Gods of War

by C. R. May

‘It looks like the Danish scouts found us then, thankfully not before the army reached a gentler part of the coastline,’ Eofer said. ‘Ubba and his men died for nowt.’ Eofer shared a look with his companions and clicked his tongue, the horse moving out into the warm sunshine as he glanced towards his brother. ‘You never did say if there was any truth in the accusation you made to that Dane.’

  Wulf chuckled as a party of horsemen detached themselves from the army’s flank, cantering across beneath the white dragon of Engeln. ‘Hrok, you mean? The man was a bastard,’ he spat. ‘He was always in the slave quarters tupping the women.’

  Eofer shrugged. ‘So? Most men do.’

  Wulf flicked a look and his face creased into a frown. ‘Not like Hrok, he liked to play rough.’ Wulf spat into the dust to clear the memory. ‘The girls said that he killed more than one, just for the fun of it; and not quickly either.’ He shook his head. ‘Sometimes paying compensation to the owner is not enough. If a deofol gets into your soul you will end up below in Hel’s frozen hall, and it will be a good thing too. He will realise the error of his ways by now,’ he added with a smile of satisfaction, ‘now that king’s bane has spitted him like the yuletide hog.’

  They shared a smile as they recalled Eofer’s victory, and the eorle stitched his brow as a thought entered his mind. ‘You have still not answered my question. What about Hrok and Signy, Ubba’s woman?’ Wulf let out a snort of derision. ‘Signy had far too much pride to look at a man like Hrok. And he was a braggart, she would have found herself back at her father’s hall before she could have splashed her arse clean in a bucket.’

  Eofer cast a sidelong look as the pieces of the tale began to fall into place in his mind. His brother had taken on a familiar air of smugness, and the eorle began to suspect why he seemed to know so much about the woman: ‘you didn’t?’

  Wulf put back his head and laughed, the twinkle in his eye as good as any confession, and a smirk lit Eofer’s face as he reached his own conclusion: ‘you bastard.’

  20

  The king glanced across from the knot of ealdormen and thegns, and Eofer was gratified to recognise the warmth in his smile. The king’s advisors followed their lord’s gaze, booming their approval as the sons of Wonred approached. King Eomær made his excuses and strode across, visibly checking his warriors for injury as he came: ‘a bloodless victory?’

  The brothers exchanged a look, and Wulf answered his king with a smile. ‘On the English side, lord. The Danes…’ He gave a shrug, ‘not so much. It was a victory for English brains and brawn, lord,’ he smirked. ‘As ever, my brother supplied the brawn.’

  The trio shared a laugh as the king’s attention switched to the army of King Hrothulf across the valley. ‘As you can see, we have been overtaken at last. Well, we had a good run,’ the king said distantly, ‘we should be thankful for that. Another day and we would have been away. Wulf,’ he said brightening, ‘I have an important task for you and your hearth brothers. Rejoin the gesith, they will fill you with meat and ale; we have a long night ahead of us. Eofer,’ he said, plucking at the eorle’s sleeve, ‘walk with me once again will you? I have a favour to ask of you.’ Intrigued, the brothers exchanged a look as they parted, and the king led Eofer towards the lip of the ridge line. The war flag of Engeln flew proudly from the summit, and if the white of the dragon looked a little less bright after a month in the field, the red background looked no less bloody. The ash men guarding the banner moved away as the pair, king and eorle, paused and turned their eyes to the South.

  ‘You returned just in time Eofer. The bay is as you described it, perfect for our purposes; we are leaving tonight.’ Eomær shielded his eyes as he looked out across the waters of the Beltic Sea, the sun low to the south-west painting the wave tops the colour of steel. ‘If you look closely,’ he murmured as Eofer followed his gaze, ‘you can just make out a cloud of sail on the horizon. Beneath that haze lies the hulls of our fleet.’ The king instinctively peered skywards as he sought out the position of the sun. The orb lay low down, away to the West beyond the land which was already becoming the old country; the day was drawing on. ‘The ships are making their way here, Eofer,’ the king said, ‘our work in Daneland is done. The last of the English will have left Engeln for Anglia by now, it is time that we followed on.’ The king laid a hand on Eofer’s shoulder as he indicated that they return to the others. ‘There was one more thing that I would ask of you,’ he said as they walked. ‘Not every man wished to follow us to the new land and I respected their wishes, despite the pressing need for spearmen across the sea. I left them back at Sleyswic, moving the earthly remains of my ancestors from their barrows and reinterring them in secret places throughout Engeln. There is one though which I wish to carry across the sea to Anglia.’ King Eomær turned to his war thegn and smiled. ‘You have shown yourself to be loyal, shrewd and brave Eofer,’ he said. ‘Can I ask you to do one last thing for your people, before you too leave our motherland for the final time?’

  The shingle scrunched underfoot as Eofer moved about the beach. Thousands of men were filing down the steep sided Combes which cut the coastline, a silvered snake as the light of the full moon reflected from helm, mail and spear point. His brother was shepherding the first arrivals into orderly groups as the first dark outlines of curving prows and snarling beast heads moved into the shallows and mooring ropes flew the gap to shore. Eofer gave a small chuckle as he saw the exasperation written on his brother’s face, struggling manfully to form the disparate groups of warriors into ship-sized batches ready for loading. Wulf looked his way and a snort of amusement came as he noticed his brother’s grin. ‘Come to help?’

  Eofer shook his head. ‘I have a much easier task. Keep the Danish army at bay while the lucky ones slip away into the night.’

  Wulf was about to answer, but a movement caught his eye and he turned his head and called into the gloom. ‘Where are you going?’

  A mumbled reply came from a dark shape there and Wulf snapped back in irritation. ‘Well, go where you are! Your group is next to board, we promise we won’t look.’

  Eofer clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘You are busy, I will let you get on. I just wanted to wish you gods-luck for the voyage.’ Wulf was about to protest but the words were stillborn as a figure appeared before them. ‘A ship has run aground Wulf,’ the man said. ‘We need someone with authority to organise a party to push it clear.’ The warrior glanced at Eofer and blanched as he recognised the eorle, the hero who had shattered the Danes at the ridge and saved the army from a far bloodier fight. ‘Sorry, lord, but the ship is blocking the anchorage. It is mayhem down there.’

  Wulf nodded that he would be along, and the warrior pulled an apologetic smile before melting back into the gloom. ‘That’s what you get for being a gesith,’ Eofer said with a smile. ‘The king’s men always get the hard jobs.’

  Wulf snorted but fixed Eofer with a stare. ‘You know which one of us always gets the toughest jobs and it isn’t me king’s bane. You take care,’ he said, prodding his brother’s chest with a finger. ‘And don’t hang about in Engeln. Astrid and Weohstan will need you in the new country.’ The brothers were about to embrace when a cry of warning caused them to jump back.

  ‘Watch yourself, lord!’

  A man came past holding a burning brand before him, the details of his face and chest picked out a dull orange by the flickering flames. The torches had been set at high points on the beach, guiding the ships ashore. Their work now done, they were being led through the crowded anchorage to be doused in the surf in a hiss of steam. Eofer turned again and opened his mouth to call a final farewell but his brother had already gone, swallowed by the lines of shuffling warriors.

  Disappointed he made his way inland, past the lines of anxious faces as the English army made their way to safety. Everyman knew that discovery by their fiend now would very likely mean the death of their nation. Caught, disorganised, strung out with little hope of forming a cohesive defence, the cream of Engl
ish fighting men could very well be supping their ale in Valhall before the horses pulled the sun into the sky to the East. Anglia would be stillborn, their women and children sold to thrældom, the proud name of Engle a byword for defeat as the over-proud Danes sang their victory songs and piled high their plunder.

  Eofer paused as he gained the crest and looked back at the cove. The waters were choked as ships entered the bay, loaded their precious cargo and exited at the northern spur. He snorted to himself as he recognised the value of his brother’s work there. The dark mass of men littering the shoreline were already draining away like ale from an upturned cup, and his hand went under his shirt to the small silver hammer which hung there, thanking Thunor that the weather god had looked kindly on the Engles in their time of greatest danger. High above the spring Moon, huge and white, frosted the sea and hilltops with its pale light, lighting the way for the ships of the English fleet. By sunup King Eomær and his army would be through Eyrarsund, putting the cliffs of Daneland behind them as they sailed away to Anglia.

  Eofer’s shield strap was irritating him, biting into the skin of his shoulder, and he shifted it with a grimace as he hefted his spear. A last look and he turned his back on the mayhem, edging past the last column of warriors as he recrossed the ridge line.

  Osbeorn’s face showed red in the light of the flames, the worry obvious for all to see. ‘Is it time to go yet, lord?’ Eofer cast a look across the vale towards the high ground where King Hrothulf had set his standard. The South facing slope was bathed in a silver sheen, the campfires of the Danish host winking in the still air like a hundred suns, but the valley floor was still as black as pitch. The thegn chewed his lip as he thought and cast an anxious look up at the hillside to the rear. He had expected Grimwulf to be back by now, bringing the welcome news that the army was aboard the ships and clearing the headland as they put their prows to the North. ‘Don’t worry,’ he quipped in a futile attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Our foemen are not on the move just yet, I can’t smell bacon.’

  Osbeorn attempted a smile but it was obvious to them both that his heart was not really in it. ‘They will be cooking our bacon if they realise what is happening here.’ He jerked his head towards the valley bottom as Crawa sauntered past between the Danes and the flames. ‘It’s all right us walking around all night, hoping that they think that the sciphere is still here. What if they twig that they are not? That dip could hold an army and we wouldn’t know anything about it until they came up the hill towards us.’ He grimaced. ‘What if they send horse Danes?’

  Eofer blew out through his mouth as the tension of the moment finally breached his defences. ‘Well, if that happens Ozzy, then we will all die. Unless of course,’ he snapped, ‘the guda are still looking for volunteers to walk the blood-winding I told you about, then of course, we will wish that we already were dead.’

  Osbeorn looked at the floor as Eofer cursed. They were all tired and anxious, longing for the days to return when they could sit and share meat, ale and the companionship of their hearth mates in safety once again. It had been so long now since they had sat in Eofer’s hall that they could scarcely recall it. The hall itself now was little more than a dark scar on a field in Engeln and two of the men who had shared the last night there were dead, Imma Gold and the youth, Oswin, cut down by Jutish swords as the year of fire and steel had begun. The eorle moved on, clapping his duguth on the shoulder in an action which needed no words. A quick glance to the East told him that no glimmer of light yet showed on the horizon, but a glance to the South confirmed that the moon was on the wane.

  As he contemplated herding the last of the horses together, preparing to make a desperate ride to the West, Grimwulf appeared at his side with the news they had all been longing to hear. ‘They are all away, lord,’ he panted, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘The last two ships are ready and waiting.’

  Eofer grinned despite his weariness as the cares of the night fell away. ‘Tell the others,’ he replied. ‘Let’s get away from here as quick as we can.’

  A thought struck him as the youth turned to go, and he called after Grimwulf who stopped and cupped his ear. ‘Tell everyone to gather around their senior man and report to me as they leave the camp, I don’t want to leave anyone behind. I will be standing by the main path.’

  Eofer shot Osbeorn a grin. ‘About time. Come on then, let’s get going.’ The pair trotted up to the crest of the escarpment and within a few moments the first of the rearguard were up with them, grateful smiles flashing their way as Eofer counted them off. ‘Keep going lads, straight down to the beach. The scipthegn will tell you which ship to board.’

  As the last of the invading army melted into the shadows a young warrior approached him and inclined his head. Eofer looked the lad up and down, and his brow furrowed as he realised that he should not have been among them at all. King Eomær had left only five score warriors to form the rearguard under Eofer’s command. If not the cream of the army, each man was an experienced spearman, a fighter proven to be skilled at weapon work, steadfast in the face of danger. Clad in a battle shirt and helm of toughened hide, the youngster was struggling manfully under the weight of an oversized shield and spear; Eofer doubted that he had ever campaigned before. The boy hesitated to speak as if overwhelmed that he stood before an eorle, a man of reputation and renown, and Eofer smiled as he attempted to put him at ease: ‘you look lost.’

  The boy raised his eyes and shook his head, but his voice came strongly as he replied. ‘No, lord, I have a favour to ask.’

  Eofer exchanged a glance with Osbeorn as Hemming and Octa gathered his own youth in and waited for them by the track: ‘ask it.’

  ‘My father was killed beside me in the battle at the ridge.’ He lowered the tip of his spear, pointing it towards the thegn as he spoke.

  In a flash Osbeorn swept his own spear across, knocking the point aside as he shouldered the boy to the ground. Before the shocked youth could recover Hemming was there, and he gaped in horror as the duguths’ own spears stabbed out, twin spear points nicking the skin of his throat as Eofer’s hearth men braced to drive them home. Gleaming was already in Eofer’s hand, his eyes flicking from one abandoned fire to the next as he sought out any hint that this might be a prelude to a surprise Danish assault.

  As the clatter of shield on shield came from Eofer’s youth, the eorle, satisfied that no Danes were about to rush the hillside, lowered his gaze. ‘Was your father Engle or Dane, lad?’

  The boy’s eyes looked as large and white as the spring moon above them as he answered in a voice far less confident sounding than before. ‘Engle, lord. He was a metalsmith, he plied the lands around Hereford.’ Eofer called into the gloom as he checked the valley again for movement: ‘Grimwulf. Down here.’

  As the youth came up Eofer questioned the boy again. ‘Did your father shoe horses?’

  ‘No, lord, the hoefsmith did that.’

  ‘But he made horseshoes, bits and other pieces of tackle. He visited the horse farms in the area?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  Grimwulf quickly realised why he had been summoned and he added a question of his own. ‘What was the name of the horse thegn at Bedricsweorth?’

  The boy was beginning to recover his composure, and they all shared a grin as he spat a reply which could only come from the mouth of another Englishman. ‘There is no horse thegn at Bedricsweorth, or any other kind of thegn. The place is a shit hole.’

  Eofer looked across to the East as the snake ship edged out of the cove. As he watched, a thin line, dove grey, grew by the moment until it flared to light the undersides of the clouds. As the snaca left the shelter of the bay the great prow beast bucked and rolled as if sharing the happiness of its crew to be safely away from avenging spearmen, and Eofer’s thoughts turned to the weeks just gone by.

  He had added greatly to his reputation, both by his bold attack on the Danish camp and shield wall and the following duel with Ubba silk beard. If he had felt shame at his c
apture, despite the fact that all had assured him that it had been unavoidable, the reaction of his hearth men had more than made up for any humiliation.

  Thrush Hemming had thrust himself manfully into the breach caused by his loss, and Eofer had been as thrilled as any as he listened to his big friend recount the tale of that weeklong dash through the forests of Scania before the king and his gesith. A warlord was judged by the quality of his following and his, he knew, had shown that they possessed a potent mix of independence, intelligence and aggression.

  A ripple of laughter broke into his thoughts, and he peered aft as the rowers slowed their stroke, pausing to crane their necks as they looked back towards the land. The sun was a milky smear on the horizon now and the Danes had discovered to their fury that they had no enemy left to fight. The ridge line which they had so recently crossed was shimmering, the dawn light reflecting off polished helms and spear points as the first of the avenging Danes swept down to the beach.

  Their quarry, the men who had risked all to see their countrymen safely away, were now huddled into their cloaks, crammed into every available space, unseeing and uncaring whether their enemies had been made to look fools or not.

  The boy, Anna, had been the last Englishman to leave Daneland as had been his wish. The blood of the Dane who had taken his father’s life still stained the lad’s spear blade and he had promised never to point it at a man again unless he intended to use it. It had been a lesson learned the hard way, but the men had taken to him in the short time he had been with them and even Grimwulf appeared to have forgiven him for the less than flattering description of his home village. He had no family to return to, Eofer would let him tag along for a while; get him across to Anglia at least.

  The steersman hauled the big paddle blade to his chest as Eofer settled in beside his troop. Yes, he thought as a wave of drowsiness washed through him, Anna could tag along for a while, a smith was always useful. As the sea slapped gently alongside, he hunkered down into his cloak as his lids became lead weights.