“It’s all new to me,” says Betula. “I can’t wait to see it. I can’t wait to see Trever.”
Everything in Gaul makes her excited like a little child — and makes me seem like a seasoned traveller, though I’ve only been here a few months. Some of her enthusiasm is rubbing off on me; we talked at length about the harbours of Gaul, of the great roads criss-crossing the land, we admired the mysterious darkness of the Charcoal Forest, and marvelled at the ruined villas and palaces of the countryside.
“I wish I could show all this to Croha,” Betula adds. “She always wants to see new things.”
“Don’t expect too much,” says Ursula. “Tolbiac’s no bigger than Dorowern — and just as empty.”
“And I don’t think we’ll have much time for admiring its wonders, such as they are,” says Audulf. “We’re late as it is.”
Somewhere between us and the town sprawls Weldelf’s camp — hidden from sight by a fold of terrain. They’re waiting for us. We have not concealed our arrival — it would have been impossible to hide a thousand-strong fyrd on the march — but Weldelf and his men are still not aware of the true purpose of our arrival.
Neither, for that matter are we. I’m still not certain what Hildrik’s plans are. We’ve managed to avoid a fight until now, bypassing the villages and campsites of the River Franks along the way. But the thousand Salians marching with us demand plunder and glory — and bloody vengeance for their king’s death, and Hildrik will have to grant it to them before we can turn towards Trever. Weldelf’s is the last clan left in our way. If we want to have a battle, it has to be here.
I’m hoping I can get some answers from him now — as Hildrik and Basina ride from the direction of Tolbiac.
“You were right,” says the new Rex of the Franks. “It will be a short fight. But I want it to be as brief and painless as possible. I need to preserve my men for more important battles. And we need to keep Hildebert from finding out about why we’re here. Any ideas?”
I wince and scratch the back of my head. “You want us to plan another subterfuge.”
“That would be for the best. Meet me in my hut later,” he says. We set up our camp at an abandoned farmstead, half a day’s march away from Tolbiac.
As they ride off, Basina gives me the knowing, impish smile she’s been giving me ever since the night before her wedding. My cheeks and ears burn as if branded with hot irons.
“He’s more like Aeric than any barbarian chieftain,” I say, staring into Basina’s back, receding into the distance. Every dot and blemish on that back is etched forever in my memory. “It’s all tricks and ruses with him. Most warlords would just use their numbers to wipe out Weldelf’s camp.”
“I can brew some henbane, if that helps,” offers Betula.
“You know how to brew henbane?”
“Of course,” she replies proudly. “I am the Gesith. The keeper of the secret. We found the herbs in the Charcoal Forest. Enough to make a barrel.”
“That’s… good to know,” I say. “But I don’t think we’ll need it tomorrow.”
“You already have something in mind?” she asks with a wry smile. “That’s so like your father.”
“We don’t have many options,” I reply. “It’s a flat, open land, with no place to make an ambush — and a city full of civilians in the middle…” I raise my finger. “I think I’ve got it.” I look to the sun and estimate we have some three, four hours until sundown, more than enough for a well-rested pony…
I turn back to Betula.
“You said you wanted to see Tolbiac — you may get your wish sooner than you expected.”
I don’t know the size of armies Hildrik used to command in his exile in Thuringia, but a thousand warriors is a mass far beyond his control. Fortunately for him, Meroweg knew how to select and train good officers; a Iute fyrd this size would just be a multitude of clans, each with its own chieftain at its head, moving more or less in the general direction of the enemy, before engaging them in a mess of individual skirmishes all over the battlefield. Not so for the Salians; Meroweg must have used his experience from accompanying the Roman armies at Maurica when he devised the way his army was divided, not into clans, but into cohorts, each commanded by one of his trusted generals.
One of those generals turns out to be our old friend, Ingomer; at my request, we are assigned to his cohort, which is supposed to charge together with Hildrik’s own unit in the centre. The dawn raid on Weldelf’s camp is not going to be an epic battle — we outnumber the River Franks at least five to one — but it will be the first, and possibly only, test of how well Hildrik can command his father’s army before we reach Trever.
At the break of dawn, we march out in silence and darkness. To our left, Hildrik leads the Salian Hiréd, his palace guards, and a hundred other warriors, all related to him — or rather, his father — by blood. This force alone would likely be enough to deal with Weldelf, especially if my ruse worked. To our right, vanishing into darkness, is a cohort led by Meroweg’s brother-in-law, Sigemer. I know nothing about this man, or his warriors; I can only hope the dead king did not choose him as general simply because of the blood ties. Of all of Meroweg’s commanders, Sigemer struck me as the most hot-headed — and the most gullible. He was the quickest to believe the story of the River Franks’ treachery, and it took considerable effort for Hildrik and his advisors to stop him from destroying every village and encampment we encountered as we travelled through Hildebert’s territory.
“If this was a proper battle, I’d be worried about having him on our flank,” says Ingomer, nodding towards Sigemer’s vanguard. “He cares little for strategy. I’d bet you a solid he will be the first to reach the enemy.”
“I wouldn’t take that bet,” I say. Sigemer’s men are already far ahead of us; they’re wasting their strength on this unnecessary race — we still have some way to go before Weldelf’s camp is in charging range.
“Yet there is a place even for men like him on a battlefield,” I note. “When Hannibal was at Cannae…”
“Who?” asks Ingomer.
“I’m sorry — a general from the ancient days of Rome —”
“I jest,” Ingomer says, laughing. He slaps me on the shoulder. “I’ve spent enough time among the walhas to have heard of all their old wars and heroes. Aetius had us all read Livy before Maurica… Or rather, have his slaves read it to us. I didn’t know Latin well enough yet back then.”
“You also fought at Maurica?”
“We were all there, boy… Every Frank who could carry a blade went to Maurica that year, to fight on one side or the other. So few returned…”
His eyes turn misty, and I remember that only a few nights ago, I helped this man’s nephew kill his brother… Ingomer’s reaction to the recent events was a mysterious one. He was away on some errand on the day of the assassination — and he has remained morosely silent on the matter since the funeral. If he suspected any foul play, he said nothing about it, seemingly content with Hildrik’s quick ascension to the vacant throne. Maybe he, too, secretly disagreed with the direction of Meroweg’s politics?
“Would you have led your cohort against Gaul, if so ordered?” I ask him.
He winces. “I would, but with no enthusiasm. Meroweg was my Rex. To defy his command would have been to defy the tribe itself. It was enough that I tried to talk with the walhas without his clear permission.”
“Talk? Is that what you were doing?”
“The news of my brother’s death reached me in Bagac, where I was trying to negotiate some kind of new settlement for the Franks south of the border, one that might placate Meroweg… But I doubt I would’ve managed it in time.”
“Your services may be needed again,” I say, “when Hildrik negotiates a deal with Aegidius.”
He chuckles. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ve got a war to win first.”
We reach the top of the ridge separating us from Weldelf’s camp. The sound of Hildrik’s war horn booms across
the pale-rose sky. Ingomer takes his own horn and repeats the call, echoed throughout the frontline to our left and right — and far out in front, where Sigemer’s cohort disappeared in the gloom. The Franks start into a run — and the Iutes trot before them. I take the lance out of the holster. The fires of the River Frank camp twinkle like stars on the plain before us… and like stars at dawn, they are going out, one by one.
“Sigemer must have reached them already,” I say.
We have reached halfway towards Weldelf’s camp when a warrior runs out of the gloom, screaming, flailing one arm — the other hangs limp at his side, spurting blood. Another one follows, makes a few staggering steps, then falls face-down in the grass.
“These are Sigemer’s men!” cries Ingomer. “Something’s gone wrong.”
I call for the Iutes to gather around me as we charge down the gentle slope. More of Sigemer’s warriors appear, running away from Weldelf’s camp. As we move closer, I can see more clearly now what’s happening. Sigemer’s cohort, having pushed deep into the enemy camp, got itself surrounded by the River Franks, and are now being slowly butchered.
“What happened to the plan?” asks Betula. “It’s as if they’re waiting for us!”
“Obviously, the ruse has failed,” I say grimly.
Hildrik’s horn sounds again. Six hundred Salian throats rise in a war cry and charge at the camp from all sides. I grind my teeth and lower the lance. “Skirt the edges of the camp, and kill anyone trying to get away,” I tell my Iutes. “You don’t want to get tangled in that,” I say, pointing at the slaughter in the middle with the tip of my blade.
“Ursula, Audulf, Seawine, Betula — with me!”
We form into what Betula calls “the boar’s head”, with a wedge of riders in the front and two tight fists of the Hiréd in the back. We thrust our way through the meagre defences to the centre of the camp. I glance once over my shoulder to see if Betula’s warriors are following the order; many of them seemed reluctant at first to heed someone they still only remembered as the cowardly, bookish boy, not worthy to be called a warrior, and did not believe the stories they heard about my adventures in Gaul. They still look to Betula first, to see if she agrees with my command.
Most of the River Franks get out of our way — mounted and bunched up together, armoured and armed with lances and swords, we are a more difficult target than the massed ranks of Hildrik’s footmen following in our wake, rushing into battle half-naked, waving spears, axes and long knives.
“Weldelf’s tent,” I point with the lance. A dozen River Frank guards form a tight line of shields and spears around the tent, not quite a wall — for there is no place for it — but enough to make us swerve aside and make place for Betula. Her Hiréd smash into the line. All their doubts perish in the face of the enemy. This is what they’ve been training for all their lives: a fierce battle against a tough opposition, not a bunch of forest bandits. Within moments, they make a break through and clear a gap several men wide. We turnabout for another charge before the gap closes in. Our ponies overturn the braziers and trample the campfires, and for a moment all is darkness and chaos.
Weldelf leaps out of nowhere with more guards — not from the tent, but from some hideout nearby I haven’t noticed before. He’s holding a great two-handed axe, of the sort Audulf is so fond of. I know what damage the weapon can do to a pony, and I’d rather not risk it; I ride up to him, holster the lance and dismount.
“You!” Weldelf gives me a confused look but doesn’t take his grip off the axe. He glances at Audulf and Ursula, still mounted at my sides. “I knew it. You never went to Coln.”
Around us, the overturned braziers and campfires set the tent cloths ablaze. Against this fiery background, Weldelf, with his great axe and long hair flowing in the wind, appears like a figure out of some legend.
“Give up, chieftain,” I say. I shield my eyes from the flames. “Or all of you will be slaughtered. Hildrik can’t let any of you survive to tell the tale of this battle.”
“Too late for that,” he scoffs. “I sent out riders to Hildebert long before your attack.”
“How did you know?”
“I saw right through that little scheme of Hildrik’s.”
“It was my scheme.”
He laughs. “Then you need to learn to plot better, youngling. I told you I wasn’t fond of hiding behind stone walls.”
He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in Tolbiac with his entire retinue, negotiating the handover of the town to the River Franks. That was the plan I agreed to with the Tolbiac magistrates the day before: an urgent, formal invitation to overnight talks.
It took some effort to convince the town’s officials to trust me, even after I showed them the Imperial seal — and even more to make them trust that Hildrik and his Salians were not just another warband of barbarians coming to conquer them. At the least, I hoped the invitation would have resulted in Weldelf’s clan not having a commander when we attacked. At best, there was a chance that their best warriors would get trapped behind Tolbiac’s gates until we destroyed their brethren outside.
Not only has none of this happened, it seems my ruse warned Weldelf of an approaching attack. I thought too little of him. I thought he was just a primitive barbarian warlord — and scores of Salian warriors have paid the price.
“Drop that axe then, Weldelf,” I say. My voice falters. The flames grow nearer; I can feel their heat on my face and hands. “Tell your men to surrender. If Hildebert knows about everything anyway, there’s no more point to this carnage. We will let you go free.”
“I am a Frank! Wuotan awaits me! I surrender to none!” He roars and charges at me. I try to leap back, but the flames bar my way. An arrow whizzes past my ear and strikes him on the shoulder. His arm jerks back, but he doesn’t stop. He steps forward again and raises the axe to strike. I glance to my sides — Ursula, still on horseback, is too close to make good use of the lance. Audulf drops his lance and struggles to draw the big axe from his back; he is too far to help me. Basina, who shot the arrow, is momentarily distracted by another enemy approaching her. It’s only me against Weldelf: a green boy against a battle-hardened clan chieftain.
I draw my sword just as Weldelf’s axe falls. The blade grinds against blade; the impact makes my arms shudder. The flames lick my back. Sweat turns the grip slippery. I step aside, letting Weldelf’s momentum propel him forward. He stops just before falling into the burning remains of a tent, recovers, and turns back. I spot a spear shaft on the ground, its tip in flames. I pick it up and wave it before me, keeping the chieftain at bay.
Another of Basina’s arrows hits him in the back. The fine mail shirt holds the arrowhead, but the impact is enough to push Weldelf towards me. I raise the spear shaft and stab his chest with the burning tip. He cries out in pain and anger. I hear the sizzling flesh even over the din of battle, and the sickening smell of burned meat reaches my nostrils. He grabs the spear and wrestles it out of my hand, then raises the axe to one last strike. Between his left hand, still holding on to the burning shaft, and his right, raised high over his head, I spot an opening.
“Aetheling!”
Betula leaps through the flame to my help, just as I thrust forth and skewer Weldelf with my spatha. The old Roman blade eats through Frankish mail as if it was cloth. Weldelf’s axe falls feebly on my head and bounces off my Legionnaire’s helmet.
“They’re all… using you… boy…” Weldelf says as he falls down.
I look up to see Basina notching a new arrow on her Hunnic bow. She nods at me with a grin and turns to find a new target. All around me, Weldelf’s men are getting massacred as the ring of Hildrik’s fyrd tightens on the centre of the camp. A few River Franks break through and try to run across the oat field; they’re soon caught by my Iutes and destroyed. One of the enemy warriors runs out from the brawl straight at me, growling, and waving a seax. Betula fells him with her throwing axe.
“Get back on that pony,” she says. “It’
s not yet safe here.”
“Wait,” I say. “There’s one more thing I need to do. Come help me.”
We storm into Weldelf’s tent before it’s engulfed by flames. To my relief, they’re still there, just as I remembered: the bearskins, strewn on the tent’s floor.
“Pick them up,” I say. “As much as you can carry.”
“What for?”
“No time to explain. Maybe it’s nothing — or maybe it’s the best idea I’ve yet had in this war.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAY OF FALCO
“This did not quite go to plan,” grunts Hildrik, looking at the pile of corpses heaped high over the River Franks’ camp. Most of them are Weldelf’s men, but there are at least fifty Salians among the dead; double that number is injured. For the second time in as many months, the priests and acolytes of Tolbiac have to take care of the Salian wounded.
A few new graves have been dug in the town’s cemetery, in the corner dedicated to the heathen dead. These will be the resting places for Sigemer and a couple of his noble clansmen, slain in the first charge on the enemy camp. There’s no space for the rest of our dead, and no time to bury them all. A thin layer of dirt and lime scattered over the mound of bodies must be all that will keep them from crows and wolves, at least until we return from Trever.
“I’m sorry you lost so many of your kin,” I say.
Hildrik scowls. “More plunder to share for the rest of us — and I still have enough men left to deal with Odowakr.”
“And Herr Sigemer?”
He lowers his voice. “This, I’m glad of. I never liked my uncle. With him alive, my mother could still wield some influence over the tribe. He insisted we march on Hildebert instead of Odowakr, and I feared he would eventually convince the others… And he was a terrible commander. The dead are his fault. Now I can put someone more suitable in charge of Camarac…”
“You sound almost as if you’re glad our plan failed.”
“Not at all.” He looks to the North, along the road to Coln. “Hildebert knows. That means we will have to look over our shoulder all the time. I will need to leave a substantial rear guard to slow him down.”
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 33
