Gods of War

by C. R. May

  The Dane’s friends had noticed his approach now and they quietened and exchanged excited glances, shuffling back as steel shone and Gleaming came into view. The man was oblivious to the threat which was rapidly coming down upon him, and he continued with the tale of his one-sided victory over the man they all knew as the king’s bane. All other conversations had now trailed away but still the fool gabbled on, and it was only when Eofer lay the silvered blade on his shoulder that he stopped in mid sentence and slowly turned his head. As the Dane paled and his mouth gaped, Eofer fixed him with a stare and spoke in a tone dripping with menace. ‘I don’t recall gifting you my mail shirt. But I do recall your words to me,’ he snarled. ‘And the girly slap.’

  Eofer took a pace backwards, holding his sword out to one side as he indicated to the Dane that he stand with a jerk of his head. His friends hastily scattered in all directions as the crewman rose slowly to his feet and Eofer watched as the man cast anxious looks amidships, to the place where he knew that Starkad would be watching the unfolding drama. No help would arrive from that direction he knew, and the Engle almost laughed as a picture of the warlord’s wolfish delight at the nearness of imminent bloodletting came into his mind.

  The Dane’s expression darkened, and Eofer saw the indecision in his eyes as they flicked out to either side and he desperately sought a way out of the situation with his life and honour intact.

  ‘There will be no help,’ Eofer said. ‘Nobody will fight an eorle without good reason.’

  Casting a look of contempt at the crewmen around him for abandoning him to his fate, the man began to unbuckle his belt as he prepared to return the byrnie, but Eofer spoke again, his voice a growl. ‘Leave it on and draw your sword, or I will cut your head off where you stand.’

  As his opponent bowed to the inevitable and slowly drew his own blade, Eofer flexed his knees and dropped into a fighting stance. The ship bucked and surged as it buried its head into the waves, but the Englishman rode the movements with ease, his head and sword arm fixed points in a moving world. Everyman aboard knew that here was a killer of men, and Eofer sensed the anticipation begin to drain from the Danish crewmen as they recognised the hopelessness of their man’s cause. His opponent had reached the same conclusion, and he opened his mouth to plead for a forgiveness which was not in the Englishman’s heart.

  Gleaming jabbed forward, the point of the blade opening a meaty gash along the Dane’s cheek before slicing upwards to leave the man’s ear hanging macabrely by a flap of flesh. Eofer was back in position before the Dane had reacted and he watched as the man moved his hand, fumbling in disbelief as he slowly came to realise that a good part of that side of his face now rested upon his shoulder. Eofer moved his hand to the weal which marked his own head as the horror-struck Dane attempted to push his face back together. ‘Head wounds,’ he said, ‘not so funny now.’ Stepping in, Eofer brought his left hand sweeping across to backhand the bloody mess which had only moments before been the side of his opponent’s face. ‘Hurts, does it?’ he said, repeating the Dane’s question from earlier. ‘I think,’ he said, as a pearl of blood fell from the point of his sword to stain the deck, ‘that it was you who should have stayed at home. But then again,’ he spat, ‘you wouldn’t have got to wear that lovely mail shirt, would you? Even for such a short time.’

  9

  ‘What have you got today?’

  Osbeorn’s tongue shot forward to reveal a sticky mess before sliding back into his mouth.

  ‘You’ve got a brown tongue Ozzy,’ Octa said with a sparkle of mischief. ‘I always suspected.’

  Osbeorn laughed as they jogged on. Hemming glanced back at the pair and threw them a fatherly smile.

  ‘I thought that I would have belt,’ Osbeorn replied loftily. ‘You can’t beat a good bit of belt when you are particularly famished, you always get a good chew from belt leather. You?’

  Octa spread his lips to reveal a small piece of leather gripped between his teeth, pale and shredded after hours of chewing. ‘I am going with baldric,’ he said airily. He rubbed his belly with a hand as he glanced down at his friend’s midriff. ‘I don’t know how you do it, I couldn’t run on a full stomach.’

  The duguth shared a snort at their grim humour. It was not the first time that they had been forced to stave off the pangs of hunger on campaign, and despite the gut gnawing discomfort they sincerely hoped that it would not be the last.

  Movement caught Octa’s eye, and he glanced back along the column as he spat the ball into the underbrush, exchanging a knowing look with his hearth mate. ‘Trouble.’

  A youth, gaunt and travel-weary, trotted past them and came alongside the leader. ‘There’s movement on the track.’

  Hemming came to a halt, spitting his own meal into the undergrowth as he attempted to clear his throat. ‘Is it him?’

  Finn ran his tongue along his cracked and swollen lips as he struggled against thirst. ‘I think so,’ he croaked with an apologetic wince as his lip split again. ‘Whoever it is they are still hidden by the trees, but I thought that you should know as quickly as possible so that you can make your dispositions.’ He unstopped his water flask and took a sip, working the life-giving moisture around his mouth with his tongue. Water would not have been a problem if they were travelling at a leisurely pace, it had rained for a full day and night after all, drenching the already tired and hungry Engles and chilling them to the bone. Many tiny rivulets and even fully formed streams cut the path at regular intervals. But they were not moving at ease, it felt like they had been running for weeks and still the Danes came on. Hemming turned his head. Eadward’s men had seen Eofer’s war band come to a halt and they began to draw up as word was passed along to the front of the column.

  They were on the back slope of one of the uncountable number of ridges which seemed to march across this part of Scania like the furrows of a newly ploughed field. It would take them an hour to reach the next crest, and he pursed his lips as he thought. As much as his mind baulked at the thought of retracing even a single step, he knew that it was the right thing to do. ‘Go and tell Eadward what is happening,’ he said to the waiting youth as he worked the stopper from his own flask. ‘Tell him to carry on to the next ridge top as we agreed. We will soon know if this is Grimwulf. If it’s not,’ he added with a fatalistic smile, ‘tell him that I will let Wulfhere and Hnæf know what we have been up to when we pitch up in Valhall.’

  The youth nodded grimly and trotted away as Hemming turned back to the others. Most had heard the exchange and those that were too far away had already guessed what was happening. Hemming snorted as he saw that all were ready, shields unslung, heads helmed. Words were unnecessary, and he hefted his own big battle board as he led them back towards the crest of the rise.

  It had been three days now since they had left the Hwælspere, three days of forced marches, hunger and pain. Most of the men were carrying blisters and sores, their skin rubbed raw by the continual chafing of sodden clothing and boots. Even when they had been forced to stop by the onset of nighttime they had been denied the use of a warming fire and, despite the fierceness of his lord’s hearth troop, Hemming knew that spirits were approaching their nadir. A fight with an outlier of their pursuers, he reflected, could actually be just the thing to put some fire back into their bellies. If, on the other hand, the Danes were coming against them with full force, well, he thought, he would go to Valhall light of heart with a bloodied sword. They had led hundreds of the best warriors in Daneland away from the fighting there. King Eomær and the army must be in Hleidre, and he gave a snort of amusement as the image of the king’s son Icel flashed into his mind, Haystack’s blond mop flashing in the sun as he fed another hall to the flames of war and English riders swirled around him in triumph. Even if they fell today it would be more than a week before the huscarls returned to find their land devastated in their absence; the English had won a great victory before they had drawn a sword in anger.

  Gaining the top of the shallow
rise Hemming planted his feet at the centre of the track and looked to the South. Leg muscles burned after the race to the top, but he pushed the discomfort aside as he peered back along the roadway. Osbeorn and Octa moved to anchor the flanks as Porta slipped into position to his right and Finn returned to take his position on the left. The youth clattered into position to their rear as the duguth caught the first flash of movement among the trees in the vale, but the roadway was now barred by a wall of leather and steel, steadfast and eager to fight. The land fell away to his right and a glance to the West told him that the day was almost done, the sun a balefire as it rested on the treetops and washed the sky the colour of blood. English chests were moving like bellows after the run, breath pluming in the chill evening air like the dragon of their flag. It was, he thought, as fine a way to die as any.

  Osbeorn spoke as they all fixed their eyes onto the point in the track where the runner would break free of the tree cover. ‘Who’s got my back?’

  The higher voice of the Briton came back, the pride in her company and disdain for what might very well be impending death obvious to all in the tone; ‘Spearhafoc, big man.’

  A tortured fart cut the stillness of the moment as the duguth prepared his body for the work to come. ‘Look after that for me, lass.’

  Even without taking his eyes from the pathway Hemming could picture the youth’s face, eyes rolling skyward as she shook her head with disgust. ‘Sure; I will let you have it back later,’ she gasped. ‘If you open your eyes one night and think that you are looking at the biggest moon you have ever seen, brace yourself,’ she replied with a curl of her lip. ‘Because it won’t be the moon you’re looking at.’

  As laughter rolled along the line Thrush Hemming shook his own head in wonder. Eofer would have prepared them to face the fiend with a fine battle speech, putting steel into sword and spear arms, kindling war-fire in bellies, but try as he might the words just would not come. Even as he lamented his lord’s absence for the thousandth time Hemming recognised that the pair had lightened the mood, bringing the hearth troop closer into the special bond which English warriors knew as bindung.

  ‘Are your arrows all set?’ he asked, throwing the girl a look. Spearhafoc flashed him a grin in return and tipped the neck of her quiver forward. ‘Four with fletchings and two which are little more than sharpened sticks,’ she replied with a shrug. He nodded and threw her a wink of encouragement. ‘Make them count.’

  Devastated by the loss of her arrows at the riverbank as she had jumped from the tall bow of the Hwælspere, the youth had used her forest craft to fashion replacements as they had trudged steadily north. Spearhafoc had managed to gather together half a dozen saplings of the correct width from within the numerous clearings which they had passed, open spaces where trees had been brought down by age or autumn blow. Seeds which fell there grew straight and tall as quickly as they could, seeking to establish themselves before others robbed them of the life giving sunlight and the canopy reestablished itself. They were the perfect place to gather the narrow, straight shafts of wood which were required for arrow making. Stripping the sapling of its bark as she jogged along with the others, the young woman had scooped a small cup into the forest floor at one of the brief rest stops and fire-hardened the sharpened tips. Fletchings had come from the feathers of the hen sparrowhawk which had been fixed in her hair, the same feathers which had given her a new name the previous year, back in Britannia when her Welsh name, Dwynwyn, had proven too much of a mouthful for her new English hearth companions. Now she was ready to face the Danes again, the same men who had stolen her lord from her, and her blood quickened as she retrieved the bowstring from beneath her headpiece. Kept warm and dry, the chord slipped easily into place on the nocks as she forced the bow into shape against her instep before slipping the first arrow into place.

  Rand’s voice, the relief in the youth’s tone obvious to all, drew the duguth’s attention back to the pathway. ‘It’s Grimwulf, Hemming.’

  Hemming sensed the shield wall relax as the youth came into view and he snapped a command, his voice a growl. ‘Keep your shape. He is not running after us because he is pining for our company.’

  As the shields came back up, Hemming walked forward of the line and raised a hand in greeting. Grimwulf saw them at the top of the rise and put on a spurt of speed now that he knew that the end of his chase was in sight. Rising from the gloom of the valley, he managed a smile as he slowed to a walk. ‘There are a dozen Danes about half a mile behind me,’ he wheezed. Hemming threw him a water skin and the youth pulled the stopper before swilling the welcome liquid around his parched mouth with a grateful nod. He took another swig, gargled and spat onto the path. ‘They have split up,’ he panted as his chest rose and fell from his exertions. ‘Two dozen have come forward from the main pack and they have split into two groups in turn. It seems like a dozen run forward for a certain time and then wait for the other lot to catch them up. Then they switch places,’ he explained, ‘and the first group jog.’

  Hemming nodded as he sought to hide his disappointment, it was the thing that he had most feared. The Danes had finally realised that a small group could chase them down, forcing them to turn and defend themselves until the main force came up to crush them, just like a pack of hounds holding a stag at bay until the horsemen arrived to make the kill.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ Grimwulf added as he tipped the remainder of the water over his head and shook the droplets from his hair. ‘They have torches with them.’

  Hemming grimaced, but shrugged his shoulders. It was to be expected after all. ‘They can afford to,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t really matter if we see how close they are to us, it might even force us to stop earlier.’ He cast his eyes away to the West. The sun was beneath the horizon as the horse galloped on, the first stars appearing overhead as the sky slowly turned from salmon to jet, and he snorted as he saw the look of incomprehension wash across the youth’s face as the corners of his own mouth curled into a smile. ‘They should be lighting them about now,’ he murmured as the plan came together in his mind. He looked at Grimwulf and was once again amazed at the young man’s stamina. Calm and settled, he looked as if he could run all night. ‘Get yourself along to the next ridge. I want you to tell Eadward and his lads what I am about to do.’

  Hemming shifted again as his boot sank into the mud and the dark waters pooled around it. ‘Here they come,’ he whispered. ‘Everybody; as still and quiet as a mouse.’ As the men of Eofer’s hearth troop settled back into the mulch of the forest floor, the duguth watched as the light from the brand danced and flickered through the latticework of branches which hid the pathway from view. Within moments the blood red point of light flamed as the leading Dane neared the foot of the slope, and Hemming lowered his gaze to preserve his night vision as the war band jogged into view. The daylight was little more than a pale memory in the western sky now, the valley floor as dark as a berry as the Danes skipped across the large rocks which men long since dead had rolled into the watercourse at the crossing place. As the last of the fiend gained the northern bank, Hemming rose to his feet and breathed an order. ‘They are through. Let’s get going.’

  As the others hauled themselves gratefully out of the muck, they gripped spears and swords a little tighter and funnelled carefully in his wake. Within moments they had left the cover of the fallen tree which had hidden them from view, scrambling along the bank as fast as they dare as they sought to balance the need for speed and stealth. Gaining the track, Hemming exhaled with relief as he saw that his plan was working as well had he had dared hope. Ahead the Danes were scaling the valley side, moving forward to meet their wyrd within a slowly receding circle of light. The moment had been judged to perfection, and Hemming led his lord’s hearth troop onto firmer ground and set off in pursuit. With the comforting knowledge that help would arrive within moments, Eadward would lead his men in a downhill charge as soon as the Danes drew near, abandoning the height advantage afforded by the rid
ge line in the knowledge that the enemy would be trapped between them. Unable to stand off and await the arrival of their brothers, the Danes would be forced to fight the unequal battle, a fight they were sure to lose.

  Spearhafoc moved to his side, bow held low in her left hand while her right closed around the arrows in the quiver as they followed on as silently as ten heavily armed warriors were able. Suddenly a shout went up and Hemming raised his hand to halt the column as it became obvious that Eadward’s shield wall had appeared at the crest of the rise, blocking the way ahead for the Danish war party. As the brand was tossed forward onto the roadway by an unseen hand to light the place of slaughter, Hemming placed his hand onto Spearhafoc’s shoulder and lowered his head to speak. ‘Remember,’ he said as the youth selected an arrow from her quiver and tested the fletching with the pad of a thumb. ‘Wait until the fighting starts and then pick them off one at a time.’ He gave her shoulder a squeeze of encouragement. ‘Remember the signal. Once they are in contact with Eadward and his lads, I doubt that they will even notice that you are attacking them from the rear until our own spears are among them.’ The shield maiden gave a curt nod that she understood, walking forward up the hillside as she nocked the first arrow and raised the bow before her.

  Osbeorn and Octa moved to his side as Hemming followed on and the youth packed the pathway behind them. The trail narrowed as it approached the valley floor but, up ahead, Hemming could see that it widened out a few paces as it approached the crest. ‘Finn, Caed,’ he spoke over his shoulder. ‘Move to the wings as soon as the path widens. We can’t be outflanked here.’ As their shields swung forward the sound of fighting rolled down to them from above, and Hemming thanked the gods that he had stopped the men from discarding the heavy boards, despite the temptation on the long haul north. He had known all along that this moment had to come, and now they were set. At last surprise and numbers were with the English, they would smash their way through and open up an insurmountable gap between themselves and their pursuers.