The Silver Horn Echoes

by Michael Eging

  Bishop Turpin dismounted and knelt in their center. “Dear God,” he said, “deliver us, your faithful servants, from the hands of the heathen. Amen!”

  Roland drew his sword, the long steel flashing in the uncertain light, and wheeled his mount back around to face the battle. A glitter of gold caught his eye when out of the throng Demetrius, Karim, and Saleem trotted forward and settled into the front rank next to him.

  “You’re here as well?” Roland said. “But this isn’t your fight!”

  Karim flashed bright teeth. “Our fathers are allies, are they not?”

  Demetrius shrugged. “I ride with my friends.”

  Saleem only grunted and appeared aloof.

  Roland nodded. “Your friends welcome you.” Then raising his voice, he continued, “Cavalry, with me! Oliver, draw up the infantry and fill the gap. We will strengthen Bertrin’s left and cut off the Danes. Strike hard!”

  Horns blared and the reserves leaped forward—hedge knights on bony nags and footmen with mismatched armor—with Roland at their head.

  In the center of the now struggling Frank line, Charles found himself urgently waving troops forward through a field choked with the dying and the dead. Arrows continued slicing down, finding chinks in armor and bare exposed flesh. His mount suddenly pitched over and crashed to the earth, an arrow through its eye. Guards rushed to his aid, fighting desperately against the surging Saxons driven with wicked abandon as they sniffed victory at hand. The guards cut at Charles’s harness, freeing him from the tangle of leather and dead horseflesh. He grabbed a soldier by the arm and staggered to his feet.

  “Father!” Pepin yelled from his vantage point atop his steed. “The Danes flank Bertrin! They’ll encircle us!”

  “Send to Florian! He must commit the reserves to the right. To the right!” Charles stepped into a gap in his own line, thrusting his sword under a Saxon’s chin. The man staggered back, clutching at his open throat, to be finished by another Frank who shouldered him off balance and punched a hammer against his temple. Cheers drew Charles’s eyes toward the rear of his own army, but he could see nothing afoot.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “The wolf!” Louis shouted, drawing his own horse up near his father. “Breton March rides before the reserves!”

  Charles straightened, his bloody sword clenched in his fist. “We must hold! Saint Michael be praised!”

  He lifted the Oliphant, pressing the silver horn to his lips, and blew. Its clear, sweet note echoed above the din of battle, and his mind flew for the briefest instant to a time when he had held his first field command and used the same horn to call for help. A knight had ridden to his side that day—a knight named William of Breton March.

  Hooves churned through the muck on the rear of Charles’s right flank, and the reserve cavalry raced toward the edge of Bertrin’s line. Dane arrows voraciously rained upon them, dropping horses and men in headlong flight, but it did not slow their charge. Roland’s banner surged to the fore of a wave of iron under the ringing note from the Oliphant, and then the Frank cavalry collided with the Danes, armored knights wreaking havoc among the lightly armed skirmishers, trampling them like so many blades of grass and driving the survivors before them.

  A Dane howled a battle cry and drove his spear into the chest of Roland’s charging mount, toppling horse, rider, and attacker into the muck. The Dane leapt to his feet first and snatched the butt of his broken weapon from the horse’s carcass. He lunged. Roland awkwardly parried the attack even as he struggled to free himself from his own harness.

  Oliver raced through the butcherous cacophony, his lathered horse lashing out with iron-shod hooves to those reckless enough to offer challenge. Roland’s opponent fell when Oliver struck him above the collar of his hauberk and severed his head in a fountain of blood. Nearby, the squire bearing the wolf bravely fought more Danes, but an ax opened him up at the shoulder, and the standard faltered, dropping from his slackened hands. Oliver leapt from his steed to grab the pennant from the muck and fight back the Danes. Then he hefted it high above the fray. Roland extracted himself at last and rushed to Oliver’s side to keep the northern enemy from stripping the marchmen of their standard.

  A wave seemed to ripple through the Danish ranks. Not far away, Kennick and the marchmen, having stabilized the line, now shoved further into the enemy to recover their young lord. Locked shields bore down against the loosely formed Danes who gave way as the Franks stabbed and slashed, each man protecting his comrade to his left.

  The reserve cavalry regrouped under Demetrius’s direction and advanced as well. Karim and Saleem fought like lions in their midst, deadly Damascan blades carving a path of mayhem.

  The tide began to turn.

  Otun, broad-shouldered and mail-clad champion of the Danes, had been fighting in his jarl’s bodyguard until the battle’s confusion had separated him from them. He now roved down the flank with a great murderous ax gripped in both his meaty hands, laying into any contenders within reach. His green eyes, deep-set under bushy red brows, were fixed on the Frank reserves that had stalled his countrymen’s advance, and the knight fending off fierce Danish warriors from under a wolf banner.

  That standard would be a welcome trophy for the Jarl’s great hall, Otun mused as if a whisper from a Valkyrie had placed the thought in his battle-drunken head.

  He hefted the ax, spat mud and blood, and with a bellow upon his lips launched into the chaos surrounding this youth. Frank troopers fought back, but he shrugged them off and answered only sparingly with the edge of his weapon. He had no time for such trifles. He was focused on his prize, this young man cutting, thrusting, and barking orders.

  Roland pulled his blade from the groin of yet another enemy, the man collapsing in a gush of blood and jumble of flesh. Turpin yelled something that was incoherent in the chaos, and Roland spun in time to see a great red beast of a man, covered in finely made chain and bearing a deadly two-headed ax, breaking through the ring of marchmen around him.

  This Dane cut at him with a roar, but Roland deflected the ax with an adroit tilt of his shield. Slightly off balance, the red-bearded giant swung again, driving forward with knotted shoulders, pushing Roland back and splintering the shield. Roland dropped the ruined board, rolled to the side, and threw his blade forward at an angle just as his assailant brought the ax down in a two-handed overhead maneuver. The sword flexed dangerously from the ax head’s impact on the flat, but his hand braced the blade and deflected the cut away from his body. He drove the sword and the ax into the ground and smashed the Dane in the face with an armored fist, then hooked his foot around the other’s trailing leg as he lunged forward, toppling them both. Roland landed atop the Dane and tugged his dagger free, pressing the edge to the enemy’s throat.

  “Yield!” Roland demanded.

  The Dane sputtered, flailing his arms. He noticed for the first time the young warrior’s motley collection of companions, from poor knights and farmers to an exotically armored Byzantine standing near two Saracens. “What manner of man are you?”

  “Do you yield?” Roland pressed the dagger down, drawing blood.

  The fallen man ceased struggling.

  “Who do we yield to?” he rasped.

  “I am Roland, son of William, who was count of the Breton March!”

  The Dane twisted his head to one side, calling to his struggling comrades. “Jarl Sigursson, is he dead?”

  “He is fallen, Otun!” replied a Dane warrior who paused, notched sword still at the ready, and was covered from head to toe with blood and earth.

  Otun’s red eyebrows knit together. Then he forced the words from his mouth, “We yield to the wolf!”

  One by one as the Danes recognized the word of their champion, they disengaged and lowered their weapons.

  Oliver thrust his sword skyward to the reserves’ ragged cheer, the ripple of which was fe
lt through the entire line of battle—from the forest verge, through the torn fields, to the edge of the sea.

  Under the clearing vermillion sky, a brilliant note echoed off the hills. Victory, it sang.

  Charles lowered the silver horn from his lips, his eyes scanning the wreckage from the day’s business. Around him stood the stalwart men who had held the center even as Bertrin recklessly chased after the Saxon feint. The bodies of Danes, Saxons, and Franks lay tangled among dead horses and war-dogs. Crows circled and cawed overhead, anxious to feast amid the cracked armor and torn gambesons.

  From the fading light that engulfed the carnage emerged those who had held the left flank through the crisis on the right—Ganelon, who had fought with his back to the sea as the Saxon onslaught consumed the center; Alans, who had rolled over the Saxon king’s position and slaughtered his guard to a man; and Gothard, who had stood knee-deep in corpses when the tide turned following the reserve charge. Good men, all.

  Alans took a knee before Charles. “We shattered them, my king.”

  Charles laid a hand on his shoulder. “Yes. We did indeed. I pray to God they accept the terms.” He scanned the field once more. “And the reserves, what of them? What of Florian’s command? I lost them when they hit the Danish host.”

  A soldier pointed toward the darkened forest. From the shelter of its ancient boughs a disparate group of men in mismatched arms picked their way through the fallen and the broken, pausing here and there to lift another survivor to carry along with them. At their head strode Roland, followed by Kennick, Oliver, and Bishop Turpin.

  When they reached the king, Roland dropped to his knees next to Alans and held up a canvas bundle. Charles took it from him, his hands shaking slightly when he unwrapped it.

  “What is this?” he breathed, his voice low as he folded back the cloth.

  “The sword of the Dane jarl,” Roland replied, bowing his head.

  Charles drew forth the gleaming blade and lifted it for all to see, its hilt and pommel a scrolling work of art that belied the butcher’s intent of the thick blade.

  “A prize indeed.” He lowered the weapon and examined its workmanship. “We owe you much, young Roland.”

  Taken by a sudden urge, he lifted the blade again. “With my nobles here assembled,” Charles’s voice rose with majestic authority, “I make this pronouncement before God and his angels … Roland of Breton March, by the authority I hold as anointed ruler of this people, I bestow upon you the rights, privileges, and honors of champion!” He touched Roland on the shoulder with the steel blade. “Arise, son of William! Arise, champion of the realm, and sword of God!”

  The Frank soldiers shouted their approval, striking their shields with mailed fists. The rearguard crowed the loudest and the longest.

  Gothard leaned to his father’s ear. “He now has a champion to protect him once more. Father, you’ve planned so long!”

  Ganelon’s face remained a stoic mask. “We are the house of Clovis, blood of the first king. Patience. Always patience. Draw no attention to yourself. Trust me when I say no champion will stand between us and the throne.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Champion Borne

  The stream ran cloudy with mud stirred by clerics wading down into the waters. Still more men of the cloth guided prisoners cut loose by the guards to participate in the sacrament of the Church and satisfy the terms of their parole, terms that had been set to prevent these beaten warriors from fleeing over the forested hills to take up the fight yet again. The captives stretched in a line back toward the ancient trees that at the start of this day had hosted worship to the Germanic gods—one-eyed Wodin and thundering Thor. Standing with their Saxon and Dane charges in the shallows, the priests muttered mechanically in Latin then they pushed the prisoners under the water and pulled them dripping back up, before leading them to the far bank where soldiers awaited them. On the muddy shore, they knelt before Bishop Turpin who recited the words to their oath:

  “… And before God and these witnesses do you swear to never again take up arms against Charles and his people …”

  The prisoners, as had the group before them, replied in a single word, “Yes.”

  The soldiers then dragged them to their feet and goaded them to still more clergymen, who supplied them with simple homespun clothes and hard bread. In the shade of the ancient trees, they were finally allowed respite to tear hungrily into the small loaves and shake the water from their hair. Armed Franks prowled the area to ensure continued compliance as another group was led down into the water.

  Otun stood tall among the flowing line of prisoners ambling slowly forward to the river, stripped to the waist, hands bound and feet hobbled. Yet he held his head high, his beard bristling defiantly. Before him, his brothers, cousins, and friends took upon themselves the promises of the Christian god who dwelt in a far-off city and swore to keep faith with the Franks. He strained at the bonds around his wrists, digging the cord deeper into his already raw flesh. From a knot of men nearby, the young knight Roland, his last adversary on the battlefield, watched the proceedings with apparent interest. Otun held his head defiantly higher.

  At the lapping edge of the river, a guard shoved him forward.

  “Get in. It’ll be over soon, and you’ll be off to your hovel and your pigs—including your wife!”

  The man guffawed at his own wit. Otun balled up his fists and swung, smashing him in the face and sending his helmet flying over the heads of his fellows. Another soldier grabbed at him until a jab from the Dane’s powerful elbow knocked the wind from him. The guard reeled into the other prisoners who grappled for his weapons. More soldiers rushed in and beat the prisoners down with fists and pommels.

  “Wodin’s eye be damned!” Otun roared, facing the naked blade of a Frank with murder in his eyes.

  “This is the one,” the Frank snarled. “The instigator!”

  From out of the mix of brawling Danes and Franks, Roland pushed his way forward. He grabbed the guard’s arm, halting the man’s sword inches from Otun’s bared chest.

  “What’s going on here?” Roland demanded.

  Otun’s breath hissed through his teeth.

  A cleric, shivering and cold in the stream, piped up helpfully. “This man,” he said, pointing at Otun. “This heathen profanes a sacrament of God!”

  Otun held his bound fists before Roland. “This is too much to ask! If I do this thing, my soul will be exiled from the halls of Valhalla!”

  Roland nodded, but his words held little comfort for the Dane. “Terms of parole, I’m afraid. I can’t countermand King Charles’s own order. All will be baptized. That is his word.”

  Otun spat at Roland’s feet. “Your god was weak. I’ve heard your mewling priests tell the tale of him strung up on a tree!”

  “Yet it is He who strengthens my arm,” Roland countered. “He who is my shield.”

  “Thor’s wrath makes the heavens and earth shake with fear!”

  “And yet for all his rumbling,” Roland said quietly, “your god didn’t grant you victory.”

  Otun glanced around at the line of prisoners, his own Danish comrades from distant villages of the north. They watched their champion carefully, awaiting his next move. After a heartbeat, his shoulders sagged.

  “It is true. I cannot deny it.” He lowered his hands. “But I would serve a warrior. I would be an arm of the gods. Not …” he nodded scathingly at the priest in the river, “not one of these.”

  Abruptly the giant Dane fell to his knees before Roland.

  “Your God will grant me strength in battle?” Otun demanded.

  “Yes,” Roland said warily. Then, with conviction, “Yes, He will. Both in body and in spirit. But only—” he held out a warning hand, “only if you truly give yourself to Him.”

  Otun considered this. He could feel the eyes of his countrymen on his back. Then, making his d
ecision, he twisted his palms together as a supplicant and reached out to Roland.

  “I watched your priests do this with a squire and a knight,” he said. “Before I make promises to your God, I swear to you first.”

  Roland considered this great warrior beast that had laid so many low but a short time ago. “This isn’t in the terms. Do you know what it means to be a vassal? To be my sworn man?”

  “You are the champion, are you not? I hear your heralds proclaim it. And the Franks are a mighty people, are they not?” From his knees, he straightened his back and puffed out his chest. “I would serve you, Roland, champion of the Franks.” From beneath strands of blood-matted hair, his beard cracked into a grin. “Even if it meant feeding that ugly Frank nag of yours!”

  Marking the effect of Otun’s words on the gaggle of prisoners, Roland clasped the Dane’s brutish hands between his own and bowed his head.

  “My horse and I are honored. We accept.”

  Roland drew his dagger and sliced through Otun’s ropes. As if a dam burst, other Danish prisoners clambered forward, straining against their own bonds to follow in Otun’s footsteps and speak the words binding them to the Frank champion.

  The morning sun chased away nightmarish shadows from the battlefield, but the cleansing rays of light could not remove the stench of death. Throughout the night, Franks and Saxons had ranged across the fields to comfort those who struggled for life and take away those who had succumbed. The bodies were separated—the noblemen worthy of transport to their homeland for proper burial were laid aside from the commoners who would be interred in a mass grave where Saxon parolees even now bent their backs to deepen the pit.

  Another stone clacked into place as two clerics completed a rough field altar for the service later in the day. They paused and stretched their sore backs as Roland approached. One, the abbot of a local monastery, tonsure as gray as the mist rising from the fields, bowed gratefully and pronounced blessings upon the champion for his service to God’s kingdom on earth. The other, a layman in sagging homespun that billowed from the cinch at his waist, likewise bowed and backed away from their crude handiwork.