Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  It did not take Yrling or any of his men more than an instant to name this rider as Merewala, Lord of Four Stones. Grey hair, still abundant and long, streamed from under a helmet fitted with a standing crest on which a boar of steel ran. A beard, also grey and thick, lay upon the looped rings of his ring-tunic, one polished so that every link shone in the rising beams of day. Despite hair and beard there was nothing feeble about him; of his fifty-odd years each were worn well. He may have lost his sons but nothing had softened him.

  Merewala now saw them. He pulled his foot from the stirrup to face a line of Danes, here before his very hall. He quit his horse and stared at this affront, the men who had been ready to ride with him doing so also.

  Yrling was flanked on one side by sword-bearing Sidroc, and the other by Jari, wielding his spear. Two men of great size, on either hand of their chief. The Lord of Four Stones took them in.

  Utter outrage broke on Merewala’s face. As he took a step towards the invaders, Yrling screamed out his battle-cry. Oaths and the names of Gods fell from the lips of all his men. Sidroc called out Tyr’s name. Asberg, still shaken from the head-blow, found his thoughts steadied behind his two-part war-cry.

  Merewala pulled his sword from his baldric to meet the onrushing sword proffered by Yrling. The act of grasping his weapon, revealing it to those he would send to their deaths with it, wrought a kind of spell on the older man. Merewala’s face contorted in a fearsome grimace that even the half mask of his helmet could not disguise. Sidroc, looking on him and the hand that grasped the sword, was recalled to the story of a weapon so thirsty for blood that it could never be re-sheathed without killing a man. Merewala’s rage was of that ilk.

  Such fury told the men he rushed towards that this might be a warrior who could transform himself. His outer form, his hamr, was but his earthly vessel. Some warriors and shamans were so touched by the Gods they could call on another form granted to them, their hugr, their deepest essence. Merewala looked this moment an úlfshugr, one who had form as a man, but the nature of a wolf. It was the wolf who ruled him now.

  The two lines of warriors lunged at each other. About them horses which had been left in the act of being saddled or mounted wheeled and turned, shying and whinnying. Sidroc glimpsed Merewala’s thegns galloping back through the opened gates. Right on their heels was their own troop; even at this distance Toki’s gilt helmet could be picked out. And Gizur rode at his side, bow extended, planting arrows in the backs of Merewala’s retreating men, knocking them from their horses.

  After this Sidroc saw no more than the weapons of those Saxons he faced. He had, he thought, been fully tested in the past. The conquest of the fort of the coast-guard, and the victory over the thegns at Beardan had set him against the seasoned veterans of many contests. Now he saw that few he had faced had the prowess of these men of Merewala. Surprise or no, they fought with a skill and determination that had marked the best of those they had overcome.

  These thegns of Four Stones had as well their anger to fuel their actions. The same outrage that Merewala betrayed was shared by all of them; this was their home under attack.

  The same need – that of a home, for shelter from the coming depths of Winter – powered the attackers. There might not be so rich a target in all of Lindisse, and now it was within their reach.

  The fighting raged in a blur of movement about Sidroc. For the first time in battle he did not feel the pounding of his heart, or hear his own laboured breathing as he slashed and hacked his way through the men he faced. He had screamed out the name of Tyr as he had begun, but after that he kept a silence as profound as it was deadly. Something moved in him, some reserve, some animal power of his own. His right arm felt an extension of his sword, he could not feel his own fingers closed about the hilt. He and the blade became as one, cold steel made warm in his strong and ardent grip.

  Later he would think of this and wonder if Tyr himself had entered his arm. There was something beyond him, made his, as he fought.

  Rising from a man he had delivered a killing thrust to he saw Jari, moving off to his left, and Asberg, at the end of a doubled line of warriors, spearing those who were unprotected on their flank. Yrling was before him and to his right, squared off in combat with Merewala. Sidroc saw Jari and Asberg move to either side of Yrling, fending off with their spear-work the closest body-guards of Merewala, so that he and Yrling remained locked, together and alone.

  Sidroc could not look long; two thegns sprang forward at him, one on either side. They were a spearman and swordsman, of unequal height, adding to the challenge of facing two men at once. The taller held the spear. A broader and altogether more powerful man gripped a sword. Their round shields were well pocked with signs of the biting blades they had resisted.

  The spear came up at Sidroc’s head with lightning speed. He swung his own shield up, pivoting on his heel away. He had his sword extended as he whirled; he might catch the swordsman with it to his right. Instead the swordsman’s own shield met his blade along its edge, as the thegn behind that shield lunged at him. Sidroc was knocked off his feet.

  There was no danger so great as being knocked to the ground in battle. There a man could fall prey to a spear thrust or sword hack issued by any warrior who neared. A man so downed could fall prey too to being trampled upon by accident, or purposely having their life crushed out of them. Sidroc fell, the slowness of his motion through the air belying the smacking solidity of his landing.

  The contact with the hard ground opened his throat. He was down, and never so vulnerable for it. He gave a roar in denial, a roar of dissent. As he did so he watched the spearman take aim, ready to plunge his spear point into his prostrate body.

  Sidroc’s yell channeled his quickness. He had fallen on his back between the two thegns, his sword dropping from his hand as he landed. By putting his left foot on the ground and bending his knee he was able to traction his movement to twist his body. He gripped his shield with vice-like strength, pulling it over his torso as best he could. With his empty sword hand he grabbed the calf of the swordsman and toppled him forward, almost upon him. The spear point driving down on him met the body of the thegn, and not his.

  He heard the gasp of the thegn he had pulled down, and the oath of the spearman over them.

  Sidroc was on his knees in an instant, freeing himself from the dying thegn. His sword was partly obscured by the man’s body. He could pluck at one end of the guard and pull it out.

  The tall spearman gaped in disbelief at what he had done, his fellow convulsed, back arched, on the ground before him. He had withdrawn his spear point, but it had already chased life away. The spearman leapt closer, anger clouding his face. Sidroc was still rising to his feet when he slashed his sword across the tops of the man’s unprotected knees.

  The hack was deep enough to fell the man. He dropped forward, a doubled issue of blood pouring from his legs. Sidroc, now fully up, needed only a moment more to thrust his sword blade into the spearman’s back. Both thegns lay still, and nearly atop each other.

  He shook his head to clear it. Downed, he had caused the death of two thegns, and almost at once. Let your opponent help you, he thought.

  His hand was warm and wet, slick with blood which spurted from the slash he had delivered. He wiped it best he could on the wool of his legging.

  Yrling and Merewala were framed in the doorway of the stable, filling the yawning opening as they fought. Jari and Asberg were still there, engaged with those of the body-guard that lived. Sidroc would go to them, see if he could tip the balance. He would not intrude on his uncle’s contest unless he saw Yrling falter. Taking the strides he needed to near he felt no little awe for these two warriors, hacking away all this time without giving ground. They traded blows, blocking with their shields, at times feinting with their blades in an attempt to deceive the other. The Lord of Four Stones was of an age to be Yrling’s father, yet the passion with which he wielded sword and shield in no way placed him i
n the shade of the younger man.

  An unexpected feint by Yrling allowed him to get in a touch, and more than a touch. His blade made contact with Merewala’s forearm. The old warrior screamed out his wrath. His leathern tunic beneath his ring-tunic covered only his body; on his arms the linked metal lay only upon linen. A seam of bright red blood now opened on that strong forearm.

  Bloodied, Merewala fought like a cornered wolf. He jumped forward at Yrling, sword flashing, teeth bared, veins in his neck throbbing. An instant later he stood as if frozen. His face, flushed red from ire and exertion, went grey. A bloom of leaden hue spread from his neck, up his chin and cheeks, and under the eye holes of his helmet. If the wolf was in him, perhaps he was coming forth, and he would shape-shift before them all.

  But no, the hand of the Lord of Four Stones, still clutching his sword, rose to his chest, then his throat, mouth opening, eyes agog. The old warrior was not ready to stop, but his heart had known enough. He swayed, and with a shudder, fell to the ground.

  Yrling had stepped back, eyes fastened on the toppling lord.

  Sidroc, now at Yrling’s side, watched, transfixed; they all did. Merewala’s men gave up a wail in answer to the falling of their war-chief.

  There was, mayhap, no need for Yrling’s sword-thrust. The man was dying of a failed heart, having given his utmost in defence of Four Stones. Yet Yrling must be certain; there must be no doubt. He would not rend the fine ring-tunic; the mercy-thrust was at Merewala’s throat.

  Yrling straightened up over the body. The Lord of Four Stones was dead.

  Those watching, even those fighting, gave pause a moment, eyes moving from the body of Merewala to the Dane who stood triumphant over it. This was the new lord.

  Their war-chief dead, their hall overrun, the thegns took their final stand. They fought in clusters of three or four, numbers easily surrounded and dispatched by the ever-circling invaders. The broad palisade gates were still open. None of the thegns broke and ran for it; there was nowhere to run to, no lord to honour, fight for, or be rewarded by. They fought on in stable and work yard, by cooking ring and animal pen. No horn sounded, bringing the sorrowful news that Merewala was dead. One of Yrling’s archers had killed the horn blower still up upon the rampart, and his brazen horn had tumbled to the clay after his fist loosened about it.

  The invaders were everywhere now. All that was left was to search out and find any of Merewala’s men who might be hidden, concealing themselves for a chance to make a sudden, desperate strike. The war-band ranged about the work yards, entering every shed and outbuilding, weapon-first, seeking resisters, finding only cowering serving folk within. A group of them forced the door of the great hall itself, to be met by women shrieking in both rage and in fear. The knowledge, sure and growing, that they had triumphed spread throughout the invading party, their war whoops changing in tone to those of victorious cries of glee.

  The confusion of combat was replaced by the frenzy of rampaging conquest. Yrling had no horn to marshal his men, no way to summon them save his whistle, and in the tumult of the work yards even the shrillness of that signal did not carry far. He had left Merewala’s body, and with Sidroc headed down the broad court between stable and hall. The bodies of the dead and dying were scattered upon the pounded clay they trod. They strode along the stone base of the hall to its end. Before they turned the corner they heard the wailing of women, rising above the noise of whinnying horses, squawking geese, and the glad yells of Danes.

  They found the source of lamentation before them. Three women knelt about the body of a fourth. One of the women, her shoulders shaking, had her face buried in her hands. A second was in the act of tearing at her hair as she howled. The third and oldest woman was unpinning her shawl and laying it upon the narrow form they had gathered about. The quick look Yrling and Sidroc gave what she covered showed the dashed body of a young woman.

  The mourners were arrested in their grief enough to recoil at the sight of them, yet they did not leave the side of the dead woman.

  “Who is this,” Yrling asked, in the tongue of Angle-land.

  The eldest woman turned her face to the men who stood over them, swords drawn. If she felt surprise at being questioned in her own tongue, it was dulled by the grief on her tear-streaked face.

  Her answer bore her anger and sorrow in equal measure. “Merewala’s daughter, Wendreda, who you have despoiled, and so killed. She threw herself from the roof to escape more of your men!”

  The lined face now turned upward to the gable peak of the hall of Four Stones, far above.

  The eyes of uncle and nephew followed hers. A window on a slightly higher level of the hall gave out on the roof; she must have climbed out from there.

  Both men looked down at the body the old woman kept one hand on. Long hair of light brown, unbound by any head wrap, spilled about the shoulders. Her eyes of blue-green hue were open, and staring, and the pale lips too were parted. Blood had run from one side of the face, near the temple. She had no more than twenty years, perhaps less.

  “This is his daughter,” Yrling repeated, eyes fastened on the corpse.

  “That she is, or was; Heaven has her now. When the horn gave warning she wrenched off her jewels to save them. Would she had saved herself!”

  He had told his men he would wed Merewala’s daughter, and warned they should not touch her. With no silver or gold about her to mark her as the daughter of the hall, she looked as any maid of the place.

  Merewala’s death was needful; his daughter’s, a loss. Yrling had counted on wedding her, to bind the folk of hall and village to their new lord. The two men stood there, wordless, over the weeping women, eyes locked on the dead girl’s face. As they stood, a new and urgent cry arose above the activity swirling about them.

  Fire had broken out. The gladsome yells of the victors were now cries of alarm, and action. The serving folk of the place, whether they had been shrieking or mute with terror, joined in this chorus of dread. Yrling and Sidroc ran back along the stone base of the great hall of Four Stones, and into a billow of grey and acrid smoke issuing from the door. The hall itself was burning.

  It could not be known whether a serving man or woman within had purposely flung burning coals from the fire-pit to destroy the prize the Danes had won. A cresset or other small oil lamp may have been upset as folk ran from the warriors who had penetrated the stronghold. But the hall went from smouldering warmth to devouring flames in seeming moments, the dry timber uprights catching as licking yellow flames travelled up to the thick thatching of the roof.

  Warriors shed their shields and weapons, cast off their ring-tunics. Sidroc, Jari, and Asberg were amongst them. Toki, who was still horsed and had been riding through the work yards between animal pens and outbuildings, jumped down to join them. There was a drawing-well in the forecourt of the hall, and Yrling himself stood at the well mouth. One bucket had not been fully drawn up from its dark depths before another was dropped. It was to little avail.

  At first men could, by taking deep draughts of air, run inside the hall to fling the contents of their buckets at the flames creeping up the timber uprights. But once the thatching caught, the smoke drove all away, coughing and hacking, back into the forecourt between hall and stable.

  The stone walls would not burn, and the floor too was of stone pavers, but the lofty roof began falling in flaming clumps within the hall. Wisps of burning thatch drifted down amongst those gathered outside. With the Sun fully risen, the wind picked up, blowing clouds of smoke that smarted eyes and nose.

  The nearest building was the great stable, roofed over with lead sheets. These could melt if the stable itself burnt, but would not catch flame. As precaution the horses still within were led, neighing and stamping their hooves in fear, to the adjoining paddock. The risk of other of the many small buildings catching fire, of the palisade wall itself burning, was real, and efforts turned from attempting to douse the hall blaze to wetting down those structures near
est. A timber building of no great size, and set slightly away from the hall, caught flakes of burning ash in its thatch and fairly burst into flame. Too late they saw the roof was marked with a cross of wood at its peak; it must have been a Christian temple, and perchance housed silver treasure. It burnt to the very base of its timbers, despite the water flung on it by those circling its base. All this was done amongst the grisly remains of the earlier fighting. Danes ran with buckets, dodging the bodies of their dead brethren, and the many bodies more of the vanquished.

  The hall of Four Stones was in two parts, with a fire-break of stone between them. The larger portion burned, the long and thick timbers of its roof crashing down upon the stone floor, the thatch blackening and shriveling as the heat devoured it. When the flames damped down, the lesser, second part of the hall remained, soot-besmirched but sound.

  Yrling’s men had been joined by some of the serving folk in fighting the fire, an odd coupling, but one rooted in the love the folk bore for their home. And if all were destroyed, famine and death would surely come to those who lived. Merewala’s folk knew this, and suffered singe and smoke to preserve what they could.

  When no danger remained, the invaders stumbled about the forecourt, the heat of the blackened timbers making this cold day warm. They were ready to drop from exhaustion. Their bodies were sweat-stained, with faces grimed, and arms and legs aching from exertion. They were famished, and their throats as dry as the charred and collapsed roof of the great hall they had won. Some of them limped from sprains, or sported bloody linen from hurts they had taken. Yet, almost to a man, they now headed to the thegns they had downed to begin the taking of battle-gain.

  Sidroc spotted his uncle, and went to him. Jari and Asberg had fought nearby nearly the whole battle, and were close. Despite Jari’s growing abilities as a Tyr-handed fighter, Sidroc had still concern for him, and was heartened to see Jari already bending over the body of one of Merewala’s body-guards. Asberg was sitting on a mounting block by the stable wall, leaning against it as he rested his sore head. Save for Asberg none of the four had suffered hurt, and Toki, they had seen, was hale as well.