by C. R. May
They walked forward into the stable as Grimwulf stooped to slide the dead Dane's dagger from its scabbard before melting into the darkness. Hemming let out a low whistle of appreciation. “If this is where he keeps his horses, I can't wait to see Heorot.” The central passageway was lined by dozens of stalls, the sweet equine smell adding a pleasant air to the place. The tack room led off to one side of the big double doors, and Hemming threw a saddle across each shoulder as Eofer examined the mounts. Most were awake now and they lowered their heads as the eorle passed by with a gentle stroke of their muzzles. He made a quick calculation: “Thirty.”
Hemming came up and shifted the weight of the saddles he carried on each shoulder. “We'll need them all, lord, if we have just doubled the size of our war-band. Wait until Grimwulf returns and he can show us the king's two horses.” He shot his eorle a smile. “Hrothgar's bound to have a remount, and we did do all the hard work!”
They were away as soon as the horses were ready. The men who had come from the hall, despite the bemusement at the sudden change in their fortunes which had stolen upon them in the night, looked a tough bunch. Eofer was elated as they thundered back through the gateway and took the road towards the smear of red which marked the death of the dockyard. Pausing only to let a gleeful Hemming stop to give his previous mount a parting kick, they were back with the men of Eofer's troop in no time. The unexpected arrival of a dozen mounted men caused a moment of panic among them, but Eofer looked on with pride as Imma Gold formed a bord-hedge with a clatter of shields and roared out a challenge. Imma beamed as the brawl of riders cantered into the light and he recognised the men at their head. He strode proud of the line. “Welcome back, lord.” He ran a questioning gaze across the new additions to their ranks and looked back to Eofer.
“More spears for our wall,” he explained as he ran a calming hand along the neck of his mount. “Saxons mostly, but Saxons with a score to settle. Dangerous men if you are Dane.” He called out to Grimwulf and the man urged his mount forward with a practised squeeze of his thighs. “Yes, lord?”
“Grimwulf, This is Imma Gold, my duguth. How disciplined are your Saxon friends?”
“Many of them have fought in the South, in Frankland and Britannia. They were all free men so they are used to spear work, but they are all first-rate horsemen too lord.” He pulled a wolfish smile. “You can count on them, they are good lads.”
“And you?”
“I grew up on a horse farm among the Mercians, but got bored and ran away to sea when I was a youth.” He screwed up his face in embarrassment as he finished his tale. “A big storm and we were wrecked on the shore here. So I ended up back with the horses, except now I get to sleep on the floor and eat leftovers.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “You can't cheat your wyrd, lord. I was meant to look after horses and that's that.”
Eofer nodded, satisfied, and walked his mount back to the Saxons, stifling a smile at the look of wonder which still painted their features. They had gone to sleep a few short hours ago as thræls, the lowest of the low. Now they were saddled on the Danish king's horses and free men once again.
“I can use your spears. Are you with me?”
The men roared their acceptance as one, and Eofer pointed out Imma as he mounted his stallion.
“That man is Imma Gold. He will lead you tonight against our common enemy. Mark him now, you will follow his every instruction.”
Eofer turned back to Grimwulf. “Do you know the fastest road to Hleidre?”
Grimwulf flashed a smile. “Fastest or quietest, lord?”
Eofer pursed his lips and looked at the moon. It was a good way across the star scattered vault but the sky horse, Frost Mane, still had a way to go before it had finished its work for the night and hauled it beyond the Earth's rim. A quick glance to the East confirmed that no light yet fell from the shining one's mane to colour the horizon there. Imma Gold had barked out his instructions and he led the Saxons away with a noise like thunder. The flash of a grin, and a cry for gods-luck swallowed by the din.
Eofer regarded his own troop, now set in their saddles awaiting his word, and his heart swelled with pride. He touched the hilt of Blood-Worm and swore that he could sense the eagerness in the blade as it awaited the night's work to come. His eyes narrowed as he caught the mood. “Let's go the quick way.”
FIFTEEN
The pair crabbed up the grassy slope made slick with frost. The air had stilled as they rode east, almost as if the gods were holding their breath at the audacity of the tiny band of warriors below them. Eofer moved into a crouch and dipped his head as they came up to the crest of the barrow.
“Wonder of the North?” Hemming rolled his tongue and sent a gobbet of phlegm spinning into the darkness. “It's not even as big as Eorthdraca!”
Eofer was oblivious to his man's judgement, running the pads of his thumb and forefinger up and down the bridge of his nose as he thought. The moon was low in the West now as the hours of darkness slipped away, and the eorle cast an anxious look to the North for a sign that the dragon had awoken there.
Suddenly it came, and he clasped his weorthman's sleeve. “Look! Imma and his boys have set to work.” He flashed a grin as the line of red blossomed and waited for the cry of alarm to carry from the compound opposite. Eofer dug Hemming in the ribs and gave a soft chuckle of delight. “There he goes!”
As they watched, a figure detached itself from the shadows of the great hall on the mound and hurried down to the buildings below. Others were gathering together at the northern corner of Heorot, spear points glistening in the soft light of the moon as they pointed and gesticulated. Within moments a heavy-set figure bounded up the steps two at a time as he raced to see the conflagration which had appeared above the fleet anchorage at Hroar's Kilde.
Hemming turned his head to the side. “What if they don't go?”
Eofer cocked a brow. “Then I hope that you are feeling fighting-fit, because all we would have achieved is alert them to our presence.” He looked back as the Danish lord hurried back down the steps, a comet-tail of warriors streaking in his wake, and smiled. “They're going. What would he tell Hrothgar when he returned from seeing off the War-Beards, only to find that his ships had been reduced to charcoal and they had stood by and watched? Besides,” he sniffed, “the men here will already be disappointed that they were left when the army marched south. This will be like a gift sent from Woden himself, they won't even stop to think before their arses hit the saddle.”
As if to confirm the Englishman's thinking, the heavy timber doors to the stockade swung inward to reveal a scene of chaos as Danish warriors tumbled from halls and dishevelled thræls led horses forward from the stables. Eofer took a final look and clapped Hemming on the shoulder. “Thrush, wait until the first of them begin to leave and then hurry down.” The duguth nodded, his eyes flicking from side to side as he watched the mayhem within the palisade begin to take on a sense of order and he recognised that the first riders would soon appear.
Eofer held his scabbard to one side as he gambolled down the back slope of the ancient burial mound and replaced his helm.
“The dragon's awake and the Danes are about to take the bait,” he beamed as he fastened his chinstrap. A quick glance at the men of his duguth confirmed that they all now sported a Danish brooch at their shoulder and he adjusted his own and gave it a huff and a shine with the sleeve of his tunic. Its original owner had died before he was even aware that they were enemy raiders, his body now lying in a bloody heap alongside those of his men on the roadway to the West. He rolled his shoulders and looked to the youth, their breath feathering in the chill air. “You all know what to do. When we are inside, reform on your duguth. Move quickly and we will all live to see the sunrise.”
As Eofer swung himself back into the saddle, Thrush Hemming came bounding down the slope and threw himself onto his mount. “The big bastard's not waiting, he is already out and on the road north,” he said. “All the others are strung out along the t
rack, trying to catch up as each horse is saddled and brought forward.”
Eofer threw a last look around the burial ground and edged his mount forward. Each barrow glistened beneath a frosty cap as the moonlight clipped their crests, and he glanced upward as an image of the ghosts of these kings of yore looking down from the benches in Valhall flashed into his mind and he shot them a cheeky wink. Breaking cover, Eofer sawed at the reins and, kicking in, guided his mount towards the gate. It was half a mile from the burial ground of the ancient kings to the royal compound of the present day lord of the Danes and Eofer put spur to his horse as he led the men of his troop onward.
Away to the North the last of the Danish warriors had gained the road, the distinctive blue cloaks of the Danish hall guard billowing in their wake as they galloped away. Ahead, the gates to the compound were drawing into view as unseen hands pushed them to, and Eofer sat tall and cried above the sound of the hooves; “Hold the gate!”
The white oval of a face appeared around the door's edge, and Eofer waved and galloped on. The Dane slipped through the gap and watched as they approached. Eofer reined in and brought his stallion to a halt a few paces shy of the guard as the man raised an arm and pointed off to the North. Eofer cut him short. “Open the gate, man!” The Dane persisted. “Hroar's Kilde is under attack, lord. My orders are to keep the gates closed until the men of the hall guard return.” Eofer drew Blood-Worm with a swish and glared down at the man. “I am on the king's business. Open the gate or lose your head.” As the Dane dithered Eofer seized his chance and urged his mount forward, knocking the guard aside. Barging the big gates open, he led the men of his hearth troop beneath the gatehouse and into the royal compound of their own king's greatest enemy.
His men burst through behind him and the Dane from the roadway rushed across as the few men left in the burh stopped and stared at the newcomers. “I will have your saddles transferred to fresh mounts, lord. You'll be wanting to follow after Lord Ubba.”
Eofer shook his head as his men began to dismount and fan out across the clearing. “No, I will take them as remounts when I leave.” As the confused Dane looked about him and the English began to draw their weapons and move towards the buildings, the eorle gazed down at the man and sighed. “What is your name?”
The Dane flinched with shock as the first of his men was cut down by Osbeorn and Porta but his reply was already half-formed and it came out anyway. “Haldor…lord…”
“Haldor, I was going to kill you, but I am of a mind that I would do more useful service to my king by letting you live.”
The Dane still looked nonplussed. “Your King?”
Eofer gasped in frustration. The dirty grey smear which marked the onset of the pre-dawn was tainting the eastern horizon. Soon the golden horse would return, they needed to be away. “King Eomær, you fool. Now, tell me where the English prisoner Wulf is being held.”
Haldor screwed up his face as his mind worked to unravel the weft and weave of the threads which the gods had brought together in his compound that night, but his eyes flicked up to the hall on its mount above and the thegn knew that he had his answer. Eofer jerked his head and Spearhafoc and the dark twins hurried to their eorle's side as he spurred his mount towards the steps which led upwards.
As they swept by, Haldor finally began to understand the identity of the men in his midst, but the snarl which twisted his features lasted less than a heartbeat as Octa's blade emerged from it to send the top half of his skull spinning through the air in a spray of gore. Oswin word-poor kicked the bloody bowl casually aside as he trotted after the duguth, and Octa threw a comment over his shoulder as he began to take the stairs. “Start working on a stanza for that, Oswin. I will want to hear it later.”
Eofer gripped the reins tightly, urging his mount on as they reached the foot of the staircase. The horse baulked as it came face-to-face with the steep incline but a cry and a spur from its rider drove it forward, and its hunter's blood began to quicken as the stallion clattered up the wood lined shelves like the pure-blood he was. Up ahead, shadowy figures raced in from the sides and began to gather at the head of the steps, shields clacking as a wall began to form there. Eofer thought of his own shield, safely strapped to the horse's flank, and wondered for a moment whether he had time to slip it on. It had been an important part of the initial deception at the gatehouse that their shields remain covered and stowed and it had done its job, they were in. He discounted the idea as he looked up and saw that they were almost upon the enemy. He would have to rely on Imma Gold's gods-luck and his own war-fury to see him through.
The Danish shields had come together now, but the glint of steel was absent and Eofer yelled his mount on, closing the gap between the foes as quickly as he could. The horse reached a wide platform and slithered as he lost his footing and Eofer's heart leapt as he thought that he was going down, but the stallion gathered itself and threw its great bulk up the final rise to the Danish shield wall above. Eofer had the momentary glimpse of monstrous sun-whitened antlers, the spreading wings of a mighty bird of prey capping the gable of Heorot, as the horse reared before the line of snarling faces and turned side on.
Seizing their chance to kill the enemy leader the Danish wall broke apart, and Eofer laughed at their stupidity as they moved to surround him. His men would be rushing to support their lord. Spearhafoc and the twins must be almost up with him already and he had seen Octa and Oswin not far behind them. The Danes had thrown away the best chance that they had by breaking their wall, attacking him instead of retreating back upon the safety of the great entrance to the hall at their rear, and he knew them to be inexperienced and wretchedly led. Heartened at the realisation, Eofer turned away the first spear strike with the flat of his sword and swept the blade in a great arc as he yelled his battle cry. Another lanced in towards his chest and the eorle rolled it away and down as he brought the blade of Blood-Worm back across to bite deeply into the Dane's shoulder.
Eofer squirmed in his saddle, dodging the wicked points as the steel tipped ash darted this way and that and his world shrunk down to little more than the reach of his sword. A face, crazy-eyed and spittle-flecked, hardened into focus ahead of him and Blood-Worm flicked out to pierce the owner's throat. The point was already free as the man began to fall and Eofer backhanded another as the pommel punched out to pulverise a nose. The crush of Danes was working against them as they jostled for space to bring their unwieldy shafts to bear upon this madman in their midst, and Eofer hacked down into a shoulder and cried for joy as leather and steel was driven deep into muscle and bone.
Bred for the chase, the press of men told as the nerves of the horse finally snapped and it careered off to one side, cutting a swathe through Eofer's attackers there. The eorle leapt from the saddle as the horse, nostrils flaring, eyes wildly staring balls of fear, cantered along the slope of the mound, its flank and mane blushed by the first glimpses of the dawn.
The Danes were still in disarray and Eofer grasped the opportunity to snatch a look down the hillside. Angry red petals were beginning to blossom among the smaller halls there as Sæward, Osbeorn and their youth mopped up any remaining opposition and touched flame to thatch. Thrush Hemming was surging up the staircase, Rand and Finn hurrying in his wake. Closer to hand sunlight lanced across, flashing from raised blades as Octa prepared to lead Oswin and his own youth into the disorganised knot of Danes. The fight was over and the Danes broke and ran, fleeing for their lives down the slope as fast as the greasy grass allowed.
Eofer dragged down great gulps of air as the danger receded and he realised that a sharp pain nagged at his side. Reaching across he winced and stared at the blood smeared palm in disbelief. Carefully kneading the slash with his fingertips he was relieved to find that it was no more than a surface wound, and he wondered that he had not felt the spear stab home when it had occurred. A quick check of the remainder of his body reassured him that his snaking movement during the fight had saved him from serious injury once again and he
sent a thought of thanks to far away Imma for his gods-luck.
Octa and the youth had come up, and a quick look told Eofer that Hemming was now across the wooden platform and beginning to take the final staircase. He cupped his hand and called down to his weorthman. “Thrush!” The big man paused and looked up, raising his chin in acknowledgement. Pointing with the bloodied tip of his sword, Eofer called again. “Get the doors!”
Octa cast a look of concern at the blood staining his lord's side and back up in question, and Eofer moved to reassure his duguth that all was well. Patting his flank with the palm of his hand he smiled encouragement. “Sore, but I will live. A spear blade must have grazed my side during the fight, I didn't even notice it at the time.”
He looked beyond them to the great doorway which led into the hall of the Danish king, the very heart of the kingdom. Thrush Hemming had overturned an iron weapons stand which stood beside the end wall, the magnificent silvered stag heads which crowned the piece now laying in the dirt. Heavy oak benches lined the wall there, a place for visitors to rest while they awaited admittance to the king, and Eofer watched as Hemming, Rand and Finn struggled to drag the nearest one to the doorway. Octa noticed also, and Eofer nodded as his duguth threw him a questioning look before hurrying across with the youth to help as Eofer took a moment to drink in his surroundings.
The sun lay on the horizon now in a smear of orange shading into yellow, the sky above a deep blue, as hard as an anvil. Below him smoke and flame curled up from the smaller halls and huts as Sæward and Osbeorn, their works of destruction complete, gathered in their youth and moved across to guard the gateway. In the settlement which crowded about the road leading to Hroar’s Kilde several groups had congregated, but even at this distance it was obvious by their demeanour that they were lowly ceorls, dragged from their beds by the mayhem which had appeared so suddenly on their doorsteps. The barrow field where they had waited for the moment to attack was clustered to the South, looking for all the world like a basket of eggs as the sunlight clipped the brows of the mounds and threw the valleys between into darkest shadow. Away to the north billowed a cloud, oily grey, its eastern flank painted pink in the dawn light. Imma Gold and his Saxons had done better than he could ever have hoped when he seen them on their way, and he sent them his own fervent wish for gods-luck winging its way to the North as a small repayment for their efforts in the night.
