The Amber Road

by Harry Sidebottom

  Starkad grunted. Apart from their shields being oval, not round, and all bearing the same design, they did not look much different to the Angles.

  ‘A double-strength cohort, should be about a thousand men,’ added the older man.

  What sort of child did old Guthlaf take him for? It was not as if he had not stood in the shieldwall and faced the ranks of the fiend before. He could estimate numbers, and an enemy was an enemy. Starkad turned away and pretended to watch Eomer bringing the captives up.

  ‘Someone is coming over.’

  A lone rider was walking his mount slowly across to where Arkil’s big standard – the white horse of Hedinsey – flew at the centre of the line. He held his spear reversed in one hand and some sort of staff in the other.

  ‘The thing he is carrying is their symbol of a herald. He wants to be sure we will not kill him out of hand.’

  Starkad was fast running out of patience with Guthlaf.

  ‘How did they get here?’ a voice in the ranks asked.

  Starkad had no idea. ‘Silence in the wall. Let us hear what he has to say.’

  The rider took his time but eventually reined in a short javelin cast from Arkil. The man wore no helmet. He had short, dark hair, and a short, dark beard. To give him his due, he looked composed enough.

  ‘In the name of Imperator Caesar Marcus Cassianus Latinius Postumus Augustus, Pius Felix, Invictus, Pontifex Maximus, Germanicus Maximus, you Angles are commanded to surrender.’ He spoke in Latin. His voice carried well.

  There was a pause. The herald’s horse ruckled down its nose.

  Just when the rider was about to speak again, Arkil took a pace forward.

  ‘Stand aside, and we will be on our way.’ Arkil’s Latin was heavily accented, but serviceable.

  ‘That cannot happen.’

  ‘Then you had best go back, and the steel will decide.’

  ‘This does not have to end tragically, Arkil of the Angles. My commander, Marcus Aurelius Dialis, Governor of Germania Inferior, offers you terms.’

  The herald stopped, and again no one spoke.

  ‘Tell us the terms.’ Arkil’s voice had a sharp edge. This was dragging on too long.

  ‘Lay down your weapons, leave half your plunder, and you can go on your way.’

  ‘You had best go back.’

  The herald did not move. ‘If you swear a truce and remain where you stand, it may be Governor Dialis will offer more lenient terms.’

  Arkil strode further out from his men. ‘Go back now.’

  ‘If you just …’

  Arkil unsheathed his blade. The Himlings possessed several swords of ancient renown. This was Gaois, the growling one, half as old as Woden and responsible for nearly as many deaths.

  ‘Go back now,’ Arkil said again.

  Undiplomatic, but Starkad thought the atheling was right. Time was not on their side. Any moment could see other units of Roman troops appear from any direction.

  The herald reined his horse around, walked it back towards his line. And no one among the Angles could say he had acted without courage.

  ‘The prisoners!’ Arkil roared. ‘One in ten!’

  A lane parted in Starkad’s men, and he walked through to the rear. To be an eorl demanded hard choices, and this was one of them. Starkad stood by Eomer in front of the captives. ‘Him,’ he pointed, ‘and him. That one …’ He continued until eight men, none young, had been dragged out. ‘Cut the others free.’

  Their bonds gone, the women and younger men stood, irresolute and fearful.

  ‘Go,’ Starkad said.

  They did not move, but gazed at him with round, uncomprehending eyes. He realized he had used his native tongue.

  ‘Go,’ he repeated in Latin. ‘Your gods hold their hands over you.’

  Still they did not move. Perhaps they suspected some cruel trick.

  ‘Go.’ He pointed in the direction of the town. One individual, then another, tentatively shuffled in the direction they had come. When nothing untoward happened, they moved faster. Others joined in, until they were all running as fast as they could back towards their shattered lives.

  Starkad jerked his thumb at the eight remaining. ‘Front of the line.’

  They were distributed along the shieldwall. One was Starkad’s duty. He did not relish it, but it was a necessity. An eorl had to do what was right by his men and the gods.

  Arkil began the dedication. Starkad and the others joined in. ‘Ran, goodwife of Aegir …’

  Starkad looked down. The man was on his knees, bound. He had grey hair, grey eyes, a gentle, delicate face. Probably he had a wife, most likely a child, certainly he had been someone’s son.

  ‘Ran, turn your pale, cold eyes from us …’

  Starkad drew his sword.

  ‘Spare us your drowning net, take these instead.’

  Without hesitation, Starkad swung the blade. The man threw himself sideways. Not quite quick enough. The steel bit into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed bright in the sunshine. The man squealed, high like a pig. He was on the ground, not moving, but not dead. He was moaning. Starkad stepped up, and finished him with two hard, chopping blows to the back of the head.

  A baying of outrage rolled across from the Roman lines.

  Starkad cleaned his weapon on the dead man’s tunic, and slid it back into its scabbard.

  ‘Swineheads!’ Arkil’s voice carried along the Angle warhedge of shields.

  Guthlaf walked a few paces in front and planted himself four-square. Two other experienced warriors went and stood on either side and just behind him. Starkad took his place at Guthlaf’s back. His chest felt all tight and hollow at once. His breath was coming fast and shallow. Without thought, he loosened his sword and dagger in their sheaths, touched the piece of amber tied to his scabbard as a healing stone. Taking up his spear, his palm was slick.

  As each crew shifted into a wedge formation, a song rang out:

  The sword growls

  Leaving the sheath,

  The hand remembers

  The work of battle.

  The Swinehead was formed. Starkad had Eomer on one shoulder, his standard-bearer on the other. Buoyed up by the singing and the proximity of his companions, he felt his anxieties slipping away. He would be a man; let down neither his friends nor himself.

  ‘Advance!’ Arkil’s bellow was followed by the bray of a horn. Normally, those warriors touched by Woden or another god would jump out beyond the formation and dance. Leaping and turning, casting aside their armour, they would draw down into themselves the ferocity of wolf, bear or other fanged, clawed beast. As they worked themselves into a murderous, slathering fury, the hearts of the rest would be lifted. Today there was no time. If one Roman unit could appear, against all expectation, so could more. The Angles had to break the fiend in front of them, and win through to their ships.

  A low sigh, like a breeze through a field of ripe barley. Soft and deceptively gentle, the Angles began the barritus. As they moved off, the war chant swelled. They raised their shields in front of their mouths; the sound reflected, growing fuller and heavier.

  Stepping in time, the barritus rose to a rough, fitful roar. It faded, and they could just hear the answering war chant of their enemy. The Angles lifted their voices and, like a great storm, drowned out everything else. The barritus foretold the outcome, and their barritus sounded good; a measure of manhood.

  Between the nodding helmets of Guthlaf and the front rank, Starkad could see the enemy. They were stationary, close packed, awaiting the onslaught. Their leaders had chosen cohesion over momentum. Downhill, they had made a bad choice. Starkad was glad to be moving.

  The Angles were picking up speed. Jogging, the thunder of their boots, the rattle of their war gear added to the din of the barritus. Starkad saw Guthlaf lower his spear. Carefully he brought his own down underarm; its point jutted out between Guthlaf and the shield of the man to the old warrior’s right.

  They were close, no more than forty paces.
Every detail of the shield-burg of the enemy was clear. The front rank were kneeling, spear butts planted, white shields half overlapping. The second rank had brought their shields down over the first, bases locked on to the bosses of those below. A dazzling wall of white wood and red-painted horned beasts. Everywhere wicked, glinting spearheads projected, waiting to tear the life from those the Norns decreed must fall.

  The Angles broke into a full charge, legs pounding. Thirty paces, twenty. The fearful and the foolishly brave swept along together. The barritus echoed back like a huge wave crashing against a cliff. Something flashed to the right between Starkad and Eomer. Above, the air was full, as the rear ranks of both sides hurled their spears. Screams cut through the clamour. Chin down into chest. No time to think.

  The noise – like nothing else in Middle Earth – wood and steel smashing together, buckling, breaking. It hit Starkad before the savage impact jarred up his right arm, into his shoulder, bringing wrenching pain. The haft of his splintered spear was torn from his grip. Full tilt, he ran shield to shield into a cornutus. One of his own men thumped into his back. Wind knocked out of him. No room to move. The enemy face behind the shield; snarling, brutish. Hot breath in his nostrils. Crushing pain. The enemy falling back and down – eyes wide with horror. Guthlaf above him, climbing, scrambling over the locked enemy shields, using their bosses as footholds. Cornuti stabbing up. Guthlaf hacking down, like some demented woodsman. The edifice swaying back, collapsing. The pressure on Starkad easing a fraction. Gasping for air, he dragged his sword free.

  A shove from behind. Starkad stumbled over the enemy writhing on the grass. Lose your footing here, and you were dead. Friend and foe would trample you to nothing. Shield well up, Starkad thrust down with his sword. The point of the blade met the resistance of a mailcoat. He put his weight on the hilt. The steel broke through the rings and slid into soft flesh.

  A blade arced down from Starkad’s right. Coming over his shield. He hauled his sword up, a clumsy parry with the guard. Something hit the left side of his helmet, hit very hard. Stunned – the clangour ringing in his head – he staggered, his vision swimming.

  From all directions the deafening, terrible din of battle. Trapped in a surging crush of bodies. Feet scrabbling, Starkad fought to stay upright in its eddies.

  A vicious edge of steel bit into the top of his shield, through the leather binding, down into the linden boards. A splinter gashed his forehead. His legs were shaking, so tired. He hunkered down behind his shield. Another blow landed, took out a chunk. He bent his knees, tried to dig in his heels, get a firm stance. He had to fight back, lead by example. He was an eorl.

  A flash of light to Starkad’s right. A ghastly scream. The sword embedded in Eomer’s stomach. His friend’s face white with shock. The cornutus withdrawing the blade. Eomer crumpling. Starkad twisted, lunged, his body behind the blow. Another scream. Starkad’s blade slicing deep across the soldier’s thighs, scraping on bone. Starkad and the cornutus tangled together. Starkad shoved him away. He fell. Two neat steps and Starkad brought up his sword.

  ‘Please …’ A bloodied hand raised in supplication.

  Starkad smashed the heavy sword down; one, two, three times.

  The press was clearing, the movement now all in the direction of the enemy.

  ‘Out! Out! Out!’ The triumphant, traditional cry of the Angles rumbled down the hillside, pursued the cornuti as they fled into the wood.

  Starkad took in the stricken field. Everywhere were discarded and broken spears and swords, shields and helmets, even mailcoats. Everywhere the dead and the dying lay in their own blood and filth, and the living stood bent over with the enormity of it all. A grassy sward reduced to a shambles. But it was over. Now to count the cost.

  Eomer was sitting, supported by another warrior. His hands were pressed to the jagged hole in his war shirt. The blood was flowing slowly but already had pooled in his lap, clotting the rings of his mail, staining the thighs of his trousers black.

  ‘I will get …’

  ‘No,’ Eomer gasped. ‘Gut wound. No point.’

  Starkad dropped his sword, got to his knees. He tried to remove his helmet, but the blow had dented it out of shape. Someone levered it off for him. Blood from his forehead ran into Starkad’s eyes.

  ‘Enough to enter Woden’s hall.’ Eomer tried to smile. ‘I hope.’

  Starkad shuffled forward. The other warrior moved, and Starkad cradled his friend.

  ‘Tell my mother, and Aeva.’ Eomer winced. ‘Tell them I died well.’

  Starkad buried his head in his friend’s neck, crying.

  ‘Time to go.’ Guthlaf was standing above them, bloodied but unhurt. ‘The atheling has ordered we move.’

  Five times at the point of the Swinehead and Guthlaf was still alive, this time seemingly unscathed. It should have been him, not Eomer. Starkad could not reply.

  ‘Time to go,’ Guthlaf repeated.

  Starkad sobbed.

  ‘You are an eorl,’ Guthlaf said. ‘Show yourself one.’

  Starkad glared, about to curse the old man, curse him to Niflheim and Hel.

  ‘He is right.’ Eomer gripped Starkad’s arm with a bloody hand. ‘You are my eorl. Do the last thing for me.’

  Starkad shook his head.

  ‘The Choosers of the Slain will take me.’ Eomer gripped him harder. ‘Do it, as I love you, do it.’

  Starkad knew they were right. He kissed Eomer, held him close, told him he loved him, whispered Woden’s last words to Balder in his ear. Then Starkad drew his knife, and cut his friend’s throat.

  After, Guthlaf helped him to his feet. ‘Leading men is not all feasting and giving gold. You did well. You are eorl to all in the crew.’

  Men were busy all over the meadow. Starkad took his place under his draco. Four of his crew had died in the clash, two had been helped out afterwards. There were six with serious wounds but who could still march. Starkad sent men back to collect such of the plunder as was light and would not hold back their progress. As they did so, he got the remainder in order.

  Arkil’s horn sounded, and the reduced column resumed its limping march to the sea.

  The trees – mature oak and beech – made a dappled world of shadow. Under their spreading branches the undergrowth was sparse, but enough to conceal an ambush. Starkad put it out of his thoughts. He had seen Arkil send out scouts. The atheling was a true leader, a true Himling.

  ‘We must have been seen,’ said a voice in the ranks.

  ‘No,’ Starkad said, ‘they knew Arkil’s name.’

  They trudged on, pondering the bad implications of that.

  ‘Arkil was here last year, with Morcar,’ Guthlaf said.

  Starkad smiled, but with no humour. ‘Morcar would have left none alive to say their names.’

  ‘They must have taken Ashhere’s missing boat,’ someone said.

  ‘None with Ashhere would betray us.’ Starkad was certain.

  ‘Yet they knew Arkil was coming,’ Guthlaf said.

  There was no answer to that.

  Through gaps in the foliage a high sky of mackerel-patterned clouds could be seen. Lower, light clouds pushed to the east. A fair wind, if they could make the ships. Not more than three miles to go.

  Ahead, the column was marching out into the sunlight. Before Starkad reached the edge of the wood, he knew it was not good. A low groan of disappointment from the men at the front. Then he heard Arkil’s horn, and the order came back down the track.

  ‘Shieldwall! Form on the atheling. Last crew as reserve. Wounded form as their rear ranks.’

  Again Starkad brought his men into the warhedge on the right of Wiglaf’s crew. They were about twenty paces out of the wood, the reserve at the tree line.

  This time it was an army they faced. The Romans were drawn up on a gentle hill, a stream at its foot, open country in front, smudges of smoke in the sky behind. Red-crested legionaries in the centre, auxiliaries on either side, all backed by archers. A formidable
phalanx, with cavalry further out on both wings. Starkad counted their standards, their frontage, gauged their depth, tried to estimate their numbers. Three thousand or more, perhaps quite a few more, a third of them mounted. In a good position, standing in good order.

  ‘Well, that would seem to be that,’ Guthlaf said.

  ‘Heart and courage. Some of us may win through.’ Starkad did not believe it, but he felt it was the sort of thing an eorl should say.

  ‘Heart and courage,’ some of the men muttered uncertainly.

  ‘It is no more than a mile to the ships.’ Starkad added the lie gamely, and none of the duguth or the warriors chose to correct him.

  The wind sighed through the big trees behind them, hissed sibilant in the jaws of the dracones above. A horse neighed in the enemy array.

  ‘Another herald.’

  The Roman rode down the slope, forded the stream in a cloud of spray, cantered towards the Angles. Mounted on a magnificent black horse, this was an officer of high rank, his muscled armour gilded and chased. He reined back to a walk, and brought his charger to a standstill about as far as a boy could toss a stone from the shieldwall. Bareheaded, hair and full beard artfully curled, he looked like a portrait on a coin of an emperor from a previous age.

  ‘Arkil, son of Isangrim.’ The Roman spoke the language of Germania with an accent from somewhere near the Rhine. ‘You lead brave men. Too brave to waste their lives in a hopeless cause.’

  Arkil stood forth. ‘No man can predict the course of events.’ He raised his voice. ‘Wyrd will often spare an undoomed man, if his courage is good.’

  The horseman nodded, as if at the wisdom of the lines, then pointed over his shoulder. ‘Your longboats are burned.’

  Beyond the Roman army Starkad could see the smoke had grown into a thick column. It rose vertical, then billowed out to the east.

  ‘The Augustus Postumus would have men like you in his comitatus, if you would give him your oath.’