Gods of War

by C. R. May

  The others were emerging from the tent line in a wave of flashing steel, and Eofer twisted this way and that as he sought out another opponent. Hemming was finishing off the wood carrier, and he watched dispassionately as his weorthman’s own spear stabbed down into the boy’s unprotected chest as he writhed like an eel beneath him.

  A face appeared at a tent flap, the eyes like moons as they took in the carnage unfolding around him, but a warrior was there and a spear stabbed forward to pierce his head and hook him free of the shelter. Hemming had reached his side and the duguth gave a chuckle at the sight. ‘Like winkling mussels from their shell.’

  Men were moving around the tents, cutting guy ropes before stabbing down at anything that moved within. As the muffled screams began to subside and the telltale crimson stains began to blossom, Eofer quickly scanned the clearing. His men were already beginning to cluster together as any opposition faded. Stern faced and grim in the grey light of the dawn, they looked away to the Danish battle line at the top of the field and steadied themselves for the main fight to come. Eofer followed their gaze and was elated to see that their small victory appeared to have gone unnoticed by the men there. Away to the left the last of the Danish horse guards was being brought low by a well aimed spear throw and the Engle there was moving forward to finish the job. It seemed as if none had escaped the blades to warn their brothers at the danger which had appeared in their rear, and Eofer felt a rush of excitement as he realised the opportunity which the gods were handing his little group.

  Eofer walked the few paces back to the wood carrier, grasping his spear and giving it a tug. The gar was stuck tight, wedged between two of the boy’s neck bones, and he was about to place the sole of his boot onto the Dane’s face when he hesitated. The first rush of battle fury had left him now, and his eyes lingered on the face of his victim as he lay in the mud. He had lived, Eofer estimated, no more than seven winters before the English had come to his land, not many more than his own son. A blond fringe, the gossamer strands of childhood now thick crimson ropes from the lifeblood which covered them and an upturned nose covered in blotchy freckles. Eofer wondered if the nose was replicated on a woman nearby, whether it was true that she would feel a stab to her heart at the very moment her man or son was cut down on a battlefield somewhere.

  Hemming’s voice came at his side as the duguth read his thoughts. ‘Tough shit,’ he shrugged, ‘you might have just saved Weohstan from his blade on another battlefield.’ Eofer narrowed his eyes and Hemming explained. ‘There are no innocents here, lord, everyone is a warrior or wants to be one. We all made that choice and we knew the risks. Just think how many men this boy would have killed if he had grown and got his wish.’ It was true, ceorls and thræls were rarely killed on raids, there was no honour or advantage to be gained. Without them there would be no food grown or fish harvested from the deep, and without the food they supplied there could be no warriors to protect them from enemies. It was a circle of interdependence which had existed ever since the sons of Mannus, the first man, had walked Middle-earth.

  He pushed the thoughts aside as the Danes at the top of the field roared and clashed their shields. It could only mean that King Eomær was leading his thegns against them, and his mind snapped back to the duty which had been entrusted to him by his lord. A quick look told him that his own battle troop were set, shields raised, bloodied spears held before them as they waited for him to lead them to death or glory. Wiping the cook’s blood from Gleaming he sheathed the blade, glancing back at the Danish shield wall to be met by the amazing realisation that the warriors there were still unaware of the danger to their rear. He had to grasp this opportunity while it lasted, and he stamped his foot down as he twisted his own gar free of the young lad’s throat and strode across. ‘Form a boar head,’ he called as he reached them. ‘I am ord man with my duguth tucked in behind me. The rest of you sort yourselves out quickly, we must move now. If we can hit them before they see us, we can turn the fight.’

  As the men rushed to follow his instructions, Hemming gripped Eofer’s sleeve and spoke in a voice filled with wonder and excitement. ‘Look!’

  Eofer peered at the Danish shield hedge and frowned. ‘Yes, I know. They still don’t realise that we are here.’

  Hemming gave him a shove. ‘No, Eofer! Look!’

  Eofer narrowed his eyes as he sought the reason for his duguth’s excitement but could see nothing but a line of backs, spear blades winking in the light as they cheered and stabbed the sky. Osbeorn, Octa and Finn came up and the trio clapped each other on arms and shoulders, grinning like madmen as Octa added his own thoughts to the mix. ‘There they are! The bastards!’

  A breath of wind teased out the war banner of the Danish leader, and Eofer finally shared the look of glee as he too saw the image of the bearded man.

  18

  Fifty paces to go, forty, and still the Danish spear wall showed their backs to Eofer’s charge as they prepared to defend the ridge line against King Eomær’s desperate onslaught. Eofer’s eyes flicked from side to side as he ran, and he felt a kick of excitement in his gut as he saw that Ubba’s battle line was disposed in the way he had expected. Ubba himself stood proudly at the centre of the line, his boar helm gleaming in the pale dawn light beneath the bearded man. A knot of men surrounded the huscarl, men of similar worth and ability, anchoring the centre where the fight would be keenest. Similar groups tied the shield wall to the woodland at either side of the roadway, bolstering the wings, guarding against the flanking attack which would turn the wall back on itself in a tumble of bodies, spreading chaos and death among them in the blink of an eye. Between the three groups Eofer could see that the line thinned considerably as Ubba awaited the reinforcements which must be hurrying his way.

  They were almost upon them as Eofer changed direction, angling his approach to the right to hit the weaker spot in the Danish defence. Only twenty paces to go and the first Dane glanced back towards them, his face a mask of joy as he mistook the attackers for the longed-for relief coming up in the nick of time.

  Ahead, Eofer just had time to recognise the moment when Danish spears and swords began to rise and fall, the length of the wall sparkling like shattered glass as the armies came together with a crash, and he threw his shoulder into his shield and braced against the impact. The roar that went up as the armies met fled his mind as his own world narrowed down to encompass nothing more than the pair of warriors before him. A heartbeat later the air was driven from his lungs as he crashed into the back of the Dane, driving the man forward despite the weight of bodies which were packed tightly together on the hilltop. Eofer’s right hand shot forward at the same moment, his gar skewering the man’s neighbour in the small of the back, passing clear through the Dane’s midriff to impale the warrior to his front.

  Eofer let go of the spear, snatching fang tooth from its scabbard, angling the seax forward as Osbeorn smashed into his back. The man before him had fallen to his knees despite the crush, opening a small gap but threatening to topple the eorle at the same time. Eofer desperately tried to place his feet on firmer ground as the men of his war troop continued to throw their weight into the breach. As the momentum built, Eofer’s breath caught in his throat as he realised that his feet were trapped beneath the fallen Dane. He let out an involuntary cry as he started to tip forward and fall to his death. It was almost unknown for a warrior to survive once he had lost his footing in the chaos of the fight. All warriors knew that it was with good reason that a man killed in battle was said to have fallen; but an unknown hand reached out to grab the neck of his battle shirt, tugging him upright until he managed to throw a leg forward and plant a foot astride the body beneath him. Stabbing downwards, he threw his weight behind his shield and drove forward again.

  The Danes before him were attempting to turn as they became aware of the new threat which had appeared in their rear, but the crush of bodies and the overlapping shields which had meant to be their salvation now worked against them.
/>
  Hemming and Osbeorn shoved forward, and Eofer worked his seax back and forth, the wicked blade sinking into undefended backs as he stabbed and stabbed again. Slowly the pressure at his back began to ease as the English boar snout began to widen, the warriors hacking into the Danish flanks, widening the breach as the rearmost Englishmen arrived to roll up the line.

  Eofer attacked again as the men before him squirmed and turned, desperate to escape the thrusting blade. Stab, twist, withdraw, stab, twist, withdraw to stab again, his sword arm working methodically as hot blood sheeted his tunic, soaking it to the elbow.

  A flash of steel, and he dipped a shoulder as the point of a sword blade scythed down to glance off the crest of his helm with a bone shattering screech. The tip of the blade had been pointing his way, towards him, and Eofer realised with a kick of joy that he had reached the front ranks of the Danish hedge. Sword blades were rising and falling the length of the line as they reaped a grim harvest, hacking at the remaining defenders, driving the hapless Danes back onto the seax and gar of Eofer’s attackers. Ahead of him he could hear the cry from the warriors in the valley roaring the name of their nation:

  Engeln! Engeln!

  Sword and spear blades were hacking into the last few remaining Danes who twisted and turned this way and that in their desperation. As the last defenders fell Eofer lowered his shield, echoing the war cry as a line of grim and blood spattered faces crashed their shields together and stepped towards him with a roar.

  Engeln! Engeln!

  A spear blade darted in and the thegn threw his shield across to deflect it aside as he continued to cry above the din of battle.

  Engeln! Engeln!

  Eofer flicked his eyes up for a heartbeat, away from the point of the sword blade which hovered before him, and he forced a step back as he recognised the fighter and cried his name.

  Coelwulf!

  Still his friend’s eyes remained fixed on the bloody point of Eofer’s blade and he took a chance, lowering the seax, moving it out wide as he cried again.

  Coelwulf!

  At last, Eofer saw a veil of incomprehension come over his friend’s features as he realised that his intended victim was not only calling his name but laying himself open to a killing stroke. Eofer seized the moment, raising his own head above the boards of his shield as he yelled again into the din. Coelwulf! Finally the cry cut through the fog of war and Eofer laughed aloud as his friend’s lips curled into a bloody grin. ‘Eofer!’ he cried, the light of victory shining in his eyes; ‘you made it!’

  Eofer roared with delight, moving forward to embrace his old friend and neighbour as both sets of duguth roared their acclamation and clustered protectively about their lords. The danger was moving away as the combined might of the two English war troops drove the Danes apart, widening the gap which Eofer’s attack had punched through the shield wall.

  Coelwulf grasped Eofer’s wrist, forcing his arm skyward as the cluster of men cheered.

  ‘Eorle!’

  The cry rolled along the ridge as men saw the breach and pushed forward with renewed vigour, the English word for hero their new battle cry.

  ‘Eorle! Eorle!’

  A flash of colour caught his eye and he looked across, watching with pride as his own burning hart herebeacn was rushed to his side. As more men poured into the breach and curved away to attack the rear of the Danish line, Coelwulf attempted to speak but the words came out as a mumble of gibberish. Eofer smiled as he saw that the thegn’s lip was swelling visibly before his eyes and he raised a brow in question: ‘shield rim?’

  Coelwulf nodded and Eofer’s knife flashed. The cut was barely a nick, but blood gushed to soak his friend’s beard as he winced at the unexpected pain. ‘Do me a favour,’ he said as he spat bloody spittle onto the grass at their feet. ‘Warn me next time that you are about to do something like that.’

  Eofer’s youth clustered around them beneath his war banner, and he raked them with a look of pride. Eofer’s brother, Wulf, had taken them under his wing while their lord and the senior members of their hearth troop had been away skirting the cliffs, outflanking the Danes to deliver the hammer blow which had crushed their hopes of pinning the English army against the sea. A gesith, Wulf had stood alongside the other members of King Eomær’s bodyguard, watching with pride as his brother’s detachment had prised the enemy apart and opened the way ahead before releasing his youth to rejoin the victorious eorle.

  Hemming and Osbeorn were peering away to the South, their eyes fixed upon Ubba silk beard and his knot of huscarls, eager to take revenge for the long chase through Scania. ‘Come on, lord,’ Hemming said. ‘We have dues to collect.’

  Coelwulf handed Eofer a water skin and the thegn eagerly gulped down the warm liquid as he looked about him. The majority of the fighting lay to the south of them where Ubba was skilfully drawing the remnants of his shattered position into the formation which Eofer knew the Danes called a scyldborg, the English a shield burh. Edging backwards towards the nearby tree line, the big Dane was fighting at the front of his men as more and more Engles flooded up from the valley to engulf them. Hundreds of warriors now stood between the men of Eofer’s hearth troop and the object of their ire, and Eofer shook his head as he replied. ‘You will have to take your vengeance another time, Thrush.’ He handed the skin across and wiped his beard on his sleeve as he raised his chin to the West. ‘The king wants us to move on.’ They all turned to look across the valley. The first wagons were already on the road, the drivers tugging at the reins as the oxen began to drop down into the vale. A swarm of horsemen were thundering through the brook heading for the rapidly widening gap as they moved forward to scout the road ahead, and Eofer’s face broke into a smile as he recognised the blond mop of hair on the leading rider.

  Spearhafoc had taken herself across to the North, tagging onto a group of bowmen who had been sent to stamp out the last embers of resistance from the small group of survivors there. As Danish shields came up and the shafts began to fly a great cheer rent the air, and ash shafts stabbed the heavens in acclamation as the king strode to the crest of the ridge and crossed to his thegn.

  ‘Eofer, my eorle!’ the king cried as he approached.

  Eofer beamed in return; ‘lord.’

  ‘You did it!’

  Eofer spread his arms to encompass the men of his battle troop. ‘We did it lord. I could not have asked for a better group of men. Everyman here is an eorle, you have my thanks.’

  The horsemen had gained the ridge, and the pair looked across as the leading rider reined in, his face a picture of happiness: ‘Eofer!’

  ‘Haystack,’ he grinned in reply.

  Icel slid from his mount and clasped Eofer to him. Stepping back the ætheling looked at his father, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Where would we be without our very own king’s bane?’

  ‘Fighting our way uphill,’ the king replied, his features hardening once again as the worries of kingship returned to pick at his mood. ‘But as we are not, I want you to scout the route ahead until you reach a wide valley.’ He looked at Eofer, and the smile fled the thegn’s features at the change in the king’s demeanour. ‘I have that right?’

  Eofer nodded. ‘Yes, lord. It should be roughly three or four miles ahead of us, certainly no more than five.’ He pulled a face as he attempted to judge the distance in his mind. It had been nearly a month since he had sailed the coast on the Hwælspere, usually at dawn or dusk, but he was certain in his own mind that he had the distance fixed, despite the jagged nature of the coastline. ‘There is a wide grassy valley, perhaps a mile across, with a large estate on the far side.’ He frowned as he thought back to the last time he had visited the place. ‘We were intending to burn it, but the night was too far advanced and the distance too great to regain the ship before daylight so I abandoned the idea. The coastline takes a northerly turn nearby, it will be on your righthand side, just over the ridge,’ he said, flicking a look at Icel. ‘There is a path there which leads directly ov
er the ridge and on down to a wide bay.’ He looked at the king. ‘Despite the fact that the farm escaped that night I scouted out the valley, in case we returned another time. It should be ideal for our needs, lord.’

  The king clapped his son on the shoulder. ‘Have you anything to ask our eorle?’ Icel shook his head. ‘Go on then, get going. Despatch a few riders north and send word to me when they discover the whereabouts of King Hrothulf and his army. From what Eofer told me last night they should be nearby, and these men,’ he glanced across to the place where Ubba and his Danes were clustered behind a wall of shields and spears, ‘were obviously expecting help to arrive sooner rather than later.’

  Icel nodded as he vaulted into the saddle. It was a mark of his strength that he was able to do so in mail shirt and helm, and the men around him beamed at the prowess of their prince as they put back their heels and galloped away with a noise like thunder.

  A cry of victory went up from the northern part of the ridge line, and the pair, king and thegn, looked across. The bowmen’s work was done, and the men, distinctive in their tawny coloured clothing were trotting happily across to bring their bows to bear on the larger group of Danes to the South. Spearmen were moving among the knot of bodies, ash shafts rising and falling as they dispatched the wounded and sent them to the gods. Spearhafoc was among them, and Eofer drew in a breath to call the youth back to her hearth companions when he thought better of it. The girl looked as happy as he had seen her, back among her kind, and the first doubt that she would become a duguth came into his mind. King Eomær was speaking again, and he forced the thought away as he switched his attention back to his lord. ‘I have a mind to leave them,’ the king was saying. ‘Without horses they pose no threat, and I am keen to move the wagons forward to this valley of yours and recall the fleet before we are intercepted, strung out on the march like peas in a pod.’