Dayraven

by C. R. May

  “Race along the rear of the line and tell the men that we think that those wagons will unleash giant bolts at them. Tell them to wait until the instant that the bolt is released and then drop to the earth. We still have the advantage of the rising ground and earth banks before us so they should pass directly over their heads.” He indicated that the messengers should go with a flick of his head. “Be quick about it!”

  Hygelac glanced back at the fiend and let out a sigh of disappointment. He had toyed with the idea of leading a quick dash towards the nearest of these ballista, killing the crews and at least damaging the things before help could arrive, but as he watched the Francs were moving forward to take up positions just behind the wagons. He doubted that they were acting merely in support, they were preparing to attack. He risked a glance along the line of his own forces and noticed the men in the front row cocking their heads to the rear as they listened to the shouted advice from the messengers. He could tell how far the men had moved along the line by following the reactions of those in the front ranks and he noted with satisfaction that very few, if any, of the men would now be surprised by this new weapon which it would seem was about to be unleashed upon them.

  A shouted command carried from the enemy and Hygelac looked back to the front just in time to see the willow panel which had shielded the ballista fall forward. A series of loud thwacks punctured the air as the first of the bolts were released against them and the king instinctively fell to the floor amidst a jumble of bodies. A heartbeat later Hygelac felt the air move above him as the heavy bolt passed inches from his head and disappeared in a blur. To either side of him screams rent the air from those who had been either too slow to fall to the ground or had let their concentration wander momentarily and paid the blood price in death or mutilation.

  As Hygelac prepared to lever himself back to his feet he realised that he was laying face to face with Wulf. The warrior grinned mischievously at his king and said simply.

  “Boo!”

  Wulf's calm, ridiculously childlike response to imminent death, caused the men of his comitatus to howl with laughter and Hygelac lay amongst them as helpless as any. As another bolt thundered above them Hygelac fervently hoped that the sound was carrying down to the ballista crews.

  It would take more than Roman relics to break the spirit of this shield wall!

  Hromund gritted his teeth and pushed back with all of his strength. The Frisians had managed to batter them back almost to the centre of the bridge by sheer weight of numbers. If they could heave the small Geatish force over the lip which marked the centre of the bridge they would prevail, the Geats would collapse as the slippery roadway fell away beneath them, and the army of the Fris could flood across and fall on the undefended rear of the main Geatish army.

  He turned his head to one side and grimaced at his right hand man as the Fris pushed again.

  “It's looking bad Ulf. This could be it,” he managed to grunt through gritted teeth.

  Ulf managed a small smile as he made what he thought would be his last quip in this world.

  “I'll say, lord. They have nearly reached the ale barrels!”

  Despite the desperate situation Hromund snorted at the comment before his expression changed to one of hope. He called out to the man he knew was immediately behind him above the snarls and grunts of scores of heaving warriors.

  “Harold, you guarded the ale supplies. How many ale barrels do we have in total?”

  Harold clearly thought that he had misheard his lord as he continued to throw his weight behind the shield wall.

  “Lord?”

  “You heard me, how many?” Hromund snapped back.

  Harold quickly calculated as the Frisians surged forward, sensing that victory was within their grasp.

  “About half a dozen full barrels and nine... or ten... empty ones, lord,” he answered dutifully.

  “Good,” Hromund grunted. “This is what I want you to do.”

  Ulf grinned as Hromund explained his plan to Harold who immediately retired to the rear to organise the attack. Risking a glance to his left Hromund saw that he may have left it too late as another push by the warriors before them brought the front lines level with the high point of the bridge. One more push would be enough but, just as he began to despair, Harold screamed in his ear.

  “All set, lord!”

  “Do it!” Hromund snapped desperately as he braced himself to leap into any gaps which opened up before him.

  He was dimly aware of the shadows cast by the empty barrels as they sailed over his head to fall deep within the Frisian ranks and he gripped the hilt of his sword tighter as he waited for the chaos to escalate. Despite the noise of the attack Hromund clearly heard the grunts of the men behind him as they hoist one of their number to waist height on a shield. The warrior heaved the full barrel of ale onto the heads of the Frisian front ranks and the effect was immediate and devastating.

  The man directly before him disappeared in an instant as the barrels rained down. Hromund and Ulf crashed into the gaps left by the fallen men and pushed deep within the enemy ranks. Normally they would have fanned out as they broke an enemy shield wall, widening the breach, but here, in the confines of the bridge, the object was even simpler. Hromund knew that they must regain control of the roadway to stand any chance of holding off the multitude gathered before them and he moved forward savagely as the Frisians, so certain of victory only moments before, began to break and scramble away as confusion and panic set in. With a roar which belied their numbers the Geats swept forward, slashing and stabbing at any Frisian within reach.

  A hand clasped at Hromund's leg and, glancing down he noticed a Frisian warrior moving across to stab upward with a short seax. The ealdorman's sword flashed down to take the man in the throat, his lifeblood pulsing across the roadway. To his right Ulf had transfixed a warrior on the point of his framea and was drawing his own seax with a sweep of his arm. As Hromund moved forward he saw the big Geat thrust his shield into the face of the man before him and plunge the seax into his exposed side.

  The Frisian line was in complete disarray now and Hromund and Ulf pushed over towards the bridge parapets as the Geat warriors poured through between them. As the enemy continued to fall back in confusion Hromund risked a glance over towards the far side of the river and was surprised to see that a small knot of mounted Fris were watching the fight from the bank. As he watched, intrigued, one warrior in a magnificent helm rode slowly forward beneath a large raven banner and beckoned to the man who appeared to be leading the Frisian forces assaulting the bridge. The man hurried across and stood listening intently, clearly receiving orders. Hromund flicked a look back at the fighting on the bridge. They had retaken half of the roadway on the northern side now. He would have to call a halt and consolidate their position before they weakened the southern side, there were just too few of them left to hold the entire span of the bridge, he knew.

  Gazing back towards the far bank Hromund watched as the man returned to the Frisian warriors with his instructions and immediately the enemy retreated to the far bank and reformed their shield wall at the entrance to the bridge. A voice spoke at his shoulder and he turned to see that Ulf had joined him. “That was inspired thinking, lord,” Ulf smiled, “and we recovered the barrels!” He glanced across and indicated the figure on horseback with a flick of his head. “He's a big bastard. Who do you think that he is, their king?”

  Hromund shrugged apathetically.

  “He could be. He certainly looks the part.” Ahead of them the majority of the Frisian warriors had left the position at the foot of the bridge and were busily jogging along the far bank towards the crossing points. Hromund looked up and saw that the Fris had stopped rowing individual parties of warriors across and had all but completed the task of securing a succession of boats together to form a pontoon. Very soon the army would be able to cross in numbers and outflank them. It no longer mattered that they were denied use of the bridge and the leader opposite had obv
iously decided to leave just enough warriors at the bridge to keep the Geats there from escaping.

  As the mounted group broke up and followed on to the crossing points the leading warrior amongst them nodded curtly towards Hromund in recognition of the Geats' spirited defence and, pulling on the reins, made to join the others. As he did so a breath of wind blew off the river and a raven's wing, huge and black, lifted and fell as if to bid them farewell from the walu, the crest, on the man's helm.

  Hromund and Ulf watched as the last boat was wedged alongside to complete the pontoon crossing and the Fris began to flood across.

  The ealdorman punched Ulf on the arm and indicated the barrels of ale which still lay where they had fallen at the beginning of the attack.

  “We may as well break open a few of those, it looks as though our fighting is over for now.”

  Ulf called across to Harold to organise it as Hromund added… “and roll a couple down to our Frisian friends. We should pay the toll, we are on their bridge after all.”

  The messenger slipped from his mount and tore across to the place where the white boar standard of Geatland curled defiantly in the soft summer breeze. Pushing through the crowd of warriors he approached the king and bowed his head as he waited for permission to speak. Hygelac turned to the man with a smile of resignation. Realistically, he knew, he could only be bringing a last warning from his old friend that they were about to be overrun and that he would soon be faced with a fight on two fronts.

  “Don't tell me,” he said. “Hromund has routed the Frisians and is coming across to help us finish off the Francs.”

  The men of his comitatus laughed at the grim humour of their lord. None of them were under any illusions that the end was edging a little closer for them all with every heartbeat. They could practically feel the presence of the wælcyrge, Woden's battle maidens, and each man now only longed for the chance to die well in the eyes of his friends and gain their place in the hall of the battle-slain.

  The messenger, less accustomed to the acerbic wit of his king, stared in blank faced bemusement as the warriors' laughter washed around him. Finally he decided that he would relay his message whatever the king had meant by his remark.

  “Ealdorman Hromund reports that the Frisians are beginning to outflank his position and that he cannot delay them much longer.” A note of wariness crept into the messenger's voice as he continued. He obviously did not understand the last part of the message and was unsure whether he was about to offend his king. “He says that he has spent all day kicking the bear in the arse and it's about time that you had a go, lord.”

  Taken unawares by his friend's reference to their childhood adventure on the Troll's Hat, Hygelac breathed in deeply as he fought to keep his composure. He nodded that he understood and patted the man on the shoulder.

  “Join your king in his last fight. Fight well and we may all be supping in a better place before Hater, grim wolf, chases the moon into the evening sky.”

  Hygelac glanced back across to the mass of Francs arrayed to his front. Grouped in their divisions a long bow shot distant, the Francs were becoming visibly more agitated as the time for their long delayed final assault grew nearer. The sun was lowering to the West now in a bone-fire of amber and crimson and the heat had finally come off the day. It was a good time for the assault, he knew, and it could not now be long delayed.

  Frustrated in their attempts to smash the Geat shield wall by the lie of the land and the quick thinking of the Geat king, the Francish ballista had been pulled down the slight incline to the west of the bridge and repositioned as a more compact group. Hygelac knew that it could only mean that the Francs were going to cross the river down stream and outflank his shield wall but in truth he did not have the numbers to counter the threat and the Francish leader knew it. He dare not leave the relative safety of the higher ground as he would lose possession of not only bridge but the protection of the wood to his left. Isolated in the open, the Geats would be quickly overwhelmed as the Francs and Fris swarmed around them.

  As if to confirm his fears Thurgar at his side called out and pointed downstream. Hygelac glanced across as the upright prows of several boats were rowed into view. As they watched, the leading boat grounded itself alongside the southern bank as the following boat drew up alongside it. Crewmen immediately began to lash the boats together as they came up and in a short space of time the pontoon was half way across the small river channel.

  As the elements on the far end of the Francish force began to move off in the direction of the crossing, mounted warriors began to arrive at the nearside bank from Hygelac's rear. For a brief moment his heart leapt as he assumed that they were mounted elements sent by Hromund to contend the crossing but the sight of the banner which came into view only confirmed what he realised on reflection must be the truth. Led by a bear of a man the riders gathered together on the lower field beneath the sea eagle of Frisland, screening the point at which the Francs would cross from any possible counter attack by the Geatish force.

  A murmur rippled along the Geat shield wall as the warriors realised that they now had to contend with an imminent attack on three sides. Hygelac knew that it was time to move his position to the place he had chosen for his death-fight and he turned to Thurgar at his side and clasped his forearm in the warrior fashion.

  “I am going to pull the wings in and consolidate our position. I want you to deny them the bridge for as long as you can, then meet me in valhall,” he smiled fatalistically. The king exchanged a last look with his hearth companion, the man he had known for a score years or more and, patting him affectionately on the shoulder, turned to go. “Until later then,” he said as he began to move to the rear.

  Thurgar nodded and watched him leave.

  “Until later, lord.”

  12

  Beowulf climbed the last of the steps and paused at the narrow bridge which led across to the summit of the Irminsul. Ahead he could see the tip of the cell in which he knew the Saxon volur and the Danish warloca were waiting for him to help fulfil the wishes of the Allfather and carry the head of the Grendel to him in valhall. The cell looked to be very small and he hoped that he would be able to fit his fully armoured body into the tight space. He had obviously dressed for war to meet the battle god and he began to feel that he may have made a mistake.

  Backlit by the huge balefire which roared and crackled atop the adjoining pillar Beowulf cast a giant shadow across the Irminsul as he made his way reluctantly across. As he grew nearer he became aware of a slight scent in the atmosphere and the rhythmic beating of a drum carried to him in snatches on the still warm air

  Ducking inside the chamber he was met by a scene which reminded him of the last time that he had met the god. The cell had been carved from the living rock and measured approximately twelve feet by six. In the centre of the room there was a long rectangular altar stone at the head of which a circular hole about the size of a man's fist had been cut into the eastern wall. Ahead of him on the left the volur sat on a raised platform, dressed completely in white and with her hair fashioned into a series of spikes with what Beowulf suspected was lime wash. A small drum lay before her which she was slowly beating in time. To one side of the volur a small fire crackled and flared as the holy woman added a handful of small seeds which Beowulf knew to be henbane. The seeds burned brightly and gave off the choking white smoke which swirled in the air about them.

  Unferth stepped forward and led Beowulf into the inner reaches of the cell as he fought to control his breathing in the reeking fug which filled the cell. As expected, the Dane had dressed in his raven garments complete with beaked hood and, although Beowulf had both already seen the warloca in the costume and had fully expected to see the holy man in the costume on this night, he was nevertheless appalled at the sight in the present surroundings.

  The warloca handed Beowulf a shallow bowl containing a thin gruel he suspected was seith-soup and he obediently spooned the mixture as they watched. He had eaten th
e soup before, the last time that he had met Woden, and he knew that he would soon be going on a spirit journey. The last one that he undertaken had been a pleasant, even joyful, occasion and he hoped that this would be equally enjoyable.

  Beowulf was led to a small shelf which had been cut into the side of the wall and he rested there as the effects of the gruel began to add to the feelings of elation which the wit beer had seemed to produce in those who drank it.

  As Unferth and Albruna chanted rhythmically Beowulf felt himself slipping in and out of consciousness as a series of visions flitted in and out of his mind like bats in the night. In one particularly vivid vision he found that he had become an eagle soaring above a large field. A small army was trapped between two rivers whilst an enormous host moved against them from all directions.

  A light flickered ahead of him before it burst suddenly into his vision and he was dimly aware that it must be the return of the sun on midsummers morning. The hole in the end of the chamber he knew faced directly eastwards into the rising sun, and he watched in detachment as the shadow cast by the volur appeared to grow and completely envelop the spread-eagled form of the warloca which lay upon the altar.

  The clatter of beating of wings suddenly caused him to start and a dark form entered the cell. Albruna knelt and handed up the grotesque head of the Grendel and the formless shadow gathered it in, swathing it in its cloak. Reaching across the amorphous shape scooped up the inert form of Unferth with incredible ease and appeared to merge with the darkest reaches of the cell as the shadows finally won their battle with his consciousness and crept forward to swallow Beowulf.