Gods of War

by C. R. May

  The fight had reached a stalemate, neither man could strike without laying himself open to a counterstrike, and Hrothmund’s mouth curled into a sneer of contempt as he questioned the man who lay before him. ‘So; have we a new king?’

  Kari snorted, his expression mocking. ‘We don’t have a new king, no.’ His mouth drew a cold smile as Hrothmund watched the spear point dance before him. ‘Only I have a new king. You have a funeral pyre waiting for you back at Hleidre.’

  A smattering of burrows littered the ground thereabouts, and the stony spoil lay scattered all about them. Hrothmund worked his foot beneath a pebble as Kari spoke, snapping a reply which he knew would rile the man on the forest floor and pin his eyes to his own. ‘You have a big mouth for a man dumped on his arse. Call me lord, and I will make your end as painless as I can,’ he sneered, his lips curling into a contemptuous smile.

  Kari gave a savage laugh, and Hrothmund jerked his foot forward in a flash. The stone spun through the air between them to strike the warrior on the cheek, and in the heartbeat it took for Kari’s mind to react to the danger Hrothmund was past the wide spear blade, his sword darting forward to prick his opponent’s throat. The prince curbed the strike before it became fatal, pinning the man, wide eyed with fear, to the ground. As Kari choked and gargled on his own blood, Hrothmund stood over him and let a ball of spittle fall slowly into the other man’s eye. ‘You thought to be paid with gold and silver for the morning’s work’, he snarled, thrilling to the power of the moment. ‘But I think it more fitting that your treachery is repaid with steel.’

  3

  The lad dug out another stone with the butt of his spear and aimed a kick, watching with satisfaction as it arced away into the gloom.

  ‘Will you stop that? If the English are out there the first thing that we will know is when we feel cold steel slide across our throat.’

  The young Dane threw his companion a sidelong glance, his fresh-faced features made ruddy by the cold air. ‘The English won’t come this far east, we are wasting our time here. Even if they did,’ he boasted, ‘we saw off the Heathobeards and we will chase them away too.’

  Herulf shook his head and sighed at the youth’s innocence, but he could not suppress a tiny smile all the same. Straw blond hair and a complexion as smooth as cream were enough to hush the noisiest girls as he strolled past. That the gods had deemed fit to combine them with a powerful frame and ready smile were a gift worthy of them. Once the youthful bluster had been driven from him by a shield wall or two his brother would have a fine son on his hands, one who would add greatly to the family’s standing.

  ‘War Beards are one thing Toki, the English another. Our own raiders have been goading them for a while now, and they are beginning to hit back.’ The big Dane spat into the grass and set his face, fixing his young kinsman with a stare. It was the look of a man imparting good advice, words which a wise man would heed. ‘You have seen the charred remains of the king’s great hall, twenty men did that. I have raided in Engeln and it’s not much fun; you go in and get out quickly if you want to live.’ Toki dropped his gaze and Herulf chuckled warmly as he tapped the boy’s leg with the shaft of his spear. As Toki looked up, Herulf threw him a wink. Perhaps he had gone too far, it wouldn’t do to chase the confidence from him, he would need it, and soon. Preparations were under way for the great raid which men said would follow the time when the goddess Eostre rode among them. The new King Hrothulf was a firebrand, a man after his own heart. Every man in the army knew that it had been his leadership and not the old king which had driven the Heathobeards from the land the previous year. It would be good to serve under a young and vigorous leader after the years of drift and shame which had marked the last days of Hrothgar’s rule. Danes were not Jutes, King Eomær’s rabid dogs would feel the full might of Danish power as payment for the destruction of Heorot. ‘You will see the backs of plenty of Englishmen as we drive them before us,’ Herulf smiled encouragingly. ‘We will smash their spear hedge, burn Eorthdraca and be home in time to sow our crops.’

  As the ever-ready smile returned to the youth’s face a voice, faint and distant, hailed them from the murk. ‘Herulf, we can’t find you. Give us a whistle, we can’t see anything in this.’

  The Dane shook his head in wonder; overconfidence was rife in the army. He gripped his spear a little tighter and stared down the pathway. Cobwebs of mist sat on the land, collecting in the hollows and gullies of the coastal strip like pools of spilt milk. The trees glistened in the light of the moon, silvered pearls festooning the branches as the moisture found a home. Toki appeared at his shoulder, his own spear braced and ready as Herulf challenged the new arrivals. ‘Use the password, or the only whistle you will hear is the whistle made by my spear as it cuts the air.’

  Shadowy shapes slowly began to harden into the form of their relief as the words floated up: ‘Fire Dragon.’

  Herulf relaxed as the men laboured up the path and the leader shot him a smile. ‘Is that any way to greet the man who carried your breakfast all the way up here? You are too careful Herulf, the English raiders are long gone.’ The warrior ran his hand across his beard and flicked the condensation from his fingers as he came up. His smile widened into a grin as he produced two small bundles from his shirt. ‘Unless you are about to tell me that we have wasted our time dragging ourselves up to this lonely headland? You’ve already beaten off a massed English attack and they have rowed for home, licking their wounds.’

  Herulf gave a chuckle, shaking his head as he gratefully accepted the package and began to tuck in. ‘I wouldn’t know if they had arrived Thrain,’ he said between mouthfuls, flicking a contemptuous look out to sea, ‘not in this. Any more news?’

  Thrain shook his head. ‘No, I told you. The raiders are snug in their hall now, while we freeze our balls off staring out to sea. It’s been two days since we saw the fire over at Skegg Ness, they are long gone.’

  With the appetite of a younger man Toki had already wolfed his food, and he asked a question as his uncle took another bite. ‘Why would they only send a solitary ship? All they do is land in the dark, burn a few farms near the coast and disappear again. There is no honour or reputation to be gained.’

  ‘They have got the whole of eastern Daneland guarding the coastline every night though,’ his uncle replied through a mouthful of food. ‘Hundreds of men staring out to sea instead of preparing for the invasion after Eostre. Apparently the new king is gnashing his teeth like a madman, warriors are being sent to bolster the defences on this coast from as far away as Hroar’s Kilde.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a ruse, uncle,’ Toki suggested. ‘Draw men away from the West before the main attack arrives there?’

  Thrain and his companion shared a look and laughed. ‘You see what you have done, Herulf?’ He threw Toki a wink. ‘Don’t listen too closely to the old grey beard, lad,’ he chuckled. ‘He will have you checking under the bed for Englishmen before you go to sleep!’

  Herulf shook his head sadly at the pair, but his nephew’s words had struck a chord within him. Maybe the boy had more between his ears than he had given him credit for. Their stint on the coast was over, they were due to travel back to Hleidre at sunup; he would discuss the idea with his jarl and urge him to speak to King Hrothulf. Thrain and his friend were still larking about, but he had seen too much for one night; he needed sleep far more than conversation with these fools. ‘Anyhow, English invasions or not’ he yawned, ‘it’s your problem now, we’re off. If we are quick we will get the chance of a quick nap before we take our leave of this dump.’

  The pair shouldered their shields and took the pathway which led inland as the relief settled in to welcome the dawn. A gully snaked inland from the beach and within moments the Danes had been swallowed in its milky embrace. Tired but rejuvenated by the hot food and the lure of a warm bed, the pair increased the pace as the pathway inclined upwards again. Topping the rise the warm hearth beckoned them on, and uncle and nephew exchanged a smile as the trac
k levelled out and crossed the heath which led to the camp. The mist was thinning as they climbed higher and left the crash of the waves behind them. Gorse and heather, their wind-blown shapes teased into long teardrops by the onshore winds, began to give way to the first birch, the silvered trunks glistening ghost-like in a curtain of white. High above the sky was clear, and a spring moon reigned over the star speckled dome.

  Without warning Tofi tensed and plucked at his kinsman’s sleeve. Herulf stopped in his tracks and instinctively brought his spear to bear as tired eyes scanned the whiteness. Dropping a shoulder, he had slipped his hand inside the shield grip before he had even realised that he had moved. Herulf questioned the youth as his eyes continued to probe the mist. ‘What do you think you saw?’

  Tofi shook his head slowly and moved into a crouch as he brought his own shield up. ‘I didn’t think anything kinsman, I saw the outline of a man moving alongside us.’

  Herulf relaxed a little, but stifled a snort. Maybe Thrain’s slapdash ways had caused him to overreact. It was good that the lad was alert, and he tried to hide any hint of mockery from his tone as he answered. ‘If you saw two warriors carrying spears with shields slung upon their backs, you will find that it was us. I have stood guard in misty weather like this before, the light can play funny tricks.’ Calming his breathing, he listened intently as his eyes probed the white wall before them. There was nothing to be seen but the boy was no fool, his comment back there had proven that. They would pick up the pace and keep their wits about them. More than just manfiend lurked on the heathlands when the night was calm and the moon shone bright.

  They walked on and the older man spoke softly, smiling and gesticulating as if he were telling the lad a tale. ‘Keep your eyes to the front and act normally but glance my way every now and again as if we are having a friendly chat. When you do,’ he sniffed, ‘have a quick look past my shoulder and see if you can spot any movement and I will do the same on your side.’

  Tofi glanced across and laughed at an imagined jest as he took another bite of food. The mist had thickened again as the path dipped into a hollow and crossed a small stream. Despite themselves, the men found themselves trotting to the lip to clear its embrace as quickly as possible. Herulf snorted as the path climbed the opposite bank and he chided his young companion. ‘You’ve got me running from trolls now,’ he laughed. ‘Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone when we get back!’

  Tofi’s head flicked around at the older man, and he was about to reply when he halted mid-word as he saw an expression of horror cross his kinsman’s face. A heartbeat later he let out a gasp of pain and surprise and his eyes dropped to stare, horror-stricken, at the bloody head of an arrow protruding from his throat. As the Dane’s hands moved up to grasp the shaft and his eyes went wide, he watched as the more experienced man took the next shaft on the broad board of his shield.

  Herulf moved between his stricken nephew and the direction from which the arrows had arrived. Covering them both with the shield, he grasped the boy as his legs began to fold and dragged him in the direction of the camp. ‘Stay with me lad, I have got you.’ Within a yard he felt a searing pain as another arrow found its mark, punching into his knee to shatter the bone. Limping now and slowed down by the weight of his kinsman, the big Dane watched as shadowy shapes moved menacingly about him in the chalky veil. A hoary sycamore emerged from the mist, its gnarled branches and twisted trunk testament to its great age, and the Dane’s heart sank. He had remarked on it on the way to the coast and he knew that it lay a good mile or so from safety. His wyrd was upon him, and he turned his face to Tofi and gave the boy a fatalistic smile. ‘It seems that the hooded god has us marked for a greater fight, kinsman. I am sorry that I doubted you.’

  The boy drew himself upright and attempted to answer, but all that came was a pink froth as the air forced its way out through the shattered remains of his throat. Herulf felt a deep sense of pride at the lad’s bravery and they shared a look of understanding, each man determined that they would meet their end like Danes as they moved shoulder to shoulder and faced their attackers.

  * * *

  The bow lifted again as the girl brought the bowstring to her cheek and sighted along the shaft. The mist was spoiling her aim, nothing within it seemed to be where it should be. It was, she decided as her face burned with shame and embarrassment, like trying to spear a trout in a stream. She slowed her breathing, calming her beating heart until she felt at one with the stave as the Danes swung around to face her.

  A voice sounded at her shoulder, calm and reassuring, and the girl gave a grateful nod of recognition at the confident tone and raised her aim a touch. ‘Another to the throat if you can, hawk eye. We don’t know how far away their friends are, and we can’t afford to let them call a warning.’

  The thegn cast a look to the East and grimaced. The fog had thickened again like a living thing but the sky above was still visible. It seemed an age since they had left the ship and the moon was beginning to pale, the dawn must be close. He indicated the Danes with a flick of his head. ‘Octa, Osbeorn; finish these two off and catch us up.’ The pair exchanged a grin and unsheathed their swords as the others began to move away. As they advanced on the grim faced Danes Eofer spoke to them again. ‘Make it quick, lads. We are giving up on this one, we need to get back to sea before the tide turns.’

  They had been raiding along the eastern coast of Daneland for the best part of a week now. Following a day coasting northwards under the Danish flag, they had marked their targets before heading across to the opposite shore and landing their supplies on the Wulfing coast. Several camps had been chosen to enable the Hwælspere to lay up at a different location each day, each one carefully chosen so that the Danish coastline opposite would be clearly in view from a nearby headland. At first the attacks had succeeded beyond their wildest hopes. Arriving offshore at dusk had given them the hours of darkness to make their depredations and withdraw, but the Danes had countered quickly, flooding the area with warriors. Now, their main task completed, they were beginning to hanker after seeing friendly faces once more. The new moon still held sway and Eofer cast a look to the West. The king’s war fleet would be clearing the mouth of the Sley this very morning, unfurling sails and heading east. Before the moon returned, thousands of English warriors would be ashore, and the war of fire and steel would pitch up on Danish strands.

  Despite the successes of the past week this evening had been close to a disaster and he wanted away. The fog had risen like spectres from the hollows as soon as they were ashore, and within the hour they had been blundering around the countryside with only the moon and stars to guide them.

  Hnæf, Eadward’s steersman had been a wonder, carrying them through the murk and depositing the war band in the isolated cove as if it were day. They had found the gully and followed it inland until it had suddenly and unexpectedly petered out to nothing. It had quickly become obvious that they had followed the wrong watercourse but time was short, they simply had to be in position to launch the attack before the sun rose to burn off the mist or risk discovery. Stranded, far from the ship, even a local lad could then shadow them from horseback as others went for help. Cursing the weather, Eofer had just ordered the men back to the Hwælspere when they had heard the cry. Following the sound they had stumbled across the track, just as the twin figures of the Danish coast guardians hove into view. The mist had thinned unexpectedly revealing them to the enemy, but it mattered little. The trackway was easy to follow back to the beach, the young Dane’s alertness had merely hastened his own end.

  Thrush Hemming was waiting at the edge of the mist, and he spoke as Eofer came up. ‘Jog or a fast walk, lord?’

  ‘Jog, we have no idea how close their friends are, but it can’t be far or they would have been mounted.’ Eofer strode to the front and set off back to the East as the men of his war troop filed in behind him. An anxious glance at the sky confirmed that his fears were well founded. The moon still gleamed but the stars were b
eginning to dull, Shining Mane, the celestial horse, was hauling the sun ever closer to the eastern horizon. The miasma which had obscured the coastal belt began to thicken again as the welcome sound of waves carried to them.

  Grimwulf appeared at his side as they jogged on, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air like a hound seeking a scent. Eofer could see the lad’s concern as he cocked an ear to listen over the jangle of mail and arms. ‘Horses, lord,’ he said finally, his words thick with worry. ‘I can smell horses. Up ahead.’

  4

  Eofer exchanged a look with Hemming and both men stopped, raising their chins, drawing in the air. Hemming shook his head and Eofer leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘We can’t smell a thing and it can’t be Ozzy, he’s well downwind. You are sure?’

  Grimwulf smiled at his lord’s easy humour, nothing seemed to faze him, despite the strain he knew he must be under after the many trials that night. He nodded and replied firmly: ‘yes, lord.’

  Eofer sniffed again: nothing. He questioned his man once more: ‘straight ahead?’

  ‘Slightly off to the right of the path, lord.’ The smile drained from Grimwulf’s face as he cocked his head and listened. ‘I can hear them now, listen. They are moving across to block the path.’

  Alert now, Eofer lifted the cheek piece of his helm and concentrated on the sounds of the night. Whatever had made the noise had been quietened, but the trust between members of a hearth troop was absolute. He turned back and placed a finger to his lips, indicating that they leave the path with an arm as he slipped his shield from the carrying strap. A quick glance upwards orientated the direction of the path with the position of the moon and they ghosted into the mist.