Dayraven

by C. R. May

  Beowulf, Cola and Hrafn boarded the boat which would carry them north to Dorestada along the waters of the mighty River Rin. Stowing their belongings in the open area amidships they glanced across and waved a grateful farewell to Brand as he gathered up the reins of the horses which had borne them west and trotted back to the nearby town. A cry came from the boat master and a crewman unhooked the hawser from the thick oak mooring post and tossed it aboard, following on a heartbeat later. Pushing off from the quayside the boat wallowed in deeper water as the oars slid proud of the hull and, as they began to rise and fall in unison, pointed her short stubby prow out into the waterway.

  It had been three days since Beowulf had awoken, disorientated and nauseous, in a small hall at the base of the god wall. Disturbing images of the events of the previous dawn had returned to him in snippets during the course of the day but he had pushed them aside as he concentrated his efforts on regaining the army in far off Frisland. Cola had returned full of wonder at the sights which he had witnessed at Thunor's oak and, his faith reaffirmed by the experience, he too was keen to return to the Geat army and join them in the fight against those who had so recently abandoned the true gods.

  Despite their protestations Beowulf had insisted that he had been well enough to travel and they had immediately joined the steady trickle of people on the road which led away from the Osning. Albruna, the volur, had apparently instructed Brand that he remain with the Geats until they reached the border of Saxland and Beowulf had been overjoyed when the man had reappeared that morning leading fresh horses and remounts. Combined with his knowledge of the area it would ensure that the Geat party would rejoin the army of Hygelac at the earliest opportunity.

  Within the hour the forest track which led up to the god wall had deposited them onto the Roman Road which stretched away to the West, directly down to the River Rin. Brand had explained that, ‘the road follows the course of the River Lupia which has its source in the Osning at a spring which the locals call 'Woden's eye.' The area from here to the Rin was a main route for the Roman army into the wald when they still had hopes of adding our lands to their empire.’

  During the days of hard riding which it had taken to reach the confluence of the rivers the Geats had marvelled at the remains which the army of Rome had left to litter the Saxon landscape. Where the Lupia ran alongside the road the remains of great store houses hugged the banks, the depositories for the vast amounts of foodstuffs and other supplies which, he knew from his own experience, an army whether on campaign or not, required each and every day. At regular intervals the Romans had built a series of fortified places which the Geats knew were called castrum. They had seen an example on the coast of Britannia when they had gone to kill the pirate known as Blaecce shucca, and although these castrum were not as commanding as the one which Grimma, his English friend had called Dommoc, they were still objects of wonder to men more used to dark halls built of timber and lime.

  The Saxon boat pulled out into midstream and with a push of the big steer board the boat master pointed her nose downstream. Beowulf stared across at the town of Santen on the opposite, Francish, bank of the river as the crew settled into a steady rhythm. He had paid the owner handsomely in good silver to ensure that they reached Dorestada at the earliest opportunity. Beowulf knew that the army of King Theodoric was moving against the army of his king and kinsman and he was eager not to miss the upcoming battle. It would be, he knew, a great victory for his people, perhaps the greatest, and he was desperate to add another glorious episode to the tale of his life.

  Beowulf, Cola and Hrafn stared across and drank in the sights of the town of Santen as the river swept them by. Perched on twin hills, the old and new castrum of Santen had been the place where the great warrior Sigurd the dragon slayer had lived out his days. The great town still lay enclosed within its protective ring of stone and they marvelled at the upper levels of colonnaded temples and public buildings, glimpsed above the high curtain walls.

  As the day wore on and the heat abated, the walls and rooftops of Santen grew increasingly indistinct until they disappeared completely in the haze. Ahead of them the Rin grew ever wider as it began to make its turn to the West towards the sea and the Geats began to relax as the end of their journey came a little closer with every pull of the oars.

  Despite the richness of the land to both sides of the river, Beowulf recognised the familiar signs of a border area everywhere that he looked. Small settlements and single farmsteads had replaced the grand castrum and ordered towns constructed centuries before by the great power in the South. He was traversing the very line which marked the frontier between Christian Francland and their great rival, Saxland, still a bastion of the older, true gods, and the sense of enmity was almost palpable as the rival giants glowered at one another across the watery waste which was the mighty Rin.

  As the day slowly receded in a wash of scarlet and pink the boat master handed the big steering blade to a crew member and moved forward to join them. Bebba smiled warmly as he settled himself on a swirl of ropes and took a pull from his ale skin.

  “We will be reaching the point where the river divides into two channels soon, lord.” The man tensed and belched as the beer worked its way down before continuing. “The Rin travels straight on, west to Dorestada while the left fork becomes the River Woh as it meanders off towards the sea. There is a small settlement a few miles along the Rin which we should make before dark. It's not much of a place,” he shrugged apologetically, “the thegn lives a score or more miles inland, but we would find a roof for the night if that is your wish.”

  Beowulf pondered his choice for a moment as he gazed out at the fast flowing waters. It had been a week or more since he had enjoyed a relaxed night under the shelter of a roof but as much as the thought appealed to him he knew that towns were probably best avoided. Apart from the fact that they all seemed to smell of animals and their shit, he felt comfortable on board the boat. The gods knew what the situation was on land with the Francs apparently on the move and he knew that they would be far safer on board. He unstopped his own skin of Saxon beer and took a swig.

  “How close are we to Frisland, Bebba?”

  The Saxon stroked his beard and glanced downriver as he thought.

  “Five…six miles, there is a channel known as Drusus' Fossa connecting the Rin to the River Isla which marks the border there. There is a small settlement near the fossa called Arnheim after the number of eagles which live in the hills and woods around there.”

  Beowulf nodded and studied the distant bank of Francland as he deliberated. In the mad rush to rejoin the army he had not had time to think through any potential problems which they may encounter on the journey. The day spent idle on Bebba's boat had provided him with plenty of time for reflection and he had grown increasingly uneasy. The Saxon ealdorling, Aldwulf, had told him that the army of the Fris had been easily defeated by Hygelac and the Geats but that had been many weeks ago. Even the vague warning that the army of King Theodoric was finally responding to the raid was old news by now. In fact, he realised uneasily, he knew next to nothing about the current situation. He decided that they would moor the boat on the Saxon side of the river for the night as he decided what his next move would be. He desperately needed more information before he blundered blindly forward but how could he get it?

  Beowulf started awake as a hand was laid gently on his shoulder. Hrafn leaned forward and spoke softly in the dark.

  “Lord. You need to see this.”

  Beowulf levered himself upright and peered across to the place which the Swede was indicating. A line of torches were just flickering into life downstream, their pale yellow light reflecting dully from the greasy surface of the river. He glanced to one side as Bebba lowered himself carefully down beside them.

  “We have got company, lord.”

  Beowulf nodded.

  “So I see. Is this usual on the river, they are not fishermen or traders?” he suggested hopefully.

  Eve
n by the pale light of the moon Beowulf could see the boat master pull a wry smile.

  “No, they are warriors, lord.” He snorted. “Look at the height of the stem posts, they are small dracca. The big question is, whose side are they on.”

  “Francs?” Beowulf offered, hoping that he was wrong.

  Bebba grimaced and shook his head.

  “They shouldn't be, not from that direction, lord. They should be our boats on this stretch of the Rin but I don't see why they would be behaving like that.” He paused and bit his lip nervously as he thought. Finally Bebba shrugged and glanced back to Beowulf.

  “Unless they belong to your lot, lord, they can only be Frisians. They could have come down the Isla and used the fossa to outflank your army, or..” he began before tailing off, reluctant to put his thoughts into words. Beowulf completed them for him. “Or things could be a lot more different at Dorestada than we were led to believe.”

  Bebba nodded grimly and flicked a look back at the mystery boats.

  “Well, it would seem that we will know for sure soon, they are still coming on.”

  Beowulf raised his head above the wale and looked downstream. The boats had left the northern channel and were beginning to fan out across the main watercourse. They were clearly searching for something or someone and it must be important to them to continue their search during the hours of darkness. As they watched, the light from the nearest boat picked them out from the shadows and the prow of the boat edged gently towards them. Bebba cursed as the outline of the boat, which he was now confident were Frisian, swung until it was clearly pointed directly at them.

  “Shit! I hoped that they were going to pass us by,” he cursed.

  Beowulf glanced across to Hrafn and Cola. As expected Hrafn had already woken Cola and they had been following the conversation. He nodded to them and they made to arm without a word. Beowulf turned back to Bebba as he began to tighten his battle shirt.

  “How many men do you think are on that boat, Bebba?”

  The Saxon boat master answered immediately.

  “I have seen them before. They are only small boats designed for river use, lord. They carry a steersman and a dozen oarsmen, six each side.”

  Beowulf's face lit up and he beamed at Cola and Hrafn who were grinning wolfishly.

  “A dozen men!” he breathed delightedly as he unsheathed his gladius, Troll Killer.

  Bebba looked horrified.

  “You are not thinking of taking them on, lord!” he gasped.

  The three Geats nodded enthusiastically in reply. Bebba cast a quick look back at the approaching boat. The upright prow of the Frisian vessel was beginning to come around, back to the east as the steersman leaned into the big paddle blade and took the way off the boat. In moments they would come within hailing distance and Beowulf saw the concern etched on Bebba's face as he turned back and pleaded with him.

  “If you attack these men you will kill them all, I have no doubt about that, lord. But what will happen then?”

  Beowulf shrugged. He would deal with the consequences as they occurred, it was the warrior's way. Bebba lowered his voice as the Frisians crept closer. The Saxon crew were now being woken by their companions on watch and a small knot of worried men were gathering to hear the conversation between the two leaders. Bebba fixed Beowulf with a stare and asked a question, slowly and deliberately.

  “Do you trust me, lord?”

  Beowulf found that he was nodding without giving the matter any thought. He had always prided himself on his ability to judge a man's character and he had taken an instant liking to the man when Brand had introduced them that morning. Bebba continued.

  “If you kill those men it will bring the others down on us before we can escape. Even if you manage to kill the entire force you will alert the Frisians that there is a Geat force upstream when they fail to return. Sit with your back to them, lord, and I will find out what information that I can from them. We may as well turn this to our advantage if we can.”

  Before Beowulf had a chance to reply a voice carried across the water from the now stationary Frisian boat. Beowulf slid across to the side of the boat and listened as Bebba hopped back onto the steering platform.

  “Who are you?”

  Beowulf silently slid his gladius from its scabbard and placed it across his lap, running his gaze slowly across the nervous looking crew members as he did so. The threat was clear, one word out of place and they would be the first to die. To his right he heard Bebba hawk and spit into the water as he answered the Frisian challenge.

  “I am a Saxon in Saxon waters. Who in Hel's saggy tits are you?”

  Beowulf smiled to himself as the Frisian chose to ignore the tone of Bebba's reply and tried a different tack. He was beginning to become fonder of the Saxon sense of self worth. It was not, as he had first thought, a threat to the established social order but the glue which bound the people together. It was in fact the trait shared by the folk of the individual tribes which identified the Saxons as a nation.

  “We are Frisian warriors. We are looking for Geat pirates. Have you seen any?”

  Bebba shrugged and called to the crew members who had all now collected amidships to hear the verbal duel.

  “Have we seen any Geat pirates lads?”

  It was all that Beowulf and his companions could do not join in the laughter as one of the crew shot back; “What do they look like, Bebba?”

  The Saxon boat master turned back to the Frisian warrior and held his arms wide in an apologetic gesture.

  “It's a fair question. What shall I say if I do meet one of these nasty pirates?”

  Beowulf listened intently as the unseen Frisian finally ran out of patience. Calling on his men to row on after the other boats he turned and snapped back.

  “You can tell them that they had best hurry back to Dorestada if they want the chance to travel to valhall with their king. He dies tomorrow.”

  13

  Hygelac walked up the gentle slope and planted the white boar flag of Geatland firmly into its highest point. Messengers were moving along the rear of the Geat shield wall relaying his orders to the weary warriors and, as he looked on in satisfaction from his vantage point, the line of men turned and jogged quickly across to reform on his new position in a jangle of mail and leather. His mind automatically parcelled up the groups as they passed him by and by his reckoning they had taken about five hundred casualties in the fighting so far, fully one quarter of his entire force. The trees to his rear were thick now with crows of all kinds and more of them were arriving all the time. High above the air was as thick as pottage with them and the king wondered how they could know that a battle was imminent.

  A heavy thwack from the direction of the ballista drew his attention back to the river crossing and he watched with relief as the heavy bolt flew high and wide to the right of them. It was a ranging shot he knew and there would be others soon as, now shorn of the protection of the built up river bank, the Francs groped to find the correct combination of power and elevation on their monstrous contraptions. When they did the results would be ruinous for the reformed shield wall and the king searched desperately for the opportunity to make the attack he had formulated with his leading men earlier.

  Another bolt whizzed over their heads, much closer this time, to embed itself in a tree to the rear with a solid thunk sending a thunderhead of crows cawing, panic stricken, into the sky. Tofi glanced at Hygelac as the men ducked involuntarily despite the fact that the bolt was clearly flying high and wide.

  “They won't be able to stand against that, lord. Not once the bastards find the range.”

  Hygelac nodded grimly. He knew that the majority of the men in the army were farmers and freemen who owed service to their thegn. They had come here out of obligation and a chance for enrichment and could hardly be expected to face the power of the ballista.

  “What do you think?”

  Tofi peered down at the bolt throwing engine, still on the opposite bank, and,
twisting around , up at the damaged trees. Looking back he pulled a wry smile.

  “Only the far end of the shield wall is directly in line with them. If we shorten the line and swing around with the bridge to our rear we can help the boys there survive longer and give our defence greater depth.” He shrugged. “It will be a tough nut to crack, lord.”

  Hygelac looked across and nodded.

  “I think that we are going to get our nuts cracked soon enough whether we move or not, but its a good idea. Besides,” he exclaimed gleefully, “it looks as if the Allfather may have been listening in on our plans earlier!”

  Hygelac pointed down at the river crossing. A striking warrior dismounted and started to cross as a man carrying the francisca banner of the Francs scrambled to keep pace. Shielding their eyes against the glare of the lowering sun a huge grin slowly played across the features of the two Geats as they realised that the man and his retinue could only be a member of the Francish royal family and his retainers, maybe even King Theodoric himself. Hygelac punched Tofi delightedly on the arm.

  “Get it done quickly and then get back. If we can tempt these boys to get close enough I am going to attack!”

  The Francish warriors already on the Geat side of the river turned and roared their acclamation as the figure hopped across onto the bank. Immediately the Frisian leader dismounted and moved across to greet the newcomer and Hygelac noted with surprise that the pair seemed to be good friends. He had noticed that the Frisian fought under the banner of a black raven, Woden's bird, and he was surprised and disappointed to see the depth of affection which seemed to exist between the two leaders. Although the Francs had only abandoned the true gods for this White Christ several decades earlier, the vigour with which they had sought to convert their neighbours to the new god had become well known even in the far north.

  Hygelac watched the men intensely as they parted, his eyes flicking from left to right as he watched the forces of the fiend jostle themselves into their own shield walls. The Frisians were now all but set in their position, one hundred yards away from the right wing of the Geat wall and he watched, hawk like, as the giant warrior with the raven wings attached to his helm swept from sight as he rode to the rear. The Geat leader, his heart thumping hard in his chest, looked back to the front and shielded his eyes as the sun, now a ball of orange flame, stood low to the West. Scores of men were still scrambling across the pontoon to join their king on the northern bank and a veritable flood of warriors were surging forward, crowding the southern bank as they attempted to cross.