Gods of War

by C. R. May

  Panicking, Eofer dragged down the neck of his shirt, peeping out to landward just as a small rowboat cleared the headland there. The little boat came on with no attempt to steer clear of the enemy vessel and Eofer exchanged a look of disbelief with his weorthman as the twin oars stroked the little boat closer with every passing moment.

  As the craft approached and the incredulous English stood to their arms, Eofer watched as the rower backed oars and slowed the boat a dozen paces from the stern, the steerbord oar stroking the craft broadside on as the man in the stern rose to speak. Casting back his wide hood revealed the visitor to be little more than a youth, but the flaxen hair which fell to his shoulders framed a face the colour of milk, and all those aboard the English ship knew immediately that this was the face of a young man unused to toil in all weathers. He may have been dressed in the muted greens and browns of the lower sort but his demeanour and self-confidence indicated that his upbringing had been anything but. The stranger cupped hands to his mouth and called to them as the Englishmen exchanged looks of puzzlement.

  ‘Have I permission to come aboard?’

  Eadward and his crew were hauling themselves back onboard as the big snaca wallowed unsteadily in the swell, and he exchanged a look and a shrug with the eorle as he stood dripping on the deck. The scipthegn called out a reply, adding to the bizarreness of the day as he hopped on one foot and struggled into his trews. ‘Come across.’

  The mysterious passenger turned and waved to the horseman on the headland above as the oarsman worked the tiny craft alongside, and the rider raised his spear in salute before hauling the head of his mount westward and disappearing from view.

  The boat bumped alongside and the Engles were no longer surprised to see the boatsman fall to his knees, placing his head onto the outstretched hand of the young man as it did so. The youth raised the oarsman, hugging him close as Hemming formed their feelings into words. ‘We really need to leave this place, lord. There is a madness upon it, it may be catching.’

  As the Englishmen struggled into damp clothing, the young Dane gripped the wale and vaulted the gap into the ship. Turning back he took a long bundle from the boatsman who, after a final dip of his head, lent his weight to the oar, pushing the rowboat clear of the wooden wall which towered above it. The boat pulled away as the rower arced his back, working the oars, and the youth finally revealed his identity to add his own contribution to the day of wonders.

  ‘My name is Hrothmund Hrothgarson, a prince of Daneland. I request the protection of your lord, King Eomær of the Engle.’

  6

  The Hwælspere rolled like a drunk in a gale as the waters of the Eyrarsund sloshed alongside. Eofer gripped the backstay and turned to Eadward. ‘Are we going to make it?’ The thegn braced as he urged the big snake ship on. Even with the wind blowing directly over the stern and the crewmen sweating at the oars it would be a close run thing. ‘Unless we pitch up on a sandbank, we will ease into the river mouth ahead of them,’ he answered. ‘Then the real fun will begin.’

  Eofer cast a look to bæcbord where the prows of the Danish drakkar were carving the waves as their own steersmen drove them on. The reason for the strange behaviour of their enemy that day had become clear the moment that the young ætheling had revealed the reason for his desperate flight, and the Englishmen had been momentarily stunned as the importance of the revelation which had fallen from the young man’s lips had sunk in. If King Hrothgar had been murdered the Danish kingdom would be in turmoil, just at the moment when their own king would land his army in the West. The gods were truly smiling on the English, the problem now for the men on the Hwælspere was to survive long enough to enjoy what must be a famous victory over their ancient fiend.

  Eadward jerked his head at the lone figure which stood amidships, nervously fingering the hilt of his sword as he watched the warriors loyal to his kinsman King Hrothulf draw closer. ‘We could chuck him over the side,’ he suggested with a scowl. ‘We saw earlier that he is the only one they are interested in. The bastard will cost me my ship!’

  Eofer shook his head. ‘The king will replace your ship if we do this thing for the army, and heap treasure and reputation upon you too.’ He indicated to the South with a flick of his head and Eadward craned his neck to see. ‘Two more!’ the ship master exclaimed. ‘You are right, Eofer, they really want our friend.’

  Just emerging from the lee of a large island in mid channel, twin sails gleamed white in the morning sun as they hurried north to cut them off. ‘That’s four ships and their crews we are leading away from the fighting in Daneland,’ Eofer said with pride. A quick calculation and he smiled at his friend. ‘We saw how many bearshirts the two ships to the North carried as they swept past us earlier. Even if the two to the South only carry half that number we should be leading forty or fifty Danish huscarls, their finest warriors, away from the fight. Add to that four dragon ships and their crews and we have a major victory over the enemy before the armies even come together.’

  Eadward gave the big paddle blade an affectionate pat. ‘You are right of course, Eofer,’ he answered with a reluctant sigh. ‘If she was still ballasted she could have given them the slip and been away, no ship, Jute or Dane had ever caught her. But like this?’

  The coast was coming up quickly, vertical ramparts of yellowish stone capped by thick stands of woodland, oak, elm and beech, and Eofer could see that a low offshore island, little more than a spit, would force the closest pursuers to tack to sea. Soon they were within the line of withies which marked the safe channel, pulling upstream for all they were worth as the Danes entered the estuary and came on. The English crew redoubled their efforts at the oars as the wind spilled from their sail, and Eofer searched the banks for a suitable landing place as Eadward battled the current with the unwieldy craft. Ahead of them the river began to twist and turn as it made its way into the heart of the greenwood and the eorle knew that they would have to abandon the ship soon or be overtaken. The Hwælspere made the first turn and the crewmen pulled the ship forward again with great sweeps of the oars, but the instability of the craft had already cost them a ship’s length of their lead over the Danish dragons. Eofer threw a look to the West, furrowing his brow as he glimpsed the enemy beast-heads through the thicket; ghosting through the trees like shadow walkers as they chased them down.

  Ahead a small settlement hugged the northern bank, and Eadward pushed on the tiller, angling the prow towards the muddy shore as Eofer left the steering platform and walked the centreline. ‘Arm yourselves but leave any mail on the ship,’ he ordered. ‘Leave anything which will slow you down, however valuable. With luck they will stop to plunder our possessions before they come after us. Take a little food and your water skin,’ he smiled, ‘we are going on a little run.’

  The hamlet was almost upon them as Eofer strapped his shield to his back and collected his spear. Cramming his helm upon his head he fastened the strap and cast a last look at his metal armour stowed amidships. It was the byrnie he had worn in battle against the Swedes, the day that he had struck down the king, Ongentheow, in the pale light of dawn; the same mail which had shone red in the reflected flames of Heorot only months before. Soon a Dane would be trying it for size, his face a wonder as he realised the worth of his prize, but he shrugged and kicked it aside. If its loss aided his escape, so be it. There were other mail shirts.

  A warning horn sounded from the shore, and Eofer watched as the inhabitants spilled from the huts like frightened mice, snatching up children and valuables as they raced across a water meadow to disappear into the tree line. A moment later the ship lurched as the keel grounded in the shallows and the men were up and moving forward, scrambling over the side and wading for the bank. Eofer cast about to ensure that all were ashore before throwing Eadward a sympathetic look as the thegn took up his own spear and made his way forward. A parting grimace at the body of his friend and steersman lying trussed in the bows and he joined Eofer, the pair vaulting the side to land in the shallo
ws with a splash.

  Eofer cast a look at the Englishmen gathered on the bank and snapped an order as he waded ashore. ‘Don’t stand there looking, get straight through the village. Find the pathway inland and keep going!’

  Using the butt of his spear to lever himself up onto the bank, he cast a glance across his shoulder and was horrified to see just how close their pursuers had come. Already prow on to the bank, the first pair of Danish ships raised their oars aloft like the great wings of the fire dragons which had given them their name, the river water raining from the outstretched blades as they glided towards the shore. Bearded faces, the excitement of the chase writ large upon them, were crowding the space either side of the snarling dragon heads, the raking light of early morning sparkling on polished helm and spear point alike like winter sun on broken ice.

  Eofer leaned forward, grabbing Eadward by the arm and hauling him ashore. ‘Come on, they are already within spear shot!’ he grunted as he bundled his friend ashore. The pair took off at a gallop as the first of the Danish darts peppered the ground around them, but the movement of the ships and the closeness of the tightly packed warriors spoiled their aim, and the English thegns were soon within the shadow of the buildings and running hard.

  An excited roar behind them told the pair that the Danish ships had grounded, but Eofer’s heart leapt as he rounded a bend and saw that the gods were still with them. Dozens of sheep were spilling from a pen which stood hard against the track as Cuthbert, Adda and Wulfhere, Eadward’s surviving duguth kicked and jabbed them forward, filling the roadway with wavering cries as they drove them into the heart of the settlement. The fleeces stacked on low wooden paling and the heavy sheers which lay abandoned to one side told the Engles just how benevolent the gods had been, and they forced their way through the bleating scrum and plunged into the shade at the forest edge.

  Thrush Hemming slowed to a walk and shot his lord a look: ‘here?’

  Eofer knuckled his eyes and waited for the flashing stars the action produced to recede before blinking away the tears. It was, he had to admit, an excellent defensive position, as good as they had come across, but his mind struggled to come to a decision, fogged as it was by physical and mental exhaustion. They had all been awake now for getting on for a full day, a period which had seen them blundering around like blind men in the fog of Daneland, fighting against an overwhelming force at the beach before sweating the Hwælspere from the rocks and journeying across to Scania. Now they had run for half a day, chased along a winding forest path by a horde of bloodthirsty Danes who would stop at nothing to capture the fugitive prince in their midst.

  He looked again as the men sipped from their water skins. Twin oaks, their great trunks rilled with age, stood athwart the path like twin guardians of the forest domain, squeezing the track into little more than two paces in width. The land to either side dropped away into boggy depressions, knee deep in leaf mulch and worm-eaten branches, mute testament to the violence of the autumn storms. It was the perfect place to make a stand but, as desperate as the situation was fast becoming, he knew that he would have to order them on. ‘We can’t stop Thrush,’ he croaked painfully. ‘The further we can draw these bastards away from their ships, the longer it will take them to regain Daneland.’ Hemming offered his canteen, and Eofer sipped at the lukewarm contents with a grateful nod, working the precious liquid around his mouth as the men clustered around. Somewhere in the stillness of the holt a woodpecker tapped out a staccato beat and the distant call of a cuckoo drifted to them. Eofer ran his eyes around the group, keen to see if the sound would draw a flicker of interest, but there was none. Some of the youth, both within his own hearth troop and Eadward’s lads, were little more than boys in men’s bodies, thirteen and fourteen winters of age. Normally they would have enough boyishness left within them to claim first-hearing of the elusive herald of spring, bringing fortune upon themselves and their kin for the coming year, but he was unsurprised to find that their faces remained drawn and disinterested if they had even heard it at all.

  Hemming spoke again, dropping his voice to an undertone as Wulfhere, Eadward’s own weorthman came across. ‘I could hold this place for long enough to enable the rest of you to get away, lord,’ he said. ‘One man could defend this gap until the sun left the sky.’ Eofer pursed his lips, conflicting emotions fighting within him as he thought on his duguth’s plan. If it was not for Hrothmund he would hold the narrows himself, but he needed to be sure that the boy got away. Having old King Hrothgar’s son alive and agitating for a triumphal return would occupy the new king’s thoughts night and day. It was a godsend to the English, just when they most needed their old enemy distracted. He had to make the most of that gift, even if it meant running from their fiend like nithings. He looked up, squinting at the patch of blue which cut the treetops like a wound. The sun was well past the high point, the day was advanced. It was still Hreth month, Glory month, the goddess Eostre had not yet ridden her wain among the English nor Danes; there were only a few hours of daylight left before night fell and pursuit then would be troublesome at best. Eofer opened his mouth to agree to his friend’s proposal when Wulfhere cut in. ‘Hemming is right, lord. This is a fine place to defend.’ He traced the curve of his spear blade with the pad of a finger and threw them a grim smile. ‘I will hold this place, you boys have done enough today already.’ Hemming made to argue but Wulfhere cut him short. ‘I am fresh and eager to fight.’ He cuffed Eofer’s man on the sleeve and his lip curled into a smile. ‘Look at you two, if you don’t mind me saying lord, you both look like shit. Besides,’ he added as Eofer and Hemming instinctively took in their pale and drawn features, ‘why should you boys have all the fun?’

  As Eofer hesitated over his decision, his own youth Finn trotted up from the head of the column. ‘Eadward sent word that there is a fast flowing river about half a mile up ahead, lord,’ he panted excitedly. ‘There is some sort of rope crossing there.’

  Wulfhere beamed. ‘There you are then, lord. I will hold them here if they reach us in time and you can send word when everyone is safely across. If I cut this rope when I reach it, you can all pull me across the river and they will be left stranded on this side with no way to cross.’

  Eofer cast an anxious look to the South. The ridgeway took a dip just beyond their position, but it was still early in the year and the trees were leafless so they could see a fair distance. They had seen the Danes a few times when the wildwood had opened out periodically, and Eofer and Eadward had marvelled at the slow pace their leader was setting as he ran the English down. Still wearing their mail shirts, the enemy were jogging at a steady pace as they sought to conserve their energy for the fighting to come. But, the English leaders had agreed incredulously, with such a large force the Danish leader could easily have stripped his fastest runners of their armour and sent them racing on ahead. Forced to turn and deal with the menace, even if the Engles had prevailed in the fight they would have lost valuable time. A couple of fights and they would have been scooped up like fish in a net. Finally he nodded as he reached his decision. ‘It’s a good idea. I will leave Spearhafoc here, she can help fend them off with her bow. With any luck that should be enough to give you the edge.’

  Finn was still standing beside them, and he cleared his throat to speak. ‘She has no arrows, lord,’ he murmured apologetically. As Eofer turned to him, the youth explained with a grimace. ‘She upended her quiver when we jumped from the bow of the Hwælspere and the current just took them away. She has been dreading telling you; she thinks that she has let you down.’

  Eofer sighed and pulled a wry smile. He was becoming too weary to think straight, but he shrugged as he turned back to Wulfhere. ‘I won’t do that then. Sorry, it looks as if you are on your own after all.’ He indicated the path ahead to the others as he hefted his spear and clapped the duguth on the arm in a parting gesture of goodwill. ‘Let’s get going and give this man the best chance that we can.’

  Within a hundred yards the
ridge line began to dip and arc away to the north-west as they hurried on. Soon they were free of the trees and loping across a water meadow thick with cowslip, the flowers a haze of yellow on a drugget of green. Ahead Eofer could see the crossing place, and he clenched his fist with joy as he saw that a full score or more of the men were already gathered on the far bank.

  He called Grimwulf across and the youth came over with a knowing look, despite his obvious state of weariness. ‘You have a use for my speed, lord,’ he said with a smile. Eofer snorted. ‘Go back to the tree line and look for my signal. When I raise my spear shaft, I want you to race back down the path to Wulfhere. Tell him that we are all across and that he is to get himself back here as quickly as possible. Got that?’ The lad nodded and took off as Eofer scanned the knot of bodies grouped on the bank.

  Eadward looked across from his place at the crossing point as he sought his duguth, and Eofer went across to explain the man’s absence. ‘Wulfhere has volunteered to cover our retreat if needs be.’ He indicated Grimwulf staring intently from the forest edge. ‘Don’t worry, my lad there will fetch him when we are all across. Grimwulf will be there in no time, I have seen him outrace a horse.’

  Eofer looked at the river for the first time, and a feeling of elation came over him as he saw that it was their salvation. Swollen by the spring rains the river was wide and fast flowing; the moment that the rope was cut and hauled away the Danes could do little more than wave them on their way. Twin ropes were attached to stout oak posts, one at head height and the other three or four feet below, and he watched as Octa shuffled the last few feet before throwing himself onto the far bank.