by C. R. May
Eofer clapped Thrush Hemming on the shoulder and indicated the distant shoreline with a raise of his chin. A needle of flame had appeared, growing by the moment, and Eofer imagined the men toiling there to feed its hunger. He glanced back at Sæward to make sure that he had seen the marker but the big steersman wrinkled his brow and shot him a look of pity. Eofer snorted. His old friend was an experienced seaman who knew the waters which girded Engeln as well as any man alive. Beacon or no beacon, he would have laid odds that the man could have delivered them safely to their destination through the darkest of nights.
Within the hour the waters of the Bight were behind them, and Sæward ordered Bassa and Beornwulf to strike the sail and take the way off the ship. Outside the orbit of light thrown out by the beacon, the land ahead stood out as a dense black against the star speckled sky above. A foamy iridescence lit the bow wave as the crew retrieved the oars from the cross trees once more and slipped them proud of the hull.
The moon was little more than a waxing crescent now, and Eofer's mind drifted away to the South. The War-Beards would be gathered near their ships as they awaited the horses to draw the sun back into the sky to herald tomorrow’s attack. King Ingeld would be feasting his ealdorlings and thegns on the strand as each man pledged his life for the glory and reputation of his lord. Some men would be spending their last moments with women and children before they sailed away to meet their wyrd. Others would come back a hero. As of tonight, only the norns would know which was which.
A challenge came from the shoreline ahead, and Eofer exchanged a smile with Hemming as he recognised the anxiety which laced the voice. Ships rarely travelled at night, and then only if the need was great and the moon full or gibbous. The guard and his mates would have settled themselves in as cosily as they could, ready to see out a long night of boredom laced with apprehension. Eofer had stood watch in hostile lands and he knew the fears of the lone guard, but this was far worse. Were night-walkers watching them from beyond the circle of light thrown out by their signal fire? The mire at Needham lay only a few miles inland, a place of dæmons and wicces. This could be a ship of the dead sent by Hel, the half decayed hag of the underworld.
The thegn thought for a moment to stay silent and prolong the men's suspense but decided better of it. Spooked men were apt to throw sharp objects first and ask questions later. He cupped his hands and cried out across the frigid waters. “My name is Eofer king's bane. These are the men of my hearth troop, we are journeying to Needham. The white dragon flies at my masthead, you will see it when we come into the light of your beacon.”
As they watched, a troop of warriors, armed and shield bearing, appeared from the gloom and hastened to the first man's side. Bowmen arrived, fanning out to either side as they raised their war bows, nocked, and sighted along arrow shafts.
Thrush Hemming sniffed in the blackness. “Jumpy lot.”
The Fælcen was soon within the arc of yellow light thrown out by the pyre, and a small group clattered down a flight of wooden steps to the waterside as the ship entered the calmer waters of Needham Sound. As Sæward edged the scegth nearer the bank, the first warrior turned and raised his spear to the men above in a sign that all was well. Leaving his companions, he trotted down the remaining steps and threw them a smile. “Welcome to Needham, lord. Sorry about the edginess to our welcome, but the Danes have been raiding up and down the coast all year.” He spat. “Bastards, they'll get what's coming to them.” A rumble of voices from the Fælcen told the guard that he was not alone in his wish.
Eofer narrowed his eyes and peered into the glare as he suddenly realised that he recognised the man. “You were with us in Geatland,” he said. The guard drew himself up and grinned in surprise. “I was, lord!” Eofer clicked his fingers as he thought. Suddenly he had it. “Your name is Ecgfrith. You fought with Coelnoth's men.” The warrior beamed with pride, amazed that such an exalted figure would recall his face. “I did, lord! I still bore the others here with the tale of your father's champion, that big Swæffe bastard.”
Eofer grinned at the memory. “Wulfstan.”
Ecgfrith's eyes widened in surprise, and he leaned closer after glancing back at his companions who were still lining the lip of the bank. “Don't tell them that, lord,” he said, lowering his voice. “I have been calling him Wulfsige for years. They already pour scorn on my tale, and doubt that I was even there!” He straightened again. “Will you be sharing our fire tonight, lord? We've good ale and our own freshly smoked fish.”
Eofer shook his head. “Not tonight, Ecgfrith, we have to be out on the fen by dawn.”
The guard suppressed a shudder but kept his opinion to himself as he pointed along the waterway with the shaft of his spear. “Needham is still a few miles ahead but the sound should be navigable with this amount of moonlight.” They both glanced instinctively at the sky above them and the sliver of moon which lay to the South. The pillowy clouds of the day had moved away and the stars shone bright. “Once you are past the first mile or so it is arrow straight. Rune-carved columns mark the entrance to the river which leads up to the mire, you can't miss it.”
Eofer nodded his thanks and rested his foot on the gunwale as he turned to the rowers. “Let's get going.”
The youth pushed forward on their oars and watched Sæward for the signal. Raising his arm he hesitated for a heartbeat and let it drop. As one the blades dipped, stroking the scegth forward with barely a ripple to mark the surface.
Eofer turned to the bank as the ship moved back into the shadows. Cupping his hands to his mouth he called out to Ecgfrith, now watching from within a knot of his companions.
“Farewell Ecgfrith, shield-brother. Keep the edge on your blade keen. We will fight the king's enemies together again soon.”
The guda doused the brand with a hiss, and the troop drew close about their eorle as the shadows crept closer. Away to the East the first tinge of light, steel grey against the starry sky above, drew a line on the horizon as Shining Mane hauled the sun back towards the land of the English.
Eofer moved forward with the men of his duguth and knelt on the board which the stag-priest had thoughtfully provided for them. Cold dark water seeped over the edge to soak the knees of their trews anyway, but the thought had been there and the eorle appreciated the gesture as his eyes flicked between the guda and the distant horizon and he waited for the moment. The sky was lightening quickly now as the horse approached, and Eofer studied the holy man as the shadowy figure from the night before hardened by the moment. Crowned by a magnificent set of antlers, the hide of a stag fell in folds about the priest's body. Beneath the cowl of the beast's head, the man's face was marked by the runic spells which told all, god or man alike, that he was a leading exponent of his craft. Despite his appearance, the guda smiled warmly and gave the briefest of nods as the first spark of light told them that the sun had returned after the long night of the northern autumn.
Huge statues of the gods, deep carved and rune spattered, ringed the sacred space. Thunor, Ing, Woden the Allfather himself, their stern faces glowering over the worshippers below as the first glimmers of the dawn painted them pink.
The men of Eofer's troop placed their foreheads onto the offerings and closed their eyes as the priest's voice floated across the barren waste, dedicating them to the gods and asking for their favour in return. Opening his eyes again, Eofer leaned forward and lowered the sword blade beneath the blackened surface of the mere. As the waters closed about the weapon and it began to grow indistinct, the light played on the Christian cross which had been fixed into its hilt, and a memory of the Briton who had owned it flashed into his mind. A chieftain of his people, he had been a fool to place his faith in such a weak god. Not even a mail shirt and helm of the finest quality had saved him from the Englishman's fury, and Eofer hoped that the gift of such a fine blade would cause the true gods to smile on the adventure they were about to embark upon.
As the blade passed away from the realm of men, Eofer stood and pla
ced his sword hand onto his brow, washing it with the sacred waters of the mere. As he stepped back the youth moved forward from their places and made their own offerings to the gods. Less impressive than those offered by their lord and the more senior members of the hearth troop, a wolf tooth charm, a treasured comb made from the antler of a hart, the items were valuable to their owners and the gods would recognise their sacrifice for what it was.
The sky above was changing by the moment as the horse galloped on. A hard magenta marbled pink to the East, the stars had been chased away there leaving the sole point of light which men called the morning star to wrestle for supremacy with the returning sun. Eofer sniffed. The tussle would soon be over, the day was upon them. A glance to the South as he imagined the Heathobeards pulling at their benches as their king led them north to war.
THIRTEEN
The serpent prow tasted the air as it emerged from the fog bank and sought its prey. A moment of anxiety as his hand moved instinctively to the hilt of Blood-Worm was followed by a whistle and a smile as the white dragon of Engeln followed at the masthead.
Sæward spoke. “Is that her?”
“Let's hope so,” Eofer murmured in reply. “If a ship thegn can find a scegth in this he can find anything!”
Coming about, the big snaca turned her bows towards the Fælcen, and Eofer watched as a crewman hauled himself onto the prow and shielded his eyes against the glare.
“Who are you?”
“Eofer, king's bane.”
“Where bound?”
“On the king's business.”
The air between them shone like mail as the moisture held suspended within it reflected the sun's rays. Eofer watched as messages were passed back and forth along the big ship. At his rear Sæward was ordering the sail shortened and Bassa and Beornwulf jumped to the task, hauling at the braces and spilling the wind from the sheet. On the snake ship two crewmen rushed forward to fit the beiti-ass to the lower edge of the sail, tautening the sheet as the ship tacked and beat to windward. The man in the bows called out again. “We are coming across, lord.”
Eofer raised his hand in acknowledgement as the stern of the longship finally emerged and begun its swing to steerbord. The steersman was visible now, and Eofer and Sæward watched as he worked the big paddle blade and brought the great ship onto its new heading. They exchanged a look as the snaca overhauled them, and the eorle chuckled as his steersman mumbled a few grudging words of praise for the work of his opposite number. With a nod to Bassa and Beornwulf, the lads squared the spar, shook out the sail and sheeted it home. The Fælcen leapt forward again, and they laughed for the joy of it as the fanged head bobbed up on the bæcbord beam.
Sæward spoke as the crews came abreast of each other and ribald shouts flew between them. “She's a fine ship. The Fælcen is no slouch, but I think that they have the legs of us.”
The steering platforms came abreast and the scipthegn gripped the gunwale and hailed them.
“My name is Eadward, welcome to Harrow. Are you heading in?”
“Not until we reach Wodensburh, Eadward. How far north does this fog stretch?”
The man glanced up and pulled a face. Square jawed and russet haired, Eadward’s weatherworn features told the tale of a lifetime at sea. Clad in a red leather battle-shirt and tawny cloak, the man looked every inch the tough guardian that the English coast needed during these troubled times.
“It's patchy, Eofer” he said. “This wind is getting up and will drive it away soon, but the passage here winds about like a drunken sailor. My steersman knows these waters better than any man alive. If you have no objection we will shadow you until you leave the Belt.” He shot them a grin. “The Jutes would love you to pitch up on their shore opposite. It's easily done in weather like this, even if you know these waters well.”
Eofer nodded and the snake ship's steersman widened the distance between them with a flick of the paddle blade. Within the hour the mist had left them and the English ships were shaving the crests as the wind drove them on. Clear of the Belt they dipped their flags in farewell as the bigger ship bore away, spear points glinting in the pale light of the sun as the crews cheered their countrymen and wished gods-speed.
Sæward spoke again as the Fælcen came about and pointed her bow to the East. “I take it all that about Wodensburh being our destination was a load of guff.”
Eofer's mind came back as images of men tumbling from ships onto the strand, forming up and moving inland as lines of smoke stained the sky, faded. Two days' sail to the South the first men had died. Chaos would reign in Heorot as Hrothgar summoned his jarls and struck out to face the invader. He tried to force a smile but none would come, the fire of battle was already kindling in his blood. Wulf, his only brother, was awaiting the Dane's blade in that famous hall but they were in for a surprise. The axe would fall on them.
A veiled lightening over their distant homeland in the West was all that could be seen of the sun as the little Fælcen put the island of Hesselo behind her and headed south into the bight which carried its name. The first Danes had died there, put to sword and spear despite their brave stand against numbers, but they had something which the English raiders needed, and their lives were the price. Thrush Hemming spat over the side as he shaped the feelings of the crew into words. “Tangles my guts to see that at the mast top of the old girl.”
Eofer looked up at the white boar flag of Daneland as it whipped out to the East in the gusting wind and felt a tinge of shame, almost as if he had dishonoured an old friend. The scegth had been a gift from his father the day he had danced the dance and become a wolf-warrior. She had carried him far and wide across the sail-road through wind and storm, always emerging unscathed when bigger ships, grander ships, had been reduced to driftwood. The men of his duguth clustered around their eorle as they reminisced on old times, sharing memories of raids into the heart of Frankland and Britannia, the shallow draught of the ship taking her to places where no English raider had a right to be and bringing them safely away, rich in plunder and reputation. His fingertips lovingly caressed the gunwale as they began their final voyage together and the banter swirled around him.
The weather had turned as the wind had shifted and serried ranks of cloud, dolphin grey, pressed about the masthead. Suddenly a spear of light stabbed through the murk to paint the distant coast of their enemy as the little ship drove on, and a passage from the work of a scop came into his mind.
Then a light shone from Logafell and from that radiance came bolts of lightning;
wearing helmets at Himinvangi came the Wælcyrge.
Their byrnies were drenched in blood;
and rays shone from their spears.
The fighting in Daneland had already begun. Tonight he would stab at its heart.
Sæward chewed his lip as his eyes flicked from left to right and back again. Pumping the big wooden handle of the steer bord he almost whimpered in his anxiety. “It's going to be tight.”
The thin white line had rapidly grown to fill their vision as the breakers dashed the shore with a noise like thunder. Pushed south and west by the unfamiliar currents, the steersman had had to use all of his skill to even wrestle a chance of life. They were the gods' plaything and Eofer watched as Spearhafoc, braced in the bows, sent a silvered object spinning into the darkness. The Fælcen shuddered as her keel scraped the bottom, but the next wave lifted her off and she slid over the rocky finger of land as she shot the point and entered the bay.
Sæward exchanged a look with his eorle as the blood-drained faces of the crew showed white in the gloom. “Never a doubt.”
Eofer laughed and clapped his duguth on the shoulder as the shallow hulled scegth gave them their lives and put the headland behind her.
The last tack to the West, although almost fatal, had carried them clear of the fortress which crowned the promontory opposite. Lights flickered beyond a grove of masts, and Eofer's gaze picked out the figure of Spearhafoc as the youth settled back into her place by
the mast step. The gods could not have brought them safely through the Danish defences any better if Wade himself had been steersman and he called across to her. The girl pushed herself to her feet and skipped the thwarts to the steering platform.
“Yes, lord?”
“What did you sacrifice?”
Spearhavoc pulled a wry face. “My seax, lord.”
“The one I gave you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I bend my knee at no other gift-stool but your own, lord. Besides,” she offered with an impish smile, “whether Wade took it from my dead body or as a willing sacrifice, he seemed set to own the blade anyway.”
Eofer snorted at the youth's black humour. Unbuckling the scabbard from his belt he handed his own seax across to the wide-eyed girl. “Here, strap this on. You may need it tonight.” She made to protest but he held up a hand as the men of the duguth looked on in admiration. “I will take one from a dead Dane. It is in my mind that the friendship of the gods is far more important than any blade, and you deserve it. Well done.”
As the youth proudly buckled on her new blade and returned to her friends, Eofer caught the eye of Thrush Hemming and saw his own thoughts reflected there. The young woman promised much, he would make a point of watching her actions in Daneland and decide then. If she survived.
The fortress was well astern now and no challenge had carried to them across the calmer waters of the bay. Points of light showed along each shoreline as the fjord opened out to its full extent, and Eofer marvelled at the width of the inland sea. He turned to Sæward but the steersman anticipated his question as his eyes strained to pierce the darkness.
“About ten miles at its widest, lord,” he said. “It will narrow down in about an hour to a big, low lying island. Skirt that and we are into the run in.”
