Gods of War

by C. R. May

  Eofer pulled at his beard as he listened before continuing with his own story. ‘Hrothulf murdered his uncle the king and one of his cousins, but the other one got away. We managed to rescue him, but the new king’s men, led by this Ubba silk beard, were hot on his heels. Luckily for us we just managed to make the coast of Scania before we were overtaken, and we led four shiploads of Danish huscarls off into the forest. I was overpowered defending a river crossing but all the others must have got away.’ He sat back again with a self-satisfied smirk. ‘It’s the reason why the Danes are reluctant to attack our army. A good number of their best troops are chasing shadows in the backwoods, huscarls, the best of the best. Men who don’t even know of our invasion and are in no great hurry to return empty handed.’

  ‘No wonder Ulf is such a foul tempered arse,’ Swinna laughed. ‘His lord is off gods know where while he babysits prisoners and feeds the dog.’ They shared a laugh as it became obvious that Eofer and his men were largely responsible for Ulf’s bad temper. Eofer dug Swinna in the ribs as the laughter trailed away. ‘You said that you wished to travel on to Valhall,’ he said as the smile left his face. ‘How do you feel about taking that journey tonight?’

  11

  ‘Suit yourself, although I tend to find that most people prefer to eat them. Mind you, you can always go and join them if you like that sort of thing.’ Hemming laughed along with the rest and took another gulp from his ale cup as Ena bustled off with the empties. Imma Gold leaned in and cried into his hearth mate’s ear as another of the warriors, hairless, earless, noseless, his features scorched and blackened by the heat of the flames, bent forward, spreading his arse cheeks with a maniacal expression as he prepared to receive another pickled egg. ‘The Danes are here.’

  Hemming choked on his ale, showering the table as the burnt man, a Jute by the looks of his smoke sooted brooch, grimaced with pain. Imma shook his shoulder to gain his attention; ‘Thrush, the Danes are here.’ He looked back, screwing his face up in confusion as he realised that something was not quite right; his best friend was dead, how could he be in the Barley Mow? Come to that, how could he be in the Barley Mow? Imma Gold was standing over him, his blond hair falling forward as he threw his old friend a warm smile and spoke again. ‘The Danes are here, mate. Come on, drag your arse up off the floor.’

  Another shake, harder this time, and a face swam into Hemming’s view as he attempted to focus. ‘All right Goldy, I am coming,’ he murmured. ‘This is funny. Just one more egg.’

  The hand patted his shoulder and Hemming recognised the sadness in his voice as Octa replied. ‘If only Goldy were here, and Eofer; Eadward sent one of his lads down from the hall to tell you that the Danes have reached the town.’

  As his consciousness came back with a rush, the duguth sat bolt upright and instinctively checked that his sword was to hand. He nodded at his hearth companion, wincing as he dug out a sharp stalk of hay from the neck of his shirt. ‘I will be there. Get the others up.’ As Octa moved away, Hemming hauled himself to his feet and attached his sword scabbard to his baldric. A quick splash of water from the pail by the door and he was ready to face the foe who had chased them clear across Scania.

  Osbeorn was already waiting and he threw him a look: ‘helms?’

  Hemming nodded as the dark twins moved around them, brushing the last of the hay from backs and trews. The boys had already spent the last part of the night polishing the duguth’s silver and steel: helms, buckles, arm rings. Now they shone like ice, and Hemming indicated that they finally grab some well deserved rest as the others dragged themselves wearily to their feet and saw to their own weapons.

  The pair exchanged a nod and a look. ‘Let’s go.’

  Hauling the big door inwards Hemming screwed up his face as the full light of morning hit him but he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, aware that unseen eyes would be apprising him every step of the way. The hall of the local thegn lay at the highest point of Skansen, and the English pair fixed their gaze upon the boar heads which decorated its gable end as they navigated their way towards it.

  Like most towns in the North, the Geat settlement had no enclosing defensive works and no watch towers studded its perimeter, but it was far from indefensible. Hemming studied the layout of the town as they walked on with the practised eye of an attacker. What at first looked little more than a haphazard collection of huts, halls and barns, to the experienced eye resolved itself into a maze of blind alleyways, dead ends and killing grounds. Any hostile army would quickly be forced to split apart as it moved towards the centre of the town to avoid bunching, dissipating the energy of its attack and making an organised assault on the heart of the settlement almost impossible.

  Hemming allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he walked. The crushing victory over the Danish outlier had transformed the English situation. Bolstered by the bloodletting the war band had picked up the pace, jogging into the night behind the flames of the dead men’s torch. With the bodies of their attackers carefully hidden the Engles had reasoned that, even if the chasing Danes came within view of the flickering light, they would assume that none but their own men would risk travelling beneath the revealing glow.

  As the darkness of full night had moved in to envelop the little band the first signs of the hand of man began to appear. First a side path snaked away into the gloom, followed a little later by the distant lights of a farm as the greenwood began to pull back to reveal gently undulating meadows and well tended fields. Spurred on by the realisation that the end to their weeklong journey was in sight, they had somehow found the energy to raise a small cheer as the lights of the town glimmered into view.

  Once they had revealed themselves as Engles to the startled old veteran charged with guarding the entrance to the settlement, the welcome had been warm. A longstanding friendship existed between the two nations. Eofer was kin to the Geat ruling family, and the fact that the very men who had rescued King Heardred and his warriors from a Frankish war fleet the previous summer had pitched up unexpectedly among them had swept the town like wildfire. That the local thegn, Gudmund, and his levy had fought alongside the men of Eofer’s war band in the battles outside Skovde and at Ravenswood a couple of summers previously, had only served to heighten their welcome. Prince Hrothmund had requested that he be taken under the protection of King Heardred of the Geats, and, his uncle’s men hot on their heels, he had been quickly supplied with a horse and escort and despatched to the king’s fortress at distant Miklaborg.

  A loud hiss came from his right and Hemming glanced across as a sword smith’s tongs withdrew a tongue of twisted iron rods from a large tub. Stripped to the waist despite the chill of the spring morning, the craftsman moved the piece this way and that as he judged his handiwork, the muscled body which was a prerequisite of his trade glistening from the heat of the forge. Sensing their eyes upon him the smith looked up, throwing the English pair a gap-toothed smile and a friendly nod, before turning and disappearing back into the shadows.

  ‘Friendly lot,’ Osbeorn sniffed.

  Hemming snorted. ‘Smiths always are; warriors are good customers.’

  They shared a chuckle as women and children began to gather at the doorways, eager to weigh-up these foreign warriors, comparing them to their own men in size and splendour.

  Geatish warriors began to appear in groups of twos and threes as they scaled the rise. The welcome here was less enthusiastic despite the long standing alliance. If the talks which were about to take place within the hall failed fighting was sure to follow, and they harboured no illusions as to who the victors would be. A powerful force of Danish huscarls, some of the best men that the kingdom possessed, had unexpectedly appeared in their midsts. Although riders had been roused from their slumber and dispatched immediately to summon the levy, it would be some time yet until reinforcements arrived in any numbers. Hemming noted the stands of throwing spears which were being stacked at choke points within the town as he walked and felt an awkward tug a
t his conscience. He hoped that Gudmund was a skilled negotiator, otherwise the English could very well have brought death and destruction down upon the friendly people here.

  With a final switchback the path opened out before the hall, depositing the Englishmen within a circular courtyard. Irregular stones had been set into the floor here to lay the dust of summer and keep the cloying mud which plagued all settlements, large and small, at other times of the year at least manageable. Hemming ran his eyes along the hall of the thegn of Skansen as the pair approached the doorway. It was, he decided a little to his surprise, a handsome hall. A stout frame of oak, the posts and beams weathered a silvery grey, carried a recently thatched roof of honey-coloured reed. Washed panels of lime plaster filled the framework, flushed pink in the slanting light of the early morning sun.

  Geat spearmen flanked the entrance, their size and bearing a match for the Engles who now paced towards them. A steward came forward to usher them inside and Hemming removed his helm, cradling it in the crook of his arm as a thrall took their swords into safekeeping. The Geat led the pair into the hall with a smile, and Hemming risked a quick look to either side, instinctively probing the shadows despite his trust in their host. The entrance lay midway along the long wall of the hall and sturdy beams of oak, chased and carved with tales of the gods, marched away to left and right. Benches lined the walls, with several fire-pits smouldering dully between them, the brume drifting up to the smoke hole high above in the light airs which the heat of the flames sucked in through the open doorway.

  Thegn Gudmund sat on his gift-stool facing the entrance flanked by further spearmen, and Hemming blinked in surprise that the young Geat would act in such a high-handed manner to greet men, some of which would likely consider themselves his social equals. Eadward, the English thegn stood to one side, and he dipped his head in recognition as Hemming and Osbeorn moved to his side.

  Three Danes, huscarls dressed for battle in mail and war shirt, their arms heavy with rings of gold and silver, glared at the Engles across the rush strewn floor as they took their place, and Hemming could not resist throwing their leader who he now recognised to be the same Ubba silk beard who had trapped them at the beach in Daneland, a sly wink. To his credit the big Dane lowered his gaze as he sought to suppress a smile, and Hemming gave a soft snort as Gudmund began to speak.

  ‘Welcome to Geatland,’ he began brightly. ‘We seem to have become unwilling hosts to a small disagreement.’ He turned his smile on Ubba. ‘May I ask why there are armed Danish huscarls tramping across my lord’s lands?’

  Hemming watched with interest as Ubba pursed his lip and formed his reply. It was obvious to all who the Geats regarded as the hostile force. It was equally clear that the Danes, at least until the men in the country thereabouts flocked to the war banner, had numbers on their side. Plainly their quarry had escaped them, but the desire to raze the town, if only to assuage their sense of frustration, must have been overwhelming.

  Ubba shifted the grim helm which he held at his side, his hand straying across to stroke the boar which crowned it as he made to reply. The action had carried a clear threat, betraying his anger as he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘We were unaware that we had entered the lands of King Heardred, please accept our apologies,’ he answered diplomatically. Nodding his head towards the English he continued. ‘We were in pursuit of a shipload of vikings who had been raiding our coastal districts for a week or more. The pirates helped a fugitive escape, a pretender to the king helm of Daneland. King Hrothulf would act very favourably towards any nation which returned this man to his homeland and, I am sure,’ he added with a look, ‘be open handed in his generosity towards any man who unlocked his own store of wisdom to enable that happy situation to come about.’

  Gudmund’s shoulders slumped and his face took on the pained expression of a man who had been denied a fortune by fate. It was clear to the Englishmen that the negotiations were little more than a farce, a false display for the sake of the accepted code of behaviour in such situations. The deadpan look which crossed Ubba’s features and the anger which flared in the huscarl’s eyes, told them all that the Danes now realised this too as the Geat replied. ‘Alas, the man you seek is no longer here. He rode north several hours ago and should be past Geatwic, well on his way to the hall of King Heardred at Miklaborg by now.’ Gudmund raised his brow with such a sense of innocence that Hemming winced, hoping that the man had the sense not to push the Danes too far. ‘You will have to forgive we country folk, we are often left in the dark,’ he smiled. ‘But who is this King Hrothulf you speak of? The only man by that name known to us is a gangly nephew of your king, Hrothgar.’

  As Ubba’s expression darkened, Hemming was relieved to see that Eadward shared his misgivings at the turn the conversation was taking. If they could send the Danes on their way without bloodshed they would, quite literally, be out of the woods. Dishonour proud men and this day could still turn very nasty, very quickly. As Ubba’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, the scipthegn pulled a gold ring from his arm and took a pace forward. ‘Unfortunately we met a handful of men on the path. It was dark,’ he offered, ‘and we took them for wolf heads. It was only after we had fought that we knew them to be Danish huscarls.’ He held the ring towards Ubba. ‘I offer this as wergild for the killings in good faith, and I hope that he will remember that we paid handsome compensation the next time that he sees my good friend Eofer king’s bane.’

  Hemming watched Ubba for the slightest sign that Eofer yet lived, and his heart leapt as the Dane considered the offer without any hint that his lord had fallen at the crossing.

  The Danish leader hesitated, but Hemming caught the man’s eye and was relieved to see the realisation there that he was being offered a way out of the situation with honour. As he watched he recognised the moment when Ubba buried his anger, and the desire to leave this place overcame the temptation to visit the home of the upstart Geatish thegn with fire and sword. Ubba stepped forward, took the arm ring from Eadward and slipped it on his own arm with a nod of recognition. Turning to Gudmund the Dane spoke with the voice of a man clearly suppressing his emotions, and Hemming fought down a smile at the thinly hidden barb the Dane’s reply contained. ‘We thank you for your hospitality, even the rustic ways of countryfolk are welcome after a week in the wildwood, but we must away to the South as soon as we can buy horses to carry us.’

  Gudmund held out his hands apologetically. ‘Alas, all of our horses went with the riders who accompanied your countryman north or are scouring the countryside raising the levy.’

  Ubba frowned. ‘A ship then, from the coast? We carry enough silver to pay handsomely.’

  ‘Again, we have only fishing boats nearby. I am sure that the fishermen would take your silver but it would hardly be fitting for the king’s huscarls to return to Daneland smelling like a week old herring.’

  Ubba lowered his voice to a growl. ‘It is a chance that I am willing to take, lord. I lead violent men,’ he added with menace. ‘We could sit at a wedding feast smelling like ox shit and everyone would laugh at our jokes and ask us to dance.’

  Gudmund shrugged. ‘I am sorry. At another time of the year if may have been possible, but springtime? The winter supplies are all but exhausted; the meats are long since eaten in many households and the barley bins a scoop or two from the bottom. I am sure that you understand a thegn’s duty to his people. They need the fish those boats bring in to survive until the first harvest is gathered safely in. Besides,’ he replied, as his voice took on a steel-edged tone and he added a menacing glare of his own. ‘The men who accompanied your prince to Miklaborg should by now have explained to King Heardred that the very same Danes who assaulted his kinsman and took him prisoner have had the misfortune to fall into his lap, so to speak.’

  Ubba glared as his patience finally snapped. He made to move but the spearmen lowered their weapons and a low growl came from the foot of the dais as a wolfhound, its shaggy grey fur bristling like the crest on
a boar helm raised itself, its lips drawn back into a warning scowl. The big Dane snorted and the corners of his lips turned up into a mocking smile. ‘Congratulations Geat,’ he snarled. ‘You have made a powerful enemy.’ He flicked a look at the Engles. ‘Yes, your eorle lives, he was taken to Daneland where he will pay a heavy price for the burning of Heorot.’ As Hemming and Osbeorn exchanged a smile at the confirmation that Eofer was alive, Ubba threw the Geatish thegn a look of contempt. ‘We have unfinished business in the West, after which I am sure that my king will wish to repay you for your generous and helpful actions here today.’

  Ubba dipped his head briefly and swept from the hall closely followed by his companions, snatching his weapons up as he went. The dog had sensed the difference in his master’s attitude between the opposing groups and he loped across to nuzzle Hemming’s outstretched hand.