by C. R. May
Faces turned their way, and he was taken aback as the nearest members of the enemy formation stabbed the air in triumph, mouths voicing silent cries of joy, beckoning the wall of death onward. With a jolt, Eofer realised that the hard-pressed men from Clausentum must be thinking that the mounted column which had burst from the eastern woodland were their saviours, the warriors which would be hastening to their aid from the garrison at Venta Belgarum. With Cerdic's men apparently withdrawing in disarray before them, the men were intent on celebrating their heroic stand against the odds and anticipating the reunion to come as the pretender and his force was ridden into the dust.
Unable to believe his good fortune Eofer spurred his mount on, desperate to reach the disordered ranks before they realised their mistake. As the road straightened out and dipped down to the crossing, the first signs of alarm could be seen ahead as men began to notice that this relieving force carried very few riders. The first spear points were pointed in their direction as men finally woke up to the danger bearing down upon them, and men hastily scrambled to swing their battle line around to face the new threat.
It would be too late, Eofer knew, as the road bottomed out and his horse began to charge across the flood plain. A heartbeat later he was among them and he brought Blood-Worm crashing down onto the helmeted head of the nearest Briton. A crimson arc misted the air as the blade bit through metal, bone and brain, and Eofer was already bringing the weapon back across, hacking down to the opposite flank as the horse forced its way deeper into the enemy ranks. A mighty crash to his rear told the eorle that the riderless horses had acted as he had hoped, blindly following the big stallion which was carrying him on, further in to the mayhem, and a flicker of silver to his right told him that Hemming had forced his way to his side.
A spear point glanced from his mail shirt and Eofer instinctively twisted his torso to send the leaf-shaped blade sliding harmlessly across the face of his chest. He glared down at the man who had made the thrust and watched him take a pace backwards as he hacked down to shatter the shaft. Eofer drew back his arm, readying the sword thrust which was to follow, but his intended victim disappeared in a flash as the rampaging horses created chaos among the British warriors and he was swept away. The horses swirled around him, the dun coloured sea driving the enemy before them in an irresistible tide to fetch them up against the riverbank like bloody wrack. Lifting his gaze, Eofer could see that men there were already starting to abandon their weapons, leaping into the waters of the Afen in a desperate attempt to survive the slaughter.
Their work was done, and Eofer exchanged a look of joy with his weorthman as the herd milled about them.
Hemming laughed. “That worked well!”
Eofer shot him a triumphant grin. “Did you blood your sword, Thrush?”
The duguth held up his reddened blade with a look of delight, and his eorle smiled and nodded at the sight.
From their left, the warriors of Cerdic and Cynric were streaming back across the meadow as they fell on what remained of their enemy with relish, hacking into the flank of the panicked warriors as they attempted to regroup with their backs to the Afen. A quick reckoning told Eofer that about a third of the men who had rushed across from Clausentum in the night to block their path had fallen in their attack, a few to the swords of Hemming and Eofer himself, but most beneath the hooves of the stampeding horses. Many of the dead lay broken by the impact of the charging animals, the arms and legs which lay in grotesque patterns about them telling the tale of the shattered bones within. One warrior lay on his back his face a bloody cup, no doubt Eofer mused the result of a stamp from one of the hooves of the war horses which had carried him here. A momentary image of a goblet of red wine came into his mind and he turned away and forced his mind to other things.
A voice cried his name from the tangle of bodies which lay scattered about the floodplain, and Eofer looked across to see that Osbeorn and Imma Gold were frantically beckoning him across. As a stab of apprehension flared within him, he exchanged a look with Hemming and hurried over. The body of a horse lay on its side, the left foot of its rider still held fast in its stirrup, and Eofer realised immediately that it could only belong to Octa. Hopping across the scattered dead, he rounded the rump of the horse as Osbeorn and Imma heaved against the back of the animal. To his relief Octa was still alive and conscious, and his duguth forced an ironic grin as his lord came up. “I picked the wrong horse, lord,” he gasped through bloodied teeth, “the stirrups were made for a dwarf. I tried to jump clear but my foot was jammed tight” Hemming was already using his knife to hack away at the earth beneath his friend's trapped leg and Eofer saw that they would soon have him free. Glancing across to ensure that no enemies were close by he saw for the first time the shaft of a heavy spear protruding from the horse's chest. Little remained to be seen of the stout weapon and Eofer was in little doubt that the force of the onrushing horse had driven it deep, dividing its great heart, killing it instantly.
Hemming scooped out the last of the soil and scampered around to grip Octa by the shoulder.
“Ready? After three!”
Octa's eyes went wide and he grunted with pain as Osbeorn and Imma put their shoulders to the horse and Hemming pulled their friend free.
Eofer cursed as the degree of damage the tumble had caused his duguth became clear. “A dislocation! Shit!” he exclaimed. “You wont be going far with that, Oct.”
The surviving enemy troops were pinned safely against the riverbank and the immediate danger had receded, but they all knew that Octa could not be moved in his present condition, the pain would be unbearable and probably fatal. It would be an ignominious death for a warrior of his standing and Eofer was not surprised when the man spoke up. “Hand me my sword. Leave me here, lord.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat as he realised the futility of them.
“You have to leave before this Nathan arrives with his army. Prop me up and ride away.” Octa's fatalistic smile turned into a wince as another wave of pain shot through his body. “Think of me sinking Woden's mead when you are next sleeping under a bush in the drizzle.”
A small knot of Nathan's men, no more than a dozen, had become cut off from the main force in the chaos. Spear men had rounded them up nearby and they watched fearfully, already guessing their fate. If the barbarian had to leave one of his number here as they rode away he could not leave them alive to overwhelm the wounded man. They could be dead in moments.
Cerdic came up and Eofer hauled himself to his feet and forced a smile as the British leader clasped him in delight. As the magister took a step back, Eofer recognised the light of victory which shone in the Briton's eyes. It had been in his own before he had recognised Octa's boot.
“That was well done, Eofer,” he said. “The enemy swept away and a supply of horses to boot!”
A group of warriors hovered nearby headed by the magister's son, and Cerdic was again the leader as the smile fell away. He indicated the horses with a flick of his head. “Get going, ride like the wind.”
Cynric gave a curt nod and led the men across to the milling animals. Cerdic watched as they mounted up and hauled their heads to the North.
“It is little more than five or six miles from here to Sorbiodunum. Once they are aware of our presence here my friends will escort us safely home. I will not abandon my men and ride to safety, even with our destination so close. If the army from Venta do catch us between here and the fortress, Cynric will take my place at the head of the Christian forces.”
Cerdic's face took on a more sombre hue as he glanced at Octa and back to the eorle. “That's a bad twist. Is the leg fully out of joint?”
Eofer gave a slight nod.
“It's a fortune of war,” the Briton said sadly. “I am afraid that we can't wait.”
“The matter has already been discussed. Octa will remain here and die, sword in hand. I will join him in Valhall when the wyrd sisters decide the time has come to snip my ow
n life thread.”
“Maybe,” Cerdic mused sceptically as he fingered the cross which hung at his neck, “maybe not. I respect the right of any man to choose his God, but I will pray for his soul along with those of my own men who died here today when we are safely in Sorbiodunum.” He shrugged as he raised a brow at the Englishman. “Unless you feel that it will offend your own gods. I am sure that you will agree that it shan't do any harm.”
The sounds of fighting tapered away from the riverside as the British and English warriors pulled back and waited for instructions from their leaders. Every man knew that they were still far from safety, and to continue fighting against a beaten enemy only invited unnecessary casualties among their own number and ate into the time which they needed to gain the refuge of the hill fort which was their goal.
Cerdic left Eofer with a pat of encouragement and stalked across, pushing his way to the front. As his men nervously looked on, their leader addressed the remaining knot of survivors, the closest of which stood little more than a spear's length away.
“Quickly throw your weapons into the Afen. Follow in their wake and you will live. Any man still standing on this side of the river will be killed when I reach my horse.” Cerdic spun on his heel and his men parted gratefully as he retreated out of danger. Within moments the first of the enemy had turned and slithered down the bank to splash into the shallows. As all opposition crumbled and the men seized the unexpected opportunity to survive the rout, the last of them tossed their spears aside and struck out for the opposite bank.
Their departure could be only moments away, and Eofer knew that the time to deal with the captives had arrived. Octa shuddered, a savage pain shooting through his body as Hemming and Imma began to prop him upright against the broad back of his fallen mount. Eofer led Osbeorn across to the sullen group. As he drew a breath to give the order to begin the slaughter, a voice cried out from the rear of the terror-stricken prisoners.
“I can fix that.”
As Cerdic's men drew their swords and prepared to strike, the voice called again in desperation.
“I said that I can fix your man's leg.”
Eofer hesitated and searched the group with his eyes. The voice came again and he realised for the first time that it carried the higher pitch of a young woman.
“If you spare these men I can have your man on a horse before the rest leave.”
Eofer eagerly grasped the chance to save his friend. “Come out, quickly. You have until Cerdic returns or you die along with the others.”
The body of Britons parted to allow a girl of about fourteen winters to make her way through. Clad in the russet colours typical of the lower sort, the young woman had brightened her appearance by attaching the long swarthy feathers of a hawk to her chestnut coloured hair. It lent her a wild appearance, and Eofer saw that her expression was resolute despite the nearness of death.
She drew up before him and held his gaze despite the difference in height, and a hint of steel came into her voice. “They leave first,” she said calmly.
Anger flared within him as he realised that he was in no position to bargain. The girl was Octa's only hope and she knew it.
He looked across to the men guarding the prisoners and snapped out an order. “Let them go.” As the men hesitated, unsure if they should follow the orders of a barbarian, he shouted angrily. “I said let them go. NOW!”
As Cerdic's men lowered their spears, the prisoners exchanged a look of disbelief at their fortune before they turned and pelted for the cover of the trees.
Eofer gripped the girl roughly by the sleeve and shoved her across. “Get it done, quickly,” he snarled, “or a spear in the guts will seem like a merciful death.”
Two of the Britons, an older man and what looked to be his son, had hung back from the fleeing captives and the girl shouted across to them as she crossed to where Octa lay. “Lose yourself in the greenwood. Go!” The younger man plucked at his father's sleeve, and the pair threw the girl a final look before reluctantly melting into the shadows.
“Lay him on his back,” she said to Hemming as she came up, “and give him something to bite down upon.”
As Hemming cut a length from Octa's belt and jammed it between his teeth, the girl knelt and worked her fingers into Octa's groin. His eyes widened again as the pain redoubled and the girl nodded to herself. “Hold his shoulders still,” she ordered gleefully, “this is going to really hurt!” Taking hold of his foot, she gingerly eased her own into the duguth's groin and exchanged a look with Hemming. The Englishman understood and lent his weight onto his friend's shoulders as the Briton heaved and gave the leg a sharp twist. Octa's eyes bulged as the leg jumped back into place with a dull click, and a moment later he spat out the leather and gasped with surprise. “The pain's gone!”
Broad grins spread around the group as the realisation that Octa's journey to Woden's high gabled hall had been postponed.
“He will need the leg splinted for a while, a spear will be ideal,” she said, “nice and straight.”
Eofer placed a hand onto her shoulder and gave it a squeeze in gratitude. He indicated the tree line with a jerk of his head as he slipped a gold ring from his finger and handed it to the wide-eyed young woman. “You have my thanks. Go and join your friends, before the warriors return from the riverside.”
To the thegn's astonishment the girl handed back the ring. “I have no need for gold. For payment I only ask that you take me with you lord,” she pleaded. “I can use a bow, and I know something of what you call leechcræft. Your man will need help with the pain for the next few weeks until any muscle tears heal.” Despite her earlier steeliness, the girl's lip began to tremble and she lowered her voice in a plaintive cry. “Please, lord.”
Eofer was taken aback, but a quick glance at his men confirmed the acceptance in their eyes. He gave a curt nod, his thoughts already returning to the need to be away from this place. “Retrieve your bow stave and travel with Octa. We will speak later.”
Mocking shouts carried across from the riverbank as the last of the enemy splashed across the river. His own duguth and youth back at his side, Eofer watched as Cerdic crossed to the horses and, back to his jovial self, shot him a grin. “Three to a horse, Eofer! Not quite the triumphant procession which I envisaged when we set out!”
Eofer turned to the English as they checked their weapons, gently stroking sharpening stones along their blades as they teased out a nick, restoring the edge after the fighting. “Well, you all heard the man. Let's get to this Sorbiodunum before the avenging horde arrives.”
FOUR
The road crested a small rise before slanting away into a wide vale as their goal came into sight. The sun chose that moment to break through the pillowy clouds to the East and a shaft of golden light played on the great grassy banks of Sorbiodunum.
Even at a distance the hill fort was impressive, and Eofer studied the defences with the practised eye of an attacker. Perched atop an isolated hill, a deep ditch was backed by a high bank which angled back to follow the contours of the hill itself. The raking light revealed that the outer bank was backed up by an inner ring which contained the town itself. A pale line capped this bank, indicating where the main defences were built. A wall of stone rose to the height of a ship's mast, above which a palisade of stout timber encircled the whole. Points of light glinted there as the sun reflected from the helms and spear tips of the defenders who were lining the walkway. What appeared to be the only entrance, pointing eastwards directly into the early morning sun, was guarded by a gatehouse which stood atop its own small hill before the high stone walls of the main gateway itself, its great archway visible even from distance. The sun was hot now, and a thin skein of wood smoke lay across the roofs of the town in the sultry air as the inhabitants prepared the first food of the day.
The riders exchanged broad smiles as their destination hove into view and Eofer snorted again at the rag-tag appearance of Cerdic's great relieving army. Most of the English horseme
n had been able to mix in duguth with the smaller forms of their youth, but the Britons had been less fortunate and Eofer's mouth creased into a smile as he watched them now, bouncing along three-up on the backs of the labouring horses as they rode down into the vale.
A host of crows rose noisily into the air and passed them heading south as a lone shepherd, a timeless silhouette against the skyline, rested against his crook and held out a calming hand to the black and white dogs at his side. Movement from the town drew his eye back to the fortress as a dark line of horses left the great archway and snaked past the gatehouse. Clear of the town they broke into a gallop and they could see that each rider led a pair of spare mounts. Cerdic rode nearby, and he edged his own mount across as the end of their journey together approached. A quick glance to the east told them that the expected cloud of enemy horsemen had yet to appear and the leaders exchanged a smile. Natan had missed his best chance to end the war in a morning.
“Are you accompanying us into the fortress?”
Eofer pursed his lips. “I need to return to the ships. Is there an another road which will lead us there?”
Cerdic shook his head sadly. “I am afraid that the men you left there are already dead, my friend. If the Jutes did alert Natan's forces to our presence as seems likely, I am certain that they would have returned to Afen mouth in force to deal with the ships at first light. Trapped in the lagoon...” He hesitated and grimaced. “I am sorry.”
Eofer persisted. “Are there no other roads south?”
“Only tracks through the woodlands which we passed through during the night. Very few men live in the wilderness and most of the trackways which do exist, do so merely for the benefit of hunters and wolf heads.” He nodded across to the British girl who was busily massaging feeling back into Octa's groin, much to the amusement of those around them. “You can ask your new companion, they meander all over. The bay where you left your ships will be seething with our enemies, long before you can regain it.” He leaned across as the riders from the hill fort crossed the wide vale under a shroud of dust. “Fight for me, Eofer. I pay well for men with verve and intelligence, men such as yourself. Believe me,” he chuckled, “I have fought with many men during my time on God's Earth and they are qualities which are seldom found together within the same man.”
