Sword of Kings (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 12)

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘God is our shield!’ Father Oda had come inside our half-circle of men and was now standing on the steps leading to the ramparts. ‘We must prevail!’ he shouted hoarsely, and he needed to shout because the West Saxons were very near now. A horseman was leading them across our front, driving the East Anglians still further away.

  I gazed at our enemy. Good troops, I thought. Their mail, their helmets, and their weapons looked well maintained. ‘Æthelhelm’s household warriors?’ I muttered to Finan.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he said. It was too hot for men to wear Æthelhelm’s red cloaks, and besides a cloak is an encumbrance in battle, but all the shields were painted with the leaping stag. They stopped forty paces away, too far for a spear’s throw, turned towards us, and began beating swords against their shields. ‘Four hundred of them?’ Finan suggested, but they were just the beginning because still more men came to beat their blades on shields, some painted with the stag and others with the badges of West Saxon noblemen. This was the army of Wessex, forged by Alfred to fight the Danes and now arrayed against their fellow Saxons, and all led by the men on horseback who, under their gaudy banners, rode to confront us.

  Æthelhelm, wearing a red cloak despite the heat, sat on a magnificent bay stallion. His mail had been cleaned and polished, and on his chest was a cross of gold. His face was hidden by the gold-encrusted cheek-pieces of his helmet, which was crested with a golden stag. The hilt of his sword glittered with gold, his stallion’s bridle and girth were decorated with small golden plates, and even his stirrups had golden decorations. His eyes were shadowed by his lavish helmet, but I did not doubt he was looking at us with contempt. On Æthelhelm’s right, mounted on a tall grey stallion and draped in a white cloak edged with red, was his nephew Ælfweard, who alone among the horsemen wore no helmet. He had a vacant, slack-mouthed moon face that now showed excitement. The boy could not wait to see us slaughtered and doubtless expected to help kill whichever of us survived the coming onslaught, but his lack of a helmet suggested his uncle wanted the boy to take no part in the fighting. He had a coat of shining mail and a long scabbard criss-crossed with golden strips, but what caught the eye was what he wore in place of a helmet. He was wearing King Alfred’s crown, the golden crown studded with the emeralds of Wessex.

  Two priests mounted on geldings and six spearmen on stallions waited behind Æthelhelm. The spearmen were plainly guarding Ælfweard and his uncle, as was the horseman whose tall stallion stood to Æthelhelm’s left, a horseman who looked too big for his horse. It was Waormund, a looming and baleful figure who, in contrast to the other horsemen, was shabby. His mail was dull, his stag-painted shield was deeply scored by blades, and his battered helmet had no cheek-pieces. He was grinning. This was Waormund’s delight. He had an enemy shield wall to break and men to kill and, as if he could not wait for the slaughter to begin, he swung himself out of the saddle, looked at us derisively, and spat.

  Then he drew his sword. He drew Serpent-Breath. He drew my sword, the whorls on her steel blade reflecting a lance of sunlight to dazzle me. He spat towards us a second time, then turned and swept Serpent-Breath up in a salute to Ælfweard. ‘Lord King!’ he bellowed.

  It seemed to me that Ælfweard giggled in reply. He was certainly laughing as his troops all shouted the same words, ‘Lord King! Lord King!’ They chanted it, still beating their swords against their shields until Æthelhelm held up a leather-gloved hand to silence them and kicked his stallion forward.

  ‘He doesn’t know you’re here,’ Finan muttered to me. He meant Waormund. My cheek-pieces were open, but I was holding the shield high, half obscuring my face.

  ‘He’ll find out,’ I said grimly.

  ‘But I fight him,’ Finan insisted, ‘not you.’

  ‘Men of Mercia!’ Æthelhelm shouted, then waited for silence. I saw him glance up to the western walls and gaze intently for an instant, and I realised he was watching for a signal that Æthelstan’s forces were coming. He looked back to us, betraying no alarm. ‘Men of Mercia!’ he called again, then beckoned for a standard-bearer to come forward. The man waved his flag slowly, the new flag on which the stag of Æthelhelm dominated the dragon of Wessex.

  Æthelhelm has loosened the gold-chased cheek-pieces of his helmet so that men could see his narrow face; a handsome face, long and commanding, clean shaven and with deep-set brown eyes. He pointed to the flag. ‘That flag,’ he called, ‘is the new flag of Englaland! It is our flag! Your flag and my flag, the flag of one country under one king!’

  ‘King Æthelstan!’ a man shouted from our ranks.

  Æthelhelm ignored the shout. I saw him glance again to the walls, then look back to us unperturbed. ‘One country!’ he said, his voice easily carrying to the men on the ramparts. ‘It will be our country! Yours and mine! We are not enemies! The enemy are the pagans, and where are the pagans? Where do the hated Northmen rule? In Northumbria! Join me and I promise that every man here will share in the wealth of that heathen country. You will have land! You will have silver! You will have women!’

  Ælfweard grinned at that and said something to Waormund, who gave a bark of laughter. He still held Serpent-Breath. ‘Your king,’ Æthelhelm pointed to his grinning nephew, ‘is King of Wessex, King of East Anglia, and he offers you pardon, mercy and forgiveness. He offers you life!’ Again a quick glance at the far walls. ‘Together,’ Æthelhelm went on, ‘we will make one country of all the Saxons!’

  ‘Of all Christians!’ Father Oda called. Æthelhelm looked at the priest and must have recognised him as the man who had fled his service in disgust, but he betrayed no annoyance, just smiled. ‘Father Oda is right,’ he shouted, ‘we will make a country for all Christian men! And Northumbria is the land of Guthfrith the Pagan and together we shall take his land, and you, the men of Mercia, will be given their steadings, their woodlands, their flocks, their herds, their young women, and their pastures!’

  Guthfrith? Guthfrith! I stared at Æthelhelm in a daze. Guthfrith was Sigtryggr’s brother, and if he was indeed king, then Sigtryggr, my ally, was dead. And if he was dead and if it was the plague that had killed him, then who else had died in Eoferwic? Sigtryggr’s heir was my grandson who was too young to rule, but Guthfrith had taken the throne? ‘Lord,’ Finan muttered, nudging me with his sword arm.

  ‘Fight me here,’ Æthelhelm called, ‘and you fight against God’s anointed king! You fight for a bastard, born to a whore! But drop your shields and sheathe your swords and I will grant you the land of our real enemy, the enemy of all Christian Englaland! I will give you Northumbria!’ He paused, there was silence, and I realised that Rumwald’s men were listening, and that they were almost persuaded that the lies Æthelhelm told were the truth. ‘I will give you wealth!’ Æthelhelm promised. ‘I will give you the land of Northumbria!’

  ‘It’s not yours to give,’ I snarled. ‘You faithless bastard, you earsling, you son of a poxed whore, you piece of slug shit, you liar!’ Finan tried to restrain me, but I shook him off and stepped forward. ‘You are slime from a cesspit,’ I spat at Æthelhelm, ‘and I will give your lands, all of them, to the men of Mercia!’

  He stared at me. Ælfweard stared and Waormund stared and slowly it dawned on all three that, dishevelled as I was, I was their enemy. And for a heartbeat I swear I saw fear on Æthelhelm’s face. It came and it went, but he did edge his horse backwards. He said nothing.

  ‘I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg!’ I was talking to the West Saxons shield wall now. ‘Many of you have fought under my banner. We fought for Alfred, for Edward, for Wessex, and now you would die for that piece of weasel shit!’ I pointed Wasp-Sting at Ælfweard.

  ‘Kill him!’ Ælfweard squealed.

  ‘Lord?’ Waormund growled to his master.

  ‘Kill him,’ Æthelhelm snapped.

  I was full of anger. Guthfrith ruled? Grief was thick inside me, threatening to overwhelm me, but I was angry too. Angry that Æthelhelm should think to give away my land, that his filthy nephew would be king of B
ebbanburg’s fields. I just wanted to kill.

  But Waormund wanted to kill too, and he was the bigger man, and I remembered his speed in a fight. He was skilled too, as skilled as any man with a sword, a spear, or an axe. He was younger, he was taller, he outreached me, and he was probably faster. I might have matched him for speed if my body had not been racked by his horse dragging me across fields, but I was sore, I ached, and I was weary.

  But I was also angry. It was a cold anger holding grief at bay, an anger that wanted to destroy both Waormund and his reputation that had been made at my expense. He was walking slowly towards me, his heavy boots crunching the gravel of the road leading to the gate, his scarred face grinning. He carried no shield, just my sword.

  I let my shield drop to the road, put Wasp-Sting into my left hand and drew the borrowed sword with my right. Finan made one last effort to stop me, coming towards me with an outstretched arm.

  ‘Step back, Irish scum,’ Waormund growled, ‘you’re next.’

  ‘My fight,’ I told Finan.

  ‘Lord …’

  ‘My fight,’ I said again, louder.

  It occurred to me as I walked slowly towards my enemy that Æthelhelm had made a mistake. Why had he waited? Why had he not tried to overwhelm us and close the gates? And by letting Waormund fight me he gave Æthelstan more time to reach us. Or perhaps Æthelhelm knew more than I did, that the men he had sent to the western gates were already fighting the Mercian army beyond the walls, and that Æthelstan was too busy to come. I saw Æthelhelm look again to the walls, but again he showed no alarm. ‘Kill him, Waormund!’ he called.

  ‘Cripple him!’ Ælfweard commanded in a high voice. ‘I must kill him! Just cripple him for me!’

  Waormund had stopped. He beckoned me with his left hand. ‘Come!’ he crooned as if I were a child. ‘Come and be crippled.’

  So I stopped and stood still. If Æthelstan was to come then I must give him as much time as I could. And so I waited. Sweat stung my eyes. The helmet was hot. I hurt.

  ‘Frightened?’ Waormund asked, then laughed. ‘He’s frightened of me!’ He had turned and was shouting to the West Saxons behind Æthelhelm. ‘That’s Uhtred of Bebbanburg! And I’ve already beaten him once! Dragged him naked at my horse’s arse! And this is his sword!’ he held Serpent-Breath high. ‘It’s a good sword.’ He turned his dull, cruel, animal eyes to look at me. ‘You don’t deserve this blade,’ he snarled, ‘you gutless turd.’

  ‘Kill him!’ Æthelhelm called.

  ‘Cripple him!’ Ælfweard demanded in his shrill voice.

  ‘Come, old man,’ Waormund again beckoned me, ‘come!’

  Men watched. I did not move. I held my sword low. She did not have a name. Sweat ran down my face. Waormund charged.

  He charged suddenly and, for a big man, he was quick. He held Serpent-Breath in his right hand, his left hand empty. He wanted the fight to be over swiftly and I was not making it easy by standing still, and so he had decided to charge me, to swing Serpent-Breath in one mighty blow to batter down my parry and then hit me with his full weight so that I would be thrown to the ground where he could disarm me, then give me to Ælfweard’s mercy. So do the unexpected, I told myself, and took a half step to my right, which he did expect, then hurled myself straight at him. I hit him with my left shoulder and the pain was sudden and fierce. I had hoped Wasp-Sting would pierce his mail, but he moved into me at the very last instant and her lunge slid past his waist as we collided and I smelled the ale on his breath and the stink of the sweat-soaked leather under his mail coat. It was like throwing my weight against a bullock, but I had been expecting the impact and was ready for it, Waormund was not. He staggered slightly, but still kept his footing then turned fast with Serpent-Breath swinging. I parried her with Wasp-Sting, saw his left hand reaching for me, but he was still off balance and I stepped away before he could grasp me. I turned to lunge with the borrowed sword, but he was too quick and had backed away.

  ‘Hurry!’ Æthelhelm called. He must have realised that this fight was wasting time, time he might not have, but he also knew that my death would dispirit the Mercians and make them easier to slaughter, so he would let Waormund finish me. ‘Get it done, man!’ he added irritably.

  ‘Piece of northern shit,’ Waormund said, then sneered, ‘they’re all dead in the north! You will be soon.’ He took a half step towards me, Serpent-Breath raised, but I did not move. I had been watching his eyes and knew it was a feint. He stepped back. ‘Good sword this,’ he said, ‘better than a turd like you deserves.’ Then he came for me again, for real this time, lunging Serpent-Breath and again hoping to knock me off my feet with his weight, but I used my long-sword to throw Serpent-Breath off to my right and stepped left. He back-swung the blade as he turned towards me, I parried with my sword and felt the jolt of steel on steel, then I stepped to the right, still close to him, stepping into his sword arm, and I kept moving, and as I moved I stabbed Wasp-Sting at his belly.

  I knew at that moment I was making a mistake, that he had fooled me, that I was doing just what he wanted. I suddenly remembered the fight on the terrace above the Temes and how he had gripped my mail coat. That was how he fought. He wanted me close so he could grab hold of me and shake me as a terrier shakes a rat. He wanted me close where his height, weight and strength could overwhelm me, and now I was very close. I was passing him, still going to my right, and I saw his left hand reaching for me and I almost pulled away, but the thought was too late, I was committed and so I thrust the seax. I ignored the fiery pain in my left shoulder and I just rammed Wasp-Sting as hard as I could. It hurt, that thrust, it hurt terribly. The effort to drive Wasp-Sting deep made me gasp aloud, but I kept thrusting her, ignoring the pain.

  Waormund had been reaching to grip one of my cheek-pieces, but Wasp-Sting was quicker. She pierced mail and leather. She broke through thick muscle. She buried half her length in his gut, and his reaching hand fell away as he turned quickly, grimacing, so quickly that he tore Wasp-Sting’s hilt from my hand so that she stayed in his belly, blood just showing in the links she had pierced. I backed away. ‘You’re slow,’ I said, the first words I had spoken to him.

  ‘Bastard,’ he spat and, ignoring the seax in his gut, came for me again. He was angry now. He had been contemptuous before, but now he was nothing but fury, hacking Serpent-Breath in savage short strokes, her blade ringing on my blade as he forced me to retreat by the sheer weight of the blows. But his anger was hot, it made him unthinking, and the blows, though brutally hard, were easy enough to parry. I taunted him. Called him a beef-witted piece of shit, said his mother had shat him instead of giving birth, that through all Britain men called him Æthelhelm’s arse-licker. ‘You’re dying, you maggot,’ I mocked him, ‘that blade in your belly is killing you!’ He knew that was probably true. I have seen men recover from ghastly wounds, but rarely from a gut stroke. ‘It will be a slow painful death,’ I told him, ‘and men will remember me as the man who killed Æthelhelm’s arse-licker.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Waormund was almost crying in his fury. He knew he was probably doomed, but at least he could kill me first and so salvage his reputation. He swung again and I parried Serpent-Breath and felt the force of the blow shudder up my arm. Serpent-Breath had shattered many a blade, but by a miracle my borrowed sword had not broken from any of his blows. He lunged fast, I twisted away, almost tripped on a loose stone, and Waormund was bellowing now, half rage and half pain. Wasp-Sting was deep in his entrails, she had ripped them open, and the blood at his belly was welling through the mail to drip on the road. He tried to pull her free, but the flesh had closed on her blade, gripping it, and his attempt only hurt him, and he left her there, lunged again, but slower, and I knocked his thrust aside and lunged in turn, aiming for his face, then dropping my blade to strike Wasp-Sting’s hilt. That hurt him, I saw it in his eyes. He swayed back, stumbled, and then found a new fury and a new energy. He attacked frantically, driving me back with swing after massive swing, grunting with
each huge effort. I parried some blows, stepped away from others, content now to let Wasp-Sting kill him slowly and so buy us time. Waormund was weakening, but his strength was prodigious and I was being forced back towards Rumwald’s shield wall. The Mercians had cheered when they saw me stab Wasp-Sting into Waormund’s gut, but now they were silent, awed by the sight of the giant warrior, a sword-hilt sticking from his belly, attacking with such demented anger. He was in pain, he was slowing, but still he tried to hack me down.

  Then a horn sounded to the west. An urgent horn. It was being blown from the ramparts, and the sound half checked Waormund. ‘Now!’ Æthelhelm bellowed. ‘Now!

  He was telling his shield wall to advance, telling them to kill us, telling them to close the gate.

  But Waormund had momentarily turned at the sound of his master’s voice and my borrowed sword, with its edges nicked by the violence of Serpent-Breath’s attacks, slid through his tangled beard and into his throat. Blood jetted into the hot air. He looked back to me, all strength gone, and for a heartbeat he just stared at me in apparent disbelief. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but blood spilled from his lips and then, oddly slowly, he fell to his knees on the dusty gravel that was soaked with his blood. He still looked at me, only now it seemed he was begging for pity, but I had no pity. I struck Wasp-Sting’s hilt again and Waormund whimpered, and then fell sideways.

  ‘Kill them all!’ Æthelhelm bellowed.

  I just had time to drop the blood-tipped borrowed sword, stoop and prise Serpent-Breath from Waormund’s weakening fingers. Then I ran, or at least stumbled, back to the shield wall where Finan handed me my fallen shield. The drums began to beat again. The horn still sounded its urgent warning. And the warriors of Wessex were coming to kill us.