Gods of War

by C. R. May

  Eofer’s hand moved instinctively to the hilt of Gleaming as he shot a look back at the runaways to gauge their reaction to the throttling, but he was surprised to see that the men seemed to think it even funnier than he did himself. A look passed between the two leaders then, and both men knew that the confrontation was over. Once men begin to laugh together fighting sprit dissipates like smoke in a gale, and Eofer told his weorthman to drop his victim before he lost consciousness. As the sound of a deadweight hitting the ground came to them, the Saxon moved aside to let the group through. Eofer kept his hand close to the hilt of his sword, but the man smiled as the horse walked on, reversing his spear to show that the moment of danger had passed. ‘There are other horses,’ he said with a smile. ‘Travel well, lord.’ It was the first time during the encounter that the man had shown respect to his rank, and Eofer watched as the Saxon’s hand went to a hammer pendant lovingly fashioned from bone. Reaching up he gave the thong which held his own silver hammer a sharp tug, tossing the pendant across as the leather parted with a crack. ‘I am Eofer king’s bane of the Engle. May Thunor bring you good fortune on your own journey.’

  The warrior snatched the hammer from the air and shot the eorle a nod and a grin. ‘I am Wulf shield breaker of the Long Beards,’ the giant replied, drawing himself upright and raising his chin with pride. ‘A free man.’

  22

  A gentle gust lifted the hanging, offering a glimpse outside before the wind moved on. It had been pure chance that he had been looking in that direction, but Eofer saw that the light had almost gone from the day and he made his excuses and rose from the hearthside. Ducking through the door he walked out onto the quay and gazed out to the West. It was, he decided, just about the least impressive dusk that he had ever witnessed, and he wondered with a smile how the scops could weave the scene into a stanza fit to grace the gravity of the moment. The sun was not a ball of fire as the horses dragged it down below the horizon, the lower edges of the clouds were far from a blaze of red gold nor the surface of the whale-road a sheet of beaten bronze. It was, he decided, a pretty underwhelming send off as the last of the Engles prepared to leave their homeland for the final time.

  Astrid slipped her arm through his own, resting her head on his chest as the sound of merrymaking carried from the fireside. ‘What did you expect?’ she asked as she traced a pattern with her finger. ‘Fiery dragons cavorting about the heofons, the stars falling?’ She gave his ribs a poke making him jump, looking up with an impish smile. ‘Thunor’s goats trundling his chariot across the sky as he waves his hammer in a final farewell?’

  Eofer chuckled. It was good to have somebody on hand to bring him back to earth, someone who did not look to him to take every decision. His wife gave a sudden start and reached across to grab his hand. Placing it onto her belly she waited for the next kick. Suddenly it came, and the pair shared a kiss at the thought of the life which would come soon after they reached the new land. Astrid had carried the child for nigh on seven months now and her belly was full and hard, the bairn within kicking and pushing as it grew stronger each and every day. He had hoped that she would stay safely at her mother’s hall in Geatland to bear the child, but he had not been surprised to see them as he had led the war band into Strand that evening.

  Hemming had already told the tale of his meeting at Skansen with young Weohstan of course, and Eofer had listened to the tale with pride. Astrid had left the boy with his uncle despite his tender years, and Eofer had approved wholeheartedly. Although it was still two more years until the lad turned seven winters, Heardred had begun his training early and, by all accounts, done so magnificently. Eofer was grateful to his kinsman and over-proud of his son, sure now that the boy would be accepted as a full foster of the king when the time came.

  Astrid wound her shift tighter as another gust came. The warmth of the day, never very great, was seeping away by the moment as the sun finally set in a smear of washy greyness. ‘It’s getting chilly,’ she said and gave him a nudge as she cradled her belly. ‘There are still ways, you know,’ she murmured, ‘if you are careful. Come inside and warm me up, lord.’ Eofer laughed gently and dropped his hand to cup the curve of her buttock. ‘You go inside, I will follow along soon.’

  He ran his eyes across the anchorage as she moved away. The sleek outline of his scegth, Skua, was still visible near the last of the boat sheds, resting on its keel as the waters of the Muddy Sea stilled on the cusp of the flood. On the next ebb tide they too would be away, the very last ship to leave the harbour which had been a home to every English fleet since Sceaf had washed ashore, and the foundling had grown to become the first to wear the king helm of Engeln.

  Twin figures stood outlined by the flames of a brazier, the slim shafts of their spears shining red in the reflected light of the fire, and Eofer sauntered across to check on the guard for a final time before he turned in. A scraping sound drew his attention as he passed the open doorway of the boat shed and he turned aside, peering into the gloom. ‘Osric! What are you doing?’

  The master shipwright looked up from his sweeping and threw the eorle a sheepish grin. ‘Oh,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘You know how it is, lord. A lifetime of habit, I always sweep up the shed before I close up for the night. Dangerous places boat sheds, lord.’ He glanced about, his face already beginning to bloom as he realised how foolish he looked. ‘Wood shavings, pitch, tar, all manner of things which can cause a blaze in here.’

  ‘Good,’ Eofer replied. ‘Chuck the broom down and go and drink with your son. We want to be away at first light, and this is being fired before we leave.’

  Osric hesitated but Eofer insisted. ‘Go on, it will all add to the kindling.’

  The shipwright tossed the broom aside and pulled a wry smile. ‘My father worked here, lord, and his before him. I learnt my own craft at his elbow as my son did at mine.’ Osric looked about him as he spoke, and Eofer could see that the man could not have been happier if he had been in the king’s hall. He clapped him on the shoulder and grimaced. ‘We have all had to make sacrifices, Osric. I burned my own hall and reburied my ancestors. This very morning I left my father to face whichever king arrives to claim these lands, fighting at the head of a group of old men and a spell army.’ He indicated the hall with a toss of his head. ‘Go and make the most of your time remaining here, I promise you that Anglia is worth the loss. Recall your father and others who have worked hereabouts; keep their memory alive, here,’ he said, tapping his chest, ‘and here,’ as he moved his finger up to tap the side of his head. ‘That is where their spirit lives on, not in dusty old boat sheds and gull haunted strands.’

  Osric gave a snort. ‘You are right of course, lord. I see my father in my own son each and every day. I guess,’ he said as he closed the shed door for the last time, ‘that we are never truly dead until those that loved and knew us in life have moved on themselves.’ The shipwright gave a self-conscious chuckle. ‘Listen to me, I am going soft in my old age. You are right, lord. I do need a drink!’ They shared a laugh and Osric strolled away to his ale, whistling a tune without a backward glance. Eofer came up on the sentinels as a rectangle of light appeared on the wall and the quayside filled with the ribald sounds of drinking. ‘Anything going on?’

  Hemming had organised the guard while his lord had been making the final preparations for the voyage and Finn had drawn the first watch of the night. Anna had been told to accompany the youth and Eofer had approved of the choice. It would do the boy good to become more accustomed to the feel of an ash shaft, despite his heroics during the fight at the ridge. He had already shown his worth, teaching a few of his new companions how to fight with the hand axe which he carried hooked in his belt. He had made the head himself and it was a fine piece of work, balanced, vicious; deadly in the hand or thrown. Spearhafoc and Grimwulf had taken up the axe with gusto and Eofer had been pleased to see the seriousness with which they had applied themselves to the lessons. An axe would be an invaluable weapon to both youth
s. Whether it was a result of her womanhood or Welshness, Spearhafoc was far shorter than the boys and she struggled to use anything but a cut down spear once her arrows were spent or the fighting had become hand-to-hand. Grimwulf sometimes found himself detached as a foot messenger from the war band. It was a dangerous task which often forced him from roads and tracks in his need to dodge past enemies. Swords tended to catch in his legs as he ran and spears were continually fouling on tree branches and undergrowth. The axe was a perfect weapon for both youths, a deadly supplement to their short seax.

  Finn shot him a welcoming smile and answered as he came up. ‘Only the distant fires, lord. There are none closer than Husem, I doubt that they will bother with the island, especially if they know that we are still here.’

  ‘I am sure that you are right,’ Eofer replied. ‘Still, light the brazier at the far end of the causeway. It’s the only patch of firm ground which leads to Strand.’ He looked northwards as the rhythmic croaking of frogs came to them from the marshlands there. ‘It’s the only way in, and we have got the only ship here for miles around.’

  Anna trotted off into the gloom as Eofer turned to go. ‘Keep a good watch, Hemming will send replacements soon.’

  The sun had fully set now, somewhere beyond the murk the stars would be shining bright. He snorted softly as he thought on Astrid’s words and double checked, but no dragons tail chased through the clouds and there was still no sign of goat drawn chariots.

  Retracing his steps, the noise and warmth bathed his face as he entered the hall and took his place at the hearth. Hemming handed him a pot of ale as laughter rolled around the room and Eofer looked from face to face as the firelight lit their smiles. They were a good bunch, as good as any. He was proud to be their lord.

  Hemming leaned in as a remark by Osbeorn caused Spearhafoc to roll her eyes in mock disgust. ‘Astrid turned in, lord. She said to tell you that she was cold.’

  Her parting words came back to him then and he swilled his drink and downed it in one. Looking across the hall he saw Astrid’s old thyften, Editha, with a cup of ale in each hand, belting out a song alongside Octa who looked suitably pained. Eofer shared a laugh with his weorthman as the maid warbled away. ‘It looks as though someone is enjoying the last night in Engeln,’ he said, ‘and it’s not Octa.’ They both chuckled at the sight and Hemming shot his eorle a knowing look. ‘It took me a while to get her to drink lord, but she seems to have rediscovered the taste now. It was her mistress’ idea, and she did make me promise to tell you that she was very cold.’

  Eofer snorted as a twinkle came into Hemming’s eye. ‘You’re right, maybe she caught a chill,’ he replied, wiping his beard on his sleeve. ‘Best I go and check.’

  Osric and his son bounded down the beach, reaching up as willing hands hauled them aboard. Behind them the hall and boat shed were already twin torches, the conflagration alive as the flames roared skywards. Petals of light still winked away to the East as the gangs of thræls moved south towards hoped-for freedom, the first columns of greasy black smoke just hardening into distinct columns as the very last day broke upon the Kingdom of Engeln.

  Last to leave, Eofer crossed the beach and clambered aboard without hesitation. Sæward stood at the steering platform of the little scegth, the handle of the great paddle blade of the rudder gripped tightly in his hands as he awaited the command. A curt nod and the shipmaster sprang to life. Within moments the crew were poling the ship, digging their long pine oars into the soft mud of the bay as they sought deeper water. Soon they were in the channel and oars slid into thole-pins as the great curved prow swung around to the West.

  Sæward’s eyes came alive as the oarsmen turned expectant faces to his, their bodies braced and ready to go. The timing had been perfect, the tide already drawing the little ship seaward as it ebbed away, and the shipmaster responded to Eofer’s nod with the command; ‘on my mark…’ He held them in thrall as the prow edged around before his voice boomed and he called the stroke.

  ‘Row!’

  The oars dipped together and the oarsmen curled their backs as the first stroke bit the waters, the ship becoming a living thing as it gathered way. Within moments the sleek scegth had speed, the silty waters of the Muddy Sea edging its flanks in a foam capped wave. The crew found their rhythm and a look of contentment came to the steersman’s face as the weight of water pushed against the steering oar and the ship surged ahead. The scegth was moving fast now, the waters sluicing alongside as the rowers put their backs into their work, lifting their heads with excitement as a salty tang came on the air.

  The cloud of the previous evening had cleared away overnight and the morning air was crisp; overhead high torn clouds hurried away to the South, their undersides painted pink by the returning sun. Astrid moved to his side, her eyes rolling skyward as she clasped his arm for balance. ‘Was this more like the send off you had in mind?’ He chuckled in reply. ‘Still no goats or dragons.’

  The ship’s lads Edwin and Bassa were leaning outboard, white knuckled in the spray, clasping the shroud lines as they hooked the last of the withies and dragged them to destruction. The woven markers had guided ships in and out of the harbour for generations, marking out the deeper channels from the deadly shoals and mudflats which surrounded them. Scattered haphazardly about skeletal ribs broke the surface, the age blackened beams testament to the danger which lurked unseen only feet away. Soon the oarsmen were relaxing their efforts as the draining waters picked up the lithe little ship, the men stroking the tide as it carried them westward.

  Within the hour the Skua was burying her bows in deeper waters, bucking the waves as she put the wind blown shallows behind her. The sleek hull shuddered as she shook herself free of the land, and oars were unshipped and lashed to crosstrees as Sæward ordered the sail shaken out and sheeted home. Within a league the steersman had hauled the steering oar to his chest, aiming the prow to the south-west. By the time that the sun was a hand’s breadth above the horizon they had cleared the shoals to bæcbord, the rocky stack of Hwælness hazing astern as the last ship from Engeln headed south.

  23

  The mood grew more sombre with every passing moment. Bassa shielded his mouth against the blow as he called the news from the mast top. ‘No lord it’s not a whale carcass; it’s too spread out.’

  Eofer fought to keep the worry from his face as he replied, aware that all eyes were on him. ‘Are there any fishing boats visible? They could have gutted the catch before heading into port.’

  Bassa shook his head sadly, the grimace on the boy’s face enough to confirm their fears.

  Sæward spoke at his side as the crew members craned to see. ‘We knew that this could happen, lord. You can’t move thousands of folk across a sea without expecting to lose a few.’

  They had made good time that morning, the little ship bounding the waves as a following wind drove her on. Spirits had been high as the breeze blew away the last traces of smoke from hair and clothes. The sight and sound of Editha, her full frame draped pathetically across the wale as she spewed more green bile into the sea only added to the sense of gaiety aboard; the giant leap into the unknown had been taken, the rune sticks were cast, there was no going back.

  Sæward, high on the steering platform, had been the first to see the clouds of gulls billowing on the horizon. Soon, they now knew, they would be sailing through a sea laced with the dead. Within the hour the first had bobbed alongside, shredded clothing and lacerated backs testament to the savagery of the ever hungry gulls. Eofer turned to Hemming and shook his head. ‘What is happening? Why are there so many?’ The big man shrugged. ‘Shipwreck? It was bound to happen. Osric was saying that the king had to charter dozens of ships to get the last of the people away. Frisian traders mostly,’ he said with a frown. ‘As you know lord, not always reliable. He couldn’t make arrangements any sooner because the Danes would have got wind of what were up to. Every freebooter in the German Sea pitched up for the chance to earn easy silver. The hulls of so
me of the ships, Osric said, made a month old pear look solid.’ The duguth looked his lord straight in the eye as he saw the consternation written on his face. ‘I know you feel responsible because of your speech at the symbel last year, but it’s not your fault, lord. These things happen.’

  Eofer’s gaze wandered outboard as another body passed along the hull. A child, its long hair swept ahead by the current looked back accusingly, the fleshless face a horror. ‘There’s more to this than worm eaten ships,’ he murmured. Turning to the steersman he snapped out a command. ‘Sæward, I want to catch up with the tail-ender as quick as we can.’ He called across to Crawa. ‘While Bassa is at the masthead I want you to help Edwin on the braces.’ As the dark haired boy rushed across to his station, Eofer hauled himself up the mast. Coming alongside Bassa he gripped the spar and scanned the sea ahead. ‘Any sign of ships yet?’ The youth shook his head. ‘Not yet, lord, although I doubt that it will be long before we begin to overhaul the last of the fleet.’ Eofer shot him a look. ‘Why do you think that? They left almost a week ago.’ The boy looked surprised. ‘Fat bellied traders, loaded to the wales with people and their belongings.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Can you imagine the chaos, lord? Children running amok, the decks slick with puke as the crew try to work the ropes; every hour another ship develops a problem and they all heave-to.’