Dayraven

by C. R. May

  Drawing his sword for the last time, Kari slipped painfully from his mount and waited for the line of grim faced Francs as they advanced slowly across the meadow towards him.

  2

  King Hygelac clapped his hands together and strode across the dock front towards the waiting thegns and ealdormen.

  “Don't tell me, porridge and sausage?”

  The assembled warriors turned and laughed, grinning widely as their lord approached. Flosi, the king's cook, looked up from his work and smiled a welcome.

  “Porridge and Sausage it is, lord. The finest to be had on the River Rin!”

  It was porridge and sausage every day and this day would be no different. It was the meal which all of the Geatish army would have to break their fast, from the king himself to the lowliest member if the baggage train. Hygelac made a point of moving among the men and sharing their food and they respected him all the more for it. Flosi dolled out a large helping of the steaming mixture and sent a boy over to the king with it. Nodding his thanks, Hygelac blew on his first spoonful as he regarded his men.

  “Anything to report?”

  Hromund, ealdorman of Geatwic and one of the king's oldest friends grimaced.

  “I have to report that this laager that they drink down here makes me feel like shit in the morning lord. Have we got any good Geatish ale left?”

  Hygelac chuckled.

  “I suggest that you don't try to drink it all yourself and leave some for us then!”

  The group laughed as Hygelac continued.

  “What about those missing scouts, have they turned up yet?”

  Hromund shook his head, wincing as he did so.

  “No, lord, I imagine that they are struggling to carry back all their booty. I sent out a party just before dawn to see if they could find them. They have orders to ride south until the sun climbs to its high point and return. If they are still unaccounted for I suggest that we start to make our way to the coast without them.”

  The king nodded thoughtfully.

  “Start to break camp now, we'll move downriver this morning. I don't want to linger here any longer now that we have split the army.”

  They were in the place which the Fris called Dorestada, right on the southern border of their lands. The Geatish ship army had used the place as a secure base from which to send out raiding parties both by land and along the great river systems which meandered their way across the endless flatlands hereabouts, the Rin, the Masa, the Woh and the Sceald. Laying on the northern bank of the mighty River Rin, the town offered endless opportunities to sally forth against the rich towns and settlements of the Salian Francs which lay to the South.

  Hygelac reflected on the success of his raid that summer as he stood and gazed across the flatlands. They had sailed south at the beginning of the summer and fallen on the Hugas, one of the tribes which comprised the Fris, before they had even known that they were coming. Laying waste the land they had surprised the main Frisian army at its muster and destroyed it piecemeal. He had detached his foster son Beowulf with gifts for the Saxon king, Gewis, and a promise to respect their borders which ran along the Rivers Emesa and Rin to safeguard his left flank and marched south.

  Half of the army had crossed the great inland sea of the Aelmere and come to Dorestada via the Vecht and Rin, capturing the port for use as a base for raiding further south whilst the remainder skirted the eastern shore, plundering as they went. Once the forces had reunited at Dorestada it had been the turn of the ship army to ravage the fat towns of the Hetware and Bructeri to the South whilst the remainder of the army fortified their base against any reprisals by their overlord, the Francish king, Theodoric. To their satisfaction no avenging army had materialised and the Geats were now keen to be away. Several days previously Hygelac had dispatched the majority of the ships downstream loaded with the captives and treasure which had resulted from the campaign under the leadership of his son, Heardred. The remainder of the army would leave Dorestada and make a final foray along the bank of the Rin to its mouth where they would board the ships for home.

  Hygelac tipped his bowl and scooped out the last scrapings of porridge. The raid had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. Losses had been light and his reputation will have soared, both at home and abroad. Hygelac the Great he snorted. It sounded good, he could easily get used to it.

  A voice sounded at his shoulder, it was Hromund.

  “Heardred was right.”

  Hygelac glanced at his friend.

  “In what way?”

  Hromund indicated the land to the South, across the massive stone bridge.

  “It is as flat as a wicce's tit!”

  Hygelac laughed again at his son's description of the land of the Frisians as he plopped his empty bowl on top of his friends.

  “He should know. The appetite for women that boy has never ceases to amaze me.”

  Hromund smiled at his king's comment but continued to gaze south as movement on the road caught his eye.

  “Something is wrong, lord.” He murmured.

  Hygelac looked back and shielded his eyes as he squinted into the early morning sun. A knot of riders had appeared on the road south where it skirted the small wood. An offshoot of the main river crossed the road there he knew and the locals had banked its course in an effort to keep it from continually flooding. The action had produced what must be regarded as a ridge in these parts and he had always marked it out as a possible forward position for a defence of the town if the need arose. He counted the riders. Two, maybe three, it was difficult to tell at this distance, but they were moving fast, bent forward, their cloaks rippling in their wake.

  Hygelac and Hromund instinctively moved towards the northern entrance to the stone bridge to intercept the riders. The guards there moved aside as the king and his ealdorman waited impatiently for the scouts to arrive. The riders reached the southern entrance to the bridge and began to curb their mounts. They were becoming used to riding on paved roads but there was still a reluctance in the army of the Geats to trust the horses to come to a halt on the unfamiliar surface. It was, they all agreed, akin to riding on ice. The scouts picked out the figure of their king and rode towards him. Reining in the leading rider slipped from his saddle and nodded in supplication.

  “Lord. The army of the Francs is moving against us along this road.”

  Hygelac placed his hand on the man's shoulder and nodded that he understood but held up a finger to delay the rider's report. Turning, he called across to the guard commander.

  “Hjalti, can you find a drink for these men? They have ridden hard to bring us important news and I think that they would appreciate it.” The king indicated a large box which stood beside the parapet. “The ale that you hide under that box would do,” he smiled.

  Hjalti nodded and smiled sheepishly. Drinking ale on guard duty was forbidden on campaign but most good commanders turned a blind eye if the men remained alert. He threw back the box and filled three cups with ale, hurrying across to hand one to each of the scouts. The rider closed his eyes as he drank, savouring the ale as it refreshed his parched throat. The morning was warm and they had ridden hard, the drink had been more than welcome.

  Hygelac waited until the man had drained the cup and smiled encouragingly. It was important to the men that he was seen to remain calm, however bad the news that these scouts were bringing. The men would spot any sign of panic or lack of composure on the part of their leaders and the news would spread through the army like wildfire. In their already reduced numbers the effects could lead to a catastrophe.

  The scout nodded his thanks to his king and, clearing his throat, made to make his report but Hygelac held up a hand to stop him.

  “Do you know my name?” he asked.

  The scout looked confused and blurted out; “yes lord, you are my king, Hygelac Swerting.”

  Hygelac smiled warmly.

  “Then you have your king at a disadvantage because I am afraid that I don't know yours young man.”
r />   The man smiled and pulled himself proudly upright.

  “My name is Einar Haraldson and these men are Oslaf and Offa, lord.”

  Hygelac looked across and nodded.

  “Oslaf and Offa, Engles?”

  “Yes, lord!” they beamed.

  “A fine people,” Hygelac replied. “My grandson, Weohstan, is an Engle.”

  He turned back to the scout leader.

  “So, Einar Haraldson, what more can you tell me about these Francs?”

  “Lord. The army of the Francs is travelling up this road towards us here. I estimate that the first scouting elements will be here shortly with the full army arriving...” he paused and bit his bottom lip as he thought. “Certainly within the hour, lord, we made contact with their scouts on the road and their survivors would have reported back to the main column that we escaped them.”

  Hygelac raised an eyebrow in surprise.

  “They had survivors?”

  The warrior looked apologetic and a little shamefaced as he replied.

  “I am afraid so, lord. Two of their riders detached themselves from the rear of the column and raced back down the road before we even reached them.”

  Hygelac nodded thoughtfully as he listened to the scouts report. His mind was already beginning to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of the various options which were still open to him. He now knew the time and place of any clash between the opposing forces, he just needed the final, all important piece of information.

  “Did you see the Francish army?”

  Einar nodded.

  “After we had killed the remaining scouts I climbed a tree and looked back along the road. As you know lord the land here is a flat as...” he paused as he sought an apt description for his king. Hygelac saved him the trouble.

  “A wicce's tit?”

  “A wicce's tit, lord,” he agreed with a grin before continuing.

  “From the top of the tree I could see what must have been a good part of their army before the dust obscured them. I would estimate that I could see at least ten thousand of the fiend, lord.”

  Hygelac and Hromund shared a look of horror.

  “Ten thousand!”

  The scout nodded sombrely.

  “I am certain of it, lord. We will be facing at least that number. The gods only know how far back the column stretched.”

  Hygelac nodded as he thought.

  At least ten thousand, it could be twenty thousand!

  He quickly came to the only decision that was possible under the circumstances. They would have to fight a holding action if they were to have any chance of escape. They could not hope to outrun such numbers all the way to the coast and still have time to go aboard the ships. Besides, he snorted, he had never run from an enemy before and he was not going to start now!

  Hygelac glanced around the warriors on the bridge. They were all looking his way, counting on him to give them a chance and he must not let them down. He grinned cheerfully at them and called across to the thegn charged with guarding the bridge.

  “Hjalti…”

  “Yes, lord?”

  “How wide would you say that this bridge is?”

  Hjalti's lips puckered as he calculated the width.

  “Twenty paces, lord?” he ventured.

  Hygelac nodded.

  “That is about what I make it too.”

  He turned back to Einar and his English companions.

  “I take it that this fiend were not carrying boats?”

  “No, lord.”

  “In that case,” Hygelac grinned happily, “unless they can fly the whole of Francland can march on us because we hold the bridges!”

  Dayraven poked in the ashes with his boot. He knew that it must be hereabouts and he would find it if it took him the rest of the day. Suddenly a voice exclaimed excitedly from a little further along the fire eaten stumps of the hall posts.

  “Here, lord. I think I have it!”

  The warrior hastened across and handed the palm sized metal object to him. Dayraven cradled the spear point in his hand and gently smeared away the sooty residue from the blade with his thumb.

  “Here, lord. Try this.”

  His man had magically produced a small pail of water from somewhere and Dayraven smiled his thanks. He swished the ancient blade gently from side to side, watching in delight as the layers of soot and ash floated free to stain the water, slowly revealing the finely inlaid bronze swirls and patterns which had so captivated him as a boy. The spear blade had not only been one of his father's most treasured possessions, but of his father before that, back through countless generations. The thought that it may have been taken by the pirate army had caused the big Frisian to feel sick to his stomach. To his relief it would appear that they had missed this small treasure as they had ransacked his childhood home. Perhaps defiling his sister and burning his mother from her hall had satiated their greed for that day. He held the small blade up and was rewarded with a smile from his mother, the first that he had seen since his return to this ravaged land.

  Barely one week ago his world had seemed to be an ordered and happy place. Dayraven had been riding the boundary of his estate overlooking the River Aeldu in the lands which were coming to be known as Anglia, discussing the forthcoming betrothal of his young daughter to the son of his neighbour and friend, Saimund. Neither he nor his hall reeve had taken much notice of the dracca which was approaching the settlement the local Engles called Snæp until he had recognised the sea eagle flag of Frisland snapping at its masthead. Riding down to the riverside he had discovered to his horror that a northern ship army had descended on his homeland and were sweeping with fire and sword through his ancestral lands.

  It would seem that the inexperienced young Frisian king, Ida, had panicked and ordered the army of the Fris to muster at the traditional meeting place, known to all as the hoary apple tree, despite the fact that it was close to the marauding pirate army. The inevitable had happened and the thegns and ealdormen of Frisland had been routed one by one as they made their way to the muster. Although several of the ealdormen and more experienced thegns had managed to extricate themselves and retain the bulk of the army intact they had been in no position to organise an effective defence and the pirates had roamed the land at will.

  Dayraven had quickly sent word to the men who owed him service to meet at his hall in Fris tun. He had ridden over to Saimund's ham to explain that he would be unable to attend the betrothal and been rewarded with the gift of a fully fitted out and crewed dracca by his English friend. Word had spread fast and another ship had been sent to aid him by the English lord in nearby Rendil's ham. Within the week they had sailed and two days later he was standing in what remained of his family hall.

  Dayraven, hero of the Frisians, had returned in their hour of need with vengeance in his heart.

  3

  Hygelac clattered to the top of the small rise and reined in, peering anxiously south as his warriors fanned out to either side. He was a little disappointed but unsurprised to see that the Francish column was already in sight on the horizon and looming larger with every passing moment but at least he had gained the embankment before the enemy scouts could seize what must pass for the heights in these parts. He snorted happily as he saw the closest group of enemy riders pull on their reins and mill about in confusion as they noticed the Geats appear on the embankment only half a mile before them and hastily deploy into their shield wall. It had been a close run thing and Hygelac hoped that it bode well for the remainder of the day.

  As soon as Einar had finished his report Hygelac had sent runners throughout the town with orders to roust every remaining warrior and tell them to head straight for the southern bridge. He had entrusted his ealdorman and friend, Hromund, with the task of destroying as much of the bridge as possible. The king had left five hundred warriors of their much reduced army to help the ealdorman's men weaken the bridge by channelling out the lime mortar which bound the stone together. At the same time men w
ere sent to the dock area to find boats small enough to wedge tightly beneath the arches. Once in place these would be filled with flammable material and placed under guard as word was sent forward to the king and his men that all was ready. In a lull between attacks the Geats would mount up and race back across to the northern bank of the Rin. Once across the boats would be fired and the bridge should collapse very soon in its weakened state. Now separated from the huge Francish army by the River Rin the Geats would carry on to the coast and board the fleet as planned.

  With every passing moment more and more Geat warriors were arriving on the embankment and rushing forward to take up their positions alongside the king. Hygelac cast an appreciative look to either side of his defensive position. The Geat shield wall already spanned the roadway and its adjacent land and the wall was growing ever thicker with every passing moment.

  Fifty paces to his left the line had anchored itself against a small wood which grew hard onto the river bank. To his right the ground fell away in a gentle slope and the Frisian builders had obviously decided to let the flood waters keep possession of the low marshy ground there once the threat to the roadway had been removed by the gradient of the grassy slope. It would be, in truth, more river than land Hygelac suspected during the wetter months but even at the height of summer he was content that no threat would be likely to materialise from that direction.

  Immediately before them a shorter version of the stone bridge at Dorestada spanned the steeply banked stream and it was here that Hygelac had raised the white boar banner of Geatland surrounded by the warriors of his personal comitatus. It was, he noted with satisfaction, an outstanding defensive position. It was so good in fact that he suspected that he recognised the hand of the Allfather in its provision and he sent a silent promise to the god that he would sacrifice his finest war stallion in thanks once they had safely escaped the avenging Francs.