Sidroc pulled his spear out, the slight sucking sound of its withdrawal silenced as soon he stepped back. Yrling had said something to him, something in approval, but was already gone. He himself looked about, turning back to the work yard they had invaded. Toki had chased a man across the sheep pasture and Sidroc saw his cousin’s spear extend and pierce the man’s back as he neared him. Asberg, screaming out his two-pitched yell, had flung his own spear at another as he fled, downing him.
Jari and Une were together, the two giant brothers fearsome as they faced three men, each of whom clutched spears. Once again the farmers lacked shields or any protective kit. As the brothers moved in behind their own shields, spears bristling forward, one of the three they faced turned his back and ran. A thundering laugh issued from Une, and he and Jari jumped forward. The remaining two broke and ran, making also for the line of trees, ever-darkening as the Sun dropped behind it. They let them go, following those women and children who had already fled thus, and set to work rifling the place for food.
That night Sidroc felt different. As they had after every raid, they made a new camp, this one found by retreating to the coast and taking shelter at the river’s mouth. Hours had passed since the attack, but the churning energy which had arisen in his belly was taking long to subside. Yrling had said nothing to him about the kill, nor had Sidroc spoken of it. But looking on the embers of their cooking fire recalled him to the dark gleam of the dying man’s eyes. He turned his gaze down to see his right hand closed of itself around an invisible spear shaft.
His arm and shoulder still felt the tenseness of his killing thrust, and something more than the man’s ribcage splitting under the point. There was a taste in his mouth, one akin to metal, which made him almost think he had gritted his teeth so that he had bit his own tongue; but it was not that. This taste rose from his belly, which was still tight and cold, despite the warm food he had just eaten.
It was battle-sickness, the aftermath of violence seen and done. And he was still unused to the sheer surprise of it, of seeing how men went down, how men died, how blood spurted from hacked limbs, and now the surprise at what he could do.
They were off the next morning, a dull one, sailing up the coast. A light rain was beginning to spatter the decks of the ships when they sighted a palisade wall of upright timbers not far from the water’s edge. The wall and what it enclosed lay on a narrow and projecting spit of land, upon which beat an active surf. The paling was not much above man-height, and the wooden roofs of three or four small buildings could be seen behind. If it was a coast-guard, a fort this size could not house more than a score of men, perhaps less. The guards so stationed were there to defend against warriors from others of these Saxon Kingdoms, and from Danish raiders just like themselves.
A horn began sounding from within. They thought they had been spotted, but then over the narrowing distance of water they heard loud and active war cries. A watchman seeing them would sound the alarm, but the battle yells puzzled them. As they rounded the spit they understood.
At the gates of the palisade wall a knot of men had gathered, charging at the upright planks of the doors with a felled tree trunk. This battering ram was thicker than any man’s two hands could encircle, yet not so bulky that the eight or ten who wielded it could not run it with considerable force at the faltering door. Others of the invaders stood back, armed with bows, releasing a flurry of arrows at those defenders who hazarded taking a shot at the battering crew from the parapet walk behind the walls.
None within Yrling’s ships failed to recognise their brethren.
Yrling, at the steering oar of Death-day, made swift decision. The Danes attacking at the gate were no more than twenty men. He had nearly fifty. They would beach and swarm ashore. Whether they would join the attackers or overtake and put them to the sword he did not care. All he saw was a fitting target, its gates already being breached. He would make good on their dauntless act, turn to his own advantage the efforts they made.
He called out to his men from where he stood at the steering oar. “Odin smiles,” he assured them with a grin, and jerked his thumb behind him to the carving of the one-eyed God. “Our brothers open the door. Let us walk in before them!” The answering cries were loud and eager, and the two ships, propelled by the pounding surf, made for shore. Spears were pulled from where they lay ready in the brackets against the hulls.
Arrows from the parapets had found their marks in two of the number handling the battering ram, and two of the Danish archers had run to make up the company hammering at the gates. With less cover a third man was hit and went down. Yrling’s ships were grounding on the shingle beach when the gate gave way. He and his men were armed and now ready to leap down into the shallow water and attack.
Death-day and Yellow-sail were nearly side by side. Sidroc was upon Death-day, and jumped from her canted hull. He landed in calf-deep water washing over the hard and shifting pebbles of the beach. His spear was in his right hand, his shield still slung on his back, the better for balance as he leapt down. He saw Jari almost fall as he hit the shingle, then recover with a grunt as he straightened. Yrling was somewhere behind them, and he could see Toki’s long yellow hair ahead, flanked by Gap and Bue. The sounds of splashing water, of the breathing of men jumping and running, filled Sidroc’s ears.
They all ran, an onrushing stream of men, towards the opening gates of the fort.
An issue of men had stormed from those gates, men helmeted and wearing ring-tunics. The first rank held long spears, aimed at the attackers from behind their round shields. The second rank of defenders held shields and swords.
So here at last they met true warriors, those called thegns in the tongue of the Saxons. These were the men of the local war-lord, or mayhap even those of the King of Lindisse, set here to guard the coast. They were bearing good arms, as well as protective gear any of Yrling’s men would covet. And being rich, there might be silver at their necks and wrists.
As they neared the palisade the bright and unmistakable clash of metal ringing upon metal washed over Sidroc. Louder than this clanging were the oaths of struggling warriors, and the screams of those who had been hit. The horn was still sounding, a keening alarm over all. Sidroc knew he was running but scarcely felt his feet.
He had killed for the first time the day before, and was not yet settled in himself. Taking that life had changed him; his blood running hot and cold in his veins in the hours since. Yet he knew now how readily he could be pushed. He could kill the farmer with the scythe, and all like him, because in their outrage they were trying to kill him. Yet he had used a spear to kill a man with a thresher.
This was different, different and better. A thrill of excitement shot through him. These men before him were not farmers protecting homes and families, but warriors from the hall of some war-lord, or King. This is what he had come for, to face these men, who were trained and ready to fight. To prove that he could be their match.
His war kit did not come close to theirs. He had his good spear, and a shield he had formed himself and in which he trusted. At his waist was the knife he had bought in Ribe. Then there was his new sword, one from a practiced warrior who had been felled through treachery by his uncle. It had not tasted blood while in Sidroc’s hand.
For protection he had a tunic of leather. And strapped just above his left ankle, his boyhood knife hidden there, for surprise.
He lacked helmet and ring-shirt; these Saxon warriors wore both. They might protect the body and head from glancing blows, and one day soon he would own them, but just now it mattered not. He had his young body, his height, his speed.
He felt a surge in his breast, a warmth shooting up from his still-cold belly, spreading upward like a licking flame. Was it his fylgja, his guardian spirit, making herself known to him again, or his luck-spirit, his hamingja, urging him on, assuring him of victory? He felt almost twinned, with this new energy within him.
A movement at the tail of his eye made
him turn his head. He found Jari near, and looked to him. Jari’s jaw was clenched but his eyes carried the glint that Sidroc thought must be in his own. Their eyes met. With a nod they agreed, Já, they were ready. And they were nearly upon their target. Even if they must fight through these strange Danes they would win through to battle the Saxons.
As Yrling’s men neared those fighting they fanned out, three men deep, to half surround the contest. The Saxons, facing them, gave voice in yelping protest, causing several of the Danes to turn their heads to see what came up behind them. The distraction caused some of the attackers their lives, as the thegns sprang forward, and spears found home in Danish flesh.
Yrling was now in the foremost rank of his men, forging on, Une and Bjarne at one side, his nephews and Jari on the other. The first man, Dane or Saxon to turn on him he would fight. He leapt over the fallen body of one of the attacking Danes and found himself face to face with a Saxon thegn, wielding a sword. Yrling’s onrushing spear point collided with the man’s shield, knocking it away from his torso. Yrling uttered one word, crying out the name of his ship, Dauðadagr, Death-day. A moment later that spear sunk into the thegn’s breast, splitting the heavy ring-tunic, puncturing the handsome leathern one beneath.
The choice had been made. Yrling would go for the Saxons first, knowing the Danes arrested in their attack saw his choice.
It was a fevered and disordered struggle before the gates, bloody and confused. The Saxons had rushed out at a dwindling foe, only to find their numbers more than doubled from the two beached dragon ships. The Danes who had begun the attack were just as startled. Engulfed as they were between the thegns and the new arrivals, some stood motionless for a moment, unsure of who to fight. Yrling’s act of beating into the front rank of the Saxons and killing the first one sealed their decision.
The rain had continued, growing from a light spatter of large drops to a finer but much steadier fall. The bare and trampled ground before the gates was slick and growing more so; the discarded battering ram tripped one man, and others slipped in the mud. But Yrling now had more than sixty men at his back, and they swept into the work yard of the small keep. The brazen horn, blowing all this time, at last fell silent.
The garrison did not yield easily. More warriors awaited them within, and archers still upon the ramparts of the palisade did what they could to pick off the invaders. Within the walls lay the hazards posed by buildings, animal pens, and low fences, and the challenge of fighting in the tight quarters between them. The Danish archers took aim at their Saxon counterparts, while warriors with spears and swords faced off by twos and threes. Crowded as it was, a few thegns on horseback, appearing from behind the largest of the timber buildings, spurred their whinnying mounts through the clusters of men fighting. They galloped out the broken gates, their horses hurtling over the sprawling bodies lying there.
Their flight had parted Sidroc from Jari, and from his uncle too. Yet the man he was facing gave ground steadily before him. The Saxon held sword and shield, and Sidroc with his spear was troubling the man, jabbing and ducking, using his speed and agility to drive him back. The Saxon’s only hope was to land a solid blow against the spear shaft, severing the head of it, but Sidroc kept the spear always in play. The Saxon edged his way between two small buildings, store houses of some sort, with Sidroc goading him on. Halfway down their length the Saxon turned and fled, vanishing around the gable end of one. Sidroc leapt after. He came almost face to face with another Saxon warrior.
If Sidroc had not raised the point of his spear as he neared the end of the shed, it would have driven into the man’s right shoulder. As it was the Saxon saw the point early enough to fling the shield covering his torso up, forcing the spear higher into the air. He let out with a sound like Ha!, and met Sidroc’s eyes with a glare.
The man was of some five-and-thirty years, well-knit, with a breadth of shoulder conveying the strength in his arms. Glinting eyes shown through the eye holes in his helmet, and the lines about those eyes suggested he had stared down Death more than once. His face was creased by rough weather and years of hard fighting. Behind his shield lay his ring-tunic, a few mashed places in the links testifying to blows received and survived. The sword he held in his right hand was aimed at Sidroc.
With that sword foremost the Saxon jumped at him, forcing him back between the two sheds.
Sidroc had one instant to decide. In these tight quarters he did not think he could bring his spear to bear against such an opponent. This man was battle-hardened, and likely possessed cunning to match.
He let fall the spear from his hand and opened his shield enough to allow his reaching hand to pull his own sword from its scabbard at his left hip.
The Saxon sprang at him.
It was Sidroc’s first real fight with a sword. He had sparred with the borrowed sword of Yrling, and in the last month practiced with Jari and Asberg with a weapon newly made his own. Now he faced a man older and stronger than he, one who had fought for years with the weapon he held. The thegn came at him with the practised skill of the trained killer he was.
Sidroc knew to look for certain patterns in the opponents he faced, a rhythm of strokes high, low, and high again; a preference for the uppercut to knock the protective shield away, followed by a sudden down stroke to catch the unguarded wrist. He knew some men might have a lightness of foot that kept them in almost constant motion before him, and others a resolute and ox-like stolidness that made fighting them feel like facing a mountain.
What he had heard tell of did not serve him now. His head emptied against the Saxon’s attack. This man had years of warring behind every thrust and slash of his sword, every block and track of his shield. Even the stream of taunts falling from the thegn’s mouth were additional assault; he had sworn at and belittled many men before cutting them down.
Sidroc felt himself completely overmatched. He was on the defensive from the first, at once regretting his decision to discard his spear, yet knowing this Saxon with his expert sword work would have made a swift end of its shaft. Sidroc had not himself won the sword he now gripped, and he held it without the surety of skill such knowledge would have brought him. All he could do was parry each thrust as they fell, covering his body with his shield. The thegn’s blade beat against the iron rim, leaving deep gashes in the leather-covered face of it. The few swings and thrusts he managed to land on the thegn’s own shield seemed feeble. His youthful speed and his long reach were all he could bring to bear. His back was to the rest of the yard and though he heard the sounds of combat behind him, he could see naught but the man before him. Where Yrling or Jari or even Toki was he could not know. He was alone.
The flame he had felt in his breast as he ran from the ship had damped into a chill, one that curled throughout his body as if ice lodged there. His hamingja, his luck-spirit, was stirring within him, stirring and rising. He felt it leaving him now, his luck fleeing, running out on him.
He had wanted to go as a raider, win treasure, and die in glory. The few things he had won so far he could find little pleasure in, beyond that of food to keep him full from day to day. And dying before he had won real treasure, while meeting his first true warrior, was not a glorious end.
He could not long withstand this thegn’s attentions. His luck was turning, and would not aid him.
The Saxon seemed to read his thoughts. As Sidroc slowed in his movements, retreating into himself, the thegn’s offense too slowed.
Sidroc found himself casting his eyes upwards, as if for answer. Between the thatch of the low roofs an expanse of grey sky loomed, one from which rain no longer fell. They said a warrior marked to die saw one of the shield-maidens summoning him, inviting him to Asgard and the bright halls of the Gods. He saw nothing there.
Yrling and Une both had told him that the Saxons took hostages for ransom. If he was not being called to die by the shield-maidens, his other choice was to live.
He stepped back from the Saxon, a decided a
nd resolute step back. He felt himself raise his sword almost straight before him, saw the Saxon’s questioning face vanish a moment as the blade blocked Sidroc’s view. He tipped the sword back down again. The thegn stopped, gauging him through narrowed eyes. Then Sidroc dropped his sword in surrender.
It fell at his feet, on the muddy straw they had been fighting on. The noise it made was no more than a dull thud. Yet it was Sidroc asking for life.
A slow grin began forming on the thegn’s tight mouth. He made a small sound, a grunt of satisfaction, or of amusement. His eyes went to the sword lying before him. It was a good one.
He stepped closer, his own blade still extended. His eyes raked over Sidroc, a young and green warrior who had now discarded both spear and sword. With his sword the thegn waved him further back, then slid his own weapon into the baldric hanging from his chest. He stooped to pick up Sidroc’s dropped sword.
The moment he began to bend, Sidroc saw his chance. The thegn had not made him drop his shield, and under that shield was his knife, hanging at his hip. The man had just closed his reaching fingers around the hilt of Sidroc’s sword.
Sidroc’s right hand went to his knife scabbard. He lunged forward on one knee, naked blade extended, and thrust it into the thegn’s chest, riving apart the iron links of the ring-tunic.
There was a jerking movement of the man’s head. Sidroc wrenched the knife out. The Saxon fell back, almost as if sitting, before crumpling to his side on his shield.
Sidroc took a step away. He drew breath, hard to do with his tightened throat. His eyes again rose to the grey heavens. He had seen no shield-maiden. He would be called one day, but not so soon as this. He looked now at his knife, the long blade of it skimmed with this man’s blood. He lifted it and wiped it on the wet thatch of the roof.
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