by C. R. May
Eofer came abreast of Penda and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I shall soon be supping ale with my grandfather,” he quipped as his father's weorthman glanced his way in surprise. “Hold out as long as you can, Haystack must be here soon. See if you can give them a fight to keep the scops busy until the end of days.”
As the big man gave a grim nod, Eofer's eyes searched out Heorogar's banner from among the rest, and his heart leapt as he saw that the tides of battle had swept it closer still. The Jutish line was still in the throes of change as those at the front pulled back, comparing their wounds and turning their backs, confident that no attack would come from the ever shrinking ranks of the English. A line of dead lay between the hosts like wrack on a shore, the stink of blood and shit filling the air there; Grim's tide line awaiting the gulls and crows which circled and called hungrily above.
Eofer picked out the easiest route through the heap of corpses before him and threw his companions a fatalistic smile. “What's the best way to get into the cold sea?” he said, recalling one of Imma Gold's favourite sayings.
Osbeorn and Hemming answered together, and he could sense the men returning the smile as they did so. “Straight in, you bastards!”
As their laughter faded Eofer burst forth from the shield wall. Five paces, six and then a seventh and he crashed into the stunned Jutes at the foot of the rise. His shield slammed into the backs of men as they shrank away from the sudden onslaught, opening up a gap as he brought Gleaming over in a crashing blow on to the shoulder of a panic-stricken warrior. The Jutes parted like ripe barley and he scythed to left and right as he reaped the bloody harvest. Within a heartbeat Eofer was deep within the enemy lines and he sensed Osbeorn and Hemming at his sides, driving them away and moving onward.
He snatched a look and was heartened to see that Heorogar and his men were only a dozen paces away, but they were quicker to recover than most, and tougher too. Already two of the jarl's men were locking shields before their lord as others shoved their countrymen brutally aside, rushing to bolster the defence as the strident blare of war horns floated down from further up the meadow.
All around him the Jutes were recovering fast, and Osbeorn and Thrush Hemming kept to Eofer's side as they began to hack a path through to the jarl, swinging their bloody blades down upon heads and shoulders, driving their foemen before them like geese. Another quick look and the jarl was almost within reach. The pale sunlight glimmered from his boar-crested helm, polished silver against the dun sky. Their eyes met for an instant and Eofer saw fear there, the first he imagined that the man had ever felt, and it gave him heart for the final push. A voice cried out above the noise, loud and close by, and he was confused for a moment before he realised that it was his own. “There he is! Kill him!”
A warrior came forward hunched behind a shield, his spear raised as he prepared to stab down at this mad Englishman. Eofer knocked it aside with Gleaming as a blood reddened spear tip shot past his ear and Octa lunged forward to run the Jute through. It was an attack they had used again and again across the battlefields of the North, Eofer as ord, flanked by the swords of Imma and Hemming with Octa and Osbeorn completing the deadly knot of warriors, keeping the flanks clear with their spears. Even with Imma now supping with the Allfather in Valhall, the formation proved its worth once more. The Jute fell as the spear was ripped clear, twisting in his agony as Osbeorn chopped down with his sword to leave the arm swinging uselessly by a belt of skin and a livid tongue of red flesh.
The mass of bodies at last began to tell, blunting the attack, slowing the advance. As the momentum drained away from the charge the Engle were brought to a halt, but they stabbed and slashed and the Jutes took a pace back. It was enough. Throwing their shoulders into their shields they inched forward again, boots slipping and sliding on grass made slick with blood as they battered their way towards the jarl like men wading through the surf.
Seeing the eorle's attack falter and stall, Heorogar seized his chance. Scattering his shield men before him he came on, raising his own great blade as Eofer, trapped within the whirling mass, hunkered into his shield and braced to receive the blow. As the blade swept down Eofer threw his shoulder into his board and drove upwards, inside the killing arc. The heavy steel point of his shield boss slammed into the jarl's chest, driving the air from his lungs in an explosive rush and sending the man staggering backwards. Heorogar had seen the threat and tried to pull his sword strike but both men knew that it was too late, he was committed. Robbed of much of its force by Eofer's counter punch, the jarl's blade glanced off Eofer's helm, hissing past his shoulder and on down his side as the eorle dragged the steel lined rim of his shield up and into the Jute's chin. As Heorogar's head snapped back, Eofer heard the sickening crack as the board splintered teeth and bone. A heartbeat later his own sword had jabbed upwards, aiming to slide beneath the hem of the jarl's war shirt and take him in the belly, but the crush was too great and the blade was forced down to take the jarl in the thigh. The sword tip dipped beneath the skirt of his byrnie and across, gauging bone as the razor-sharp edge ploughed muscle and sinew and the jarl's screams filled the air. Eofer stood poised for the killing blow as Heorogar clutched at his side and went down, but an instant later his world exploded in light and pain as the jarl's hearth warriors leapt across the sprawling figure of their lord and slammed him backwards with their shields.
The power of the surge had unseated his helm and it was Eofer's turn to feel the cold hand of fear clutch at his guts as he blindly raised his shield and braced for the strike which must be a heartbeat away. Twin blows slammed into his shoulder blades and a spark of hope returned as he knew that Octa and Osbeorn had thrown their own shields into his back to bolster him. As his composure began to return he realised that he could still sense the presence of Hemming at his side, and he dragged the rim of his shield across his face and levered the helm away. Crouched behind the board, he shook away the mugginess from his brain as he braced for a follow-up strike but, to his astonishment the blow never came. Risking a glance to his side he saw that Hemming was looking away to the West, his mouth working in silent despair as a knot of horsemen broke free from the tree line and couched their spears as they came on.
Ignoring this new threat to their flank, Eofer gripped his friend's sleeve and urged him forward, desperate to take the blood price for their friend Imma before the man who had led his cold-blooded killers escaped once again. A bloody line in the grass led unerringly to the stricken form of Heorogar as his hearth men dragged him towards safety. A river the colour of lead was pulsing from the jarl's thigh to darken the ground around him, and a long line of a paler hue hinted at the bone beneath the open flesh. It was a death wound he was sure, but Eofer wanted more. He had watched the man lead a cowardly attack on a lifelong friend and he would have his vengeance. “Come on, Thrush,” he yelled. “We have him!”
Hemming responded to his lord's words in an instant, his head snapping back and they surged forward together in their death charge. Howling their war cries the pair crashed into the Jutes, shield on shield, bludgeoning them aside, cutting them down as their jarl looked on impotently from the turf. Hemming was joined by Osbeorn and Octa and, as the trio made short work of the remaining Jutes, Eofer glowered at his enemy. As their eyes locked, Heorogar moved his hand across to the hilt of his sword but Eofer aimed a savage kick, and a look of despair crossed his foe's features as the blade spun away and the jarl realised that the Englishman would deny him a place in Valhall.
Eofer looked down as his duguth backed around him, their weapons ready to stab out at any who came near. He had seen the wolf dancers above the jarl's eye but it was not enough. “Wolf brother or not,” he snarled as a look of disgust crossed his features. “I don't think that Imma wants to drink with you on his death day.” Pinning the jarl's sword arm to the ground with his boot the eorle snarled again. “You are not worthy of a place in the hall of the Allfather, go to Hel!” Heorogar's eyes went wide as Eofer's sword point found the s
oft flesh of his throat and the eorle pushed down. As Gleaming's wide blade slid through tendon and muscle and on into the ground beneath, Hemming spoke at his side, his voice joyful. “Thank the gods!”
As the last spasms of life left Heorogar, Eofer dragged his eyes away from the twitching figure at his feet and screwed up his face in confusion as his duguth began to laugh. A line of horses galloped across his line of sight and Eofer instinctively looked back towards the safety of the English shield wall to their rear. Caught in the open by horse warriors in their exhausted state their lives could be measured in moments, but the eorle blinked again as he saw that the men there too were cheering and laughing, their spears and swords stabbing the air. His own duguth were calling out to the riders, throwing their arms around each other and lowering their shields to their sides. Eofer looked back in bewilderment as a horseman reined in and slipped from the saddle before him.
“What's this? No hug for the man who saved your arse?”
A smile began to tug at the corners of Eofer's mouth as his befuddled mind finally recognised that it was Wulf who stood before him, and they threw their arms around each other and laughed like fools as riders thundered around the tiny group.
The brothers watched as the English horsemen rode down the Jutish stragglers before wheeling about to form a protective screen before the weary shield burh at the bridge.
“I have to get back there,” he said. “They are still fighting on the causeway, they will need help.”
Wulf laughed. “You still don't realise what is happening here do you? This is more than just a rescue column. Here,” he said, “climb on my horse and watch the fun.”
Eofer hauled himself into his brother's saddle and looked across the heads of his old shield hedge. Out beyond the place where Spearhafoc stood resolutely beneath the standard, his own burning hart hildbeacn, the last of the Jute attackers were streaming back towards the town as the defenders dropped to the floor in exhaustion.
Switching his gaze to the South a lone rider sat outlined against the tree line, dazzling in armour and grim helm which shone like winter ice. Sat astride a magnificent war horse, the warrior's own raven war flag writhed in the fitful breeze and Eofer recognised the horseman immediately, watching as the ætheling raised a war horn and blew again. Shining Mane had pulled the sun to its zenith, the shadows of that interminable morning had been chased away, and the eorle looked on with a rising sense of excitement as the tree line too began to shimmer with light. Within moments the spectral glimmer slowly hardened into the figures of hundreds of steel clad warriors, thegns, men of the shires, as they strode purposefully forward in battle array to form their ranks in the lee of their leader.
As the new English shield wall formed at the head of the field with a clash of lime on lime, the Jutes clustered protectively about their king and hurried forward to throw their own line across the narrowest part of the clearing.
Before they were set in their defences, an English champion strode free of the host and shook his spear at the enemy. The sun chose that moment to break free of the clouds, bathing the warrior in its glow as Eofer looked on in admiration. As the silvered plates of the man's helm shone in the light, the figure of a boar, a ruddy flash of bristles sprouting from its back like a hedge of spears, stood out boldly above. Thrown over a shirt of mail, a heavy cloak of bearskin lay on the warrior's shoulders, the gold and garnet pin which fastened it sparkling like a dagger against the tawny pelt. As the Jutes shuffled into line the hero beat his chest, raising his spear and shield as the haunting cry of his challenge washed across his fiend.
As the hail bled away, the English line moved forward, throwing their own shields before them as they began to call the barritus, the war challenge of the northern folk. Like the distant roll of thunder which heralded a summer storm, the cry slowly rose with each step taken until, reflected and amplified by the wall of shields raised before them, the war cry boomed across the field.
Unnsh…aaah…ooosh!
The Jutes set up their own cry in response, but their numbers were fewer and, although their hearts were trim, a half day of battle play had sapped at their strength. Faced now with a new foe confident in their arms and numbers, the Jutish reply petered out as the English bear-man stalked the ground before them, calling and pointing out to individuals in their ranks in challenge.
Eofer's eyes widened, the battle thrill coursing his veins again as the ætheling's champion spun and danced, throwing his head back with a growl as he called on the Allfather to send the bear spirit which would render him invincible. As other eorles came forward, wolf-men and boar-men, to spin and dance, Eofer was thrilled to hear the barritus echoed by those to his rear. Despite the trials of the day his own men, be they hearth warrior or fyrdman, ceorl, farmer, bowyer, woodsman, all gripped their spears tightly and prepared to go again.
The English battle line moved forward once again and, as the barritus trailed away, the massed ranks beat spear shaft on shield and thundered out the age-old chant.
Ut!...Ut!...Ut!
As the cry was taken up by the men at the bridge, Eofer noticed the shadowy shapes of riders moving among the woods which flanked the clearing. Wulf noticed the look of concern which swept across his brother's face and leaned close as the pre battle noises roared around them like an autumn gale. “Have no fear brother, the horsemen are ours. King Eomær wants a ghost army,” he explained as he indicated the Jutes with a flick of his head. “The only choice they have, is whether they try to earn a place at the benches of Valhall today or live awhile longer and go to await the end of days in Hel's chill hall.”
Eofer raised his brow in surprise. The songs told of the last time that a ghost army had been arrayed to watch over the border lands along the River Egedore, in the time of King Offa. It was powerful spell-work, and the eorle found that he was thrilled and unnerved in equal measure that he would get to witness such a thing in his own time.
At the head of the field the war horn sounded its note a last time and the flags of the English dipped in response. A heartbeat later a roar split the air as the massed ranks surged forward and cascaded down the slope.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ena placed the pitchers of ale on the table with a clack and threw them a smile. “Pickled eggs, boys? They are nice and fresh.”
The group turned and looked at Osbeorn to a man, their expressions bright with anticipation. He looked up and grimaced.
“No, not for me thanks, Ena,” he answered. “I don't think that my arse would thank me.”
The ale wyf narrowed her eyes and pulled a face, before deciding that she didn't really want to discover the answer to the question which was forming in her mind. The momentary image which had appeared there had been more than enough. “Suit yourself,” she said after a pause, “although I tend to find that most people prefer to eat them. Mind you,” she added, glancing across the packed room with a look of disdain, “you can always go and join them if you like that sort of thing.”
As the men of Eofer's troop laughed into their ale they looked across to the source of Ena's ire. A group of warriors had formed a circle, arms entwined as they belted out another verse. The accent placed their origin in the south of the country and Eofer called across to his newest youth as the song rolled around the room. “Grimwulf, you are from their part of Engeln. What are they singing about?”
The youth was chuckling at his countrymen's antics and he replied with a sidelong glance at Spearhafoc. “It's an old favourite of the men who work the River Egedore, lord,” he cried above the din. “It's about a woodsman who keeps putting his finger in a woodpecker's hole. It can go on for quite some time,” he said with a smirk.
Ena shook her head and sighed. “Mercians, bloody southerners. No wonder they are kept down on the border, away from decent folk.” She threw a parting comment over her shoulder as she forced her way through the throng. “There's too much Saxon in them if you ask me.”
They laughed again, but Eofer quietened as the
sound washed around him and he decided that the time was right. They had been at their cups since early afternoon as they celebrated both the victorious campaign in Juteland and their own part in it. The marches had been put to fire and sword, their army destroyed. King Osea himself was held captive in Eorthdraca, not half a mile from where he sat. The fleet had harried the ports and towns all along the western coast and his own family were safely away. His father's ship master had returned with the news that he had escorted the Skua to within sight of the Geatish coast. A guard ship had set out from Marstrand at their approach and the English snaca had dipped its flag in recognition and bore away. Great events were afoot and the Geats would be anxious for news, but they would have to await events. Sailor’s mouths flapped like sails in a gale and the stakes were just too high for English plans to leak out, even unwittingly from the mouths of friends. No, he knew. With Astrid and Weohstan safe under the protection of her brother, King Heardred, he could concentrate on the war which would start within days.
As the laughter died away, Eofer rapped the tabletop with his knuckles and waited for quiet. They hushed immediately and turned their eyes to their lord. As another roar of laughter carried across from the fireside, he ran his eyes across the men of his own hearth troop and began.
“We have won a great victory, but the war has just begun. Soon we will move to smite our greatest fiend, Hrothgar's Spear-Danes. They have already discovered that to attack the English is to invite fire and steel into your own land.” The warriors nodded earnestly as they thought back on the sight of Heorot in flames on its high mound, the hall guard slain or fleeing before their swords. Eofer lowered his voice. “We have already lost friends and we shall lose more before this thing is done.” He swept them with his gaze and they firmed their jawline, resolute. “Fill your cups now and drink to our friends in Valhall, for they will be in no other place. Recall their faces as I say their names and honour their memory.”
