Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army

by James Wilde

  This battle had been good, but death had come too close. Now he understood the whispered warnings of the alfar. Even his battle-seasoned arm was shaking with each axe-strike. Another helm flew, taking the top of a man’s head with it. And as the body dropped, Harald had a clear view of their prey. Morcar huddled at the centre of his forces. His long, horse-like face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide and staring as he searched for death on every side.

  ‘Follow me,’ the Viking roared. He swung his axe with renewed vigour. Behind him, he sensed the Butcher and his warriors falling into place. Their spear formation drove straight into the heart of the English army.

  Harald glimpsed Morcar begin to look around in panic. But he was surrounded by men trying to protect him unto death and he had nowhere to turn. The Viking chopped through the last of the line and loomed over the shaking earl. Snagging one fist in the Englishman’s tunic, Harald hauled him up high. His axe blade bit into Morcar’s neck and held.

  ‘Stop or he dies,’ Redteeth bellowed.

  The Butcher took up the cry, and so did his men until it rang out over the din of fighting. Morcar’s huscarls were the first to lower their arms. They glanced at each other with uncertain eyes. Moments later, the men of Ely slowed their attack and then paused. Harald watched heads turn towards Hereward, waiting for an order.

  The Mercian needed Morcar alive or he would not have command of the earl’s force, the Viking knew. And then all this bloodshed would have been for naught.

  ‘Do not give them time to think,’ the Butcher growled.

  Harald dragged the earl through his bewildered men. The Normans formed a knot around them, less than a tenth of the original number who had set the trap that morning. Up the slope, they surged, as fast as they could go.

  ‘Hereward will take his time,’ Redteeth said. ‘He has the numbers. He need do nothing rash.’

  ‘Time is all we need,’ the Butcher replied, looking down at the watching English. ‘Time to breathe and think. A few moments ago we had none of it.’

  ‘Do not harm me,’ Morcar cried. ‘I have gold. I will pay well for my freedom.’

  Harald shook him as if he were a fresh-caught rabbit. ‘Hold your tongue, you filthy coward. One more word from you and I will take your head, even if it sends us all into the Hall of the Slain.’

  Once they had passed over the lip of the hollow, they heard the roar of the English echo behind them. ‘Run,’ Taillebois commanded. ‘Towards the water.’

  The Viking grinned. The Norman commander was clever, he would give him that. In all that part of the dense forest, the stream would give them the fastest and most easily defended route out of danger. He wrapped one arm around the slight earl’s chest and hauled him on a weaving path among the oaks and ash trees. The Normans crashed through the ferns all around. Gnarled roots and clustered trunks slowed their progress, but the Butcher held a clear line for the stream they had passed the previous day.

  Behind them, Harald could hear the English army cresting the rim of the hollow. On either side, dead branches and fallen twigs cracked repeatedly. The Mercian had sent fleet-footed scouts to keep pace with them. He nodded. As expected. That was what he would have done.

  The forest floor began to slope down. The Normans stumbled over outcropping rocks and plunged through bushes, brambles and fern as they made their way towards the sound of gushing water. Within moments they came to the edge of a broad white-topped stream cascading over stones, heavy from the autumn rains. Harald shook Morcar roughly for good measure and then plunged along the muddy bank. Soon the water began to cut deep into the ground and the weary warriors splashed into the icy flow to follow its course.

  Harald grunted as he heard the rasping breath of the men around him, clearly already tiring. The English were not called the wild men of the woods for naught. This world of trees and water was their home and they would not give up pursuit easily.

  As they forged along the stream with all the speed they could, the banks soared up on either side until they reached high overhead, topped with a dense wall of tree and thorn. If the English wanted to attack with numbers, they could only come from behind, and then with only four abreast. In the chilly shade at the foot of the narrow gorge, the Normans breathed a little easier.

  ‘Keep moving,’ the Butcher ordered. ‘When the water opens out, we may be able to lose them in the wilderness. Then we will find a village, and some horses, take what we need and ride for Lincylene.’

  Yet Harald watched a shadow cross the Norman commander’s face. Of all the men the king had sent to keep the peace in the east, these few were the only ones that remained. Even if they survived, William’s wrath would be great indeed.

  At a whistling, Harald jerked round. A flaming arrow shot through the air. A cry rang out, but the man was dead long before he plunged into the water and extinguished the flames licking across his tunic and hair.

  More pitch-soaked shafts whipped down from the top of the bank and struck home. Hampered by their mail and shields, the Norman soldiers scrambled along the rocky stream as fast as they could. But every time they paused, fiery death rained down on them.

  ‘They will have picked us all off long before we get out of here,’ Harald snapped.

  The Butcher cursed, looking around as he fled. But Harald laughed as he splashed on. ‘Now we have a fight,’ he roared. ‘Let us see who wants to live the most.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  THE RUDDY GLOW of the setting sun rimmed the horizon. Across the darkening landscape, the wetlands caught fire. A chill breeze blew from the north, drawing whispers from the reed-beds and the willows.

  The knot of Normans looked out over the lonely country. ‘The fens,’ Harald Redteeth muttered. ‘We should not be here.’ An uneasy silence fell as the remainder of the king’s men weighed what lay behind those words.

  After a moment, Ivo Taillebois said, ‘We travel north, along the edge of these wetlands. Soon we will find the tracks that lead to Lincylene.’

  The Viking grunted in contempt at the commander’s confidence. At their backs, the dark forest brooded. Ten more lives had been claimed as they made their way along the watercourse to the edge of the trees. Arrows whistling from the dense vegetation. Rocks falling from the high banks, crushing skulls and spines. One by one they were being picked off, a flock of sheep at the mercy of a pack of circling wolves.

  ‘We should kill the English dog. He will only slow us down,’ one of the warriors muttered, nodding at Morcar. The earl’s eyes darted in apprehension.

  The Butcher considered this for a moment, then said, ‘We may still need him to bargain our way out of here.’

  ‘They are men who hunt us, not ghosts,’ Redteeth said, looking around the warriors. ‘Never forget they are flesh and blood.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Here is your true enemy. Fight it.’

  The Butcher glowered at this usurpation of his authority. Harald cared little. He took the coin of the Normans while it suited him. But once Hereward was dead, he would be away, with a few grudges paid in the passing. He showed his gap-toothed grin, then strode off north along the edge of a broad mere soaked in inky shadow. He eyed the thin red haze limning the horizon and wished they had more of the day. The harsh cawing of the rooks in the forest slowly died away. Only the rustling of the reeds remained. He looked up and saw that the chill wind had brought grey cloud from the north. There would be no moon to light their way, no stars. No torch could be lit for fear it would draw the English to them. He was used to the brilliance of snow-covered plains, but those bastards could see in the dark, he was sure of it.

  He glanced back at the straggling line of men, shoulders hunched, eyes darting furtively. The heart had been kicked out of them, so many of their brothers had been lost that day. And now they were moving through a land that was strange and threatening to them. They needed their castles, their stone walls and ramparts. These wetlands were like a living thing, luring in the unwary and then swallowing them whole. The alfar were strong her
e, and other, darker things, he had heard. One of the English spears-for-hire said the wuduwasa lived in this miserable place, feeding on the bloody bones of men. If he met it, he would cut it like any other beast. But he knew the Norman warriors had heard that tale too, and it scared them. He cursed under his breath as he pushed his way through the curtain of willow branches. Were it left to him they would have found somewhere to hide out, and defended it until first light. The Butcher’s decision to move through this treacherous place by night would be the death of them.

  On the horizon, the last of the light died.

  As if the rising dark were a signal, a cry of alarm rang out from the rear of the pack. Harald grimaced. And so it begins. He barged his way through the men, only a step behind Taillebois. Three warriors twisted and turned, their spears jabbing towards the wilderness behind them.

  ‘You will bring the English down upon us,’ the Butcher snarled, cuffing one of them.

  ‘They are already here,’ the man replied in a tremulous voice. He could not tear his gaze away from the empty landscape. ‘Lambelin walked behind us not a moment ago. And now he is gone.’

  The Butcher drew his sword and joined his men in searching the dark. ‘The coward. He ran away rather than fight to save his brothers.’

  Redteeth squatted, studying the muddy ground. After a moment, he reached out and touched the broken vegetation. His fingers came up sticky and dark, and he held them to his nose and sniffed. ‘Blood. They took him while he walked only paces behind you.’ He looked up and saw the men shaking.

  ‘We heard nothing,’ one of the men stuttered.

  Harald lurched up and grabbed him by the tunic, thrusting the edge of the axe against his face. ‘Keep your ears and your eyes open,’ he snarled, ‘or you will be the death of all of us.’

  The Butcher thrust the tip of his sword against the Viking’s neck. ‘One more word out of you and I will take your head,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I command here, never forget.’

  Redteeth grinned and nodded. This was a march to the very doors of the Hall of the Slain, it was clear now. The only question that remained was at what point he should abandon these fools to the fate that clearly awaited them. But he had to choose his time well. He and Hereward had been joined by blood and he knew the Mercian’s mind. The English warrior would hunt him down and kill him first, and let the Normans be damned.

  Taillebois snatched his sword away, his anger simmering. He whirled to the three Normans and hissed, ‘Watch your backs. Or you will be rotting in the bog with Lambelin.’

  He marched back to the front of the column, urging his men to step up the pace. Their legs were shaking with exhaustion and their hauberks weighed them down, but fear gave them strength. Harald pushed only to the centre of the group. Bodies were better than shields.

  Near running, they edged the mere and then moved out into the heart of the wetlands as the forest fell behind. Taillebois ordered a man to go ahead with his spear to test the ground lest they plunge into one of the hidden bogs. So dark was it, they could barely see further than the man in front. Every now and then, a man would stumble and fall, his brothers dragging him back to his feet. The pace could not be slowed, they all knew that.

  When the lead warrior hissed a warning, they ground to a halt. An owl shrieked in the distance as it hunted. ‘Go slow,’ the Butcher warned. ‘A bog lies ahead, but our scout has found a causeway.’ Harald heard the Norman commander hesitate and knew what he was thinking. On a causeway, they could be trapped, with only two directions to choose.

  As Taillebois deliberated, the Viking heard a whistling. Before he could call out a warning, a strangled cry rang out. A man fell near to him, a shaft protruding from his chest. Harald dropped low. But the unnerved Norman warriors milled about, shouting in the dark as they tried to shove each other towards the causeway. Another man cried and fell. And another. Redteeth scrambled on his hands and knees towards the front of the column.

  ‘How can they see us?’ one soldier cried, his voice breaking. He pitched back an instant later, trailing blood from the arrow rammed in his chest.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Harald shouted. ‘Get down. Make yourself as small as mice—’ The rest of his warning was lost beneath the sound of thundering feet as the men raced for the causeway. Cursing at their foolishness, Harald loped behind them.

  Suddenly, orange flared out of the dark. The burning shaft thumped into the back of a Norman soldier. Screaming, he ran four more paces as the flames leapt up his body, and then he pitched on to the wet ground. The fire roared up, a beacon to light the night for the English dogs.

  The glow lit fear-filled faces as the Normans panicked and scrambled on to the causeway, haring as fast as they could along the narrow, treacherous path. Harald had no choice but to follow them.

  Once they had escaped the revealing glare, Redteeth heard the man in front of him praying for dawn. A moment later he cried out as he slipped off the causeway and plunged into the marsh. Another warrior tried to grab for his arms and followed him into the sucking mud. In an instant, both men were gone, dragged down by the weight of their mail shirts. As the sounds of their thrashing faded away, the Viking shook his head wearily. These fools would do the enemy’s job for them.

  The fleeing warriors slowed. The causeway was made of flint and almost impossible to make out in the engulfing dark. Mile upon mile lay ahead of them before they would reach the safety of the castle at Lincylene and the Viking could almost feel the despair rising around him.

  On and on they trudged. The path carved a straight line through the stinking marsh. Occasionally Harald glimpsed indistinct shapes in the dark, small islands covered in willows and sedge. Each one could hide an English archer. Not for a moment could their guard be lowered. The reeds swayed in the breeze and murmured and mocked. The trees moaned, the bog gurgled. Bubbles burst, reeking of rot. They could not even trust their own senses in that place. After a while, the strain began to tell. The Viking heard more whispered prayers, edged with desperation, and voices raised in anger as men blamed their brothers for near-slips and stumbles. It seemed as if they had been walking for an eternity.

  As they approached rising ground, a bark of shock brought the column of anxious men to a halt. Harald struggled past the rest to the front, taking care not to lose his footing. ‘What now?’ he growled. A warrior pointed a trembling finger at a pale shape hovering in the dark ahead. He squinted and saw it was a head, resting at the point where the causeway met dry land. The mouth gaped and the eyes had rolled up so only the whites were showing.

  ‘Lambelin,’ de Taillebois muttered.

  ‘Go back,’ one of the warriors urged. ‘They must be waiting for us.’

  As the men began to turn, Harald called for them to hold fast. He squatted, resting the palm of his right hand upon the flint. His skin tingled with the vibrations running through the causeway. ‘They want us to go back,’ he growled. ‘The English are coming up behind us. Fast.’

  Panic gripped the remaining soldiers once more. They spilled out on to the rising ground, forcing Harald and the Butcher ahead of them. Taillebois called for caution, but it was no good. The Normans stumbled into the trees and the undergrowth along the marsh edge. The Butcher yelled out once more that their indiscipline would be the death of them and this time a few calmed. But not for long.

  As Harald turned, he glimpsed movement all around. Spectral shapes formed out of the gloom. From swaying reed-beds and pools of black water they rose, from the sucking mud where surely no man could ever live, from the trees and the bushes and seemingly out of the very earth itself. At first they appeared as insubstantial as mist. But then with a cry that could chill the blood, they rushed from the night, taking on form and fury as they came.

  Terror took hold of the Normans. Harald watched them run. Axe-blades flashed, splitting skulls, severing limbs. Spears burst through chests. A man went down and hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him off into the murk, though he dug his nails into the mud to
hold himself fast. The Viking watched the white, contorted face disappear, a scream tearing from his throat.

  The Butcher caught his arm. Five warriors were gathered around him, their spears and swords pointed towards the gloom. ‘We have lost Morcar,’ he hissed. ‘Our only hope now is to run.’

  Redteeth saw through Taillebois’s words. The Butcher intended to sacrifice his own men. Their slaughter would be the distraction that hid his own escape. Disgusted that the Norman made no attempt to save those he commanded, the Viking said nothing. The Butcher would pay the price for his dishonour, sooner or later. Within moments, they were running through the willows. The screams of the dying echoed on every side. One by one those cries faded away until Harald could hear nothing but ragged breath and the hammering of their feet. Only seven of them remained, he marvelled, just seven out of the entire Norman force that had ridden south from Lincylene. Hereward had proved himself a great warrior indeed. It would be an honour to take his life when the opportunity presented itself.

  But as they squelched through soft ground beside a wall of waving reeds, a spear shot from the gloom and took one of the warriors. Away in the trees, he glimpsed the ghosts keeping pace with them. The Butcher had seen them too, for he glanced once at Harald before suddenly turning on his heels and darting in the opposite direction. Harald heard him crash into the reed-bed and then he was gone.

  When another warrior went down on the tip of a spear, the Viking skidded to a halt and shook his axe in the air. He was only running to his death, he now knew. Better to stand his ground and die in battle like a man. ‘Hereward,’ he roared. ‘Come. Fight me. Let one of us die with honour.’

  Three cries came in quick succession, the last of the Norman soldiers dying. For a moment, only silence hung among the trees. He raised his axe and looked around. Movement flickered on the edge of his vision and a blow crashed against the back of his head. His helm flew from his head and he fell, dazed.