“My husband’s warriors are the scourge of Gaul!” Basina protests. “I’m certain they’re better fighters than some backwater chieftain’s farm guards!”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“She wants to join our mission,” says Betula. “With some warriors she got from Hildrik.”
“Why? Shouldn’t you be by your husband’s side, at the frontline, where the real fighting is?”
“We both know the real fighting will be where you’re going,” she says. “I don’t want to take part in another ruse or feint. I want to be where the danger is.”
I sigh and scratch my forehead. I look to Betula — she seems adamant in her resistance. I don’t blame her. To accommodate Basina’s sudden request, we’d have to rethink the entire plan — and it’s complex enough already.
On the other hand… I miss Basina’s presence. We have barely spoken since her wedding with Hildrik. All through the march, she rode in front of the Frankish column, while our small Iutish contingent was relegated to guard the rear. Having her beside me even if for just the few miles doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. It might be the last time ever — if after Trever Hildrik and I part our ways…
“Our success depends on small numbers,” I say. “How many men have you got?”
“A dozen, no more.”
“I know where I could use a dozen men.”
“Fine.” Basina raises her hands. “As long as there’s chance for some glory.”
“Gather your warriors and meet us at the crossroad. We’re moving out shortly.”
Betula stares at me with an odd look as Basina walks away.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Are you sure you’re not just letting your cock make your decisions for you?”
“I hope not,” I reply.
“Do you really know how to use Basina and her Franks?”
“No, I don’t,” I admit. “I’m hoping I’ll figure something out by the time we get there.”
She chuckles. “I can see how hard it must be to refuse a woman like her. And why would you? The queen of the Franks would rather fight at your side than at her husband’s!”
“It’s only because of the plan…”
“The plan that you devised.”
“I also devised a plan to defeat Weldelf and look how that ended.”
“Not every plan will work. It’s also a lesson a leader must learn.” She shakes her head. “But I don’t think you need any more lessons in leadership. I wish I could’ve been here these past few months, to see what turned a child who ran naked from a flaming hut into a battle-hardened commander.”
I feel my face burn. “I’d rather you didn’t remind me of that… misadventure.”
“I assure you, nobody else will ever mention it again when you’re back home. You have nothing in common with that boy from Hrothwulf’s farm. Aeric will have to start sending more of our young to Frankia. This place changes people.”
“This place kills people,” I say. “I have lost six men since I first set out from Tornac. I buried friends. And today, if the fates turn against us, we can all end up in Wodan’s Hall. This is the only thing that concerns me right now.”
“It’s a warrior’s fate to face death each day,” Betula replies, and makes the sign of a cross — reminding me she’s a Christian and doesn’t believe in Wodan and his flying riders. “And it’s a commander’s duty to worry about his warriors.” She pats me on the shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Go back to your men and finish that speech.”
“How long do we have to wait?” Ursula whispers.
“I don’t know. Ask her,” I reply, nodding at Betula. “The idea may be mine, but the execution is all hers.”
There’s a relief, a compelling comfort — in being able to depend on someone as experienced as Betula for once. Now that she and the Hiréd are with us, I no longer need to be the one making all the decisions in battle. Ever since we left Tornac, I’ve been deferring to her in everything, from tactics to weapons maintenance. She might claim I’ve become a war chief, but to me, it feels like I’m once again the boy in training, back in Cantia, asking Hlaefdige Betula for advice on how to hold a spear or how to flank an enemy on a hill.
Ursula rolls her eyes. “You don’t need to hold on to her tunic all the time, you know,” she says. “You’ve achieved so much since we came to Gaul. You can decide for yourself.”
“Maybe I don’t want to,” I reply with a weak smile. “Besides, she’s much more experienced in these matters than I am — why not make use of this knowledge?”
“My knowledge tells me to be quiet,” Betula snaps from her hiding place. “The whole forest can hear your prattling.”
“I’m just wondering…” starts Ursula.
“Be patient. The battle is miles away. It would be suspicious for the bear-shirts to return so soon.” Betula looks up. It’s hard to see the sun through the dense canopy; the diffused light moves slowly over the thick layer of leaves. “Not long now,” she says. She reaches for the clay pot at her side, takes out the wooden stopper and hands it to us.
I reach inside and, fighting back nausea, plunge my fingers in the viscous, iron-smelling goo. In the pot is the congealed blood of the bullock sacrificed before the battle. I smear it all over my face and arms. Warmed up on contact with my body, the blood soon runs down my brow and eyes. The world turns bright red.
For many of the Iutes under my and Betula’s joint command, this ritual has a powerful, pious meaning; the way they treat the blood of the bullock reminds me of the Christians revering the blood of their desert God. But to me and Ursula, it is nothing more than a part of our disguise, hiding our true faces under the coating of bloody sludge.
Ursula finishes applying the morbid make-up and hands the jar over to the next Iute behind her. She scratches her shoulder, wincing.
“These bearskins stink,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Why would anyone wear them willingly?”
“We did pick them up from the floor of a tent,” I remind her. “If we had time, we could hunt for them, and boil them out — though I don’t know where in these woods we would find so many bears.”
“Couldn’t we have at least washed them?”
“Will you two shut up!” snarls Betula. I can barely see her now; hidden under the ferns, covered in blood and mud, she really looks like a bear, lying in wait for its prey. I should be worried that she, a battle-hardened veteran, is so anxious about the coming fight. But I have faced death too many times in these past few months and am too weary to feel anything but numbness. I wish this whole thing was over soon, so that we can all go back home.
Perhaps what makes her so anxious is the fact that our salvation lies in the hands of a band of warriors she’s not familiar with, and whom she doesn’t trust. Hiding deeper in the forest, with our ponies and a relief troop formed of her Franks and the few Iutes for whom there weren’t enough disguises, is Basina. A lot depends on her and her men, a lot more than I at first conceived, and I, too, am worried if they’re up to the task; I know how well Basina can fight — but I don’t know what sort of warriors Hildrik spared for her little adventure. After all, they are our only way back to safety — if any of us survives that long…
Several miles to our north, where the highway from Coln descends onto the river plain, the real battle should already be well on the way. A few hours ago we watched from our hideout as the Saxons departed from their camps to face Hildrik and his fyrd at the familiar narrowing of the road, before the Salians could spread their lines. It would be a bloody and difficult battle at the best of times. The two armies are well matched in size, considering Odowakr had to leave a substantial garrison in place to defend from a potential sally from Trever; but the Saxons have two distinct advantages: they’re defending from an attack in advantageous terrain and they didn’t just march a hundred miles through wooded hills. I trust Hildrik would find a way to eventually prevail over the war-weary Saxons, but it would cost him dearly if he insisted on brea
king through and destroying the enemy army through sheer force of arms. A victory here might mean a sound defeat later, if he indeed decides to continue the campaign in aid of the Roman army… Or even if he resolves to return and face the pursuing River Franks. He claimed to be aware of the danger when we parted — but is that enough? Can he hold his men back from throwing themselves on the Saxon spears? And if he does — can he keep the ruse up long enough for Odowakr not to suspect that the battle is nothing more than a costly diversion?
“Can you see Haesta anywhere?” I ask Betula. She looks down; our friend the woodsman led us to this place, a secret hideout from which we can clearly observe the entire fortified enclosure surrounding the siege machines. She studies it for a while and shakes her head.
“Isn’t this good news?” asks Ursula.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “I doubt he’d go fighting in the main battle. What’s left of his mercenaries would be of little use there as our riders. Keeping him in reserve would make much more sense.”
“Maybe he’s guarding the crossing, like last time.”
“Maybe.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him,” says Betula through clenched teeth, and I remember her long history with the rebel chieftain; she was there when his men killed my mother on the Isle of Wecta.
“We don’t have time to fight him today,” I remind her. “And we don’t even have the ponies.”
“I don’t need a pony to kill him,” she says. “But you’re right. We mustn’t get distracted.” She looks to the sky again. “We’ve waited long enough. Check your weapons.”
I slide the sword in and out of its sheath, tighten the strap around my ankle that holds a throwing knife in place, and thrust the small axe — another element of the disguise, rather than a weapon I’m planning to use — into my belt.
Betula does the same, then she reaches for the water skin at her side. She uncorks it, gives it a sniff and, satisfied, plugs it back again.
“Are you sure you’re not going to let me try it?” I ask one last time. “Even if I ordered you to?”
“Not unless things get really desperate,” she replies. “Without proper training, you’d only get in everyone’s way. Besides, your father would never forgive me — and that, I’m afraid, overrides any order of yours, aetheling.”
The guard — a lean Saxon spearman with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes — moves to stop us, but one look at my grim, blood-soaked face, hidden under the hood of a bear’s head, is enough to make him step away in silence. Just as I thought, the bear-shirts are as feared by their own men as by their enemies. For all the poor guard knows, the madness of the henbane and mushrooms might still be coursing in my veins and those of the men following me; one wrong move, and I could snap and tear him apart with my bare hands, just as I have, no doubt, torn apart the enemy warriors not long ago.
It makes sense for us to be the first to return from the battlefield; from what the captives told us — and from what Ursula and Audulf saw when they took part in the fighting around Trever — the bear-shirts were used by Odowakr as assault troops, breaking through the enemy’s shield walls and wreaking havoc behind the lines, until, bloodied, exhausted and confused by the effects of their poisonous brew, they would be pulled back to rest, replaced with regulars pouring through the gaps they made.
The men we pass move out of our way and raise quiet cheers at our sight. There’s no point asking us how the battle is going; that “we” still live means Odowakr’s army is still fighting strong, but as the first line of attack we wouldn’t know anything beyond our own role in the greater strategy.
We reach the siege engine enclosure undisturbed. One of the two men at the gate is not a Saxon — he looks Hunnish. There’s no fear in his almond-shaped eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a harsh accent. “This is no place for you, adiglek. Only engineers and the crew are allowed.”
I hold back retching. The bearskins may stink badly enough from the outside, but inside the hollowed-out skull that forms the hood of the garment the stench is unbearable. “Out of my way, Easterling,” I grunt. I try to push him away, but he grabs my hand. His other hand reaches for the axe at his waist.
“I don’t know you, or what you —” he starts.
With an ear-piercing shriek, Betula runs past me and throws herself at the Hun. Doing her best imitation of the henbane madness, she throws him to the ground and starts clawing at his face with her one hand. I draw my small axe and point it at the other guard, while two of Betula’s men move to “drag her” from the Hun — but not before she slits his throat with a hidden dagger. By the time they lift her up, it looks like she tore the man’s throat with her fingernails.
“Odowakr’s orders,” I tell the terrified second guard. “We’re to replace you all — and you’re supposed to take our place in battle.”
The guard stares at his companion, gurgling and thrashing at his feet, and nods.
“Go get the others,” I urge him. “Make haste.”
He nods again and runs off, leaving us free to enter the compound beyond the stockade. I cross the threshold of the gate and take in the view. The three machines are still firing missiles — just because there’s a battle going on a few miles away, doesn’t mean the siege is paused. There’s a crew of ten working at each engine, a dozen guards, and a few more men serving the others with food and water. Altogether maybe some fifty men to our twenty — but only a few are true warriors.
“The ones in fur caps must be engineers,” I say, pointing out the three men under heavy guard ordering the engine crews around. “Don’t take them too lightly — they know how to fight. If we get them, the Saxons will never be able to rebuild the machines.”
Betula nods. She barks orders at her warriors, and they scatter throughout the compound, seeking targets.
“Audulf, Seawine.” I turn to the men remaining with me and point to the nearest machine: the catapult shooting the great stone balls. “Have fun with this one. Ursula, and the rest, with me.”
Audulf grins and reaches for the great axe on his back. We split into two groups. I lead mine to the third siege engine, launching the flaming missiles; I leave the ballista for last — the bolts may be a menace to Trever’s soldiers, but they can’t threaten the walls like the other two.
We roar and howl wildly to make ourselves appear stricken with the blood rage. The guards notice something’s amiss but are not yet certain how to react to the strange behaviour of their best, if erratic, warriors — until Ursula pierces the first one with her sword. We dispatch four of them before they manage to even realise what’s happening. The fifth one makes a brave stand, but he shakes so much in fear of the dreaded bear-shirts that I strike the axe out of his hand and cut him across the chest with little effort.
The crew of the machine flees before us, even though they outnumber us easily. Ursula and the others want to pursue, but I stop them:
“There’s no time. They’re no warriors — not worth blunting the blade.”
I cut through the ropes on the machine. The spoke flies one last time; its load lands harmlessly in the river. I grab the next prepared missile, a heavy basket of burning matter, and drag it onto the engine’s frame, covering it in flaming pitch and oil. I pick up a barrel of pitch and pour it onto the flames. The machine takes a moment to catch ablaze, even as Ursula and I throw more fuel, until suddenly one of the narrow crossbeams snaps, cracks open and showers me and everything around me in sparks.
I take no notice of the heat, just throw off the bearskin, now covered in burning embers, and continue to pour oil and pitch on the machine until all containers around me are empty. A couple of Iutes come at the engine with axes, hacking away where the fires let them, while Ursula and I turn to face the approaching guards.
There aren’t any; while I struggled to destroy the machine, Betula and the Hiréd have killed most of the warriors and put the rest to flight. The surprise is total, and the slaughter in the enclosure
is nearly complete. Audulf and Seawine stand by the remains of the first machine — using the knowledge we gained from studying the plans of the machines, they knew just which beams and ropes to cut through to render the flying arm silent forever. I notice the third machine, the ballista, is aimed straight at them, with the bolt still in its bed — but the brave crew who tried to make their last stand around the machine is no more, and the ballista’s ropes hang limp and impotent.
At the far end of the enclosure, the Hiréd are fighting their way through the last of the guards, to get at the three engineers cowering behind a sparse wall of shields. The Saxons are trapped in the corner of the stockade, but refuse to surrender, still hoping to be rescued. Their hopes are not all futile — there are at least a hundred men in the camp outside; but we’ve managed to deal with the enemy inside so fast they’re all likely still confused about what’s truly going on. The last thing anyone outside the stockade saw was twenty bear-shirts, marching inside on Odowakr’s orders. Even if some of the crewmen escaped, their story must not be making much sense — and who would want to face twenty fierce, mushroom-maddened warriors in the tight space of the enclosure?
“They’ll be waiting for us outside,” I say to Ursula. “Go tell Audulf and Seawine to prepare for a breakout.”
I take the couple of Iutes who helped us destroy the catapult and help Betula clear out the remaining guards in the corner. I glance at the Hiréd — a few are gravely wounded, but it looks like we haven’t lost a single man in the assault.
“One of them decided to take a stand,” says Betula, pointing at a body in a fur hat, lying at her feet. “The other two surrendered. What do you want with them?”
“We don’t have time for prisoners,” I say. We may have been quicker to subdue the enclosure than I expected, but the siege engines have been silent for almost half an hour, and by now Odowakr’s men outside must have realised something’s gone terribly wrong. “I fear —”
A cry, a sudden tumult and a clash of blades turn my attention back towards the gate. The wings burst open. A rider, in masked helmet, mounting a Thuringian war steed, thrusts his way through Seawine and his men, and tramples over Audulf, followed by four more horsemen, the tips of their lances already red with blood. Behind them, warriors on foot pour through the gate. I spot a few Alemann axemen in the crowd of Saxons, and other units I don’t recognise.
The Blood of the Iutes: The Song of Octa Book 1 (The Song of Britain 4) Page 35
