Blood Enemy

by Martin Lake

  And then, when the Danish front was only a hundred yards away, they fell silent and charged. The force of their attack sent the English shield-wall a few steps backwards but the men behind held steady and the front line stayed intact.

  Ulf felt his bowels grow looser and just managed to control them. The stench which filled his nostrils showed that many of the men beside him had been less successful.

  His brother was one of them. Osgar groaned loudly, shamed at his weakness.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ulf said. ‘It will make you fight better.’

  And then the Danes were on them.

  A Danish warrior slammed his sword into Ulf’s. He was a big man, ox-strong, and Ulf was forced back into the man behind, the wind flying from his lungs. He pushed back against the Dane but could make no headway.

  His eyes were everywhere, watching for the sudden sneak thrust of sword or spear. Yet watching for more. He stared into the eyes of the huge Dane, searching for a lapse of concentration or a darting moment of doubt.

  It came. The Dane glanced at Osgar, wondering, perhaps, if the youngster would prove an easier foe.

  Ulf seized his chance. He plunged his sword into the man’s neck, severing flesh, bone and veins. The Dane looked surprised and then, almost disappointed. He slumped in death but the press of men behind prevented his corpse from falling.

  His death gave Ulf a moment of respite and he stabbed at the Dane to his right, drilling a hole into his sword arm, rendering it useless. The blade fell to the ground and Ulf stabbed again, into the man’s chest, a terrible wound which disabled him completely. Holdwine saw this and sliced open the man’s neck. Osgar cried out in terror, waving his spear to try to fend off the blood and gore flooding from the wound.

  ‘Hold your shield up,’ Ulf cried. ‘Don’t attack, just stand firm.’

  The pressure from the Danes felt relentless. Sweat sprang out on Ulf’s head and began to run down to his eyes. He gave a swift wipe with his right hand, it was a risk but being blinded by sweat was a greater one.

  Grimbold slew the Dane in front of Ulf and another man pushed past him. He was smaller than Ulf and the danger from an upward stab all the greater.

  He held a short stabbing spear which danced before Ulf’s eyes. The Dane was skilful, making darting feints which Ulf only just keep his eyes on. But he jabbed too far and Ulf slashed at his hand, severing some of his fingers. The spear point drooped and Ulf hammered a killing blow into his side.

  He felt the line opposite give a little. He could not see beyond the Danes in front of him but he guessed what was happening. His heart soared. Edgwulf’s plan was working.

  In a normal battle the Danish army of this size would have been large enough to form a wall consisting of six or seven lines of men. But as they had raced to engulf the circular English wall they were forced to stretch their line thin. By the time they had covered two thirds of the shield-fist their own wall was only three lines deep. The English wall was five deep and the weight had begun to tell against the Danes.

  Every English warrior sensed this at the same time, a strange amalgam of many minds working together. As one they pushed forward, forcing the Danes back a step, and then another.

  ‘We’re winning,’ gasped Osgar.

  ‘Not yet,’ Ulf said. ‘Concentrate and push hard.’

  The Danes retreated a step further and then two more. Their retreat discomforted them and gave renewed heart to the English. But the advantage was a fleeting one.

  The Danes and Norsemen within the old city leapt out to join the battle, a storm of men, a human flood which crashed down upon the western part of the shield-fist.

  The men of the Berkshire fyrd staggered backwards, crushing together, the line now in danger of buckling and breaking.

  Edgwulf threw his reserve into the wall to strengthen it. It worked. The line held and then, step by step began they began to push the Danes back. As soon as he saw the wall stabilise, Edgwulf pulled back his reserve.

  The English warriors were now surrounded by the heathen armies. There could be no escape save death or victory. Many wavered when they realised this but others felt strengthened by the dreadful situation.

  Edgwulf knew that either feeling could sweep the men in moments and prayed that desperation would prove stronger than despair.

  ‘Wessex,’ he cried at the top of his voice. ‘Alfred and Wessex.’

  The King’s-thegns immediately raised their voices in echo, and then the household thegns of the ealdormen did the same. The words flew to the throats of more and more of the men in the shieldwall until almost every man was yelling, hurling the words of defiance at their enemy.

  The Northmen yelled back, trying to outdo them. Some shouted for Guthrum, others for Hrólfr, still more for their gods, Thor, Tiw or Odin. This mixture of yells proved a weakness, for there was no central cry to unify the men.

  ‘Wessex and Alfred,’ cried the men of Wessex, ‘Wessex and Alfred.’ This single chant became stronger by the moment and climbed high above the battle-field, dominating it completely.

  The yelling had given the opposing warriors the briefest of respites. Now they leapt to battle once again, thrusting with new-found determination.

  But Edgwulf was not the only master of tactics on the field. It soon became apparent that the Norse chieftain Hrólfr was an experienced commander.

  He too had kept a reserve in hand, three hundred of his largest and heaviest warriors. He threw them into battle against the King’s-thegns, creating a block nine or ten warriors deep.

  The added weight acted like a battering ram, pushing the men of Wessex a dozen steps back. Edgwulf threw his own reserve into the line and for a moment the two shield-walls pulsed back and forth like the desperate, gasping breaths of a dying man. And then they stopped, without a command, too exhausted to continue with the relentless push and thrust. There was a space of perhaps twenty feet between the two armies.

  To his horror, Ulf saw that Osgar had fallen to his knees mid-way between the two lines. He could not tell if he was wounded or stricken with terror but he was in deadly danger. The Danish line opened a fraction and a warrior stepped out and advanced upon the boy, swinging his sword.

  ‘Fresh meat,’ he yelled and his friends cheered the jest.

  Ulf leapt out of the line. Holdwine and Grimbold cursed and called him back, thrusting together to seal the breach. But Ulf did not even hear.

  All he could see was the huge Norseman advancing upon his little brother. The rest of the world disappeared, lost in shadow. He knew that the battle still raged along other parts of the wall, that men cried out in triumph, despair or agony. Yet he walked in complete silence, the lonely trudge of a soul vacating its body. He moved with incredible slowness, his legs heavy with the weight of too much death. His body ached with a dreadful, harrowing cold. The sound of booming filled his ears, not so much a sound as a terrible pressure beating against his head. The cold in his bones was replaced by an intense, unbearable heat.

  He saw Osgar glance up at the Dane, saw the man raise his sword high above his defenceless brother, watched in a slow, distant wonder as the sword fell.

  And then Ulf howled.

  It was not the voice of a man, it was the voice of a fell beast, wolf or bear or some unknown creature of untrodden wilds. The cry rose above the clamour of battle, rang out across thousands of warring men. And every man who heard it shuddered.

  ‘A berserker,’ cried the heathens in terror.

  Ulf leapt. His sword pierced the Norseman’s throat and he fell, clutching at the wound in a futile attempt to stop the blood. Wild-eyed, Ulf slashed open the man’s chest and raced towards the Norse line.

  ‘No,’ cried Holdwine and Grimbold but Ulf could no longer hear the words of men.

  He charged into the Norsemen, slashing with his sword and battering with his shield. In moments three men died and two lay broken on the earth. Their companions stepped back in terror.

  Yet it was not the deadly, kill
ing blade which terrified them. It was the howling, wailing shriek exploding from Ulf’s lungs. Most had never heard such a thing and wanted to flee from it. A few had heard it and they craved to flee even more. A berserker would fight to the end, fight despite countless wounds. A berserker felt no pain, knew no fear, forsook life and embraced death.

  Ulf howled again and again, his sword dealing death. A space opened out around him as the Norsemen shrunk away in terror. These were brave men, reckless men. Yet the fit of Odin was upon this Saxon and they were unable to guard themselves against him, unable to master the horror in their hearts and fight back.

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the howling stopped. The blackness fade from Ulf’s eyes and he felt himself lurching headlong back to the world. He looked around him, bewildered. He was in the middle of the Norse lines.

  He stared at his adversaries and dimly recognised the look in their faces. Was it what he had seen when he defended his village against Hrólfr’s warriors? Perhaps. Yes perhaps.

  But then he recalled more exactly. It was the look that Alfred’s men had given to his father when Brand had fought against them to protect his family. It was the look their neighbours gave when he had nearly killed the man who stole their ram. It was the look of anxious, horrified confusion he himself wore whenever he saw his father in such a fierce and terrible rage.

  ‘Berserker,’ a familiar voice yelled. ‘Let him pass.’

  Ulf stared at the man. It was Hrólfr. He pointed towards the Saxon line, as if Ulf might not know where it was. He had let him live a second time.

  So Ulf walked back the dozen paces to his own line, unmolested. He saw Holdwine holding Osgar safely by the arm. Saw Grimbold step back to allow him to re-enter the wall. Saw the ground racing up towards him, marvelling that it had decided to attack him in this fashion.

  He did not see himself crash to the earth.

  Did not see Edgwulf seize the moment and lead a charge which broke the enemy shield-wall and sent it reeling back, shattered and defeated.

  INGA HEALS

  Inga bathed her brother’s brow. It was raging hot, as if he had fallen asleep too close to a household fire. No matter how much water she applied to it, the heat did not fade. He had been hot when Holdwine dragged him into the tent. The heat had not lessened at all.

  As always, she experienced Ulf’s symptoms herself, if with less intensity. Her face felt hot, her cheeks itched and her forehead pounded. Without thinking she dabbed the water on her face before bending once more to try to cool his.

  The tent flap opened and she felt a presence behind her.

  ‘Will he live?’ Holdwine asked.

  Inga drew breath. How to answer? She had never seen anyone wracked with such heat before. She had witnessed high fever, of course, and sometimes it proved the messenger of death for the sufferer. Yet the heat gripping Ulf was worse than any she had ever known.

  ‘He burns,’ she said, ‘yet he does not rave or seem in pain.’

  She glanced at Holdwine. He was not able to hide the anxiety in his face.

  ‘You are sure he was not wounded?’ she asked. It was a question she had asked a dozen times.

  ‘I told you,’ Holdwine answered. ‘He was untouched. Even when he returned from attacking the enemy.’

  ‘You’re certain there was no sign of the slightest cut?’

  Holdwine shook his head.

  She sighed, vexed at herself for continually asking. She knew it was foolish to expect that Holdwine could have noticed a tiny wound as he carried Ulf from the battle-field. She had scrupulously examined Ulf’s body for any such wound and found nothing.

  Yet still she could not stop herself from asking. She feared that he may have been scratched with a poisoned blade. Or perhaps some heathen warlock had hurled a curse upon him. What else could explain the relentless heat Ulf suffered, his lack of sound or movement?

  ‘You should get some rest,’ Holdwine said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ve been doing this for hours. It’s almost morning.’

  Inga pushed her fingers wearily through her hair, surprised to hear this. So long a time, so many hours of futile bathing, anxious watching.

  ‘I can’t leave him, Holdwine. He needs me.’

  Holdwine pulled up a camp stool and sat down wearily.

  ‘The Danes have fled north,’ he said. ‘Edgwulf and our thegns are harrying them as they run. Some of the heathens from the city managed to return there but very few. I doubt they will be willing to continue the fight.’

  Inga paused in her bathing. Is Ketil safe, she wondered. Is he dead on the battle-field or did he lead his men back to the safety of the city? Or is he lying unheeded somewhere, wounded terribly, in agony?

  She glanced at her brother. Should she leave him with one of the other women and go in search of Ketil? She dismissed the thought immediately, though she suspected it might return to haunt her.

  ‘It’s a mighty victory,’ Holdwine said.

  ‘It does not seem so to me.’

  Holdwine thought it best not to reply. ‘Osgar’s in a terrible state,’ he said at last.

  Inga turned to him, her heart racing. ‘You said he was unhurt.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘But he is anxious for Ulf?’

  ‘Yes,’ Holdwine said, quickly.

  Yet she caught a hesitation in his voice.

  ‘There is something else?’

  Holdwine nodded. ‘He thinks that our men will consider him a coward. That they will blame him for putting Ulf’s life in danger. But most of all, he’s angry that Ulf came to rescue him. ’

  Inga dropped the rag in the basin.

  ‘But that’s foolish. If it were not for Ulf he’d be dead.’

  Holdwine shrugged. ‘Perhaps he would prefer death to shame.’

  ‘But he’s a child,’ Inga cried. ‘What shame is there in a child daring to fight in a battle?’ She picked up the rag and wiped Ulf’s brow fiercely. ‘Do any of our warriors say that he is a coward?’

  ‘Of course not. They know it takes courage to stand in a shield-wall, especially in one as young as Osgar. If anything they pity him.’

  Inga stared at him. ‘Then there you have it,’ she said softly. ‘He will suffer far more from their pity than from their rage.’

  Holdwine frowned, puzzled. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s a child. Would your friends show pity for you if you were fearful on the battle-field? Of course not. Because, if they did, they might begin to pity themselves.

  ‘But they can pity a child,’ she continued. ‘And Osgar does not want to be treated like a child. Does not want to be pitied.’

  She fell silent, wiped her brow and sighed. ‘It’s little wonder he is so angry with Ulf.’

  Holdwine nodded, understanding at last.

  ‘I’m going to get some food,’ he said. ‘Shall I bring you some?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry. I will watch over Ulf.’

  Holdwine cast a last anxious look at brother and sister. As he trudged away he prayed that she would never witness the intensity of Osgar’s rage.

  Inga rested her head in her hands after Holdwine had gone, pondering what he had said about Osgar.

  Holdwine might think it strange that he condemned the brother who had saved his life but she was not altogether surprised. There had always been tension between them.

  Osgar had always felt excluded by the closeness of Ulf and Inga. Yet who could hope to come between souls who had clung together in their mother’s womb? Osgar could never get so close to them, try though he might. She saw this and felt the little boy’s pain. Ulf never seemed to be aware of it.

  In the end Osgar had given up and turned his allegiance to their older brother Beonna. It was a sad and terrible choice.

  Their mother had suffered terribly when Beonna drowned but Osgar suffered more. He was so stricken with grief he wept ceaselessly for many days. He grew quieter, less conf
ident, more wrapped up in his own thoughts.

  Ulf was at fault in those days. He made little effort to take his heart-broken brother under his wing. Perhaps he didn’t see the need. She berated herself that she had not noticed in time. She would amend that now. She would make sure that her two brothers became firm friends.

  And at that moment, Ulf groaned.

  She bent to listen. No other sound came from his lips. Was it merely a groan or had he tried to speak? She dipped the rag in the water and wiped his mouth, as if by doing this she would get him to talk to her.

  But no more sound came. She began to panic. She had heard tell of a dying person’s death-rattle. Was this what she had heard? Was Ulf about to die?

  She cried out in rage and terror. He could not die. He must not die.

  Her mind flew. She thought of all the salves and potions her mother had used on childhood ailments, all the prayers that priests had uttered over the sick. None had the power to call someone back from the brink of death.

  And then, swift as eagles, her mind flew over time and over great distance. To Somerset, to the watery world that gave them birth. To Ymma, the wise woman; Ymma the healer.

  ‘Help me,’ she pleaded. ‘Help me Ymma, please.’

  Her body began to shake. she tried to still it but then she realised she would not be able to. And nor should she.

  She placed her trembling hand upon her brother’s brow.

  She felt the heat but now she sensed her own hand was growing just as hot. Unknown words whirled unbidden in her mind and she bent low and whispered them in Ulf’s ear. Only they must hear them, only they must ever know.

  Still the words came, an endless cascade of sounds she could not understand yet which seemed as familiar as her skin. She detected, or thought she could, a part-made chant which seemed to dance behind the words, a song attempting to weave a pattern in and around them, a pattern beyond hearing and far beyond thought or understanding.