Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  Then they must be off. They would have liked to have stayed there; closed the gates, rested, eaten their fill once more now that the sharp edge of their hunger had been dulled. But so many men of the place had fled there were bound to be warriors after them, and soon. Those who had made such strikes before knew Christian places of worship were built on the silver of local lords.

  “He cannot be far away,” Yrling told them as they shouldered their packs.

  Not a single woman had been seen, and one of the men asked why.

  “The holy men of the Christians forswear them,” Yrling told him, an answer greeted in jeering disbelief. But Yrling was the happier he did not need to contend with that distraction.

  They stood grouped in the middle of the yard before the stone temple. Every door of every building, large or small, hung open; all had been entered, and much of what was found within was now upon their backs. All of the dead monks had been felled inside the temple, and apart from the clusters of brown and white feathers blowing about the trampled enclosure to the fowl pens, no sign of violence met the eye.

  Yrling saw Sidroc’s own eyes lift to those crossed bars of iron topping the gable of the roof. The shape so formed was almost that of the runic letter Nyd. The rune held another, deeper meaning which had been difficult to think on, seeing their ships stolen, looking at the stones so arrayed. It also suggested endurance to see through the trial. Here, rather than Nothing, they were thinking, this place held true treasure.

  They set off, the gates gaping open in their wake. There were oxen, and carts too, they left behind, but such were far too cumbersome and slow for the speed at which they must travel, and the narrowness of the trackways they must take.

  The road continued along the side of the encircling fence, turning inland and away from the sea. They took it. Behind the settlement they found the source of the fat bream they had gorged on; the marsh waterway, narrowing to a stream, had been dammed in a deep pool, from which captive fish could be readily dipped up.

  The road beyond was wooded on both sides. Sidroc looked down it. “If there is a war-chief coming with his men, they will use this road,” he guessed.

  “Já,” his uncle seconded. “And if they are horsed, Odin smiles, or at least winks. Let us see if we can meet them.”

  They kept on, but need not wait long. The sound of bridle hardware, of the light ringing of metal on metal, and the hoof-fall of horses met their ears.

  “Hide yourselves. No sound, no movement, until I signal,” Yrling told them, his orders a harsh whisper. They slipped into the trees on the left side of the road, so that those who passed would have their weapon-hands on the other side. He kept himself and his nephews and Une and Jari at the furthest point of his hiding men, so that when they sprang out, they would hold the rear.

  A troop of Saxon thegns, riding almost at a canter, came into view. One man fronted the rest, seated upon a grey stallion, and behind him his men rode by twos. They came at enough speed it was hard to count them, but it seemed a score of warriors bore down the road. They had spears held upright in their hands, and their shields upon their backs. The war-chief in the lead was kitted out as a King might be, for the crested helmet he bore upon his head had been chased in gold. It looked something wrought by dwarfs, long-skilled in forging magical armaments. The skies were clouded, but the helmet glinted even in that dull light. Coming at them, it caught and held the eye.

  Yrling had his three good archers strung out so that one was with him, nearest the end of his hidden men; one in the middle of the line, and the last at the other end. If each archer made a hit, at beginning, mid-point, and end of the coming file, the confusion amongst the Saxons would be great. Yrling must hold off his battle-yell until the war-chief was well past, and the final horsemen before him.

  His yell was never sounded. A cry came, but it was from Toki, leaping forward just as the war-chief reached him. The golden helmet was too great a lure; Toki must have it. He sprang forward from the leafy growth and flung the spear towards the chest of the lead man.

  It was perfectly aimed, and thrown with such force that when it hit, the front legs of the great stallion the war-chief rode buckled beneath him. The horse snorted and gave out a shrill whinnying call as his rider pitched head first over the arched neck. Almost down on its knees, the stallion rose, shaking off the body. The horses of the two warriors just behind reared, and one of the men lost his seat and fell to the pounded surface.

  The road erupted, coursing with plunging horses, men springing out from the trees, and flown arrows. The oaths dropping from the mouths of the horsemen were as naught to those flying from Yrling’s lips. There was nothing to do but rush out in reckless disorder. Horses were large targets and easy to hit, yet horses were what they most needed. They aimed their spears high, knocking the riders from their saddles as the men tried to control their mounts. The shock of their war-chief going down first, the bumping and rearing of the cantering horses, so suddenly halted by the attack, and the spear points thrusting from many men on foot broke the thegns into a wheeling scramble. Those at the end of the file were well out of it and could have turned and fled, but they did not. Spurring their horses, they rode to where they saw the grey stallion of their leader, now rider-less.

  It was a grave mistake. There were in fact only nine-and-ten of the thegns, and the Danes swarming them numbered more than fifty. Between the riders who had been thrown from their horses and those who had been knocked off, all were soon unhorsed.

  Strung out as Yrling’s men had been, it was at first impossible to surround their foes. And the thegns, stunned as they were by the ambush, fought with desperate drive. They had their shields on their arms as swiftly as they could close their hands around the handle in the centre boss. Some had dropped their spears in being unhorsed, and had pulled swords from the baldrics high on their chests. But these men, despite having horses, did not sport the war-gear of the men at the fort of the coast-guard. Only a few had steel helmets. The rest wore caps of hardened leather, fitted over with thin supporting iron bars. More had ring-shirts, but not a few had suffered some hurt in being knocked from their mounts.

  Still, the fighting was hot, and Saxon steel found home in more than one Danish body. These were again trained warriors, not farmers swinging haying forks, or the holy men, pleading and defenceless, whose temple they had just bloodied. And their lord had fallen, he who had armed and likely horsed them, he to whom they owed allegiance unto death.

  Sidroc had sprung from the tree line with Yrling, Une, and Jari, as astonished at Toki’s act as were they, but backing his action up, as they were forced to do. As the frightened horses and storming men swirled about the edge of the road, Sidroc had been swept further down its length, running to confront the thegns in the packed midpoint of the melée. After using his spear to topple a man from his horse, he leapt forward and free of the rearing beast’s front legs and was able to plunge the point of his weapon into the thegn’s back as he lay insensate on the ground. Pulling out the point, the butt end of his spear collided with something. He craned his head to see that he had struck the shield of a Saxon, sword drawn, moving in on his back.

  The butt end of a spear did not provide much purchase. He did what he could, ramming it with strength downward at the man’s feet. He missed the instep but the thegn started, and Sidroc, with a ripping motion pulled the spear up with speed, knocking the man’s shield a little away from his torso. The thegn covered himself with his sword, but Sidroc, turning fully, was hand-over-hand with his spear, tipping the long and lethal point forward, puncturing the ring-tunic at the thegn’s right shoulder. That hand opened, the sword falling from it, as the thegn took a deep step backward, landing on one knee.

  The man’s head tipped back, the leathern cap falling from it. His eyes were a dark greenish-blue, and closing, as Sidroc leaned his weight behind his spear shaft and made another, more grievous hole in the iron rings over the heart.

  He straightene
d up to see Bjarne and Asberg finish off a staggering thegn, quick thrusts of their spears striking at the man’s belly and back at nearly the same instant. Asberg was facing Sidroc, and pulling away from the shared kill with Bjarne, called out a word of praise to Sidroc for what he had seen him do.

  A horse, bolting and dragging its downed rider with it, made Sidroc jump back. A glance up and down the road told that the battle would soon be over. The cries and battle-yells of warring men, and the distressed whinnying and calling of their beasts had fallen away. The horses were now stamping and snorting as they circled in a small clearing off the side of the road, tossing their heads and worrying their bits. Reins trailed on the ground, and some had lost their saddles or wore them askew over their lathered flanks.

  To one side of him Sidroc saw one of the men from Yellow-sail go down, his shield splintered into four pieces under the hacking of a helmeted thegn whose sword work was as fast as his arm was strong. The Saxon warrior was well-protected, wearing a ring-tunic as well. After delivering a killing thrust the thegn sprang away, seemingly fleeing.

  Many of the men upon the ground, Saxons and Danes alike, were beyond any sound. Those who still lived tried to raise themselves to their knees, find a weapon, crawl to safety.

  It was that last stage of any contest, when time began to slow. Sidroc found himself drawing breath, deep lungs-full of it, not the panting gasps which had powered his movements just minutes before. He was whole and sound. He had killed two men. Some of their own number were dead, but their losses were scant next to the destroyed troop of thegns.

  Looking down the road he saw big red-headed Jari straighten up from the kill he pulled his sword from. A moment later Jari was no longer alone. A Saxon thegn ran to him, and Jari found himself engaged anew. Sidroc was heading for him when he heard Jari’s scream. He could not see what had happened, only that Jari had dropped his blade. Sidroc was not alone in watching this. As Jari staggered backwards another red-haired Dane appeared, running with all speed to aid his brother. Une favoured his skeggox as weapon and it had bitten into Saxon flesh several times this day. The steel handle of it was long, giving him the same reach as the sword the Saxon swung. Both men had shields and both were sure in their ability.

  As Sidroc neared, he saw the Saxon facing Une was the same he had earlier seen face the man from Yellow-sail, destroying first his shield and then his life. The thegn no longer wore his ring-tunic. In the extremes of combat warriors sometimes flung off their protective ring-shirts, to save their strength and give them speed. This thegn had been one of them.

  Sidroc knew him to be the same man, ring-shirt or no. It was his expert sword-work that marked him, that and his helmet, one whose eye-protectors were boldly set off by projecting eyebrows of steel.

  It took four blows from the Saxon, as Une countered with shield and a single swing of his battle-axe. The thegn got in, hammering high on Une’s shield, the steel of the blade clanging against the iron rim of the wooden disc. Then that blade retreated for a single heartbeat before rising again to strike Une’s head at the ear.

  Une’s helmet flew off, skipping through the air like a stone thrown by a boy onto water. He made no sound, only toppled sideways and to the ground. Sidroc was nearly there and felt the impact of his large frame as he landed. As Sidroc reached the spot he shook off his shield and helmet, dropped his spear, and plucked at the skeggox lying at Une’s feet.

  Jari, seeing all, was sitting in the road, the howl now coming from his throat sounding like that of a dying hound.

  The thegn fled, sword extended, down the road. Sidroc leapt after. He was burdened with his heavy ring-shirt, slowing him, but an unaccountable vigour coursed through his long legs, powering him forward in great springing steps.

  Gripping Une’s weapon he chased the thegn, then paused to steady his arm and let fly the axe at the retreating Saxon. He uttered a single cry as he flung it, calling out the name of Tyr. The skeggox left his hand, stopping only when it sank into the thegn’s back, between the shoulder blades. The head of the Saxon snapped back, the arms flailing as he crumpled face first to the hard surface of the road.

  Sidroc took a sharp inhale of breath. He ran back to where Jari sat, passing Une on the way, glimpsing the bloody mass that had been his head. Jari was now silent, rocking forward trying to stand, holding his right hand in his left.

  He held his bloody hand uplifted, but his eyes were fixed on the spot where his older brother lay sprawled. Jari’s face was white as milk; even his freckles had paled, and his ruddy hair looked the redder on his blanched brow. He seemed unable to speak. Sidroc now saw what had made him drop his sword. The Saxon had got in a blow on the grip, severing the first two fingers of Jari’s right hand, just at fist level.

  The stumps were bleeding, but not badly; Sidroc could see the bone so revealed. He pulled his knife and ripped at the tail of Jari’s tunic, cutting a strip with which to bind the maiming. As he worked to wrap the hand he saw, off to one side on the road, Jari’s two fingers, the tips of them unbloodied.

  Jari saw them too, his eyes leaving the mound that was his brother, to look at the two digits severed from his own body. There was horror in seeing them, and his eyes were as round as a child’s. They wore the stilled look of the fevered, or of the dead. Sidroc began to fear he might go mad with shock of what he had witnessed, and what he had lost.

  Jari’s sword was not far off. Sidroc rose from where he had been squatting at his side and went and got it. He lowered himself back down, sword in hand, to look in Jari’s glazed eyes.

  “It is not over for you, Jari,” he told him, his words low and urgent. “Here.” He lifted Jari’s left hand, made him take the sword hilt in it.

  “Close your hand around it. You will fight as a Tyr-hand, kill many men this way.”

  The big head bowed, looking down at his left hand, a sword hilt lying in its palm for the first time. He looked back at Sidroc.

  “Close your hand,” Sidroc ordered.

  The fingers of that hand curled around it.

  Sidroc’s own hand rose to his hair. His plaits were undone and he swept the dark strands away from his face. His eyes lifted to the sky, as they so often did when he looked for answer.

  Jari lived, and he felt certain would fight again. But Une was dead.

  Sidroc’s first memory of Une was of a hothead who tried to steal his horse, the mare that Yrling prized and had left in his keeping. When he knew who Sidroc was he had laughed about the threat, showing Sidroc even at that young age how swiftly a single fact could change everything. Later Une was the first man to look him in the face, judge the scar on his cheek, and commend him for having already made the warrior’s bargain, of risking injury for gain. In his way Une had given Sidroc a fresh identity, a new way to think about himself. Now Une had made the bargain himself, and for the last time.

  Sidroc saw Yrling and Bjarne walking towards them. He made move to rise, glad to see that Jari tried to do the same. Sidroc took Jari’s sword and helped him to his feet. It was the work of a few moments to unbuckle Jari’s weapons belts, and rehang them, his sword scabbard on his right hip, his knife now on his left. He steadied the scabbard so that Jari himself could slide the sword within.

  “Une is dead, and my fingers are gone,” Jari told Yrling as he neared. He held up the bandaged hand, the shape of it telling all too well of the stumps beneath.

  Yrling swore softly, almost under his breath. Une was a savvy warrior, fearless and strong, his size alone a deterrent. He was Yrling’s friend, and second in command. Both Yrling and Sidroc would miss him. But Jari’s loss had been far the greater, his elder brother dying after coming to his defence.

  Yrling walked, flanked by Bjarne at his side, and Jari and Sidroc, to where Une lay.

  He had fallen where the force of the blow had sent him, onto his left side. They took a glance down, and then away. It was hard to look at. The sword had struck the mid-point of the ear in its ascension, splitt
ing the skull, revealing the brain-pan.

  Yrling looked further down the road, to the body of the Saxon. Even from this distance it was clear it was Une’s war-axe cleavered in the man’s back.

  They made their way to him. Yrling spent several moments looking down, studying the thegn’s body. Both arms were splayed out, the legs akimbo. The axe head was buried deeply enough in the back that the leading edge vanished, the steel handle rising at an angle in the still air. Blood pooled on either side of the thegn’s ribcage, the brilliant red of it staining his dark tunic brown. His helmet lay an arm’s length ahead, where it had rolled off.

  “Who killed him,” Yrling wanted to know.

  A lift of Sidroc’s chin gave him the answer.

  “And with Une’s skeggox,” Yrling noted. He gave a nod of his own at this act of justice. He looked down at the man. A wry laugh escaped his lips. “You have destroyed his linen tunic, but his ring-shirt is back there, where he threw it off. That is yours. His sword too.”

  Their eyes went to the naked weapon, just out of the reach of the outstretched fingers. There was no doubt of its worth. Everything about this thegn was of a quality matching his skill. The sword hilt was inlaid with silver wire, and the pommel also silvered. The blade itself was the real treasure, pattern-welded with so many layers of beaten bluish steel that they looked ripples of an endlessly receding tide.

  There was something else about this sword, and Sidroc, who had watched it at work, felt it strongly as he looked down at it. The hand that had wielded it had great skill, a skill which might travel into cold metal and make it skillful of itself. This blade had slashed many men, and likely over many years. It had today taken Jari’s fingers and Une’s life, and before it had done this the life of the man from Yellow-sail.

  It had maimed a friend and felled another. The sword was Sidroc’s to do with as he saw fit; he could snap the blade and kill the weapon as it had killed Une. But he could not serve it thus. This sword was like a half-wild horse which broke a man’s neck. One did not kill the beast for that.