by C. R. May
Eofer had picked out the path as the fire-bolts flickered overhead, and placing the heel of his spear shaft deliberately he hauled himself up onto the narrow platform. Within a few steps the curve of his shield had caught on an outcrop of rock and he cursed as he slipped it from one shoulder to the other. For a moment he considered letting it drop to the beach below but he knew that he would quickly come to regret the decision in the morning’s fighting. It would be hard enough with the protection, he knew, without it they would be unlikely to prevail. Only seasoned warriors, the best of the best, could hope to hold an army at bay for the best part of a day until help arrived. To face such men shieldless was to invite a quick trip across the rainbow bridge.
Hemming gripped the rear of his belt and he waited for a few moments to enable the chain to form behind him before moving carefully forward. As the path wend its way northwards the beach below petered out until they were passing only feet above the spray as the storm driven waves pummelled the rock face below their feet. By tapping the butt of his spear along the edge of the path and groping the cliff face opposite, Eofer could just about navigate his way forward despite the near absence of light, a darkness made almost solid by the overhanging wall of rock which towered above them. Hemming still gripped the rear of his belt as they shuffled closer to the point of greatest danger, the few yards which he feared more than the Danes, the fiend which could well decide whether the English nation had a future or not. Surmount it and he felt confident that his attack would overcome Danish resistance. Fail here and the army could very well become trapped against a ragged coastline with no hope of rescue from the sea. With the full might of King Hrothulf’s army bearing down upon them the ramifications could be dire. Shorn of its warriors, the new kingdom of Anglia would wither and die.
He could hear it now, and Eofer recalled the familiar howl with a rising sense of dread. The last time that he had come close the Hwælspere had been all but sucked into its maw, as the tidal rush gripped the big snake ship and dragged it towards its doom. They had spoken to fishermen from the lands of the Wulfings opposite and knew that the Danes called the horror which lay before them ‘Skerkir’, ‘Rowdy’, the name of a particularly boisterous giant from a gods-tale. It was only the experience gained by a lifetime at sea which had saved them then, and Eofer had hoped that his shadow would never fall across the blowhole again. Hnæf, Eadward’s duguth, the man who had worked so hard to save them that day was himself gone now, his body no doubt mouldering on a midden in Scania, and Eofer sent an invocation for the peace of the steersman’s soul as he led the men forward the final few yards.
If the sea god Wade appeared to have sided with the Danes, the tidal rush seething back and forth in the space ahead, Thunor the thunderer had clearly thrown in his lot with the Engles. Above them the base of the clouds, a dark boiling mass hastening away to the north-east became a torch, illuminating the way ahead as fingers of light snaked to-and-fro between them.
The great wall of rock became a lantern, the whiteness of the chalk turning night to day as Eofer led the war band around the final outcrop to come face-to-face with the monster. It was the moment which he had been dreading, ever since the plan had come to him on the hillock with the king. Before him Skerkir was a boiling maelstrom of water and spume as Wade pushed the waves in, the water rising and rising until it seemed that it must overwhelm the little pathway before falling rapidly away to become swallowed by the darkness.
He paused then as he stared at the thing, heaving like the sweat covered flank of a war horse run hard.
Hemming clasped his shoulder, leaning forward to shout above the din: ‘nice.’
It was enough to break the spell, and Eofer forced a foot forward as he recognised the need to keep moving. If he showed even the merest hint of doubt here, the fear would quickly spread down the line and the attack could stall. The thought of retracing his steps and explaining to the king and ealdormen that their courage had deserted them was unthinkable, there was no choice. They had to move forward.
A flash revealed the size of the beast, and Eofer spied out the path as the water fell away once more. The sea had cut a notch in the chalk here, twenty yards wide, fifty deep, widening a cleft in the rock face in its unending quest to level the land. Ahead of him the narrow path swung back around to the South for twenty or thirty feet, hugging the chasm, before rounding a knob of rock and moving away. It was only a short distance, a moment’s stroll elsewhere, but he caught his breath, watching with mounting dread as the sea surged up again. Before it reached his level the light from above lessened like a guttering brand, finally extinguishing itself completely to leave them smothered by an inky blackness. Sightless, Eofer froze in terror as the water pushed the air up before it, setting up the mournful howl which he had heard before. A recollection from his childhood flashed into his mind as he waited for the wave to pluck him from his perch, and he snorted despite his fear as he pushed it down deep. Old Mother Holle snatched the souls of wayward children, the grey haired hag gathering them in to keep her company as she travelled the northern lands. The little waifs wailed in their misery and he shook the thought from his mind with difficulty as he grasped the rock.
Slowly the rush of air subsided and, as the yowl died away he realised that the water must be retreating. Pushing himself on as fast as he dared he had cleared the back wall and was nearing the turning point before the howl started to build again. Lightning arced, and Eofer stole a look back the way he had come. The men were strung out around the gaping maw, each man gripping the belt of the man ahead as bone white faces stared into the abyss. The water was returning, swelling to fill the blowhole in a mighty rush as the men clutched at the wall and, just as the water slowed and stilled and they thought that the danger would pass, it seemed to gather itself and surge again. Eofer looked on in horror as the dark mass advanced, the air rushing on ahead with an unearthly cry just as the thunderbolts fled the sky, plunging them all back into darkness.
Eofer threw his arm around an outcrop, bracing his body as he waited for the savage jerk on his belt which would tell him that the men had been swallowed down by the giant as the air screamed around him.
17
Hemming hawked and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm as he wiped more blood from his face. ‘Could have been worse; could have been a lot worse.’
Eofer chewed his lip as his eyes searched the swell. ‘They might turn up further along. If I remember rightly the beach shelves once we are past this point. If they ditched their gear like I said, they would stand a chance.’
‘If they didn’t?’
‘Well, if they didn’t they are fucking idiots,’ he snapped as the tension of the night threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Dead fucking idiots!’
Hemming gave his shoulder a shove and, as the thegn glared his way, puckered his lips and blew him a kiss. ‘It’s all right, you can throw churlish language my way. I know that you love me really.’
Eofer shook his head and exhaled softly. ‘Do something for me Thrush,’
‘What’s that, lord?’
‘Never change.’
A wide smile lit Hemming’s face at the praise from his lord as the last of the men rounded the beak of rock and threw themselves down onto the path. To a man they were soaked, from rain and seawater, and it was obvious to Eofer that more than a few had lost shields and spears as Skerkir had done its utmost to prise them from the rock. He clapped his weorthman on the arm as his self discipline reasserted itself. ‘Come on, lets go and see what we have left.’
Safely above the reach of the waves now he slipped the shield from his back, propping the great board against the cliff face as he dropped the bundle containing his heavier items to the ground. The last of the lightning was flickering overhead as the distant sound of thunder told them all that the storm was moving on. Thunor had done his best to guide them past Rowdy, and he reached inside his shirt to move the hammer of the thunder god to his lips in silent thanks as his eyes moved along the line of dishe
velled warriors before him. They met his gaze as he approached and Eofer was gratified to see that the fighting spirit still burned within, despite the blow they had just received.
‘How many?’
‘The two in front of me went,’ a warrior replied. ‘I tried to hold the belt of the lad in front but the water just seemed to uncurl my fingers and carry him away.’ He blinked the water from his eyes and wiped his face on a sleeve. ‘It’s lucky that it did, lord,’ he said with a grimace. ‘If I had gone too, like as not the boys behind me would have followed. You would have been facing the Danes at dawn with a dozen spears.’
Eofer nodded as he recognised the truth in the man’s words. Two or three men were a setback, many more would have dealt his plans a fateful blow. ‘Any others?’
‘Eadgar went,’ a voice replied from the gloom. ‘I saw him in the water though when the lightning flashed again, so he must have ditched his gear.’
‘Well,’ Eofer replied as he wiped the salty water from his own eyes. ‘Thunor has had our backs so far tonight, maybe he can watch over our friend and guide him to shore.’
Grunts of agreement filled the air and hands went to pendants as they made their own pleas and promises to the red bearded one. Of all the gods, Thunor had always had a wide following among the Engle, his plain speaking, bloody minded traits matching their own.
‘So that’s it then?’ he said with relief. ‘Just those three?’
‘Me too lord,’ a man answered with a frown, pointing to his leg. Laid out carefully before him the leg looked fine, and Eofer raised a brow in question. ‘Broken,’ he replied with a scowl. ‘I was thrown about like a rag doll by that wave and bashed against the rocks. I heard it snap, even above the roar of the wind and sea.’
‘We will carry you down to the beach,’ he replied in a sympathetic tone, ‘we are almost there now. If we squirrel you away somewhere we can send help when we have seen to these Danes.’ The warrior pursed his lips in frustration. To come so far only to be left almost at the moment that the attack went in was a heavy blow, but they all knew that it could not be helped. He had been fortunate to survive his meeting with Skerkir at all. Eofer turned away as his thoughts turned back to the dawn assault, and he pitched his voice to carry over the sound of the wind. ‘Let’s get down there, then I want everyone to dress in their war gear. Mail shirts, arm rings, the lot, everything but helms. Carry them and keep them covered for now.’ He shot them a predatory grin as he spoke. ‘We have already overcome our greatest trial tonight. Now it is time to reap our reward in glory and renown.’
A horse snickered and the men sank down as one, merging with the forest floor as best they could. Despite the near total absence of light, Eofer’s insistence that they forego their helms until the commencement of the attack was repaid handsomely as a Danish guard sauntered across and peered into the tree line. One of the horses, a big chestnut stallion, was clearly agitated; he knew that they were there and he showed his displeasure by snorting and pawing at the ground with a hoof. As the Dane turned away to speak calming words to the animal, one of Eofer’s men sidled across and pressed his mouth to the thegn’s ear. ‘It’s the horse shit, lord.’ Eofer gave him a look of incomprehension and tilted his head in a clear indication that he wanted to know more. ‘The horse shit which we smeared onto our hands and faces. The big lad in front is the leader of the herd. He can smell it and thinks that there are rival stallions nearby.’
Eofer cursed inwardly and nodded that he understood as the man regained his place in the underbrush. His mind raced. A quick glance to the East told him that the small patch of sky that he could see remained resolutely dark. With the thickness of cloud cover that night it had been impossible to judge the passage of time, but he knew that the dawn must be approaching and he hoped that it would come soon, before the horse gave the game away. Eofer rose to his haunches and gave the Danish camp a last look over as he reached his decision. Turning back he ushered the war band to the rear, back into the depths of the wood. He knew the place that he was heading for, a small clearing where an oak had succumbed to age and windstorm a few years back, tearing a rent in the canopy which would enable them to catch the first signs of the dawn. Within a hundred paces they were there, and Eofer snatched up a handful of sodden leaf mulch from the forest floor and gave his face a scrub. ‘I forgot about this,’ he said as the men gratefully copied his actions. ‘And we didn’t even need it!’
‘We don’t know that for sure, lord.’ Hemming answered, backing up the initial decision. ‘It could have got us to the cliff face unseen, who knows whether the Danes had men posted on the high ground.’ As the men nodded their agreement one of them added his own voice. ‘Imagine if they had spotted us, lord. We might have found ourselves facing Danish spears the moment we got past the blowhole.’ Eofer was gratified that the men mumbled in agreement. It had been no small thing to ask proud men, men chosen by their king to spearhead the English attack to smell like stable boys, and he thanked them as he tossed away the foul smelling leaves and unfastened the battle helm from his belt. ‘Time to get ourselves ready, lads,’ he said as he tossed the covering aside and lowered the helm onto his head. ‘We know the layout of the Danish camp now, when we go in, we go in hard. I saw half a dozen men guarding the horse lines, a couple of men preparing hot food and a dozen tents.’ He raised a brow. ‘Do we all agree? Is that what we all saw?’ A mumbled chorus told him that they did. ‘When we leave here we will drift to the right and come out on the road behind them, form up and straight in. I will kill anyone in my path, and then wait on the far side for you all to mop up. Clear the camp and then reform on me. Be quick,’ he said with emphasis. ‘It doesn’t matter too much if we miss one or two, they can’t harm us. The main battle line will be distracted by the king’s attack, with any luck we will be among them before they are even aware that we are there.’
They all acknowledged his instruction with a nod of their head as Octa pointed away to the East. ‘Is it me, or can I see a smidgeon of grey there?’ They all looked, and hearts leapt as the speck widened into a strap of iron.
The men slipped their shields from their shoulders and tore off the drab covering to reveal the beauty within. Reds and silver, blues and gold, each great board carried the owner’s personal design or that of his lord. Silver domes shone in the weak light, the bosses polished to a high gloss to match the edging, hawks and ravens which surrounded them. Gripping his own shield, Eofer hefted his gar, holding the stout spear out as the men came forward to clash their own in the binding.
As if in response, the first sounds of ash shaft on lime-wood board carried to them from the West as King Eomær formed his army into battle array. In his mind’s eye Eofer saw the silvered line filling the valley side, a roistering mass of hild-thegns and warriors as gaudy banners snapped in the wind. Men calling their war cries, moving down into the valley to challenge the fiend who had the gall to bar their path. As the army’s spears clacked and the voices of champions drifted to them in their hidden glade, Eofer, his own blood quickening, shot his war troop a grin and a wish that Thunor’s protection hold sway a little longer.
A fold in the ground, its lip edged by oak and hornbeam ran away towards the road, and Eofer jogged ahead of the men as the returning light made pearls of the raindrops from the night’s downpour. Soon they were within earshot of the enemy camp, and the eorle slowed to a walk as his eyes picked out the track ahead. The familiar smells of camp life, woodsmoke and roasting meat, drifted across to torment the hungry men as they emerged onto the roadway and took up position, and Eofer took a moment to pick out Osbeorn, throwing his duguth a mischievous sniff and a wink as the smell of the breakfast bacon enveloped them. Despite the tension of the moment Osbeorn’s face creased into a smile as the war band fanned out to either side, couching spears and hunkering into shields as they fixed the camp with a ravening glare.
The sun had broken free of the horizon now and their shadows stretched away before them, filling the roadway as
Eofer flicked a last look to left and right. The warriors filled the road, ten men wide, five ranks deep, leaning forward like hounds at the slip, and the battle fire began to course through his veins as he raised his gar aloft. All eyes were turned to him, and Eofer thrilled with the power of the moment as the blade flamed in the sun’s rays.
Chopping the spear down he surged forward and accelerated into a run. Their long shadows raced towards the tents which straddled the track, climbing the pale woollen walls to plunge them back into darkness as the troop approached. Eofer’s breathing was loud in his ears as he reached the tent line and raced between them. Emerging on the far side he got the momentary glimpse of a face turned his way, the boy’s mouth falling open in shock as freshly split wood tumbled from his hands. Eofer’s spear shot forward to take the Dane in the throat, the shock of the strike forcing his own shoulder back as the wide bladed stabbing spear stuck fast and the boy fell away. Ahead of him a Dane stared at this death dealing apparition which had suddenly appeared in their midst, a steaming ladle held comically before him as he puckered his lips for a taste. He was a dozen paces away and Eofer recognised the moment when the shock left the cook and his mouth widened to shout a warning. The Englishman’s arm was already drawn back as he shifted the grip on his throwing spear, the slender daroth flying forward as he released with an explosive grunt. The dart was still airborne as Eofer reached across his body, drawing Gleaming from its scabbard with a nerve tingling swish. As the spear punched the Dane backwards Eofer was on him, kicking the pot aside in a torrent of steaming gruel as he brought his blade down to take the man in the neck. The cook’s cry was stillborn as Gleaming bit deep, a jet of arterial blood pulsing from the wound to darken the ground at his feet. Eofer twisted his wrist, sawing the blade through muscle and tendon as he jumped the dying man and turned back.
