He walked past the dead Saxon, picked up the sword, claiming it. The skeggox would be given back to Une, but it was Sidroc’s to pull from the back of the man he had killed with it. Yet he stopped and looked to Jari, gesturing that he be the one to pull his brother’s axe from his killer.
To do so Jari must use his left hand. He bent over the body of the Saxon, closed his grasp upon the smooth steel shaft of the skeggox, and pulled. It was the second act he had performed as a Tyr-hand.
Jari nodded at him as he straightened up, the axe held firmly in his fist. He who he looked at could read much in Jari’s eyes.
Sidroc had avenged Une’s death, and Jari’s hand. If he could give Jari hope, that was something worth the having, as well.
Toki now appeared before them, a smear of blood on his face, but the golden helmet on his head. He had passed Une’s body on the way. In answer he spat on the ground.
“Sif,” he breathed, knowing that yellow-haired Goddess’ name would never more be attached to him.
“You,” Yrling said, as Toki neared. “I would take the helmet, if you had not earned it. Do not cross my orders again.”
“It was Odin,” Toki returned. “Odin filled me, told me to do it.”
Yrling took this in. It was hard to let anger rule him when things had turned out well; the death of Une was a blow, but mayhap he would have been called anyway. Toki was ever taking risks and this one had paid off. Killing the Saxon chief first and in front of all his men had upset any balance in the contest.
“No man knows how the Gods will point,” he ended up telling his nephew. “If Odin guided your spear, so be it.”
He looked along the length of the road, at his men alive and standing, at all the many thegns dead upon the road. “We have lost few men, and have won horses.”
Their task now was to strip the bodies of the thegns, and to gather their own dead. Six of them had fallen. There was no time to build a pyre, and no dry wood with which to light it. But the stream and its boggy marshes was a fitting place to consign the bodies of their brethren. They carried the bodies to the reeds, set out their weapons on their chests and by their hands. To be left on or by water was almost as good as burning. Water could carry the spirit as surely as a ship could carry a body. It was Yrling and Sidroc who took up Une’s body, and Jari who laid his weapons out, the skeggox at his brother’s stilled right hand.
Then they must get off the road. They put Jari and the rest of the wounded on horseback. To speed their own walking they slung as many packs as they could on the saddles of the other beasts, and set off into the woods.
Chapter the Twenty-third: Four Stones
SUMMER reached its peak, and began to wane. The brilliant hues of marsh and forest deepened and then mellowed, softening as the weeks fell by. The great and arching canopies of elms and ashes loosed their leafy cover, and the unyielding oaks, always last to surrender their leaves, saw them blanch from bright green to pale brown. Rushes went gold where they sprang from the shine of muddy banks. Fogs and mists that shrouded lakes and lay above the stillness of meadows thickened. The days grew noticeably shorter, the Sun more hastily making its transit across skies blue or cloud-scudded. The nights turned colder, sharply so, and the damp of even the milder days felt chill.
After the victory at Beardan a new confidence and urgency filled the men. The horses they had won allowed them to send scouts about the countryside, searching out richer targets, larger farmsteads. Une’s death meant Yrling must find others with whom to entrust his plans, and Sidroc and Toki had grown in importance and responsibility, always flanking their uncle in any action as his chief body-guard. Bjarne, Asberg, and Gizur were ever in this first rank as well, having survived unscathed through many raids, and distinguished themselves doing so.
Jari too came forth, not to stand in for his slain brother, but as one reliably found at Sidroc’s left. The loss of Une had stunned him, and the loss of his sword-hand served as constant reminder. A kind of coarse tissue knit itself over the severed bones, closing the wounds, though with only thumb and two fingers intact the hand was at first of such limited use that he despaired of being fully able. Then Sidroc fashioned a new and larger grip on the inside of the steel boss on Jari’s shield, one which his maimed hand could more readily grasp. He also took the forearm sling and re-hung it at the right side, for Jari’s red-and-blue painted shield sported a kind of coiling cat on its leathern face, and could not be held upside down for sake of the design. Jari did not yet feel confident in any real sword work as a Tyr-hand, but with his spear in his left began to feel he might do great damage.
Of their number who had suffered hurt in the encounter at the abbey, Jari’s was the only lasting injury. All must be able to fight, travel swiftly, fight again. There could be no weak links. They fought in an endless effort to keep their bellies full, and for their just share of the pile of silver treasure roped to the pack horse always following the stallion that Yrling now rode. That treasure could not be shared out until they had attained a hall.
There was much to hold them content against that day, for all the men had gained plunder. Toki, with his gilded helmet, wore his greatest prize each time he fought. And Sidroc, in the sheer number of men he had downed, found himself the possessor of goods the value of which had been beyond his ken a year ago.
He had won no fewer than four swords from warriors over whom he had triumphed. He had continued to use the one his uncle had given him aboard Yellow-sail; continued until he killed the Saxon thegn who had killed Une. Then he took that sword with its silvered hilt as his working weapon. It was not only the sheer beauty of the thing, but the fact that it had dropped from the hand of a swordsman as skilled as that thegn. It had been his favoured weapon and was now that of Sidroc. The rippled blue steel of the blade bore marks, not runes, but marks he could not read. An outline of an animal too had been etched there; a fish. Sidroc had not considered a fish any sign of power, but thinking on it, saw how apt one might be for the sleek and flashing beauty of this blade in motion. Knowing the Saxon had marked the sword this way gave it more allure.
Of treasure in arms it was his chief spoil. He also favoured the man’s helmet with its standing eye-brows of steel, but kept as well that from the first warrior he had felled, the one whose silver chain he had claimed.
Beyond this he had gained three closely-linked ring-shirts, the worth of any of them above his reckoning. It was one of the pieces of war-gear that was easier killed for than saved for, he knew, and he had pondered this oddity when he had first seen its truth. He kept the largest of them, the better to fit his rangy frame. The others found ready takers amongst his brethren who lacked them, always eager for a layer of linked steel rings to lay over their tunics of leather. He traded with other men for what he wanted and needed, often clothes and always shoes and low boots, which he went through quickly. He had won as well much jewellery, large circular pins of bronze with which to fasten the neck of a thick woollen mantle, and smaller, finely worked pins of silver. Of silver too he had taken from the dead or won in trade the carved clasps and keepers of buckles, broad wrist cuffs and narrow circling arm bands, necklets which ended in animal heads, and finger-rings of slender twisted silver rod. He kept all this by in a pig-skin sack, building his store of portable treasure.
The act of lifting spear or sword against another man was now couched in the surety of his skill. He belonged here, an adept warrior amongst brethren. When the stakes were so high it did not take many victories to begin to think winning came as it should to him. He had proved himself as a warrior, to his own watching self, to his uncle, to the men he fought alongside; and most vitally of all, to his fulltrúi, Tyr. He had given himself to Tyr, and felt himself now worthy of that God’s eyes upon him. Each time he slipped his red-and-black spiral painted shield on his left arm, his eyes fell on the bind rune he had carved within, uniting his sign with that of the God. Slipping his forearm into the sling, closing his hand around the grip in t
he domed centre boss, it looked back at him. He never lunged forward, weapon at the ready, without first calling out the name of Tyr, asking for his notice, dedicating his skill to him.
He began to know that eyes other than the God’s were sometimes on him. He could now, by his presence, by his look, force an opponent to pick another to square off against. After any contest, when they had won food and drink and silver plunder, boasts went around the fire they gathered at. Often those of greatest prowess said the least. Others spoke for them, making of their actions Saga tales of no little glory, one all the war-band shared in. More than once Sidroc was spoken of this way by his brethren. To be a warrior of repute was what he had come for, that and the treasure he was now beginning to acquire.
The sense of command he now felt sprang from the first thegn he had killed, one taken more by his cunning than his knife blade. He would need both to survive, and to thrive, and he had been taught that in this first warrior kill. That triumph could have been instead his death, and the dragon on his chest was reminder of this. He gave more silver to Aki, who continued to work at odd times on pricking the dragon there. He darkened the outline along its lithe body, and the fangs descending from the gaping jaws were made solid blue, the act of much painful puncturing to render them thus. Aki had used his red ochre to mark an eye of red, completing the beast.
The weeks wore on, from strike to strike, the war-band always seeking greater plunder. But treasure in steel or silver could not keep them moving. Only food could do that, and it was becoming more difficult to find.
During deep harvest time the farms that they struck at had offered up their greatest gains. Store houses were full to overflowing with barley and rye, and wheat too from the richer holdings. Grapes, apples, pears, and medlars sat in baskets, ready to be laid by in cold cellars, or sliced and dried in the still-bright sunshine. Butter was being salted by farmwives to make it last longer into those months when the cows could give nothing so rich. Sometimes a pot of thick and golden honey might be found, the discovery of which caused almost as much glee as good ale or even mead. Yet whatever they carried off in stolen bounty was not enough.
Treasure though he had gained, Sidroc had never known hunger as he had these past few months; none of them had. All of them had been raised on the land, and lived by the rhythm of the seasons. Late Winter and early Spring were ever lean times on any farm, whether in Dane-mark or Angle-land. The stores of smoked and brined meat were by then exhausted, grain bins almost empty, hens not yet laying. Nothing fresh, green, or succulent had been consumed for months. The arrival of the first peas was celebrated, relished as a treat by all. Yrling’s men had known this kind of annual privation, their entire lives. It ended in a burst of abundance: cows giving rich and fatty milk from which butter could be churned, ewes yielding tangy milk to render into cheeses. But the kind of nearly daily want they had all suffered since arriving here had been unknown to them. They gorged on what they took, followed sometimes by days of gnawing hunger.
Bjarne was still in charge of their food stores, a difficult task given the number he must keep at least half-fed. To augment what was carried off from farms they foraged lamb’s lettuce, clary, dill, and cresses, to shred upon the endless bowls of boiled grain which was their daily fare. They plucked wild berries and apples and plums as they travelled. But these things were coming to an end, as the days grew both short and dark.
And more Danes joined them. They met them on the road, some stragglers cut off from a retreating body of raiders; others the disaffected who had abandoned their war-chiefs, as the men they had met at the gates of the coast-guard had forsaken theirs. There were also those who had been driven off by their war-chiefs, just as Yrling drove a few of his own away.
The number of horses in their train grew as well. Yrling had claimed a stallion for his own, and let his nephews next take their pick; they were all good riders. Others were also awarded mounts, as Yrling saw fit. Once a few of them were horsed it was easy to steal others, and whenever they were spotted in pasture or paddock they swept through and took them. These beasts, long legged and long necked, were much the better of the stubby ponies of Jutland, recalling in their fineness Yrling’s prized chestnut mare from here. They had need of their swiftness, for they must keep driving onward.
At times they found old stone ruins to camp in, roofless walls rising to an empty sky. Other nights were spent sleeping in the shadows of the mounded barrows of the great chieftains of the past. Yet of real shelter there was none.
However hidden they might stay, other Danes began seeking them out. They were enough strong now, over eighty men, that they would camp several nights in succession in the same forest glade or shrub-bound clearing, any place that offered water for their horses and themselves.
On one such night, they settled in a wood, heavy with now-bare elms and ashes, through which a stream coursed. Their meal was still cooking, the first of the day, barley and smoked pig simmering in a collection of small iron cauldrons over their fire. The light was just beginning to dim in the skies when they heard a whistle through the trees, loud and full of purpose. They were all upon their feet, almost in a single motion, when a voice cried out, one in their own tongue.
“A Dane seeks a Dane,” it rang.
Their weapons were at the ready as they turned to the trees from whence the called issued.
“Show yourself,” Yrling answered, his sword drawn, and Gizur with a nocked arrow at his side.
A man stepped forward, with six others ranged behind. They kept their distance, and held their spears at the ready. They had fair war-kit, to a man; and each had as well a pack slung from his back, telling those they approached all they owned they carried.
The one in the lead spoke. “I am Gudmund of Laaland, seeking Yrling.”
“Who you have found,” Yrling answered. He was not unaware of the distinction, which came as a surprise. He had won some little fame already, so that others sought him out by name.
The seven before them looked able enough, hale and whole. The uncertainty of their reception meant that even their helmets were upon their heads, but they all sported them, as well as ring-shirts. These were no beggars.
“Come in, brothers,” Yrling told them, gesturing with his drawn sword that they near. Room was made for them, and they approached the centre of the encampment where Yrling and his chief men stood. There was no ale to offer, their meal not yet ready to be ladled up. But blades were re-sheathed, and the newcomers set down their packs and stood amongst them, looking about at the faces of Yrling and his men. The smell of the boiling barley rose about them, and by the way their guests need force their eyes away from the source of the aroma, it was easy to see they were as hungry as their hosts. The horses were off beyond, many standing at the stream, noses lowered to the water. The newcomers took these in, as well.
Yrling let them look, and then spoke.
“How did you find us?”
“As many head of horse as you have are easy to track,” came Gudmund’s answer.
Yrling gave a grunt in response. He was more than aware that the greater his troop of men became, the more difficult it was to conceal them. Hoof prints were left in soft ground. Any good tracker could find an entry point where they had led their beasts into the densest of forest growth. Horses even in single file broke twigs and branches, left behind scat.
“And why are you here?” came his next question.
Gudmund was ready with an answer. “To throw in with you.” He let a moment pass, one in which the eyes of all were upon him and the six he spoke for. “We have fought with some of the best. But Winter comes, and we are only seven.”
These newcomers lacked just what Yrling and his own men lacked, shelter against the coming cold.
“And what do you bring me, other than more bellies to fill?” Yrling posed next.
Gudmund took no offence, but his answer was ready. “You will not often find arms like ours,” he began, looking about a
t the six he headed. “Beyond that, I can lead you to a keep here in Lindisse that will be worth the having.”
Gudmund paused long enough that Yrling gestured with his hand to go on. His guest now had his shield on his back, and hooked one thumb in his belt as he told his tale.
“There is a Saxon lord a two days’ ride from here, Merewala by name. His hall is known as Four Stones; the base is built of rock. His holding is a large one, with forest as well as plains. He has been too strong to take, but with this many men…”
“You have seen this place?”
“Já. I was one who walked the base of the tall palisade by night. The gates are the strongest I have seen, defended inside by a high parapet. But there is a small door in the back of the palisade. It opens to the kitchen yard; I could tell by the noise within.”
There it was, target and plan in one. A sham attack at the palisade gates would divert attention from the real attack at the rear, through the kitchen yard door.
“What more do you know?” Yrling asked next.
Gudmund glanced at those flanking him. “Three of us were outriders, and spent more than a full day watching the keep. But the place was too strong for Tume, the chief we fought with. We returned, told him all we had seen. He would not show himself, turned his back on it.”
“So you turned yours on Tume,” Yrling summed. He was listening, head tilted back, arms folded. Gudmund went on.
“Merewala has fame among the men of these parts,” Gudmund offered. “His grown sons are dead, but his warring men are many; thegns they are called here. Also he has a daughter; she is a princess of the place.”
Yrling’s eyes shifted to Gudmund; this man knew much.
“The village fronting Four Stones has folk beyond number living there. Part of all they raise and grow they give to Merewala.”
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