Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "Shieldwall!" Halga screamed, his voice cutting through the distant sounds of the galloping men and the cries of the dying that emanated from south of the Wall behind Beobrand.

  In an instant Beobrand could see that neither Attor nor Bearn would reach Halga's men before they had been able to dismount and form a shieldwall around the waggons. If they were allowed to form a strong defensive position, although outnumbered, the Mercians might yet be victorious. The fight would become a long, drawn-out, bloody affair. If Beobrand's gesithas were not able to press home the advantage of their numbers, a strong shieldwall of Mercians would exact a heavy toll on them.

  Even as Halga and his men began to dismount, Beobrand sprinted forward. Dragging Hrunting from its scabbard, Beobrand let out a roar.

  "For Oswald," he screamed, invoking the familiar battle-cry. "Black Shields, with me!"

  In an instant his fears and concerns fled, replaced by the terrible thrill of battle. He felt his mouth twist into a wolf-like grin, bearing his teeth as he loped towards his enemy. At the sudden turn of speed, Beobrand was once again reminded of when he had last faced Halga. His right thigh gave a twinge of pain but he ignored it, willing himself on to greater efforts. He knew not whether Fraomar, Eadgard, and the others had heard his cry and were following behind him. There was no time to look. If it was his wyrd to die here this day, so be it. But that red-bearded bastard would be going to the afterlife with him.

  "Now you die," Beobrand yelled.

  Halga's warriors were still in the process of dismounting. Beobrand would be upon them in moments. But Halga was as calm as he was fast. Leaping from his huge horse, he unslung the shield that had hung on his back and, turning to face Beobrand, drew his sword.

  Beobrand let out a scream of rage. When faced with Beobrand in his war harness, bellowing his ire, wielding the famed sword Hrunting and hefting his crow-black shield, foe-men would often hesitate, or even turn and flee; something that would always spell their death. Beobrand had broken many shieldwalls simply with his weight, courage and the battle-fame that went before him like an unseen shield. The sight of the huge thegn, blue eyes burning cold beneath his great helm, mouth twisted into a feral snarl was enough to cause most adversaries to flinch. But Halga had faced Beobrand before and he was no ordinary foe.

  The fire-haired giant bellowed his own roaring scream and rushed forward to meet Beobrand.

  Beobrand ducked beneath Halga's wild swing, catching the sword blade on his shield's rim. His own thrusting attack slid harmlessly past Halga, as their shields connected. Beobrand grunted. It was as though he had collided with a boulder, as if he had run into a cliff. Gods, but the man was strong. Beobrand shoved against his linden board and jumped backwards, giving himself room to move. The last time they had fought, Halga had been armed with a spear and Beobrand had suffered from being held at bay by the longer weapon. This time, they both bore swords, and whilst Halga was taller and Beobrand knew him to be lightning quick, if he could move freely, Beobrand felt he would be able to best the Mercian.

  Halga grinned over his shield rim, holding his sword loose and ready in the warrior stance.

  "It is about time I repaid you for slaying my hound," he said. He swung his sword in a flourishing arc, before bringing the blade back to rest upon his shield's edge. "And for breaking my arm."

  Fraomar and the rest of Beobrand's gesithas sprinted past them. They ran around the two massive warriors the way river water splashes around rocks in a rapids. Behind Halga, Beobrand saw his men meet the hastily forming Mercian shieldwall with a clatter of weapons and boards.

  "I meant to kill you back then," Beobrand said. "I will put that right before the sun sets."

  Halga laughed, a mad sound, like the cackle of a magpie.

  "I have your wyrm's hoard, Beobrand. Wybert took your woman, now I have taken your gold."

  Beobrand knew that he must not let his ire consume him. He would need all his wits and cunning to beat this beast of a man. But at the mention of Wybert and Sunniva, he felt the raging anger within him throw off its shackles. Springing forward he rained blows upon Halga's shield. Splinters flew, but Halga hardly seemed to notice attacks that would have downed a lesser man. He soaked up Beobrand's attack. Beobrand saw nothing but Halga now. His focus had become as sharp as Hrunting's patterned blade and he watched with a detached admiration as Halga deflected strike after strike. Then, with the incredible speed Beobrand remembered, Halga flicked out an attack of his own. Beobrand saw Halga's sword point clearly as it glittered in the dim light of the dying day.

  Halga's blade would had taken him in the throat, if Beobrand had not thrown himself backwards, reversing his forward motion with a supreme effort. He felt the whisper of the metal as it passed not a finger's breadth from his unarmoured neck. Now it was Halga's turn to press the attack. Beobrand was dimly aware of his Bernician horsemen arriving at the waggons, as he was pushed ever further back by the giant Mercian.

  Halga smashed great overarm swings of his sword into Beobrand's shield with such ferocity that with each blow Beobrand's forearm throbbed. In a matter of moments his left arm was numb from elbow to wrist and he was glad of the straps he used to reinforce his grip on his shield.

  A sliver of fear worked its way through Beobrand's anger. By Woden, the man was a monster, his strength and power incredible. With each crushing blow that rang through the hide, wood and iron boss of his shield, Beobrand would see an opening where he might send Hrunting's blade into Halga's arm, or leg, or throat. But such was the power of the Mercian's hacking strikes that it was all he could do to block the attacks, and each instant passed before he could act. Beobrand tried to skitter back, using his famed speed to put some distance between him and Halga.

  And yet Halga was just a fast as him. Perhaps faster, whispered a dark, sibilant voice in Beobrand's mind. As Beobrand shuffled quickly back, seeking to distance himself, Halga used the momentary shift in their stances to send a slicing blow at Beobrand's leg. Beobrand had been so intent on the overarm hammering from Halga's blade, he had failed to anticipate the giant's low attack. Using all his skill and prodigious speed, Beobrand twisted his body and flung Hrunting's blade downward in a furious attempt to parry the blow. Steel met steel with a clang and the shock thrummed in his hand and arm. A heartbeat later, he felt a burning sting in his thigh.

  Cursing silently, Beobrand jumped backwards, once more trying to escape Halga's savage sword.

  This time, seemingly satisfied at having landed a blow at last, Halga allowed him to retreat a few paces. Beobrand's right thigh was hot and wet. He chanced a quick glance down and saw it was drenched and dark, his breeches sliced open in a long gash. Blood bubbled up from the deep cut.

  "Does that pain you as much as my hound's strong bite?" asked Halga.

  "It is but a scratch," snarled Beobrand. "I killed your pup of a dog and I will kill you just the same."

  His words were empty bluster and, in the smiling eyes of the Mercian, Beobrand could see that Halga knew as much. The red-bearded giant laughed.

  "I see the fear in your eyes, Beobrand," he said. "You have never been a match for me. Now you will die."

  Halga leapt forward then, as quick as a cat. His sword flickered towards Beobrand's head. Gritting his teeth against the searing agony that now engulfed his leg, Beobrand raised his shield, catching the attack on the rim and taking another quick, shuffling step backward.

  Too late he realised his error as his feet connected with something that lay in the mud. He lost his balance and tumbled to the earth. Halga had pushed him all the way back to the Wall, to the fortified gateway, and even as he sprawled onto the ground Beobrand understood what had happened. Years before, when they had fought in that faraway Mercian forest, Beobrand had tripped Halga in just this way on the corpse of the giant's dead hunting dog. Now Halga had done the same to him using the body of the rider he had slain as his horse churned the mud in the gateway.

  Crashing onto his back, the air rushed from Beobrand'
s lungs. He knew what came next. When the situation had been reversed, he had hammered down a blow aimed at Halga's neck. The huge warrior had only prevented the slicing attack from killing him by halting Hrunting's blade with his forearm. Halga would step over him now and with a quick downward thrust, the Mercian would take his life.

  Halga closed the distance. Beobrand gripped Hrunting tightly. If he could strike Halga as the giant delivered his killing blow, he might yet snatch victory. All warriors knew that they were most vulnerable from a blade beneath the shield. Many a good man had died from a thrusting seax or sword into the soft, unprotected flesh of groin and inner thigh.

  Woden, even if I am to die here, let me take this whoreson with me.

  Beobrand grasped Hrunting and prepared himself to drive the blade deep into Halga's groin. Halga strode forward and Beobrand lunged. Halga laughed, clearly expecting the attack and with savage speed he smashed his blade into Beobrand's right wrist.

  Hrunting flew from his grip and Halga kicked the blade away, far from Beobrand's reach. Beobrand's eyes widened in dismay. After a moment of searing agony, he no longer felt his hand. He looked down, expecting to see the horror of a blood-spurting stump.

  His hand remained attached to his wrist. He blinked stupidly for a moment, unable to comprehend how Halga's sword had not severed his limb. Then he saw the splints of iron he wore strapped to his wrist and offered up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever god looked over him.

  Halga's shadow fell on him. It was no matter that Beobrand yet had a hand, he would be dead in a moment. Desperately, Beobrand made to lift his shield, to ward off the attack he knew would come, but Halga stepped on the wood, pinning it to the earth with his bulk. Beobrand's right hand throbbed and ached now, and it would not obey his commands. He reached for his seax, but his hand would not grip, the fingers clumsy and numb.

  "I've longed for this moment for many years, Beobrand of Ubbanford," Halga said. "The moment when I kill you like a cowering cur. And this is better than even I had hoped for. Woden All-father has smiled upon me. First Oswiu gifts me your treasure, and now Woden grants me the taking of your life. A fair blood-price for slaying Wybert and my hound."

  Beobrand's mind reeled. His body screamed with pain. Had he heard Halga's words? Was it possible? But, he would never know the truth of it. Halga turned his sword in his hand to aim the point at Beobrand's throat.

  Beobrand looked up into the shadowed, leering face of the red-bearded giant. Death was there in Halga's eyes. Beobrand's throbbing hand would not grip, but he dropped it onto the antler hilt of his seax where it lay sheathed on his belt. He hoped that Woden would see him and take him into his corpse-hall.

  Halga's eyes narrowed as he lifted his sword, ready for the downward thrust that would slice into Beobrand's flesh and soak the earth in his lifeblood.

  Beobrand closed his eyes and felt the sharp pain as the wickedly keen patterned blade of Halga's sword sliced into his exposed throat.

  Chapter 56

  The pain in his throat was not as bad as Beobrand had thought it would be. But he had never died before, so he was unsure what to expect. He kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to feel his hand on the cool ridged smoothness of his seax handle. His fingers were still numb. They felt nothing. And yet his forearm ached where Halga's sword had struck against the iron splints of armour he wore there. And his thigh was a searing agony, throbbing with each beat of his heart.

  Taking a deep breath, he focused on his throat. He thought he could make out where blood trickled down the side of his neck. Surely all the pain would cease soon, as his heart gave in and his spirit left his body. Or perhaps the dead felt forever the agony of their final wounds. He shuddered, gripped by a sudden fear of an afterlife of endless suffering.

  His body throbbed and hurt. From the distance he could hear the sounds of battle. The clash of blades against shields, the shouted taunts and insults of men intent on killing. How long would it take him to die, he wondered?

  He was just about to open his eyes to see what had happened, when something solid and hard crunched into his face. Beobrand's nose was crushed and he heard, deep and loud from within his head, his cartilage smash and grind. Fresh blood gouted from his broken nose.

  Grunting, he opened his eyes. They were filled with tears that blurred everything. He could make no sense of what he saw. A huge shadow was falling towards him and he tried to roll to the side, out of the object's path. Perhaps Halga had decided to have fun with him before delivering the killing blow. Mayhap this was all a game to the Mercian.

  Before he could move far, the shape crashed into him, forcing the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping. The metal-stink of blood filled his nostrils. His face and chest were suddenly awash with hot, sticky liquid. Was that his blood, spurting from a great gash in his throat that he could not truly feel due to some twisted magic that befell the dying?

  "Beobrand," a voice said.

  Beobrand groaned and blinked, trying to decipher the shape that swam against the rolling grey clouds above him. Was this the Grey Wanderer, the one-eyed Ruler of Gallows, the grim All-father? Had the Chooser of the Slain come to claim him?

  "Woden?" Beobrand croaked.

  Something heavy weighed him down, crushing him. Blood stung his eyes and he pulled his numb right hand free from beneath the weight to rub clumsily at his face.

  "Lord," the voice said, and the weight was suddenly lifted from him.

  Beobrand gulped in a great lungful of cool, moist air and saw at last who it was leaning over him.

  "Cynan?" he said, his voice cracking. He sat up and spat blood onto the earth beside him. Lying there, eyes wide and unseeing, was the red-bearded head of Halga. Blood seeped from the neck where it had been severed from the body. Beobrand shook his head, clearing it of the fog that had come with the certainty of death. He scrubbed with the heel of his hand at the thick blood that coated his face. He clenched and unclenched his fist. Slowly, some sensation was returning to his fingers. His arm still ached.

  Blood flowed freely from his nostrils, and tears, brought on by the sharp pain to his nose, ran unbidden down his blood-drenched cheeks.

  Reaching his hand down to his throat, he found no gaping wound in his neck. His touch brought a thin licking of pain and his fingers came back slick with yet more blood, but it seemed Halga had not rammed his sword through Beobrand's throat after all.

  Beobrand shook his head again. On the earth to his left, beside Halga's head, lay the giant's fine sword. To Beobrand's right was the rest of Halga where Cynan had rolled the headless corpse.

  Blinking away the blood and tears, Beobrand gripped the hand that Cynan was proffering. The Waelisc warrior heaved him to his feet. Beobrand groaned at the renewed pulse of pain in his leg. He tottered for a moment, leaning on Cynan for balance.

  By the waggons, the fight yet raged. The Mercians had formed a strong, tightly-packed square of shields that bristled with spears. They were surrounded by Beobrand's Black Shields who had more than twice their number.

  "Gods, I thought you were dead, lord," said Cynan.

  Beobrand spat again.

  "So did I. Truth be told, I feel I have enough blood on me to be a corpse."

  "Aye, but most of it is not yours."

  Beobrand wiped the blood that yet poured from his nose on the back of his hand. He held it up for Cynan to see.

  "This is mine," Beobrand said.

  "I am sorry about that," Cynan said, not sounding sorry at all. "It seems that Halga had one last attack left in him, even in death."

  Beobrand stared at him enquiringly.

  "I took his head from his shoulders," said Cynan. "He was so intent on taking your life, he never thought that someone else might take his. His head fell into your face."

  "Gods, but it smarts," Beobrand said and spat a fresh gobbet of snot and blood onto Halga's pale features. "A brawler to the end, eh?"

  Beobrand shook his left arm free of the straps that held his shield in pl
ace, letting the board clatter onto Halga's splayed legs. Then, scooping up Hrunting from where it lay, he reached for Halga's head. Absently, he hoped this was the last severed head he would need to touch for a long while. Halga's helmet had toppled off, so Beobrand wrapped his fingers in the man's shaggy, fire-red hair. Hefting the head high into the air, Beobrand bellowed in his battle-voice, "Your leader is killed! See the face of your lord, Halga, son of Grimbold."

  The fighting faltered as the warriors on both sides gazed upon Beobrand's grisly trophy.

  "Your oaths are done," Beobrand yelled. He could feel the blood welling in the cut to his leg with each beat of his heart. His right hand prickled and throbbed. A wail of grief came from Grimbold's gesithas at seeing their hlaford slain. Nobody moved.

  "Throw down your weapons or fight to the last man," Beobrand shouted into the momentary hush. "I care nought."

  One Mercian suddenly screamed in rage and sprang forward. He was of middling years, tall, and yet somehow seeming to hunch, such was the breadth of his shoulders. In his hand was a wicked-looking langseax. The blade was as long as some swords, but the man swung it as if it were as light as an eating knife. The metal caught the watery light of the westering sun, glimmering pale and grey, like the Whale Road on a still day.

  Perhaps the Mercian had expected the rest of Halga's men to follow him in a mad, frantic welter of blows. Maybe he believed he could avenge his lord's death. If all of the Mercians had pushed the fight to the Bernicians at the same moment, they might have had a chance, despite their numbers.

  But none of the others moved.

  Dreogan stepped forward to meet the man. The dark soot-stained lines on his face gave him a savage, grim aspect. Everybody there watched as the two men clashed. The Bernicians stepped back to give the men space to fight.

  Again there was a moment when the Mercians could have attacked, perhaps surprising the Bernicians who gazed upon the duel between Dreogan and the crazed man wielding the langseax. But again, they did not move, and the moment was lost in a heartbeat as Dreogan parried a vicious downward strike from the langseax on his black shield, pushed it aside and hacked into the man's unprotected neck. Blood, bright and shocking in the dull grey afternoon light, blossomed in a spraying sheet as the man's heart laboured to keep him alive. The langseax fell from his fingers, he looked surprised and horrified as he dropped to his knees, then slumped onto the churned mud. Dreogan stepped close, snatching the dying man's weapon from where it had fallen and pressing it into the Mercian's grasp.