked one of them so she did not know for certain — but she felt fear abundantly, and she was not afrai
d to admit as much. Or would not be afraid to if anyone ever asked, which they never did.
The English men-at-arms came charging around the corner of the inn, just as Thorgrim had seen they would. They came riding hard and shouting, hoping to bring with them shock and fear, to throw their enemy off balance. Failend jerked the reins over, spun the horse, felt the fear melt away like a snowflake on warm skin. It occurred to her that she was now at the head of the Northmen’s line, the first point of the English attack. That fact was a curiosity, no more. She was beyond being afraid.
She kicked her heels into her horse’s flanks and the horse charged forward and somehow that only made Failend even more aware of how small she was. The rider at the head of the English charge was a spearman, his weapon leveled at her, his mouth open in a battle cry as he came on. If they hit with their combined speeds and the spear found its mark it would go right through her shield, right through her mail and her chest and out her back. She had seen it happen to other men, men who were much more substantial than herself.
With a jerk of the reins Failend stopped her horse and prepared for the impact, her eyes fixed on the point of the spear. Everything seemed to move slowly now, the rider coming at her moving like he was under water, the sound of the hoof beats and the shouting dull in her ears. Her world closed down to the tip of the spear, the wicked black point carrying death right to her.
There was no thought now, no feeling, nothing. As the spear point came at her she saw it dip and thrust at her belly, under the edge of her shield, but it still seemed to be moving too slow to be of any concern. She dropped her shield three inches and felt the tip of the spear hit the canvas-covered wood. She swung her arm left, directing the trust of the spear aside and stuck her seax out, straight-armed, right at the rider’s chest.
The Englishman was wearing mail and a helmet. Failend’s eyes flashed from the point of her seax, inches from the man’s chest, up to his face, his eyes. They were very blue, wide with surprise and the intensity of battle. He was looking at her, their eyes fixed on one another, not two feet separating them as they came together.
Failend felt the tip of her seax hit the man’s mail and she locked her elbow against the shock. She felt her arm pushed back, her body twisting from the force of the man against the blade. And then the point broke through the iron links and the resistance seemed to disappear as the rider rode right onto her weapon.
The Englishman’s horse slammed into Failend’s with an impact that made her gasp and threw her forward in the saddle. The Englishman was knocked back, Failend’s blade still in his chest. Failend’s hand was locked on the hilt as if she would fall to her death if she let go.
The spearman started to tumble down and Failend felt herself dragged along with him. The shield came flying off her arm and she was lifted out of the saddle and she had a passing thought that a bigger person would not have been pulled from her horse that way.
Failend was dragged off her horse, dragged over the man’s saddle and over the far side of his horse as together they rolled off their mounts. They twisted as they fell, the Englishman’s arm coming around her as if he was trying to hug her. Then they hit the ground and Failend felt as if she had been punched by a hundred fists at once. The breath was knocked out of her and for a second all she could do was kick and gag and thrash as she tried desperatly to fill her empty lungs.
With a gasp she sucked in air, and she felt the panic subside. She was flat on her back and the English soldier was lying face-down, half on top of her. Her hand, she realized, was still on the hilt of her seax which was still driven into the man’s chest. She pulled at it, trying to slide it free, and the man gasped and jerked as she did.
Failend shouted in surprise. She turned her head and she was face to face with the Englishman, inches away. His eyes were open, those startling blue eyes, open very wide. His skin was smooth, with just a short stubble of beard, and his cheeks were red from sun and exertion. She could hear the thumping of horses’ hooves all around her, the frightened mounts now riderless and unsure what to do, but she was transfixed by those eyes, that face, so close, like the face of a lover when the act was done.
Is he dead? Failend wondered, but then the man’s mouth opened slowly, as if he was trying to speak. Failend could feel his warm blood washing over her hand as it spilled down around the blade she was gripping. She was no longer trying to pull the blade free, no longer trying to squirm out from under him. She was looking into his eyes and she felt as if she could do nothing else.
A hoof came down inches from Failend’s head, but she did not move. She was aware of their horses moving away, aware of the sounds of the fighting, the shouting, the clash of weapons, the whinnying of the horses. Starri Deathless’s frightening battle cry. She heard it all but she was not able to move. The man’s eyes held her.
Then the Englishman gasped, like one last desperate attempt to hold onto life. His body shook and seemed to settle and the breath eased out of him. Failend could feel it warm on her face. And then his eyes changed. Not the shape, not the color, but something went out of them and Failend knew the man was dead.
And still she did not try to get out from under him. The fighting was swirling all around her, loud and urgent; her people, the people with whom she’d lived and fought for two years and more, were battling for their lives, but Failend did not move.
She couldn’t move. Not because she was hurt, or pinned under the dead man. Those eyes kept her there, as if they had cast a spell, the way those spirits that lived in her native Ireland could do. Those blue eyes, those eyes she had watched go from living to dead, held her, along with the sound of that last gasp, the feel of that warm, final breath on her face.
Failend had seen many men die over the course of her bloody career as a warrior. She had killed any number herself. But it had been with her bow, mostly, or stabbing and slashing in the passion of battle, turning to the next opponent without even seeing the work her weapon had done. She had never experienced anything like this. She had never watched a man, inches away, die on her blade.
Her breathing was normal again, her mind coming back to the present, but still she could not make sense of the strange mix of feelings in her. Sorrow, horror. Victory. Gratitude that it was him and not her. Guilt that she felt that way.
The men she had killed before were just…men-at-arms. Enemies. They were not men with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks and warm breath.
She had a sense that the tone of the battle had changed, that things had settled, the same way the Englishman’s body had settled on top of her as the spirit left him. She knew she could not remain as she was forever, but still she could not bring herself to do anything else.
Suddenly the Englishman began to move as if he was trying to stand, a dead man coming back to life. Failend gasped in horror. Then she looked up, and there was Thorgrim Night Wolf pulling the man off her. The Englishman’s arms hung down as if he was reaching for her and she shuffled out of the way of his reach and then Thorgrim tossed the man aside as if he weighed no more than a sack of bread.
“Failend, are you hurt?” he asked. His eyes met hers, then his gaze moved down her body. She realized she was still holding her seax, that Thorgrim must have lifted the Englishman right off her blade. She looked down as well. She was bathed in blood, the copious blood that had run out around her weapon.
“No,” she said, sitting up. “No, I’m not hurt.”
Thorgrim reached down and grabbed her under the arms and stood her up as if she was a child learning how to walk. She felt dizzy and she swayed in place and Thorgrim put his arm around her to steady her.
“You’re certain you’re not hurt?” he asked.
“Yes. This blood is his,” she said, nodding toward the dead man on the ground. She looked around for the first time. Some of the Northmen were still mounted, some were standing. A few were lying stretched out on the road, as were a number of the English men-at-arms.
“What happened?” she asked.
“We beat them, mostly,” Thorgrim said. “We drove them off, anyway. About half a dozen rode off. The rest are dead. Or will be soon.” Failend did not know if he meant that they would die of their wounds or be killed for being English, and she did not ask.
“You had best see to the others,” Failend said and Thorgrim gave her a half smile and nodded and walked off. He called for the men to see who of theirs were wounded or dead, to get the horses under control, to keep a lookout for more English riders coming.
One of the Northmen was dead, a man named Aud who had joined them back in Vík-ló. Vali had taken a spear thrust to the arm, his right arm, and did not have the use of it. Gudrid and Brand held wads of cloth torn from the Englishmen’s tunics over bleeding wounds, but they insisted the wounds were not bad enough to send them back and Thorgrim did not argue.
“Can you ride, Vali?” Thorgrim asked.
“Yes, lord, if someone can help me mount.”
“Good. We’ll put Aud’s body on a horse and you can go back with him,” Thorgrim said. “We’ll stash the English dead in the inn over there and continue on.”
“Continue on?” Louis asked, and as usual he sounded curious, no more. “I have a feeling the English know we’re here now.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” Thorgrim said. “Maybe they’ll send us food and drink. But we came to see what this Winchester was, and we’ll do that whether they know we’re here or not. Brand!”
Brand, who had been examining a long tear in his tunic, looked up. “Yes, lord?”
“You fought well. I saw you. You and Harald.” Thorgrim pointed to the Englishmen who lay on the ground, dead or nearly so. “You can have your pick of any of the mail these men wear, and any of their helmets and swords if you wish.”
Brand looked down at the men on the ground. Mail and swords were not easily come by, and these men seemed to be outfitted well with each.
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